Free The Christmas Night Murder by Lee Harris Page B

that’s right.”
    “My friend’s daughter is a student at the college.”
    “Oh, really? It’s very small, but it’s an awfully good school. I taught there for a long time.”
    “Yes, Patty’s very happy there. What can I do for you?”
    “It’s about the house at 211 Hawthorne Street.”
    “The old Farragut house. That was a tough sell. A lot went on there and buyers may like history, but they don’t like reminders of violence.”
    “Julia killed herself there.”
    “And managed to do it on Christmas. She was a very disturbed girl. Wasn’t she a student at your college?”
    “A novice in the convent.”
    “I see. There were other things, too.”
    “Her mother.”
    “Yes. You seem to know the whole story.”
    “Some of it. I’m trying to track down Mr. Farragut. I know he sold the house and moved a few years ago, but I don’t know where.”
    “Well.” She looked down at her perfectly polished long nails. “Can you tell me what this is for?”
    Which meant she would give me the information if I could win her over. “Someone is missing,” I confided, “a very remarkable man who knew Julia. Father Hudson McCormick. His car was—”
    “Oh, I heard about it this morning. They found his car parked in front of the old Farragut house, didn’t they?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Aren’t the police looking for him?”
    “I don’t know what the police are doing,” I said honestly. “They seem to have got it in their heads that he parked the car there and walked away. The nuns at St. Stephen’s are afraid something’s happened to him.”
    “Where would he go if he left the car there?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Where would anyone who left the car there go?”
    It was a question that nagged at me, too. “I don’t know that, either. I’d like to find Mr. Farragut and see if he can shed some light on all of this.” I was hoping she wouldn’t ask me for a connection, since there didn’t seem to be one.
    “I could give you the name of Mr. Farragut’s lawyer, but I know for a fact that he’s in the Virgin Islands for the holiday. I tell you what. I haven’t looked at the Farragut file, so I haven’t taken any information out of it. My boss probably wouldn’t want me to disclose the address, but I live here in town and I knew the Farraguts well enough thatthey gave me a forwarding address. So I’m speaking as a citizen, not a realtor.”
    “Understood,” I said. “Thank you.”
    “I got a Christmas card from Mrs. Farragut last week and—”
    “Mrs. Farragut?” I felt a chill as I heard the name.
    “Walter’s mother, Mrs. Cornelius Farragut. She lived with them. It was her house. Didn’t you know?”
    “No, I didn’t. How old is she?”
    “Pretty far along now. Late seventies anyway. Let me call my husband. He’ll find the address for me.” She picked up the phone and made a quick call, writing as she listened. From what I could tell, her husband was reading from an address book near the phone. “Here it is.” She handed me the paper. “Good luck. I hope you find the missing priest.”
    “Thank you.” I looked at the address. “Do she and her son still live together?”
    “I don’t know. She never writes about him, and I usually only hear from her at Christmas. As far as I know, she’s in terrific health, both mentally and physically.”
    “I appreciate your help.”
    She assured me it was nothing, but it was a lot more than that. It was the first piece of solid information I had gotten.
    —
    I drove back to 211 Hawthorne Street and parked in front of the house next door. A man was walking a large dog across the street and didn’t look my way at all. I got out and walked slowly toward 211. There was no distinct boundary between it and the property I had parked in front of. This was a friendly, fenceless street. One lawn ran into another and the land on this side of the street rose gracefully from the curb, so that all the houses were high and prominent.
    I stopped