Majoring In Murder (24 page)

We moved up the aisle of the Benjamin Harrison Auditorium, named for the Indiana citizen and twenty-third president of the United States. Behind us, Letitia Tingwell, dressed in black, her eyes red and swollen, leaned on the arm of Professor Manny Rosenfeld. My heart went out to her. Of all of us, she mourned Wes Newmark the most, yet had no official place in his life, one that would allow her to be recognized for the sacrifices she’d made for him and the love she bore him that, as far as anyone knew, had gone unrequited.

Outside, the sky was overcast; black clouds rimmed the horizon, a fitting atmosphere for a memorial service. Lorraine stopped at the top of the steps, accepting condolences. A photographer from the student newspaper stood nearby, adjusting his telephoto lens. I moved off to the side.

Vernon Foner stepped away from the group and came up to me.

“Gad, that Getler can go on, can’t he? The man just loves the sound of his own voice.”

“Lorraine was pleased with the service,” I said.

“Yes. Well, Manny did a nice job. He always does. How did you like my eulogy? Did I make Wes sound too saintly?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. Didn’t want to lay it on too thick. But with those ridiculous rumors flying around campus, I wanted it known that he was not someone anyone would murder. He was a popular professor.”

“Was he?”

“It doesn’t matter. The man is dead, after all. Say nice things and get off the stage. We’ll all miss him, but life goes on.” He tugged on the bottom of his vest. “They’ll have to name a new department chairman soon. Other than Wes, I’m probably the most published of the English professors. That should stand me in good stead when they’re making their decision. You’re a friend of Dean Bennett’s. Do you have any idea when she’ll be making that announcement?”

“I’m not consulted about such things.”

“Well, of course, I know that. But I thought maybe she confided in you.”

“If she did, it wouldn’t be very nice of me to breach her confidence, would it?”

Foner looked ill at ease. “No, of course not,” he said.

“Tell me about your new book,” I said. “You sounded very excited when you were telling Rebecca about it.”

“Yes. It’s going to be wonderful.”

“What it’s about?”

“The influence of George Meredith on Robert Louis Stevenson.”

“I heard you say that the other day. Can’t you tell me more than that?”

“It’s about their friendship and correspondence. You’ll just have to read it,” he said, smiling.

“I’d like to do that. Have you been working on it for a while?”

“Oh, I had the idea several years ago, but I didn’t have time to complete the research and write it until this summer.”

“You must be a very fast writer. I certainly need a lot more than two months to write my books, and they aren’t scholarly.”

“The research, that takes years, but once I have the vision in my mind, I just sit down and write and write and write. I spent the whole summer on it. It was exhausting, but I got it done.”

“Well, congratulations. It’s always exciting when a book is accepted for publication. Who’s your publisher?”

“I haven’t exactly signed the contract yet, so I’m a little superstitious about talking about it. You understand. Don’t want to jinx it by using their name. I’ll let you know soon.”

“Please do. I’m very interested.”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of Larry Durbin. Have you seen him this morning?”

“Isn’t that Larry standing next to Lorraine Newmark?”

“So it is. Excuse me.”

Foner waded into the crowd surrounding Lorraine, but stopped to talk with a student and never reached Durbin, who left accompanied by his wife, Melissa.

It looked as if the entire campus had turned out for the service. Phil Adler had missed it, of course, but he was due for release from the hospital that morning. Edgar Poole had no such excuse. The English department had been asked to assemble early so that we could all sit together with Lorraine in the front of the auditorium. Edgar’s absence had been noted, although not commented on by anyone other than Letitia Tingwell.

“Where is he? He’s usually so prompt.”

“Maybe he preferred to sit with the students,” I said.

“Oh, that’s all right then.”

But I hadn’t seen Edgar among the students, and I’d been keeping watch for him.

There was still a sizable group of faculty members and students waiting to extend their condolences when President Needler emerged from the auditorium, a frustrated look on his face. He pushed through the crowd, elbowed Pastor Getler aside, and took Lorraine’s hand. He murmured his sympathies and departed immediately, moving sideways to get through the throng. I caught up with him as he descended the stairs.

“President Needler,” I called, “may I speak with you a moment before you leave?”

He hesitated before turning to me. “Will it take very long? I’m leaving for the weekend.”

“I wanted to say how much I enjoyed your remarks about Wes Newmark.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you. Nice to be appreciated.”

“And to ask you why you took books and a photograph from his study.”

Needler’s face turned red; he coughed and cleared his throat. “They ... uh ... were ... uh, books I had lent to him. Yes, I had let him use them for his research and I was merely reclaiming them. After all, they’re mine. I don’t see why that should concern you.” He turned and continued down the stairs, but I kept stride with him. “In fact,” he said, when he saw he wasn’t rid of me, “that seems to me to be a rather impertinent question, Mrs. Fletcher. You have no business questioning my actions. You’re a guest on this campus. That’s quite an attitude you have. What have you to say for yourself?”

“President Needler, I’m not a student you can intimidate.”

“You’d better have a good reason for this third degree.”

He was now on the attack, a tactic I was sure he must have used successfully before. I was taking a chance questioning him, but the time was getting away from me. Kammerer House was to be torn down in a matter of days. If I didn’t turn up something soon, the case would die for lack of evidence. I needed to rattle him again and see if I could shake loose some information.

“Wes Newmark died under unusual and frankly suspicious circumstances,” I said in a low voice.

“Nonsense,” he said. “That’s just some student tall tale. I’m surprised you would fall for that.”

“The rumor this time is accurate,” I said. “An investigation is going to take place. I thought you should know, considering that the police will want to know why you tampered with Newmark’s belongings.”

Needler was stunned. “Police? I haven’t heard that the police were looking into this. When did that happen? And I wasn’t tampering. I ... I ... I ... was simply retrieving books that are mine. Wes was going to give them back. He knew they’re very precious to me. I didn’t want his sister to give them away to a book sale. Why didn’t I hear about the police investigation? Why am I being kept in the dark?” His voice was starting to rise.

“Let’s walk together,” I said. “I don’t want us to be overheard.” We moved away from people trooping down the stairs and spreading out across the campus. I accompanied Needler in the direction of the Student Union and paused next to one of the bare oak trees in the quad. When I was sure we were alone, I spoke again. “It’s all been very hush-hush. Even Harriet doesn’t know. You’re the first one I’ve mentioned it to. And you need to keep it quiet.”

“Of course, I can be trusted.”

“Can you?” I asked, looking hard into his eyes. “Those books were first editions, weren’t they?”

He swallowed audibly and nodded.

“You never lend out books from your collection. You told me so yourself. Why did Newmark have those books?”

Needler ran a trembling hand through his white hair, and I felt a momentary pang of guilt for harassing an old man.

“This is not something I want to be made public,” he said. “I must have your assurance you will keep it confidential.”

“I can’t promise you that. If it has something to do with Wes Newmark’s death, the police will have to know.”

“It had nothing to do with his death. I’ve done nothing illegal,” he said. “They were simply markers, that’s all.”

“Gambling markers?”

“Yes. I’d lost a lot of money on ... well, it doesn’t matter what it was on, does it? I was being threatened. It was very frightening. Never happened to me before. I didn’t have the money, so I went to Wes. He paid off my debt.”

“And you gave him the books as collateral.”

“Yes. I would have paid him back the money. I swear. Then, after he died, I couldn’t stand the thought that those books might be sent off to some secondhand dealer who didn’t know what he had, or sold at some tag sale in Alaska, or worse, thrown out.”

“So you took them.”

“She had no interest in them. She said they were ‘junky.’ Can you imagine? One of them was a first edition of Thackeray. It took me years to find it. You won’t tell the police about the books, will you?”

“I won’t as long as you pay Lorraine fair value for them.”

“I will. You have my word.”

“How much did Wes give you for them?”

“I ... uh ... believe it was several thousand.”

“More like fifteen thousand, wasn’t it?”

“It may have been as much as that. I’d have to look it up. I’ve already saved quite a bit so I can repay her.”

“Were you the only one Wes Newmark loaned money to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you aware of any other people who borrowed from him?”

“I wouldn’t know that, although he always had plenty of cash. The guy was an incredibly lucky gambler. He never lost. Not just at our monthly game. We went to Las Vegas a few times. He would clean out the casino. They asked him not to come back.”

“Where were you the morning of the tornado? Where were you when Newmark was killed?”

“I ... I ... was attending my Gamblers Anonymous meeting in New Salem. It’s every Saturday. I’ll give you a phone number, if you want. You can call yourself to confirm it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You used the excuse of needing a photograph of Newmark to get into his study and take the books, didn’t you?”

He looked confused. “No. No. The student paper needed his photograph for their obituary. I told Miss Newmark and she offered that picture in the frame.”

“You’re not telling me the truth. The paper had a photograph of him. It appeared in the same edition as the announcement of my coming to Schoolman.”

“I’m not lying. Harriet said the campus newspaper needed his photo. She asked me to pick it up when I paid a call on Lorraine.”

“Did you give the photo to the student newspaper?”

“No. I gave it to Harriet. She said she’d make sure it went to the proper person.”

I was surprised. Harriet had access to faculty records and could have had a photo of Wes Newmark at any time. Why, I wondered, did she want that particular one?

Needler scratched his cheek. “You know, I thought it was odd that the newspaper didn’t have a picture of him. He was a department head, after all. But she said to get it, so I got it.”

“Do you always follow her orders?”

He straightened and his expression hardened. “I raise a lot of money for this college. That’s what I was hired to do, and I do it. I’m the president! I won’t be patronized by you or her or anyone else.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I apologize.”

“Is that enough? May I go now?”

“Yes. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention to anyone about my attendance at Gamblers Anonymous. That’s a private matter.”

“I won’t say anything, but you may want to tell the police yourself, if they question you.”

He turned and strode off across the campus, his erect carriage and white hair easily setting him apart from the milling students who stepped aside to let him pass. He was an odd combination of erudition and indiscretion with his love of antiquarian books and his weakness for gambling. But maybe they were more allied than I’d previously thought. Maybe the thrill of purchasing a rare first edition was as much a gamble as betting on a poker hand. He hadn’t been entirely truthful, but he’d given me a lot to think about.

Perhaps Wes Newmark had been an underground banker. If so, whoever owed him the most money may have decided not to repay in the usual manner.

The library was unusually quiet when I entered the main reading room. Most of the students and faculty had taken off for the weekend, following the memorial service. The tables were empty, the screens dark on the banks of computers.

Administration members and the faculty of the English department would have gone back to La Salle House with Lorraine Newmark for refreshments sent over by the cafeteria staff. Rather than have Harriet’s coldness toward me put a chill on the day for the others, I’d told Lorraine I would stop by later on. Instead, I decided, it was an opportune time to explore the passage I’d seen on Professor Constantine’s map, the one Eli had taken to Kammerer House to retrieve the poker.

The library’s basement housed the stacks for its nonfiction books. Fiction, a more limited collection, occupied the spacious main floor, with its spectacular arching glass skylight. Downstairs, case after case of books with narrow, carpeted aisles between them marched away to the distant walls. The cramped quarters, low ceiling, and fluorescent lighting gave the area a claustrophobic atmosphere despite its substantial size. Only the small signs at the ends of each section signifying the subject matter and its Dewey decimal numbers gave any indication of where in this vast room you stood. If there were students here hunting for books, they were as easily camouflaged as deer in the woods. It would be impossible to know how many people had taken refuge here during the tornado. It was too easy to hide. Claiming to have been here when Newmark was murdered wouldn’t be much of an alibi for Edgar Poole.