The April Fools' Day Murder

by Lee Harris

  “Yes. Two in the back, two in the front.”

  “Where was Mr. Platt lying when you got to his house?”

  “On the grass. He was, like, on his stomach and the knife was sticking out of his back.”

  “Did you see his cane?”

  “Uh …”

  I waited. “Ronnie?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Where did you park when you got to his house?”

  “In the driveway. We all got out and ran over to him and Steve pulled the knife out. It wasn’t a real knife, you know.”

  “It was a prop.”

  “Yeah.”

  The cane had been near his right hand and the driveway was to the right of the lawn where he was lying. If you ran from the driveway to his “body,” you would almost trip over the cane. “You don’t remember seeing it.”

  “No. It could have been there. I just don’t remember it.”

  “And the other three team members definitely got in the car with you.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Thanks, Ronnie.”

  I put a check mark next to her name and wrote absent next to Rob McPhail’s name. Eddie was playing contentedly so I called the number for Missie Carter.

  She answered the phone a little breathlessly and said she remembered the visit to the Platts’ house very well.

  “Did you see the knife sticking out of his back?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. It looked so real it was kind of creepy.”

  “What about his cane?”

  “What cane?”

  “Mr. Platt always used a cane.”

  “But he was lying down.”

  “Did you see the cane anywhere near him?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Who pulled the knife out of Mr. Platt’s back?”

  “Steve did.” She was sure of that.

  “Did you drive back in Ronnie’s car?”

  “Sure. We all did.”

  “Have you seen Robby McPhail since Saturday?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t know if he was in school today.”

  “Thank you, Missie.”

  I called Steve Wolfson and went through much the same questions. He wasn’t sure about the cane either but he had pulled the knife out of Mr. Platt and then they had taken off. “It’s a speed thing,” he volunteered. “You can’t wait around because another team’ll get to the finish first.”

  “So you were running all the way.”

  “Oh, yeah. We still had a couple of places to go and we’d had a problem before that, which cost us some time. We were really in a hurry.”

  “Where on the driveway did Ronnie park the car?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Did she pull all the way up to the garage or park near the road?”

  “I don’t think she pulled all the way up. Like I said, we were racing against time.”

  That could explain why they hadn’t seen the cane. The cane was out of reach of his right hand, closer to the house. If they had approached from where his legs were, grabbed the knife and dashed back to the car, they might not even have glanced over to where the cane lay.

  I called Karen Harding, the last member of the team, and asked her the same questions and got the same answers. She just wasn’t sure about the cane but she agreed they had turned into the driveway, stopped, emptied out of the car, run across the lawn, grabbed the knife, and made their getaway.

  I knew I would have to call the other ten students who had taken part in the treasure hunt and ask them too, but first I called Mrs. Platt and asked whether she had the cane her husband had had with him on Saturday.

  “No,” she said cautiously. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered where it was.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “It just seemed a loose end.”

  But she was sure it had not been left behind when her husband’s body was taken away. I then called Jack.

  “Before you ask,” he said, “the autopsy was this morning and I have a preliminary report, by which I mean some stuff was read to me over the phone.”

  “Good. Let’s talk about it when you get home. I’m interested in something else at the moment. Do you know what things the police picked up at the crime scene? Like his wallet, his keys, his cane?”

  “I didn’t ask. You want me to give them a call?”

  “If you have a minute. And one other thing. I don’t know how far an autopsy goes, but I’d like to know what kind of damage one of his legs sustained to make him need a cane.”

  “I don’t have that. I’ll get back to them. I’m working my way through a very boring document. It’ll be my pleasure.”

  My pleasure was to start dinner.

  8

  “So what would you like to know?” We had gotten the dishes done and Eddie to bed. The coffee was brewing in the kitchen, its scent traveling to where we sat. Jack took some folded paper out of his briefcase and opened it up. It had notations on it that I assumed had to do with the Platt homicide.

  “Start with the property,” I said. “What do they have?”

  “No wallet, but that’s probably because he was working in the garage. But his keys were in his pocket, a few coins, a couple of tissues, the watch he was wearing, and that’s about it. They have his clothes and shoes, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “What about his cane?”

  “No cane listed.”

  “Mrs. Platt says she doesn’t have it.”

  “Maybe it’s still in the garage. He could have set it aside when he was working and the cops didn’t see it. There wouldn’t have been any reason to take it.”

  “I’ll go up to the Platts’ house tomorrow and see. Tell me about the autopsy.”

  He looked down the top sheet of handwritten notes. “He was stabbed four times, one wound piercing his heart. He died quickly and bled profusely.”

  “Anything on the weapon?”

  “Yeah, it’s double-edged.”

  “How do you walk around with a double-edged knife?”

  “I suppose it had a sheath of some sort. We used to see a lot of them back when I was a young cop. They fall into the dagger and dirk category of knives—needle point, slender, sharp edges.”

  “You’re still young,” I said.

  “Yeah, but it ain’t the same.” He sounded almost wistful. “A knife like that, it’s really a weapon.”

  “You bet.”

  “So it wasn’t that someone came along and had an argument with Willard Platt and pulled this thing out. Someone went over there to kill him.”

  “I’d say so. And maybe it wasn’t the first time in his life someone tried.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Autopsies often turn up surprises. Your Mr. Platt took a bullet a long time ago.”

  “Someone shot him?”

  “Sure looks like it.”

  That was a surprise. Then I had a thought. “Jack, he fought in World War Two. Could that have been when he was shot?”

  “I’d have to ask the M.E. They said it was an old wound. I don’t know if they can date it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I asked them about his legs. They didn’t seem to have anything but they said they’d take some X rays and see if anything turned up. I’ll hear tomorrow.”

  “Well, even without that, this has been pretty interesting. I wonder how many people are walking around with a healed gunshot wound.”

  At that moment the phone rang. I got up and answered it in the kitchen. It was Mrs. Platt.

  “Chris,” she said, “I went out to the garage after you called to look for Will’s cane. There’s no cane out there at all.”

  “I see. My husband talked to the police today and asked what possessions of your husband they had. There was no wallet.”

  “No, I have that. He left it in the house when he went out to work.”

  “And there’s no cane.”

  She was s
ilent for a moment. “I don’t understand it. He had a cane with him when he was waiting for the drama students. I know because I saw it on the grass when I looked out the window. I’m sure he had the same one when he went out to the garage. Where could it be?”

  “We’ll have to find out.”

  “I’ll look again, but I don’t think it’s there.”

  “Don’t do it tonight, Mrs. Platt. It’s late and dark and you must be very tired.”

  “Yes,” she said as though she were far away.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Did your daughter arrive?”

  “Oh yes. It’s good to have her here.”

  “Good night then.”

  I grabbed the carafe of coffee and took it in to the family room, poured for both of us, and brought it back to the kitchen. “The cane’s not in the garage,” I told Jack.

  “So it looks like our killer took it with him. Kinda crazy thing to do. It isn’t worth anything, and if he’s stopped, it’s evidence.”

  “Killers aren’t the smartest people in the world.”

  “This one’s pretty smart, or at least lucky. With three carloads of kids coming to that house, he managed to show up when they were gone.”

  “That was lucky,” I said. Maybe he had been lurking around the area, although it wasn’t an easy area to find cover in. But there were trees and shrubs he could have hidden behind.

  But why? I asked myself. What could this retired grandfather have done to provoke someone to kill him? And where had his son been all that long afternoon? I would have to find out.

  Tuesday is the day I teach at a local college. It’s also one of Eddie’s nursery school days. I asked Elsie to pick him up so I could get a few things done.

  I had one of my good lunches at the college, prepared by the food service students, and picked up a fresh apple pie to take home. Then I stopped by the Platts’ house.

  A woman in her forties opened the door and introduced herself as Toni Cutler, the Platts’ daughter.

  “I’m Chris Brooks.” I offered my hand. “How is your mother?”

  “She’s all right. I think we’re all so dazed it hasn’t sunk in yet. Are you the one who was looking for the cane?”

  “Yes. The one your father was carrying last Saturday.”

  “Come on in.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Mom? Chris Brooks is here.”

  Winnie Platt came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a small towel. “Chris, I’ve been through the garage over and over. The cane isn’t there. And it’s not in any of the places Will ever kept them. What does that mean?”

  “Someone walked away with it,” I said. “Maybe the person who killed him.”

  “What would anyone want an old cane for?”

  “I don’t know.” I turned to her daughter. “Can I drive you anywhere?”

  “Oh, no, thanks. I have Dad’s car and I’ve already been out to pick some things up. And Mom and I have arranged for the funeral.”

  “When will it be?”

  “Thursday. The Medical Examiner’s office will release the body either this afternoon or tomorrow morning. I’ve been trying to reach my brother but he isn’t home, and Doris doesn’t know where he is.”

  I had a pretty good idea but I didn’t say anything. Apparently Roger hadn’t let his mother know he had a cell phone. “I’m sure he’ll come home for dinner,” I said, biting my tongue. “Could we sit in the kitchen and talk for a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  I followed Winnie Platt and her daughter into a palatial kitchen. My friend Melanie would probably claim it for her own if she saw it. It looked like a cook’s dream. At one end was a round dark-stained oak table with matching chairs, and the three of us sat around it. “Mrs. Platt, I wanted to ask you about something my husband learned yesterday.”

  She looked at me expectantly.

  “The Medical Examiner looked at your husband’s body.” I didn’t want to be too graphic, but I was sure she understood what I was alluding to.

  “I know that. I asked them not to, but in cases like this, it’s the law.”

  “That’s right. And he discovered an old gunshot wound.” I stopped and let her absorb it.

  “That’s not possible,” she said finally.

  “My dad was never shot,” Toni said. “We would remember.”

  “It was an old wound.”

  “Well, the war,” Mrs. Platt said. “He was in the Pacific. I think I told you. He saw action. He never talked much about it but it’s possible he was shot then. That was before I met him.” Then she shook her head. “But I can tell you he never got a Purple Heart. I have all his medals.”

  “And you’re sure nothing ever happened while you knew him?”

  “Of course I’m sure. It’s not the sort of thing you’d forget.”

  “In the last few weeks, did your husband seem upset about anything?”

  “You ask the same questions the police asked. And I’ll give you the same answer. He was himself. He spent a lot of time with the high school drama society—they’re working on a play—and he did his usual things around the house. Sometimes he was grouchy, sometimes he was very happy. We were planning a trip for the summer. It was all very ordinary.”

  “Who brought in the mail?” I thought this was a good question because I’m the person who does it most days in our house and I see the envelopes before Jack comes home.

  “Both of us. It just depended who went out for it first.”

  “Did you see anything unusual in the mail?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s all bills and catalogs. We don’t get a lot of letters. Mostly we use the telephone.”

  “OK,” I said. “That’s really all I wanted to ask you, that and the cane.” I got up and we said our goodbyes.

  At home there was a message from Jack and I called him back.

  “Got a call about Platt’s leg X rays. They show absolutely nothing, Chris.”

  “No breaks?”

  “Nothing. The M.E. said he had two healthy legs. Now, that doesn’t mean he didn’t have arthritis or sciatica or something like that.”

  “But he wouldn’t have had things like that as a young man, would he?”

  “Probably not. Mrs. Platt tell you he always used a cane?”

  “From the time she met him.”

  “Maybe it was an affectation. Maybe he thought it made him look distinguished.”

  “I guess that’s possible,” I said halfheartedly. “By the way, she doesn’t know anything about an old gunshot wound. She thought it might have happened during the war but he never got a Purple Heart medal.”

  “Maybe they forgot to give it to him. I’ll see you later.”

  I was making a shrimp dish for dinner and I decided to clean the shrimp before I picked up Eddie. I took them out of the refrigerator and got my special cleaning knife. As I poked it through the first shrimp I realized it was a kind of two-edged knife. That, of course, was one reason I kept it where Eddie couldn’t possibly reach it. I looked at it, testing the edges carefully. It was surely one of the sharpest implements I owned, a very useful tool once or twice a month when I needed it, but potentially a deadly weapon. Anyone who carried around something this sharp and this dangerous could have nothing but malice in his heart.

  Not long after I got back from Elsie’s, Mrs. Platt’s daughter, Toni, called.

  “Mrs. Brooks, I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s Chris, and there’s no bother.”

  “I can only talk a second. Can we meet tomorrow for a little while?”

  “Sure. What time is good for you?”

  “Ten in the morning?”

  “That’s fine. Where would—”

  She interrupted me. “Outside Prince’s. I’ll see you then.” She hung up.

  I gathered she didn’t want her mother to hear the conversation or to know she was meeting me. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I thought it was a good sign. Maybe she knew something that would help find her fat
her’s killer.

  9

  Elsie took Eddie in the morning, and I drove to Prince’s, parking in their large lot. Toni Cutler was standing near the automatic doors and she waved when she saw me.

  “Good morning,” she said. “How about a second breakfast?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s go across the street.”

  We went to the Village Coffee Shop, a pretty place that served all day long. I had never had anything but coffee or a snack there but I thought that if I had something substantial, I might not have to make myself lunch, for me the most boring meal I eat every day. We sat at a table away from the windows—I had a sense that Toni didn’t want to be seen, or perhaps didn’t want to be seen with me—and she suggested pancakes and sausage.

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  She repeated the order to the waitress and asked for lots of coffee. Then she turned to me. “Mom told me about what happened on Saturday before Dad was killed, how you came upon him by accident.”

  “I was very embarrassed,” I admitted. “I got the police up there for nothing. They were very nice about it but I’m not sure they appreciated an April Fool’s Day prank.”

  “You did the right thing. I’m sure you know that. Mom knows about you because she’s taught Sunday school at our church and she met the Grants. You helped out a friend of Amy’s a couple of years ago.”

  “Oh yes. That was a very strange case, a tragedy that happened on Valentine’s Day up near Buffalo.”

  “That’s what Amy said. She couldn’t say enough good things about you, Chris. She also told us you’d managed to solve some other murders that eluded the police.”

  “I have. With a lot of help from my husband, who’s a detective sergeant with the NYPD, and also from my former General Superior at St. Stephen’s Convent.”

  “Of course,” she said, as though something had just cleared up for her. “You’re the ex-nun.”

  “I didn’t know that was well-known.”

  “But it is. I think everyone in town knew when the Greenwillow affair happened.”

  I smiled. “The Greenwillow affair” referred, I supposed, to the moving of Gene’s residence into Oakwood and my part in getting it there. “And here I thought I was anonymous.”

  “Hardly,” Toni said. “I want to tell you some things about my father, things I don’t want to discuss with the police.”