Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries)

by Judith Ivie

  The mood at the UCC on Monday morning was somber. The easy banter among collegial staff members had been replaced with uncertain courtesy. News of the discovery of Joseph's body, along with James’ inexplicable disappearance, had spread through the ranks like wildfire. Everyone was fairly bursting with questions for which there were no answers.

  Far from achieving closure, Mary O’Halloran had had hysterics at the edge of the Cove. A second ambulance had been summoned to transport her to Hartford Hospital, where she had been admitted overnight for observation. A concerned neighbor woman knocked on the O’Hallorans’ door while Strutter was packing a bag for Mary. She offered to lock up the house and even to stay with Mary when she was released, which relieved us all mightily.

  “ ‘Tis a sad turn of events to be sure,” Sister Marguerite said for the fourth time that morning. On this occasion, it was to the Archbishop of the Hartford diocese with whom she was talking on the phone. “I will certainly keep you informed. Thank you for calling.” She hung up and sighed. “The problem is that we have no information to share. This thing is a complete mystery.”

  Aloysius, snug in his corner bed, thumped his tail in agreement. Since I had no comfort or insights to offer, I took myself back to my desk to be of what practical assistance I could manage.

  Before I tackled the welter of post-gala paperwork that awaited me, I went in search of a much-needed cup of coffee, which my nose told me Shirley had just brewed. I met up with her in the little kitchenette.

  “Good morning, Kate,” was her unusually subdued greeting. She absently straightened one of the many little Christmas trees that fairly littered the place. Last week, they had struck me as whimsical and festive. This morning, they clashed sourly with the mood of the people who worked in the building. “I wonder if I should put all this stuff back in the basement,” Shirley read my thoughts.

  “I wouldn't,” I said, pouring out my coffee. “The clients and others who come through here would find it odd, don't you think?”

  “I guess.” She looked around uncertainly. “It just feels inappropriate somehow, like wearing a red dress to a funeral.”

  Her analogy made me smile. “Shirley, can you think back to Thursday before everyone left to go over to the Wadsworth?” I followed her back to her desk in the reception area. “Do you remember if anyone called James that day whose voice you didn't recognize? A man, middle aged. Probably didn't want to give you his name.”

  “You mean the brother, don't you? The one whose body was found yesterday.” She shuddered. “I've been up all night thinking about him. Why didn't we know anything about this brother. Joseph, is it?”

  I nodded. “He was a bit of a black sheep, according to James’ wife. Turned up every few years when he needed money for one of his crazy financial schemes. He was in the area that day, because he called the house, and I believe I saw him at the gala Thursday night. He looked so much like his brother, I mistook him for James. What we can't figure out is how he got into the Wadsworth to begin with.”

  “It wouldn't have been that difficult, considering all of the volunteers we had to recruit at the last minute to replace the people who were down with the flu,” Shirley reminded me. She had a good point. There was a semi-official list started by Mary Alice before she was ordered home to bed, but over the last couple of weeks, that had pretty much deteriorated. I myself had recruited Strutter and Margo to help out. I didn't even remember if I gave their names to Lois Billard or Shirley or anyone else who might have been interested. By Thursday afternoon, we had just been grateful when the majority of our eleventh-hour volunteers actually showed up.

  “To answer your question, no, I don't remember a call to James from a man. There was a woman, though.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, I'm fairly certain that was on Thursday. It had to be, because James wasn't here after that.”

  I was surprised by this unexpected curve. “A woman called James here? How old a woman? Did she have an accent of any kind? Sorry,” I apologized. “It's just the first possible lead we've had since James disappeared. Can you remember anything at all?”

  She thought for a moment. “It was fairly early. I had just taken the phone off the night system, and it rang immediately. I remember, because I was making the coffee, and it interrupted me.”

  I knew how much Shirley relished her morning coffee and could well imagine her annoyance.

  “What did she say?” I prompted.

  “She asked specifically for James, but there was something odd about the way she did it, as if she didn't really know him.”

  “Did she ask for Mr. O’Halloran? Or maybe she got his name a little wrong?”

  “That's it. She called him Jim. I've never known anyone to call him Jim or Jimmy, so at first I thought it was a telemarketer, one of those brash ones that try to get by you by acting too familiar.”

  “Jim, hmmm. Then what?”

  “Well, I told her he wasn't in the office yet and put her through to his voice mailbox. When James came in a few minutes later, I told him he had a message waiting, and that was that.”

  “No other calls?”

  She stirred her coffee and tried to remember. “I don't think so, Kate, but the place was a madhouse that morning. We were all running around trying to get ready to go over to the Wadsworth. I wasn't the only one answering the phone. When it rang, whoever was nearest picked it up. You know how it can get.”

  I did indeed know how it could get. The office would never qualify as spacious, even for the twenty or so employees who worked there. Add delivery people, clients, and other visitors coming in for meetings or what have you, and things could be very crowded and noisy. By contrast, the place seemed unnaturally quiet today.

  When I returned to my desk, the message light on the phone was blinking. “I'm working at home today, Kate,” said the IT Coordinator in my ear. Marilyn was a vivacious redhead whose staggering task it was to keep all of the UCC’s employees networked. “Do me a favor and change the back-up tape in the server, would you?’

  I was happy to help Mary out, of course, but technical expertise has never been my strong point. I was a little nonplussed, but if Marilyn thought I could handle it, I reasoned, then I probably could. She would never expose the computer equipment to possible damage by the technically inept.

  Following her instructions, I collected one of the numbered cassettes and the keys to the server cage from her office, then headed up the stairs to the second floor of the building. Only a few cubicles were occupied, and all of the half-dozen offices belonging to the senior managers were dark. I looked around uncertainly for the staircase leading to the unfinished third floor, where Marilyn had said the server was located.

  “Changing the tape?” asked a cheerful youngster from behind a pile of cardboard-bound grants and proposals on her desk. I recognized her as the development director's assistant but couldn't quite come up with her name. “We all have to do that once in a while. Stairs are back there. Just feel for the light switch when you open the door.” She pointed over her shoulder to the unmarked door at the end of the short aisle.

  I smiled my thanks and went on my way. The plain, white door was unlocked. I twisted the knob and saw the shape of stairs on my left. Stepping in, I felt along the wall and located a switch. Fumbling a little with my hands full, I finally managed to flip it and was relieved when bright light illuminated a wide, wooden staircase. The prospect of visiting the attic of this old house wouldn't have thrilled me under the most benign of circumstances, and the events of the last few days had been unsettling.

  A scurrying sound stopped me in my tracks. Had it been real or imaginary? The residents and workers of Asylum Hill might know this was now the administrative office of the United Christian Coalition, but did the squirrels and other rodents? I held my breath but heard nothing further. Oh, just get it over with, I scolded myself and stamped up the stairs, jangling the keys to encourage any furry residents to retreat to their lairs.

  The server housing at
the top of the stairs was modern and well lit, and the key turned smoothly in the lock. Changing the tape took only a few seconds. I was soon relocking the cage from the outside. The stacked electronic gizmos hummed reassuringly.

  Having accomplished my task without destroying anything, I felt brave enough to take a quick look around before returning to the first floor. The wintry sunlight streaming through several small windows cheered the big space, which was surprisingly uncluttered. I had anticipated piles of archived files and jangly piles of discarded office paraphernalia, but only one stack of large cartons occupied a far corner. The boxes were draped with a tarpaulin, leading me to believe that the roof might have a leak or two.

  In my short time at the UCC, I had learned that social workers tended to be packrats. Their workspaces were filled with papers, books and files organized in ways understandable only to themselves. Up here, though, I could imagine what the old house had been like originally. I could easily picture Jo Marsh of Little Women curled up on an old sofa by that window over there, eating apples and scribbling her stories.

  Another round of furtive rustling snapped me out of my reverie, and I hurried back down the stairs to the paperwork that awaited me.

  “Jasmine would have loved it,” I told Margo on the phone that evening as I sat with the old cat on the living room sofa. She lapped uninterestedly at the chicken baby food with which I was trying to tempt her appetite. “Lots of hidey holes for mice and squirrels and who knows what else. Probably a few bats under the eaves, too. She would have had a grand old time.”

  “How are things comin’ along with the weddin’?” Margo asked, more to change the subject than out of any burning interest, I suspected. My friends were tiring of the drama at the UCC, and who could blame them? I was growing weary of it myself.

  “Fine, I guess. Emma contacted the maid of honor, and she seems to have things pretty well in hand. I emailed Michael from work today to ask if there's anything special I should be doing. He said not to worry. Jeff and Donna are very excited about having a small wedding among family, and the caterer has everything handled.”

  “That must be some caterer. Everything is all set, but he's never even seen your place?” Margo said doubtfully.

  “Michael gave him a floor plan, which is how a lot of these smaller events are worked out in advance. I guess they draft a preliminary layout for the seating and food, get menu approval, then finalize the schedule and the staffing. Much more efficient than sending actual people out to inspect every location personally. Michael and Sheila say it's going to be lovely.” I looked around my decorated-to-the-hilt living room. “My major worry right now is Christmas Eve. Emma is so besotted with this Jared person, it worries me.”

  “What's the big attraction?” Margo wanted to know. Now we were in her area of expertise.

  “Joey and Justine say he's a hunk, some kind of minor sports star, but Emma has dated plenty of good-looking guys before. She could always take them or leave them. This one is different.”

  Margo chuckled. “As you know, I like men better ‘n I like chocolate candy, but I could always take or leave ‘em both. That is, until my John came along. Do you think that's what's goin’ on with Emma? Is this fellow the one?”

  “Never having met him, it's hard for me to say. He's in Maine most of the time teaching snowboarding, of all the unlikely things, to the sons of the filthy rich. Joey doesn't think much of him. He didn't come right out and say it, but I got the impression that he suspects that Jared isn't all that into Emma.”

  “Oh, dear. It's always the elusive devils that get under a girl's skin. On that topic, what do you hear from your absent man?”

  I filled her in on what little I knew about Armando's business trip. “If he doesn't make it back for Christmas Eve, I'll be beside myself,” I finished up. “I thought I'd love every minute of my solitude, but what I wouldn't give to hear him coming in the door right about now.”

  “I love that sound myself,” Margo sympathized. “Speakin’ of which, excuse me for a sec, Sugar. John is comin’ in this very minute.”

  She disappeared, and I listened enviously to smoochy noises and giggles as she greeted her husband. To my surprise, it was John who picked up the phone.

  “Kate? John here. I've got some new information on the Santa situation.”

  “About James? Have you located him?”

  “No, sorry. It's about the brother.”

  “Has the body been identified officially as Joseph O’Halloran?”

  “Technically speaking, his sister-in-law's identification is sufficient, but since he died under suspicious circumstances, and his next of kin, brother James, is the subject of a missing persons investigation, we're treating this one as a probable homicide. The L. A. P. D. ran a check and came up with quite a few priors on Joseph, fraud, embezzlement and so on. All dismissed ultimately, no convictions, but that's not the real news.”

  I wasn't at all sure I wanted to know the real news, but John so obviously wanted to tell me, it seemed impolite not to give him the opportunity.

  “What is it, John?”

  “Joseph died of asphyxiation, drowning, to be exact. We figured that, even though there was a large contusion on his right temple that looked as if it could have killed him. We thought he was probably knocked unconscious and then dumped in the river, where he drowned.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “The thing is, his lungs weren't filled with river water. They were filled with champagne punch.”

  Seven

  The last time I had visited the O’Hallorans’ house, I had seen only the outside of the snug Cape. This time, I was ushered inside by Mary's neighbor. Presumably, she was the same one who had volunteered to keep an eye on Mary a few days ago, but I couldn't be sure. Neighborhoods, particularly those whose residents are long established, have intricate support systems that have evolved over the years.

  “I'll be right next door if you need me,” the woman called to Mary over her shoulder. “She's in the kitchen,” she said to me. “I think she's stronger today.” With that, she let herself out and vanished across the front lawn.

  I followed the aroma of fresh coffee past the center staircase to the back of the house. As many buyers of these 1950s-era homes do, James and Mary had removed the walls between the front and back rooms to open up the downstairs. The result was a surprisingly spacious living room on the left and a cheerful, well-lit kitchen/dining room on the right.

  I had rather expected to find Mary slouched in a chair, still in her bathrobe, but I was reassured to find her arranging coffee things on a tray in her tidy kitchen. She was dressed in tailored slacks and a soft sweater. Her make-up had been carefully applied, and her hair was in place, although the gray I had noticed last week seemed somehow more pronounced.

  “Thanks for coming, Kate.” Her smile was as warm as ever. “Shall we have our coffee in the living room? The morning sun is so cheerful in there.”

  I picked up the filled carafe and followed her down a short hallway to the rear of the living room. A wide window overlooking the back yard allowed the sun to warm our backs nicely as we sat on the sofa in front of it.

  “You look well, Mary. How are you doing?” I took a sip of excellent coffee.

  “Better,” she answered sturdily. “I went to the Cove on Sunday prepared to identify my dead husband. Anything short of having to do that is solvable. That's why I wanted to see you in person, Kate. Thank you, by the way. I know you were expected at the UCC this morning. The post-fundraiser week is always a hectic one, and without James, well, I'm sure everyone is doing the best they can.”

  “My being here isn't a problem,” I assured Mary. “Sister Marguerite and Lois and Shirley and James’ assistant are all half out of their minds with concern for James and for you, as well. Solving this mystery and reuniting you is everyone's most fervent wish, so if there's any way at all that I can help, believe me when I say I'm more than happy to do it.”

  I took another sip of cof
fee, hoping I had opened the door sufficiently for Mary to tell me why she had asked me to come by this morning. Her early phone call had taken me by surprise. She put down her mug and composed her hands in her lap.

  “I'm afraid I haven't been entirely forthcoming. There was another phone call last Thursday morning besides the one from Joseph.” She regarded me levelly. “I didn't mention it sooner, because it's a private matter, and quite frankly, I was embarrassed. At the time, I couldn't imagine that it had anything to do with all of this. Now, I'm fairly certain it does.”

  I remembered what Shirley had told me about James’ message from an unfamiliar female caller. “Was it from a woman?” I asked Mary now.

  Her fingers twisted together in agitation, but she met my gaze. “Yes. It was from Roberta.”

  I searched my memory but came up empty. “I'm sorry. Who is Roberta?”

  “I don't know her last name. I never have. The only thing I do know is that she and James were involved briefly some years ago. They had an affair,” she concluded to clarify the nature of their involvement, which I had already guessed. It's always the quiet ones who fool you.

  “You know this because …?”

  “James told me.” Mary smiled bleakly. “It's the downside of having an honest, committed relationship. You're spared nothing, even the knowledge of things you'd be much happier not knowing.”

  She picked up the carafe and held it up questioningly. I shook my head, and she refilled her mug. I kept silent and waited.

  “It was at a convention in California,” she continued. “All of the top financial executives from charitable organizations all over the country meet once a year to be updated on new legislation, tax regulations, that sort of thing. The bean counters’ convention, James calls it. It's a huge snore. I never went. None of the wives did.” She made a face. “I probably should have, as it turns out.”

  “Convention fever, we called it when I worked with the management company of an international trade show. Relationships are spawned out of sheer boredom.” I smiled to assure Mary that I didn't find her news shocking. It had been my experience that, given the chance, boys would be boys. So would most men.