Phi Beta Murder (2 page)

Rex had not liked
leaving Moira in a state, but hadn’t known what else to do, since he needed to get back home to pack and leave last-minute instructions for his law clerk. That done, he sat down to tea in the parlor.

His mother prided herself on serving the best afternoon tea in Morningside, the tiered cake tray arranged with drop scones prepared by Miss Bird and eaten off gold-rimmed Royal Doulton side plates, the dainty repast conducted with as much ritual as a Japanese tea ceremony.

At Christmas, Helen had had the fortuitous intuition to inquire about the lace doilies on the table, thus ingratiating herself with his mother forever. “Such delicate crochet work. Wherever did you find them?”

“My dear, I made them myself! Likewise the headrest covers on the armchairs. I must give ye a set to take home wi’ ye.”

Helen had recovered quickly. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Graves, but only if you can spare them. They are truly exquisite.”

“Mother can always make some more,” Rex assured her.

“Get away wi’ ye! They don’t grow on trees.” Mrs. Graves turned to Helen. “Men have nary an appreciation for the finer things. If it weren’t for women, they’d still be living in caves!”

Rex felt this was a gross exaggeration, but confined himself to a patient smile, delighted that the two women were getting on so well.

“I do like your mother,” Helen had approved when they found themselves alone. “She’s such a grand old lady. Do you think she likes me?”

“You have completely won her over, lass. What are you going to do with the lace doilies?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Helen admitted, and they had both laughed.

Just as important, Helen got on famously with his son Campbell, who had made a few appearances at the house over the holidays when he wasn’t busy catching up with old school friends. She seemed amazingly informed about contemporary music, probably because she worked with teenagers—and had asked Campbell about American groups with names you wouldn’t dream of giving a pet hamster.

“Don’t forget to take Campbell the sweater I knitted him,” his mother said, interrupting his reverie as she poured tea from a fine china pot.

Even in her mid-eighties, her features were still delicate, her figure as graceful as a girl’s, although her once red-gold hair had faded to pure white. Her hands retained their dexterity, her green eyes their sharp vision, and she had been able to pursue her needlework and Bible-reading all these years without the aid of spectacles.

“Mother, it’s 80 degrees in Florida. Campbell will no be needing a sweater.”

“Best he have it just in case. The weather is unpredictable. Remember the flooding they had in England last year and the heat wave in Europe?”

“All right, Mother.” Pointless to argue with her, even though he felt certain his son would never wear the tangerine sweater, which even Rex knew was all wrong for his coloring. It would merely be a waste of space in his suitcase.

“There could be another Ice Age over there, for all we know,” his mother insisted.

Scenes of destruction from
The Day After Tomorrow
filed through Rex’s mind. “Unlikely that would happen in the three years Campbell has left at college,” he reasoned.

“I do wish the lad had stayed home. It seems you’re always hopping on a plane these days. Now I have to worry about terrorist hijackings, metal fatigue, and the prepackaged food they serve on board.”

“You worry too much, Mother.”

His father had been killed by a drunk driver, which had put her faith in all things severely to the test.

“It’s the phone for ye,” the old housekeeper informed him, shuffling into the parlor and giving Rex a meaningful look.

He sighed. It was probably Moira. She had called several times already, leaving frantic messages on his cell phone. “Please take a message, Miss Bird.”

“It’s Moira,” the housekeeper grudgingly confirmed, her eyes sliding to Mrs. Graves.

Rex guessed Moira had not wanted his mother to find out she was calling and had told Miss Bird not to say anything. His mother had been very put out when she discovered Moira had left him for another man.

“Moira Wilcox?” she asked, astounded. “Is she back from Iraq then?”

“Aye, she followed me to Arthur’s Seat.”

“What shall I tell her?” the housekeeper asked. Miss Bird was a timorous woman and Moira not one to be easily put off.

With an aggravated sigh, Rex threw his napkin aside and rose from the table. In the hall, he picked up the receiver. “Rex here.”

“Can we talk?”

“There really is no point, Moira.”

“There’s every point! You don’t understand.”

He hated it when women said that. It usually meant, “You are failing to see things from my point of view.”

“When are you returning from Florida?”

“In a week,” Rex said evasively.

“Can we get together then?”

“Moira … Please don’t call me again.” He hung up and strode back to the parlor.

“That was a short call,” his mother remarked as Miss Bird refilled his tea cup.

“I did not want to take it in the first place.” He looked with reproach at the housekeeper, who shrugged her wiry shoulders.

“Well, I dare say you’re right,” his mother conceded. “But if Moira comes back to the Charitable Ladies of Morningside, it could make things right awkward. And I hope she’s not planning on rejoining the bridge club.”

Wishing to drop the subject, Rex picked up the crisply folded newspaper on the table. Sometimes it got a bit wearing living under the same roof as two old women. Fortunately he had a private suite upstairs. All his needs were met, from the provision of meals to the ironing of his shirts. Most importantly, his aging mother enjoyed having him at home.

Rex and Campbell had moved back in to his mother’s house after his wife died. The arrangement had provided stability for his son, along with daily doses of the Bible and cod liver oil, both of which the old Mrs. Graves deemed essential for a clean and healthy life. Rex had been brought up on them too and used to pull the same faces as Campbell, either one of boredom or disgust, depending on the torment presented.

The memory brought Campbell back into focus. Rex felt sure something was amiss in spite of his son’s assurances on the phone that all was well: his second year at Hilliard University in Jacksonville was going fine; he had not been troubled by his bronchitis all winter; and he was still seeing the girl Rex had met in the summer on his way to the Caribbean to look into the case of the missing actress. Campbell had never suffered a lack of female company to his father’s knowledge. He was, as Helen pointed out, “a chick magnet.”

It had been something in his son’s tone. Rex couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he was certain he wasn’t imagining things. Three months had passed since he had last seen his son, and that was a long time in a young adult’s life. Still, he would be with Campbell soon, and there were things left to do in the meantime.

When his cell phone rang later that evening, he almost didn’t answer it, thinking it might be Moira until he saw Helen’s name on the display. “Hello there, lass,” he said with a smile.

“I just wanted to wish you a safe trip. Are you all packed?”

“Aye. I’m sorry we can’t be spending Easter together.”

“I hope it all turns out to be a storm in a teacup with Campbell.”

“What are you going to do while I’m away?” he asked.

“Spring clean my house, and then reward myself with a big Cadbury’s egg!”

“Save one for me.”

“I will. It’ll be so nice to have a break from work.” Helen was a high school counselor. “This term has been especially gruelling. Teenagers seem to be facing greater challenges each year.”

“I know something’s going on with Campbell, but since he won’t talk about it on the phone …”

“I understand perfectly.” Helen was a reasonable and practical woman, traits he truly appreciated about her. “I imagine it’s even harder for kids in America,” she added, without spelling out the additional problems of random shootings and more readily available drugs. She didn’t have to. Rex was thinking the same thing.

“I canna wait to see you when I get back,” he told her.

“Is there anything special you want me to arrange for us to do in Derby?”

“I’d like to spend the weekend the way we did in Rosewell,” he said, alluding to Christmas when they had driven to the Orchard House Bed and Breakfast in Midlothian, managing one hike to Roslin Glen. Mostly they had stayed in the four-poster bed.

Helen giggled. “Sounds good to me.”

“You have the number of the motel I’ll be staying at on Jacksonville Beach, and I’ll have my mobile phone with me.”

“Give Campbell my love.”

“I will. He really enjoyed meeting you at Christmas.”

“He’s a terrific boy, Rex.”

“I suppose we should call him a young man. He turned twenty earlier this month.”

They said their goodbyes. Rex did not see the point of telling her about Moira. It could wait until he saw her. He shut off his phone and mounted the stairs to bed.

Setting the alarm for his early morning flight, he felt relieved to think that by this hour, local time tomorrow, he would be with his son in Miami.

The plan was for
Campbell to pick him up in Miami, where his son was spending Spring Break with his girlfriend, and then to drive up to Jacksonville together. Rex woke up in his Miami motel room the first morning fully recovered from jet lag and looking forward to catching up on his son’s news on the long drive north.

As it turned out, Campbell must have been up all night saying goodbye to Consuela. He wore board shorts and had not bothered to shave. In fact, he looked like the dog’s breakfast and slept most of the way up Florida’s east coast in the old Chevy Trailblazer while Rex negotiated the multi-lane highway sprouting exits in all directions. He wasn’t used to driving with the wheel on the wrong side. To make matters worse, Interstate 95 was undergoing road construction. Signs cut lanes off at short notice and reminded drivers that speeding fines would be doubled when workers were present. Not that any workers were present, though they had left their barriers, bulldozers, and ten-ton rollers behind.

What little scenery there was soon lost its novelty on the seemingly endless miles of straight road. Hours later, as Rex was passing the sign to Interstate 4 and Orlando, he tuned into a classic rock station that happened to be playing all his favorite songs. The traffic had cleared, and the expressway opened up before him as he listened to “Angie” by the Rolling Stones, a warm breeze ruffling his shirt through the rolled-down window. He turned up the volume and sang along to the lyrics.

“
Oh, Angie, don’t you weep, all your kisses still taste sweet, I hate that sadness in your eye-eye-eyes
…”

“Why are you howling, Dad?” Groggily, Campbell reached for his bottle of mineral water.

He still looked peaky after his nap, in spite of his tan. He had inherited his chiseled features and blond hair from his mother, his height from his dad, minus a few inches. The previous night, Rex had been amused to see that he had grown sideburns. “I’m not howling,” he protested.

“Caterwauling, then. Urgh, this water’s warm.”

“It was cold when I bought it at the petrol station. By the way, this SUV is a great big gas guzzler. Why on earth did you get something so expensive to run?”

“It’s useful for stowing my boards in.”

“What’s first on your schedule tomorrow?” Rex asked, exasperated as always by his son’s lack of financial acumen and deciding to change the subject before they got in a row.

“Stats, worst luck.”

“Good lecturer?”

“Pretty cool, though not as cool as my marine science teacher.”

The Americanism sounded funny in Campbell’s fluted Scots accent, which was noticeably less pronounced than when he had left Edinburgh twenty months ago.

“Last night was fun,” Rex said conversationally.

He had taken Campbell and Consuela to dinner. Rex secretly referred to his son’s girlfriend as the Cuban Princess. A spoiled diva with an incredibly extended family that lived in South Beach, she had, as far as he could tell, little going on between her pretty, diamond-studded ears. He felt sure she was a distraction to Campbell’s studies, the distance between their two colleges at opposite ends of the state adding a strain to the relationship.

They passed a green sign for St. Augustine, which Rex had in mind to visit if he had time, curious to see what the “oldest” city in the continental United States was like.

“So, what’s going on in your life?” he asked, having received no response to his comment about dinner.

“The usual.”

“I don’t know what ‘usual’ is in your world.”

“I told you pretty much everything last night.” Campbell could be surly when he got too little sleep.

“I thought there might be something you wanted to tell me in private.”

“Like what?” His son stared out the side window.

Rex checked the rearview mirror and, slowing down abruptly, pulled onto the grass shoulder lined with spindly trees. “Here—you drive.” He got out of the SUV and walked around to the front passenger door. Eighteen-wheelers rumbled by at high speed.

Campbell took his father’s place at the wheel. “What’s the matter, Dad?” he asked as he yanked on his seat belt.

“It’s been a long trip and a long week,” Rex explained. “And I don’t have the energy to pursue a one-sided conversation. We’re approaching Jacksonville. You know where we’re going better than I do.”

He had decided to stay at the beach, a twenty-minute drive from the university. That way, Campbell could surf and, as he put it, “hang out” at the Siesta Inn, which had a pool and a minigolf complex next door.

Campbell eased into the inside lane. “Should we go straight to the motel?”

“Aye, I’d like to get a swim in. Then we can have something to eat and you can go to your dorm.”

“Sounds good. I could pick you up after class tomorrow and we could do something. I’ll be through by midday. I’m glad you came,” Campbell added in a conciliatory tone.

“Me too,” Rex told him. Aside from seeing Campbell, he was looking forward to swimming every day, walking the beach, and eating American fare. He could never get over how big the portions were and he liked the casual attitude toward dining in Florida.

They drove under a concrete porch into the Siesta Inn parking lot, and he went to check in at the front office. The stucco walls of the motel were painted a warm shade of ochre and decorated with Mexican pottery visible between the arched walkways. He had requested the room he had stayed in when his son first started college, located up one flight of concrete steps, with a balcony overlooking the ocean.

Unzipping his suitcase on one of a pair of queen-size beds, he extracted his Bermuda trunks. “Do you have an electric kettle I can borrow?” he asked, surveying the kitchenette. “Tea doesn’t taste right when it’s done in a microwave.”

Campbell had opened the glass sliders to the balcony. “I think I may have one somewhere. If not, we can pick one up.”

Rex joined Campbell on the balcony, which was just large enough to accommodate two plastic chairs and a table. Blending into blue sky, the Atlantic stretched in a deep shade of indigo beyond a broad swath of sand accessed by a boardwalk. White-crested waves rolled onto the shore.

While Campbell took off to the beach with his surf board, Rex walked to the motel pool to perform his laps. The fenced-in pool was heated and empty, the sun warm on his back. He missed the sensual feeling of swimming nude in the Caribbean, where he had felt as free as a fish in the sea, but this was still a huge improvement on the heavily chlorinated indoor public baths he had to make do with at home. After counting off fifty laps, he got out feeling invigorated and refreshed, and set out to join his son.

Sea oats fringed the near side of the beach, composed of powdery dunes. Farther out, the sand became more compacted, allowing for vehicles to drive up and down the shore. To the north a pier extended into the ocean. Motels, affluent homes, and older rental properties stared out to sea along the beachfront. He arrived just in time to see Campbell skim in on his board, poised like a bird for flight, and jump off into the shallows.

“Not rough enough today,” his son called out, approaching with his surf board in the crook of his arm and sweeping his dripping blond hair from his eyes.

His shoulders had developed breadth from paddling out on the board, but in other respects he looked thinner than when Rex had seen him at Christmas. Campbell had complained that the food “sucked” on campus, and Rex planned to feed him up for the duration of his stay. “You’re covered in goose bumps,” he chided. “Go take a hot shower, then we’ll get some dinner.”

While he waited on the motel room balcony, he glanced through a copy of
USA Today
, which he had picked up at reception. An article caught his eye: “
Suicide Ranks After Traffic Accidents as Second Leading Cause of Death among American College Students.
” He didn’t have time to finish reading the piece before Campbell wandered out of the bathroom, his narrow hips girded with a white motel bath towel.

“Hungry?”

“You bet.” Campbell grinned, and Rex felt reassured.

Perhaps his son had just been going through a rough patch with Consuela, and that was why he had sounded depressed on the phone. He seemed better now and, certainly, he and his girlfriend had been lovey-dovey at dinner the previous night, feeding each other off the same plate and all but ignoring him.

The oceanfront bar and restaurant Campbell selected that evening was a far cry from the swanky joint on Miami Beach, and just what they were both in the mood for. They ordered conch fritters with mango jalapeno salsa, followed by oak-grilled New York Strip and fries, accompanied by a pitcher of beer. Campbell produced a fake I.D. upon request.

“I forgot it’s illegal for you to drink,” Rex admonished when the server had left. “Where on earth did you get that?”

“I’m almost twenty-one.”

“You just had your birthday!”

“All college students drink. In the UK, you can consume alcohol in restaurants at sixteen.”

“I’m well aware of that, but we happen to be in the States. And when in Rome …”

“C’mon, Dad. You can vote in the States at eighteen and get sent off to war.”

“Well, just
one
pint. I’ll drive you to the dorm.”

“How will I get back here tomorrow?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“That’s crazy.”

“You’re the one who chose to come and study here. I do envy you the weather, though.”

They enjoyed the rest of the meal and Rex was pleased to see Campbell polish off a wedge of pecan pie for dessert. Afterward, he drove his son to Hilliard, a small, private college on the bank of the St. Johns River.

Students were still arriving back from Spring Break, laden with bags and laundry hampers. He helped Campbell carry his belongings up the stairs to the third floor of his dorm. A single room had become available at Keynes Hall, permitting his son to pursue his second year on campus, much to Rex’s relief.

The room housed an accumulation of clutter, including Campbell’s other surf boards and his treasured Stratocaster guitar and amps. A poster of British soccer star David Beckham brightened one wall. Textbooks teetered in a heap on top of the scarred wooden desk, the shelves above reserved for his son’s collection of shot glasses. When Campbell left for college, his grandmother had given him a homemade quilt with hexagons in contrasting plaids —the only Scottish item in the room, other than the shot glass embossed with a thistle.

“You got a new rug,” Rex noticed. “It all looks very cosy.” If not very serious. In fact, it more resembled summer camp than university. “I should have taken marine science instead of law,” he quipped.

“You wish.” Campbell smiled in wry amusement.

“You should open the window. It’s downright stuffy in here.”

“The air’s not working properly.”

Rex took a final look around. “Right, well, I’ll be going, then,” he said, reluctant to leave, even though Campbell seemed relaxed and at home. “I’m sure you want to get yourself organized for tomorrow. Call me after your class.”

After hugging him goodbye, he made his way along the corridor and down the stairs, avoiding collision with the rowdy male students in his path. They were a friendly lot, smiling at him and asking how he was doing in that pleasant American way. Suddenly, an echoing scream broke out on the second floor, doors banging open amid a hubbub of voices.

Rex stepped out of the stairwell and peered down the corridor where a group of students, a red-headed female among them, took turns forcing a door knob. Loud Hip-Hop pulsed from the room, adding to the commotion.

“Break down the f-ing door!” a student yelled over the din.

“What’s up?” another questioned in passing, gym bag and hockey stick slung over one shoulder.

“Dix Clark hung himself,” garbled a boy from the group, holding his head in both arms and pacing up and down the corridor.

“The peer mentor? Are you for real?”

“Look for yourself. There’s a crack in the doorframe. Kris saw him just now. She’s calling an ambulance.”

The first youth ran up to the door and kicked hard to no avail. He swore again with affront.

Rex decided to intervene, though he couldn’t be sure the whole thing wasn’t a prank. “Did I hear someone mention a suicide?” he asked, approaching.