The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders (10 page)

The dean added a bunch of grapes and a finger sandwich to his plate. “Yes. Yes, it is a lovely night.”

I took a deep breath and plunged in once more. “When you see her, please tell Blythe I'm thinking about her,” I said.

He patted my hand and smiled. “That's fine, just fine.”

“Thinking about whom?” a voice said behind me, and I whirled around to see Blythe Cornelius standing there with a glass of wine in each hand. She handed one to Dean Holland and escorted him to an empty chair in the corner.

“You,” I said as she joined me. “I've been thinking about you. Blythe, I'm so sorry you had to endure all that crap with the police. Surely there must have been a better way.”

I could see she was trying hard to smile, and her eyes looked teary behind the thick bifocals. “Oh, well, I'll get through it somehow, but for the life of me I can't see why anybody would want to do this to me.” She sipped her wine and looked away. “I must have done something terrible to somebody. Wish I knew what it was.”

Thank heavens Ben joined us then because I didn't have a clue as to how to reply. I introduced the two of them and we chatted about the weather and the food and how we hoped we didn't spill anything on the expensive Oriental rug until I saw she had regained her composure.

“Oh, there you are.” Joy Ellen Harper touched my shoulder. “Lucy, I'd like you to meet my husband…

“Blythe, how nice to see you!” I was glad when she put an arm around the older woman; still, I felt stiff and uncomfortable after all that had happened.

Later, when we worked our way to the dark-paneled library, I saw Willene Benson staring into the flames of the fireplace while nursing a cup of cider. The hem of her purple flowered dress drooped at the back, and she was wearing too much blush.

Ben and I were crossing the room to speak to her when one of the serving girls approached and whispered something in her ear. Willene turned around so suddenly, cider splashed down the front of her dress.

I grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins and tried to stem the flow while the girl turned back to see what had happened.

“Oh, my goodness, did I do that?” She set aside a tray of canapés to help me sponge Willene's splotched skirt.

“No, it's all right, really.” Willene brushed us aside. “My fault entirely. I'm afraid I'm just clumsy tonight.”

The girl, who was probably a student, gave Willene's dress a final swipe. “Don't you worry about it,” she said. “If you like, I'll ask your friend on the phone for his number so you can call him back.”

Willene warmed her hands at the fire, although it must have been eighty degrees in that room. “Yes, that would be good, thank you. Why don't you do that?”

“Are you going to be all right?” I asked after the girl moved away. The circles of blush on the woman's chalky face made her appear clownlike and she looked as if she might pass out at any second. I grabbed a fragile Victorian side chair and practically shoved her into it. “Why don't you let us give you a ride home? We can bring the car right to the door.” Frankly, I would be glad of an excuse to leave. In the large gilt-framed mirror over the mantel I saw that Ben had been snared by two forty-something women whose intentions seemed less than honorable, and he was sending frantic “Save me!” signals with his eyes.

Willene clutched my arm with a cold hand. “Oh, would you mind? I hate to drag you away from the party, Lucy, but I'm afraid my nerves have gotten the better of me after finding that awful apron yesterday. I really shouldn't have come.”

“Don't mention it,” I told her, and rescued Ben on my way to the door. The girl who had given Willene the message about the phone call stopped her as we were leaving. “I asked the man who called for his phone number,” she explained to Willene, “but he said you already knew it.”

On our way out I saw Blythe Cornelius in a corner of the living room talking with Vivian Earnest and the PE instructor, and was reminded again of how difficult it must be for her to come here and pretend that everything was normal.

Claymore Hornsby, I noticed, didn't attend the president's reception. I heard later he had been dismissed from the faculty.

During the brief ride to her home, Willene Benson talked non-stop about everything from cookbooks to kittens, but avoided the subject of the mysterious phone call. She readily agreed to let us walk her to the door, but I was relieved when she didn't invite us in.

“What's all this about a phone call?” Ben asked as we drove home.

“I think somebody's been harassing her—in fact, I'm almost sure of it. The woman acts terrified every time the telephone rings, and whoever's responsible seems to know her every move—even phoned her at the party tonight.”

“That's stalking, isn't it? She should report it.”

“You're right, but Willene won't even talk about it, and she looks like she'd shatter if you said ‘Boo'!”

“Do you think this might have something to do with that girl's murder?” he asked as we turned into the drive at 108 Heritage Avenue.

“I honestly don't know what to think anymore,” I admitted.

The next day my class would spend the period planning a meal cooked over an open fire, and I had a lot of preparation to do, so we said good night at the door. Once inside, I stepped out of my heels and lingered in the foyer reliving the taste of Ben's lips on mine and the wonderful cedar smell of him. For three years after my husband Charlie died, I existed in some kind of lonely limbo. Then, on a brisk October day a year ago, Augusta whirled into my life, and before I knew it Ben Maxwell became a significant part of it as well. For a minute I closed my eyes.
Be happy for me, Charlie. Please!
Somehow I knew he was.

Clementine jolted me out of my reverie with a wet tongue from elbow to wrist and I followed her into the kitchen, where Augusta sat at the table putting the finishing touches on an autumn watercolor scene. “There's hot chocolate if you want some,” she said, looking up when I came in.

I did. “How are you going to work strawberries into that?” I asked, glancing over her shoulder.

She laughed. “Already did. Look closer. Notice the little girl sitting on the tree stump in the left-hand corner…”

“Of course! She has a strawberry on her sweater.” I poured the chocolate into a mug and tasted it. It wasn't too hot; it wasn't too bitter or too sweet—it was just right, as Augusta's chocolate always is. The weather had turned colder and a gust of wind rattled the windows and sent the screen door on the back porch banging. I joined Augusta at the table and told her about Willene's strange behavior and of Blythe's attending the reception. “It must have been miserable for her,” I said. “I have to admire her courage.”

Augusta swirled her paintbrush in water. “Isn't there some kind of expression about riding the horse again? She would have to face the public sooner or later.”

I admitted she was right.

“And didn't you tell me they found the blood on that apron to be the same type as the girl who was killed?”

“Right,” I said, wondering where this was leading. I took another swallow of cocoa and waited.

“Then whoever killed D. C. Hunter must've worn the apron to protect their clothing from blood spatters—which means they
planned
to kill her.” Augusta carefully put her paints away.

I nodded. “There were other stains on it, too. Looked like mustard, grease spots, things like that, so the murderer probably took the apron from the container of soiled laundry.”

The angel's long necklace seemed to sparkle with all the colors in the paint box and she wound it around her fingers as she thought. Tonight she had tied her bright hair at the back of her neck with a vivid green ribbon—to keep it out of her way while she painted, I guessed—and she looked about seventeen.

“Willene Benson would know where the laundry is kept,” she said finally.

“So would Blythe—and Londus. So do I.”

“Have you considered that perhaps these murders
aren't
related?” Augusta suggested. “What do you know about Willene Benson? How long has she been at the college?”

“About three or four years, I think. And I don't know her well, but she seems terribly lonely. Jo Nell has invited her to The Thursdays a couple of times if we're discussing a book she thought she'd like. And she's big buddies with Blythe Cornelius. They eat Oreos and play Scrabble together.”

Augusta shook her head solemnly but her eyes gleamed with laughter. “They sound like hardened criminals to me.” She reached down to pat Clementine's tummy. “And…go on. What else?”

“Nothing else. That's about it. Her apartment is practically sterile. No pictures, no frills, just the bare essentials. And she disappears as fast as Superman changes his suit when the police come on the scene.”

“Perhaps this Captain Hardy should have a word with her,” she said.

“Willene Benson? Come on! Little timid Willene? Surely you don't think she killed D. C. Hunter.”

“I wouldn't know about that, but if the woman's as jittery as she seems, she might have reason to believe she could be next on the list.”

I put the chocolate-coated saucepan in the sink to soak. I hadn't thought of that. “I'll speak with her tomorrow,” I promised. “Maybe I can get her to tell me what's going on.”

But the next day Willene Benson had taken her few belongings and disappeared.

“I knew something was wrong,” Blythe Cornelius said. “I should've insisted she talk to me about it. Now there's no telling where she is.”

“Maybe she just took a day off,” I said. “After all, Willene was pretty upset last night. Do you know where she's from? Somewhere down near Myrtle Beach, isn't it?”

“Orangeburg, I believe, but I don't think she'd go back there.” Blythe shook her head. “It's not like Willene Benson to fail to show up for work, and she didn't say a word to anybody. Her car's gone, and Londus said he saw her early this morning putting a suitcase into the trunk.”

“Maybe she left a note. Do you think somebody might let us into her apartment?”

“I have a key to Willene's place,” Blythe said. “And she knows where I keep my spare—just in case of an emergency. I hate to be a snoop, but I guess this could be considered an emergency.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “You'll come with me, won't you, Lucy? I'd rather not go in there alone.”

As we walked the short distance to Willene's, I noticed the students made a point of speaking to Blythe, and the girls from her dorm had sent a huge arrangement of flowers that sat on her breakfast room table. Just about everybody at Sarah Bedford seemed to wish her well. But obviously there was one who didn't.

Willene Benson's apartment seemed even bleaker than it had the last time I saw it. The closets were empty, the bed stripped, and the kitchen looked as if it had never been used.

The only sign of habitation was the blinking light on the telephone answering machine. “I see she finally broke down and got one,” I said, explaining Willene's reluctance to comply with the college hierarchy's request.

After staring at the red light for a minute, Blythe looked at me and shrugged. “Shall we?”

I nodded. “By all means.”

The recorded message startled both of us. I don't know what I expected to hear, but it wasn't a man's grating voice singing a refrain from an old love song. It was one I remembered my mother singing at weddings.

Not for just an hour, not for just a day,
Not for just a year…but always.

I looked at Blythe and punched the “save” button. The police might be interested in hearing this. It was clear the verse hadn't been intended as a love song. I knew now why Willene Benson ran away. The taunting words were meant as a threat.

“It must be her former husband,” Blythe confided. “They've been divorced for several years and she took back her maiden name. She's been afraid he would find her here. The poor woman's terrified of the man.”

We searched the apartment for a note but couldn't find one. “She probably left in such a hurry, it didn't even occur to her,” Blythe said after we checked the empty rooms for a second time. After hearing that message, I didn't blame her.

Blythe had used up her lunch hour, and my class was due to begin in a few minutes, so we crossed the quad in such a hurry neither of us realized Sally Wooten was racing to catch up.

“Aunt Shug!” Waving and breathless, she ran up behind us and threw an arm around Blythe. “Don't you ever slow down? I thought I'd never catch you.”

“What is it, Sally? Is anything wrong?” Blythe's smile was puzzled.

“No, as a matter of fact, something's right for a change.” Sally held out a packet of photographs. “Look what I got back today.” She laughed, thumbing through a stack of prints. “Now we can prove you didn't leave those things in that apron. Look.”

The snapshot had been made in the lounge of Emma P. Harris Hall and showed a young woman in pajamas playing what looked like a harmonica among a group of laughing girls who were also dressed for bed. A little to the right of the performer sat Blythe Cornelius with an amused smile on her face.

“That's a good picture, sugar,” Blythe said, squinting to see it better, “but I don't see how—”

“Look closer. What's in your lap?” Sally pointed at the photograph. “That cross-stitch you've been working on—and your scissors
are right there on the table beside you!
Now, look real close and you can see your thimble…you can even make out the design—see?

“This was made the Saturday night
after
D.C. disappeared,” she explained. “Only we didn't know that yet. That was the night we had ELEPHANTS, remember? There's Troll playing ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee' on a comb.”

I laughed. “You had
what?
”

“ELEPHANTS. The Extraordinarily Lousy Emma P. Harris Annual No-Talent Show,” Sally said.

Blythe held the picture closer. “Well, I'll be. It is, isn't it? I knew I'd put those things on my little end table. It's where I always leave them.”

“Then somebody must have come in and taken them,” I said. “Who has access to your apartment? Can you think of anybody who had an opportunity to pick them up?”

Blythe Cornelius shook her head and laughed. “Only every girl in the dormitory, and practically half the faculty. Just about everybody knows I keep an extra key on a nail above my door.”

“Looks like one of them wanted you blamed for D. C. Hunter's murder,” I said.

“But why?” Blythe slipped the picture into her worn brown handbag. “Sally, do you mind if I borrow this? Maybe it will convince that redheaded policeman I don't go around killing my girls.”

But somebody did kill them, and it seemed apparent that it was someone who was familiar with the campus.

That afternoon in class I found myself wondering if one of my own students had lured D. C. Hunter into that old shed for what she thought would be one last meeting with her lover.

Tomorrow the girls would meet at Bellawood to prepare a meal over an open fireplace, so we spent today's class period in planning. With our combined lack of knowledge about early American cooking, I had an idea tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

“You've got to help!” I had pleaded with Augusta the day before. “You've actually done all this, and all I've ever cooked over a fire were hot dogs and s'mores—and even then the marshmallows usually fell into the fire. What did people eat back then?”

“We'll plan a menu,” Augusta said, putting aside her current whodunit. “Something simple.” Later I was to wonder what it would have been like if she had suggested a
complicated
meal.

Nettie had asked me to look in on her niece after class that afternoon, so I dropped by Leslie's room before leaving for home.

I found her sitting in a lotus position at the foot of her bed with an open book in front of her, but her eyes were on something outside. She obviously hadn't heard me knock, so I opened the door and spoke her name. When she looked at me, I could see she had been crying.

“What's wrong, Leslie? Are you sick?” She looked as if she didn't want me to touch her, so I didn't.

“Yes, I'm sick. Sick of being me. I wish I were somebody else—anybody else!” She snatched a pillow into her lap and socked it like a punching bag.

I sat on the empty bed across from her. “Why is that?”

“I'm a terrible person, that's why.”

“What makes you think that? Your family worries about you, Leslie. I'm sure they must love you very much. I know how special you are to your aunt Nettie.”

A tear slid down her cheek and the girl wiped it away with the back of her hand. “She wouldn't feel that way if she knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Nobody would like me if they knew what I did.”

I waited. If she wanted to tell me, she would, but I was almost afraid to ask.

“It's my fault D. C. Hunter was killed. I might as well have done it myself.” And the crying started all over again.

“Oh, Leslie! Why in the world would you think that?” I reached out to her but she ignored my hand.

“Because…I was probably the last person to see her alive.”

I passed her a box of tissues and she grabbed a few. “I don't have a roommate, you know, and there was like hardly anybody on our floor that Friday night,” Leslie said. “I stayed up pretty late studying and had a hard time going to sleep. Then I heard D.C. come in and decided to go over there and get a book. Her roommate—you know Sally—has this novel I've been wanting to read and she told me to just come over and get it anytime.”

Leslie tossed the pillow aside and shoved lank hair from her face. “Well, I knocked but she didn't answer, so I just opened the door. D.C. was lying across her bed crying and she looked so like—you know—miserable, I felt totally sorry for her…for a minute. But when I asked her what was wrong, she screamed at me and told me to go away.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, but not until I told her what I thought of her. I'd just held it in for so long I couldn't stand it anymore and it all came pouring out.” Leslie swung long skinny legs to the floor and threw a wad of tissues at the wastebasket.

“I told her she was hateful and selfish and nobody liked her, and that she could cry her silly head off for all I cared, and then I left. She called to me to come back—called twice, but I was too furious to bother with her. If I had, well, maybe she'd still be alive.” Leslie stared at the floor, avoiding my gaze. “Later, after I calmed down a little, I went down to ask Aunt Shug what to do, but she wasn't there so I put a note on her door asking her to like check on her, you know.”

“So you had a temper fit! Most of us do at one time or another. But you cared enough to leave a note. Sounds to me like you were just reacting like a normal human being—one who might be dealing with some stress of her own—but if you like blaming yourself, there's nothing I can say that will make you feel any better.

“Is that why you're not eating?” I asked softly.

She looked up at me. “I eat.”

“What do you eat? Tell me what you've had to eat today.”

“Well, toast. I had raisin toast and juice for breakfast.” Leslie examined her clasped hands in her lap. “And a salad for lunch.”

She was watching her weight, she said. But if Leslie Monroe didn't get help soon, I thought, there wouldn't be any weight to watch.

“Try not to dwell on what happened to D. C. Hunter,” I said. “She went to that shed because she was summoned there. Somebody either phoned her or left a message. Think about it, Leslie. Did you hear anything later that night?”

“Like what?” She smoothed her pink flowered bedspread and propped the pillow at the head.

“Like a telephone ringing, or voices. Footsteps. Her room is close enough to yours so you would probably hear if somebody visited or phoned, and she would have to pass by your door to get outside. Do you remember hearing her leave later that night?”

But Leslie was tired of talking about D. C. Hunter. She stood in front of the mirror and slowly brushed her hair. “I really can't remember,” she said.

I wasn't so sure she was telling the truth.

My neighbor was in her backyard picking up limbs from the recent rain when I pulled into the driveway, and she came over as soon as she saw me and began to speak in unknown tongues. Fortunately, I had been around Nettie McGinnis long enough to be able to translate when she wasn't wearing her teeth.

“Yes, I had a long conversation with Leslie,” I said, and told her about my visit with her niece. “And you're right to be concerned, Nettie. I don't know what's the matter with Leslie, but she needs help. I think you should speak with her father. She should be under a doctor's care.”

She nodded solemnly. “I'll call him tonight,” she told me. At least, that's what I thought she said.

Augusta greeted me at the back door with two glasses of wine and a tray of my favorite cheese-olive pastries hot from the oven.

“What's the occasion?” I wanted to know, snatching a glass without waiting for an answer.

She smiled and clinked her glass with mine. “There's a message on that machine that answers the telephone for you,” she said.