Excerpt
The Good Friday Murder
1
I still wake up at five in the morning.
It’s hard to break habits practiced for fifteen years, especially when those fifteen years are half your life. Five o’clock comes and my mind starts to work, setting sleep aside. It had been three weeks since I left the convent, three weeks since I established myself in Aunt Meg’s house—which would be mine as soon as the will was probated—but 5:00 A.M. still worked its powers on me.
I turned over, looked at the clock, and closed my eyes, hoping sleep would work its own magic, but it failed again. It was nearly the first day of summer and the sun had risen at its earliest. After fifteen fruitless minutes of trying to sleep, I got out of bed and went to the bathroom, automatically opening the medicine cabinet as I entered so that I would not see myself in the mirror. During the years that I had visited Aunt Meg once each month, she had dutifully taped a carefully cut cardboard cover over the mirror before my arrival. But the prohibition, like the early awakening for morning prayers which I no longer said, still maintained its hold on me. I had not looked at my reflection since the day I left St. Stephen’s, although nothing but custom prevented me from doing so. Everything in its own time, I told myself.
My morning washing completed, I pulled the medicine chest shut as I left the bathroom and returned to my bedroom. On my arrival three weeks earlier, I had chosen to sleep in the room Aunt Meg had set aside for me rather than the one she had shared with Uncle Will for so many years and then occupied alone after his death. The master bedroom was considerably larger than the one I had chosen, but I knew why I was not yet ready to enter it. It was not the idea that it had been hers and she was only three months gone. Rather it was the large mirror over the dresser in which I had once glimpsed myself years ago and, shamefully at that time, lingered to see my face and figure, an infraction I had confessed to a priest upon my return to St. Stephen’s.
Now I opened the closet in my old room and saw again the yellow silk dress hanging on the inside of the door, the hanger hooked over the top of the door. I had gone on a necessary buying spree when I left the convent, purchasing kirts, blouses, dresses, and pants, and had picked the yellow dress because I was enchanted with its daffodil color and fluid texture. But I had not yet been able to bring myself to wear it.
“Too warm for silk,” I said aloud, and pulled out Old Faithful, a pair of khaki slacks and a short-sleeved white camp shirt, both of which had been washed and ironed half a dozen times since their purchase. A pair of crew socks and sneakers finished my outfit and I was ready for my morning outing.
—
I’m not an exercise fiend or a health nut, but I enjoy a brisk walk or jog in the early morning. It makes a nice substitute for morning prayers and builds an appetite, which seems sensible since I don’t wake up hungry. Halfway down the block I ran into a woman about my age who was walking off a pleasing plumpness.
“Good morning,” I called, measuring my pace to hers.
“Hi. Are you the new neighbor?”
“I guess I am.” I held out my right hand without breaking stride. “Christine Bennett. Call me Chris.”
She grasped my hand in a firm handshake. I like that. “I’m Melanie Gross. Mel. We live at 507.”
We ran in tandem for a minute or so, turning right at the corner.
“You aren’t Margaret’s niece, by any chance, are you? The nun who always came to visit?”
“I am, but I’m not a nun anymore.”
“I see.”
She was probably being tactful, asking no questions, ruffling no feelings.
“There’s no secret about why I left,” I volunteered. “I made the decision nearly a year ago and my permission came through in April. I stayed on to finish the semester. I taught English at the college.”
“Really?” Mel smiled broadly, almost with relief. “I had no idea. Margaret never mentioned…A teacher. Will you be staying on in the house?”
“I hope to. I’m very fond of the house, and it’s mine now.”
“Well, that’s really nice. Are you coming to the meeting tonight?”
“What meeting?”
“The last council meeting of the year. They’re taking the vote, you know. Or maybe you don’t know. Whether to let that group house into town. You ought to be there. It’ll probably be one of those knock-down-drag-out affairs, till the wee hours, I expect. Would you like to drive over with Hal and me?”
“Thanks, but I wilt at night. If I decide to go, I’ll take my own car so I can leave before the weest of hours.”
We turned another corner and I could see Pine Brook Road just ahead. “I’m going back,” I said, moving away from her. “See you later.”
“ ’Bye, Chris. I have to give it fifteen minutes more.”
Fifteen minutes later I was just setting out my cholesterol-laden breakfast of eggs, buttered toast, a couple of sausage links. I ate it all with relish.
—
It was five weeks to the day since I had last visited my cousin Gene. Gene was the reason for my monthly visits to Aunt Meg, the reason she kept a room for me all those years. On the third Monday of every month I would drive from St. Stephen’s to Oakwood, have dinner with Aunt Meg, sleep in my room, and visit Gene the next day. My teaching schedule was arranged to accommodate the monthly trips, and I had been granted permission to own a car so that I could make the trips without using the trains, thereby saving myself hours of travel time. Oakwood was nowhere near the train that came down along the Hudson.
Gene was one year older than I, born when Aunt Meg and Uncle Will had been married almost fifteen years, Aunt Meg on the eve of her fortieth birthday. He had been born retarded, a sweet, loving, handsome boy who would never grow up to be the doctor or lawyer or schoolteacher everyone else’s son would become. At an early age I had realized that Gene wasn’t like the other children I knew, and my mother had explained it to me allegorically. For Aunt Meg and Uncle Will, Gene had not been an allegory. As much as they loved him, he had been a constant trial. He could never be left alone. After a certain age, he could not even be left with an ordinary baby-sitter. When Uncle Will died nearly ten years ago, Aunt Meg could no longer cope. Tearfully she put Gene in Greenwillow, an institutional home some ten miles from Oakwood. But the good news was that Gene loved it.
I drove over after lunch. I had changed into a plaid shirtdress and exchanged the morning’s sneakers for sandals. The yellow silk had beckoned to me when I opened the closet door, but I had declined once again. I didn’t need silk to visit my cousin Gene.
Greenwillow was housed in a wing of an old hospital which had been spiffed up some years ago for the occupants and now sorely needed a respiffing. I parked the car in the area reserved for visitors and walked to the door. As I approached, I had an unexpected attack of something like anxiety. I had never walked through that door without my habit on, never been addressed by my birth name by the staff. Probably, I thought, that’s why I had put off this first post-convent visit. There had been no reason to wait for today to see Gene. In fact, now that Aunt Meg was gone, I intended to visit him frequently, as she had done.
I rang the doorbell and waited for someone to open the heavy door. It was Clarice, one of the aides, who came.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m here to see my cousin, Gene Wirth.”
She looked at me oddly and I felt a little guilty. “He’s up in his room. Do you know where it is?”
“Sure. Thank you.” I escaped her puzzled gaze as I walked to the stairs.
The door to Gene’s room was open, and I stood in the doorway and watched him for a moment. He was sitting at the table where he kept his collection of tiny cars. He had been collecting them for as long as I could remember, and in my bag I had a new one for him, as I usually did when I visited. He moved them in a careful, deliberate way, lining them up, then selecting two to travel side by side down an imaginary road.
“Hi, Gene,” I said, stepping into the room.
He looked up, momentarily startled, looked at me piercingly, then broke into a smile. “Kix,” he said, and I felt tears come to my eyes.
Someone, probably my mother, had tried, when we were very young, to get Gene to say “Chris.” He hadn’t been able to wrap his tongue around the sounds and it had come out “Kix,” a name that had remained forever my nickname to my most intimate friends. When I had first begun visiting him dressed in my habit, Gene had been terribly confused. He could not associate the habit-clad woman with his cousin. Once I had even pulled off my veil to show him who I was, but he remained unconvinced. Sometimes he would ask where Kix was, and it was clear to me that it was quite unclear to him where indeed I was.
“Kix is here,” Gene said. He stood up, his face beaming.
“I sure am.” I went over to get my hug.
“Where’s Mama?”
“Mama’s gone to heaven, Gene. Remember we talked about that last time I was here?”
“Don’t remember.”
But he did remember; he just didn’t want it to be so. We sat down, he on his chair next to the car table, I in the easy chair.
“I have something for you.”
“A car?” He brightened up again.
“A very special car.” I dug it out of my bag and handed it to him.
He looked at it and touched it and played with it. Then we settled back to have our visit.
