I went to the hospital to see how Hudson was doing. Four of the nuns from St. Stephen’s were there, including Angela.
“The doctor said he hadn’t eaten for several days, hadn’t had much to drink. He’s very dehydrated and he spent the last twenty-four hours in that beastly-cold shed without warm clothing. And because he was tied up, he couldn’t move around much. He was very near death, Chris.” She said this last in a low voice, as though speaking such words softly might prevent them from becoming true.
“I know. I wish I had put it all together sooner.”
“You found him. No one else was even looking for him.”
I went over and talked to the other three nuns. They would spend the night here, hoping for good news to telephone to Joseph. I longed to get into that room, to see if he looked better than when they had taken him from the shed, but no one was allowed in on orders of the doctor. I was relieved to see a police guard posted outside the door. Foster had not yet been arrested, but the Riverview police assured me they were working with the local police in Mrs. Farragut’s town. It was a messy, complicated case and there was still plenty of resistance in the Riverview Police Department against reopening the suicide of Julia Farragut. But if there is such a thing as resting in peace, I felt that Julia and her mother now had that chance. I went back to St. Stephen’s.
Joseph was waiting up and we sat together with a pot of hot tea.
“Jack called at some point,” she said, as though time had become a variable. “He was out on a case that took hours.”
“A lot of them do.”
“Look how long this one took. Another day and we would have lost Hudson.”
“Tom Belvedere’s first mistake was leaving Hudson’s car in front of 211 Hawthorne. It drew me to the house. It made me feel the house was the place to look for answers.”
“Your instincts are good. Even when you’re personally involved, you don’t sacrifice your good sense.”
“If I had only realized there were two killers.”
“We weren’t even sure how many crimes there were, Chris.”
“Too many as it turned out. And poor Mary Teresa got herself in the middle. Tom told her he was a relative of Julia and he wanted to talk to Hudson if he came east. When she put things together, she must have been mortified to think she had unwittingly become part of his kidnapping. I have to admit she was pretty gutsy to meet him alone at night, especially when she suspected he was also guilty of murdering Julia.”
“The villa’s full of tough old women,” Joseph said. “You know that.”
“I do know that. I’m very proud of it.”
“So am I. Go to bed, Chris. We have a big day tomorrow.”
We buried Sister Mary Teresa in St. Stephen’s churchyard the next morning. The sun was out and the snow glistened on top of the tombstones. Generations of St. Stephen’s nuns were buried here, some of them people I had known during my fifteen-year tenure, all of them strong and memorable women. Mary Teresa would be in good company.
Detective Lake was waiting in the Mother House when we came back from the cemetery to give a formal report to Joseph. Tom Belvedere had been arrested for the murder of Sister Mary Teresa and the kidnapping of Father Hudson McCormick and was being held in the county jail. A search warrant had been executed and Mrs. Farragut’s apartment had been searched. This was in still another town, Detective Lake pointed out, but the various departments were working together. For a change, I thought with some bitterness. Papers had been found in her apartment that might shed light on the apparent suicide of Julia Farragut seven years ago. So they had found the diary. And not unexpectedly, Tom Belvedere’s lawyer was looking to make a deal with the district attorney. Tom had some evidence he wanted to give on the death of Julia Farragut and the involvement of her half brother, Foster. It would take time to make sense of the whole case.
The word from the hospital was noncommittal. Hudson had not yet regained consciousness and his condition was described as critical. It looked as though he might lose several toes and possibly some fingers to frostbite, but it was still too soon to tell if he would pull through.
It was New Year’s Eve and I had finished my work. I took Joseph’s advice and went home. I was so exhausted, I took my clothes off and went to bed. We were expected at a party at the Grosses’, and I remembered, from what seemed half a lifetime ago, I had promised to help get things together. But I had had very little sleep and the pressure of the last days all crashed down on me as I reached home. I slept.
My wonderful husband, fresh from the outdoors, woke me when he sat down on the bed and kissed me.
“Oh Jack,” I said, “have I missed you.”
“It’s only six o’clock. We could make up for it.”
“That would be good.” I pulled him down, feeling his cold cheek against my very warm one.
“I’m still dressed,” he said.
“I don’t remember that was ever a problem. For long.”
“Not for long.” He kissed me. “Boy, have I missed you, sweetheart.”
I unbuttoned his shirt and moved my face against his chest. “I’m glad to be home.”
The party was terrific. We met a lot of Oakwood people and a lot of people the Grosses knew from other places. And the food was the best I’d eaten in ages. Melanie had been cooking and freezing for weeks—how had she ever managed to take time off to help bake Christmas cookies?—and everything was superlative. At midnight we had champagne and more food and sang “Auld Lang Syne,” which I have always felt was a very necessary element on New Year’s Eve.
At one-thirty we walked down Pine Brook Road with our neighbors, the McDonalds. We were all feeling good, and Midge and I were giggling like children. At our house, we called a lot of good nights and Happy New Years and Jack and I went inside. Our Christmas tree was still fragrant in the living room and the fireplace had that after-fire smell that I like so much, smoke and burned wood; let no one dare tell me they’re a hazard to my health.
“Great party,” Jack said.
I was about to agree with him in decisive but tipsy terms when we heard the phone ring. “Hudson,” I said, my heart doing terrible flips. I dashed for the kitchen and answered.
“I have a collect call for anyone from Sister Dolores in Riverview,” the operator said. “Will you pay for the call?”
Not surprising. Sister Dolores wasn’t likely to have more than fifty cents or a dollar with her and she might already have spent it for coffee to stay awake. “Yes, I will,” I said, fear clawing at me.
“Chris,” Sister Dolores said loudly, “I’ve been trying you all evening. He’s awake! He’s talking!” I could hear the excitement in her voice, the exuberance.
“Thank God,” I responded, turning to Jack and making a circle of my thumb and forefinger, then brushing my eyes.
“It’s still touch and go. The doctor doesn’t want us to be too optimistic, but who listens to doctors at my age?”
“Dolores, I’m so happy. I’m just so happy. What did he say?”
“What else? Merry Christmas.”