Majoring In Murder (17 page)

Seth Hazlitt had listened patiently to my tale and, as he usually did, took my side in the controversy. I looked at my watch. My class was due to start in ten minutes. I’d called him on my cell phone from my empty classroom, after spending a busy morning helping Manny Rosenfeld and Letitia Tingwell make arrangements for the memorial service. This was the first free time I’d found.

“I looked at the photos I took, and they’re disappointing,” I said. “I got a good shot of the footprint, but the bloodstain looks like dirt. There’s something about the footprint that bothers me, but I can’t tell you why. And the picture of the filing cabinet is all washed out. The flash was too close.”

“Well, hang on to them anyway. You never know if one might come in handy someday.”

“The real problem is retrieving the poker—I left it under the desk in Kammerer House. And what do I do with it once I have it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it has to go to a forensic laboratory for examination. But I can’t ask the local police to send it in. They’ve already rejected the idea that any crime took place.”

“What about the coroner? Will he do it?”

“I already called him. Apparently Parish came down hard on Dr. Zelinsky for even suggesting the possibility of murder, and he backed off. He said he doesn’t want to be embarrassed in front of his colleagues. He told me that if I can get the proof myself, he’ll back me up, but meanwhile he’s out of the picture.”

“Can you go over their heads?”

“You mean straight to the state police? I somehow doubt they’d entertain a murder charge if the local police aren’t involved. No. It has to go somewhere outside of Indiana, somewhere where the results won’t be challenged.”

“Mort ought to be able to help you there,” Seth said, referring to our Cabot Cove sheriff. “He’s still got lots of connections in New York City. And he’s already curious about what’s taking place at the college. Matter of fact, he rang me up this morning wanting to know what mess you’re in now.”

“How could he have heard what’s happening here?”

“He heard, all right. Seems the police department in New Salem called him last night, wanting to know if you had a criminal record.”

“Oh, heavens, they didn’t.”

“Ayuh. They did. You didn’t turn up on their national database, but they thought you might be a local crook.”

“How embarrassing.”

“Coulda been a lot worse. It’s lucky Mort was the one to take the call. It would’ve been all over town this morning if Phyllis Goad had picked up.”

“What’s Phyllis doing at the sheriffs office?”

“Temping while Marie’s on vacation.”

Phyllis Goad had been Charlene Sassi’s assistant for years. Charlene owns the bakery in Cabot Cove, featuring the best baked goods and hottest gossip in town.

“That makes it even worse,” I said, pacing back and forth in front of the blackboard. “My reputation is teetering on the edge here. Harriet thinks I’m obsessed, and Lieutenant Parish thinks I’m a lawbreaker. If he finds me in Kammerer House again, I won’t have a prayer of talking my way out of it. But if I don’t get that poker soon, it’ll be too late to test it to see if it’s the murder weapon. They’re planning to start demolition next week.”

“Now, don’t be going into a pink stink,” he said, Maine-speak for what might be considered a blue funk elsewhere in the country. “There’ll be some opportunity come along. It always does.”

“I hope you’re right. Between the letter to Wes’s sister, and the angle and nature of the fatal wound, there’s every reason to look into his death. And there’s also the little detail that it doesn’t make sense that a man, recognizing the signs of an impending tornado, wouldn’t take pains to protect himself, unless, of course, he couldn’t. And another thing I keep coming back to: What happened to his papers? They’re missing. He was hugging that fat briefcase so tight when I saw him, whatever it contained must have been very important to him.”

“I don’t know about that, Jess. Maybe it was just his students’ papers. A man wouldn’t want to lose those in a storm either.”

“You’re right, of course. But where did they go? There were no papers under the rubble inside Kammerer House. They couldn’t have
all
blown away. If they did, why would there still have been pencils and other items in the bottom of the briefcase? The wind would have taken them, too. And the overturned file cabinet. A drawer is open, but the files are still there.”

“That’s a puzzlement, I agree.”

We continued to chew over the mysteries surrounding Wes Newmark’s death in silence, both of us deep in thought. Finally, sounds in the hall jarred me from my reverie. I recognized Tyler’s voice saying, “Hey, man, what’re you doing?”

“Seth, my class is due to start soon. I’d better hang up now. Thanks for letting me sound off.”

“Anytime, you know that. Just be careful, Jess. You’re not on home seas there.”

“I will.”

“And I’ll tell Mort he should expect a call from you.”

I smiled. “You do that.” I pressed the off button and slipped the phone into my purse as the first students entered the classroom.

“Why were you hanging around out there in the hall?” Tyler asked Eli as they took seats together in the back of the room.

“Shh, man,” Eli said in a low voice. “I wasn’t hanging around. I was waiting for you. You borrowed my tape recorder. Did you bring it back?”

Had Eli overheard any part of my conversation with Seth? Had anyone else? I didn’t have time to worry about it. The classroom filled, and the eager faces of my students transported me away from disturbing thoughts for the next hour and a half.

 

“I was hoping I’d see you again.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Yesterday was a difficult day.”

“Letitia came by in the afternoon. She said she’d seen you at lunchtime, but not later on.”

“Is she here?”

“Not right now, but I expect her soon. Don’t you want to come in?”

“Yes, thanks.”

I’d been standing at the front door to La Salle House, trying to decide how I was going to tell Lorraine that the police had dismissed the letter she’d brought with her from Alaska, and that there would be no investigation of her brother’s death. She’d opened the door before I even knocked.

“I’m just making myself some tea,” she said. “Would you like a cup?”

“Yes. I could use one.”

We settled at the kitchen table with two mugs of tea and a plate of cookies one of the faculty wives had delivered.

“Everyone has been so kind,” Lorraine said. “I already have a freezerful of casseroles. Even President Needler paid me a condolence call yesterday.”

“That was nice of him.”

“I thought so, too. He was very complimentary about Wes. He said the board of trustees was considering naming the new English department building after Wes once it’s built.”

“That would be a lovely tribute to him.”

“He wanted to know if he could have the photo of Wes he’d seen once in the study. The college newspaper needed it, he said. I gave it to him. I was planning on taking that home with me. I hope he’ll return it. Do you think he will?”

“I would have thought the college would have a photograph on file. And the student newspaper, too, for that matter.”

“I guess they don’t, if he asked for that one. Anyway, he didn’t stay long. He took his books and left.”

“What books were those?”

“The books Wes had borrowed.”

“He told you Wes had borrowed books from him?”

“Yes. It took him quite a while to find them, too. He went over the shelves pretty carefully, but eventually found them all.”

“Do you remember which books they were?”

“Why? Is something wrong? Shouldn’t I have let him take the books? They were his, after all. He said he only lent them to Wes.”

“Don’t fret about it. I just find his timing odd, that’s all.”

“I think he was afraid I’d pack everything up and ship it off before he could get his books back.”

“That must be it.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember the titles. I didn’t want them anyway. They were junky books, so dusty and old, the bindings were starting to go. I don’t know why he was so anxious to get them back.”

“I wonder,” I said, sipping my tea, which had gotten cold. “I understand you gave the letter to Harriet,” I said.

“Yes. She came back that night and asked for a copy, said she wanted to take it to the police herself. So I gave it to her. That was all right, wasn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“I know you said you wanted to wait for the autopsy, but I thought the sooner the cops had it, the better. They could start looking into it.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,” I said, “at least not right away.”

“Why not? Wes’s letter says he thinks his life is in danger. Isn’t that something to investigate?”

“I think so, but Harriet doesn’t.”

“She didn’t give it to the police, did she?”

“Oh, no. She wouldn’t lie to you. She gave it to the police as she said she would. But Lieutenant Parish is an old friend of her family’s, and he has a great deal of respect for Harriet’s opinion. She managed to convince him that Wes was unbalanced when he wrote it, and that it would be futile to investigate what was so obviously a tragic accident.”

“And he believed her?”

“He did.”

“Maybe if you talked to him ...” She looked at me hopefully.

“I already have. And so did the coroner. Unfortunately, he didn’t believe either of us.”

“The coroner? Did he do the autopsy? What did it say?”

“That Wes died from a blow to the head. We knew that already. There are some suspicious findings but nothing definitive.” I didn’t want to go into details, which would cause her pain. And unless I could get Lieutenant Parish to change his mind, the specific information from the autopsy would only distress her.

“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” she said glumly.

“Maybe, but I’m not sure. Do you have another copy of the letter with you?”

“I have the original.”

“Then I have a big favor to ask.”

“You want it?”

“I’d like to keep it for a few days if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. You’re my only hope for justice for Wes. He said not to accept an accidental death, that it wouldn’t be what it appeared to be. ‘Investigate it,’ he said. I feel like I’m letting him down. I should have listened to you. I never should have given her the copy.”

“You did what you thought was best, and no one can fault you for that.”

She pushed back her chair. “Let me get the letter for you.”

“I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”

“I know you will,” she said. “I trust you.”

She went upstairs to the bedroom. A minute later she returned and handed me the letter, her hand trembling.

“I’ll photocopy it as soon as I can and return it.”

We sat in silence as I reread the letter.

“We found Wes’s safe,” she said. “It’s behind a painting, hanging in the study.”

I looked up. Finally some good news. I folded the letter and put it in the zipper pocket of my handbag.

“What was in it?” I asked.

“We haven’t been able to open it yet. It’s locked, of course, and we couldn’t find the combination. We went through every drawer in his desk, and checked every folder in his file cabinet.”

“You and Mrs. Tingwell?”

“Yes. Letitia came to introduce herself yesterday. She was very helpful.”

“She’s a nice lady. Did you show her the letter?”

“No. I figured that until the police made it public, I wouldn’t say anything. I didn’t want to upset her. She said she and Wes were close friends.”

“That was considerate of you.”

“She’s helping with the memorial service, too.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“The two of us searched for Wes’s will yesterday, but we couldn’t find it. I think it’s probably in the safe. But the combination ...”

“It wasn’t with the letter he sent you?”

“No, just the locket. And before you ask, yes, I looked on the back of the photo, just in case he had written it there.”

I smiled. “I see you’re a mystery fan, too.” “It was the kind of thing he’d do when we were kids. But there’s nothing on or under the photo, or on the other side of the locket. I even examined it under a magnifying glass to see if he’d scratched it on the case.”

“Is there a duplicate of the photo somewhere in the house?” I asked.

“I didn’t think of that. There’s another picture in the study.”

We carried our mugs to the study and set them atop a magazine on the desk. The room was small but charming, in a masculine way, with walls painted a deep rust color, a maple desk in front of the window, and a navy plaid love seat against the wall. A laptop computer sat open on the desk. Above the love seat were three oil paintings the college had obviously supplied, and a small shelf on which Wes had placed a glass figure of a cat, a plaster bust of Mark Twain, and a framed photograph of Lorraine posing next to a stuffed polar bear.

“I sent him that one the first year I moved to Juneau,” she said, taking down the photo and smiling at the memory. “Alaska was so exotic to me. It was like going to a foreign country. I loved it from the start.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“It’s all familiar to me now—the polar bears, the dogsled races, the long winter—but I still love it. Should I check behind this?”

“Can’t hurt,” I said, and watched her slide off the back of the frame.

“Nothing here,” Lorraine said. “I hope the combination wasn’t on the back of the photo President Needler took.”

“Me, too. Is this the only photo in the house?”

“I haven’t seen any others. Wes wasn’t a sentimental guy. He’d be more likely to shove pictures in a box than display them. I sent this one of me to him already framed. He probably got the other one that way, too.”