Phi Beta Murder (7 page)

“You must be the drummer in the band,” Rex said.

Red nodded and sent one of the sticks cart-wheeling into the air, catching it with a nonchalant twirl of his wrist.

“What did Ms. Knowles say?” Campbell asked.

“Not much, except that a roommate or a really close friend of a deceased student would receive a passing grade for the semester if they needed it.” Rex joined Campbell on the bed.

“Lucky for Kris then,” Red remarked. “She was flunking out of Nursing School.”

“She’s got to be taking it hard,” Campbell said.

“Dunno about that. They had a big bust-up before Spring Break and she wasn’t talking to him.”

Young love, Rex thought as the boys debated the question of Kris’ feelings for Dixon. He considered mentioning what the math professor had told him, but didn’t want to advertise the fact that he was talking to faculty members about Dixon’s suicide. “Anyway,” he said, getting up. “I’ll leave you lads to it. Good luck with band practice.”

“You should come and listen one evening, Dad.”

“I’d like to. Have you got a name for the group?”

“Dirty Laundry.”

“’Cause we play down in the basement where the washers and dryers are,” Red explained.

Rex grinned. “Must make for some interesting background accompaniment.”

“It’s hell,” the boy replied. “It really throws you off.”

“Campbell, can I take the Glenfiddich with me? I thought I’d have a wee drink out on the motel balcony. I’ll replace it if necessary.”

“Help yourself.”

“Ta. Bye now.”

He descended to the car park and, getting into Campbell’s SUV, drove to Jacksonville Beach, managing to miss the worst of rush-hour traffic. The glowing orange sign welcoming him to the Siesta Inn beckoned with the promise of a quiet night in a clean and comfortable bed.

By six-thirty, he had been for a swim and was ready to leave the motel room for a solitary dinner pondering his notes on the case when an urgent knock sounded at the door.

“Moira!” he exclaimed upon opening it, scarcely believing his eyes. The woman he had left on Arthur’s Seat stood on the walkway with a small suitcase, dressed in a cotton print frock and a knitted bolero cardigan, in spite of the warm evening air. The clothes looked like they came from a thrift shop, but somehow suited her gamine-like figure. Waiflike was the word that had often come to mind in the days he had thought about Moira.

“Are ye not going to let me in?” she demanded as he stood there in shock.

Without conscious thought, Rex
stepped aside so Moira could pass. She deposited the suitcase on the carpet and sat on the far bed looking out at the view of the ocean through the balcony rail. Rex watched speechless as she slipped off her clunky-heeled shoes and lay prostrate on the zigzag patterned bedspread.

“I can hardly believe I made it all this way and found you so easily.”

Neither could Rex. “So how did you?” he asked, perching on the other bed and wondering what he was to do.

“The young man who devils for you told me where you were staying. I told him it was an emergency. And so it was.”

It had never occurred to Rex to tell Angus to screen his calls. He had left him the number of the Siesta Inn in case a colleague needed to contact him. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought Moira would follow him across the Atlantic. “Why did you come?” he demanded.

“I told you before. I have to talk to you. I’m trying to put my life back together.”

“Well, I’ve moved on. I thought I had made that perfectly clear in Edinburgh.” He gave a heartfelt sigh. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip.”

“I dinna think so. This is an ideal opportunity to clear things up. I prepared a speech, but I’ve forgotten it.” She smiled ruefully at him, displaying sharp little teeth.

“It’s not as ideal an opportunity as that,” he protested. “It so happens a student at Campbell’s university hanged himself, and the parents have asked me to look into it.”

“Why you?”

“I was first on the scene.”

“You always were dependable and steady, Rex. I always appreciated that about you.”

“Not that much, evidently, since you ran off with the first man who looked at you twice!” Rex was surprised at the resentment that still smoldered within him. He thought he had long since put his feelings toward Moira behind him.

“That’s not true!” She jumped up and paced the room. “There was a car bombing at the Sunni-Shiite neighbourhood market where I was buying provisions for the refugee center. I canna describe the deafening explosion, all the glass shattering everywhere.”

“Moira …”

“People were screaming. Blood was spattered all over the dirt streets and across the buildings. Two pickup trucks arrived to carry away body parts.” Moira paused, clutching at her cardigan.

“’Tis a terrible experience to live through,” Rex commiserated.

“Aye.” She lay back down on the bed, seemingly exhausted, and took a deep breath. “Neil was with a reporter shooting a documentary. They ran to the scene and helped excavate the victims. A shop front collapsed and buried me under the plaster. Neil lifted the door off me. I escaped with minor cuts and bruises, but what I saw that morning won’t heal. I keep reliving it in my mind. There were babies, Rex, catapulted out of their mothers’ arms. Oh, God!” Her legs curled into a fetal position and she began to cry pitifully.

Rex poured a glass of whisky from the bottle he had appropriated from Campbell’s room. Moira was teetotal, but he felt she could benefit from it for medicinal purposes as she was clearly distressed. “Have you sought psychiatric help?” he asked, handing her the glass.

To his astonishment, she sat up and downed the whisky in one gulp. “I thought I’d be fine once I got home, but everything’s changed. I want us to get back together, Rex. I need stability.”

Moira had no family to speak of, and had not seen her abusive alcoholic father in years. Her main support group was the Charitable Ladies of Morningside, where she had met his mother and with whom she used to play bridge. She was
persona non grata
with his mother now. No wonder Moira was clinging to him as to a life raft. She had no one else.

“I’m sorry I caught you at a bad moment, with that student hanging himself,” she murmured. “I know how he must have felt. I’ve had despairing thoughts too.”

Rex sat beside her and took her hand. “I’m sorry I did not listen before, but this is right awkward. I’m seeing someone else.”

The room phone rang.

“I have to take this. It might be important.” He went over to the bedside table and picked up with, “Hello—Rex Graves.”

“Rex! I’m glad I caught you.” It was Helen. The timing couldn’t have been worse. “I didn’t want to try you on your mobile in case you were out doing something with Campbell.”

“How are you, lass?”

“Missing you. Are you having a good time? How is Campbell?”

Rex glanced at Moira who was watching from the bed with tight-lipped suspicion and he turned his back. “There’s been a crisis at the college with one of the students. Campbell’s coming through it okay, I think. A boy in his hall was found hanging in his room.”

“Oh, how awful! It’s a very susceptible age. Young people take things so hard. They have the pressure of exams, relationships, being away from home, and the constant worry of whether they’ll measure up in the real world.”

Rex decided this was not the time to get into a discussion about the case even though Helen, as a counseling professional, could have offered a helpful perspective. Moira’s presence in the room inhibited and distracted him. He felt frustrated at her for coming and at Helen for phoning at that precise moment.

“I could fly over,” she offered. “You know, to provide moral support. I’ve been looking at cheap flights online. I could get a package deal to Orlando.”

“Och, it’s not necessary. At least not for Campbell. They have a crisis centre on campus and grief counselors available for the students. But it’s not as though he was that close to the boy.”

He heard a squeak of bed springs and turned around with the phone pressed to his ear. Moira crossed to the dressing table and helped herself to another drink, which she dispatched with as much speed as the first. She refilled her glass. Rex knew he should terminate the call with Helen, but felt guilty at fobbing her off.

“But what about you, Rex?” Helen asked. “I could be there for you.”

“I appreciate that, lass, but I’m busy looking into a few things to do with the boy’s death. I’m convinced there’s more to it than meets the eye. I feel like I’m on a personal crusade. The boy was Campbell’s age.”

“It brings it home, doesn’t it? When someone in your immediate circle dies.”

“Don’t mind me!” Moira exclaimed in a loud voice, planting her small frame by the phone between the beds.

“Who’s that?” Helen asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”

“It’s Moira. She visited unexpectedly.” He avoided eye contact with his guest.

The silence at the other end of the line was painful to hear.

“Moira Wilcox?” Helen asked finally.

“Aye. She came to see me in Edinburgh on Friday. And she turned up just now at my motel.”

“You make me sound like a bad penny!” Moira exclaimed.

“You didn’t tell me that on Friday evening when I phoned,” Helen reproached him.

“It didna seem important.” As soon as the words slipped out of his mouth, he regretted the stupidity of his remark. “I’m going to make sure she gets back safely on the next flight home.”

“I’m not a UPS package!” Moira remonstrated. “And I’ll not be spoken about as though I weren’t here!”

Clearly the whisky was getting to her. She plunked down her glass on the bedside table and grabbed the phone before Rex knew what was happening.

“This is Moira,” she told Helen. “And I have no intention of leaving. I knew him before you did, and for longer. And he told me he doesn’t love you. Goodbye!” She slammed down the phone as Rex looked on in horror.

The damage Moira had just inflicted on his relationship with Helen was immeasurable, maybe even irreparable.

“I don’t think I can ever forgive you for what you just did,” he said in a cold flat voice, resisting the urge to grab her by the throat.

“What does it matter?” Moira shrieked. “It’s all over anyway.” She hurled her empty glass across the room at the mirror above the dressing table, which splintered into a thousand pieces and showered down on the carpet like rain.

To Rex it seemed symbolic somehow.

Moira needed help; that
much was evident. Rex desperately wanted to call Helen back and explain the precarious situation, but he could not risk doing so while Moira was still in the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly deflated.

“I know. You’re tired from the journey and not used to alcohol. Why don’t I see if I can get you a room so you can sleep it off?”

“Why can’t I stay here? There are two beds.”

“One is for Campbell when he stays over.”

“I dinna want to be alone in this strange place,” she said, her speech slurred. “I shouldna’ve come. I feel disorientated, like I was back in Iraq.”

“Well, lie down on the bed for now while I go to reception and sort out a few things.”

“Do you mind if I take a bath first?”

“No, go ahead. Will you be okay?”

“Can you bring me something to eat?”

She looked like a lost child, standing in the room by her suitcase. His heart ached in pity.

“There’s a Chinese take-out down the road.”

Moira’s face brightened. “I adore Chinese.”

“I remember. I’ll get the green tea if they have it.”

“Rex … thank you.” Her brown eyes begged him for forgiveness.

What a mess, Rex thought as he left the room. He didn’t look forward to explaining to the motel staff about the mirror, but they would have to send someone upstairs to clean up the glass before Moira stood on a jagged piece and hurt herself. He jogged down the concrete steps and crossed the softly sunlit parking lot. The bell on the reception door tinkled as he opened it. He took a preparatory breath. The middle-aged woman behind the counter glanced up at him with a courteous smile.

“I have a situation,” he began. “First, I need to report a broken mirror.”

Her face registered restrained surprise. “Did it just break?”

“No. A woman I used to know followed me from Scotland. She got a wee bit carried away.”

“Oh, she came in earlier. Short brunette? Sorry I gave out your room number. She was very insistent.”

“I’m afraid she’s not well. She just returned from Iraq.”

“Combat duty?”

“Charity work, but she was caught in a bombing. She’s behaving irrationally. I need to arrange a flight for her back to Edinburgh in the morning, if at all possible. Can you take care of that?”

“Sure. Coach or first class?”

“Whatever is available. Preferably non-stop.” He didn’t want Moira changing her mind and flying back.

Then he left a message for his mother, asking her to send someone from the Charitable Ladies of Morningside to meet Moira off the plane; he would call again later with the flight times. Moira could spend tonight in the spare bed, he supposed.

Now for the food. He drove to the Red Dragon, where he ordered fried rice, chicken-cashew, and spicy beef and broccoli. “Oh, and a few packets of jasmine tea,” he asked the cashier.

When he got back to the SUV, he thought about calling Helen from his cell phone, but he didn’t want to leave Moira alone too long and let the food get cold.

By the time he returned to the room, the glass had been swept up and the mirror replaced. He called up reception to applaud the motel’s efficiency. Moira was singing in the bathroom to the accompaniment of water splashing in the tub. He found a couple of plates in the kitchenette and took them, along with the plastic knives and forks, to the balcony table. He then went back inside to boil water for the tea, wondering if he dared call Helen while Moira was in the bathroom. He doubted Helen would be asleep even at the late hour in England, but ultimately decided to wait until he had more time. All he needed to do, he told himself, was to keep Moira calm and get her on the next flight out in the morning.

She came out of the bathroom, her hair straight and wet, her thin shoulders glistening above the white towel wrapped around her torso. “I hope you don’t mind, but I used up all the Pro Terra products.”

“The motel will replenish the stock. Are you ready to eat?”

“I’ll just slip into my bathrobe. Are we eating on the balcony? How lovely.”

Rex brought the cartons of Chinese food to the table. The restaurant had thrown in two spring rolls and a couple of fortune cookies. Unfortunately, he no longer had much of an appetite.

Moira joined him in her pink robe and lifted the tea bag out of her mug. “Pity we don’t have a candle. It’s nice out here, isn’t it?”

The ocean gleamed dark and remote beyond a scattering of silhouetted palm trees, yet the scene failed to stir any romantic feeling in Rex.

“You couldna do this in Baghdad. There’s a curfew at night and the temperature can drop dramatically.”

“It must be difficult living out there,” Rex said, helping himself to the chicken-cashew.

“Aye, you never feel safe, even in the Green Zone. What surprised me most was the Iraqis going about their daily business with an air of resignation, in spite of all the disruption to their lives.”

“I don’t suppose they have much choice.”

Moira ate fast and abundantly. It had always amazed him that such a small person could put away so much food. He suspected a lot of it went on nervous energy.

“What does your fortune cookie say?” she asked at the end of the meal.

He peered at his slip of paper. “Mine’s fruity: ‘You will gain admiration from your pears.’ Is that really Confucius?”

Moira laughed. “Mine says, ‘Riches are measured in friends.’” She read it in a Chinese voice, and Rex laughed in turn. “It’s true though,” she said, gazing intently at him.

“These must be the writers who failed the greeting card class,” he remarked with forced levity.

“Let’s take a walk along the beach.”

“Aren’t you tired?” He wanted Moira to go to bed. She seemed uncharacteristically exuberant, much like an overexcited child at a theme park, and it made him uncomfortable.

“I’m getting my second wind. A moonlit walk along the beach would do me a world of good. At least do that much for me after I came all this way,” she pleaded.

The room phone rang at that moment, and Rex picked it up in trepidation. It was the front desk calling with information about flights. When he got off the phone, he told Moira he had booked her on a Continental flight leaving from Jacksonville International Airport at 8:30 a.m.

“You should have let me see if I could change the flight on my airline.”

“This has just the one connection—in Newark.”

“I’m a free woman. You didna need to go making arrangements to get rid of me so fast, as though I didna have a say in the matter!”

“You don’t,” Rex said firmly. “You can come back to Jacksonville for a sightseeing visit when I’m not here.”

Moira sat back in her chair, a fixed look in her eyes. “Well, I suppose there is no point in staying if you’re going to be like that.”

“I’m going to be occupied at the university over this business with the Clark boy, and I want to spend time with Campbell.”

“Very well, but I’d still like to go on that walk.”

Moira was nothing if not willful. Rex could see no way out of it and, in any case, was starting to feel guilty now that he was assured of her leaving the next day.

“That’s a good idea,” he capitulated, clearing the empty cartons from the table. “I need to walk off this dinner.”

“Save the spring rolls in case we get peckish later.” Moira walked to the door.

“Aren’t you going to change?”

“I’m comfortable in my robe, and it’s dark. Nobody is going to notice what I’m wearing. I don’t even need sandals, do I? There’s a path all the way down to the sand.”

Rex grabbed the room key and followed her outside. Perhaps if he walked fast he could tire her out sooner. She must be jetlagged. Then, when she went to bed he could call Helen.

His cell phone rang as they reached the beach. Moira stopped with an impatient sigh.

“Dad, I thought if you’re not busy you could drive over and pick me up, and we could watch a Pay-Per-View back at the Siesta and knock back a few beers.”

“Sounds like a glorious idea,” Rex told his son with regret. “But I have company. Moira flew in and surprised me.”

“The woman you were dating? The one who went to Iraq?”

“Aye.”

“Does Helen know?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Jesus, Dad. You’re in for it.”

“I’ll take a rain cheque on the beer and movie.”

“When’s she leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“That’s too weird.”

“I’ll call you in the morning. Night, Son.”

“You should take off your shoes,” Moira suggested as he pocketed his phone. “The sand feels wonderful.”

“I’m fine with them on,” Rex replied shortly, resentful that he could not spend the evening with Campbell. “Well, let’s get on with this walk.”

“Dinna be like that. I’ll be gone tomorrow. Look at that sliver of moon. It’s so balmy out, with just enough of a breeze.” She shook back her hair, which had dried to its natural waviness.

Rex strode off down the beach. Moira made no attempt to keep up with him. She strolled along dreamily, from time to time dipping her bare feet in the rushing waves that left a lace of foam on the shore. When he could only make out the pale shade of her robe in the darkness, he stopped and waited for her to catch up, wondering whether they would eventually end up in Daytona if they walked far enough south. At night, the sand gave an impression of infinity, rolling out toward an ever-receding horizon as he continued to walk almost hypnotically.

“You win,” Moira called after him.

“I didna mean for it to be a race. I’m just preoccupied.”

“I can see that. Let’s get back. Can you remember where the motel is? It’s awfully dark.”

Two miles down the beach, Rex recognized the awning at the entrance to the boardwalk. They regained the room and Rex went to brush his teeth.

“I have Tylenol PM if you need help getting to sleep,” he said when he came out of the bathroom. He set the alarm for 5:45 a.m.

“Where is it?” Moira asked.

“In the medicine cabinet.”

They were the soft gel kind, and Rex hoped it would take effect quickly. He took advantage of her absence in the bathroom to leave a brief message for his mother.

“I took two,” Moira told him, slipping into the other bed in her robe.

Rex stripped to his boxers and turned off the light. He wished Moira goodnight and lay listening to her breathing, at the same time calculating what time it would be in England. Once he was sure Moira was asleep, he would slip out of the room and call Helen, even if it was just to leave a message. As he was composing the words in his head, he drifted into sleep, awaking only when, hours later, an insistent
beep-beep-beep
interrupted a dream where he was waving Moira off at a misty gray train station.

Reaching out groggily, he turned off the alarm and looked over to see if she was awake. He discerned her dark form under the covers though he could hear no breathing. He rolled out of bed, wishing he could have slept longer.

“Moira, time to rise and shine. Do you want to use the bathroom first? I’ll make coffee.”

When no response came, he went over to the bed and shook her arm. He encountered something wet. He frantically called her name while he fumbled for the light switch. Blinking in the sudden glare, he saw pools of blood either side of her body where she had cut her wrists. Clammy fear engulfed him as he dialed 9-1-1 from the room phone.

After stating his emergency, he ran to the bathroom for hand towels and bound her wrists as best he could. He tapped her cheeks. Her eyes flickered open and closed heavily.

“Moira! Stay with me. The ambulance is on its way.” In a fold of the sheet he spotted his razor. “For God’s sake, why did you do it, Moira?” he cried.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, and she moaned. He just had time to pull on some clothes before he heard a siren break the silence. He drew back the drapes. A sickly dawn was beginning to rise over the ocean.