Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (11 page)

“I'll see what we can do.” And he hung up.

The dial tone was one of the loneliest sounds I'd heard in a long time.

I was out there on a limb all by myself, and I could hear the screech of the saw blade and feel the quiver of the wood.

 

Susan Dillon looked up as I closed her office door behind me.

She didn't rise. She didn't smile. Susan rarely smiles. Expressionless, she waved a glossily manicured hand toward the chair that faced her desk. Her chromosomes carried no genes for humor.

I limped across the shining parquet flooring, careful not to stumble on the Oriental throw rug. That's all my ankle would need. Or my ego.

Susan always reminded me of a highly bred Persian. Her round, firm, pink-cheeked face was elegantly framed by thick, shiny white hair. Her
china-blue eyes were cool and remote and highly intelligent. She'd spent a major portion of her career in TV news in Los Angeles. After a second marriage to the head of the chemistry department at Thorndyke, she'd added a Ph.D. to an illustrious résumé. And when the directorship of the J-School opened up, she charmed the search committee. Susan was definitely a woman who preferred to be in charge.

“Henrie O, I appreciate your coming down.” Susan rested her plump hands on her desk. The huge amethyst ring on her right hand matched the violet sheen of her silk shantung suit. More amethysts shone in a gold filigree pin on her lapel.

I wasn't in the mood for the intricate, measured wordplay so beloved of academics, with the nuances carefully shaded and meanings obliquely expressed. That was Susan's turf, not mine.

I sat down, met her cool gaze directly. “What did Tucker offer?”

I doubt that anyone had ever slammed a fist to the side of her head before. Or its verbal equivalent.

A faint flush stained her ivory-white cheeks. Her eyes glittered like sapphires in a rich cat's collar.

I tilted my head inquiringly. “Increased appropriation? Another tenured professorship? A Thorndyke journalism program abroad?” My ankle felt encircled by a band of fire. A reminder that I was no longer a young reporter, even if I persisted in acting like one.

Susan picked up a shiny silver letter opener with a carved jade handle, balanced it on the tips of her fingers. Her rose nails glistened in the lamplight almost as vividly as the silver. The flush had faded from her cheeks. “I do like to keep in touch with
faculty.” Her high, light voice was as metallic as a wind chime. “To be certain we focus on our mission. It's important that we work together as a team, Henrietta.”

The use of my formal name indicated I was truly in deep shit.

Not that I gave a damn.

“It is certainly,” Susan continued coldly, “obligatory for faculty members to remember that we must always function for the good of the whole.”

One step forward, two steps back. My ankle hurt too much to join in this dance. But I definitely understood the beat. Susan would never admit it openly, but yes, President Tucker had contacted her and she'd hastened to assure him that she would do everything she could to corral me.

Awkwardly, I struggled to my feet. I wanted to rest. I wanted to be left alone.

But Maggie Winslow would never write the words that had been in her heart and mind. And Maggie died because I told her to be a good reporter.

Could I be anything else?

“I'm going to write the series for
The Clarion
,” I told Susan Dillon flatly.

I suppose that in my heart I'd always known that would be my decision, but I heard my own words with a tiny sense of shock. And yes, with regret. I'd come to feel at home here at Thorndyke. I enjoyed the students, treasured their eagerness, drew strength from their vitality. I'd made Derry Hills my home.

We gazed at each other, taking the measure of one another's convictions and weaknesses, then I turned away.

“We have valued your contributions, Henrietta.” Her tone was cool and confident, with just a tiny curl of venom. “It would be a shame to lose your services.”

She didn't have to wrap it with a bow. I understood.

But there was nothing more to say.

 

I closed my office door behind me. I needed to get home and put some ice on my ankle, but I took time to sit down. A small envelope dangled on a red ribbon from the tail of the carnation airplane that had arrived earlier today. I unlooped it, drew out the card.

There was no signature, but the message read:
Come fly away with me
.

I smiled. It felt odd on my face. It felt like a long time since I'd last smiled.

Slowly, mustering a reserve I wasn't sure I had, I got to my feet. I put on my coat, then gathered up the folders on the Rosen-Voss, Murdoch, and Nugent investigations. I had much to do, and I'd better work while I could. At least for the moment, I felt safe enough. Physically safe. For now, I doubted the murderer would make a move—a direct, physical move—against me. Had we come face-to-face in Maggie's apartment, there would have been no choice. But to kill me now would pose the terrible danger of suggesting to the police Maggie's death was indeed directly linked to the past.

But I knew the murderer was out there, dangerous and deadly.

I started toward the door, then came back to Jimmy's lovely bouquet.

One pink carnation nestled in my hand as I limped outside into the fog.

I
carried a mug of coffee into my study. I was walking with scarcely a limp. The ice pack had worked wonders. That and, of course, wrapping the ankle firmly this morning. As long as I took it easy and remembered the axiom embraced by the old and wily—every move a smooth one—I should be fine.

The early-morning sun slanted cheerfully across my desk. The single pink carnation poked jauntily out of a slim silver bud vase. I'd fixed it immediately when I got home last night.

Dear Jimmy, gallant and fun and always romantic. I liked him very much.

But was that enough?

I picked up one of my favorite photos of Richard. He stood next to a small plane, his hand on the wing. Wind ruffled his reddish-brown hair. His was a broad, blunt-featured, intelligent face with kind eyes and a generous mouth that spread in such an appealing, crooked grin. There was never anything mean or petty or small about Richard. He always tried to do his best. He was an honorable man in a world riddled with dishonor. I admired him without reserve, I respected him always, I loved him passionately.

I looked from the photo to the bud vase.

Richard was dead. Not all my tears or all my wishes would change that reality.

I could not expect Jimmy to take Richard's place, but there were sunrises yet to see.

I touched the carnation gently with my fingers. The vase sat next to the three folders that awaited me. But first I picked up the slick sheets mounding out of my fax machine. Ah, Lieutenant Urschel's response to my three questions. I owed Maggie for the first two questions. I was impressed that Lieutenant Urschel was at his office on a Saturday morning. I wondered if that was the time he devoted to niggling little housekeeping tasks. But I didn't care how much I irritated him, so long as I found out what I needed to know.

A thorough check of the DHPD files indicates there was no success in tracing “Joe Smith.” The waitress at the Green Owl the night the students were killed heard them both refer several times in apparent good humor to “Joe Smith.” At the time of the investigation, there were four Joseph Smiths (Joseph Alan Smith, Quincy Joseph Smith, Joseph Cornelius Smith, and Joseph John Smith) enrolled at Thorndyke University. So far as could be deter
mined, none had any contact with either Rosen or Voss. No Joe Smiths were registered that night at any motel in Derry Hills. Eleven Joe Smiths were found in the Derry Hills telephone book. Exhaustive investigation provided no link to Rosen or Voss. Family members recalled no Joe Smiths in the pasts of either Rosen or Voss. Teletype inquiries in Missouri and surrounding states yielded no Joe Smiths on outstanding warrants. A Joe Smith was arrested three weeks later in a filling-station holdup in Springfield. On the night of the Rosen-Voss murders, that Joe Smith was in jail in Springfield on a DUI charge.

I sipped my coffee and watched dust motes whirling gently in the shaft of sunshine. Joe Smith. Who the hell
was
Joe Smith? The Derry Hills police obviously had gone at it every way they could. Carrying the fax sheets, I crossed to my desk. I flipped open the Rosen-Voss file. Hmm. Yes, there it was. The waitress at the Green Owl that long-ago night was Erin Malone. I circled her name in red.

I settled into my chair.

Leonard Cartwright's death is officially listed as an accident. There was no suggestion at the time that it was anything other than an accident. Cartwright's body was found in the early morning of March 15, 1976, at the base of the Old Central bell tower. He died from massive trauma, including severe head injuries and a
broken neck. The injuries were consistent with having fallen from the north window of the tower. The window is seventy feet from the ground. Spiked iron bars reached to the middle of the windows on all four sides of the tower. Cartwright apparently climbed over the railing of the north window, then fell. The spikes snagged threads from his trousers. It was suggested at the time that Cartwright was engaged in a prank and was attempting to dislodge a gargoyle from its niche beneath the north window of the tower. Every year members of an engineering honor society placed a green plastic lei around the neck of the gargoyle. There was a long-standing rivalry between the engineering students and the architecture students, who tried to prevent the garlanding of the gargoyle. Cartwright was an architecture major. Campus authorities theorized that Cartwright lost his balance while pulling on the gargoyle. The statue came loose from the niche and plummeted to the ground, landing about ten feet from his body. Cartwright was a senior from Springfield. He was an outstanding student with a 3.79 grade average. He had served on the University Student Council, was a past secretary of his social fraternity, and played intramural volleyball. He had worked as a student assistant in Dean Nugent's office for two years.

So Cartwright worked in the missing dean's office. I needed to talk to someone who had been in that office.

Candace Murdoch, wife: Michael Murdoch, son; Jennifer Murdoch, daughter. Candace claimed to
have been in the study talking on the telephone about a charity drive. Michael Murdoch was shooting pool by himself in the basement. Jennifer Murdoch was reading in bed.

I slid the fax sheets together, put them next to the folders. But I didn't pick up a folder. Not yet. First things first.

 

I stood on the front steps of the Commons Building. At mid-morning on a lovely autumn Saturday, the campus was fairly quiet. Activity would pick up around noon as students and alumni began streaming toward the football stadium. But for now, there was only an occasional late breakfast seeker.

On Wednesday evening, the night Maggie met her death, it would have been quite dark. Of course, there were lamplights along the sidewalks. Nonetheless, it wasn't too surprising that no one had reported seeing Maggie after her early dinner in the cafeteria. She had walked out of the Commons and gone where?

She was on campus. She had a gap in time before her evening class with Stuart Singletary. She was working on the series assignment.

There were three obvious possibilities.

If she was concentrating on the Rosen-Voss homicides, she could have gone to see Singletary in his office in Evans Hall. Or—I recalled the last name listed on her calendar—Dr. Abbott. He, too, would have an office in Evans Hall.

If she was working on the Murdoch murder, she could have set up an appointment with Angela
Chavez, meeting her in the J-School office, which would have been virtually deserted at that hour.

Or had she gone to see President Tucker? I turned and looked across the gently rolling campus at Old Central, the building where President Tucker officed, the building where Dean Nugent was last seen, the building where young Leonard Cartwright fell to his death.

Each destination was only a few minutes from the Commons.

 

Stuart Singletary leaned on his rake. The breeze ruffled his glossy chestnut hair and stirred the pile of bronze and gold leaves. His two-story brick home, in Derry Hills's lovely historic district, was surrounded by massive oaks. A child's playhouse in the backyard was a charming miniature replica of the Tudor home. A little girl industriously wielded her play rake, making little mounds of leaves. Her narrow face was bright and happy and she darted me a shy glance out of velvety-brown eyes.

“Wednesday night?” His hand tightened on the rake. He tried to keep his voice casual. “Oh, I got back to my office around six. I usually go back an hour before class.”

“Did you talk to anyone between six and seven?”

“No. I went straight to my office. I had some notes I wanted to review. Why?”

“I'm just sorting out where everyone was, Professor. Thanks.” I walked away. Leaves crackled noisily underfoot. When I reached my car, I looked back.

Singletary was watching me. Maybe it was a trick of the light filtering through the bare tree branches,
but his face looked like pieces of a jigsaw jumbled together. It wasn't an expression I could read.

Then I heard his little girl cry out, “Daddy, Daddy, what's wrong?”

Out of the mouths of little children…

 

President Tucker makes it a point to welcome well-heeled alums in town for football games. He headed the receiving line in the foyer of the Jackson Room at the Commons. The air was sweet with the brown-sugar smell of hickory sauce from the barbecue buffet.

The conversational level was exuberant, noisy.

When I reached Tucker, I leaned close and asked, “Where were you between five-thirty and six-thirty Wednesday night?”

For an instant, we stood in a tight pocket of silence, our faces inches apart. Little flecks of gold shimmered around the iris of his eyes, the fleshy folds beneath the sockets lapped down like lizard scales, his plump cheeks flamed with the red sheen of hypertension.

Then, his voice icy, he said, “That question is extraordinarily insulting, Mrs. Collins.”

“Do you decline to answer?”

His massive shoulders lifted, fell. “I walked home about five-fifteen. I was there alone until I reached the Commons a few minutes before seven. I was in full view of several hundred people from seven o'clock until ten, Mrs. Collins. I spoke at the annual Phi Beta Kappa banquet.”

 

Angel Chavez didn't invite me in. The J-School secretary stood squarely in the door of her apartment, arms folded across her chest.

“I was shopping at Wal-Mart.” She didn't smile. Her dark brown eyes watched me warily.

“Did you see anyone you know?”

“No. Why should I?” She was defiant.

“It's a small town,” I said pleasantly.

“I didn't.” Her voice was harsh. “Then I grabbed a Wendy's and went to the parish hall. At seven. To play bingo. Do you want the names of some of the players?” It was a challenge.

“How long did you play?”

“Until ten.” There were smudges of weariness under Angel's eyes. Not caused, I was willing to believe, by raucous evenings of bingo.

“No, thanks.”

 

I was back at my desk by one o'clock after a light lunch. My foray hadn't simplified my search. Indeed, it was clear that Stuart Singletary, President Tucker, and Angel Chavez each had good reason to leave Maggie's body in a hiding place, then take it late at night to Lovers' Lane. Singletary had a class to teach, President Tucker was speaking at a banquet, and Angel was playing bingo. Unfortunately, not a single one had a rock-solid alibi between 6 and 7
P.M.

And they were only the three obvious suspects. I might well find others when I began to poke and prod into the past.

But first I wanted to look again at Maggie's plan, the single sheet I'd printed out of her computer the previous day and tucked into my purse. Its fragmentary notations were a tantalizing hint to the direction Maggie intended to take in her research:

Rosen-Voss

 

Find “J Smith”

Talk to Gail V's mother & brother

Did HR and GV often go to Lovers' Lane?

Ask Prof. S

Talk to HR's brother

 

Curt Murdoch

 

Talk to Angel

Talk to Candace M

Talk to son & daughter

Could A. have been in Derry Hills that night?

 

Dean Nugent

 

Talk to wife

Talk to N's secretary

Who found student's body?

Campus files on dean's disappearance?

 

I put down the printout. It was quite a good plan of attack. I couldn't do better myself.

The important decision was where to start.

I knew only one certain fact: The murder of Maggie Winslow had drawn a tight, distinct circle around this town. That made my inquiries so much simpler than Maggie's had been. Maggie's murderer was in Derry Hills. So anyone involved in any of the three unsolved cases who was not in Derry Hills on Wednesday night was automatically cleared.

Rosen-Voss, Murdoch, or Nugent?

The murderer deliberately took Maggie's body to Lovers' Lane.

I pushed away the Rosen-Voss file.

Angel Chavez asked me to stop Maggie from writing about the old crimes, and Angel had been frantic to know if Maggie had started her articles.

I put my hand on the Murdoch file.

President Tucker used the power of his presidency to bring all the pressure possible to prevent my pursuing the series.

I pushed back the Murdoch file.

I picked up the Nugent file.

I wasn't sorry I'd insulted President Tucker.

I hoped I'd also worried him.

I opened the Nugent file. I jotted down several names. I wanted to know everything about the life and times of Dean Darryl Nugent, last seen late on a March afternoon in 1976.

 

The latest inside scoop was lifeblood to Helen Tracy, so she was quite willing to join me for coffee at the Commons.

“My dear, Dean Nugent's disappearance was a
sensation
!” Her voice quivered with delight. “Is
that
the case you're working on? I've been looking for you ever since I read yesterday morning's paper! You're harder to find than a Republican at a Labor Day rally.” Helen wriggled in eagerness, her shaggy salt-and-pepper hair jouncing.