Once Upon a Time. Barbara Fradkin
stretching to the house. At first glance, it seemed to be unbroken except for the tire tracks leading from the shed to the front door and then to the lane.
But as they began their approach on foot, Green suddenly held up his hand.
“Don’t move!” He squatted in the snow, peered at the tracks, then took out his notebook and glanced up excitedly.
“Come look at this! Carefully! What does this look like to you?”
Sullivan studied the marks in the snow. Inside the tracks, at roughly two foot intervals, the tire markings were blurred in an oval shape. “Like someone has smudged the tire track. To wipe out something?”
Green’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “The tire tracks are partially erased by the wind and snow, and that stopped about noon Wednesday. Before Walker was even discovered dead. But these marks are clear. Someone has walked in this tire tread since the snow stopped, and has tried to smudge over the footprint as they went. Which suggests someone has been out to the house since the Walkers left but tried to conceal that fact. Do you still think his death was natural causes?”
Sullivan backed up carefully. “I’ll get the camera.”
Thirty minutes later, they had a roll of detailed photos of the tracks leading up to the house and of the footprints in the snow at the front door. One set of partially obliterated prints with a deeply treaded sole led from the front door and trampled around in an aimless circle before disappearing at the edge of the tire track. Suspecting the prints were Eugene Walker’s, Green made a note to check his boot soles. Inside two of these large boot prints were the remnants of smudged smaller prints again, leading towards the house. These too had been carefully brushed over in an attempt to erase them. Someone had been very, very careful.
Curious, Green bent to scrutinize the front door, but there were no scratches to suggest forced entry. Using a key provided by Ruth Walker, he eased the door open and stepped inside, scanning the hall rapidly for signs of intrusion or disturbance. There were none. The house was quiet and neat. Sullivan took fifteen minutes to photograph every aspect of it before they put on latex gloves and began the search. Methodically they made their way through the small house, sketching and making notes. The front door opened into a small living room on the right with a fireplace at the far end and a door through to the kitchen and pantry beyond. Upstairs were three doors, the first leading into the bathroom and the other two into bedrooms. The furniture in all the rooms was old and frayed, testimony to the Walkers’ limited budget, but the slip covers had been assiduously darned and redarned. The bookcases were handmade by an inexpert carpenter, and the piano keys were yellow with age and wear.
Green tapped the keys idly and was surprised that the sound was still rich and warm, evoking memories of his own mother, not withered by disease but vibrant and tireless as she’d been in his youth, coaxing melody from the leaden fingers of the children on the block. Or all alone at night, after the day’s work, racing her fingers over the keys for hours for the sheer rapture of the sound.
He moved on to study the titles in the bookcase curiously. There was a large collection of British mysteries ranging from Agatha Christie to P.D. James, an aging leather-bound collection of Dickens, a sampling of Atwood, Shields and Robertson Davies, and a shelf of Romantic poets. These all suggested the refined feminine taste of Ruth Walker. There was a corner of gardening and bird-watching books which Green also intuitively connected to Ruth, and another small shelf of best-selling spy thrillers of a more masculine genre. Wedged in the corner was a faded black Bible, St. James version. Green opened it to see the inscription on the inner cover in quilled black ink. “To our beloved daughter Ruth, London 1932”.
The Bible, despite its age, did not look much used. As Green flipped through it, a brittle, yellowed square of folded paper fell out. It was a letter, dated Feb. 26, 1947, and written in the same elegant, old-fashioned hand as the bible’s inscription.
Dearest Ruth,
Your father and I received your letter of Christmas time and although we are delighted that you have found new friends and new purpose in your work down there, we urge you not to move too quickly without ensuring that any relationship is firmly founded in mutual interests and values. You are young now, and full of hope and the desire to heal, but two wars have taught your father and me that there are differences between people, differences in upbringing, outlook and values which may loom large once the initial excitement has had a chance to calm. As well, we don’t know what these people have endured and how deeply they may be scarred.
This is not to dampen your enthusiasm nor to deter your generous nature, but rather to temper it with care, lest you suffer again the pain which I am sure is still all too fresh.
Enough said of prudence. Things are still very hard in the city, with long queues and shortages, and people still homeless. The winter has been very hard on your father and his cough is much worse. I only hope that we can come down to see you when spring arrives, for the sun and the sea air would do him good. I don’t believe he has ever recovered from Albert—Lord knows I never shall—and the sorrow saps his strength. But we shall manage, my dear, and we count the days until we can visit you. All our love,
Mother
Pensively, Green turned the letter over in his hands. By itself, it was a mere fragment of history, yet it added one small piece to the mystery of Walker’s life. He called Sullivan over to photograph it, and then he replaced it and the Bible carefully back into place. He and Sullivan then searched through every book on the shelves. If a book could be used as a storage place once, why not twice? But they found nothing, either there or in the rest of the cluttered room.
Next they moved up to the larger bedroom. It had been intended as a master bedroom, but they found only men’s clothing in the closets and drawers. Ruth’s clothing was next door in the smaller bedroom.
“Looks like they slept apart,” Green muttered.
“It’s not much fun sleeping with a drunk. He probably crashed around a lot and got up in the middle of the night to piss.”
“Check the desk drawer for those investment certificates Mrs. Walker mentioned.”
Sullivan opened the drawer of a battered maple desk and found it crammed full of papers—mortgage agreements, house deeds, sales receipts, most over five years old. He found the certificates inside a folder and counted them carefully.
“Eight.”
“Eight?” Green said. “There are supposed to be ten.”
Sullivan counted again. “There aren’t.”
Green raised an eyebrow. “Two thousand bucks. If this was a robbery, why not take all ten?”
“Maybe he was hoping they wouldn’t be missed. Remember how careful the person was to erase their tracks.”
Green shook his head. “Or maybe they weren’t stolen. At least not then. Leave them out. I’ll try to get Ident up here for fingerprinting. And I want to check up on Don Reid’s finances—”
Sullivan frowned. “Why him?”
Green was remembering Don’s reaction the day before when the investment certificates were mentioned. “Just a hunch.”
“Two thousand bucks isn’t much of a motive for murder.”
“Depends on how desperate you are,” Green countered, rifling through the shoe boxes on the floor of the closet. “Remember the junkies who kill for one more fix, or the winos—”
“Yeah, but we’re not talking about drug dealers and bums here, Mike. This guy lives in Arlington Woods and drives a BMW. Two thousand bucks is peanuts to him.”
“Maybe. But something is wrong. Margaret is scared, and Don’s trying to put me on another track. Let’s just see what turns up.”
They found nothing else of interest in Eugene’s bedroom. Ruth’s smaller bedroom had another desk with all the recent bills and receipts, neatly bundled and labelled. Their bank balance was modest, but