Miss Bagley turned the pages of the faculty section, pausing to comment on some. “That’s Marge Randolph. Poor woman got cancer. Passed away a few years ago. She was a wonderful Latin teacher.” Turning another page, she gave a little chuckle. “That’s George Mendoza. He was the assistant principal back then. Wonderful man. Wonderful sense of humor. Guess that’s why he’s lasted as long as he has.” She handed the yearbook back to him, and, by force of habit, he simply leafed through the pages. There were all the standard photos of the students engaged in various school functions. Drama Club, basketball, candids shot in the cafeteria. He glanced at some of the portraits of the seniors. Then he saw it. He strained in the light to get a better look. The name under the photo was Mary Gilbert. Bishop felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. In the brief bio, he noted that Mary Gilbert had been a cheerleader. Perhaps she had been Zappala’s first victim. She was most likely the first to become pregnant. Maria Santorini had been wrong. All these years she thought that her brother had used the money to pay for an abortion and for her silence. That must have been what Zappala told her. That must have been his intention. But the evidence was clear. Mary Gilbert had not had the abortion. She had given birth to a daughter that she gave up for adoption. He stared at the photo of Mary Gilbert. Her physical resemblance to someone that he knew was unmistakable. When he looked at the eyes and the smile of this beautiful young girl, he saw Stephanie Harris.
***
Bishop suddenly felt lightheaded. His heart was racing. “Would you mind if I sat down for a moment?”
“Not at all,” she replied as she took a chair from the librarian’s desk. “Are you all right, Mr. Bishop? Would you like a glass of water?”
“I’m fine, really,” he said, hoping to disguise how terribly sick he did feel. “A glass of water sounds good. I think I might be a little dehydrated.”
Miss Bagley returned in a moment with a paper cup filled with cold water and a small package of crackers. “I raided Eleanor’s stash of goodies. I’m sure that she won’t mind.”
Bishop took a sip of the water, opened the package, and nibbled on a cracker. He assured Miss Bagley that he was feeling much better. The yearbook on his lap was still open to the page with the photo of Mary Gilbert.
“Miss Bagley, do you remember this girl?” He handed her the book as he pointed to the photo.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. She looks very much like someone I know.” If she didn’t make a connection between Zappala and the girl, he wasn’t about to suggest that one existed.
She looked at the name and the photo, thought about it for a moment, and slowly the painful memory returned. “Yes, I do remember Mary. She was a lovely girl, bright. Wanted to become a lawyer. She’d been accepted at Columbia, but she never went.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper as she recalled the sad story.
“What happened?” he asked, hoping that Miss Bagley would feel comfortable enough to continue. He needed to be able to fill in the gaps in his own understanding of the past.
“It’s a terrible thing, Mr. Bishop, but I’m sure you have witnessed this in your own experience as a teacher. Mary became pregnant in her senior year. Her parents wanted her to have an abortion, but she refused. She moved in with a girlfriend and finished out the year on home study.”
“What about the father?”
“That’s even sadder.”
Bishop expected that she might now explain her earlier reference to Zappala’s “difficulty.” Instead, she turned the pages of the yearbook until she found the photo of Dennis Riordan with his big toothy smile and mop of blonde hair. “That’s him,” she said, tapping the page with her index finger. “Everyone knew that they had been dating. He must have been the father, but he insisted that he wasn’t. He abandoned Mary when she needed him the most. He died in a motorcycle accident shortly after graduation.”
Although she had stopped speaking, he sensed that she was considering whether or not she should say any more. He stood up as if he were ready to leave. “You’ve been so helpful, Miss Bagley. I truly appreciate your sharing this with me.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Some people were convinced that it wasn’t an accident. They said that Dennis had been so upset over what had happened that he might have…” She hesitated to put the rest into words.
“I understand,” Bishop said softly. He actually understood more than Miss Bagley at this point. Dennis Riordan had insisted that he wasn’t the father because he knew that he wasn’t. He also would have felt betrayed by Mary who was pregnant by another man. He wondered if Zappala knew that he was responsible for the death of this young man, and if he knew, had he felt any remorse?
“Mr. Bishop? Are you sure that you are all right?”
He was so lost in his thoughts that he had for a moment forgotten that she was standing there. He assured her that he was fine and that she had been very kind to go to all this trouble for him. He had one more favor to ask. He wanted to make copies of a few pages. “I’ll be happy to pay for them.”
“Don’t be silly. A few copies won’t break the budget. Just give me the page numbers,” she said, as she turned on the copier to let it warm up. With the copies he wanted in hand, they left the library, and she walked him back to the front entrance.
“It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Bishop. I hope you find what you are looking for.” Bishop got into his car, waved to Miss Bagley, and drove away. He had no idea where he was going. He needed time to think. Could Mary Gilbert be the killer? She certainly would have had a motive. But why would she have waited so many years? How would she have obtained the poison? Perhaps she had hired someone to do the dirty work for her. He wondered if Stephanie knew about her birth mother. Had she been in contact with her? Could Steph have helped her by taking the poison from the science lab? He had no more idea where these thoughts were taking him than he did where this road was taking him. He kept thinking of more questions. Had Zappala recognized the similarities between Mary Gilbert and Stephanie Harris? He often told his students that it was more important to be able to ask the right questions than it was to know all the answers. Was he asking the right questions?
He pulled into a gas station and filled the tank. After getting back in the car, he reprogrammed his GPS. His destination was 156 Westlake Road. That was the address included in Mary Gilbert’s yearbook bio. It was possible that her parents were still living there. Even if he found them, it was possible that they would not talk to him. He knew that he had to take that chance.
Chapter 29
Before he had a chance to thoroughly consider what he would say to the Gilberts, he found himself in front of their modest home. It was an old mobile home with a broken screen door. Toys were strewn about the yard, remaining where their owner had lost interest in them. As he knocked on the door, his heart was pounding. He was surprised when a man who looked to be about thirty years old appeared. He was holding a baby in one arm, and there was a toddler hanging on to his pant leg. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. Sorry.”
“I’m not selling anything. My name is Michael Bishop. Is this the residence of the Gilbert family?” He spoke rapidly fearing that the door was about to be shut in his face.
Before he could say anymore, the man replied, “Yeah, it was. My wife and I bought the place about six months ago.” He was clearly interested in ending the conversation and turning his attention back to his own family. “The wife’s out shopping, and I’m trying to hold down the fort here. Nice to have met you.” He was ready to close the door on Bishop and the cold air that was streaming into his home.
“Wait, please. I’d really like to find the Gilberts. Do you know where they are now?”
“We bought the house from the estate of Mrs. Gilbert. She must have died about a year ago. I gather that she had been a widow living here alone for quite a while.” The telephone rang. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I better pick that u
p.”
“Yes, of course. Thanks. You’ve helped a great deal.” He winked at the little one who immediately hid her face in her father’s shoulder. He should have asked Miss Bagley where Mr. Mendoza lived when she had mentioned his name. He drove back to the school, but the Nissan was no longer in the parking lot. He pulled in to a convenient store just a block from the school. As he approached the counter, it occurred to him that in a small town where everyone knew practically everyone, the clerk might know Mr. Mendoza.
A young lady with streaks of purple in her long dark hair handed change and a receipt to the teenager in front of him. “Excuse me, miss. I’m looking for an old friend of mine. Would you happen to know a Mr. George Mendoza?” The woman, whose name tag simply read “Clarisse,” quickly appraised Bishop and must have decided that although he was a stranger, he appeared harmless enough. She turned toward a back room and shouted, “Hey, Shirley, come out here for a sec.” She turned back to Bishop and explained, “She’s been here a lot longer than me. She might know.” Another woman came up to the counter. She was wearing the same company uniform as Clarisse. “This guy is looking for a George …” She had forgotten the last name so Bishop finished her sentence by adding “Mendoza.”
“Know him? As a matter of fact I do. He goes to the library across the street once a week and then he usually comes in here to pick up a few things. Did you teach at the Heart? You don’t look familiar.”
Bishop explained that he was a teacher, but not at the Heart. He came up with some vague story about having met him at a conference years earlier. “I’m only in town for the day. I thought I would try to look him up.”
“He lives at the Tower Hill Nursing Home now. If you follow this road for about two miles, you’ll see a sign for it. Take a right, and it’s up the hill about a mile and a half.” Bishop thanked her and left.
***
As he drove up the hill, he tried to imagine life in a nursing home. If the facility was well run, and if you had people who cared about you, it could feel like living at a country club; if you didn’t, it could feel like a prison. If you didn’t still have your wits about you, it probably didn’t matter too much. At seventy, he was hoping that he would be able to live in his own home for another twenty years. Every time he thought about nursing homes, he recalled Eudora Welty’s short story, “A Visit of Charity.” A young girl named Marian is both frightened and enlightened during her surreal visit with two of the residents of the old ladies’ home. That story always generated good class discussion as the students struggled to determine the meaning of the ending when Marian takes a big bite out an apple that she had hidden before entering the home.
He pulled into the entrance for the Tower Hill Nursing Home, and stopped in front of the gate that stretched across the driveway. A middle-aged man put down his magazine and leaned out of the doorway of the gatehouse. He greeted Bishop with a friendly smile. “Good morning, sir. Your name, please.”
He hadn’t expected to have to answer any questions to get in. “Michael Bishop.”
He picked up his clipboard. “And who are you visiting today, Mr. Bishop?”
“George Mendoza.”
He flipped through a few pages on the clipboard, and said, “I’m afraid I don’t see your name on the guest list.”
“Well, no, it wouldn’t be there. I’m afraid I didn’t call ahead. I just happened to be in the area, and I thought I would make a quick visit.” He felt uncomfortable giving the impression that he and George were friends. At least what he had said was true.
The guard thought about it for a moment, then handed him the clipboard so that he could enter his name, the name of the person he was visiting, the license plate number of his car, and the time of day. As he handed the clipboard back, the gate began to lift. “Have a nice visit, Mr. Bishop. I’ll call the front desk to let them know you’re coming.”
“Thank you,” said Bishop as he put his car in gear and drove toward the building. He hadn’t expected such elaborate security. Perhaps there had been some problem in the past, or perhaps they were just giving their residents peace of mind.
He was met at the entrance by another security guard. “You must be Mr. Bishop,” he said as he pointed to another sign-in sheet.
“I believe Mr. Mendoza is in the Common Room watching television. Go through these doors, and it’s the first room on your left.”
Bishop found the room and stood outside the closed glass door for a moment. He could see a half a dozen old men sitting in front of a huge flat screen television. Despite the raised volume which made it possible to clearly hear the words of the anchor through the closed door, several of the gentlemen had nodded off. He gently opened the door. None of the residents seemed to notice, but an attendant who was seated in the back of the room quickly rose to meet him. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes. I’m looking for George Mendoza. I was told at the desk that he was in here.”
“That’s him in the blue sweater. What’s your name? I’ll tell him you’re here.”
He gave the man his name, but before he could explain that Mendoza wouldn’t know who he was, the attendant was tapping Mr. Mendoza on the shoulder and pointing to Bishop standing near the door, trying to look friendly. The old man grabbed his cane and made his way over to his visitor. He was wearing a blue cardigan sweater, a white shirt and baggy khaki-colored slacks. He shifted his cane to his left hand and reached out to shake Bishop’s hand. “Bishop. Bishop. I don’t recall any Bishops. Taught a Pope once. What year did you graduate?”
Bishop explained that he hadn’t graduated from Immaculate Heart and that he currently taught at Holy Trinity in Groveland. He said that he was hoping to ask him a few questions about some people that he might have known. Mr. Mendoza looked a bit confused, but when Bishop mentioned that he had been talking to Edith Bagley earlier that day, he said, “Oh, you’re a friend of Edith’s. She’s a wonderful lady. Why don’t we go someplace where we can talk? That TV is so loud. They must think we’re all deaf!” He led the way down the hall into a small visiting room. He offered Bishop a seat, and then slowly settled himself into a chair. “I bring guests in here all the time, that is when I have guests. They keep it a lot neater than I keep my room,” he laughed.
Although he desperately wanted to get to the important questions, Bishop felt that it wise to spend a few minutes establishing a connection with this kindly old man. He tried to put thoughts of himself one day living in a place like this out of his mind.
“I understand that you are a regular at the library.”
“I manage to escape this place once a week,” he said with a grin. “Not that it’s that bad, you understand. But I like to get out, you know. Go out to eat. Go to the library. I try to stay active. That’s the secret, you know.”
As the old man said those words, Bishop wondered if there was another secret that he knew and more importantly, if he would be willing to share it. After a few minutes, he decided that he had to approach the topic that had brought him here. He took the photocopies out of his jacket pocket, unfolded the one with Zappala on it, and handed it to Mendoza. While he stared at the paper, Bishop briefly told him about the unsolved murder of his colleague at Trinity. At the mention of Zappala’s name, the old man shook his head. “Can’t say that I feel sorry that he’s dead. He committed the cardinal sin in teaching. Pardon the pun, Bishop.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a teacher yourself. You must know the most important rule.” The old man waited for a response. Bishop realized that he was being quizzed by this retired educator, and that if he failed to give the correct answer, the lesson might be over.
“Never get too close to the students,” he responded.
“Exactly!” Mendoza went on to explain the incident as if it were yesterday instead of decades ago. “I had forgotten some books that I needed for the weekend, so I went back to the office used by the male lay teachers. The door was locked, but I had a key. When I put on the light, I
caught him ‘in the act.’ I should have killed him myself.” His eyes became misty as he spoke. “Fr. Dowd, who was the principal then, hushed everything up. He didn’t want any bad publicity for the school. Zappala ‘resigned’ at the end of the school year, and Dowd promised to give him a good letter of recommendation as long as he promised to move out of the area. I was Dowd’s closest friend. I guess he had to confide in someone.”
“Unbelievable!” Bishop said more to himself than to Mr. Mendoza. He recalled his conversation with Edward Bostwick, the principal at Madison, who had also let Zappala walk away after his encounter with Honesty Jones.
“Was the girl Mary Gilbert?”
“Yes. That’s right. Only a few people knew that at the time.”
“What happened to her?”
“She had been too frightened to tell her parents. When they found out that she was pregnant, they threw her out of the house. Their only child, and they threw her out! Most people thought that Riordan boy was the father. That was sad, too.” He was shaking his head in disbelief.
“Do you know what happened to her?” asked Bishop, pushing the old man for more information.
“I heard that she gave up the baby and moved to New York City. Her life went downhill after that. She’s dead now, you know. Fr. Dowd got transferred out to Minnesota a few years later after he was accused of molesting a boy. He died out there. Now Zappala’s dead. That’s the end of the story.” The two men sat in silence for several moments.
Bishop stayed a while longer to talk with the old man. He apologized to Mendoza for asking him to recall a terrible chapter in his life, and he thanked him for his cooperation. The old man slowly made his way back to the Common Room, and Bishop signed out at the desk. It had taken less than thirty minutes for him to acquire the missing details that had eluded him for the last couple of months. However, for Bishop, it was not quite the end of the story. He still needed to confront the killer.
Outline for Murder Page 24