Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (2 page)

Yesterday never ends.

No one with friends will ever be poor.

I'd bet my stake on any of these any day. But not on much else.

And now, was a clever, bright, hard youngster playing me like a drum?

In part, Maggie Winslow's instincts were right on. Everybody loves an unsolved mystery. Think Judge Crater. Think D.B. Cooper. Think Jimmy Hoffa.

Maggie surged to her feet, her cat-bright eyes alive. “I can do it.” Her tone was exultant.

“Be sure that you do, Maggie. I won't accept anything less than careful, thorough, meaningful discoveries. Do you understand me?”
In other words, young lady, I'll flunk your beautiful ass if these articles are long on stale news and short on investigation
.

“Oh, yes.” Maggie's metallic gaze was just this side of insolent. “I've already got some ideas. The thing is, Mrs. Collins, somebody always knows something. All you have to do is shake them up a little.”

O
NE theory holds that right-brained creative people are very much attuned to physical delights. I firmly believe that. Excellent morning coffee is definitely a major physical delight, I thought as I poured my first cup of the day. But there are others.

It was 4
A.M.
in Los Angeles. Jimmy sleeps in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He flings his arms and legs wide. He would be sprawled across the hotel bed, face nudged against a crumpled pillow.

I wished him, across the miles, a good day, a happy day, then briskly shook open the Wednesday morning
Clarion
. Images jostled just below my conscious focus on the headlines.

BOMBS EXPLODE NEAR SPHINX

Bougainvillea cascading in splashes of crimson over golden hacienda walls in Cuernavaca.

VOLUNTEERS AID LOST WHALE

Richard and Emily and I decorating Bobby's grave on the Day of the Dead.

REPUBLICANS, DEMOCRATS WRANGLE

Richard hunching over his Olivetti, typing so furiously the undercarriage rattles against the desk.

And then I reached page 4 and the boxed quarter-page ad.

I reached for my cordless phone, punched the numbers, listened to the recorded message:

“
Hello, I'm Maggie Winslow, a student at the University. I'm writing an article about three famous unsolved crimes in Derry Hills. If you know anything about those who were involved, please leave a message after the tone. I will return your call promptly. Thank you
.”

I hung up.

By God, what a clever, intriguing,
effective
ploy!

And further proof, if I needed it, of Maggie's flamboyant forcefulness. She definitely had the chutzpah and inventiveness of an investigative reporter.

Maggie might have the last laugh, after all.

 

I often jog during my lunch hour. And yes, at my age, it more resembles a summer stroll by an ar
madillo, but I cover the ground, and
Runner's World
promises it is distance, not time, that matters. I end by walking a mile. I was in the second cooldown lap when Angela Chavez joined me. Everybody relies on Angel to keep the Journalism School humming. Her official title is chief office administrator. Unofficially, because of her good humor and her willingness to go the extra mile to help both faculty and students, she's the J-School Angel, reliable, pleasant, unfailingly good-humored.

Yes, that was Angel. But the news business had taught me early on that every living creature experiences passion and fear, love and hatred, that there is a story, often dark, always compelling, in every human heart. With Angel, I suddenly realized I'd succumbed to surface appearances.

Bleak lines webbed her Raggedy Ann face. There was no trace of her usual placidity. She didn't even say hello. The words burst from her. “You have Maggie Winslow in independent study.” It was a statement, not a question.

I looked at her in surprise. “Yes.” I tugged at the sleeves of my sweatshirt. The wind had veered to the north and there was a winter feel to the gusts. Dust devils swirled from the track's reddish clay gravel.

Angel's sandy hair streamed in the wind. “Did you see that ad?” It was hard to define the tone in her voice. Anxious? Disgusted? Angry?

I stopped and faced her. “You called the number?”

“No.” Her reply was clipped. She pressed her lips tightly together, then added jerkily, “No. But people will. I know they will.” She glared at me, anger breaking through the thin veneer of control.

“Why shouldn't they, Angel?”

“It's awful, to bring things up when they're over with and people have forgotten.” She wrapped her arms tight around her torso.

“Those involved won't have forgotten, Angel. And if any answers can be found, they should be found.” Windblown specks of gravel stung my face.

“But it's all over with. Finished.” Her voice was shrill.

I looked at her curiously. Angel wanted to believe the unsolved crimes were over with. Why should Angel care?

“Which crime do you know about, Angel?”

“I don't know anything about any crime.” She stared at me defiantly. “Everyone's so obsessed with crime. It's so
sick
.”

“So you think Maggie will receive a lot of calls?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. People are pigs.” Her tone was contemptuous. “They listen to those radio shows, they watch those dreadful TV programs. Anything goes, the nastier the better. And this is a small town. Everybody knows everybody.”

Like all exaggerations, this one had a kernel of truth.

Communities have circles of acquaintanceship. Sometimes circles intersect or overlap. Definitely the University was a circle with its own internal groups.

I came back to the central point. “Which crime do you know about?” I moved back and forth on my feet, trying to keep loose.

The wind tugged at Angel's thick blond curls. Her pleasant face was drawn and unhappy. She
shook her head stubbornly. “Henrie O—” She paused, then asked sharply, “Can you stop Maggie?”

I suppose my surprise was clear in my face. My surprise—and my immediate displeasure.

A dull flush crept into Angel's cheeks. “I know that sounds odd. But this is going to cause trouble, Henrie O. I know it is. And for no good reason, no good reason at all.” She ducked her head and plunged away from me.

 

A smooth-weave navy sports coat. Khakis with a crease sharp enough to slice cheese. A rep tie.

The sartorially splendid young man beamed at me as I walked up to my office door, key in hand. I'm sure his mother would consider it a lovely smile.

“Mrs. Collins?” His pleasant tenor voice was just a shade pleased with itself.

“Yes.” I unlocked my door.

“I'm Jeff Berry. From the president's office.” Another engaging smile. “President Tucker would like to see you this afternoon. At two o'clock.” A considered pause. “If that would be convenient.”

I smiled in return. “And if it isn't?” So I have a rebellious nature.

It didn't faze him. “Is there another time that would be better for you? Today.”

My, my. I'd met David Tucker only once—at a reception for new faculty several years ago. He'd greeted each newcomer with a graceful comment that indicated he'd prepped for the occasion. He'd asked about my series that had traced the connections between pharmaceutical companies and doctors in a small Texas town. The series made the Pulitzer short list. And earned me the undying en
mity of both the industry and the doctors.

I'd taken away from that faculty reception a memory of a big man with a booming laugh, a hearty handshake, and ice-blue eyes that glittered with keen intelligence.

“Actually, two will be fine,” I told Jeff Berry. “And,” I added, smiling, “please tell President Tucker I'm looking forward to visiting with him.”

 

I had only forty minutes before my appointment with President Tucker. I went straight to
The Clarion
morgue. It didn't take long to find what I wanted: three extensive files that would take a great deal of effort to explore thoroughly. I didn't have time to read all of the materials, of course, but even in a brief overview, names began to take on a reality and pathos that Maggie's ad had not conveyed.

I began with the most recent crime, the 1988 murders of Thorndyke students Howard Rosen and Gail Voss in Lovers' Lane, a secluded road in a wooded area of the campus. They were found shot to death in Rosen's car. Rosen was twenty-two. Voss was three months shy of twenty-one. Their yearbook pictures were inset in a three-column photograph of the car, doors open, the front end nosed against a flowering dogwood. They both had smiled for the class pictures.

The second crime had no apparent campus connection. Candace Murdoch was charged with the fatal shooting of her wealthy businessman husband, Curt, on July 23, 1982. Her 1983 trial ended with a directed verdict of acquittal.

But the third crime—if crime it was—occurred in the heart of the campus. One early evening in 1976, Dean of Students Darryl Nugent disappeared
from his office in Old Central. A photograph taken the previous fall at a faculty softball game showed a handsome, smiling man in his mid-thirties. A big blond with a broad grin, Nugent was rounding the bases in a victory jog, vital, vigorous, virile.

I jotted down some facts on my legal pad. As a young reporter, I'd started off with small steno notebooks, but in later years I switched to the short-size legal pads, lots of paper and a firm back.

Three cases, three sheets.

I made swift, neat notes.

Then I set out to respond to the imperial summons.

 

Caleb Thorndyke, a Methodist minister, founded Thorndyke University twenty years before the Civil War. For many years, the school was housed in one small Tudor-style redbrick building. That building was twice destroyed by fire, but the 1870 building, Old Central, still stands. It has three Gothic stories crowned by a square bell tower. The campus grew in spurts, sprouting two-to-three-story limestone buildings. More redbrick structures blossomed in the fifties and sixties. The President's Office is in Old Central in the middle of the original campus.

Broad, shallow stone stairs, marked by a century of eager footsteps, lead to enormous double wooden doors. Inside, there is a hushed air, the mixture of dignity and reverence you find in capitols and cathedrals.

It's interesting to speculate how architecture affects lives. The grandeur of this building, with its marbled floors and magnificent paneling, is in unmistakable contrast to today's glass-sheathed towers
with their low ceilings and flammable polyurethane moldings.

The anteroom to the president's office is at the end of the west corridor. The brass doorknob felt like iced silk, it was worn so smooth by generations of hands.

I stepped inside a narrow room. Tucker's secretary looked up in polite inquiry. She was an indeterminate age, somewhere between thirty and fifty, a slender, graying woman with precise features and huge gold-rimmed glasses. “May I help you?” Her voice was as muted as her beige sweater and high-necked white cotton blouse.

“Yes. I'm Henrietta Collins. President Tucker is expecting me.” I glanced at the nameplate on her desk: Bernice Baker.

“If you'll take a seat, please.” She offered a brief smile and pushed back her chair.

I sat in one of a line of curved-back, black wooden chairs embossed with the University seal as the secretary walked the length of the narrow anteroom to a golden oak door, knocked once, then entered.

Above the chair rail, running the length of the room, hung portraits of all eleven Thorndyke presidents, beginning with the bearded Reverend Caleb Thorndyke and ending with round-cheeked David Tucker.

The portrait was of Tucker as a much younger man.

I rose and walked closer to the painting. Hair as pale and fine as corn silk fringed a domed forehead. The pale blue eyes glittered with vigor, intelligence, acuity, their bold stare as sharp-edged and dangerous as a Prussian saber. The thin lips were slightly
curved, an iceman's version of a smile.

The shiny metal plaque at the bottom of the ornate frame read:

D
AVID
L
OOMIS
T
UCKER
P
RESIDENT FROM
1974—

The door clicked open.

I turned.

“President Tucker will see you now.” Bernice's voice was as tepid and colorless as aquarium water.

I stepped into his office. The door clicked shut behind me.

Soft-hued Oriental rugs were islands of delicate color against the glossy parquet floor. The walls were paneled in walnut, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two sides. Deep rose damask hangings framed the enormous windows behind David Tucker. Sun blazed through the southern exposure.

He stood to greet me. Instead of a desk, Thorndyke's president worked at a massive Georgian marble-topped table. The marble sparkled in the sun. An issue of
The Clarion
lay next to an antique silver pen set. It was the only material on the table.

I glanced at the newspaper. As can all newshounds from the hot type days, I easily read upside down and backward. I saw the lead headline. It was today's issue.

My steps made no sound upon the antique rug.

“Mrs. Collins.” Tucker's mouth formed a smile. I've seen mortuary slabs with more charm. “I appreciate your willingness to come on such short notice.”

“I'm glad I was able to do so.” I met his challenging gaze and held it. He was as accustomed to
deference as any general or titan of industry, but I'm too old to let my glance slip away subserviently.

A huge hand reached over the marble expanse to enfold mine. His grip was firm and unpleasantly warm.

“Please be seated.” Tucker nodded courteously, so it was his glance which fell first.

I settled in yet another crest-emblazoned, curved and decidedly hard armchair. Folding my hands in my lap, I looked at him pleasantly.

David Tucker filled his oversized maroon leather chair. He was balding now, with only a few tufts of graying hair. His eyes were deep-set in fleshy folds above plump, smooth, rosy cheeks. But there was nothing avuncular about David Tucker. He had the aura of an old lion, king of his domain, quiescent until challenged, still capable of ferocious attack.

One massive hand picked up a cherrywood pipe. He held it in his palm, his thumb caressing the stem. The pipe was empty of tobacco.

“Mrs. Collins, as Thorndyke University's leader, I believe it is vital for me to know my faculty members. I like to explore their sense of the University's mission.”