Failure is Fatal (20 page)

“Oh, right.” There was little enthusiasm in my reply.

Der grabbed his coat from the kitchen. “Don't get up. I'll throw a few sticks to amuse Sam.”

I could see Der and Sam in the yard, Sam running full speed after the sticks, which Der lobbed into the air and out toward the lake. I must have nodded off for a moment because I was awakened by a blast of cold air from the outside door.

Der stuck his head in the door and called, “Here's Sam. She's all tuckered out and ready for dinner.”

Sam trotted over to the couch and put her head in my lap. Clearly Der dried off her paws, but the hair under her belly was still damp from the snow and it dripped on the uninjured ankle and down onto the floor.

“That's cold, Sam. Drip on the other one. Maybe it'll reduce the swelling.” Sam lowered her body to the floor, curled up at my foot, and settled in for a nap. A nap might be nice, but I couldn't put it off much longer. I had to call Guy. Der was right, although I'd never admit it to him. I lifted myself from the couch and hobbled over to the phone in the kitchen.

He picked up on the first ring. “I was worried sick about you. Der called and told me about your ankle. I should have heard about the hit-and-run from you, not Der.” He paused. “I hope you're staying off that foot. A second injury to the same area could be serious. Are you sitting down now, have it elevated, icing it?”

“Of course, I'm following the doctor's orders. Why would you think otherwise?” I asked, standing at the kitchen table, balancing on one foot.
Oops.
I pulled out one of the chairs, careful not to make a noise that Guy might hear over the line, and sat down on it, bracing my injured foot on a rung of the nearby chair.

“I know you very well, and I'm sure you're taking this whole thing too lightly. Aside from your injury, which I'm certain you are not treating as directed, someone is trying to do you harm.”

“Yeah, that's a little scary, but as I told Der, it means we're getting close to something or someone. I'm encouraged.”
About everything except this damned ankle
. It began to throb and ache. “Could you hold on a minute? Just getting some ice for my foot,” I said, pouring a shot of scotch over the ice cubes I'd dropped into a glass.

“Good girl. Ice is great for soft-tissue injuries.”

“I think so. I'm really sorry about this weekend. I had it all planned. I was going to come visit you no matter what, and I could have. This car will go through anything. But the doctor told me I had to stay put here and off the foot.”

Guy laughed. “You stay put. Unfortunately you know I can't come down. I have the kids this weekend, and I don't think you need all of them running around your house while you are immobilized. On my feet, I find them a handful.”

“They're really great kids, but you're right. They wouldn't find it much fun if you had to babysit a grown, grouchy woman. Next weekend is Thanksgiving, so I have a short week. I know Canadians don't celebrate our Thanksgiving so you won't have time off, but maybe you can come the Friday after Thanksgiving and there'll be turkey left over, and stuffing, and gravy, and, you'll have me to yourself.”

“You are absolutely forbidden to get up and make any kind of dinner. Give that foot a chance to heal.”

“Der will cook it all.”

“Have you asked him if he would, if he could?”

“No, but I'll tell him tomorrow. I know he's not going down home for the holiday, so he might as well spend it with me. I was going to invite him and a few other people. Some of my students aren't able to go home either. We'll have a merry little group here. Der can do the cooking. You can join us late on Friday for leftovers. How about that?”

“Sounds great, but you better clear it with Der. Ask him politely. Don't tell him. It sounds as if he's had his hands full with this case, and with you, I might add.”

“Me? What about me? I'm helping him. He should be grateful he has me. Did he tell you I was being a problem? I'll have his hide if he did.”

“No, no, no. He's said nothing to indicate you have been anything but…” Guy searched for the right word… “you, just yourself, as usual. That's all. I think the case is wearing him down.”

“That's just crazy. We're finally getting somewhere, and he's getting worn down?”

“Laura, some people don't look at a hit-and-run as a sign that the case is about to be cracked. They worry about the victim.”

“Oh. Right. You're right. I'll try to act more like a victim then.”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it. Just cut Der a little slack, will you?”

“I'll be nice. I can be nice, you know.”

“Yeah, I remember your being pretty nice at times. Say, do you think we can work around that ankle if we try?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean. Your bed, your body, my body, no clothes, Sam locked outside the door, phone off the hook.”

“And Der pulls into the drive with donuts.” We both laughed into the phone, Guy less heartily than I.

“I love you, baby.”

“Love you too, Guy”

“Oh, and Laura?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't drink too much of that scotch. Save some of the ice for your ankle.” He rang off with a laugh.

Chapter 17

Someone was running a wet rag over my face and ringing a shrill bell in my ear. No, it was Sam's tongue on my cheek, and the phone was ringing. I turned onto my side to see the clock. The digital face read eight o'clock. My eyes couldn't focus well enough to tell whether the red dot to the left of the eight indicating a.m. or p.m. was lit. The room seemed too dark for morning. I reached for the phone.

“I thought I'd check on you. The patrol car said your house was all dark when they went by just a few minutes ago. They said everything looked all right, but I thought I'd call. Did I wake you? Need anything? How about coffee in the morning? Should I drop by?” Der sounded cheerful, too bloody cheerful for my taste. “Say something, Laura.”

“Morning. Donuts.” I banged the receiver into its cradle and fell back onto the pillow. The stars shined through the skylight above my bed, lighting the early night sky and making it impossible for me to get to sleep again. I rolled myself onto my stomach and reached into the bedside stand, extracting a phone book. A flick of the switch on my bedside lamp bathed the phonebook in light. I needed to call Lottie Guthrie the secretary in the Art Department to pick her brain about Marie Becca.

“George? Hi. It's Laura Murphy. Yeah, I know. It has been a while.” George was Lottie's husband, a short, fat little man who was a professor of chemistry at the college. He was a wealth of information, most of it, surprisingly enough, not in chemistry, but in art and literature. I found him interesting to listen to for about the first twenty minutes of any encounter. George wasn't good at picking up cues from his listeners, and he tended to go on and on, oblivious to his audience's loss of interest in his topic, and talking over any interruptions provided by those around him. I hoped Lottie was home and that she would be quick coming to the phone.

“Is Lottie there?” I tried to interrupt a launch into a monologue about art.

“Oh, sure she is. She's upstairs. I'll get her.”

I listened to silence on the line, absentmindedly patting Sam on her silky golden head.

“Just coming.” George's voice came back on the line. “You know we just recently saw a wonderful impressionist's show in Buffalo. The most magnificent Renoir.”

“George,” Lottie's voice rang out from the background. “Leave poor Laura alone. She called to talk with me.” Lottie must have grabbed the receiver out of his hand because the next sound I heard on the line was Lottie's voice apologizing for George.

“You know how he is, Laura. He just goes on and on about things and won't let anyone get a word in. The exhibit was nice though. I heard you've had a series of mishaps. Someone ran over you, did they?”

I explained about the hit-and-run and then told Lottie of my fall. “But I'm staying off the foot now, so I hope it will heal.”

“You only fell this afternoon. If I know you, you'll be out the door tomorrow morning at dawn.”

“Well, I was wondering if we could meet somewhere for lunch tomorrow. I haven't seen you for a while.”

“And you wanted to pick my brain about Marie Becca, right? Love to. But rather than encourage you in ignoring your doctor's orders, how about I drive out to the lake with lunch? I'll pick up some sandwiches or salads at Tina's Deli. We'll have a winter picnic in front of your stove. Sound good?”

“Oh, really, yes it sounds great.”

“I'll be there about noon. I remember the way. Oh, I won't bring George along, although I'm sure he's dying to see you. You're always such a sympathetic audience for him. You know, you can just walk away from him when you get bored. You won't hurt his feelings. He just keeps on talking and hardly notices if anyone's listening or not.”

“Um, could you make it a little earlier?” I patted my empty stomach as it let out a growl.

I was so tired, I felt I wanted to sleep until late morning, roll down the stairs and make coffee about five minutes before Lottie was due to arrive. My stomach let out another growl, and I knew that it was likely it would win out over the sleep.

Sam jumped off the bed and started toward the door, turning to look at me, her brown eyes filled with need. I might as well get up. I limped down the hallway to the stairs, sat down on the top landing, and butt-walked myself down the stairs. At the bottom, I hopped the few steps to my crutches and hobbled into the kitchen. I was closing the kitchen door after letting Sam out when the phone rang.

“It's Emily.” Good, it was my friend from Barnett College.

“I hope it's not too late to call you, but I've had a long day and just got home and I wanted to let you know what I found out about Marie Becca.” I propped the crutches against the kitchen table. They immediately fell onto the floor.

“Oh, damn,” I said.

“I did call too late,” Emily said, an apologetic tone in her voice.

“No, not you. It's these crutches.” I quickly explained my injury and its history.

“Wow, things are heating up in Marie's murder. Why am I not surprised you're in the middle of all of this?”

“So tell me what you've found out.” I sat down at the table.

“It's not a lot, but you'll find it interesting, I'm sure. Marie was an excellent student here, at least until her last month of classes when suddenly her grades plummeted. She finished the semester, but got poor marks on her final exams and wrote inferior papers for classes requiring them. When she notified the college that she wouldn't be returning for her sophomore year, they asked her to do an exit interview. It's standard with all students choosing not to return. Gives us some information on what the college might do to keep these kids. In Marie's case, she simply said the college was too small, that she needed more programs from which to choose her major. But, you know, that's what's really strange. I checked and her major was English. Barnett College has a good reputation in that area. We've attracted some well-published scholars here in literature, most are fabulous instructors, and the students love them, with the exception of a few, of course. Every department has some deadwood as you know.”

“So Marie left and came here. Well, the college here is much larger, but I doubt whether the English Department is better. It sounds like she was looking for anonymity as well as running away from something at Barnett. Perhaps a bad roommate situation? Trouble with a boyfriend? Do you know anything about her family?”

“Now there's a real tragedy,” Emily said. “Both her parents are dead, killed in a car accident when she was very young, five or so. Her maternal grandmother, who died when Marie was a senior in high school, raised her. Marie had no family living by the time she entered college.”

“Maybe the poor grades at the end of the semester were related to a delayed reaction to her grandmother's death, maybe depression setting in. Her losses could have caught up with her. But then, how could she have recovered so quickly once she transferred here? Her performance here was perfect, a repeat of her early days at Barnett. Something happened to her that drove her away from Barnett, I'd bet.”

“I'll keep at it, and see what I can track down. I know this isn't exactly legal, but I can get a copy of her transcript from here if you want it.”

“Emily, you're beginning to sound like me. Never mind getting me the transcript. I can get it myself from her records here. But thanks for the offer. And thanks for all the work. If you do find out anything else, and, I mean anything ,no matter how trivial it seems, call me.”

“Okay, will do. Take care of that ankle and be careful. I know how you are. You are one smart woman, but you have no sense when it comes to your own safety.”

Emily rang off with a promise to keep in touch. Sam scratched at the door.

I maneuvered myself to open the door to a cold and wet Sam. Much more of this running about in the snow and that dog would mildew. She was always wet.