The Christening Day Murder (9 page)

“She went to my high school. I didn’t know she worked for anyone in Studsburg.”

“Do you know her married name by any chance?” I asked with two fingers literally crossed.

“Uh, let’s see.” She made little thinking noises while I
waited. “I know someone I can call, Kix. Where can I reach you?”

I explained why I wasn’t easily reachable and said I’d call back when I had a chance. Then I drove to Corning.

The librarian was very pleasant and very helpful. She set me up at a microfilm desk and gave me the last microfilm of the
Studsburg Herald
. It started with January 1 of that year. There was very little advertising—not surprising since the population of the town was diminishing each week—but there were several notices of where businesses had moved. I noticed one from Betty’s Coffee Shop, which was relocating to Hornell. There were others for shops I had seen in Carol Stifler’s album.

I moved the film along. There were no births, no deaths, no meetings, but there were numerous letters from old residents who had made new homes in many different areas. And there was an editorial by J.J. Eberling. It talked about old people making new lives and young people building on strong foundations. J.J. must have had a good time using his paper as a personal forum.

With some anticipation, I turned to what should have been the last edition of the
Studsburg Herald
, and found the film blank. I wound the film along, but there was nothing else on it. Confused, I pressed the Fast Forward key and scooted to the end. There was no commemorative issue, no last photographs, no gift to the people of Studsburg.

I rewound the tape and asked the librarian. She knew nothing. I asked if I could see the original papers, explaining that there was a possibility that the last issue had somehow not been microfilmed. She went to ask someone else, and there was a hushed conversation. Finally another librarian took me downstairs and hauled out the container with the last group of
Heralds
. I kept my hands to myself as she turned to the last copy. It was the last copy on the film. There were no more.

I thanked her for her trouble and went out to my car. The Whitney woman had been detailed in her description of the
commemorative issue of the paper. It had to have existed. Had J.J. Eberling changed his mind at the last minute and forgotten to include it with the rest of the collection when he donated it to the library? Not likely for a man concerned about his legacy.

I found a coffee shop and went in for lunch. There was something going on here, although whether it was connected to the body in the basement of St. Mary Immaculate, I could not tell. When I paid my bill I got four quarters in change and found a pay phone. Carol Stifler was home and waiting for my call.

She had spoken to an old friend from Denham and she had everything written down. Darlene Jackson had married Bradley Moore, who was now working for a company in Elmira. The Moores lived just outside the city, and Elmira was on my way home. It didn’t take long to get there.

Darlene Moore lived in a small, one-story house with a carport instead of a garage. It needed a paint job, but the lawn looked well cared for even it it wasn’t green. I rang the bell and heard a response almost immediately. The door was opened by a thin, graying woman wearing dark pants and a sweater. When I mentioned Studsburg, she frowned but opened the door wider. I took it to be an invitation and stepped inside.

“Have you been back?” I asked when we were in the small living room.

“No, but a neighbor of mine drove over to look at the old church.”

“I went to a baptism there last Sunday.”

“When they found the body?”

“Yes.”

“Do they know who it was?”

“No one seems to have any idea.”

“Well, I sure don’t know.” She laughed.

“I spoke to Mrs. Ritter the other day,” I said.

“Oh, Mrs. Ritter, yeah.” She nodded her head. “How is she?”

“She sounds good. I understand you worked for her for a while.”

“I did, yeah. It was a long time ago. Before I got married.”

“Did you work for the Eberlings before that?”

“Yeah, sure. The Eberlings. They still alive?”

“Mr. Eberling passed away,” I said, using the euphemism for her sake, not my own.

“Well. That’s interesting,” she said. She gave me another quick, nervous smile.

“Do you know who went to work for them when you left?” I asked.

“Oh, I know,” she said.

“What was her name?”

“I don’t understand why you want to know all this stuff.”

“It’s really a long shot,” I said, trying to sound very casual, “but I think there might be a connection between the young woman who worked for the Eberlings and the body in the Studsburg church.”

“You think he killed her?” She stared at me with a face full of fear and surprise.

“I don’t know what happened,” I said. “But if you could tell me her name.” I met her eyes.

“It was Joanne,” she said, her face still pinched. “Joanne Beadles. We went to the same high school.”

“Did she stay on with the Eberlings after they moved?” I asked.

“I don’t know what happened to her.”

“You mean she left the area?”

“I don’t know. I just never saw her again.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“It was so long ago,” she said. “I just don’t remember that well.”

“Were you friends?”

“Yeah, we were friends.”

“Did you ever call her after she stopped working in Studsburg?”

“I suppose I could’ve. I just don’t remember.”

“I want to ask you kind of a funny question, Mrs. Moore. Was there a dentist you all went to? Someone in town that everyone went to?”

“I went to Dr. Sorenson. A lot of people went to him. I wish I’d gone more.” She laughed. “When you’re young you don’t listen like you should.”

“Do you think Joanne went to him, too?”

“I couldn’t be sure, but yeah, I guess so. What’s a dentist got to do with this?”

“They’re trying to identify the body they found in the church through dental records.”

“And you think it’s Joanne?” She looked horrified.

“I think it may be someone who worked in Studsburg but didn’t live there. Were you at the fireworks on that last Fourth of July?”

“You mean that big party they had? I wasn’t invited. The Ritters had left already and I got myself another job. I didn’t know anyone else in town and I didn’t live there.”

“Mrs. Moore, why did you leave the Eberlings?”

“Don’t make me talk about that,” she said, shaking her head.

“ Did something happen?”

She nodded.

“Did they accuse you of something?”

“Accuse me? It was him that did it.”

“Did what, Mrs. Moore?” I asked quietly.

“What do you think he did? What do old, rich men do with young girls?” She covered her face, and I saw her thin shoulders quiver. “Whatever you’re thinking, that’s what he did. And he did it more than once. I was a scared dumb kid who needed a job. I was afraid to stay and afraid to leave. If I left, I had to tell my mother why, and I was afraid she’d do something awful. And if I stayed …”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “How did you manage to leave?”

“I saw an ad in the paper that the Ritters wanted help, and I got the job. I told my mother it was a smaller house, so it wouldn’t be as much work. But with Mr. Eberling, I never been so scared in my life, not once since that happened. I don’t think I ever even talked about it till right now.”

“Did he threaten you?” I asked.

“You bet he did. And I believed him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said if I told, he’d kill me.”

   It was dinnertime when I got home, and I heated up some leftovers and ate before doing anything else. Darlene Moore had given me the address of Dr. Sorenson as well as she could remember it. She didn’t know Joanne Beadles’s mother’s first name, and there had been no father that she knew of. But she remembered roughly where they had lived.

After I ate, I called Deputy Drago. When he recognized my voice, he said there was no news.

“I have a suggestion,” I said. “A girl who worked in Studsburg seems to have disappeared during that last year. It’s possible she went to a dentist named Sorenson.” I gave him the approximate address.

“No one by that name on my list, but I’ll see if his records were given to someone in practice now. Would you mind telling me how you came by this information?”

“I know some people who lived in the town, and I just
got them to go back in their memories. I hope this is your victim.”

“Well, so do I. We really don’t have much else to go on. The victim didn’t have any broken bones we could match up, and nothing else to distinguish her. I appreciate your call, Miss Bennett.”

I decided that was one step up from being a pest.

   “You’re sure this guy Eberling’s dead,” Jack said when I told him the story later that night.

“As sure as I can be. His wife told me he was.”

“Because while the statute has run out on the assault or rape or whatever it was, he could still be tried for murder.”

“Well, I’m not going to sit in some musty office looking through death certificates,” I said.

“Would you mind if I ran a check?”

“No, of course not.” In fact, it made me breathe a little easier.

“So what’s the plan? You wrapping it up now?”

“Not till I hear from the deputy. And as a matter of curiosity, I really want to find out what happened to that missing copy of the
Herald
. I talked to Carol Stifler when I came home, and she’s pretty sure she remembers J.J. Eberling handing them out at the bridge on Main Street. She said he was just standing there like a newsboy, flagging down the cars as they left town and giving them out.”

“Does she have her copy?”

I laughed. “I think she’s taking her attic apart tonight.”

“You may not be the most popular person in Westchester after this, kid.”

“Maybe I’ll be appreciated upstate.”

“And in Brooklyn. I miss you.”

“Me, too.”

“You going back upstate?”

“Not tomorrow. I’m giving a quiz, and I want to get it corrected before I take off again.”

“How was the convent?”

“Very nice. Safe and secure and peaceful.”

“Don’t scare me.”

“But it was good to get home.”

“You go back to a convent, I ride in on a white horse and rescue you. Don’t forget that.”

It was a nice image. I promised I wouldn’t forget.

   My Tuesday morning class is really two class periods back to back. We take a five-minute break at halftime and then continue. When it’s over, I feel a little worn-out, but less so on that Tuesday because I’d given them a quiz, which meant I worked less in class and had more ahead of me out of class. I took the papers home and graded them that afternoon. Some of my students had fine critical minds, which I appreciated. Others didn’t but tried hard, which I appreciated just as much. This isn’t the kind of course anyone fails if they do the assignments.

When I finished with the quizzes, I prepared next week’s lesson, leaving me essentially free for the next six days. Then I called Information upstate and asked if there was a Beadles around where Darlene Moore remembered her friend having lived. There wasn’t, and even a helpful operator was unable to locate one in the nearby towns.

I wasn’t surprised. Thirty years is a healthy generation. A woman who was forty thirty years ago could have died, remarried, or moved several times over. I felt lucky to have located Darlene Moore after so long a time.

Jack called as I was trying to decide what to do next, if anything. “He’s dead, OK,” he said. “John Jacob Eberling died August seventeenth, 1988. So you won’t have to look over your shoulder.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Which means if he’s your killer, the case is moot.”

“But is it provable?” I said, thinking out loud.

“I don’t think you should touch it. There’s big money and lots of power there. The cop I talked to knew the name right
off. If that daughter of Eberling’s wants to fight you, she’ll probably succeed.”

“She can’t stop me from asking questions and reading documents in a library.”

“I won’t even try to make you change your mind, but do me a favor and be careful.”

I promised, hung up, and two minutes later got the call I had been hoping for. Carol Stifler had found the
Herald
.

   Harry Stifler walked in while we were looking at the pictures in the thick, yellowing, small-format small-town paper. The entire first half of it was given over to the afternoon and evening festivities—the picnic and the fireworks—and the second half to mainly photographic reminiscences, with an occasional paragraph written by an “old-timer.” Interspersed were brief articles telling where the inhabitants of Studsburg had settled or intended to move. Although I was drawn to the second half, I controlled my curiosity and went through the photos of the last day with Carol and then with Harry when he joined us.

Both of them had known Joanne Beadles slightly, but neither knew she had worked for the Eberlings. Since every snapshot had a caption, we went through those first. Joanne Beadles’s name was nowhere.

“Maybe she’s one of the out-of-focus people in the background,” I suggested.

So we went through every picture—there were pages of them—again, looking at out-of-focus faces, not the easiest thing on one’s eyes. Carol produced a magnifying glass, which helped a little, but out of focus is out of focus, regardless of the size.

“Maybe I just don’t recognize her,” Carol said, taking her glasses off and rubbing her eyes. “She was dark, wasn’t she, Harry?”

“Dark hair, not too long. But everyone in these pictures has dark hair. Even people I know were blond don’t look blond in newsprint.”

“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Carol said.

We sat down and spent several silent moments, probably all three of us trying to figure out where to go next. Finally I said, “Maybe she’s not in a picture. Maybe one of the little articles says something about her.”

Since there didn’t seem much else to do, we sat and dipped into every boring article—“Luke and Joan Jensen are happily ensconced in their picture-perfect colonial along the shore of Lake Chautauqua.… Father Gregory Hartman is looking forward to a year at least at the chancery in Rochester.…”—when we’d finished dinner. Dozens of names were mentioned, but Joanne Beadles was not among them.