Free The Christmas Night Murder by Lee Harris Page A

said, her prayers for Hudson. We all had those. We had offered them at the chapel this morning.
    Then I found Joseph. She gave me the last known address of Walter Farragut in the little town of Riverview along the Hudson, south of St. Stephen’s. By the time I was ready to leave, it was almost eight-thirty and it would take me at least half an hour to get there since I was using local roads. I promised Joseph I would be in touch with her during the day. Then I took off.

9
    The house was a turn-of-the-century gem, three stories with cupolas and chimneys and shuttered windows everywhere, each one with a candle and wreath in the center. It was set back from the quiet street, a snow-covered lawn stretching perhaps seventy-five feet to the curb. The house was painted pale gray with soft rose accents, and I have to admit I loved it at first sight. It reminded me for a moment of my cousin Gene’s description of the house he had spent Christmas in:
They have this room and this room and this room
. I couldn’t imagine how many rooms this wonderful old house had, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if some were still to be discovered by the present owners.
    The flagstone walk from the front veranda was neatly shoveled, as was the sidewalk as far as I could see in both directions. The other houses on the street were also large and of the same vintage as this one, indicating a core of building early in the town’s history. The trees were all mammoth and their leafless branches intertwined, a summer blessing. For as far as I could see, the snow around the house was still pristine. Neither Hudson nor anyone else could have tramped on it, because there hadn’t been enough new snow since Christmas to cover tracks.
    There was no movement anywhere around the house, and after a minute or two of unobtrusive looking, I drove away. It was only a few blocks to the center of town, and when I got there, I saw a real-estate office down the block from a bank. As I passed I looked in the front window and saw a woman at the first desk talking into a telephone. They were open for business.
    She was still on the phone when I walked through the front door, so I went down the open aisle between two rowsof desks, most of them empty, to the only other one that had an occupant. His name was Reg Fuller and he was all smiles as I sat down. I felt a little guilty. The housing market, from everything I’d heard, wasn’t sparkling, and a new face might make a realtor think he had a prospective buyer.
    “Good morning,” he said, offering his hand. “What can I do for you on this nice Saturday morning?”
    “I’m just here for some information,” I said apologetically. “There’s a house at 211 Hawthorne Street. It was owned by Walter Farragut until a few years ago.”
    “I know the one you mean. Great old Victorian, beautiful house. I don’t think they’d consider selling.”
    “I don’t blame them. It was Mr. Farragut, the former owner, that I was interested in. Do you have any idea where he went when he sold the house?”
    “That’s a toughie. Hold on, OK?”
    “Sure.”
    He went to the woman at the front desk and talked to her. Then he went to a bank of file drawers and opened one. After searching for a minute, he came back. “Our office handled that sale, but we’re not supposed to give out information. Mr. Farragut left Riverview when he sold the house on Hawthorne Street.” He stopped as though that was as far as he was prepared to go.
    “Do you know what town he moved to?”
    He looked pained. “Come with me.”
    I followed him to the woman at the desk in the front window.
    “Eileen, this lady has some questions. Maybe you can help her.”
    “Hi, I’m Chris Bennett,” I said. I hadn’t introduced myself to Reg Fuller and I needed this woman to trust me enough to tell me something she knew she shouldn’t. “I’ve just come down from St. Stephen’s Convent—”
    “Oh, I know them. The Franciscans, right?”
    “Yes,