The April Fools' Day Murder

by Lee Harris

  “I saved every dollar of it, and so did Will. When we got back, I bought my mother a house. She wanted a house all her life and couldn’t ever afford it. Will put his in the bank. When he and Winnie got married, he used it to build this.”

  “A good investment,” I said. “I’m sure your mother must have been very happy with the house you bought her.”

  “She was, very, very happy, God bless her.”

  “Did you marry, Harry?”

  “Oh yes, married a good woman, but she’s long gone. I’ve got a daughter who’s good to me. And two grandsons.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Sure is.” He drank his coffee almost as if it were cold water, in big gulps. I was glad I had made more than a couple of cups.

  “You said Will wasn’t wounded during the war.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was he ever shot after the war that you know of?”

  He pushed the cup and saucer away from him, as though now that he had finished, he wanted nothing more to do with it. “You want me to tell you the truth, right?”

  “Please do.”

  “Something happened. I can’t tell you what, I can’t even tell you when. It was after the war and before he met Winnie. Winnie was a beautiful girl, by the way. Just a beauty.”

  “What was it that happened?” I prompted.

  “Oh, the gunshot. He told me afterward, there had been a fight of some kind. We didn’t see each other every day or every week, you understand. We saw each other once in a while, so if something happened, I might not hear about it for a long time. He said someone pulled a gun and he got shot.”

  “Did you ask him more about it?”

  “I asked him but he didn’t tell. Said there was nothing to it. He was fine. ‘Forget it, Harry. There’s much more important things to worry about in life than a little scratch.’ ”

  I could hear his voice change as he imitated his friend. “And that was it?” I tried to hide my disappointment.

  “I’ll tell you one thing. It was after that that he started carrying a cane.”

  “He was shot in his leg?” I asked with surprise. That was not what the autopsy had said.

  “No, no. He was shot here, in the midsection somewhere.” He rubbed his hand over his belt. “I don’t know exactly where. I never saw the wound. But that’s when he started walking with a cane.”

  “So maybe wherever he was shot, it made it hard for him to walk.”

  “I don’t know. It’s kind of a mystery to me, always has been. He walked like his leg bothered him, but he was shot somewhere in the middle. There were a lot of mysteries about Will. Tell you the truth, I always thought it could be his ex-wife that shot him.”

  That perked me up. “Will was married before he married Winnie?”

  “Oh yeah. When he was a young guy, just outta the Navy. He met this girl, real whirlwind courtship. They got married, settled down, and then it was over.”

  “How long were they married?”

  “Not long. Maybe a year. They fought like cats and dogs. At least, that’s what he told me.”

  “Did you meet her, Harry?”

  “Oh yeah. I was his best man. They were married downtown by a justice or something. I went down with them, and her sister came too. At least, I think it was her sister. Then the two of them, they flew outta that place and dashed off on a honeymoon. That was probably the best two weeks of their life together. I don’t think things went too good after that.”

  “Do you remember the date they got married?”

  “Hadda be 1946. Spring, I think.”

  “And you think she may have shot him?”

  “I could believe it,” he said, leaning over to look at his empty coffee cup.

  “Let me get you some more coffee,” I said, picking up his cup and taking it to the kitchen.

  I got us both coffee, glad to see there was still some left in the carafe in case Harry wanted more. I had the feeling it cranked him up, and things were getting interesting.

  “Ah, that’s a good girl,” he said when I got back. “It keeps me going, that stuff. I don’t listen when the scientists talk about whether it’s good for you or not. I’m old enough now, it won’t hurt me if I drink what I like.”

  “Did they have children?” I asked, sitting down.

  He looked at me somewhat wide-eyed. “Now that’s a good question. They weren’t together long enough for more than one, but to tell the truth, I don’t know the answer to that. He never said they did. ’Course, he never said they didn’t.”

  “Do you remember her name, Harry?”

  “Amelia. Amelia McGonagle, or something like that. She’d be Amelia Platt though, after they were married. And she was young and cute. She probably married again after they split up. Maybe more than once. Who knows?”

  “So when Will started going out with Winnie, he was already using a cane.”

  “I’m pretty sure of that.”

  “Did Winnie know he was married before?” I asked.

  “Hah.” He put his cup down and looked at me. “The truth is, I couldn’t tell you, but I don’t think so. Will said not to talk about it so I never did, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t know.”

  “So you don’t know.”

  “Not for sure, I don’t.”

  “And it’s possible, even if Winnie knows, that Roger and Toni don’t.”

  “You’re askin’ a lot of questions that give me the creeps, you know that?”

  “I’m trying to find out who killed Will.”

  “I understand. And you probably know more right now than the police do. But I don’t know all the answers. And I knew Will one hell of a long time.”

  “I’d like to ask you about Roger.”

  “Ah, Roger.” He shook his head. “Stayed away from his own father’s funeral. What is this world coming to?”

  “Did something happen between them?”

  “It was a clash of personalities. I don’t know how else to explain it. Sometimes people just don’t get along.” He gulped his coffee and put the cup down, pushing it away as he had before. “When it’s a father and son, it’s a sad thing. Will did what he thought was best. Roger rebelled. He’s a big boy now and it’s a little late for rebelling.”

  “But you don’t think it was one special problem they had.”

  “Everything was a problem between them. They never agreed on anything. Then little Toni came along and she could do no wrong. I’m not saying Will wasn’t at fault. I just think Roger should’ve tried harder.”

  “Did Will get along with Doris and the children?”

  “Oh, yeah. He loved them all. He’d talk about how great those kids are.” He looked over at me. “You heard what happened? The accident?”

  “I heard, yes.”

  “Terrible thing. Terrible, terrible thing. He never got over it.”

  “Did you know Roger well?”

  “Can’t say I did. I knew them as children but I didn’t have long meaningful talks with them when they grew up.” He smiled. “Kids aren’t too interested in sitting with Dad’s old friend and talking. They’d rather be out throwing a ball.”

  The doorbell rang and I jumped.

  “That’ll be the food. They’re deliverin’ for the company, when they get back from the cemetery. It’s all paid for. We just have to put it in the kitchen.”

  We went to the door together and let the caterer in with a number of platters and boxes. I signed that it had been received and Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills as a tip.

  We were on our way back to the living room when Harry said, “You ever see Will’s cane collection?”

  “Winnie showed me some of them the other day.”

  “Come with me.”

  We went into the beautiful back room where I had sat with Winnie, and Harry went over to the stand with the canes. He pulled one out, a walking stick with a silver handle, and started to unscrew the top. “See this?” he said.

&nb
sp; The silver top came off, and when he pulled it out of the shaft of the cane, I saw that a knife was attached to it. “It’s a weapon,” I said.

  “You bet. Wanna see another one?” He took a carved cane at random, unscrewed the hooked part, and drew out yet another blade, thin and threatening.

  “Are they all like that?” I took one and looked at it carefully, trying to find the break in the wood. It was there. I could feel it with my finger.

  “Every damn one. He never bought a cane that didn’t have a sword or bayonet in it. You wanna know what I think?”

  I leaned forward to hear.

  “I think he carried these things for protection.”

  “Against what?”

  “Who knows? Maybe against whoever it was shot him.”

  “Like his first wife?”

  “Maybe. Maybe it was someone else. I don’t think there was a goddamn thing wrong with his leg. I think he made it all up. He wanted an excuse to carry a cane, that’s all it was.”

  And in that moment I realized how Willard Platt had been murdered and why his cane was missing.

  11

  We talked a little longer and finished the coffee. I washed out the carafe so the Platts could use it and I checked to see whether any of the food that had been delivered needed to be refrigerated. Harry grew tired and leaned back and closed his eyes. I could have left, but I decided to wait with him till the family returned.

  He fell asleep where he was sitting, but he slept fitfully, muttering unintelligible words from time to time and thrashing around with his hands. Finally I heard the sound of a car door slam and I got my coat and went to the door.

  Mrs. Platt looked ready to collapse, but Toni was in good shape and helped her mother inside. I expressed my condolences again and went outside. Doris and her children were just getting out of their car, and several more cars were making their way up the hill.

  I took off. It had been a fruitful meeting with Harry. Whether Wilbur Platt’s first wife had shot him or not, the discovery of the secret of the canes had been worth the effort. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Harry’s interpretation was correct. Willard Platt carried a cane for protection. His legs were fine, maybe even perfect. But he was an actor and he had spent the better part of his life acting the part of a man with a weak or an injured leg. I wondered whether his wife and children knew that it was all an act. Winnie had said that he didn’t really need a cane, that he just felt more secure using one. He didn’t use one in the house. But I was ready to bet that he kept one next to his bed in case of attack.

  But attack from whom? Surely his ex-wife was not going to come out to Oakwood fifty years after marrying him to settle some old score. And any child who might have been born during or just after the marriage had not shot him.

  But what was now quite clear to me was that whoever had killed Willard Platt had done it with his cane. Perhaps Willard, sensing an attack, had unscrewed the top of his cane and tried to intimidate or harm his killer, who got the upper hand and took the cane with its lethal double-edged sword and stabbed him with it. His protection had become his undoing.

  Or did the killer know from the outset that the cane contained a knife? Did Winnie know? Did Roger know?

  I pulled into my driveway and went inside. I opened a can of my favorite soup and heated it up. Where was Roger? I wondered. I thought of driving over to his apartment, but I still didn’t know exactly where he lived and I didn’t want to knock on doors and ask questions that would blow his cover. Still, it made me uneasy that he had disappeared. So what if he didn’t get along with his father? His father was dead. He could be a good sport and go to the funeral. But he hadn’t.

  I sat down with my good-smelling hot soup and a glass of tomato juice and opened my notebook. I would have to look up Amelia Platt in our phone books, although I had little hope of finding her. I turned a page and began to wonder whether the police knew about the canes. There had been no mention in the autopsy report that the double-edged blade that killed Willard came from a cane. If there had, Jack would have been sure to tell me.

  I started thinking again about how the killer had gotten to the house and away from it. He could have screwed the top of the cane back and walked away as though it were his. Or he could have chucked it in the back of his car and driven off. Or he could have continued up the road and over the top of the hill. A weekend hiker would have no difficulty doing that.

  Winnie and her children had to know about the canes. Harry knew, which meant Will had told him. Surely Will had told his wife. Maybe he had not told his children when they were young to keep them from harm, but at some point they must have found out. I would ask Toni.

  I was a little sorry I hadn’t gone to the funeral and seen who was there. I had been a bit surprised when the mayor and his wife came out of the church, but Willard Platt had been a fixture in Oakwood for so long, it made sense that the mayor would pay his respects, even if they’d had their differences.

  I looked at the names in my notebook. Mr. Jovine would have no motive whatever. Indeed, unless Willard had put something in his will endowing the drama society, their bounty may well have dried up. It was impossible to believe that one of the fourteen students had killed Willard. Only one of the four in team one would have had the opportunity, and it would have been very difficult to accomplish.

  There was Bernie, the mailman. Kix, I said to myself, you are really stretching.

  I kept coming back to Roger. But it didn’t make sense. Roger had a screwed-up life, but killing his father would not make it better.

  I got up and gathered up the telephone books of the five boroughs. Jack keeps them current, so they’re always a good source. I looked up Platt in Manhattan and almost gave up. There were a number of A. Platts, but no Amelia. Nor was there an Amelia McGonagle. I decided if I had nothing to do for a couple of hours, I would make some phone calls, but it didn’t seem like a productive thing to do right now.

  Instead, I called the house where Eddie was spending the day and asked how things were going.

  “Just fine,” Bonnie Wilson said. “I think they’re still good for a while.”

  “I might go out,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t panic if you’re not there.”

  That sounded good. I called the mayor next. I didn’t really know him, but I knew he knew who I was. He was home and he said I could come over if I wanted to talk.

  Mayor Herbert Strong and his wife lived in a medium-sized house on the other side of town. He was in at least his second term of office and I had never heard anything very good or very bad about him. I’m not very political, and the things I care most about, after the schools and the library, are keeping snow off the streets in winter and having a responsive police force. We have those things, so I’m a pretty contented resident.

  The development in which the Strongs lived dated back several decades. The houses were all built as small one-story affairs, each with a single car garage at the side. Over the years, the owners have transformed the little houses so that the area is hardly recognizable as a development. Many of the houses now have second stories. Most have two-car garages. Decks and additions have been built out back. It always pleases me to see that what some people sneer at as cookie-cutter housing can become so different, a reflection of the individuality of their respective owners. I think it says something wonderful about Americans.

  The Strong house was one of those with a second story, the ground floor bedrooms having been converted into a large family room with a brick terrace outside. Mayor Strong and I sat there, facing the glass doors, and Mrs. Strong retreated to another room.

  “I saw you at the funeral this morning,” I said.

  “Were you there? I didn’t see you.”

  “I was waiting outside the church. I was picking up Mr. Platt’s oldest friend.”

  “Yes, I saw him with the family. This is a very sad affair and a great loss for our town.”

  I wondered. “Tell
me what you know about Willard Platt, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Well, he’s lived in Oakwood much longer than I have. Must be close to fifty years. We’ve only been here about thirty. Years ago he worked in the city, but he’s been retired or semiretired for a long time. He’s been a big help to the high school, as you may have heard.”

  “I have heard,” I said. “I also heard he’s been a difficult person.”

  “Well …” The mayor smiled. “Let’s just say he’s looked out for his interests vigorously, as we all should.”

  “Did it cost the town much to protect those interests?”

  “If you expect me to speak ill of the dead, Mrs. Brooks, you’ll go away disappointed. Willard Platt was a good man and let’s leave it at that.”

  “I’m trying to figure out who might have wanted to kill him.”

  “Let the police do their job. They’re good at what they do and very dedicated.”

  “Whose feathers may Mr. Platt have ruffled?” I asked. “There were some lawsuits I know of.”

  “Who did he sue?”

  “The nursery for one.”

  “The nursery,” I repeated. “Will owned the land on both sides of the road.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “He bought it years ago when you could have an acre for a song. He talked about developing the land one day, but he never did. He just thought it was nice not to have any nearby neighbors. The Vitales owned the land across the road at the bottom of the hill and opened for business a number of years after the Platts built their house. The nursery got pretty successful—they draw customers from all over—and they wanted to double in size. That meant buying land from the Platts, and Willard said no. The nursery offered a pretty good price for that land, but there was no deal.

  “Then the Vitales started using some of the land just above their building so they could stock more trees. Apparently, they went over the property line and Willard was furious. He called them up and said to get off his land, and they said it was theirs—well, you can imagine it was a mess.”

  “Whose land was it?”

  “Turns out it was Willard’s. He had the old survey and it was pretty clear the nursery had gone over the line, not just a foot or so, but a lot. They tried to make a deal to rent the land or just to use it till he wanted it back, but he refused. He said if he let them do that, they might claim it as their own someday. There are cases like that, you know. He said he just wanted what was his, and when they wouldn’t remove their plants, he hired a lawyer.”