The Happy Birthday Murder by Lee Harris Read Free Book Online Page B

Greenwillow at the time your husband died.”
    “The home for retarded adults that moved into Oakwood a few years ago?”
    “Yes.”
    “What I know about them is what I heard from Meg. Her son lived there. I assume he still does.”
    “He does, yes. He’s my cousin. Darby Maxwell was his friend, and he died within a few days of your husband.”
    “What does one thing have to do with the other?”
    “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Jack said. He explained how I had discovered that Aunt Meg had known both families and had attended both funerals a dozen years ago, that Darby had apparently been lost in the woods and died of exposure. “Chris just met Darby’s mother recently, and she said when Darby was found he was wearing someone else’s sneakers.”
    “That can’t have anything to do with my husband,” Laura said. “There can’t be any connection. Greenwillow wasn’t even here in town at that time, and Larry wasn’t involved with it.”
    “What color were the sneakers he was found in?” I asked.
    “White. Larry always wore black. And they weren’t even his size. They were too small for him. I don’t know how he squeezed his feet into them.”
    “Darby was found with black sneakers,” I said. “The ones he had on when he got lost were white.”
    We were all quiet for a few moments. I could almost hear our thoughts, feel our tension.
    “I can’t believe there’s a connection,” Laura said finally.
    Then Jack said, “Think about it, Laura. Your husband’s death may not have been a suicide.”
    She had walked into our house a very self-possessed woman, sure of herself, confident, a woman who knew her way around. Now she sat with her fingers touching her lips, her face pale, a tremor moving her head. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “I would love to find out that Larry didn’t kill himself, but what does this mean? That someone may have murdered him? That’s almost harder to believe.”
    “Both men died within a couple of days of each other. Chris has the dates. There are newspaper clippings her aunt kept. Did your husband know anyone in Connecticut?”
    “Well, yes. We have friends there. Why do you ask?”
    “Darby died in Connecticut,” I said. “How many miles did your husband put on his car between leaving you after the birthday party and being found?”
    “I don’t really know. He always put the trip odometer back to zero when he bought gas and he had filled the tank two days before he disappeared, but I don’t know how much he drove in those two days.”
    “But it gives us a maximum.”
    “It was two hundred and some miles. He probably drove less than two hundred while he was away.”
    “Maybe we should start from the beginning,” Jack said.
    “I can’t. This is too upsetting. I haven’t really accepted what you’ve told me. I want to go home and think about it. Maybe we can talk tomorrow, Chris,” Without waiting for an answer, she stood and walked to where she had laid her handbag a couple of hours ago when we were all beginning what we thought would be a friendly dinner party. “Thank you both. It was a lovely evening, at least until a few minutes ago.” She smiled. “I’m so happy to have met you and to have seen what you’ve done with the house. Chris, I will call you tomorrow; I promise. We’ll talk. I just can’t do it now.”
    “Did you tell the police about the sneakers?” Jack asked.
    “It’s so long ago I don’t remember, and I wasn’t thinking straight. I was just trying to get through each unhappy day.”
    “Do you have the sneakers?”
    She looked thoughtful. “I may. I’m not sure. I will look.”
    We walked her to the front door and then out to her car. She gave each of us a hug and thanked us again. Then she got in the car and drove away.
    —
    While we were clearing up and getting the dishes taken care of, I thought of Betty Linton. It wasn’t ten yet and I told Jack I would give her a call.
    A man answered and called