The Happy Birthday Murder

by Lee Harris

  “No, I didn’t. I hauled up a lot of stuff to throw away and give away, but I didn’t find the gun. I found it by accident. I took some boxes out to the garage to hold until the garbage is collected, and while I was out there I looked at some things on the side of the garage where Larry kept his car. I noticed that his tackle box was there, locked with a padlock.”

  “Tackle box?” I asked, thinking of football.

  “He was a fisherman. He kept his flies and whatever else in the box and always kept it locked. I never bothered to ask him why. I found the key on the key ring the police gave back to me after he died. It had the house key, the car keys, a bunch of keys for the plant, and a key that matched the padlock. The gun was in the box.”

  “In a locked box in the garage,” I said more to myself than to her. “That fits with my theory. Have you turned it over to the police?”

  “Why should I? He didn’t kill himself with it and he didn’t use it for anything else, as far as I know. It’s licensed, or it was when he died.”

  “I don’t think it’s licensed anymore, Laura. You have to keep renewing the license, on your birthday, I think. That would be your husband’s birthday, since he was the owner.”

  “I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”

  “Did you handle it?” I asked.

  “I didn’t touch it. I saw it and I closed the box up and locked it. It’s been there for twelve years, that I’m sure of. Nothing’s going to happen to it. You and I are the only two people in the world who know it exists and where it is.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Laura. When you take it in, why don’t you carry in the whole box so the police can take it out without leaving any prints on it.”

  “What do you expect to find on it?”

  “I don’t know. Probably nothing except your husband’s prints. But who knows? This is a very strange case. If someone else’s prints are on it, it may give us a clue to what happened.”

  “I’ll do as you suggest. I’d better go now. I’m exhausted.”

  —

  Laura called the next morning after she took the tackle box to the police station. The police removed the gun, quite carefully according to her description, and kept the tackle box and whatever else was in it. Since it was Saturday, I didn’t expect to hear anything about prints till next week.

  Late in the afternoon, Betty called. “I have some information on the Pasternaks,” she said.

  “You must have worked hard.”

  “I just got on the phone and called everyone I knew, which wasn’t terribly successful. Then I called the families we talked to a few days ago, starting with Mrs. Farragut. Remember her?”

  “Yes, I do. She was friendly and talkative.”

  “That’s the one. It took a little prompting, but she finally said they were a couple that had lived there a pretty long time and they weren’t very friendly. There were always arguments with the people next door on the far side and also with her and her husband.”

  “What kind of arguments?”

  “Oh, neighbor things. They leave trash outside and it attracts animals. When you say something to them, they’re rude. Their alarm system went off once in the morning and the police couldn’t locate them till afternoon to get permission to have someone turn it off. Mrs. Farragut said she nearly died from the sound.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “I’ve heard those things from a distance, and they’re very annoying.”

  “It sounded like they keep to themselves and want to live their own way, even if it infringes on other people.”

  “So there’s nothing sinister about them. They’re just annoying.”

  “To put it in a nutshell, yes. Mrs. Farragut said they’ve been known to dump garbage in the woods, to leave equipment outside for months, creating an eyesore. Generally sloppy. Can you tell me why you asked about them in particular?”

  I explained, both how I had spoken to Mrs. Pasternak and how I had stumbled into their backyard yesterday.

  “And you think that’s where Darby was?”

  “Not really. It’s just a possibility. Being annoying and sloppy don’t add up to kidnapping. I just wanted to check them out.”

  “Maybe I’ll drive over myself and try to talk to them.”

  “All right.”

  “And I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

  —

  What happened was that Sister Joseph called early in the evening. It was several weeks since we had spoken, and I was delighted to hear her voice.

  “I just looked at my calendar, Chris. I see your son is having a birthday soon.”

  “That’s right. He’ll be four.”

  “Four years. I just can’t believe it.”

  “He’ll be in kindergarten in September. It’s almost a year away, but these years seem to fly by.”

  “They certainly do. I hope you’ll bring him up here for everyone to see.”

  “Definitely.”

  “And there’s something else on my calendar. I’m attending a small conference next week in New York.”

  “Will I get to see you?”

  “I hope so. They’ve scheduled a two-hour lunch on Monday and I thought it would be a good time for me to take you to lunch and have a good talk.”

  “I won’t let you take me, Joseph, but I will certainly come in to see you.”

  “Do you think Arnold might be available? I haven’t seen him in a long time and talking to him is so stimulating.”

  Arnold Gold, my good friend, sometime employer, fiery lawyer, and defender of all good causes, has an office in downtown Manhattan. “I’ll call him and see if he’s free.”

  “Wonderful. Let me know and I’ll make a reservation.”

  —

  Happily, Arnold had no appointments and no court date for Monday and he was as delighted as I at the prospect of seeing Joseph again. When they first met, at our wedding, which took place at St. Stephen’s, I thought they were the least likely two people to get along with each other. I have never discussed religion with Arnold and I don’t honestly know what he believes, if anything, but he found Joseph as interesting as I find her and she, in turn, was quite fascinated by him. They haven’t met often, but each gives me regards for the other regularly.

  For me it was a wonderful opportunity to discuss the case with both of them. On Sunday, when I had a little free time in the afternoon, I organized both my notes and my thoughts so I would be ready for the challenge.

  “Want to take a quick ride up to where this guy Charlie Calhoun lives?” Jack asked as I pushed my papers around.

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “It’s not that far. We don’t have to stop and talk, just look at the house, see if there’s a barn out back—”

  “If it’s just Charlie and his wife, they could be in on it together,” I said. “Charlie could have called from the plant and his wife could have been waiting for Filmore at the house.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  The three of us got in the car and drove off. When we got to the Calhoun house, I felt a little ashamed. It was so far from where Darby got lost that it would have taken Darby a couple of days of walking to get there, and the likelihood that he would not have stopped and asked for help long before that was very slim.

  The house was not in one of those classy rustic areas where houses sat on acres of land. It was a small house with one very similar to it on either side, a short driveway, and a one-car garage.

  “Well, I tried,” I said.

  “You can’t leave loose ends. From what you told me about him, I’m glad he’s not a suspect.”

  “Me, too.”

  Jack drove to the end of the street, made a U-turn, and started back.

  “I want ice cream,” a voice from the backseat said.

  “Ice cream!” Jack said. “What’s that?”

  “You know what ice cream is, Daddy.”

  “OK, kiddo. I guess if we take a drive on Sunday, we know how it’ll end up.”

&nbs
p; It ended up a little drippy, but we all enjoyed it.

  17

  I don’t go into New York all that often, and it’s frequently a mixed experience. Depending on when you go, the traffic may be fairly light or so heavy you wish you hadn’t started out. The worst thing about it is parking. When I was newly released from my vows and I drove into the city for the first time, alone at the wheel, I was stunned at the cost of parking. That was about six years ago and it has gotten worse. Jack tells me not to worry about it, that I do it so seldom that it doesn’t make a difference, but paying over twenty dollars for the privilege of getting out of my car and getting somewhere on foot still gives me palpitations.

  There had been some back-and-forth between Joseph and me, and between Arnold and me, everybody arguing about where to eat and each one insisting on paying. I had made up my mind to pick up the bill myself and pay with my one credit card, courtesy of my husband, who insisted I carry it. The restaurant was far enough east that I was able to park at a lower rate. One of the things you learn as an out-of-town driver is that the closer you are to Fifth Avenue, the spiritual and financial main artery of the city, the more it costs to park. Get over to a river and the rates come down substantially.

  I got to the restaurant at exactly twelve-fifteen and found that Arnold was already there. We hugged and kissed and he asked to see the latest pictures of Eddie, and just as he finished with the last one Joseph arrived.

  Joseph is a tall woman with a face I find absolutely beautiful. Although we have known each other for about twenty years, I see no change in her face or her body. Her skin is as clear and unblemished as the day I first laid eyes on her, her eyes, through the glasses she always wears, as bright and intelligent as ever. She walks with purpose. I cannot imagine her dawdling anywhere, although our walks together on the campus at St. Stephen’s are somewhat lackadaisical.

  As she saw us, she brightened and smiled, hurried to the table, and greeted us with obvious pleasure.

  “Arnold, I am so glad to see you,” she said after hugging me. “It’s been a very long time and my brain needs some stimulation.”

  He was out of his seat to help her into hers. “Good to see you, Sister. Let me put your briefcase on the empty chair.”

  “Thank you. I should have left it behind. It got heavier as I walked.”

  “How about a drink?” Arnold said. “It’s a cold day out there.”

  I had a glass of sherry while my two friends had Scotch. We toasted our health and talked so long the waiter got tired of waiting for our order. Finally, Joseph remembered she had a meeting in the afternoon and we turned our attention to the food.

  Joseph took Arnold’s advice and ordered what he did. I am still somewhat hesitant about food I’m not familiar with, so I ordered the tuna fish and asked to have it well done. I’ve noticed that people in the know now request their tuna rare in the middle. I have a long way to go.

  “Still eating tuna for lunch?” Arnold teased.

  “This isn’t out of a can. It’s not the same thing.”

  Arnold kept an obvious riposte to himself.

  “Well, I’m just delighted to be with you both at the same time,” Joseph said. “Oakwood must have become a safe place to live. I haven’t gotten a call from you since last spring, Chris.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said.

  “You’re not involved in another one.” Joseph sounded almost incredulous.

  “And I have the good fortune to be present at the famous sessions in which Chrissie lays it on the table and Sister Joseph pulls a killer out of the hat.”

  “Not this time,” I said.

  “I’ve never pulled a killer out of anywhere, Arnold,” Joseph said. “I play the part of a hunting dog. I point.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  I took my notebook out of my bag, flipped to the page marked Darby Maxwell, and started to tell them what I had found in Aunt Margaret’s boxes in the basement. I went on to talk about Celia Yaeger, the former mayor’s wife who knew everyone and everything and who led me to Laura Filmore after I had spoken to Virginia at Greenwillow about Darby. I went on and on, my first meeting with Betty, our dinner with Laura.

  “Let me get this straight,” Arnold said. He had an intense look on his face. A few minutes into my narrative he had taken an envelope out of his pocket and begun to take notes while Joseph pulled a few sheets of white paper out of her briefcase and started to do the same. “You discovered that two people who met with unusual deaths in two different places, people who never knew each other, were wearing each other’s sneakers when they were found dead.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s incredible. No one noticed before that these men were wearing the wrong shoes?”

  “Each of the men’s survivors noticed it, but it was after the men were buried. Each survivor called the medical examiner’s office in her area and made inquiries.”

  “And no one ever put it together till you did.”

  “No one could,” I said. “One body was in Oakwood, New York, and the other was in Connecticut. One survivor lives in Oakwood and the other in Connecticut. They never knew each other. It was just because my aunt attended both funerals and knew both victims that I happened to put it together.”

  I went on, detailing my visits to Connecticut, my theories about what had happened, and the scenario I had worked out over the weekend. “I guess that’s it,” I said, coming to the end of the last page of handwriting.

  “You believe that the two victims were together in the same house for a period of time shortly before their deaths,” Joseph said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t think it was an accident that they were together. You think the person you call the blackmailer found Darby Maxwell, or Darby found him while wandering in the woods, and the blackmailer saw an opportunity to make money.”

  “That’s what I think. At the beginning, I thought the two men came together accidentally, but I don’t believe that anymore.”

  “Interesting,” Arnold said. “More than interesting. So you’ve got to find this blackmailer and you’re looking for him from two different directions, through Laura Filmore and by talking to the people who live in the area Darby got lost in.”

  “Right. And neither journey has been very productive. All the people who were living there twelve years ago remember what happened. Several of the men took part in the search party. No one admits to having seen him.”

  “You didn’t really expect they would, did you?” Arnold is nothing if not a realist.

  “I didn’t expect anyone to answer ‘yes’ to the question, but I’ve asked each person if he knew Larry Filmore. I’ve watched their faces as I said the name. None of them gave the slightest indication it was a familiar name.”

  “There seem to be no suspects,” Joseph said. “Except for Charlie Calhoun, the night watchman, and I agree that’s pretty farfetched.”

  “There aren’t any suspects because Chris doesn’t know enough yet. I’ll tell you what I think. You’re right that Filmore had some kind of secret he was protecting. But his wife knew about it. She knows. She’s still protecting it.”

  “I’m afraid I have to agree,” Joseph said, “at least in part.”

  “Do you think she knew where her husband went?” I asked. “I know I’ve lost my objectivity, but I really believe she loved him. And as my friend Mel pointed out, she didn’t run off with another man or spend a million dollars after he died. She’s lived quietly; she’s volunteered for good causes. I like her very much.”

  “And because she’s that kind of person, she wants to keep what she knows to herself.”

  “What could he have done?” I asked.

  “He could have killed someone in a fight,” Arnold said. “These things happen. Someone stops you on the street, demands money, and you punch him out. He knocks his head on a building and you walk away and get in your car, but someone sees your license plate. Or he could have cooked the books in his company
so he made a fortune and the stockholders were swindled. People have killed themselves for less.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Joseph said. “Do you have any reason to believe that Larry Filmore was responsible for Darby’s death?”

  “No, I don’t. Darby was left to die in the woods on a cold night. My feeling is the blackmailer thought Darby was no longer useful to him. He knew by then that Darby was retarded. If Darby was found alive and told a strange story of being in someone’s house, it might be discounted because of his mental abilities.”

  “His mother would know what to believe,” Joseph said.

  “I’m sure she would, but would she be believed? And we’re not talking about reality; we’re talking about what this blackmailer thought. When Larry Filmore got to Connecticut and refused to go along with his demands, it was time to get rid of both of them. Larry had to die because he could tell the police that Darby was being held against his will. Darby could be let go because there was a fair chance he wouldn’t survive and if he did, he would be considered incoherent if he told a wild story.”

  “I think I agree with you on that.”

  “So do I,” Arnold said. “The question is, how do we find this person?”

  “That’s my question.”

  “You have to press Laura Filmore,” Arnold said. “She has to tell you what it is her husband did and you work from that.”

  “But suppose,” I said, “that your first hypothesis is the right one, that Filmore accidentally killed a man who was trying to rob him on the street, maybe here in New York. A potential Good Samaritan is standing in the shadows or walks by across the street. Filmore dashes to his car, turns on the motor and the lights, and the observer writes down the license plate number.”

  “Which he should take to the police but doesn’t,” Arnold said.

  “He looks at the car. It’s big and expensive. Somehow he finds out what Filmore’s address is. Maybe he even drives up to Oakwood and looks at the house. It’s a very impressive house, Arnold. I’m sure it’s worth a million dollars or more.”

  Arnold grinned. “And if you think it’s worth a million, it’s probably worth two.”