by Peg Cochran
“Do we just go inside?” Elizabeth spun around and looked at Kaminsky. “The body’s not still here is it?”
Kaminsky shook his head. “I thought we’d get a couple of pictures of the house. I understand it was the caretaker who found the body.”
“That would be me.”
They hadn’t heard the man approach. He had straw-colored hair that was turning gray at the temples and was wearing a pair of overalls over a worn plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“You the people they said was coming out from New York?”
“That would be us,” Kaminsky said with a slight glance in Elizabeth’s direction. He held out his hand. “Ralph Kaminsky, crime reporter for the Daily Trumpet and this is Biz Adams,” he said, using the nickname he’d bestowed on Elizabeth when they first met. “She’s a photographer for the Daily Trumpet.”
He nodded in Elizabeth’s direction. “Frank Hogg.”
“How long have you worked for the Posts?” Kaminsky said, standing with his legs apart.
“It must be ten years now.”
Kaminsky nodded. “So you found the body?”
“It wasn’t no body—it was Noeleen Donovan. She was the maid.”
Kaminsky sighed and pulled his crumpled pack of Camels from his pocket. He offered the pack to Hogg.
Hogg shook his head. “Not for me. I never did take up smoking. But thanks anyway.”
Kaminsky put a cigarette to his lips but didn’t light it. “So where is Noeleen’s body now?”
“The morgue was already full when I found her. The rest of the bodies are propped up on chairs at the Westhampton Country Club. I’m thinking that’s where you’ll find her.” He shook his head. “Never seen anything like it. Bodies floating down Main Street. All the houses on Dune Road flattened and the West Bay Bridge collapsed. Scores of people killed.” His eyes had a vacant look as if he were already dead inside. He wiped a hand across his face. “There was no warning. No one knew the storm was coming.” He held his hands out palms up. “It had been raining for days. A lot of the summer visitors packed up and left. But that morning the sun was out.”
Elizabeth could see the muscle in his jaw moving.
“All of a sudden the bad weather rolled in—a fog as thick as pea soup. And the wind—you could barely stand up in it, and howling so loud you could hardly hear yourself think.”
Kaminsky pulled a box of matches from his pocket. Knickerbocker Club was scrawled across the top. He must have noticed Elizabeth looking at them.
“I found them in the back seat of a taxi,” he said as he struck a match and lit his cigarette. “So this Noeleen,” he said, the cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth, “How long did she work for the Posts?”
Hogg shrugged and furrowed his brows. “Less than a year? I can’t say for sure.”
Kaminsky nodded. “I heard she was found in a bedroom on the third floor. What made you go up there?”
Elizabeth noticed a shadow cross Hogg’s eyes. He clenched his fists at his side.
“I’m the caretaker. I’m supposed to look after the house when the Posts aren’t here, aren’t I?” His posture became even more defensive, his arms crossed over his chest now. “I knew the family had gone back to New York City, but usually one of the staff will stay behind to close up the house at the end of the summer.” He looked down at his feet. “I didn’t really expect to find anyone still here.” He clenched and unclenched his fists.
Kaminsky held up a hand as if to placate Hogg. “Sure, sure. It’s your job.” He dropped his cigarette and snuffed it out with the toe of his shoe. “What did you think when you found Noeleen?”
Hogg’s head shot up. “I thought she’d drowned like so many other people. Or that she’d been hit on the head by all the debris floating around. The wind busted out all the windows and I found the Lambert’s birdcage”—he jerked his head in the direction of the estate next door—“in the Posts’ front parlor. I didn’t find any sign of the poor bird.” He kicked at a piece of gravel with the toe of his boot. “The police said she’d been stabbed. It doesn’t make any sense.” He sighed, puffing out his cheeks.
“What was Noeleen like?” Kaminsky asked.
Elizabeth noticed he’d slipped his notebook and pencil from his pocket.
Hogg toed the ground again. “I didn’t know her really. She worked inside, and I worked outside. Our paths didn’t cross all that much.” He scowled. “If you’re asking me if I know who killed her, I don’t.”
“Did she have a boyfriend? Family?”
A strange look passed over Hogg’s face.
“I don’t know. I did see her with a fellow, but only the once. It could have been a boyfriend…or it could have been a brother. I don’t know.”
“Do you live here? Here on the grounds?” Kaminsky made a gesture encompassing the property.
Hogg jerked his chin to his right. “I’ve got a small place not far from here. My mother’s elderly—I look after her.”
Kaminsky rubbed a hand over his short, bristly gray hair. “So Noeleen’s body is probably at the country club?”
Hogg nodded.
Kaminsky turned to Elizabeth. “I guess we’ll go take a trip over there then.”
The Westhampton Country Club wasn’t far, but the journey was slow. More than once Kaminsky had to get out of the car to wrestle a tree branch or some other debris off the road. Finally they made the turn onto Potunk Lane and the country club came into view.
It was a low building with white trim and cedar shingles weathered to a soft gray. Half a dozen workers were spread out over the lawn picking up tree limbs and other rubble that had been left behind by the storm.
Kaminsky whistled. “This place stinks of old money, doesn’t it? I wonder what it costs to join?” He laughed. “More than I can afford, that’s for sure.”
Elizabeth didn’t say anything. Her eyes were drawn to the Adirondack chairs lined up on the lawn. A body was propped in each one.
By now she’d seen her share of dead bodies—people who had died a violent death that left them bloodied or disfigured. But the magnitude of this tragedy took her breath away. Bile rose in her throat, but she forced herself to remove her camera from its case and put it to her eye. Kaminsky stood beside her, his hat in his hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him cross himself.
A man in a police uniform came walking toward them. His shoulders were stooped in fatigue or despair or both, Elizabeth couldn’t tell. As he got closer, she noticed the deep grooves lining his forehead and running from his nose to his mouth.
“Chief Porter. Can I help you?” he said, weariness weighing down his voice.
Kaminsky stuck out his hand. “Ralph Kaminsky from the Daily Trumpet in New York City. And my photographer Biz Adams.”
Porter glanced at Elizabeth quickly then turned his attention back to Kaminsky.
“I’m afraid I don’t have time to answer any questions. As you can probably imagine, there’s a lot of work to be done.”
“It won’t take but a minute. Folks in the city are anxious to hear what happened. Some may even have folks who live out here, and they’re worried about their loved ones.”
Porter sighed and massaged the space between his eyebrows. “Fine. What do you want to know? We’ve got twenty-nine souls here in Westhampton lost to the storm, and we don’t even have a decent place to put them.”
Kaminsky pulled his notebook and pencil from his pocket. He licked his pencil.
“The Posts’ caretaker—they have a house over on Oneck Road—”
“Yeah. I know who the Posts are. So you talked to Frank Hogg.”
“Yes. He said the body of the Posts’ maid, Noeleen Donovan, was brought here.”
Porter gave a wry smile. “We figured it was only a matter of time before you newspeople from N
ew York were on to the story.”
“What is the story?” Kaminsky said. “She was stabbed?”
“Yes.” Porter looked at Kaminsky. “Hogg found her body. He thought she was another victim of the storm, but it looks like she was a different kind of victim altogether.”
He shook his head. “Medical examiner figures she’d already been dead for a couple of days when the storm hit. Ed Morrow who runs the general store in town says she came in for a loaf of bread on the Saturday, so we know she was alive then. Medical examiner said he wouldn’t put any money on it, but he reckons she was killed sometime on the Sunday. By then the only folks left out here were the locals and none of them can recall seeing her after the Saturday. Besides, old gasbag Howard Frelinghuysen said he went past the Posts’ house on Tuesday night before the storm and there wasn’t a single light on in the place. Not so much as a candle flickering, he said.”
“Any idea who did it?” Kaminsky said with a grin that showed he didn’t expect an answer.
“These summer people keep to themselves. We only hear from them when they have a complaint about a noisy party next door or they wake up at three o’clock in the morning convinced they heard a prowler outside.” Porter looked down at his feet. “No. I think the answer lies back in New York City. That’s where they lived their life. Summers out here were just a three-month break from the city heat.”
“But the killer could have been someone local,” Kaminsky insisted. “A jilted suitor or a jealous friend.”
Porter shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ve already called the New York City police and asked them to pursue the case. As you can imagine, we have our hands full as it is.” He touched the brim of his hat. “If you’ll excuse me…” He turned his back and began walking away.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky were about to get back in the car when they heard Porter shout. They turned around to see him walking back toward them.
“I almost forgot,” Porter said when he reached them. “According to the medical examiner, Noeleen was approximately five months pregnant.”
Chapter 3
Kaminsky whistled as they got back in the car. “What do you make of them apples? So this Noeleen was in the family way. It looks like she had a lover after all.” He turned the key in the ignition. “So maybe we’re dealing with a jealous boyfriend.”
A thought came to Elizabeth as Kaminsky was speaking.
“Did you notice Hogg’s reaction when you asked him if Noeleen was seeing someone? I thought he acted rather strangely.”
“Now that you mention it, he did seem put out by the idea.” Kaminsky flicked on the blinker. “Do you think he’s our jealous boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to be Noeleen’s boyfriend but she wasn’t interested—she was seeing someone else.” Elizabeth brushed off a leaf that was clinging to her jacket. “Or, it could be that the boyfriend didn’t want to be a father.”
“Maybe Noeleen was pressuring him to marry her,” Kaminsky said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “It would be the honorable thing to do, but maybe this guy wasn’t so honorable. And maybe he took the easy way out.”
“What now?” Elizabeth said as they drove away from the country club. “Do you think it’s worth seeing if any of the Posts’ neighbors are still here?”
“That’s not a bad idea, Biz. They might know something. Although in my experience people like Noeleen are invisible to people with money.”
Kaminsky turned the car back in the direction of the Posts’ house.
The house to the immediate right of the Posts’ had sustained similar damage—shingles torn off, windows gone, debris littering the expansive lawn.
“This doesn’t look too promising,” Kaminsky said as they pulled to a stop by the front door. “The family has probably already gone back to their place in the city. You wait here. I’ll see if anyone’s home.”
Kaminsky got out of the car and walked up the front steps. He rapped sharply on the door several times, but there was no response.
“I’m not surprised,” Kaminsky said as he got back in the car. “Who would want to stay in a house with all the windows missing and who knows what kind of damage inside. Let’s try their other neighbors.”
They had no more luck at the house on the other side or at the one across the lane.
Dusk was falling when they decided to head back to the city.
“I’m glad it’s not completely dark or we’d risk running into something,” Kaminsky said as he maneuvered around part of a picket fence that had been tossed onto the road by the storm. “Obviously they don’t believe in streetlights out here.”
“It would ruin the rural atmosphere,” Elizabeth said, peering out the window.
Kaminsky laughed. “I guess these people imagine themselves as country squires with their huge houses full of staff.”
They rode in silence for awhile. It had started to rain, and the tires made a monotonous whooshing sound against the wet road. Elizabeth was nearly dozing off when a thought occurred to her. She rubbed her eyes and sat up straighter in her seat.
“If Noeleen was five months pregnant…” She counted on her fingers. “The baby’s father is much more likely to be someone back in New York.”
Kaminsky leaned on the horn as a car cut in front of them.
“How do you figure that?”
“The season out here starts Memorial Day weekend. That’s when all the families pack up and leave the city for the summer. It wouldn’t do to be seen out here any earlier than that. Besides, no one would be around. At least not anyone people like the Posts would want to socialize with.”
“I had a friend from Wellesley whose family owned a house in Southampton. They invited me out for the weekend once. I remember Cornelia saying that her father refused to stay a single day past Labor Day weekend. He’d pack the whole family up and have them back in the city no later than that Monday night.”
“It looks as if some of the families stayed later this year,” Kaminsky said, glancing at Elizabeth.
“Yes. Apparently the weather had been terrible all summer and the prospect of a few sunny days had convinced people to extend the season just this once.”
“Okay, but what does this have to do with Noeleen?”
“Porter said Noeleen was five months pregnant. Five months ago was before Memorial Day and the start of the season. The Posts would still have been in New York.”
“Therefore—”
“Therefore, Noeleen most likely got pregnant while she was still in the city.”
“And therefore the father was probably someone she knew back in New York.”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“You could be right,” Kaminsky said. “Of course we only have the medical examiner’s word for it that Noeleen was five months pregnant. It’s possible it was closer to four months, but it’s certainly worth looking into. I think we should pay a visit to the Posts, don’t you?”
* * *
—
Kaminsky slowed as they drove past a neo-Georgian brick-and-limestone townhouse with a slate-tiled mansard roof on East Seventy-Third Street.
“Can you see the house number?”
Elizabeth peered out her window. “Number one hundred seventy-three. This is it.”
A New York City police car was double parked in front of the townhouse.
“Looks like the cops had the same idea we did,” Kaminsky said as he maneuvered into a parking space farther down the street.
Elizabeth glanced at the police car. She wondered if Detective Sal Marino would be on the case. They had met several months earlier when Elizabeth and Kaminsky were covering a debutante ball at the Waldorf-Astoria where the stepmother of one of the socialites was murdered. The idea of seeing Marino again made her nervous. There had been an instant attraction between them, but it was hopeless. They
belonged in two different worlds.
The rain had stopped, but the evening had grown colder. Elizabeth pulled her jacket closed and stuffed her hands in her pockets as they walked back toward the townhouse. The streetlights were casting pools of light on the sidewalk.
They walked up the steps to the recessed entrance of the townhouse. Elizabeth was admiring the carved shell pediment over the front door when the door suddenly opened, and she came face-to-face with Marino.
A smile spread across his face and lit up his dark eyes.
Elizabeth felt her face flush and her heart begin to hammer hard against her chest.
“It’s been too long,” Marino said, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth’s. “You must promise you’ll have dinner with me soon.”
“Yes,” was all Elizabeth managed to say, annoyed with herself for capitulating so quickly. She knew she was playing with fire.
“I have to go.” Marino glanced at Kaminsky. “You’re still at the newspaper?”
“Yes.”
Marino touched Elizabeth’s arm gently then hurried down the steps to the waiting police car.
Kaminsky gave Elizabeth a strange look, but didn’t say anything, and she was grateful.
A young woman stood holding the door open. She was wearing a dark dress with a white apron over it and had her blond hair braided and wrapped around her head. She began to close the door, but Kaminsky put a hand against it before she could shut it all the way.
“We’d like to speak to Mrs. Post,” he said. He pulled his press card from his pocket. “We’re with the Daily Trumpet.”
The girl bit her lip. “Come in. I will see if Mrs. Post is at home.”
Elizabeth and Kaminsky stepped into the foyer where an elaborate crystal chandelier was suspended from the ceiling and the highly polished wide-planked wood floor was partially covered by an Oriental rug in a pattern of rich ruby reds and deep blues.
Kaminsky glanced at Elizabeth. “You can’t tell me that gal doesn’t know whether or not her employer is home.”