Read Online Working Murder by Eleanor Boylan - Free Book Online Page A

older brother of Jim's. He took off for Ohio during Prohibition while Jim was
     distinguishing himself in New York. Lloyd was born and raised out there.”
    Across the room, the bedraggled figure of Martin Cavanaugh stood up and I thought
     nervously—we're going to lose him.... Sadd and Henry straightened too. But Martin had
     only turned to the coffee urn and was now, without the least attempt to be covert,
     doctoring his cup.
    A voice behind us said: “It's Sadd Saddlier—it has to be!”
    Sadd turned and said: “It's Peter Angier—it has to be!”
    Henry and I were introduced to a very tall, nice-looking man with thinning white hair and
     a crisp mustache. As he and Sadd chatted away, I whispered to Henry: “Ellen's friend's
     date?” and he nodded. I sighed, wishing I could say: “Do come and sit by me and tell me
     all about that terrible night fifty years ago when Ellen Dawson disappeared and did you
     by any chance recently write an anonymous letter—” Sadd was saying:
    â€œPete and I went to our first dance together at Miss Long's School on Fifty-fourth
     Street, and my date fell madly in love with him. I tried to drop his acquaintance after
     that but was never able to manage it.”
    â€œHe nearly managed it when he went to Florida”—Peter Angier was smiling at me—"but my
     wife and I are moving to Sarasota next winter. I hope you'll be visiting again, Mrs.
     Gamadge.”
    I murmured something as Jon returned with word that prayers were over and he thought we'd
     better go down and pay our respects. With one accord, three pairs of eyes turned
     longingly in the direction of Martin Cavanaugh. I said:
    â€œPlease go ahead—I'll follow you in a minute. I'm going to the ladies’ room,” and headed
     for a sign which was, happily, in the general direction of Martin. The room was filling
     up fast, but he sat, still quite alone, staring before him. I refilled my cup from the
     coffee urn and sat down next to him.
    I said: “What a lot of people. Lloyd Cavanaugh must have been much admired. I didn't know
     him well, did you?”
    Martin didn't turn, but he said slowly: “He was the nicest person I ever knew.”
    â€œI keep hearing that. My name is Clara Gamadge, by the way. May I ask yours?”
    Still slowly, still without turning: “Martin Cavanaugh.”
    â€œOh, a relation of Lloyd's? I'm not actually related to the family—just sort of,
     well, connected , you might say”—my, how chatty I was—"and I do remember some of
     the older Cavanaughs. Let's see ... are you any relation to Jim Cavanaugh?”
    Now Martin turned and looked at me groggily:
    â€œYou're the second person who's asked me that tonight. I thought we didn't mention good
     old Uncle Jim in this family.”
    â€œReally? I understand he was quite colorful. Years ago a cousin of mine, Ellen Dawson,
     worked for Jim one summer. She liked him.”
    Martin's eyes came into focus for a minute as he gazed directly into mine. “Did you know
     Ellen?” I nodded. “Did she...” He gave up and his eyes splayed again. “Did she die?”
    â€œYou've got me there.” I felt like a rat. “I just don't keep up with the family as I
     should. Tell me more about Lloyd. I suppose he'll be buried in the Dawson Mausoleum in
     Holy Martyrs.”
    Ah—my first rise out of Martin. He sat up quite straight and said clearly: “Oh, no.
     Nobody will ever be buried there except Uncle Jim and his buddies. And me.”
    I cast a silent prayer up to my husband's spirit to help keep my voice calm. I said:
     “Now, that's odd. The one thing I remember hearing about that mausoleum is that Jim
     Cavanaugh is buried there alone.”
    Martin shook his head. “That's what people think, but I know different.”
    Another prayer. I wrinkled my brow. “You're probably thinking of Jim's mother. True, she