Outline for Murder Page 17

“No, thanks. That is so kind of you, but I don’t think that that will be necessary. If I could call my friend, John Harrington, he may be able to come and pick me up. He’s probably wondering where I am. I was supposed to be at his place around noon.” As he glanced at the wall clock, he realized that it was already after 3:00 p.m. He also realized that he didn’t have his phone, his wallet, or his keys.

  “Do you know where my personal belongings might be?”

  She went across the room to an area of small, locked storage compartments, opened one, emptied it, and returned with all of his possessions. She then left so that he could make his call. When he looked at his phone, he found several messages from Harrington who was understandably worried when Bishop failed to arrive at noon, and increasingly worried when Bishop failed to respond to his messages. John was quite relieved when Bishop called. He said that it would not be a problem for him to pick him up at the hospital or to stay the night. John said that he would bring his wife, Missy, along so that she could drive Bishop’s car back to their house.

  Cheryl came back about ten minutes later with some paperwork for him to sign. She carefully went through all of the discharge instructions and asked him if he had any questions. He thanked her for all that she had done for him and told her how very glad he was to have had a chance to catch up with her. She was very happy to have met him again after so many years although she wished that the circumstances had been different.

  “Agreed,” he laughed as he gave her a hug. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “I never did say how sorry I was to read in the papers about Coach Zappala. What a terrible tragedy!”

  In his own mind Zappala’s death was an unsolved mystery rather than a tragedy. It occurred to him that Cheryl and her husband were unlikely to have known Zappala because her children were too young for high school and neither one was originally from Madison. Still, he thought he would ask.

  He was surprised to find out that she had met Zappala at the hospital on several occasions. She went on to explain that he had come in to visit a cheerleader who had been raped. The doctors had decided to keep her under observation for a few days. “He was so kind and attentive to her while she was here,” Cheryl added.

  Kind and attentive? That didn’t describe the Coach Zappala that Bishop had come to know.

  “When did this happen?”

  “About three years ago, I guess.”

  “I don’t know if you can answer this, but was that girl raped by a football player?”

  “She refused to say who it was. The police were forced to drop the case.” Bishop was thinking rapidly. If that girl had been raped by one of the coach’s players, then it was possible that the twenty-five thousand dollar withdrawal with the “HJ” notation had bought her silence.

  “Cheryl, this might be very helpful in the ongoing investigation of Zappala’s murder. Do you remember that girl’s name?” He realized that he had no right to ask such a question, but was overwhelmed by the desire for any possible bit of information.

  “I do remember her name. Such a sweet girl. Her name was Honesty Jones. It’s the type of name you don’t forget.”

  Suddenly, Bishop felt chilled. HJ. Yes, it was a name he wouldn’t forget.

  Chapter 21

  Bishop spent Saturday evening catching up with his old friend, John Harrington. He and his wife, Missy, had two granddaughters staying with them, Sarah and Bridget, who delighted in having a houseguest. They made lemonade for “Uncle Mike.” They were determined to make him all better. Bishop again felt that loneliness. He regretted that he would never experience the kind of happiness that grandchildren brought to John.

  The retired life suited John well. He and his wife had taken several trips to Europe. His hair had turned almost completely white which accented his tanned skin. John talked about his golf game and his daughters and their children; Bishop talked about his teaching and about meeting a former student at the hospital.

  John had worked with Zappala for a number of years, but didn’t really know much about him. He and a few other current and retired teachers had attended the funeral as representatives of Madison High rather than out of a sense of personal loss. Like Bishop, he hadn’t liked the man, and he had avoided him as much as possible. John had heard rumors of Zappala’s womanizing, but nothing that ever involved a student. He had also heard rumors of his being a millionaire.

  “Are the police any closer to solving that murder?” John noted that after a few days, the story had dropped out of the Madison papers.

  “Let’s just say that there are several ‘persons of interest.’” He didn’t elaborate, and John didn’t push the issue.

  Their dinner of roast beef, baked potatoes, zucchini from the garden, and homemade bread was a special treat for Bishop who often frequented local restaurants. He had learned that restaurant food was never quite the same as home-cooked no matter how good the restaurant. After devouring a big piece of apple pie a la mode for dessert, Bishop asked John if he knew of a woman by the name of Honesty Jones. He kept up with many of his former students through social media, and she was one of them. John got online, sent her a brief message, and received an instant response. John turned the computer over to Bishop who explained who he was and asked if he might talk to her for a half an hour in person. He thought that she might be able to help him resolve some questions about Coach Zappala’s financial records. He took the chance of implying that he knew about the payment that she had received to end the rape case. He assured her that he was not a lawyer, nor was he a detective. As he waited for her to type out a response, he was convinced that she would refuse. She did not want him to come over, but she agreed to try to answer his questions over the phone. He ended the chat and dialed the number that she had given him.

  His assumption about the withdrawal of the twenty-five thousand dollars had been correct. Honesty admitted that she had taken the money to drop the charges against the man who raped her. Bishop was very careful in his approach. He did not expect her to reveal the name of the man; he simply wanted verification that Zappala was protecting one of the players on his football team.

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Mr. Bishop.”

  “About what?”

  “The man who raped me wasn’t on the team.”

  His heart sank as he realized that he had arrived at a dead end. Surprisingly, Honesty continued. “I guess I can tell you now since he’s dead.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “The man who raped me was Coach Zappala.”

  ***

  “Hello? Are you still there?” Bishop had been too shocked to speak.

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me.”

  “That’s why he gave me the money. He assured me that nobody would ever know. He begged me to keep quiet. Told me it would be the end of his career if anyone found out. I took the money and refused to cooperate with the police. Everyone assumed that because I was a cheerleader, the guy had to have been a football player. I let them believe what they wanted. My parents are divorced, and my mom was unemployed. We needed that money.” She went on to explain that the coach always had his eye on the cheerleaders. She then went on to tell her story.

  “One night, Zappala found out that some of his players were at a party and alcohol was involved. I was there, too. The coach grabbed his players, got them in his car, and took them home. Then, he came back and offered me a ride. I was drunk, and I later realized that he had been drinking too. Instead of driving me straight home, he drove out on a country road. I was in the backseat. He parked the car, and climbed in the backseat with me. That’s when he assaulted me. Afterwards, he drove me home, and told me that if I told my parents or anyone else, he would deny it and have me thrown in jail for making a false accusation. When he found out that I had gone to the hospital, he offered me the money and I took it.” As she finished her story, she was crying softly. “I guess I was just stupid.”

  “No, you weren’t. I’m so sorry that I made you go through this again.”

>   She also told Bishop that weeks later she was still so angry at what the coach had done to her that she told the principal about what had happened that night and about the money that he had given her to keep quiet.

  “Who was the principal then?”

  “Mr. Bostwick.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “He told me that there was nothing that he could do. That it would be my word against his. He advised me to keep the money and keep quiet.” Bishop couldn’t imagine that anyone in a position of authority would respond to such allegations that way. He was determined to confront Bostwick if he were still in the area.

  “Mr. Bishop?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad that he’s dead!” She was the second person in Madison to have said that to him that day.

  “I understand, Honesty. He can’t hurt you or anyone else ever again.”

  Bishop thanked her for all of her help. She had lived up to her name.

  ***

  Only moments after he concluded that conversation, Bishop was on the phone again. He had enlisted John’s help in locating the principal of Madison High at the time of the rape, Edward Bostwick. He had since retired and was living in nearby Parkwood. Bishop called, apologizing for the intrusion on a Saturday night, identified himself, and pressed for a chance to speak personally with him about a matter of some importance. Bostwick agreed.

  Since Missy had driven Michael’s car back to their house, he convinced John that he was feeling much better and perfectly capable of driving the short distance to speak with Bostwick. He put the address in his GPS, and promised to return within an hour.

  When he rang the bell of a large home in an upscale neighborhood, he was greeted by a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard wearing an expensive looking suit. Bostwick and his wife had plans for the evening, but the urgent tone of Bishop’s call had convinced him to delay his departure. With some reluctance, Bostwick invited Bishop into his home. They sat in a living room half the size of Bishop’s entire house. There were two sofas facing each other with a glass-topped coffee table between them. On the table were a number of oversized art books, one devoted to Picasso at the top of the stack. Bostwick sat on one sofa and gestured for Bishop to be seated on the other. On the wall behind Boswick was a gold-framed etching and nothing else. Noting the books and the etching, Bishop remarked that someone in the house must be an art connoisseur. Bostwick pointed to the etching behind him and proudly revealed that the work was titled “The Ark Carried to Jerusalem” and that it was signed and numbered by the artist, Marc Chagall. Bishop pretended to be suitably impressed, but found this man’s pomposity annoying.

  Bishop quickly turned the conversation to the purpose of his visit. He explained that he had been a colleague of the deceased Coach Zappala and that he had been named the executor of the estate. Bostwick didn’t seem surprised to learn that Zappala had been a very wealthy man. When the name of Honesty Jones came up, Bostwick’s demeanor changed considerably. He suddenly became tense and uncomfortable.

  “Mr. Bishop, as I told you on the phone, my wife and I have plans for this evening. Exactly what is that you want from me?”

  “How much do you know of what happened between Albert Zappala and Honesty Jones?”

  “Why don’t you leave this business alone? It’s all in the past. Jones refused to press charges, and Zappala is dead. What is the point of dredging all of this up?” He clearly was becoming increasingly agitated as he glanced at his watch.

  Bishop explained that a pattern of behavior was beginning to emerge relating to the character and activity of the coach. Understanding that pattern might lead to identifying his killer.

  “Isn’t that a job for the authorities?” asked Bostwick with a sense of finality.

  “Ultimately, yes. But as the executor of the estate, as a teacher at Holy Trinity, and as a resident of Groveland, I have a vested interest in helping them to find the truth if at all possible.” Bishop had not quite thought of it that way, but once he had articulated it to Bostwick, he realized that it did accurately explain why he had not been able to simply let go of the mystery surrounding this man and his murder.

  Bostwick hesitated for a moment before he began. It was as if he were deciding how much to share. He admitted that Jones had come to him with her complaint against Zappala. She had wanted him to fire Zappala on the spot. It was possible that Jones was telling the truth. She also told him about the twenty-five thousand dollars. He knew that Zappala had been in some trouble years earlier, and the principal at that time, now deceased, had chalked it up as a youthful indiscretion. Bostwick didn’t know more than that about it.

  “Zappala had a bit of a reputation, but he kept his name out of the papers. I felt terribly sorry for Jones, but I warned her that it would be very difficult to prove the allegations against him and that, if it came to a trial, his lawyer would undoubtedly ask a number of very embarrassing personal questions about her sexual activity. She decided not to pursue the matter. She wasn’t exactly a saint herself,” indicating with a roll of his eyes that there was a lot more to her past.

  “Regardless, if you had a suspicion that a member of your staff had raped and bribed a student, how could you stand by and do nothing?”

  “Who said I did nothing?” he responded defensively.

  “Well, you convinced Jones not to testify…”

  “Yes,” interrupted Bostwick, “but I also forced Zappala to resign.” Bishop couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Forced to resign? That would explain why he moved out of town and took the job at Trinity for a lot less money. Bostwick went on to recount his confrontation with Zappala over Jones’s allegations. “I remember his anger as he pounded his fist on my desk, ‘I paid that bitch to keep her mouth shut.’ At that point,” Bostwick continued, “I fired him on the spot.” Zappala, however, threatened Bostwick.

  “He told me that Jones wouldn’t testify, and if I fired him, the union would come after me like a pack of barracudas.”

  “So?” prodded Bishop.

  “Well, I didn’t want him around anymore, but he could be a very intimidating man. I told him that I would keep quiet if he promised to resign at the end of the school year.” Bostwick seemed exhausted by recounting the story.

  Bishop had one more question. “Why in heaven’s name did you let him come to Holy Trinity? How could you just let him loose on another school?”

  “That was part of the deal. He insisted that I write him a clean letter.”

  Bishop thought it odd that the principal characterized their conversation as a “deal.”

  “Certainly, as an educator, you must understand the situation I was in,” he pleaded. “I couldn’t say anything about what he had done in my recommendation. He could have sued me for defamation of character.”

  “But it would have been true!”

  “True and provable are two different things, Mr. Bishop. I wrote about his success as a coach. That was true.”

  Bishop got up to leave. “And what would you have said to the next girl he raped?” As he left, he walked past the etching and noticed the numbers “32/100” on the lower left and the letters “M.Ch” on the lower right. It certainly looked like an original. Despite his love of art, Edward Bostwick was a morally bankrupt and despicable man.

  ***

  On his way back to the Harrington’s, Bishop sifted through what he had learned in the last twenty-four hours. Zappala treated women with no respect. When he wanted something, he went out and got it. He had been involved in a “youthful indiscretion” as Bostwick phrased it. He wondered what that had been all about. He used his money as a means of manipulation and intimidation. Bishop had spoken to two of his victims, Lily and Honesty. One had been hurt far more seriously than the other, but there were probably others, many others. For what he did to Honesty Jones, Zappala should have been sent to prison; instead, he was given a free pass into another school. And then someone decided to be his judge, jury, and executioner.

/>   The next morning, Bishop was served a wonderful breakfast of eggs, bacon, home fries, with rye toast and a cup of green tea by his two little hostesses, Sarah and Bridget. They were sad when it was time for him to leave. He promised that he would come back some day. He thanked John and Missy for everything that they had done and promised to keep in touch.

  Chapter 22

  On his drive back to Groveland, Bishop had popped a CD of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies in the player. Music helped him think. Had his trip to Madison been a waste of time? Was he any closer to figuring out who had killed Zappala and why?

  Tomorrow marked the start of the second quarter of the school year. It seemed that each year passed more quickly than the previous one. He was prepared for his classes from a teaching standpoint, and he relished the thought of his time in the classroom. That was his sanctuary, the place where all of his worries could be forgotten, at least for the moment.

  It was about noon when he turned up Pleasant Hill Road. Since he had had such a big breakfast only a few hours earlier, he wasn’t ready for lunch. He decided to drive past his house and go up to Zappala’s place. Hodge’s people had completed their work, and he had the key once again. Since the house had been thoroughly trashed, he needed to hire someone to do the cleanup and repairs. He planned on asking Cindy Walker, the realtor that he had met, to recommend a service. He knew that it was probably a waste of time to look around, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something that he was missing.

  He pulled in the driveway and parked behind the Lincoln that sat there just as Zappala had left it. As he walked by the car, he wondered if anyone had checked the contents of the car. Looking in through the windows, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Some clothes and a pair of sneakers were visible in the backseat. Some fast food wrappers had been tossed on the floor of the front passenger’s side. Could there be something important in the glove compartment? What about the trunk? He made a mental note to ask Lieutenant Hodge if they had searched the car.