Sunday Mourning

By Margherita Peraino

Ned Seasons offed himself seated in the front seat of his car, in his closed garage, with the motor running. If his ego hadn’t been as inflated as all four of his tires, Lillian Webber might not have had a problem accepting his tragic death by suicide. Fact is, all who knew Ned Seasons were as dubious as Lillian including her old friend, Harriet Woodside. Kill himself? Not likely. But the facts were all there. Or were they?

It’s 1936 and the Great Depression is almost a bad memory. To make ends meet, Lillian Webber takes on a tailoring job at Logan’s Department Store, where she first came in contact with the now-deceased Ned Seasons, Manager of the Bookkeeping Department. Logan’s employees are as dumbfounded as Lillian to hear that Ned had killed himself. Too many people who would gladly do it for him was the consensus.

Lillian Webber’s best friend, Harriet Woodside, a widow like herself, moves in with Lillian and her only border, Eddie O’Brien, a police officer. Harriet had helped Lillian deal with recuperation after a nasty fall the previous winter and neither Lillian nor Eddie wanted her to leave, so she acquiesced, with little argument and even less persuasion.
Lillian’s suspicions soon became Harriet’s and Eddie’s, too. But if he was murdered, who did it? His wife? The girl he got pregnant? The girl’s father? One too many flirtations? His office assistant? Although an anonymous caller keeps trying to warn her off, Lillian discovers, almost too late, that her suspicions were right on the money.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margherita Peraino
• Release date: Apr 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476262550

Margherita Peraino

Margherita Peraino, a native of Michigan, has retired from her job as Library Clerk and moved, with her husband Tony, to the small town of Mason, Ohio. She is an octogenarian who started writing, at age 6, the very day she discovered how much fun it was to stretch her imagination. Margherita has written and published short stories and several humor articles and is currently working on the fourth in the Lillian Webber murder mystery series.

Book preview

Chapter One

A Sunday evening in May, 1936

Smoke trailed the 7:57 Limited as it wailed its way around Hartville, a serene little Midwestern town.

Hot, muggy air barely stirred the spring leaves on the maples. The evening skies were clear and an infrequent wisp of cloud meandered its way past the moon. Street lamps cast gauzy shadows. From neighboring porches, murmurings and soft chuckles were mingled with the shush of screen doors with an occasional loud slam indicating a spring in need of adjustment. The favorite ritual of listening to Sunday night radio shows was of no interest to Lillian Webber and her two boarders, Hattie Woodside and Eddie O’Brien. They still reeled from the news of Ned Seasons’ suicide that afternoon. Earlier, a few stunned neighbors had stopped by to express their disbelief as well.

After dinner, the threesome had taken dishes of ice cream to the front porch and rehashed again the day’s events.

Just too hot for May, Hattie said, then fanned herself with her cardboard fan from Hanson’s Hardware. The crunch of the wicker rocker almost kept tempo with the rhythm of her hand.

It’s impossible to believe that Ned, of all people, would do such a thing, Lillian said, and her chair and fan creaked in unison with Hattie’s. If someone had told me that conceited young rooster was killed off, perhaps I’d believe that. But suicide? Her cardboard fan from Hanson’s Hardware swished in her hand, and her stocky Oxford heels tapped the floor with each pump of the rocker.

Not killed off, that’s for sure, Eddie said. Carbon monoxide. Closed the garage doors tight, closed the windows, and started the car. He knocked himself off.

The women tsk-tskd and shook their heads.

He smiled at them and said, Watch those rockers, ladies. They keep inching my way. You’re either going to run me over or tip yourselves right off the porch.

I’m not sure I’m glad we missed all the initial excitement or not. I’m sort of happy we decided to go to the movies, Hattie said. The women had gone to a matinee at the Rialto to escape some of the late afternoon heat.

Didn’t leave a note you said? Lillian asked.

Nope. No note. No nothing.

Did Irene call you because you’re a cop?

Not Mrs. Seasons, no. Her sister, Ida, Ida Paris. You know, the pharmacist’s wife. Paris Drugs.

Was she there when they found him?

No. Mrs. Paris came later. It was the Missus that found him. Went out to the garage to get their electric fan. That’s when she found him. She panicked, tried to revive the poor guy, tried to pull him out, anything, and when no matter what she did got no response, she got really scared and instead of calling us or the doctor, she called her sister. At that point, I think she must have realized he was dead. Who knows? He added, The sisters seem to be pretty close.

How sad for Irene, Lillian murmured.

What a shock, Hattie said.

Certainly is, Lillian agreed. Suicide. Of all things.

The ladies continued their choreographed rocking.

Movie good? Eddie asked.

Oh, very good, Hattie said. But then William Powell is always very good.

I’ll say. So handsome.

I’m shocked, ladies, Eddie teased. Two nice, uhmmm, grown women going all goo-goo eyed over a movie star.

Lillian laughed. Thanks for the ‘grown women’ title. Beats ‘old’ women by a mile.

Or ‘middle-aged’ women, Hattie agreed.

Or ‘matronly’ women.

Or...

Okay, okay. You two are neither old nor matronly. I’ve never met such ‘young’ ladies in disguise as, hmm. I think I’ll get me some ice water. Any takers?

Sure, coward, Lillian laughed.

Eddie rose, unfolding his tall, young body like a carpenter’s rule. He stacked the ice cream dishes and brought them indoors.

Hattie said, Did you ever?

You mean the innuendoes about our age?

No, of course not. I mean Ned Seasons committing suicide.

That was a surprise. Like I said, he would be the last person on earth I’d ever suspect of killing himself. Ever so vain! The stories I could tell you circulating around the store. You just wouldn’t believe.

The store Lillian referred to was Logan’s Department Store. The year after her husband was killed, Lillian Webber made an appointment with Jerome Logan, Jr., son of the original owner. She convinced him that the store needed a tailor. They already had a seamstress in the ladies department. She got the job doing piece-work and bargained to be paid only for the sewing jobs that came her way. The extra money helped subsidize the insurance money Philip had left her.

I thought Ned worked in Logan’s Bookkeeping Department.

Oh, he does, er, did. But he didn’t just stay behind his desk all day. He was all over the store.

What kind of stories?

Who’s telling stories? Eddie asked as he backed through the screen door. He carried a tray loaded with a tall pitcher of ice water and three tumblers.

Ned stories from the store, Hattie said, and she rose to help him. She was almost as tall as he and Eddie pretended to dance with her as they swung around toward a small wooden table set between the chairs.

She settled back into her rocker and Eddie resumed his perch on the top step. He leaned his back against the post.

Let’s hear some. I didn’t know the guy very well.

Well, I stress the word ‘stories’, mind you. Lillian bent forward and lowered her voice. It’s rumored he got a young girl from Bookkeeping in the family way. Marcy Tucker. She left just days before I started at Logan’s, so I didn’t know her.

Ugh. How awful Hattie said.

Lillian nodded. He was a real smooth talker, and I think he thought because he was tall, blonde, and fairly good looking, the girls just couldn’t resist him.

What did the men think of him? Eddie asked.

They didn’t much care for him, either, which says a lot. Men don’t usually badmouth each other. They’ll say good things about another man, but if the guy’s a Casanova or an out-and-out bum, they’ll usually keep their mouths shut, especially around women. And do you remember the George Winston episode?

I think so, Hattie said.

You mean George Winston at Schmidt’s? Tell me. I don’t know that story. Eddie said.

Well, Ned tried to put his arm around George’s girlfriend, Nina. You know Nina, that pretty young girl?

Sure. Nice girl.

It seems George shoved Ned aside and told him to keep his dirty hands off her. Ned was pretty tall and muscular, and he pushed right back and there would have been a fight if Mr. Schmidt hadn’t intervened. George is good sized, too. It would have been a real scuffle. Since that time, George hasn’t passed up any chance to bad mouth Ned.

Do you think all those stories are true?

I wouldn’t be at all surprised. When I think of Ned, the word ‘scum’ comes to mind.

Eddie shook his head. Nice guy, huh? Or was all this before he was married?

Oh, my, no. The Seasons have been married a while, I think. At least, they’ve lived on the corner for, let’s see, going on seven years. Don’t you think it’s been that long, Hattie?

Hattie counted on her fingers. At least. Maybe more.

No kids, right?

No, no children. Like my Phillip and I.

They remained silent a while.

Hattie spoke softly, Suicide is an awful way to die.

Is there a good way? Eddie asked.

She smiled at him. Her long narrow face crinkled and her eyes lit up when she smiled. She shoved wire-rimmed eyeglasses back into place with a slender finger.

I guess not. What I meant was that it’s not just a depression, a loss of hope on the part of the dead person, but it leaves all the people left behind forever wondering. Was it my fault? Could I have saved him? If only he’d come to me for help. That sort of thing.

The three of them looked at the corner house. A cigarette glow arced its way to the lawn.

Someone’s on the porch.

Probably jumpy and nervous. Going to be hard to sleep tonight.

What time is it, anyway?

Eddie lit a match and held it to his watch.

Just past eight-thirty. Glad today’s coming to an end. This week’s going to be a bad one.

Are you in charge of the suicide? Lillian asked.

Eddie laughed. There’s only six of us at the station, and that’s counting the Chief. We’re all in charge of everything.

What do you do in a suicide situation? Hattie asked.

Treat them the same as homicides. Take fingerprints, interview people, do a post mortem. The works. Usually pretty cut and dried.

If it was a suicide, Lillian said.

Now what do you mean by that? Hattie asked.

Knowing Ned Seasons, I’d like to know all the details before I’d call suicide a sure thing. Wouldn’t you?

Chapter Two

Eddie rose from the stoop and ran fingers through his black curly hair. He moved slowly down the stairs to the sidewalk and said it was time for his evening constitutional, which he swore relaxed him and helped him sleep. The women stayed in their chairs, unwilling to go indoors to sweltering rooms and sweaty bed linens. Lillian lit a cigarette, her third of the day. As a rule, she limited herself to two, but the news of Ned’s death had upset her more than she realized.

Are you interested in a small glass of wine? she asked Hattie. She smoothed a curl of gray hair back into the bumpy bun she wore at the nape of her neck. The attempt to create an austere hairdo, however, couldn’t diminish the charm of her smile or the glint of mischief in her blue eyes. The skimpy bun shed hair pins like falling leaves and one chunk of hair never wanted to stay in place behind her ears.

Hattie chuckled. Perhaps just before we got to bed, Vi. It’s so hot, I don’t want to move and I don’t want you to, either.

Harriet (Hattie) Woodside, a widow, had moved in with her old friend Lillian the past winter, a month after Eddie’s arrival. Lillian had taken a nasty fall on the ice and dislocated a shoulder. She tried to care for herself and Eddie, but just doing daily chores proved excruciating. Hattie, in effect, said Step aside, took over and kept the house humming, literally. When the ladies weren’t tuned in to their favorite soap operas, Hattie kept the radio on or played the phonograph so that there was music all day. She had determined early on that music was an excellent companion. When Lillian was finally able to fend for herself, the prospect of not having Hattie around was almost unthinkable, so she and Eddie convinced her to move in with them permanently. It hadn’t really taken much persuasion because Hattie had also grown accustomed to their camaraderie and didn’t relish moving back to her lonely apartment. Over the months, the three became fast friends, there for each other if need be, yet free to go off in separate directions without fear of offending the others. They called the modest two-story house on Helen Avenue Webber’s Lodge.

Hattie stopped rocking and held the arm of Lillian’s chair, forcing her to stop as well.

Do you hear someone calling us?

Both women listened.

Hello, over there. Good evening. They heard a familiar voice to their right.

It’s Louisa, Lillian said. Mrs. Carducci leaned one hand on the porch rail of her home next door. She flung a threadbare dish towel over her plump shoulder and patted it into place. Lillian rose from her chair and stood still for a second to get her bearings, or, as she put it, time to get the message to her knees that the rest of her body was trying to reach an upright position.

Isn’t it awful about Ned? Louisa said. Such a shame.

Just terrible, the ladies agreed. Hattie sat sidways on the banister next to where Lillian had come to stand.

He wasn’t all that old, was he? Louisa asked.

I’d say in his late thirties, wouldn’t you say, Hat?

About that, yes.

Young, really, Louisa Carducci said. My Sarah, she went down to talk to Mr. Schmidt at the gas station after the police left. When she told me what happened, I couldn’t believe my ears. Who would think Ned would do such a thing.

That’s exactly what we said, Hattie agreed.

Then Louisa lowered her voice to just above a whisper. Ladies, she said. There’s someone standing behind that old oak over there. Been there for some time. I think it’s Norman Goodacre, but I’m not sure. I saw him earlier, before you came out on the porch. He was walking real slow past your house and looking at it, and my Sarah says she saw him earlier standing on the corner looking this way, too. It might be him. Maybe, just in case it isn’t Norman, you should go inside and lock your doors until Eddie gets back.

Why, how odd, Hattie said.

Where did you say he is?

Behind the oak, by the fire plug. I think I see his head poke out now and then.

The women looked across the street and strained to see what it was Mrs. Carducci had seen. Illumination from the street lamp didn’t extend to the tree.

I think we’re all seeing things after this day. It’s probably just shadows, Hattie said.

Well, let’s just go down and see, Lillian whispered.

Lillian! I think Louisa’s right. Let’s go inside and lock the doors.

Both women said goodnight to Mrs. Carducci and walked toward the front door. Lillian complained loudly, The older I get, the more my joints hurt.

She pretended to stretch, and then clumped down the stairs.

Lillian! Hattie hissed.

Lillian put both hands on her ample hips and leaned back in a flexing motion. Humming tunelessly, she walked slowly toward the oak and jumped at the sound of a low whisper, Psst. Mrs. Webber.

Good Lord! she yelled, and her hands flew to her chest.

Hattie bolted down the stairs, Lillian’s hardware store fan held high in the air.

Who’s there? she cried.

A thin scrawny figure limped out from behind the tree. Sorry, Mrs. Webber, Mrs. Woodside. It’s just me. I didn’t mean to scare you none.

Norman Goodacre, I should whack you soundly, Hattie fumed. You scared the wits out of both of us.

Mrs. Carducci called out, What’s going on? Are you all right over there?

Yes, Louisa. You were right. It is Norman. We’re okay, though. Thanks.

Norman Goodacre stood before the two women, head hung low. Immediately, Lillian felt guilty. Norman, a young man who lived in the corner house a block over, was born with one leg almost an inch shorter than the other. His father left for New Jersey the day after he was born and never returned. Norman’s mother, Mildred, had lovingly cared for her son and had even educated him at home as best she could. She had contracted a severe case of flu and passed away three years ago. Now Norman lived alone in a few second story rooms of his mother’s house and worked five hours a day at Logan’s as a janitor.

Norman, she shook her finger at him, you scared us half to death. Come across the street and sit on the porch. I think we could all use some ice water. I certainly need another glass.

Yes’m. Norman hobbled up the walk and sat on the top step where Eddie had been seated. Hattie went indoors and rushed back out with a fresh tumbler.

Now, why in the world were hiding behind that tree? Mrs. Carducci said she’s seen you loitering about for a while now, Lillian scolded.

I wasn’t hiding, Ma’am. I was just waiting to see Eddie.

Eddie’s gone for his evening walk. You must have seen him leave. He’ll be back soon.

Yes’m.

Hattie’s curiosity got the better of her. Why were you waiting to see Eddie? she asked.

‘Cuz I saw the whole thing today, Norman said.

What whole thing?

The dead guy, Mr. Seasons. I saw him.

What do you mean you saw him? How did you see him? Lillian asked.

When? Did you see him go into the garage before he died? Hattie poured out more water all around and handed a glass to Norman.

Whoa! Whoa! Norman laughed. I didn’t see him die. Not then. I saw him after.

After what, Norman?

Norman settled back against the stair rail, ready to recite his piece. Lillian wondered if they were in for a long evening on the porch.

I heard it all, too, you know. I was up high so I saw lots.

Heard what, Norman? And what do you mean by ‘up high’?

Up high, you know, up on my porch. I’m a bird watcher and I like to put out seeds for the birds and I check to see if I can spot different kinds. All sorts of birds come around here, you know. More than people think. I belong to the Audubon Society.

That’s true, Norman, but get to the point.

Oh, okay. I heard the sirens today.

You must have pretty good ears, Norman, Hattie said. Why, the Seasons live clear at the opposite corner from you and your house faces north. The Seasons’ face south.

Well, yeah, I guess I do have good ears. My porch faces south, though. Just the house faces north. My mom taught me north from south, and how to tell east from west. You face north, you see...

Norman, you started to tell us something. You heard the sirens and then what?

I hear lots of things up there. But it was quiet this afternoon, being Sunday and all.

Just what did you hear, Norman? Lillian asked, her patience wearing thin.

Well, I heard the police sirens and they were loud on Warner, but when they got close, they turned them down. So, I knew they were real close.

How can you tell that, Norman? Maybe they were just going away in the distance and not coming closer, Lillian said.

No. That’s a different sound. I know them all pretty good. Not much else to do, you know, when you’re alone and just listening. I can even tell the difference between the fire engines and the police cars, he said with a proud nod. I bet I could tell you which way the wind is blowing just by the sound of the church bells.

I’m sure you could, Norman. That’s quite a talent, Hattie said.

Thank you, Ma’am. Uh-huh. It’s that, all right. It’s a talent. Sometimes, when I go home for lunch on Wednesdays, I hear piano music coming from that house, too, if the wind’s just right. The Seasons’ house, I mean. The wind can make a difference in how much you hear and don’t hear, you know. Today, just before I heard the police sirens, I heard the piano again. On a Sunday. Never hear it on Sunday. That’s the Lord’s day. No music. Anyway, it sounded like my Aunt Rose’s piano. She can’t play but she has piano rolls. She’s a real nice lady. Sometimes when I’m there, she lets me pump. You’d like my Aunt Rose. She’s about your age, too. About as old as both of you.

I’m sure we would like your Aunt Rose, Norman, Lillian said. But you were talking about the Seasons, remember? How could you tell the police went to the Seasons’ today? They could have been going to just about anybody’s house.

I went and looked, he said simply. No one to stop me. When I heard the sirens stop, I wanted to see what was going on, so I just went and looked.

Eddie approached the front walk, gave a slight cough and asked quietly, And what did you see, Norman?

Chapter Three

Norman rose too quickly, and nearly fell. Because he wore one elevated shoe, the occasional swift movement would catch him off balance. Eddie reached out for his arm to steady him.

Oh, hi, Eddie. I’m sorry. I was just waiting to see you, is all. I didn’t mean to scare the ladies. I’ll be going now.

I didn’t realize you had scared them, Norman, Eddie said.

Norman started to rise.

No, don’t go, Norman. You don’t have to. Sit a spell. Here. Next to me. Tell me what you were talking about. Why were you waiting for me?

I heard everything today and saw a lot, too, Norman said with pride. At the Seasons’, I mean. He sat and positioned his feet to match Eddie’s.

Well, why don’t you tell us exactly what you did see and hear.

Well, like I was saying, I heard sirens today and then the sirens stopped and so I went down the alley toward the house there. The Seasons’ house. By the time I got there, these two cops were just coming out the back door on their way to the garage. They was Frank, and that blonde guy with the curly hair, Patrick.

Yep. Know them. Eddie lit a cigarette and looked kindly at Norman. Go on.

They were all coming out. Mrs. Seasons and Mr. Paris’ wife, you know, the pharmacist? They were walking behind the cops, slow like, not walking with them, if you know what I mean. Mrs. Seasons, she was holding a handkerchief up to her mouth, like this, with one hand, and pointing to the garage, like this, with the other hand. I stood right there in the alley and watched, he said, pleased with himself.

Then what? Hattie asked.

Well, I stood behind that big snowball bush. Frank, he opened the side door of the garage first and looked in and I heard him say, ‘I’ll be damned’ - like that.

Norman turned his head and glanced sideways at the two ladies to see if the cuss word had offended them. Seeing it had made no impression, he continued.

"They opened up the big doors then, the ones that open on Warner, real wide, and then the window next to the side door. I let myself into the yard and went around the back