Lindsey slumped back in her chair. She didn’t know what to think. She had just spoken to the woman a few days ago, and now she was dead. She closed her phone and put it back in her purse.
She had planned to take the photo album over to the police on her lunch hour. She opened the drawer where she had stuffed it and pulled it out. She flipped through until she got to the photo. With shaky hands she studied the picture. Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe the girl in the photo wasn’t Sydney. But no, she was Sydney, several years younger, but there was no mistaking her.
Lindsey knew she needed to tell Beth, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. By midmorning, she had yet to come up with an idea, but she realized she couldn’t put it off any longer.
She found Beth sitting at the desk in the children’s area. Violet was with her, changing out of her Little Red Hen costume. Several children were talking to the mechanical parrot, Fernando, while others were hip deep in the treasure box outfitting themselves as a pirate, a princess and a banana.
“How did it go?” Lindsey asked Violet.
“Very well. No one cried or pooped his or her pants. I call that a success,” Violet said.
“Not exactly Broadway, is it?” Lindsey asked.
“Are you kidding? Broadway is a snap compared to this,” Violet returned. “Kids are the most honest audience an actor can have. They let you know if you stink, and they make you work for it.”
“Don’t I know it,” Lindsey said dryly, and Violet chuckled. Then she leaned close and whispered, “But I’m worried about Beth. She’s not herself.”
“I know,” Lindsey said. “This is going to take a while, I’m afraid, especially since they don’t have the killer in custody yet.”
“Huh,” Violet grunted, letting Lindsey know she was not happy about that.
“Thanks again for doing this, Violet,” she said. “I’m going to see if I can get Beth to step out for some fresh air.”
“Good idea.” Violet went to hang up her costume, and Lindsey approached the desk.
“Beth, how are you?” she asked.
Beth glanced up at her, and her gray eyes were shadowed with sadness. She didn’t look as if she was feeling very functional.
“Come on,” Lindsey said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Beth snatched a tissue out of the holder on her desk and followed Lindsey to the door.
“I’m sorry. I know I probably should just go home, but I feel better at work,” Beth said. She had grabbed her jacket off of the back of her chair, and she bundled up in it now to buffer the offshore breeze that chilled their bones after the sleepy, sunny warmth of the library.
Lindsey pulled the sleeves of her sweater down. They crossed the street to the park and took a seat on a vacant bench. They stared silently out at the water for a few minutes until Lindsey figured she couldn’t stall any longer.
She had brought the photo with her and now she quietly handed it to Beth. “This is a picture of Rick with some other people. Tell me if you recognize anyone else.”
Beth took a deep breath and studied the picture. She was quiet for so long that Lindsey thought maybe she was wrong, maybe it wasn’t Sydney.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Beth asked. She tapped the picture with her forefinger. She was pointing to Sydney. “That’s Sydney, the editor who was here.”
“That’s what I think, too,” Lindsey said.
“So, she went to school with Rick?” Beth asked. “Huh. Rick never told me that.”
Lindsey turned to gaze out at the water. She saw a seagull swoop down toward the water and then ride an air current back up into the sky.
“And now Sydney is dead, too,” Lindsey said.
Beth’s head snapped in her direction. “What?”
“I just got off the phone with her assistant,” Lindsey said. “She fell off of the platform this morning at the train station and was killed by an oncoming train.”
Beth put her hand to her throat. “Oh, how awful.”
“I can’t help thinking that the two deaths are connected,” Lindsey said. “Look at the way she is watching him in the picture.”
They both leaned forward and studied Sydney’s face. Intense emotion was etched into her every feature as she gazed at Ernie. Whatever her feelings may have been about him, they were anything but ambivalent.
“Do you think she’s been carrying a torch for him all these years?” Beth asked. “Maybe it just got to be too much for her. Maybe she came out here to confront him.”
Lindsey nodded slowly. “I was thinking that myself. Maybe Sydney is the killer.”
“And then killed herself?” Beth asked. “In a murder-suicide?”
Lindsey shrugged. “Maybe.”
“We need to take this to Chief Daniels and Detective Trimble,” Beth said. “They should know these two deaths are connected.”
“We
think
they’re connected,” Lindsey said. “We could be wrong.”
Beth raised one eyebrow higher than the other and gave her a look that said more clearly than words “Yeah, right.” Lindsey smiled. It was nice to see a glimmer of the old Beth back.
“My only problem with that is then I would have to tell Chief Daniels that someone broke into my apartment this morning,” Lindsey said.
Beth gasped. “And you’re just telling me this now? What happened? What did they take? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Charlie helped me to chase him out.”
“You could have been killed,” Beth said. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“It was three o’clock in the morning.”
“So? Who held your hand the first time you got your eyebrows threaded?”
“You.”
“And who was the one who left a flaming bag of dog poop on John’s doorstep when he cheated on you?”
“You.”
“All right, then; who do you need to call when you’re being robbed in the middle of the night?”
“You. Okay?”
“No, the police—then call me,” she said.
“All right, I get it.”
“Good.”
“The more important issue is that whoever broke into my apartment made off with the box of Ernie’s belongings,” Lindsey said. “I don’t really want to explain that to Chief Daniels, especially since he seems fixated upon you as the main suspect. He might think I was hanging onto it because it held evidence about you. Of course without it, I can’t prove that, never mind explain why someone else would want to steal it.”
“Why would someone want to steal it?” Beth asked. “It was just a moldy old box of junk.”
“That’s all I saw, but maybe there was something of value that I missed,” Lindsey said. “Look, I think this picture was taken at his art school, and I was thinking we should go to the school and see if anyone remembers him and Sydney and find out what they have to say. Maybe we’ll uncover proof of some unrequited-love situation that will back up our murder-suicide theory.”
“Since it’s my bacon in the skillet, count me in,” Beth said.
“Excellent. Let’s go now.”
“What about the lemon?”
“What about her?”
“Don’t you think she’s going to get testy and report your absences to the board?”
“You mean she’ll start saying, ‘Mr. Tupper never took this many days off’ or ‘Mr. Tupper was here every day and night. He never needed to eat or sleep,’ ” Lindsey said. “And that would be different from every other day how?”
Beth laughed and then said with a sigh, “I think she was in love with him.”
Lindsey nodded. “That makes sense. When I first started, I almost expected to find a shrine to him in the broom cupboard. I think she must have said ‘Mr. Tupper this’ or ‘Mr. Tupper that’ at least fifty times on my first day.”
“She cried at his good-bye party,” Beth said. “I found her at her desk curled up in a heap, sobbing.”
“Do you think he knew?” Lindsey asked.
“No. He was a bit of an absent-minded professor,” Beth said. “Plus, he was happily married.”
“Well, that makes me feel badly for the lemon,” Lindsey said.
“Don’t worry; once she opens her mouth, it’ll wear off,” Beth said with a shake of her head.
Together they rose from the bench and headed back across the park to the library. Lindsey’s conscience raised its head, and she felt a twinge of guilt that they weren’t beating feet right to the police department, but then again, they were only waiting an afternoon to ask a few more questions. What could possibly happen in a few hours?
CHAPTER 24
L
indsey called in both Jessica and Ann Marie to cover for them for the afternoon. Being part-time help, the women were both eager to pick up extra hours before the upcoming holidays.
Lindsey’s budget only allotted so many part-time hours per year, and she knew she had banked a nice amount to give them coverage for vacations, illness and emergencies. They hadn’t used many, so she figured she could count today as an emergency. After all, if Beth was taken in for murder, they’d be short a children’s librarian, and she did not have enough hours put aside to cover that. Feeling much better after her rationalization, Lindsey and Beth took the Buick and headed east on I-95 to visit Rick’s alma mater.
Beth ignored her big coffee and wedged her head between the seat and the door. Lindsey remembered this pose from their infamous spring-break trip back when they were in grad school. Beth was supposed to be their navigator on that trip while Lindsey drove, and instead she fell asleep, and they wound up in New Orleans instead of Panama City.
“You’re going to fall asleep, aren’t you?”
“Who me? No,” Beth said. Her eyes were already at half-mast, and her voice was a sleepy slur. She looked pie-eyed tired, and Lindsey wondered how long it had been since she’d slept through the night.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I don’t need a navigator for this trip.”
“Thank God,” Beth said. Her eyes shut, and she was snoring softly before Lindsey merged into the highway traffic.
The drive to New London seemed shorter this time. The college Rick had attended was on a fifty-acre campus on the shore in the heart of the town. Known for its art and design program, the New London School of Design took only select students with strong arts backgrounds. Rick must have shown tremendous potential if he had gotten a full ride there.
Lindsey roused Beth when she turned onto the exit for the school. Beth stretched and yawned, looking better for the nap.
They parked in the main lot several rows from the walkways that led to the campus. A large bulletin board and directory stood at the edge of the lot, and they paused to study it.
“Where should we start?” Beth asked. “Registrar’s office?”
“I don’t think they’ll be able to tell us much more than the fact that he was enrolled here ten years ago, which we already know,” Lindsey said.
Beth looked away from the board and studied the campus. It was a small school with less than a thousand undergraduates. There were several large, three-story redbrick buildings that appeared to be classrooms. Beyond that was a cluster of houses that looked to be student housing. They were various shapes and sizes, but they were all painted white with black shutters. They seemed to be a couple of centuries old, as if they were here before the school had been founded.
“Do you know what Rick’s major was?” Lindsey asked.
“Traditional art.”
“Let’s start with the dean of that school,” Lindsey said. “Maybe that person will remember him.”
They checked the board and found that the dean of arts’ office was located in the farthest brick building. A brisk wind was blowing in off of Long Island Sound, and Lindsey pulled the collar of her jacket up around her neck to keep warm.
Students were scattered along the walkways, and Lindsey was reminded of how much she had loved her college years, particularly graduate school with Beth.
“Doesn’t it seem like we were just this age?” Beth asked.
“I was just thinking that,” Lindsey said. “You know, I found a gray hair the other day. I almost broke the sound barrier rushing to the pharmacy to get some dye.”
Beth snorted. “Oh, please! You’re a blonde—no one can see gray hair up there. Now, you get one down under, and then you can panic.”
Lindsey laughed. It was nice to see Beth’s sunny-side-up personality was making a slow return.
The black tackboard directory in the building’s lobby listed all of the deans’ offices as being on the third floor. The dean of arts was named T. Cushion and was in office 332.
Beth found the elevator, but it looked older than the building itself. They decided to take the stairs. Lindsey was grateful that she’d given up her car and started bicycling in Briar Creek. A year ago this climb up three levels would have left her wheezing.
Groups of students came barreling down the stairs, and they were forced to hug the wall or risk being pushed back down by the surge. Once the students passed, they resumed climbing, stopping at the top to catch their breath.
Beth started down the hall. Her chin was set with grim determination, and Lindsey wasn’t sure if she was dreading the upcoming encounter or eagerly anticipating it. Probably a little bit of both.
They paused in front of room 332. Lindsey rapped on the door and called, “Professor Cushion?”
There was no answer, and they exchanged a look. Beth checked the hours posting beside the door. It said the professor was open for office hours at this time.
Lindsey tried the doorknob. It turned, so she pushed it open.
She stepped into the room, but stopped short, leaving Beth to plow into her back with a grunt.
“Ouch! What’s the holdup?”
Lindsey knew she should look away, but found that, no, she really couldn’t.
Standing in the center of the room on a table in all of his naked glory was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.
“Oh my,” Beth said faintly from behind her.
Several heads turned their way, and it was then that Lindsey noticed the five easels and artists set up around the man, obviously sketching him.