Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (6 page)

We settled at a table with a good view in all directions and ordered salads, southwestern chicken pizza, and iced tea.

Helen has a long face and puffy crescents under coal-black eyes. She not only looks like a bloodhound, she'll stick with a story through swamp, field, and forest, baying her findings in a piercing voice. Moreover, Helen knows all the whispered scandals that are never printed, and one of her primary pleasures in life is sharing the unprintable with anyone who will listen.

All I had to do was murmur, “The Rosen-Voss case…”

And Helen was loping down the long-ago trail. “…
never
made any sense, Henrie O! For starters, Lovers' Lane!” She peered at me from beneath
frizzy, silver-streaked bangs, her mobile face miming incredulity. “I mean, this was 1988,
not
1958!”

Helen vigorously swirled her teaspoon in her mint-sprigged glass. “
He
had an apartment.
She
had an apartment.”

I knew Helen meant Howard Rosen and Gail Voss.

“Oh, they had roommates. But these were upscale kids. Everybody had his or her own room. So, we're supposed to believe Howard and Gail were having backseat romance in his car! I told everybody,
No way, José
. But do the cops ask me?” She shrugged and grabbed a breadstick.

“Were they dressed?” I took one, too. Hot, garlicky, good.

“Fully.” Once again her tone was scathing. “You'd think
anybody
would see how weird this was. What were they
doing
there?
Why
were they there? Lovers' Lane, give me a break.” She took a big bite of breadstick. “But Dennis went right ahead and played the story with the Lovers' Lane angle. I told him,
Sweetheart, this is baloney
! Of course”—and she rolled those mournful eyes, “Dennis is still into backseats with willing coeds. The Flamingo costs a buck.”

Helen thought Dennis was too tight to spring for a motel room. Did that mean he knew Lovers' Lane very well indeed?

The waiter brought our salads. Mine was a Caesar with strips of anchovies.

“So you think it's strange Howard and Gail were in Lovers' Lane?”

Helen speared a radish slice. “Real strange. Weird,” she said again. “Phony. I don't know”—
she squeezed her face like a quiz show contestant—“like it was staged.”

But I scarcely heard. I'd had a thought, and it was ugly. “Helen, was Dennis after Gail Voss?”

“Oh, Dennis, stud man of the newsroom.” Her eyes widened, then glinted with interest. She reached out and grabbed my arm. “Speak of the devil!”

I craned to see.

Dennis Duffy, head down, walked heavily toward the bar. He slid onto a stool. His back was to us. He slumped against the counter, despair in every sagging line of his body.

“If you sit here long enough,” Helen murmured cheerfully, “you'll see everyone you've ever known.”

I gave her a swift glance. As far as Helen was concerned, it obviously wasn't Feel-Sorry-for-Dennis Week.

She chattered on, her voice light. “Even Dennis probably wasn't clod enough to go after a girl like Gail. I mean, who's to say he didn't lust. But Gail was a lovely girl, really sweet.
Not
a backseat type for anybody. And she was crazy about Howard. Nuts about him. I'll tell you”—Helen swallowed—“Howard and Gail were two nice kids. And according to my students, it was just silly to even ask if they had enemies. What normal, nice college students have
enemies
? They didn't have enemies. Oh, one of the girls told me Gail's brother didn't want her to marry Howard. Said he ‘wasn't our kind.' So, her brother was a prejudiced drip. But everybody says he loved his little sister. As for the usual motives for murder, money's always at the top of the list. But they didn't have any. They were college
students. His folks were rich. I think Howard had an older brother, so I guess he'll inherit twice as many millions. But nobody ever suggested Howard's brother was in Derry Hills that night, and of course the cops would have checked that out. Gail? Her folks were upper middle class. So, what difference does that make? And you can check off all the other reasons—revenge, jealousy, fear, hatred—none of them fit.”

I didn't have an answer.

Helen waggled her fork. “I knew Gail's roommates. Lovely girls. They were double-dating at an all-night fraternity party that night. I heard the cops really looked at Howard's roommate. That was Stuart Singletary. He's on the English faculty now. Stuart had a heavy date, but he wasn't alibied for the whole night. But why would Stuart kill Howard? Nobody'd ever heard them quarrel. They had no reason to quarrel.” Helen retrieved another breadstick. “There was nothing odd in either Howard's or Gail's life. Everyday. Ordinary.” Helen munched on her salad, then added thoughtfully, “But you know, Henrie O, even after all these years I get a funny feeling in my gut when anybody mentions the Rosen-Voss murders. There's something strange there, stranger than hell.”

The anchovies were saltier than the crust on a tequila shot glass. I forked over the lettuce, looking for another strip.

Helen took a gulp of iced tea. “So, why are you nosing around?” Her eyes clung to me avidly, the better to retrieve every morsel of intelligence.

Quid pro quo.

“Dennis says Rita didn't kill Maggie.” The waitress brought our pizzas. I gave up on the salad. No
more anchovies. I pulled free a green-chili-laden wedge of pizza. “What do you think?”

Helen shook Parmesan over her pizza. Her dark eyes were thoughtful. “Rita Duffy's famous for her scenes. Did you know that? Last year she came in here”—Helen pointed toward a back booth—“yelling her head off. Dennis was tête-à-têteing with a nifty little redhead from Topeka. In August, he and Rita had a screaming match at the Faculty Club. That time, it was about a blonde from Omaha.”

“So Rita raises hell.” It was easy to sound amused, but there's nothing funny about that kind of jealousy. Still…“So how many bodies has she left behind her?”

“None.” Helen took a bite of pizza and chewed. “But Dennis picked a bad day to set her off, Henrie O.” Of course she knew about the Duffys' daughter.

Helen looked toward the bar. “The jerk.” Her face was disdainful. “Oh, hey”—now her eyes were avid—“it looks like stud man's in trouble.”

I twisted to see.

Dennis stood, one hand on the barstool for balance. He wavered on his feet.

The bartender was shaking his head. He scooped up Dennis's empty glass, shook his head again.

Bars don't serve drunks anymore, at least not if the owner has studied the liability law.

The back of Dennis's neck flushed an ugly red. He shoved over the barstool and almost fell down after it.

“Oh, hell.” Helen was on her feet, tossing down a twenty on the table. “We'd better get him out—” She broke off as a redheaded man hurried from the coffee-bar area to Dennis's side. In his early fifties,
he had a broad, open face spattered with freckles. He slipped an arm around Dennis's shoulder, bent close to him.

Helen plopped back into her chair, but she didn't take her eyes off the bar. “Tom Abbott to the rescue. He used to live next door to the Duffys.” She smoothed her hair, surged back to her feet. “Think I'll go lend a hand.”

I must have looked astonished.

She gave me a faintly embarrassed smile. “I can carry it off. One J-School faculty member to the aid of another—and maybe Tom will bring me back for a drink after we get Dennis home. I've been trying to figure out a way to hustle Tom for a couple of years.”

Abbott's name was familiar to me. He was the chair of the English department. Helen was loping across the room.

I had finished my third slice of pizza when she trooped disconsolately back to her chair. “Tom said he could take care of it. So, I strike out again. Damn, I've put a lot of effort into tracking that man. But I never pick up any vibes. I guess I won't be the second Mrs. Abbott.”

“What's so attractive about being the second Mrs. Abbott?”

She flashed me an insouciant grin. “It would be kind of like cozying up to the mint, but sexier.”

“A rich English professor?”

“Sweetheart, Tom is Derry Hills's claim to literary fame. His book hit the best-seller list a few years ago, and it's clung like bubble gum on a sneaker. He plays chess here almost every night. I drop in so often, they have me on automatic order.
But so far I haven't gotten him to offer more than a grin.” She sighed.

I wasn't interested in Helen's pursuit of Tom Abbott and his money. I was interested that Abbott had once lived next door to the Duffys. He might well be a man to see. Then I realized Helen had kept right on talking and I had to wonder about ESP or corollary thought.

“…be good to talk to Tom. His daughter, Cheryl, is the girl Stuart Singletary was out with that night, and they're married now. Tom might know something, or have some ideas. And I'd talk to Stuart and Cheryl, too.”

I paid the check and we stepped out into the chilly November night. The silence was almost shocking after the maelstrom of sound in the Green Owl. It was just a block up the street to the campus and the J-School parking lot where our cars were parked.

Our shoes scuffed through leaves on the sidewalk.

Names eddied in my mind. Maggie. Rita. Dennis. Tom. Cheryl. Stuart. Howard. Gail.

Which ones mattered?

Or was it as simple as Lieutenant Larry Urschel believed? An angry wife, an unfaithful husband.

It was up to me to figure it out.

F
RIDAY morning's forecast called for a chance of sleet. I chose a turtleneck sweater and navy corduroy slacks. Informal, perhaps, but upscale in a jail, and that's where I would likely be at some point during my day.

It wasn't just the weather that chilled me. As always, I unfolded
The Clarion
as I poured my first cup of coffee.

I had expected the lead story to be Maggie's murder and Rita's arrest. There was an inset photo of Maggie and a two-column shot of Rita, looking unkempt and bewildered, in the corridor at the courthouse.

Dennis Duffy had played the story the way any city editor would have. It must have been the grimmest task he'd ever performed.

Yesterday, I'd agonized for Dennis when the reporters and cameramen surrounded him in the courthouse hallway. Even though they had approached him almost diffidently, it must have been a shock for Dennis to be on the other end of media attention.

But I wasn't agonizing now. Not for Dennis. He was using every weapon at his command, and no
body knows the power of the press better than a city editor.

Blazoned in the bottom five columns on the front page was an interview by Kitty Brewster:

CITY EDITOR CLAIMS OLD CRIMES LED TO REPORTER'S MURDER

A photograph of me from my wire-service days filled two columns.

I crumpled the page. “Dennis, you
are
a sorry bastard.”

I'd made no such promise. I'd certainly not agreed to write the series. I'd only said I would see what I could find out.

If I'd had any hope of working quietly, Dennis had destroyed it.

I doubted that he cared.

Dennis had only one goal: to save Rita.

I'd do well to remember that.

I seethed all the way to my office. I considered requesting a retraction. But frankly, I didn't know for certain what had happened to Maggie, and yes, I was going to ask questions, to nose about, to poke and prod. That would look odd if
The Clarion
carried a story saying I wasn't doing the series.

So, for now, I'd ride with it.

But Dennis needn't think I'd be coerced into doing the articles. I'd make that absolutely clear. The series had once been important to me, but what mattered now was finding out the truth about Maggie's murder.

I unlocked my door and kicked an envelope that had been shoved beneath it.

I picked up the envelope. My name was scrawled on the outside. I opened it, pulled out a memo sheet.

Yes, Your Majesty.

But I couldn't afford to worry about high-
handedness. I needed information, and I'd do what it took to get it. Eleven o'clock wasn't much time. I had a lot to do before I spoke to Rita.

I went upstairs and posted notes on the doors of two classrooms, canceling my nine-and ten-o'clock classes.

Back in my office, I poured a mug of coffee and turned on my computer. I pulled up class schedules for Margaret Winslow and Eric March. I noted Maggie's Wednesday classes. It gave me some starting points. On a map I could now place her at various times that final day of her life. I rechecked her schedule: 7-9
P.M.
W, American Literature, A Popular Cultural Analysis, 1850 to the Present, S. Singletary, Evans Hall, LL1.

S. Singletary.

I grabbed a University directory, flipped to the faculty section: Stuart Singletary, assistant professor of English. According to Helen Tracy, Singletary had shared an apartment with Howard Rosen.

That was certainly a link to the old crime, wasn't it?

So Maggie's final class had been with someone involved—okay, maybe
involved
was too strong—with a man who had been interviewed by the police in the double murder in Lovers' Lane.

On the other hand, Stuart Singletary had had a big date the night of the Rosen-Voss murders. And he had been teaching the night Maggie died.

I wished I had a better sense of when Maggie died. Lieutenant Urschel had grudgingly said early evening. What did that encompass? I needed to trace Maggie's movements Wednesday night.

 

Ivy clung to the soft-gray limestone walls of Evans Hall. The turreted battlement looked like something out of Disney by way of an Irish Spring soap ad.

As befitted a junior member of the faculty, Stuart Singletary's office was on the third floor, next to a storeroom at the far end of an ill-lit hall. Old bookcases were stacked haphazardly by one wall.

I tapped on his partially open door.

“Come in, come in.” The tenor voice was high and reedy.

I pushed the door, stepped into a narrow office and was startled by the luxuriousness of this enclave. Velvet curtains framed the tall windows. An antique silver filigree clock glistened in a shaft of sunlight on the ornately carved rosewood desk. There was even a small Persian rug tucked into the narrow space between the desk and the door.

A junior office, to be sure, but one with furnishings a good deal more expensive than most assistant professors could provide. Or most full professors, for that matter. Family money? It isn't unknown in academic circles.

Thick chestnut-brown hair, overlong for my taste, cupped a long face with sharply defined features, a thin nose, a pointed chin with a distinct cleft. A bristly black mustache curved above narrow lips.

He looked up.

For an instant, his face was absolutely without expression.

Which interested me enormously. Was he ordinarily so gauche—or did he know who I was and did that worry him?

“Professor Singletary?”

“Yes.” That was all he said. The word hung uninflected between us.

“I'd like to visit with you, if you have a moment, Professor. About a student. I'm Henrietta Collins. I teach in the Journalism School.”

Stuart Singletary pushed back his chair and stood. He wasn't very tall, about my height. His chocolate cashmere pullover emphasized the velvety brown of his eyes and the vivid black of his mustache. The sweater's smooth thickness gave his narrow shoulders some bulk. “Yes, Mrs. Collins.” He sounded politely puzzled, but his eyes were intent.

I pointed to
The Clarion
on his desk. “Perhaps you saw the story on the front page…about the articles I'm writing.”

He reached for the paper, lifted it, looked at the page. Stared at the page.

It was a charade. I felt sure that he'd already read the paper and had known who I was from the moment I stepped into his office.

Which was also enormously interesting. And surprising to me. Helen Tracy had indicated the police had looked hard at Stuart Singletary as a possible suspect in the 1988 murders. But, obviously, they had found nothing incriminating.

So what was making Singletary nervous?

He scanned the article. Taking his time. Making time.

I waited.

Finally, he looked up at me, his narrow face furrowed with distress. “This is all very shocking. Why, I know the Duffys. It doesn't seem possible. But”—he rattled the page—“I can't see how Maggie Winslow's murder could have anything to do
with those other crimes. That seems extremely sensational to me.”

“Does it?” I moved toward the wooden chair that faced his desk. “May I?”

“Oh, of course. Please.” I've seen IRS agents greeted with more enthusiasm.

I sat down.

Reluctantly, or so it seemed to me, Singletary sat, too. He placed his copy of
The Clarion
on the desk in front of him, but his eyes never left my face.

“You know the Duffys. And you knew Maggie Winslow, too.”

“Maggie was one of my students.” There was a flicker of enthusiasm in his reply. “An excellent student.”

“Yes, she was a superb student. That's why I'm here, Mr. Singletary. She was writing the series about these unsolved crimes, including the Rosen-Voss murders, under my supervision. So I'd like to talk to you about the Rosen-Voss murders—as I'm sure Maggie must have done.”

He pursed his thin lips, then said carefully, “We spoke briefly. She caught me after my nine-o'clock on Wednesday morning. But there wasn't much to tell. Nobody's ever figured out what happened. I don't think anyone ever will.”

I opened my purse, pulled out a pen and pad. “Was Maggie in class Wednesday night?”

“No.” His headshake was firm. “I was surprised when I called roll and she wasn't there. She'd never missed. I don't have many who never cut. You know, they think three cuts are some kind of mandate from heaven.” It was a little joke and his teeth gleamed briefly beneath his mustache, then once again his face was somber. “But it means she was
with someone, doesn't it? The person who killed her. I told the detective that's what I thought.”

It's very easy to have portentous thoughts after an event, but any deviation from Maggie's usual routine could be very important. Why did she miss class? Was she indeed with someone? Seven o'clock. Did that qualify as early evening in Lieutenant Urschel's mind? I made a big “7” on my pad and underlined it.

“I kept expecting her to come in. But she never did. It seems so strange to think I was having fun with the class.” Singletary leaned forward, his expression suddenly lively. “I'd asked the class to pretend they were Japanese students studying English, then to tell me how they would picture the United States if the only American novels they'd ever read were
An American Tragedy, The Fountainhead
, and
The Catcher in the Rye
.” He grinned. “Makes you think, doesn't it?” The smile died away. “But, God, that lovely girl…” For an instant, his dark eyes looked sickened.

The young professor sank back in his chair, pressed the tips of his fingers together. He hesitated, then blurted out, “What was she doing in Lovers' Lane? The paper said they found her in Lovers' Lane.” He laced his fingers tightly together. “That's where they found Howard and Gail. But what was Maggie doing there? That's weird. Like a cult or something.”

I didn't respond to that gambit. I thought a suggestion of a cult was reaching, reaching a long way.

I was finding Stuart Singletary more and more intriguing.

“You talked to Maggie Wednesday morning?”

“Yes. She wanted to know all about Howard and
Gail and if I had any ideas about the murders.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Same thing I've told everybody ever since it happened.” He was impatient, irritable. “I roomed with Howard for about six months. We were both grad students in English. He was going to finish a master's before he went to Germany on a Fulbright. But he wasn't really an academic kind of guy. I think he was just hanging around to be with Gail. They'd met when he was a senior, and he was crazy about her. I never thought he was serious about grad school. But he had all kinds of money, so why not another year in school?” There was an undercurrent of jealousy in his tone.

On my pad, I scrawled “$$$”—and underlined that, too. “How did you and Howard meet?”

He took too long to answer. “Meet?” he echoed.

“Yes.” I smiled blandly.

He cleared his throat. “Let's see…I guess Cheryl introduced us.”

“Cheryl?”

“My wife.” His glance flicked toward a studio portrait of a smiling redhead. “We were dating then.”

“How did Cheryl know Howard?” It was like prizing open an oyster shell. So I was on the lookout for a pearl.

“Oh, English department stuff. Her dad's Dr. Abbott. Chair of the English department. They had parties for the grad students. So Cheryl knew all the grad students. She introduced me to Howard. We hit it off. I needed a place to live and his roommate had just moved out.”

He spoke more easily the more he said, but I had to wonder whether there was something discredita
ble about that meeting. Or had Howard been interested in Cheryl Or Cheryl in Howard? Something here was making Singletary uncomfortable.

“Had Howard ever dated Cheryl?”

He shot me a quick, startled look. “No. Never. She just knew him casually.”

“Were you and Howard close friends?”

Singletary smoothed his mustache. “Not really. He was a nice guy. And funny. God, he was so funny.” Singletary relaxed back in his chair. “Howard was never serious. He always had some kind of gag going. Once he put a fake mouse in my cereal box. The tail was poking up out of the cornflakes. God, I about fainted.” His grin was vivid, though fleeting. He suddenly seemed quite young and likable. “And he told me about one girl he'd dated—this was before Gail—Howard convinced her that he was twins, and he'd act completely different on dates and she'd think she was out with Harold, not Howard.” A quick snort of laughter. “See, Harold was a real shy guy, had to be encouraged to even try and kiss a girl. God, how he loved to play jokes. And he was so damn funny. At parties, he'd get everybody started doing emotions: anger, fear, despair, lust. You can't believe how many different ways he could screw his face up. It was hilarious.” Singletary spoke now with animation. “Nobody could ever be bored around Howard. And he was always on the move. I think maybe he slept four hours a night.”