The April Fools' Day Murder

by Lee Harris

  “Don’t write them off because of the price,” my husband, who knows me well, cautioned. “Every time you see one, you say how great they are. I think we have just the place out front to put one, and I’d like to have it. See if they’ll plant it for us. I don’t feel too competent doing that kind of thing.”

  “OK. They have a bunch of them. I’ll be back when I’ve made up my mind.” And with that I took off.

  I spent a very pleasant half hour or more, looking at various little trees, all of them still with bare branches. What Jack had said was true. I loved the curved shape of the branches and those spider leaves, especially the ones that turned red in the fall. And the front of the house would be perfect. They never grew very tall, instead spreading like an umbrella.

  There were quite a number at the nursery, two of them very small, the others a little larger. Although the larger ones cost more, I decided it might be worth it to have a more mature tree, one that had survived more winters. I finally picked out the perfect one and talked to one of the men about having it planted. It was fine with him, but he wanted to wait till the ground was a little softer. We concluded our deal and I went back for a last look at my new tree. The nursery man had tied on a red and yellow SOLD tag, and I had a happy feeling of ownership as I walked back to the car.

  It was still early in the afternoon, and as I drove out of the nursery, on a whim I turned right to go up the hill. The sun was shining, I owned a red Japanese split-leaf maple, and I thought it would be nice to look around, especially from a height. I drove up the hill slowly, looking to my left as I reached the Platt house. The driveway was empty, the garage doors down. The mailbox at the end of the drive had a red flag up. As I went by the lawn I saw something not far from the shrubbery near the house. I stopped the car and looked, but the sun was in my eyes.

  Something was lying on the grass, not moving. I felt a touch of anxiety. I turned off the motor, grabbed the key, and got out of the car. It wasn’t the kind of road where you had to check left and right before crossing; there were no cars above the nursery and no other houses after this one.

  I ran across the lawn, feeling my anxiety turn to panic. Someone was lying there. I heard myself say “No” as I approached the still form. It was a man, probably Willard Platt, lying on his stomach. A cane lay out of reach of his right hand. But it was worse than that. The handle of a knife stuck out of the middle of his back. Someone had stabbed him to death.

  3

  For a moment I was frozen. I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what to do. I said, “Mr. Platt? Mr. Platt?”

  The still form did not move. I ran to the door of the house and rang the bell and pounded on the door, calling, “Hello? Anyone home?”

  It was as quiet inside as outside. I had to do something but my mind refused to function. I looked at the body one more time, then raced across the lawn to my car, started the motor, made a U-turn, and went down the hill. I was closer to my house than the police station so I drove home, my hands gripping the steering wheel. As I came to the end of the steep road, a van loaded with people turned into it, nearly colliding with me. My shoulders were shaking. I was muttering things to myself, that this could not be, it was not happening.

  I stopped the car halfway up the driveway and dashed into the house calling, “Jack? Jack? Are you there?”

  “I’m right here. What’s up?” He came around the corner toward me and we collided. “Calm down, Chris. What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a body. Jack, Mr. Platt is dead. He’s been stabbed. I just found him. He’s lying on the ground in front of his house. No one’s home. Call the police.”

  He said something under his breath, marched me into the kitchen and sat me down in a chair. Then he poured some juice from a container in the refrigerator, set it down in front of me and ordered me to drink. When I had, he said, “OK, now tell me this again.”

  I did, a little more slowly.

  “You’re sure he’s dead?”

  I nodded.

  “With a knife in his back?”

  “Yes. He was lying on his stomach. His cane was on the grass a foot or so away from the body.”

  He took the phone and called 911. As I tried to calm myself, I heard him tell the police essentially what I had told him.

  “OK, fine. Yeah. And let me know what’s up.” He hung up and sat beside me. “You OK?”

  I nodded. I had my hand against my chest. I swallowed and wiped the moisture from my eyes. I wasn’t quite crying, but I wasn’t not crying either. “I can’t believe this,” I said finally.

  “What were you doing at his house?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know.” I tried to recall what had taken me there. “I went to the nursery and bought us a Japanese maple. Then I decided to drive up the hill, just to see the view. It was so nice out.” I looked at him but his face gave away nothing. In the last seconds, he had become a cop. “I passed the Platt house and saw something lying on the grass. It was Willard Platt.”

  “You got out of the car?”

  “Yes. I crossed the road and went over to see what was wrong. There was a knife sticking out of his back. His cane—” A shudder ran through me. “It was lying on the ground near his right hand. That’s all I remember. I banged on the door but no one was home. So I came here. Jack, I don’t believe this is happening.”

  “I think I’ll drive over there and see what’s going on.”

  I wanted to tell him to stay, but I let him go. My panic had subsided a little. Maybe a cup of tea would calm me down further.

  Jack put his jacket on and came back to the kitchen. He put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. As he started for the door, the phone rang. I listened while he answered.

  It was a strange conversation that made no sense to me, but when he hung up, he unzipped his jacket. “Willard Platt’s OK,” he said, taking the jacket off.

  “What? Who just called?”

  “One of the cops.”

  “If Platt’s not dead, who did I just see at the Platts’ house?”

  “It was Platt, but he wasn’t dead.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s apparently an annual treasure hunt going on. The drama club at the high school picked today for it since it’s Saturday and it’s April Fools’ Day.”

  “That was an April Fools’ joke?”

  “Sort of. One of their clues led them to the Platts’. They were supposed to find a weapon of murder.”

  “But—”

  “But it wasn’t a real knife. It was a stage prop. If you’d touched it—which I know you wouldn’t’ve—you would’ve seen that it was soft. It couldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “The van,” I said.

  “What?”

  “A van turned into the Platts’ road as I got to the bottom of the hill. It must have been the drama students going up to their house.”

  “Could be. The cop said the police got there as the kids were leaving.”

  “I need a cup of tea.”

  “Make two. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I still didn’t feel entirely steady on my feet but I put some water on to boil and got a tin of tea out of the cabinet. It was a nice English tea that my friend Melanie’s mother had brought back from London for me. I stuck my nose in it for the aroma and somehow that calmed me down.

  We sat at the kitchen table, sipping from our mugs. “I feel like a fool,” I said.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I thought Willard Platt was supposed to be an unpleasant person. What possessed him to lie down on the grass in the cold and pretend to be dead?”

  “You got me. Maybe there’s a warm fuzzy side to him that I hadn’t heard about.”

  “And why didn’t he have the decency to let me know he was OK?”

  “That’s the cold hard side.”

  “Thank God he’s all right. Jack, I hope you aren’t planning any more surprises for me today.”

  “I promise, we did our thing this morning
. If I’d known the way this day was going to turn out, I wouldn’t have done it.”

  “I’m not blaming you. I just feel scared and confused. I never want anything like this to happen again.”

  “Don’t worry. It won’t.”

  I guess I’m still that gullible kid that my father played jokes on. I believed him.

  It’s the understatement of the year to say that I am not an accomplished cook. I’m so much better than I was when I left the convent at age thirty, that I sometimes think I’m better than I am. What I’ve done is learn, with the help of Jack and my friend Mel, to cook things that are fail-safe and that taste good besides. I can now roast a chicken whose wonderful scent permeates the house and gives me a couple of hours of olfactory pleasure before I dig in to appreciate the taste.

  But it’s Jack who really loves to cook, and I’ve made up my mind it’s probably in the genes, as his sister runs a catering business with their mother, obviously an inherited talent. So on weekends I defer to his greater ability and skill and reserve my pleasure for eating. He clatters around more than I do, and I think he uses more pots and pans, but it’s worth it. On that April first, I was just glad I didn’t have a meal to cook.

  When Eddie got up, we went out for a walk, ending up at the home of a neighbor who had recently moved in with a small boy almost exactly Eddie’s age. I didn’t tell Janet, the mother, what I had gone through earlier. Instead we put the two little boys together with a lot of toys and we talked about local politics and a little gossip.

  After about an hour and a half I got Eddie to agree to go home and we left. I was feeling much better and even starting to think that I had overdone it. Maybe if I had touched Mr. Platt, I would have seen he was still alive. But I had been so scared and it was a crime scene. I shuddered as I thought about it.

  Jack was organizing his ingredients for dinner when we got home, so Eddie and I set the table and then went into the family room to get out of Jack’s way. I hadn’t seen the paper yet and I was reading a story that involved the NYPD, a subject close to our hearts since it’s not just Jack’s employer but also a huge piece of his life, when the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” I called, dropping the paper and making for the kitchen. “Hello?”

  “Chris, it’s Mel. Have you heard?”

  “Heard what? Mel, if this is an April Fools’ joke, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “What happened? You don’t sound your usual chipper self.”

  “I’m not my usual chipper self. It’s been a tough April Fools’ Day.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Well, this is no joke. There’s been a murder in Oakwood.”

  I almost groaned. “Mel, there hasn’t been a murder. It was an April Fools’ Day prank, a treasure hunt or something. He’s alive and well and I don’t know how the story has gotten around. There’s nothing to it.”

  There was silence. “I didn’t even tell you who was murdered.”

  “No one was murdered. Believe me. It’s just a bad joke.”

  “It’s not a joke, Chris. He’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?” I asked.

  “Willard Platt, the man who lives over on the hill above the nursery.”

  I took a deep breath. “That’s the murder that isn’t a murder. I’m responsible for the uproar, in a way.” I outlined what had happened, my trip to the nursery, my discovery of the apparently dead body, and then the repercussions. “So you see,” I finished, “there’s nothing to it. It was all some kind of joke and I got in the middle of it by accident and I really don’t want this awful story spread any further.”

  Mel said nothing.

  “Mel? Are you there?”

  “I’m very confused.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to be confused about. He’s alive and well and was just cooperating with the high school drama club.”

  “I’ll call you back.” She hung up.

  I put the phone back and looked at Jack, who had stopped working to see what was going on. “This terrible story is making the rounds,” I said. “That was Mel. What possessed me to go to that nursery today? Why couldn’t I have stayed home and read the paper?”

  “Because you’re not a stay-at-home person. I’m sorry this has gotten out of hand. I don’t know who’s spreading the story. Can’t be the high school kids. From what the cop told me, it sounds like they just came, took what they were looking for, and left.”

  “Well it isn’t me,” I grumbled. “I’m not telling anyone.” I took a carrot stick from the counter and started chewing as I went back to the family room.

  I picked up the Times and found the article I had been reading, looked down the column till I located my place, and started reading again. Eddie came over and asked for a pretzel and we went back to the kitchen to fortify ourselves. I happen to like pretzels too, so I took one for myself.

  When I got back into the Times once more, the phone rang. I jumped up, feeling surly, and walked past Jack to the phone. “Hello,” I said in a less than pleasant voice.

  “Chris?” It was Mel.

  “Yes. Sorry. I’m feeling peeved.”

  “Chris, Willard Platt is dead. He was stabbed to death this afternoon—not very long ago—outside his house. One of the teachers was over at the police station a little while ago and heard about it. There’s no question. He’s dead.”

  I held the phone at my side for a moment, trying to think of what to say. Then I brought it back to my ear. “I’ll call you back.”

  “You’re not gonna tell me he’s dead,” Jack said.

  “Please call the police, Jack. I just want this settled so I can put it behind me.”

  He rinsed his hands and dried them on a paper towel, took the phone and dialed. I listened while he identified himself and asked the question. There were a lot of uh-huhs and finally a thank-you. He hung up and looked me. “It’s no joke. Platt was out working in his garage, according to his wife. This was after the high school kids and the police left. She called him in for something and he didn’t answer, so she went to look. She found him dead on the ground outside the garage.”

  I felt close to tears. I had the sense of not knowing what was real and what was fantasy. I had found a body that was not a body and now the man was dead, probably having been murdered not far from where I’d seen him lying.

  “Sit down,” Jack said.

  I sat at the kitchen table, aware that this was the second time today that I had lived through this scene.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said.

  I shrugged and shook my head, swallowed to get rid of the lump. “This can’t be happening.”

  “He wasn’t kidding me.”

  “What is going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d better call Mel. I think she thinks I’m losing my mind, probably because I am.” I got up and dialed her number. It was busy. She was probably calling around to find out what was happening. I hung up.

  “We need a cordless phone, Chris. We’re the last Americans without one.”

  “Joseph doesn’t have one.” Sister Joseph is the General Superior of St. Stephen’s Convent, my home as a nun. She is also the person in the world I feel closest to outside my immediate family.

  “We do not live in a convent. Maybe I’ll give them one as a gift next Christmas.”

  I smiled.

  “Thank God you can smile. I thought you’d really gone to pieces.”

  “I am in pieces. The smile is a reflex. What does Joseph need a cordless phone for? She takes calls at her desk. I don’t think she wants to walk around talking. She wouldn’t have her notes in front of her. And don’t even think of a cell phone. Women walk up and down the aisles of the supermarket now talking to their friends. And when they’re driving, they forget to go on the green light because their conversations are so important.”

  Jack grinned. “Good. You haven’t lost it. Glad your value system’s still in place.”

  I poked him and tried Mel’s number again.


  “Hello?”

  “It’s Chris.”

  “Chris. Are you OK?”

  “No, but I’m surviving. You’re right and I’m right. Mr. Platt was apparently murdered sometime after I thought he was but he wasn’t.”

  “Right. Do they know who did it?”

  “If they do, they didn’t tell Jack. He called the police and they usually answer him pretty fully. Professional confidences exchanged between police are a currency of the job.” I sketched out what he had heard.

  “This is very scary.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s a killer in Oakwood. Hold on. I want to lock my kitchen door.” I heard her open the door and slam it shut. “OK. I feel better. Not really, but you know.”

  I did know. “Look, Mel, I have to think. I’ll call you later.”

  “Make it tomorrow. We’re going out tonight. Except I wonder if I want to leave the kids with a sitter after this.”

  I wondered the same thing. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I hung up. Then I checked the doors to the outside, making sure they were closed tightly and locked.

  “We have a killer in town,” I said to Jack, looking over my shoulder to make sure Eddie wasn’t listening. “Mel’s scared and I’m scared and I think all reasonable people should be scared.”

  “Stop being so damn reasonable. You’re right. This is really a bad scene. We’ll talk about this later.”

  4

  The rest of the afternoon was crazy. The phone kept ringing with neighbors asking what we knew, since Jack always had a little more information than most of the other townspeople. The Platts lived in an area where they had no neighbors and there was little direct information, but everyone seemed to have heard that there was a murder. I ran back and forth from the family room to the kitchen so many times I was ready to run out and buy a cordless phone myself by the time we sat down to dinner.

  The dinner, of course, was very good. Although Jack’s fingernails were black from pulling apart the oil-cured olives to remove the pits, he agreed the dish was worth the trouble. We grated some fresh Parmesan over it—Jack won’t let me buy the already grated stuff anymore; he says it isn’t flavorful enough—and it was a great treat.