Murder in the English Department (18 page)

‘At times,' said Nan.

‘You usually voted on opposite sides of issues?'

‘Usually,' Nan said, regretting Amy's decision to put her on the stand. But from here she could look directly at Laura Murchie. Her chic pageboy haircut was too short for the figure she had seen running across campus that night. Had it been cut recently? Nan could not remember what she had looked like before.

‘Do you know of anyone else in the department who had such a violent response to Angus Murchie?'

Nan heard several Ohhhs and Ahhhhs from the public gallery. She assumed they were a response to the prosecutor's leading questions.

She looked at the DA, past the DA, to the back of the court. The door had opened, admitting Joan Crawford—Grace Kelly—Marjorie Adams. She was wearing a stunning black suit, laced with long white pearls, and her gold hair was braided tightly on top of her head. She was accompanied by a tall, greying man whom Nan took to be Walter Pidgeon.

Nan felt faint again, strangely distant from the proceedings. She could see the prosecutor saying something to her, but she could not hear the words.

‘Ms Weaver,' someone called.

Were they drowning? Was she drowning?

‘Ms Weaver,' the judge called, as if from the edge of the shore. ‘Ms Weaver, may we have your attention?'

She looked at the judge, feeling like a naughty child who didn't know what she had done.

‘Ms Weaver, would you please address yourself to the prosecutor's question.' Then Judge Gordon, becoming a patient, protective parent, looked out toward the bleachers and said, ‘Those of you who entered late, will you please seat yourselves with as little fuss as possible.'

How did Marjorie learn about this hearing in the wilds of Maryland, Nan wondered. And, her heart stopped for a terrified moment, on which side of the court would she sit?

Nan heard herself asking the DA, ‘I'm sorry, sir, but I have forgotten the question. Could you please repeat it.'

She watched Marjorie sit behind Lisa and Shirley.

‘Where were you on the night of December 31?'

‘I was in my office, until about midnight,' Nan began. She was hearing two voices, as if she were speaking into a microphone. She heard her own voice and she heard Marjorie Adams hearing her voice. ‘Then I drove to Hayward to attend a party with my family.'

Nan looked out at the gallery, at Marjorie Adams, sitting next to Shirley and Lisa. Marjorie so elegant in her New York fashions; Shirley like a Christmas tree in her best green jersey dress. Then Nan watched something she did not quite understand. Lisa was leaning over and offering her hand to Marjorie. Marjorie was shaking it and smiling thinly.

‘Do you know of anyone else in the department who had a violent response to Angus Murchie?' asked the prosecutor.

Nan watched as Marjorie Adams passed forward a note to Amy. Her lawyer opened the folded sheet of blue vellum paper, read the note and, turning back to the strange woman, shook her head.

‘Please.' Nan could see Marjorie's red lips around the word, ‘Please.'

Amy was still shaking her head.

‘Order,' said the judge, finally noticing the situation. ‘Order, please. And, once again, Ms Weaver, will you answer the question.'

‘I know of no one who had a violent response to Angus Murchie,' mumbled Nan. Was the microphone working? Did Marjorie know what Nan was trying to do?

The judge yawned and looked at his watch. ‘Counsel,' he said, ‘how much longer will you need for your questions? It is almost 4.30, perhaps a good time to adjourn for today.'

‘If your honour pleases,' the prosecutor was saying, ‘just three more questions.'

‘And I should like to say something, your honour,' called Marjorie Adams.

Amy looked at Marjorie and then at her client. Nan was shaking her head frantically. Amy's eyebrows rose, as if she had found the last piece of the puzzle. People in the gallery were whispering.

‘Order,' banged the judge. ‘Order. Or I shall have to clear the court. Members of the public must be quiet or leave.'

‘But, by your own admission,' the DA was continuing, ‘as well as by previous testimony, we have discerned that you were the only one …'

Nan knew she would never have a chance to answer him.

‘I'll answer that,' said Marjorie Adams, standing.

‘Guard,' called Judge Gordon, who seemed more disturbed by this intrusion than by any of the day's bloody evidence, ‘will you escort this young lady from the courtroom.'

Walter Pidgeon shook his head, stood and took Marjorie's arm protectively.

‘I killed Angus Murchie,' said Marjorie Adams.

The guard stopped in the aisle.

‘I killed Angus Murchie,' Marjorie was speaking directly to Nan, ‘while he was trying to rape me.'

Chapter Nineteen

STUDENT CLAIMS RAPE/CONFESSES MURDER

MURDER IN THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
TAKES NEW TWIST

PROFESSOR'S HEARING ENDS IN CHAOS

NO DOUBT ABOUT it,
Beth Beale's career at
The Chronicle
was taking off with this story. The out-of-town papers sent reporters after Marjorie made her confession. But Beth Beale kept scooping everyone because she had had an inside track from the start.

Nan was grateful for the clippings concerning the afternoon Marjorie confessed. She spent hours reading the newspaper coverage to pass her last three days in Santa Marta until the District Attorney developed a brief against Marjorie. Besides, Nan had been in such shock that she couldn't remember anything for herself, like Shirley's tears and Lisa's huge smile and the bloodless pale of Marjorie's face. She didn't remember Laura Murchie's scream, her shouting, ‘You little …'
The Chronicle
left some details, but not many, to the reader's imagination.

The paper scoured the new defendant's history, helping Nan begin to solve the mystery of Marjorie Adams. This daughter of rich, conservative parents had attended only private schools until she finally struck a blow for radicalism and came to Berkeley. A straight-A student. She had little interest in socializing or in politics. But she wasn't completely a loner. Beth Beale discovered that Marjorie had worked with retarded children in Berkeley for three years.

Alma Pedersen, Director of Community Connection at the North County Children's Home, said Adams was one of her best volunteers. ‘Prompt, reliable,' said Pedersen. ‘A little on the cool side to the staff, but very involved with the children.'

Apparently Marjorie was also responsible
to her god. A regular attender at St Mark's Episcopal Church, according to Beth's third investigative article. A member of the choir. No one had much to say about her. ‘Modest, understated,' offered the minister. ‘A superb contralto,' said the choir director.

Beth Beale did not neglect Angus Murchie in her investigations. She ran a long story about his reputation on campus. The Sexual Harassment Campaign had taken on a life of its own in Murchie's gory wake. Twenty-two women had now made depositions to the Chancellor's Committee about Murchie's advances.

The story that Nan regretted most was the one which painted her as some kind of saint. Marjorie, in her rush of communication after the long months of silence, had told Beth Beale about Nan finding her scarf, about Nan covering for her. In turn, Beth asked Nan if she had done this sisterly act. Amy warned Nan not to respond. Concealing evidence was a serious offence, a felony. So, when Nan answered, ‘No comment,' to these allegations of sorority, her modesty was immediately canonized by the Campus Feminist Caucus.

The day before Nan's release, Amy arrived at visiting hours ranting about Beth Beale's article.

‘Who do you think you are?' demanded Amy. ‘Joan of Arc?'

‘No,' Nan was looking down at the wooden table where a dozen names and initials had been scratched into immortality. ‘I'm sorry,' Nan said finally. She knew the relationship with Amy would need a lot of repair work.

‘Lying to your lawyer is lunatic enough, but I thought we were friends, Nan, I thought …'

‘Would you have let me go through with it?' asked Nan.

‘You bet your boots I wouldn't. How self-destructive, putting your neck on the line when there was no need. Just how did you expect me to conduct a defence?'

‘I was innocent,' said Nan. ‘They had no evidence to convict me.'

‘Oi, yoi, yoi, yoi, yoi. I'm stunned that you even hired a lawyer.'

‘I know I was stupid,' said Nan, wondering, herself, if she had been naive or if her instinct had come from a different plane of wisdom. ‘But I thought that if I was convicted then I could explain about Marjorie. I really didn't think I'd get convicted. Nothing very noble about that.'

‘You're right,' agreed Amy. ‘Nothing very noble, just very, very dumb.'

Nan shook her head and sighed.

‘Besides,' said Army, ‘how could you risk your life for that upper-class princess? You didn't even like her.'

‘I didn't dislike her. I mean I respected her. Besides, that's not the point. She was another woman.' Nan paused. ‘She needed help. You should understand that.'

As Amy left the waiting room, Nan wondered once again whether she had lost Amy's friendship.

Nan wasn't surprised that Amy sent someone else to pick her up from Santa Marta the next morning. She had expected to be greeted by a cordon of reporters. But luckily—how could she use such a word?—Marjorie's arraignment had been scheduled for the same day as her own release, so most of the press was down at the courthouse. Two photographers insisted on snapping Nan's picture as she walked through the prison gate.

Matt came in Isadora. It was a sweet thought, knowing how much she missed the car. But Nan wished that he had just driven his Triumph. Now she had an almost irrepressible urge to chat with Isadora. And she had never told anyone, not even Matt, about these tête-à-têtes with her automobile.

‘So now that we've rescued Rapunzel from the tower, where would she like to go?' asked Matt cheerfully. ‘I've taken the day off to be at your disposal.'

Rapunzel, thought Nan. Blonde hair in the dark night. Withholding evidence, thought Nan. She still couldn't tell Matt all that had happened on New Year's Eve. Amy had managed to get the DA not to press charges for withholding information. But she would have to remain silent. ‘Felony,' she heard Amy's voice echo inside her head. ‘Felony.' So even now, Nan concealed the concealed evidence. Sometimes she thought she might burst with this story. She felt like one of those dope freaks trying to smuggle cocaine by swallowing a balloon. Sometimes, she remembered darkly, the balloons fill up with air, expand, explode inside the body. Any second now, Nan might explode.

‘How sweet of you,' said Nan to Matt, thinking that all she really wanted was to be at home, alone, in her apartment. ‘Why don't we go somewhere with fresh air, somewhere warm and sunny and with a view of the ocean.'

So the two friends drove to Point Reyes and went hiking on Dillon Beach. Clouds flew across the cold blue sky on a high wind. Hills along the coast were heavy with green from March rains. Nan wanted to cry at this beauty after the long weeks in grim Santa Marta. She had looked forward to such freedom, to this chance for talking. She wanted to tell Matt about Santa Marta, about the guards and the inmates. But she felt stuffed up, clogged. Terrible company. Restless even on the wild Pacific Coast.

Matt understood, of course Matt understood, so he dropped her back at the flat in the late afternoon. She called Shirley briefly, then unplugged the phone, swallowed four blessed Sleepese and didn't wake until morning.

The desk was stacked
with
mail which had arrived during the last month. Bills. Telephone bills (she plugged in the cord, intending to call Shirley as soon as she had had a cup of coffee), electricity bills, insurance bills. Would the state pay for these extra interest charges? Could she sue for false arrest? Before she finished the questions, the phone rang. It was Shirley.

‘So good to hear your voice,' said Shirley.

‘Same here,' said Nan. But she was leery that an inch more sentiment might make her cry, so she added, ‘You know you did see me five times at Santa Marta.'

‘Nan Weaver,' said Shirley. ‘We all have a right to be relieved at your release.'

‘Yes,' Nan answered.

‘And,' Shirley hesitated, ‘Joe has planned a party tomorrow night, a kind of celebration, a coming-out party.'

‘Oh, Shirl, do we have to …'

‘It's just a little thing,' said Shirley. ‘Family, and a few friends. Let him do it, Nan. Let us do something for you.'

‘OK,' agreed Nan. She had searched so long for a way to love the family. Perhaps this was the best, the simplest way, by letting them love her. As Nan listened to Shirley, she remembered her on the witness stand, full of sisterly protectiveness.

‘See you tomorrow night,' said Shirley.

‘Right.' said Nan. ‘Give my love to Lisa … and Joe.'

Coming out, thought Nan. Perhaps it was time for that. If they had stood by her at the murder trial, maybe she could tell them about … who knew what would come out next?

The telephone rang again. A reporter.

And again. Another reporter.

Before it could ring a third time, Nan unplugged it.

Prior to the coming-out party,
Nan was faced with an even more peculiar social chore, a dinner engagement with Rose Adams, Marjorie's mother. Mrs Adams had let it be known to Nan that she was eager to talk, once discretion made it possible. Of course that meant once Nan was released from jail. Nan was prepared to dislike Mrs Adams. However, both Amy and Matt had told her she was a rather sympathetic character. A garrulous eccentric Eastern matron. The kind of sophisticated woman who always made Nan feel extra short and near-sighted.

Tonight, as Nan stood paralyzed in front of her closet, she wondered how she had agreed to this dinner. What more could she owe this rich family; they could take care of themselves. From what Beth Beale had reported about the Adams' merchandizing estate, they had enough money to hire a battery of fancy psychiatrists and fast-talking lawyers. What could Nan offer? What could she say to Mrs Adams? (‘I'm sorry this had to happen' or ‘Your daughter's thesis is coming along brilliantly' or ‘My, what an awkward way to make your acquaintance.')

Isadora offered no advice on how to survive the social obligation as they began the drive to San Francisco. They were going to The Golden Hare Restaurant Français—Mrs Adams's suggestion. One of those terribly discreet places on Nob Hill. Discreet. Mrs Adams was so discreet she had even managed to keep her photograph out of the newspaper. The one, very touching thing that Nan had learned about Rose was her close friendship with Marjorie. Because Harold Adams was so preoccupied with his work, Rose looked to her daughter for company.

‘Damn,' said Nan, as she missed the turn-off to the Bay Bridge. She found herself on Highway 580, headed in the direction of Oakland. Highway 580 would lead to Southern Alameda County, Hayward, and, if she went far enough, Santa Marta.

‘OK, OK, Isadora, so I've obsessed enough about Mrs Adams. Let's change the topic. Tell me what I should do about the department.'

Professor Nelson had conveyed his good wishes through Matt yesterday afternoon. And when Nan returned home, she found Nelson's letter advising her to take off the Spring Quarter with full pay. This would allow her time to recover and to do some of her excellent critical writing. The tenure decision would be postponed until the following fall, of course, because technically she had not yet served a full seven years. This leave of absence seemed to everyone's advantage, didn't it?

Nan had agreed. Tenure. Somehow the tenure decision had lost so much weight for her. Tenure. She still wanted this job. Of course she did.

Soon Nan was lost on Nob Hill. Nob Hill. The damnedest thing about Nob Hill was finding a parking space which cost less than $5.00 a minute.

It was in this harried and rather belligerent mood that Nan entered the dim vestibule of The Golden Hare Restaurant Français. Adjusting her eyes to the half-light, she stopped still. Sitting at a small table in the corner, her head in a book, was Marjorie Adams.

Not possible, realized Nan as she gingerly resumed walking. She couldn't have received bail yet. Not until after the arraignment. Not possible, Nan repeated to herself. Then she noticed that this woman was slightly softer around the edges than Marjorie. In this dark light, she could pass for Marjorie's twin. The pair of them might pose for one of those mother-daughter Palmolive commercials. Nan's reverie was interrupted by the double herself.

‘Why hello there,' she called. ‘There' sounded more like ‘theyah'. Her voice carried across the restaurant softly but clearly. Nan nodded, smiled politely and concentrated on not tripping as she approached the small table.

‘Welcome,' said Rose Adams, extending her hand. ‘Welcome, and thank you for coming. Why thank you for everything, for trying to save our daughter, for being such a fine professor, a real inspiration, I'm given to understand.'

‘Not at all,' said Nan, finally untangling her hand from Mrs Adams's firm grasp and sitting down.

Rose Adams talked incessantly—like Shirley—as if words might shut out her anxiety. She paused only when sipping her pink cocktail through a tiny striped straw.

‘How can I express my gratitude for all you've done, for all you've tried to do for my little Margie?'

It felt like an eternity before the waitress brought Nan her Bushmill, straight up. Nan wondered if Amy had been right, if she had been foolish risking her neck for these rich people.

‘Marvellous,' said Rose.

Nan was calling her Rose by now.

‘You drink just like my husband,' said Rose. ‘No fooling around with these sodapop ladies' beverages. Whiskey straight up. That does suit your strong character, from what Margie tells me.'

The idea of Marjorie and Mum chatting about Nan in the seclusion of their formal garden was slightly unnerving.

‘I'd like to know more about you, Nan,' Rose continued warmly. ‘All about you. You must be a remarkable person to do this for my daughter. But of course Margie told me just how remarkable you are. You worked in East Africa, where was it?'

‘Tanzania,' Nan answered. But how did Marjorie know about that? From the posters on her wall, perhaps, or the framed Visitor's Pass to State House in Dar es Salaam? She had never noticed Marjorie noticing anything in her office except perhaps dust on the bookcase and a fallen hem on her skirt.

‘Isn't that fascinating,' said Rose. ‘Why on earth would you go all the way over to Tanzania? As a Professor of English, I mean. I understand, of course, that the region holds certain archaeological fascinations. I was an anthropology major at Bryn Mawr, myself. None of these grand tours of Europe for Rosie, no; I spent three summers in Olduvai Gorge …'