Outline for Murder Read online

  Chapter 30

  As Bishop drove back to Groveland, he tried to come to terms with the fact that the woman who twenty-four hours earlier had seemed to have such a bright future was the person who had killed Albert C. Zappala, the man who was her biological father. The events of this day had given new meaning to the term, “Black Friday.”

  When he looked at the yearbook photo of Mary Gilbert, he knew that he was looking at the mother of Stephanie Harris. When Zappala saw Stephanie on the first day of the new school year, he must have realized that she was the child that Mary Gilbert had refused to abort, his child. He must have decided to tell Stephanie the truth when Jenny Forrest had interrupted them. What really transpired at the Blue Moon must have been far different from what Stephanie had told him. Bishop recalled her reluctance to talk about that meeting. He remembered her telling him that the coach had said she was “good looking.” She said that Zappala had made some sort of inappropriate suggestion that had offended her deeply. That was exactly what Stephanie wanted him to think.

  The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. She had thought her biological father had been killed in a motorcycle accident. To find out that he was still alive would have been a shock. To realize that the man who had ruined her mother’s life was now a colleague that she would see regularly in the halls, at lunch, at meetings, and at parties would have been too much to accept. She must have wanted to kill him at that moment.

  The idea that she was a coldblooded murderer sent chills throughout his body. He had prided himself as being a good judge of character. How could he have been so wrong about her? Poor Ron! He had no idea that his current happiness was about to end. Then he stopped himself. What was he thinking? He had discovered that Zappala was Stephanie’s real father. He had discovered that Mary Gilbert, Stephanie’s real mother, had been Zappala’s first victim. So what? Although that knowledge might have given her a motive to kill him, he had no proof that Stephanie had done anything wrong. Was he really any closer to bringing this saga to a conclusion?

  ***

  Bishop arrived back at his home on Pleasant Hill Road at about ten that evening. Christmas lights illuminated many of the houses that he passed. He had not bothered with decorations for his own house since Grace’s death. He had been looking forward to the holidays this year. Not any more.

  Tired and hungry after his drive, he decided to have some soup. He opened a can of minestrone and heated its contents in the microwave. He sat out in the sunroom with only a reading lamp providing illumination. With a CD of Lizst’s “Hungarian Rhapsodies” playing in the background, he sought illumination for the dilemma that he faced. How would he be able to determine if Stephanie had killed her own father? And if she were innocent, would the identity of the murderer ever be known? Every fiber of his being wanted to believe that Rocco had done it. He had admitted to being at his uncle’s house that night, and he had the most to gain. When he went to bed a couple of hours later, he had decided on a strategy that might provide him the answers that he, like Melville’s Ahab, so desperately sought.

  ***

  On Saturday, Bishop made a few phone calls. One was to Stephanie. She sounded a bit surprised by his call. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, yes. Everything’s fine.”

  “How was your visit with your Aunt Katherine?”

  Bishop responded without hesitation. “Very nice. She told me all about the Thanksgiving dinner that the staff had prepared for the residents. Then she gave me a rundown on all of the people who had called to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving. I took her to lunch at her favorite restaurant, and she insisted on paying the bill.” He was mildly surprised at how easily he could fabricate a story. He asked Stephanie how her shopping went, and she excitedly listed a few of the best deals that she had snagged.

  Bishop knew that he had to get to the purpose of the call. “Where’s Ron?”

  “He’s helping my father clean the gutters. He really is such a sweet guy! Do you want to talk to him?”

  “No, actually. I don’t want Ron to hear this.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Jason Moore wants me to write a blurb about Ron.”

  Stephanie said, “I don’t understand.”

  Bishop reminded her that Jason was the moderator of The Trinitarian, the school’s yearbook. The staff had voted to honor Ron by dedicating the yearbook to him. Since everyone knew that Ron and Michael were good friends, Jason wanted him to write a piece in which he explained what Ron has meant to Holy Trinity and why he is so deserving of this honor. Again, the fabrication came easily. Having recently looked through Immaculate Heart’s Emblem gave him the inspiration for that fib.

  “Oh, my God! Seriously? That’s terrific!” She was as excited as if she had been the one selected.

  “Of course, you can’t tell him. Only a few people ever know the identity of the honoree until the yearbooks are presented in June. I’m counting on you to keep this hush hush.”

  Naturally, she promised that she would not tell a soul, but she asked him why he had told her about it in the first place. He explained that he had to turn in his comments on Monday morning so that the yearbook staff could meet one of their many deadlines, and he was hoping that she might be able to stop by his home on Sunday evening to give him some feedback on what he had written. She said that she would be glad to help, but that she had promised that she would pick up her landlady, Henrietta, at the airport.

  “What time is her flight coming in?”

  “9:10 p.m.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Why don’t you stop by around eight? It shouldn’t take more than a half an hour to polish up my statement. I already have a rough draft.”

  “Great! I’ll see you then!”

  Bishop was far less enthused by the prospect of their meeting. Nevertheless, he knew what he had to do. “Have a safe trip home.” He concluded the call as quickly as possible. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and he wanted to be fully prepared.

  Sleep was almost impossible as he played out a number of different scenarios of his upcoming conversation with Stephanie. What if she denied everything? He did not have one shred of evidence linking her directly to the murder. So what if she had concealed the fact that Zappala was her father? Given the circumstances, that was a reasonable course of action. Murder, however, was not.

  ***

  When he awoke the next morning, it was still dark. Having tried unsuccessfully to fall back to sleep, he went into the bathroom to shave and shower. His mind was already in overdrive in anticipation of his meeting with Stephanie that evening. If his theory proved correct, it would result in pain for Stephanie, for her parents, for Ron, for the entire Holy Trinity community including himself. If he were wrong, he would suffer only the embarrassment of someone who had no business playing detective. Either way, Bishop knew that this would be a day that he would remember for a long time.

  He brought his breakfast of rye toast and green tea out to the sunroom. Even though it was well past sunrise, it was still so dark that he had to turn on a lamp. A massive bank of dark clouds loomed above, matching his inner turmoil. He resolved to fill his day as much as possible with chores that he had been neglecting. He did several loads of laundry, ironed his shirts for the upcoming week, vacuumed the carpets upstairs and down, and did some grocery shopping. He also moved his tractor and a few boxes from the second bay of the garage.

  As the hour approached, he found himself unable to concentrate on any serious reading and had kept busy by thumbing through stacks of magazines piled in a heap on the floor of his study. A recording of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos played softly in the background.

  Since there was never much traffic on his road, he heard Stephanie’s car as she pulled into the driveway. He waited at the front door as she got out of her car and approached the house. She was wearing a tan windbreaker and jeans that disappeared into her leather boots. When she saw him, her face lit up in a
big smile. Bishop didn’t think that he had ever seen her happier.

  “Right on time! Come on in!” said Bishop as he took her jacket and placed it on a hanger in the hall closet. She was wearing a pink cable knit sweater that she had probably

  purchased during her Black Friday shopping spree.

  “This is such exciting news about Ron. I really wanted to tell him, but I managed to control that impulse,” she said with a laugh.

  He invited Steph to make herself comfortable in the sunroom while he went into the kitchen to make some tea. When she offered to help, he insisted that it was unnecessary and that he could boil water and remove pastries from a box and put them on a serving dish as well as anyone.

  Although he didn’t have much of an appetite, he managed to eat half of a half moon and took a few sips from his cup of tea. They chatted for a few minutes about the Thanksgiving Day that they had shared. She was so pleased that her parents liked Ron and vice versa. He was working up the courage to begin the conversation that was the real reason that he asked her to his home.

  “Mike, why don’t you let me see what you’ve written about Ron so far? I’ll have to leave soon to meet Henrietta at the airport.”

  “I haven’t written anything,” he said as his discomfort increased.

  “Isn’t it due tomorrow? We better get to work on it right now.”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  Steph was bewildered. “Why not?”

  “Because Ron hasn’t been nominated.”

  Steph’s voice grew louder, fueled by her confusion. “But you told me that he was! Why would you tell me something like that if it wasn’t true?”

  He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, placed it on the table, and pushed it towards her. His hands were shaking a bit, and his heart was racing. He had no idea how she would react. “Do you know who this is?”

  She glanced at the copy of the yearbook page containing the photo of Mary Gilbert. “No!” She shouted as she pushed the paper back towards him. Her face became flushed as she fought for control. She grabbed her purse and got up to leave. “I don’t know what kind of a game you’re playing, but I’m out.”

  Bishop had decided to use the strategy that Ron had employed so well in getting Eric Munro to confess to the vandalism.

  “I’m not playing a game, Steph. I’m trying to help you. You can’t live a lie. I know that this woman,” as he pointed to the photo,” was your mother. I know that Albert Zappala was your father. And I know that you poisoned him.” There was a moment of silence as she considered her options. Then she exploded. “What? Are you out of your mind? My father died in a motorcycle accident.”

  “Dennis Riordan did die in a motorcycle accident, but he wasn’t your real father,” Bishop said with as much calm as he could muster.

  “How would you know about Dennis?” she shouted.

  “When your Dad mentioned that you had been born in Middleton, I decided to drive up that way.”

  “You never went to visit your aunt?”

  “No.”

  “You liar! I trusted you! I thought you were my friend!” Her lips began to quiver, and he knew that tears would soon follow. Yet, it was necessary that he continue.

  “I’m sorry that I had to deceive you, but it was the only way to get to the truth.” “When did you first realize that Riordan wasn’t your father?”

  She slumped back down into her chair. She had given up trying to pretend. “I knew when I saw my birth certificate. Instead of the name of the father, ‘Unknown’ had been typed in. Even if he denied that he was the father, I felt certain that my mother would have had his name recorded on the birth certificate if for no other reason than to try to obtain some child support. There had to have been another reason why she would have chosen not to identify the father. I never knew more than that until that day I met Zappala at the Blue Moon.”

  “Did he threaten you in some way?” Bishop hoped that this might be true. In that case, the horror of what she had done would be mitigated by self-defense. He was giving her a plausible way to explain her decision to take the life of another human being.

  She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “It’s funny. From my first day at Trinity, I noticed him staring at me. It was kind of creepy. We hardly ever spoke. Then that day in the lounge when no one was around, he asked me if I would meet him after practice to discuss the possibility of helping out with the cheerleaders. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, but I was interested in the cheerleading position, so I agreed.” She seemed relieved that she was going to be able to tell someone what had really happened.

  “He didn’t want to talk about cheerleading, did he?” Bishop asked sympathetically.

  “He was late, and I was thinking about leaving when he walked in. He ordered a coffee. He just sat there looking at me and smiling. When I began to gather my things, he stopped me in my tracks by asking me if I had been born in Middleton. I sat back down. My whole body was shaking. I couldn’t imagine how he might possibly know that. I didn’t know it myself for a long time.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what he wanted. Then he said, ‘You look just like your mother. It’s goddamn amazing.’ I was convinced that he had me mixed up with someone else. I told him that I really didn’t look like my mother at all.”

  “How did he respond to that?”

  “He laughed at first. Then he told me that he meant my real mother, Mary Gilbert.” I couldn’t imagine how he knew. I told him that I didn’t know what he was talking about. He just laughed again as I started to cry. He reached into his bag and pulled out an old yearbook. He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for, and pushed it in front of me. I had never seen a picture of my mother. The resemblance was uncanny. I shoved the book back at him and said through my tears, ‘You bastard! You’re my father?’” Bishop handed Stephanie some tissues and held her hand as she struggled to continue. “I asked him how he could have treated my mother that way. You know what he said?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “He talked about how she had wanted it as much as he had. He said, ‘That Riordan kid was too nice. Not me.’” Had she a gun, she would have shot him right then. She said that she slapped him across the face, bolted from the bar, and drove back to her apartment. The whole experience had been worse than a nightmare. She went up to the attic to cry. She knew that Henrietta would not be able to hear her from there. It became quite chilly, and Steph opened a cedar chest hoping to find a blanket to wrap herself in.

  “That’s when I found the gun. I couldn’t imagine Henrietta owning a gun, but then I remembered her telling me that her brother had often worried about her living alone and had given her something ‘just in case.’ I thought she had meant a baseball bat or something. Once I realized that there were also some bullets in a box, I started to think about how I could do it.”

  Bishop listened attentively giving her the opportunity to make a full confession.

  “Then I realized that I couldn’t just walk up to him at school and put a bullet in his head. I had to come up with another way to do it, one that would not cast suspicion on me.”

  “The cyanide?”

  “Sister Pascal had asked me to cover her lab one day. One of the students had broken a beaker, and I went into the storeroom looking for a dustpan and broom. After the mess was cleaned up, I went back to the storeroom. That’s when I noticed the key to the cabinet. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but as soon as I saw that bottle with the skull and crossbones, I grabbed it and slipped it into my purse.”

  Of all the people that he had suspected of taking that poison from the lab, Stephanie was not one of them. Until he had seen the photos of Mary Gilbert and Albert Zappala in that yearbook, he would have said that she had no motive. Now he realized that she had the most powerful of motives, revenge. He thought of Milton’s Satan who sought revenge against God by attempting to destroy Paradi
se, despite knowing that his revenge would ultimately “back on itself recoil.”

  Stephanie continued without prompting. “After that scene in the Blue Moon, I knew that in order to slip the poison into his drink, I was going to have to gain his trust. I told him that I wanted to learn more about my birth mother. I met him at a pizza place, but that didn’t work out because there were too many people who had seen me there with him. That’s when I got the idea of going to his house.”

  Listening to her tell her story so methodically sent a chill through Bishop. Had she stayed there to watch him die?

  Then she smiled strangely. “You actually helped me, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember when you thought that Chris Delaney might have killed him after you had read his essay on Moby Dick?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was observing your class the day you discussed Starbuck’s decision not to kill Ahab when he had the chance. I decided that I wouldn’t make the same mistake as Starbuck.”

  “However you might try to justify it, it’s still murder, Steph.”

  “I did it for my mother!” she shot back. “And when you told me about Honesty Jones, I realized that I had done it for her as well.”

  “But Honesty Jones won’t be going to jail, Steph.”

  “Neither will I,” she said confidently. She glanced at her watch. “Look at the time! I have to get to the airport.” Bishop froze as she reached into her purse. Was she carrying that revolver? Would she shoot a friend? After the first murder, would she hesitate to commit a second?

  He felt his pulse quicken as he considered his options. Should he try to talk her out of it? Should he just grab for the gun and hope nobody got hurt? As she stood, she pointed directly at him.

  “You can’t prove a thing. It would be your word against mine.” Her car keys jingled as she punched the air for emphasis. “I’ll deny everything, Michael. I’ll destroy your reputation if I have to.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Lieutenant Hodge who was now standing in the doorway of the sunroom.