Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (16 page)

Yes, a car had been essential.

But what then?

I stood on the lawn that sloped from Old Central to the street. The J-School was directly across from
me. The street then curved to the right to pass Frost Library.

Beyond the library, Frost Lane plunged into the wooded preserve, becoming, in popular idiom, Lovers' Lane, and leading to the amphitheater and the lake.

The lake. Oh God, of
course
.

Suddenly I understood why the gargoyle was taken, the absolute necessity of the gargoyle.

I crossed the street, hurried up to my office and picked up my tape recorder. It is an excellent little machine. I tucked it in my purse. If I put my purse down and opened the flap, I'd get a good recording.

I definitely wanted a record of what Tucker said.

I reached for the telephone.

Bernice Baker was, as always, polite. “Just a moment, Mrs. Collins. I'll see if the president is free.” I would have loved to see her expression if she listened when I spoke to her boss. Even the perfect secretary might be startled.

While I waited on the line, I got up and retrieved my water pitcher. I poured water into my flower arrangement. Some of the carnations on the top were browning. I needed to call Jimmy. He would be leaving for Mexico on Friday. The fact that I was teaching this semester hadn't stopped him from asking me to come, and come now.

Yes, someone else could take my classes. Obviously, next fall someone else would be teaching in my place. I didn't doubt that. But I'd committed for this academic year.

Yet, there was something incredibly appealing at the prospect of doing what one wanted to do without regard for consequences. I put down the pitcher, touched a blue propeller.

A click. Tucker's voice was brusque. “Yes?”

I wasn't surprised he'd taken my call. I supposed he'd half expected it to come.

“Dr. Tucker, please meet me in half an hour at the end of the pier on Boone Lake. It is, as you are well aware, an exceedingly private place. We can talk freely. We have a great deal to discuss, including the rug that was missing from Dean Nugent's office the day after he disappeared, what use was made of two drapery ties, and what happened to the gargoyle that was stolen from the basement of Old Central. I think you'll agree that I'm making progress on a definitive story about Dean Nugent and Leonard Cartwright. Whether I write that story will depend upon your response.”

I hung up without waiting for a reply.

I had the same feeling you get the last instant before you plunge off the high dive. Only worse, because pools don't have uncharted, potentially deadly currents.

But I damn sure wasn't going to jump without a life preserver.

I looked through my window into the newsroom. My choices for backup were slim to none. Only one person owed me big time.

Dennis Duffy sagged in his chair, looking as lumpy as a potato sack. Even across the room, I could see the greenish tinge of his once-handsome face. Nursing a hangover, I was willing to bet. I was also willing to bet that Dennis was soon—in the next few seconds, in fact—going to feel a lot lousier.

I opened my door and started toward the city desk.

I might have laughed—if I hadn't been quite so tense.

 

I turned up the collar of my coat. The wind off the lake came from the north, carrying the bite of winter as well as the bone-chilling damp of the water. Moisture beaded the wooden pilings, making the planks underfoot slick and treacherous. The water and sky flowed together, the color of dull pewter. Whitecaps bristled as harsh and glittery as chunks of broken pop bottles.

My yellow MG had the graveled lot to itself. I'd dropped Dennis short of the lot while we were still in the protective cover of the firs. Sullen, swearing, shivering, he'd hefted my mobile phone and a pair of binoculars from the sports editor's desk and skulked into the woods.

No, it wasn't on a par with having a SWAT team at the ready. But even a hung-over Dennis should be able to punch 911 if the need arose. And Dennis should by now be crouching in the pine grove that grew almost to the tip of the point.

I leaned against a piling, wrapped my arms tightly together, and tried not to shiver. I watched the parking lot.

My first warning was a bump against the pier. The wooden ladder creaked.

I jerked around to face the choppy water.

Tucker's massive head rose above the edge of the pier. Gloved hands reached for the stanchion, looped the rope around it. Thorndyke's president heaved himself over the side with surprising agility for a man of his bulk. He wore a dark stocking cap, dark turtleneck sweater, and wool trousers tucked into gum boots.

I suppose my surprise was evident.

“I often row, Mrs. Collins. I keep a boat in the University boathouse.” He nodded toward the east shore.

“So you've always been familiar with Lake Boone. Even in the early days of your presidency.”

There was grudging admiration in his eyes. “Oh, yes.” A bleak smile. “I'd enjoy giving you a closer look at the lake. If you'll come this way—”

“Thanks so much, but I'd rather stay here.”

He glanced around at the end of the pier. “Quite an interesting spot you've chosen for our meeting, Mrs. Collins. And I suspect it may have all the electronic capabilities of a well-equipped office. But if you wish to talk with me at any length about the subject you mentioned in your call, I would much prefer a sojourn on the water. There we can indeed speak freely. As you promised.”

I was dealing with a highly intelligent man who was quite well aware that any rendezvous, no matter how apparently remote or rustic, can be wired for recording.

First score to David Tucker.

But the game wasn't over.

“I see. I understand your concern. I'd be delighted to take a row with you, Dr. Tucker.”

“Good. I'll go down first and hold the boat steady.”

The ladder was slick, too, but I took my time and stepped safely into the rowboat, with Tucker's hand firmly on my elbow.

He could have tossed me into the water.

He didn't.

I remained wary.

And I hoped to God Duffy was paying close attention.

When I was seated, Tucker stepped past me and took his place. He shifted the oars and we eased away from the pier. He was strong and a superior oarsman. We glided about twenty yards from the pier. He brought us around until my back was to the wind. Quite the gentleman.

The waves slapped against the stern. The little boat bobbed up and down.

Tucker's moon face was fairly pink with exertion. His cold eyes regarded me stonily. “You mentioned information you are gathering for a story, and whether you might or might not actually write that story.”

“That is up to you, Dr. Tucker.” My purse was in my lap. I opened it, fumbled for a moment to reach my notebook. I also turned on my tape recorder. I drew out my notebook, leaving the flap of my purse tucked back. I flipped several pages, then said, “I'd like to read from an interview—”

He was such a large man, it was an easy reach for him to grab my purse. He pulled it smoothly, swiftly away from me. In an instant, he held the recorder in his hand. His gloved thumb pushed the power off. He tucked the recorder back in my purse, closed the flap and handed the purse to me.

“If you wish to proceed—without electronic aids—please do so, Mrs. Collins.”

I didn't need the notebook, of course. I spoke crisply, my eyes never leaving him. “You found Leonard Cartwright's suicide note, you suppressed it, you made certain his death was attributed to a ‘prank.' I don't know exactly what happened next.
But I'm sure Darryl Nugent is dead, and his body is in this lake.”

Tucker sat very still, a huge, brooding presence. The boat bobbed up and down. He studied me, his eyes taking on the deathly gray hue of the water. “What do you want, Mrs. Collins?” He shifted on the seat, used one oar to steady the boat.

I watched that oar, watched it intently. If he lifted it, I could be out of the boat in an instant. I was a good swimmer. And Dennis would call for help. So it didn't take great courage to meet Tucker's cold, calculating gaze.

“I want the truth,” I told him bluntly. “What happened to Darryl Nugent? Either he committed suicide, or you killed him.”

Whitecaps slapped against the hull. Waves gurgled mournfully among the rocks along the shore.

Tucker's voice was quiet. It betrayed nothing. “I will tell you, Mrs. Collins, but only on one condition.”

“And that is?” I knew, of course, what was coming.

“You will not reveal—ever—what passes between us.”

“I make no promises, Dr. Tucker.”

We stared at each other with mutual animosity and determination.

The wind had risen and the little boat was running toward the rocks. He shifted the oars, began to row toward the pier. “Then we have met for no purpose.”

“But if you do not tell me what happened to Dean Nugent that night”—I lifted my voice above the creak of the oarlocks—“I will write a story laying out the possibilities I've described. I would
imagine this might pose some problems for you.”

He dipped one oar, swinging the little boat about.

I spoke rapidly. “Nugent's disappearance was big news. A suggestion that his remains are in Lake Boone would result in a thorough search. I doubt, Dr. Tucker, that the results would please you.”

Tucker stopped rowing. “If I tell you, what then? Will you simply have the information to provide an even more titillating story for the masses?” His voice was heavy with anger and disgust.

“If you convince me, Dr. Tucker, that the secret you've held for so many years did not lead to Maggie Winslow's death, then I will have no reason to write about Dean Nugent.”

There was an instant of naked surprise on his face. He leaned forward, his eyes searching mine. “I begin to understand, Mrs. Collins. At least, I think I do—if you are not lying to me.”

There was not a great deal of trust between the two of us.

“I assure you, Dr. Tucker, I have no interest at all in hurting either the Nugent or the Cartwright families unless those terribly sad events are connected with Maggie's murder. That's what I'm looking for—the truth about Maggie Winslow.”

The wet, cold air ruffled my hair, sent chills through my body.

“Mrs. Collins, I solemnly swear”—the cadence was measured, the words spoken with great dignity—“that I did not kill Maggie Winslow to prevent her from writing about Darryl Nugent.”

“Then you can tell me about the dean with no worry about my revealing what you say.” I met his gaze directly.

Tucker's face was bland, revealing nothing of his
thoughts. I wondered if he was a chess player. Only his eyes were alive, calculating, processing, judging.

Finally, he asked bluntly, “Are you an honorable woman, Mrs. Collins?”

“I try to be.” My tone was weary. “Often, Dr. Tucker, it is difficult to know where honor lies.”

His gloved hands closed on the oars. He once again jockeyed the boat until the stern faced north. He looked past me, out onto the choppy waters. “I found the envelope left by Leonard Cartwright.” His eyes were bleak. “It was addressed to Dean Nugent. Yes, I took it. But I didn't even look at it until late that afternoon. As you can well imagine, there was much to be attended to. I debated opening it, but I wanted to know the contents. I wanted to know what had caused this tragedy. I felt it was my duty to know.” His face was as somber as this gray November day. “Thank God”—his voice was suddenly harsh—“I opened it. Thank God.”

The boat rocked in the swells.

He swung his massive head toward me. “Do you have any idea, Mrs. Collins, how destructive it would have been for the University if it were publicly known that our dean of students was involved in an affair with a student who worked in his office, and that, moreover, the affair led that student to such despair that he committed suicide?”

Yes, I well knew what kind of havoc that story would have caused.

He twisted to look at the opposite shore. Through the trees, we could see the sprawling redbrick complex of the library.

“I have had one love in my life, Mrs. Collins, and that is Thorndyke University.” There were no defenses in his deep voice now. “I will admit that
my first thought that day was not for Leonard Cartwright, not for his family, not for Darryl Nugent. My first thought was how to protect the University.” His big head swiveled back toward me. “And what is the University? It is the students first, the faculty second. So beyond my desire to keep scandal from damaging the University, I had to think about my responsibility to those entrusted to my stewardship. One fact was unequivocally certain: Dean Nugent had to resign.”

I hadn't looked past Tucker's discovery of the note. I should have expected that raw emotion scalded everyone involved that day.

“I had a short, bitter talk with Darryl on the phone. At first, he resisted. Darryl claimed it was all a horrible mistake, that Leonard obviously had been unbalanced. But I made it clear that Leonard's letter was explicit, that I would, if need be, obtain the services of a private detective, that I had no doubt as to the truth of Leonard's assertions.”

Tucker bowed his head for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he lifted his head and met my waiting gaze, his eyes dark with anguish. “I told Darryl that I would come to his office about five-thirty. I promised to give him Leonard's letter in exchange for his letter of resignation.”

The oars squeaked in the oarlocks. Jerkily, Tucker pulled us away from shore. We had drifted into the shallows.

“I arrived at his office at twenty minutes past five. I knocked. There was no answer. I opened the door. Darryl was hanging from the balcony.” Tucker looked profoundly weary. “You said at the outset that either Darryl committed suicide or I killed him. I'm afraid, Mrs. Collins, that both are
correct. Darryl Nugent was an extremely proud man. His family was very important to him. His reputation was important to him. His position was important to him. I should have known he was distraught. I should not have attacked him so angrily. I'm an administrator. I know that every problem must be solved both in terms of facts and in terms of emotions. At a critical juncture, I failed to remember that I was dealing not only with the University—but with a man's life.” There was no apology in his tone. There was only grim acceptance.