The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

I looked up. “‘This time’? Does that mean there might have been other times before that you don’t know about?”


Daniel frowned. “Now, that’s an interesting thought. There are always unsolved homicides in the city, and in cases like this one, deaths that might never have been ruled a homicide. If we hadn’t received the note it might never have been established that she had been pushed under a trolley.”

“You mean that she was a feebleminded woman and could have stepped into the path of a trolley without assistance?”

“Quite possible. And people were intent on waiting to cross the street themselves so no one would have noticed the well-timed push. It was hard to come up with witnesses a few days later, and only one person said that the old woman seemed to have suddenly gone pitching forward.”

I paused, digesting this. “So this man may have been perfecting his methods for ages before the first death we know about?”

Daniel sighed. “It’s possible. Yes. But we’d have no way of knowing if the deaths were ruled accidents, or if he didn’t manage to kill the first times.”

I read on down the page: “‘May 31: Simon Grossman. Age twenty. Lived with parents, Dr. and Mrs. Grossman, 258 Fifth Avenue. Student at New York University. Drank a cup of coffee laced with cyanide in Fritz’s, a crowded coffee shop frequented by students on MacDougal Street.

“‘The note said: “Simon says good-bye, or would if he could speak.”’”

I looked up at Daniel. “A student at New York University. And I take it not in any way related to poor old Dolly?”

“Not in any way. He was the son of a well-respected doctor, and she lived with her sister who was a former housemaid.”

“And she had never been employed by the doctor, I take it?”

“She had not. She worked for a prominent banker, was given a little legacy when he died, and went home to take care of her mother and sister in Brooklyn. The mother passed away a few years ago, and the two sisters lived happily together until this.”

“How sad,” I said. “And how senseless. A feebleminded woman couldn’t have been a threat to anybody, could she? Why choose her, I wonder.”

Daniel shook his head. “I wish I could tell you.”

“I see what you mean when you say there’s no connection. A simpleminded old woman and a university student, and such different methods of murder. In your experience, does a poisoner normally resort to a more violent crime?”

He shook his head. “I’d say no. Poisoners are usually secretive, quiet, reserved types. If you poison, you don’t have to be present when the murder takes place.”

“So the only thing these murders have in common is that they were terribly risky,” I said. “Pushing someone under a trolley on a crowded street and putting cyanide in a coffee cup in a crowded café both come with a strong chance of being observed.”

“That’s true. He does like to take risks.”

“Maybe he gets a thrill out of taking risks,” I said. “Were the other murders equally risky and public?”

“Risky, yes. Public, no,” Daniel said. “Read on.”

I turned to the next page: “‘June 21: Maud Daughtery, age sixty-three. Widow. Lived with her only son, 485 10th Avenue. Chelsea.

“‘The note said: “Mother didn’t always know best.”’

“What did that mean?” I asked, looking up from the paper.

Daniel shrugged. “We took that to mean that she did not lock her bathroom door when taking a bath. There was a table lamp on the dresser beside the bath, and someone dropped it into the water, thus electrocuting her.”

“She lived with her presumably grown-up son,” I said.

“She did. Terrence, aged forty-two. A studious and reserved young man who is employed as a tutor to an Upper East Side family.”

“And might have had reason to hurl a lamp into his mother’s bathtub?” I asked.

Daniel smiled. “We looked into that, believe me. From what we learned of the mother, she was an overbearing and unpleasant woman who bossed everyone around and probably made her son’s life miserable. However, he was in a schoolroom with three children at the time his mother was killed, and he seemed genuinely distraught at her death.”

“And I also take it that this woman was in no way related to either simple Dolly or the university student?”

“That’s right. In no way related. Never lived in the same part of the city or moved in the same circles. And the same is true for the other victims.”

“This murder did take a good deal of nerve, as you say,” I commented. “To break into a house, wait until someone took a bath, and then electrocute her. That would take observation of the family’s habits and a good deal of planning. That is not the same kind of crime as pushing someone in front of a trolley.”

“And they become progressively more daring. Read on.”