The Thanksgiving Day Murder

by Lee Harris

  His carport was empty, so I pulled over in the tracks I had made last week, noticing how fresh they still looked. There hadn’t been any snow. I hoped it would hold off another few hours. I had no plans to spend a lot of time here, although I had brought an overnight bag along in case the weather made the return trip look difficult.

  I got out of the car and walked around a little, hoping he would return quickly. He had to know I was on my way since he had left the message yesterday morning. But half an hour passed and he wasn’t there. I didn’t like the feeling of déjà vu, the memory of last week’s ordeal before he let me in. It was just as cold this week and I wanted to get home tonight.

  Forty-five minutes and still no sign of him. And then it struck me. The car I had passed before reaching the orchard. It could have been DiMartino’s car. I am notoriously poor at recognizing automobiles. I am probably one of only a handful of Americans for whom a car is transportation, the cheaper and longer lasting the better. I don’t even admit how old my own car is for fear of putting a jinx on it. But if that car had been his, he had had some trouble and might be almost anywhere looking for help.

  I got in my car and backed into the garage, then pulled out forward and drove through the trees to the road. I kept my eyes peeled as I went, but there was no one either on foot or in a vehicle. At the crossroad, I turned right and drove past the orchard. I remembered I had spotted the car before I reached the orchard, and as I looked, I saw it, still off the road on my left. I made a U-turn and parked behind it, getting out to see if he had left any kind of note in the windshield.

  There was no note, but there was someone inside stretched out on the front seat and it was Al. I caught my breath and told myself this was not the time to panic. The driver’s door was unlocked and I opened it, saying, “Sergeant? Sergeant DiMartino?” as I leaned in.

  “Chris,” a whispered sound came. “Chris, Chris.” He had been sitting behind the wheel when he had been stricken, probably with just enough time to pull off the road. Then he had lain or fallen to his right so that his head was near the passenger door. He said something, but I couldn’t understand it.

  “What?” I asked, knowing I should be getting help, not wasting time talking.

  He said it again, then once more, and I realized he was saying “heart.” He’d had a heart attack, or at least he thought so.

  For a moment I felt utter confusion, not sure whether I should take my car to the orchard and call an ambulance, push DiMartino over and drive his car there, or drive him to a hospital myself. When I made a decision, it was more to get things moving than to do what was right.

  “I’m taking you to the hospital,” I said. “I’ll help you move over and then I’ll drive into town.” I reached over while I was talking and unlocked the far door. Then I ran around to the other side, opened the door, and got him into the passenger seat with a lot of help from him. When he was sitting, I fastened the seat belt, let the back of his seat down just a little so he would incline backward, and then I ran back and got the car started.

  Luckily, I ran into a policeman as I entered town and he not only directed me, he led me, lights and siren going, to the small hospital a few miles away. He must have radioed ahead because they were waiting for us and got DiMartino inside in record time.

  Officer Tallman sat with me for a few minutes, getting details about DiMartino. I told him the sergeant was a retired policeman and I saw the subtle change. Officer Tallman was not just doing his duty; now he was helping one of his own.

  “He has a wife or ex-wife somewhere,” I said.

  “I’ll get hold of his wallet and have a look. You have any idea how long he was in that car before you found him?”

  “No idea at all. I don’t even know if it’s since this morning or yesterday.”

  “Poor guy.”

  An aide came into the waiting room at that moment, saw me, and asked if I was Mrs. Brooks.

  “I am. How is he?”

  “It doesn’t look good, but we have a fine cardiologist here and they’re doing the best they can. He wants you to have his house keys. I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying.”

  “I came to collect something he made for me.”

  “I’ll drive you over,” the cop said. “You can pick up your car on the way.”

  At the house I let us in. The place looked neater than last week, the bed made, the sink almost empty. He had worked at cleaning up for company. I felt terrible. This was a man with talent and energy, condemned to disgrace and a lonely life because a system he had loved and served well had been turned inside out to hurt him.

  “He’s an artist,” the cop said, amazement in his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “He was a forensic sculptor for the New York Police Department. He did something for me.” I turned to find Natalie and saw her near the woodstove. Next to her was a girl with a lopsided nose and a quirky face, Natalie in her late teens. I walked toward the sculptures holding my breath.

  “Musta been in that car a long time,” Officer Tallman said, his hand on the stove. “Stove’s cold.”

  “Here she is.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman I’m looking for twenty years ago.”

  “How’d he do that?”

  “It’s his genius. This is how she looked when she disappeared.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Yes, really fantastic.” A large envelope was propped against the older Natalie. Inside were several eight-by-ten black-and-white pictures of both sculptures. “He must have had these done yesterday,” I said. I realized both heads had hair. Heaven only knew where DiMartino had found wigs, but a wig sat on each head, brown on the younger Natalie, auburn on the older one. They weren’t real hair, but the pictures looked so lifelike, I knew they would do for our purposes.

  “Here’s a book of addresses,” the cop said from the desk. “Loretta DiMartino? Sound like his wife?”

  “Sounds like a relative anyway.”

  “I’ll take it along.”

  I had brought a couple of boxes with me and some soft cloth to wrap the heads in. The officer carried one and I took the other out to my car. The pictures I had left with DiMartino last week were on the floor near the stand with one of the sculptures. I had a lot of money I wanted to give him, but I didn’t want to leave it in an empty cabin. We drove back to the hospital.

  —

  Someone had already called his wife—she was still his wife, it seemed—and she was on her way. I asked a couple of times if I could see him, but they wouldn’t let me. Everyone looked grim and I settled in to wait for his wife or for a chance to see DiMartino. I had brought a book with me in case I stayed over. Now I read it distractedly, my attention wandering at every movement, every sound. I wished I could have a few minutes to address the medical team, to tell them about the man they were working on, to let them know this was a worthy human being, a person who had devoted himself to public service, that he had accomplishments that would be remembered, artistic talent greater than that of most people, that if he had erred, he had already paid a heavy price and he deserved to live out his three score years and ten. I saw myself as his advocate, but I had no audience for my thoughts, only myself, and I was already convinced.

  It was a long afternoon. When I knew I would not be able to make it home, I called and left a message for Jack, then called our own number and left the same message on our answering machine. From time to time a nurse would come out and update me, but there was little real news.

  “We’re still working on him,” one of them said.

  “Keep hoping,” from the other.

  At six a middle-aged woman in a gray coat and black boots stepped into the waiting room and looked around as though expecting someone to be waiting for her.

  “Mrs. DiMartino?” I said, standing.

  “Yes. I’m Loretta. Who are you?”

  “Chris Bennett. I found your husband. I was coming to pick up some sculptures he did fo
r me.”

  “Do you know where I can find the doctor?”

  I took her to the nurses’ station and they picked up from there. She was gone for a long time and I sat with my open book, wondering what effect her presence would have on DiMartino—if he was aware enough to know she was at his side. She came back to the waiting room finally, looking worn and miserable, and sat beside me.

  “There’s a lot of damage,” she said in a low voice. “It would’ve been better if he’d gotten here right away. He was out in that freezing cold for hours.”

  “I passed his car on my way to the house, but I didn’t know it was his car. I wish I’d stopped.”

  “It’s not your fault, honey. If not for you, he’d still be out in the cold.” She patted my hand and gave me a smile. “He’s a crazy man, my Al. Never learned how to keep his mouth shut. I used to say, ‘Al, do your work and mind your business,’ and he’d say, ‘Loretta, I can’t stand by and watch them make mistakes. The Constitution gives me the right to say what I think.’ But he was wrong. The Constitution doesn’t give you any rights on the job. They should have read him the Miranda warnings when he got out of the Academy.”

  I smiled at her assessment. “I admire a man who says what he thinks,” I said.

  “So do I, but admiration doesn’t pay the bills, and they were out to get Al so long, I knew they’d do it eventually. Why can’t a man learn to live with his mouth shut? He loved his work. He could’ve been still doing it and getting a paycheck and living in a decent house with heat and three square meals a day.”

  “I only met him once, but he struck me as a good man.”

  “Better than good,” she said under her breath. “Just raving mad. You don’t have to stay, honey. I’m OK. Go home to your husband.”

  “Would you like to go to a motel for the night?”

  “I can’t leave.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “He probably won’t make it the night.”

  —

  I went to the coffee shop and picked up some greasy hamburgers and worse coffee and brought them upstairs. We ate together, waiting for something to happen, hoping it would be good or, failing that, that nothing would happen, that he would get through the night unchanged and start to recover when the sun rose.

  I fell asleep at one point, never one to stay awake easily after dark. When I awoke sometime after midnight, Loretta was gone. I went to the ladies’ room and washed, wishing I had my toothbrush from my overnight bag, but that was out in the car. I found a nurse in the hall who told me Loretta was with Al, so I went back to the waiting room and sat and closed my eyes again. I woke up with a start at two A.M. There was noise and activity, people running. I walked to where I could see them, but they disappeared around a corner and I didn’t want to walk down the hall to see where they were going. Sometimes not knowing is a comfort.

  At two-thirty Loretta reappeared. I didn’t have to ask. It was in her face, her shoulders, the very fit of her skin.

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  I stood and went over to her, put my arm around her shoulders.

  “The doctor said, ‘We lost him,’ and I said, ‘What do you mean, you lost him? You never had him.’ I had him, thirty-two years if you count the ones he lived in that shack. I’m the one that lost him. Goddamn job. It’ll kill you every time.”

  “Let’s go find a place to sleep, Loretta.”

  “Why not,” she said.

  —

  We slept till after eight, sharing a room in the motel I had stayed in last week. I called Jack when I got up and told him the news. Then Loretta and I dressed and went down for breakfast. She was a thin woman who looked older than I thought she was, and she ate as if breakfast were not part of her daily activities. When we finished, we checked out and drove to the hospital. Loretta had left her car there. She dropped her bag in it and we went inside together. After a few formalities, she called a mortuary in Queens and they promised to drive out to pick up Al’s body.

  “It’s done,” she said as she put down the phone. “I’m glad you were here, but I’m OK now. You go home.”

  I protested, but she really meant it.

  “I’m a cop’s wife. I know the score.”

  “I can drive you back.”

  “And then figure out how to get my car back to Queens? I’m better off driving myself. Honest. You’re a honey, Chris. Go home.”

  “Loretta, I never paid Al for his work.” I opened my bag and took out my wallet. “We agreed on four hundred dollars.”

  “He charged you that?” Her voice rose in disbelief.

  I took out the four hundreds I had gotten from the bank. “We agreed on that. It’s yours now.”

  She took it and looked at it. “Thanks, honey,” she said.

  “He deserved it.”

  “That and a lot more. I wish it had come to him.”

  24

  I was home by afternoon and I let Jack and Sandy know I had arrived. Sandy was anxious to see the sculpture of the young Natalie.

  “You’re welcome to come out and look,” I said, feeling weary and hoping he wouldn’t take me up on my invitation today, “but I’m going ahead with ads in Indiana and upstate New York right away.”

  “Don’t you think I should see what you’ve got first?”

  “Frankly, I don’t, Sandy. I think what I’ve got is as close as we’re going to come to what Natalie looked like twenty years ago, and whether you like what you see or not, it’s all we’ve got. It’s clear she has a Midwest connection and I think she has an upstate connection.” I hadn’t told him about Martin Jewell’s weekend with Natalie, but he knew about Dickie Foster’s postcard. “So I want to move ahead.”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “I’m probably going to run over the five hundred dollars of expenses. I paid Al DiMartino’s widow four hundred, and there’ll be bills for ads and some other miscellaneous expenses.”

  “No problem. You’re already way ahead of anyone else, as I’m sure I’ve told you.”

  “I’ve got the names of a couple of newspapers in Saratoga and Warren Counties. I’m going to hit them all.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I spent some time typing copy for the ads. Tomorrow Jack would have copies made of the photographs and the copy, and he would send them out for me. When the envelopes were addressed, I fell into bed.

  —

  None of the ads made the Sunday paper. I was grateful for the hiatus. The trip to Al DiMartino’s house and his struggle and death had left me tired and sad. The phone call from “Ted Miller” had left me looking over my shoulder. On Friday I took care of household chores, looking forward to having Jack home for dinner and the weekend. It would be nice to have some quiet in our lives, a little of that mythical togetherness I had heard about but not experienced very much. I called Joseph at St. Stephen’s and briefed her. Then I told her, finally, about my search for the woman at the Thanksgiving Day parade.

  “Why do you want to find her?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure I can explain it. I feel somehow that she’s part of my life.”

  “You’re sure she’s not a cousin or something of your father?”

  “I’m not sure of anything. I just know that she knew my name, that she acted as though she belonged with us.”

  “But you’re afraid your father was seeing her.”

  “I think it’s possible,” I said carefully.

  “If she were a relative, can you think of a reason why your father wouldn’t say, ‘This is Cousin Isabel,’ or ‘This is Aunt Isabel’?”

  “Not even a remote reason. But Jack and I both think my mother’s old friend knows something she doesn’t want to tell me.”

  “She’ll tell you eventually, Chris. She’ll want to get it off her chest.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Keep me posted on the Natalie case.”

  “I will.”

  —

  Should I call Elsie Rivers? I
took a walk in the afternoon and stopped at Melanie’s for a cup of coffee. We talked for an hour about Natalie and what I had learned. In the warmth of her family room, I relaxed and enjoyed her company and her cookies. But the moment I stepped outside her house, I thought of Elsie again.

  Her call last weekend had been strange. She had said we should get together, but she hadn’t extended an invitation or suggested a date. In fact, the mention of a get-together had sounded more like an introduction to our conversation than a reason for calling. I knew that if I was wrong, if I had misinterpreted the call, I was heading for disappointment, but Jack had also thought there was something she wanted to say when we had visited her two weekends ago.

  It turned out I could have saved myself the agonizing internal discourses I had been going through. Elsie called on Saturday afternoon.

  “I was just thinking of you,” I said, telling the truth with no embellishment.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking of you, too, Chris, just sitting here with my knitting and thinking of Francie and you and how I’d really like to see you again.”

  “Would you like to come here for a visit?” I asked.

  “No, I think I’d like you right here in my little house, and if your Jack doesn’t mind, why don’t you come on over by yourself? It’ll be like Francie and me all those years ago.”

  “I’d love to. Shall we pick a time?”

  “Why not Monday afternoon? Both our husbands’ll be out of the house and we can have a little peace and quiet.” She said it as though the husbands kept up a steady din in our respective houses.

  “Monday is fine.”

  “Come at two. Two’s a good time.”

  As good a time as any, I thought, accepting.

  —

  There was nothing to sit home for on Monday anyway. The Indiana paper promised to run the ad Tuesday through Sunday. One of the upstate New York papers came out only on Wednesday, and the daily said they would run the ad Tuesday through Sunday, like the Indiana paper. No one was running it on Monday.