Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (21 page)

“You really mean that?” It was a harsh, grating demand.

“Yes. I mean it.”

“And who're you?”

“Henrietta Collins. I teach at Thorndyke. It was a student of mine who was killed last week.”

“I see.” Although he clearly didn't. A pause, then, crisply, “All right, I'll do what I can. Although I don't see how I can help you. I hadn't seen Howard since he was home that December. And I hadn't talked to him in a couple of weeks before he died. That's what I told a reporter last week.”

“That reporter was my student. That reporter was strangled last Wednesday night.”

Static crackled in the silence. “I talked to her on Wednesday. All right.” Abruptly, the irritation was gone. “What do you want to know?”

“No one could know Howard as well as you. Why was Howard so loud? Why was he always joking?”

The silence was so long this time, I was almost
afraid I'd lost him. But, finally, I heard his sigh. “You don't know my father.”

“No.”

“Aaron Rosen is one of the most successful dealmakers in the history of Chicago. He's brilliant. Nobody can match him. More than that”—Benjamin's voice softened—“he's absolutely scrupulous. If Aaron says it's a certain way, that's the way it is. Dad's charming, intense, voluble, creative. He's a big, strapping, handsome man. He's a champion tennis player. You name it, Dad excels. So what do you think it's like to be his sons?”

“Difficult.”

“You got it. I worked my butt off. Howard clowned. That was his way of dealing with Dad. And Howard
was
funny. Everybody loved being around him. You know the only person who ever worried?”

“Your mother.”

“Yes. She was afraid that the clowning around was crippling Howard. Yet there was nothing you could point to, complain about. Howard made great grades. He was a good kid. But nobody knew him, least of all my dad. Howard was secretive. I think maybe I'm the only one, besides Mom, who sensed there was another Howard, a sensitive, retiring, quiet guy. Howard read everything he could lay his hands on. He worked on the school paper. He kept notebooks. He never showed any of us the stuff in his notebooks. You know”—the faraway voice was pensive—“I think someday Howard would have surprised everybody. He would have become one of those columnists everybody reads. The girl thought so, too, the one who called last week.”

Yes, I was sure Maggie felt a kinship with How
ard. Maggie, too, had notebooks and stories and dreams for her future. She'd found a link to the dead young man that must have made his callous death especially harrowing for her.

“You say you hadn't talked to Howard for a couple of weeks before he died, so I don't suppose you have any idea what he and Gail were celebrating the night they were shot?”

“No. But I heard they were happy. I'm glad.”

“Did Howard ever mention a Joe Smith?”

“No, the police asked us that. Maybe it was one of Howard's jokes.”

“Jokes?”

“Sometimes he'd pretend he was somebody else. I think it was another way of escaping the pressure of trying to live up to Dad. When we were in high school, Howard would convince girls his name was Sylvester Kaplan and he was captain of the football team. Or he'd say he had a twin brother, Harold, and he'd act like a completely different guy, really suave and cool and laid-back.” Benjamin Rosen laughed. “God, he was so much fun.”

I put the phone down with finality. I was ready to give up my search for the elusive Joe Smith. No one close to either Howard or Gail could identify him.

But I wondered if Lieutenant Urschel had pursued the question of Joe Smith with those less closely linked to the dead students.

In any event, I'd been wanting to talk to Tom Abbott about Howard. Actually, my intention was to pump him about his daughter and her husband. I decided Joe Smith would make a nice beginning.

I called Abbott's University number.

“English Department.”

“This is Henrietta Collins in the Journalism School. May I speak to Dr. Abbott, please?”

“Dr. Abbott isn't in his office during the day on Wednesdays. He holds office hours from seven to nine Wednesday evenings.”

“Thanks. I'll call back.”

I checked Abbott's home address.

Somehow it did not come as an overwhelming surprise to find that he lived next door to his daughter and son-in-law.

I knew the way from my visit on Saturday, when I'd found Stuart Singletary and his little daughter raking leaves. This morning no one stirred outside the Singletary home.

Abbott père's house was even more imposing than his son-in-law's, a three-story sandstone Greek Revival mansion with immense white columns.

The lion's-head brass knocker on the oversize front door glistened brightly.

A uniformed maid answered the door.

“I'm here to see Dr. Abbott.” I delivered this announcement with confidence and a cheerful smile. “Please give him my card.” I've always been partial to provocative statements. On my card, I'd written: “Do you know Joe Smith?”

The maid showed me into a living room that was both lovely and comfortable, filled with antiques and plenty of softly upholstered couches.

I remained standing. My eyes were drawn immediately to the lovely oil painting over the Adam fireplace. Homage to yet another daughter. Cheryl Abbott and Gail Voss had little in common. Where Gail had looked out so seriously from her portrait, Cheryl's freckled face, framed by luxuriant, vividly red curls, exuded a vibrant, pixieish, spirited charm.
This young lady obviously was quite willing to be the center of attention, indeed would always seek and expect that center.

“Gorgeous, isn't she?” Tom Abbott beamed at me from the doorway. He was, in a very masculine fashion, equally as attractive as his daughter: red curls tight to a leonine head, a broad, brash, freckled face.

I understood Helen's sexual interest. He was trim and fit and undeniably appealing in a fashionable cashmere sweater, pleated khakis and sockless loafers. He would have looked equally at home in the pages of
Architectural Digest
or the
Thorndyke Alumni
magazine. He was pleased with himself, his world, the day, and, apparently, his unexpected guest. He strode forward, smiling warmly, hand outstretched. “Helen Tracy tells me you're a wonder. I'm delighted you've come by.”

He held up his left hand, my card in his palm. “But what's this all about?” He had an actor's voice, as do many excellent professors. It was deep and full and would carry to the highest row, the farthest seat.

“The name Joe Smith doesn't mean anything to you?”

His face crinkled in dismay. “Should it?” He swiped a hand against his temple. “Damn, I remember less every year. A former student? Someone we've both known in the past?” He gave me a charming, faintly embarrassed smile. “You'll have to give me some help here.”

“The Rosen-Voss murders, Dr. Abbott.”

“Tom,” he said briskly. “I feel I know you very well, Henrie O. And Helen told me you were trying to find out more about that terrible crime.” His mo
bile face shifted from remembered sadness to sudden bewilderment. “Though I'm confused about what it could have to do with the young lady's murder. That seems to be pretty clear-cut. Poor Rita. Such a temper. But I'll be glad to help you if I can. Let's sit down.” He waited until I sank into an overstuffed chair, then settled opposite me, his tasseled loafers crossed. “But who's Joe Smith? I don't recall that name.”

Perhaps that wasn't surprising. There had not been extensive mention of Joe Smith in
The Clarion
coverage. “The mystery man of that evening, Dr. Abbott.”

He flashed a friendly smile. “Tom, please.”

“Howard and Gail talked about Joe Smith at the Green Owl. Actually, the waitress said they toasted him.”

Abbott's face reflected sudden comprehension. “Oh, yes, of course. I'd forgotten all about that. But do you know, Henrie O, I've always thought the waitress must have misheard, misunderstood. Stuart and I talked about it at the time. He didn't know anybody named Joe Smith—and he was living with Howard. No, I don't know why you're looking at that, but I don't think it's relevant.”

“What do you think is relevant?”

A Persian cat with thick fur the shade of sea mist wandered into the room, his claws clicking against the highly polished oak floor.

“Here, Rudyard, kitty, kitty.”

The cat turned his magnificent head, coolly observed Abbott, then daintily walked past him and jumped up on a rosewood table next to his owner. The cat stared at me with piercing blue eyes. Balefully.

“Relevant,” Abbott mused as he stroked Rudyard's glistening fur. “Relevancy implies order and reason. I think that's impossible in the circumstances. Howard and Gail were in the wrong place at the wrong time. A drifter came upon them. Killed them. There was no rhyme or reason involved.”

I'd heard this theory before.

From his son-in-law.

Such a convenient theory. It excluded the possibility of motive.

Rudyard's throaty rumble of a purr sounded oddly cheerful.

Despite the somber subject of our conversation, there was a general sense of relaxation and mutual accord. Pale November sunshine flowed through the French windows, turned the oak flooring the shiny color of butter. Cut roses in a tall Dresden pitcher scented the air.

I decided it was time to roil the water. “What had Stuart and Howard quarreled about?”

The rhythmic petting of the cat stopped. Abbott's pleasant, freckled face was abruptly blank. “Quarrel? There was no quarrel between them. Where did you hear that?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.” A nice cover for invention. “Was it over Cheryl?”

“Absolutely not. Mrs. Collins”—ah, so much for our bonhomie—“my daughter was simply friends with Howard Rosen. She knew him solely because he was a graduate student and she served as my hostess when I entertained for the department.”

“Was Howard in your home often?”

“Once or twice.” Abbott's fair skin handled anger poorly. His cheeks flamed.

“But Howard met Stuart here?” I tried to watch
his whole demeanor, his eyes, his mouth, his hands. But if there was a subtle response, I missed it.

“Not here.” It was clipped. “At our old house.”

“Do you remember the occasion?” Why did mention of that introduction make Stuart Singletary nervous? If I knew the answer…

“Of course not.” Abbott's deep voice was majestic in its disdain. “I am supportive of all the graduate students, but I certainly don't focus on their social lives. I did know Howard and Stuart quite well because I chaired their thesis committees. But I certainly didn't see a great deal of either of them. Of course, when Stuart and Cheryl began dating, that was a different matter. And let me tell you, Mrs. Collins, my son-in-law is a fine young man. A fine young man. And your harassment of him is not only absurd, it is beyond the bounds of civilized conduct.” Abbott stood so abruptly, the cat hissed and jumped from the table, skidding on the wood floor as he landed.

I stood, too, of course. A sudden thought occurred to me. “You chaired both Howard and Stuart's thesis committees?”

“Yes. But what possible relevance does that have, Mrs. Collins?” Abbott's voice bristled with anger.

“What were their subjects?” Was it possible I was close to the truth? Could Stuart have stolen from Howard—an idea, part of his thesis? All of it?

Abbott glared at me, his voice rich with disgust. “Stuart wrote about a minor American poet. Howard was in the creative-writing curriculum and his topic was student unrest here at Thorndyke during the early seventies, a nonfiction work. Now, I hope you find that information quite fascinating. But I
want to be clear, Mrs. Collins. You must stop this attack on my son-in-law. It is unconscionable.”

So much for brilliant flashes of insight. Just to be sure, I'd check the library for a copy of Singletary's thesis. If it turned out to be the life and work of a minor American poet, I didn't have to check further. That wouldn't be Howard Rosen's choice of research. I knew him well enough now to be certain of that.

I was beginning to feel I knew Howard Rosen and Gail Voss very well indeed.

Howard, loud, sensitive, brilliant, abrasive, playful.

Gail, serious, intense, sweet, loving.

Abbott's eyes glittered with cold, implacable hostility. Nice man—unless his precious daughter was threatened. Even indirectly.

But I felt I had the last word as I walked toward the door.

“I don't know all the strictures of civilized conduct, Dr. Abbott. But murder isn't genteel.”

 

I had lunch in the Commons, a more healthy choice today, vegetable soup and corn bread.

I'd scratched over the ground that Lieutenant Urschel had covered so thoroughly over the years, and I was quick to realize I hadn't come up with anything. Even Joe Smith no longer seemed an important focus. Was it just a way for Howard to kid, a special joke he and Gail shared? If so, that couldn't have anything to do with their deaths. I was stymied.

I was taking a last bite of corn bread when Helen Tracy appeared at my table. “Join you?”

“Of course.”

Helen plopped down her tray, removing the heaping plate of macaroni and cheese, with a side dish of brussels sprouts. She was talking a mile a minute. “…left you a message on your desk, but I'm glad I found you. Cissy Randolph came by your nine-o'clock. She'd heard you were interested in stuff about Maggie. She wants to see you as soon as possible.”

 

I went directly to the J-School library. The library is not synonymous with
The Clarion
morgue, but is truly the library, containing books, reference materials, CD-ROMs, and, of course, computer stations. It has the hushed atmosphere typical of all libraries. The marvelous smell of books, old and new, mingled with the faint acrid scent of electronics.