Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (12 page)

“I've been round and about. Listen, Helen, I really need your help.” I cast my mind back to 1976. Watergate repercussions continued. John Erlichman went to jail. The Bicentennial. “That was the period just after Vietnam. Was there student unrest here? Could the dean have gotten into a problem there?”

The LifeStyle editor flapped her hands like a farm wife shooing hens. “Not
here
, sweetheart. Thorn
dyke came through those years pretty well. Tucker and Nugent stood between the kids and the Board of Governors. Oh, it got a little hairy a couple of times. The kids all started looking scruffy in the late sixties, you know, hair down their backs, couldn't tell the boys from the girls, and they looked dirty—old ragged jeans with holes, yes, and those
dreadfully
boring faded blue work shirts, everybody wore them—and the smell of marijuana absolutely
thick
in the library stacks; we had that kind of thing. But our kids were more worried about paying tuition than protesting corporate greed. We had a couple of marches, you know, in the early seventies, candles for the boys who died over there. And it was
dreadful
when Kent State happened.” Helen's mobile face drooped, forlorn as a Piaf lament. She picked up her cup of tea, noisily gulped it half down. Then her mood abruptly shifted, and she beamed at me. “Darryl was wonderful then. Some students barricaded the cafeteria and said they wouldn't come out unless the University hired a black dean. Darryl talked and talked and talked to them and he finally persuaded them to name some leaders to be on outreach committees to broaden the faculty base. The governors
really
wanted the kids kicked out, but Darryl and David kept the lid on.” She shook her wiry hair like a spaniel coming out of a pond. “But that was earlier. Nothing exciting was going on when Darryl disappeared. God, what a story! He was
so
good-looking. Have you ever seen his picture?”

She didn't wait for my answer.

“To
die
for, my dear. Golden hair and Cézanne-blue eyes, and one of those firm manly chins. He would have been a perfect veterinarian on a
Satur
day Evening Post
cover. And when you saw him in shorts at the gym, you longed to go directly home and invite some man over. Any man. Darryl was what a baseball hero
should
look like, and not dribbling tobacco juice or scratching. And he was not only gorgeous, his wife was, too. Kathryn was one of those elegant women who made gingham look like mink. It didn't matter what she wore, the first thing you knew,
all
the other faculty wives had the very same look.” Helen twisted the lid in her teapot; her voice dropped. “I see Kathryn every so often. She runs a nursery now. Plants, not kids. And she wears jeans and her hair is straight and
no
makeup. It's like she had a personality change. But I guess having your husband disappear and never resurface might be enough to change you. She dropped out of the social life like
this
.” Helen snapped her fingers. “Be interesting to do a story on her…” She looked wistful. “But I'll bet she won't talk.”

“What was Darryl Nugent like?” The coffee was strong and hot, a good antidote for the forlorn chill of disrupted lives.

Helen briefly pressed her fingers against her temples before replying. “Smart, nice, the kids liked him. I tell you, Henrie O, it was just the weirdest thing you've ever heard of. His secretary said good night to him, that was about five or so. And from that day to this, no one's ever seen him again!” She peered at me, her eyes wide. “Darryl always walked to and from his office, so he didn't have a car at school. I mean, that's the first thing you look for—where's the missing person's car? Well, his was right at home in his driveway. So, it was after five and usually he got home around five-thirty, maybe
sometimes six. Now that was a wild day. You know about the student who fell out of the bell tower—”

“Fell?”

Helen's mobile face scrunched in dismay. “They think they can do
anything
at that age. It just made us all sick. That silly gargoyle. It was such a stupid prank, just to foil the engineering students. What a waste…But back to Darryl, now this is really, really weird. Of course it was March and chilly. I think it was in the thirties the night before. So it figures people weren't lolling around on the campus. Another month and there would have been hardy sunbathers everywhere.
But
Old Central's right in the middle of the campus and people do walk around, on their way to the Commons or the library. Anyway,
nobody
ever saw Darryl come out of the building! The cops put out a call the next day. Maybe a dozen people surfaced who'd been in the area between five and seven, and there were maybe more than usual because some came by the bell tower to see where that student fell. But”—she gripped her teapot—“not a single person saw Darryl Nugent come out of that building.” She stared at me earnestly.

“So the last person to see Nugent was his secretary, shortly after five?”

“Yes. They asked her if he was different that day. Well, of course he was
different
! Everybody was terribly upset over the student who'd died, and he was a favorite in the dean's office, a really, really sweet boy. So of course she said Nugent was just
sick
about it, and he was the one who had to call the boy's parents to tell them about it, and that was dreadful. But who wasn't upset? They'd all liked
Leonard so much. But these kinds of things happen. The year before, three students were killed in a car crash. Alcohol, of course. And Darryl had to call their parents, too, so it's awful, but he'd dealt with that kind of thing before.” Helen took the lid off her teapot, peered inside, frowned. “I probably drink too much of this stuff. Anyway, how Darryl acted the last day can't matter. Of course he wasn't himself that last day. Who was?”

“When was the alarm raised? About his disappearance?”

“Fairly soon, I think. Kathryn started looking for him around dinnertime. She called his office. When there was no answer, she sent their son over there. He didn't find anybody. But it was weird. The lights were on and Darryl's suit jacket was hanging on the coat tree. The boy went home and told his mom and she started calling friends. No one had heard from Darryl. Kathryn called the campus police about eight. The chief came by and it was beginning to look like something was wrong. He called in the town cops. And do you know, from that day to this, nobody's ever seen Darryl Nugent again.”

Sometime after five o'clock on a bleak spring evening, the dean disappeared from his office.

Of course the weather was windy and cold, and no one was especially looking for Nugent. Obviously, if he disappeared on purpose, he'd managed to leave the building without being seen.

Did Darryl Nugent want to disappear?

“Good-looking guy,” I said quietly.

“To
die
for.” Helen was dreamily emphatic.

“Another woman?”

“Nobody else disappeared. I mean, if he ran away with a woman he didn't run away with any
body here in town. And don't think people didn't wonder. I mean, the
stories
that went around! Maybe he'd fallen for somebody he met at a conference. Actually”—she clapped her hands together—“this was the only tidbit they ever came up with. The weekend before, he'd told his wife he was going to a conference in St. Louis. Well-l-l, it turns out the conference he said he was going to wasn't scheduled until June! And they didn't find any registration for him at the hotel he'd said he was going to and they never found out where he was that weekend.” Helen stopped for breath. “Everybody really thought this had to mean something.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “But whatever it was, wherever
he
was, it never came out. They thought maybe he met somebody—kind of like
Bridges of Madison County
but with a twist—and just slipped away the next week, leaving everything behind, giving his
all
for love and maybe he started a new life working in a gas station in some tiny Montana town and living in a cabin with some unknown woman. But his picture was all over the national tube and nobody called a hotline and said, ‘Hey, I just saw this guy shopping for groceries in Butte.' So, I don't think so. Then, you had to wonder, did he lose his memory? You know, the old classic explanation. Well, if so, nobody spotted this good-looking, dazed guy anywhere. Oh, there were calls, from Seattle to Miami, but nothing ever checked out. And why would he leave? As far as everybody knew, he and Kathryn were happy. He didn't have any family problems, no kids with cancer or drug problems, just really nice, ordinary, everyday kids. He was a softball coach for his daughter's team, worked with his son's Scout troop. I mean, Henrie O, nothing
figured for this guy to just disappear. No gambling debts. No drug or alcohol problem, and believe me, the word gets around about those.
Everybody
would have known. Sweetheart, if there's a reason, it's hidden so deep, nobody ever found it and they sniffed around his life like the Brit press after Prince Charles. Nada, nada, nada.”

“What do you think happened?”

The animation drained from her face. Her shrewd eyes became thoughtful. “You want my take? I think he's dead. But I don't see how it happened. And more than that, why? They always say check out the family first. Well, Kathryn was at home with both her kids from five to six. Beyond that? Nobody was after Darryl's job. He wasn't crossways with anybody to amount to anything. No, nothing ever led anywhere, Henrie O. So why the hell? So maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he walked out of Old Central and started home and everybody was looking the other way. But if that happened, where did he go? And why?”

D
ARRYL Nugent was last seen two decades ago. People change jobs, leave town, die. It took most of the afternoon to trace some of those who had known either Dean Nugent or Leonard Cartwright, and that was simply finding them. Talking to them was going to take more time.

I worked in my office at the J-School. My files were in my study at home. At this point, I didn't need them. I'd pretty well memorized the general outline of each of the three cases, and I'd scribbled the important points and names in the notebook I carry in my purse. Nobody interrupted me. My phone rang once about four, but the line went dead when I answered.

The Clarion
staff puts together most of the Sunday paper throughout the week. A skeleton crew handles late-breaking stories on Saturday, so the newsroom was even more hushed than usual.

About six, I studied my list of names:

Maude Galloway, Nugent's secretary, was now living in a retirement home in Saint Louis.

Buck McKay, chief of campus security when Nugent disappeared, died in 1985.

Emmett Wolf, then a campus patrolman, now owned a garage in Derry Hills.

Kathryn Nugent, the dean's wife, managed the Kensington Nursery. She lived not too far from me.

Cameron Rodgers, a member of Leonard's fraternity and also a senior in 1976, owned a photography studio in Derry Hills.

That last name required dogged effort, starting with the present fraternity president, leading to the alumni board, resulting in a half-dozen names from the class of '76, winnowing down to Rodgers, who'd at one time roomed with Leonard.

Darryl Nugent and Leonard Cartwright.

Was I making a mistake to link the two?

At the time, apparently no one had done so.

Cartwright falls to his death. Nugent disappears.

Okay, nobody connected the two events. But maybe nobody had tried.

Except Maggie. Why else would she have Emmett Wolf's name on her calendar?

Maggie had told Eric March that “it made all the difference when you put everything in context.”

Was this the context she meant?

 

It was dark by the time I pulled into my driveway. I always leave on the light in the front hall. My house was built in the thirties, a one-story brick bungalow on the edge of Derry Hills's historic district. My neighborhood isn't historic. It is plain, well-built, and has sidewalks, that reminder of another age. The houses have porches, another lovely relic. I like my neighborhood very much. A retired teacher lives on one side of me, a supermarket manager on the other. Actually, it isn't “my” house. I rent it. Considering my suddenly
bleak prospects of continued employment at Thorndyke, that was fortunate. My furniture's been moved so often, I can decorate a living room in an hour—my favorite sofa where it will catch the winter sun, an easy chair by the fire, bookcases and more bookcases, a secretary, and an upright piano.

I'd canceled plans to go out to dinner with a friend from the history department, so I would have to microwave a frozen dinner or order pizza. I considered calling and reinstating dinner. I'd done as much as I could do this night, and it made no sense to brood. I'd debated whom to interview first. I chose the dean's secretary. Tomorrow I'd drive to Saint Louis and talk to Maude Galloway. She had agreed to see me and her voice, though frail, was quite bright and alert. But tonight—I unlocked the front door—I'd done enough. I hung up my coat and started for the kitchen.

Something moved in the dark living room to my left. There was a flash of gray and Malachai, my neighbor's Persian cat, streaked toward the kitchen.

I whirled and was out the front door and across the porch and down the steps and in my car, heart thudding, in only seconds. I locked the doors, turned on the engine, and punched the power on my mobile phone.

 

The young patrol officer and I stood in my kitchen, looking at the shards of glass sprinkled in the sink from the smashed window.

I waited while the officer searched the house. Malachai, meanwhile, had apparently exited as he'd entered, through the shattered window.

This intruder seemed partial to kitchen windows.

I turned down the patrolman's offer to call the
robbery detail. No valuables had been taken.

When the officer left, I walked soberly into my study and looked at the folders on my desk.

I couldn't prove it, but I was sure they'd been moved.

I wondered who had thumbed through the notes I'd made about the unsolved cases.

It was unsettling to know that the hands which pulled the scarf tight around Maggie's neck had touched my desk, my chair, my work. I could pinpoint the time: four o'clock. That was when I answered my office phone and nobody was on the line. The searcher was making sure I was in my office and not at home.

It was easy for my unwelcome guest. This neighborhood is old enough that an alley runs behind the back fences. It would be simple to slip unnoticed up the alley to my gate.

I straightened the folders, checked the desk drawers. Nothing was missing.

But that wasn't the point. Somebody wanted to know what I was doing, what I had learned.

I taped stiff cardboard over the broken pane, then settled for a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich in the kitchen. I didn't have much of an appetite.

 

It was a bleak drive on Sunday to the outskirts of Saint Louis. An icy north wind buffeted winter-bare trees. Scudding clouds moved like ghostly pirate ships across the sullen pewter sky. I like my jaunty MG, but it is far from airtight and the heater is erratic. Even with gloves, my hands on the steering wheel were almost numb with cold.

Nothing lifted my spirits when I reached my destination. Oh, the retirement home was attractive
enough, a low stucco structure with four wings radiating from a central entrance. But the cream walls and red-tiled roof damn sure didn't look indigenous, and I doubted if the fake-southwest aura thrilled anybody but visitors who would see what they wanted to see before driving home and leaving whatever resident they knew waiting to die there in a boxlike room.

That's the problem, of course, with any facility defined solely by age.

Welcome to the end of the line.

How about a game of canasta?

Oh yes, there's beauty shop on the premises.

We have great Christmas parties, and the assistant director is the jolliest Santa Claus.

And it's better than living alone and everybody means well and I still don't want to end up in a dormitory for the ancient.

Call it a prejudice.

But Falcon's Retreat was a nice place. It smelled good, like wood fire and popcorn. Smells tell you all you need to know about retirement homes.

Maude Galloway was waiting for me in an alcove off the library. She sat in a wheelchair, a pink afghan over her knees. Her white cotton blouse was fresh and crisp. Heavily veined hands rested loosely in her lap.

“Miss Galloway?” I'd done my homework. She'd never married. She'd moved to Derry Hills in her mid-fifties to live with her widowed brother. The brother died nine years ago. He'd had no children. Maude Galloway had outlived everyone in her family. She was about ten years older than I. Her head turned toward me.

I looked into sightless blue eyes.

Her face might once have been plump. Her skin had the alabaster fairness of a strawberry blonde. Her hair now was a shining white. A pink sateen headband sat very precisely amid soft silvery curls. I had good thoughts about the staff at Falcon's Retreat.

“Yes. Mrs. Collins?” Her breathy voice had no resonance, no depth. It was as light and insubstantial as discarded paper rattled by the wind.

“Yes. I'm Henrietta Collins. From the University.” I could still say that. For now.

Maude Galloway's lips curved into a welcoming smile. Her face was lovely, radiating kindness and warmth and a gentle serenity. “Please, come sit down.”

I slipped out of my coat, settled in the uncomfortable brocaded chair close to her. “I appreciate your willingness to visit with me.”

Her chuckle was lively. “Oh, my dear, to be honest, most of us would welcome a visit from a tax collector. Or a taxidermist. Or a taxi driver. Anyone but a doctor, though it's a very nice young woman, who takes good care of me. To break the routine, you know.” She looked quite mischievous. “I do hope you won't think I'm impolite to say so.”

I laughed too, and felt suddenly relaxed and a little bit ashamed. Maude Galloway and I weren't so far apart in age. I'd been guilty of approaching her as if she might be dotty or incompetent simply because she was frail.

“No, Miss Galloway. I don't think it's the least bit impolite. I think it's very honest.”

“Now.” Her sightless eyes looked toward me with uncanny accuracy. “Why have you come, Mrs.
Collins? I've not been at Thorndyke for many years.”

“You were Dean Nugent's secretary, Miss Galloway.” I got out my notebook. She started to work at Thorndyke in November of 1975 and Nugent disappeared in March of 1976. She wouldn't have known the dean well. But she was the last person to admit seeing Darryl Nugent.

“Oh.” Her voice was soft and sad. “That was such a heartbreaking thing. And so strange. So very strange.”

“You remember the day he disappeared?”

“Of course, of course. It was such a difficult day. Do you know about Leonard?”

I nodded, then remembered she couldn't see me. “Yes, yes, I do.”

“Leonard was such a gentle boy. Very quiet, very soft-spoken. I remember he often studied in a little back office when he wasn't working. He did filing, took messages, that sort of thing. I had just started with the University that fall and Leonard knew where everything was. He was very helpful to me. And I liked him because he reminded me a little of my brother Nate when he was young. Very tall and slim and dark. Such a handsome boy.”

Maude Galloway's face was reflective, her sightless eyes half-closed in recollection. “It was such a dreadful shock to all of us, Leonard's fall. And you know, many people thought it must have been on purpose because he had to climb over those iron bars, and that wouldn't be easy to do. Now, I'm sure it's true that young people are very volatile, that their ups are so high and their downs so deep, but I
know
Leonard didn't jump.” She shook her head firmly, her silver curls quivering. “Because
the last time I saw Leonard was just before he left the office on Friday and he was so happy, so excited. And it was on Sunday night or early Monday morning that he died. So what could possibly have happened in such a short time? And he wasn't a moody boy. He was always pleasant and cheerful. But I'll never forget the last time I saw him. He showed me a paper he'd just gotten back—I think it was from an English course—and it was marked A-plus. I remember that the teacher had used red ink and made the A-plus so big, an inch big at least. Leonard was so proud and excited. He said he was going to call his folks and tell them. So it must have been an accident, that silly gargoyle.”

I was learning much here that I hadn't expected. I had come to find out about Darryl Nugent and I was discovering Leonard Cartwright. I had a sudden picture of the paper and the grade, the slim, darkly handsome boy, and the pleasure he'd shared and the poignancy of knowing, as young Leonard had not, that the sands were running so fast.

“I see.” And I was having to recast my thoughts. I'd been so certain there had to be a link between the death and the disappearance. But this woman had been there, she'd seen Leonard on Friday afternoon, a happy, excited Leonard. “Did the police talk to you about Leonard?”

“Oh, yes.” Her white head nodded. “I told them it
had
to be an accident! And, of course, as dreadful as it was about Leonard, everyone was simply distraught on Tuesday about Dean Nugent. There would have been a lot more talk about Leonard except for the dean being gone.”

“What do you think happened to Dean Nugent?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” Her voice rose in
bewilderment. “It still seems impossible! I said good night to him. He was sitting at his desk, slumped in his chair, staring across the room. But not as if he were really seeing. He looked dreadful. Of course, he was extremely upset about Leonard. Why, they'd been such good friends, always laughing and having such a good time together.”

“They were good friends?” I looked at her sharply.

But there was only kindness and gentleness in her face. “Oh, yes.”

I didn't ask the question I was thinking. I felt certain I knew her answer, and I didn't want to upset her.

An attendant in a blue jumper stepped into the alcove and looked at us inquiringly. “Do you need anything, Maude?”

“Oh, no, Sandy. We're just fine.” Maude Galloway's sweet smile was as cheering as a daffodil in early April.

When the attendant moved away, I tried a different tack. “Miss Galloway, what was Dean Nugent like?”

“Precise. Hardworking. And very charming. That's to be expected in the position he held. Of course, I didn't know him well, but I did enjoy working for him. It was such a good-humored office, everyone pleasant, and believe me, I've been in offices where that isn't the case.” She pressed her lips together. “The next dean, well, he was a
very
difficult man and no one had a good time in
his
office. I found another position as soon as I could.”

“Did Dean Nugent seem to be happily married?” I drew a series of question marks on my pad.

“I think so.”

Was there just a hint of uncertainty in her voice? I leaned forward.

“Had he and his wife quarreled?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that. And you see, I never married, so I can't be sure. But my brother, Nate and his wife, when they were together I had a sense of delight, almost like a nimbus around them.” A faint pink touched her cheeks. “But I know all marriages must be so different. The dean was very proud of his wife and his family and he had their pictures there on his desk, but when he talked to Mrs. Nugent on the phone, well, I never heard that sound—warm and eager and, oh, I don't know how to describe it, but his voice never sounded full of love, like Nate's used to when he talked to Sylvia.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Do you know what I mean?” she asked doubtfully.