St. Patrick's Day Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

Jack said. “It’s just a little misunderstanding. I’ll get in touch with the VA and see what they say. It might help if you had his birth certificate. You’ll probably need that for Social Security anyhow.”
    “I’ll go down tomorrow. He was born in Brooklyn. I’ve got his driver’s license if they need it.”
    We changed the topic rather pointedly after that and spent half an hour listening more than talking. It was late afternoon when the four of us left.
    But outside on the quiet residential street, we stood and talked for a few minutes. Ray was up in arms.
    “I think she’s lost it,” he said. “Something is very screwed up in there.”
    “I know. I’ll look into it in the morning.”
    “I mean, did I hear Scotty say a thousand times he went from the army to the job with only a couple of months between?”
    “You heard it. I heard it.”
    “So what’s she pulling?”
    “She’s confused,” Petra said soothingly. “Something else happened when he was eighteen and she’s mixed it up.”
    In Jack’s car a few minutes later he came back to it. “It doesn’t feel right.”
    “Maybe Scotty went in a little later than Jean thinks andgot out a little earlier than he told you. Maybe he was out of work for a year and didn’t want to admit it.”
    “But there’s no discharge. If you’ve got a box where you keep birth certificates, you keep your discharge papers there, too. You keep the important pieces of your life in one place.”
    I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was. “Could it have been a dishonorable discharge?”
    “I hope not.” He looked grim and dropped the subject. When we got back to his apartment, I picked up my bag, kissed him good-bye, and drove home to Oakwood.
    I live in a small town on Long Island Sound in the house my aunt lived in for as long as I can remember. When she died last year, she left me the house at 610 Pine Brook Road and her nest egg and a responsibility that was in no way a burden. Her only son, Gene, who is my age and whom I have known all my life, is retarded and lives in a group home that recently moved to Oakwood, about a mile from the house. Now that he’s so close, I visit frequently and take him for overnights when he’s in the mood. Although he misses his mother, he’s made a great adjustment, and I feel, as I always have, that he adds to my life as I hope I add to his.
    Happily, I have become part of the community. I go to council meetings and join in discussions. I voted in my first election on the school budget, pulling down all the Yes levers for what I consider are all the right reasons. And I have made friends in town, mostly the McGuires who live next door and the Grosses, who live down the block and across the street.
    Some of these things happened slowly, some quickly. I was aware, during the years that I visited Aunt Meg regularly, that I was “that nun” who came to see Margaret Wirth. I like to think I’m now Chris Bennett, known for my personality, not the clothes I used to wear.
    I had some work to do at home for Arnold Gold and I sat down to it at eight-thirty Friday morning, having walked and breakfasted. Part of it was proofreading, part typing. Arnold gave me an old word processor recently when he bought new ones for the office, and, never having used one before, Ifound it fast and easy to use while the women in his office thought it was so old and out-of-date they teased him until he broke down and replaced it. I was putting a brief on a disk when Jack called.
    “Something’s very crazy,” he said.
    “About Scotty’s discharge?”
    “He never served. There’s no record of his serving in any of the armed services.”
    “Why would he lie?”
    “You got me. But it gets worse.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Jean just called. There’s no record of Scotty’s birth certificate.”
    I felt a distinct chill. “Could she have the year wrong?” I asked, knowing Jean would have tried other years if they failed to find