Coming Up Murder

by Mary Angela

  “When we met, I told de Vere’s relation I could test the blood on the parchment against his own DNA. If the DNA shared the right markers, it would prove de Vere was alive in 1610 to write the late plays.”

  I waited for the conclusion. The story was better than the mystery novel on my nightstand. “So? Did the DNA indicate they were related?”

  He frowned. “It isn’t that easy. The relative didn’t want the letter compromised, so I had to use extraordinary caution. I had one chance to get it right. The nice thing was the letter had been impeccably preserved. But it took time to isolate the DNA. Because of the implications of the research, however, I’m in the process of testing multiple genetic markers, STRs, and SNPs.”

  “What are those?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Short tandem repeat and single nucleotide polymorphisms.”

  That cleared it up. “Have any markers matched?”

  He remained silent, but there was that smile again.

  “So they have,” I said, a statement rather than a question.

  “It would be rash of me, as a scientist, to leap to conclusions before all the evidence is in.”

  But I wasn’t a scientist. I was leaping like a gazelle, making connections between de Vere and the letter and Tanner and the murderer. De Vere had been alive in 1610, which meant he could have written the later Shakespeare plays. Tanner was killed because he knew it and would reveal all as soon as the tests were complete. But wait …. Wouldn’t Denton have been the more obvious victim, the one with the ability to prove Tanner’s theory? The one who could still prove it? Even so, Denton wasn’t a writer. He was a medical student. I didn’t think his plans included publishing a book on Shakespeare.

  Denton was watching me. The corners of his not-quite-so-bright eyes were etched with worry. “I see you understand why I haven’t told anyone.”

  I nodded slowly. “Have you told the police? Maybe they could protect you.”

  “I tried to explain the project, but the officer was more concerned with my whereabouts the night before Tanner’s death. I went to the bar with Tanner opening night. That was a mistake.”

  If Denton explained his research to Officer Beamer, Beamer might not have understood the implications, especially before talking to me. I would need to make him aware of the seriousness of the claim. “Mackenzie said you and Tanner got into an argument that night. What happened?”

  A student approached the desk to ask Denton a question. I took a step to the side, waiting for them to finish.

  After the student was gone, Denton continued, “It wasn’t even an argument. I didn’t argue. Tanner yelled at me, and I listened. He thought I was flirting with Mia.” He gestured to himself. “Do I look like the kind of guy who would flirt with Mia?”

  He was fit, young, and good looking. I didn’t see why not.

  He took off his glasses and waved them at me. “I don’t expect you to see it, but I’m a nerd. If I’m not in class, I’m here. Mia wouldn’t be into a guy like me. She’s incredibly popular, and she’s in love with Tanner—or was. His jealousy got the best of him that night.”

  “You don’t think there was something else making him act that way?” I asked. “Alcohol or drugs?”

  “I’ve never known him to drink ….” His words trailed off as he appeared to think back to Thursday night. His eyes snapped back to mine. “He was sick to his stomach that night. Or at least I thought he was. He spent a lot of time in the bathroom.”

  Was it an excess of alcohol or another poison making him ill? Sophie would soon have the results from the blood taken postmortem. They would tell us for certain. Until then, I was adding nausea to slurred speech and clumsiness. “Did you see him again after you left the bar?”

  He shook his head. “No, that was the last time.”

  “Are you going to continue with the DNA tests?”

  He put his finger to his lips, again scanning the room for listeners. “De Vere’s relative is paying me for the work. I have to finish it. I don’t have a choice.”

  I fastened the buttons on my coat. “I didn’t realize. Can I ask how much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  I stopped buttoning my jacket.

  “It sounds like a lot, but research costs money,” said Denton. “Tanner and I were splitting the payment.”

  “And now?” I asked.

  “I’ll be the sole recipient of the funds.”

  * * *

  After a brisk walk home, I grabbed a bite to eat before getting into my car. Fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money. It would cover several years of tuition at our small campus. I wanted to get Lenny’s opinion on Denton’s approaching payday. I also wanted to see if Lenny was really cleaning Mrs. Baker’s gutters. A turn down Park Street told me he was. I could see his blond head a block away. Standing on the roof with a hose, he gave me a wave as I drove up. I didn’t wave back; I didn’t want to encourage any dangerous moves on his part. Thankfully the house was a small ranch, like his, and if he fell, he probably wouldn’t break his neck.

  “I knew it,” he hollered. “Checking up on me again.” He walked to the ladder, propped near the side of the house, and climbed down.

  “I don’t think it’s safe up there,” I said. “The roof looks old.”

  “That means it’s well constructed.” He wiped his hands and neck with a towel. “I’m done anyway. Come in while I shower.”

  I wanted coffee at Café Joe. I told him so.

  “It’ll take five minutes.”

  I followed him into his house, an olive-green ranch with comfortable furniture. I noticed sheet music, half-filled with musical notes, propped up on his keyboard. Lenny played the piano and guitar and also wrote music, though he could be shy about sharing his compositions. I pointed to the music. “You working on something?”

  “Yes.” He threw the towel he was carrying over a chair.

  “Can I hear it?” I asked.

  “It’s not ready.”

  “You always say that,” I complained.

  “Because it’s always true. But this one’s close.”

  I didn’t press him. I knew that would be futile. Plus, I wanted him to get through with his shower so we could go to Café Joe. I shooed him toward the bathroom. Taking my point, he started in that direction. I camped out in his recliner in the living room, picking up a half-finished mystery novel lying on the end table next to the chair. Ten minutes later, he returned, fully dressed with wet hair.

  I held up the book. “I’m rubbing off on you, aren’t I?”

  He sat down on the couch, pulling on his socks. “More than I would like to admit.”

  I put down the novel. “I have lots to tell you. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  In the car, I told him about my conversations with Mackenzie and Denton. I also told him about the page from Hamlet I found in the garden. I was right in the middle of explaining the eerie feeling that followed when he interrupted.

  “—But was she good?”

  “Was who good?” I asked.

  “Jane,” he said.

  I turned onto Main Street. “Quite good. The lute is kind of like a tinny guitar. I liked it. It was soothing.” I gave him an impatient glance. “Can I continue with the eerie feeling now?”

  He rolled down his window. “Sure.”

  “I can only describe it as wanting to run.”

  “That is eerie,” he said. “You hate exercise.”

  I pulled into a parking spot in front of Café Joe. “I’m serious. I think someone was watching me.”

  “I don’t like it, Em. These last few days have been weird, even for you. The sonnet, the skull, now this. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “Someone is playing a very dangerous game, and they consider me their opponent.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  I reached for the door handle. “That’s what we need to figure out.”

  Inside Café Joe we ordered two coffees and two fudge brownies. Penelope Dobbs,
a pastry chef I’d met over Christmas, had just opened Pen’s Patisserie a block over, and the coffee shop offered some of her desserts. The dark brownies, stuffed with chocolate chips, looked ooey-gooey delicious. I grabbed extra napkins on the way to a table.

  We selected seats in the sun by the window so we could enjoy both the indoor and outdoor views. Café Joe hosted poetry readings, language clubs, and art exhibits. Colorful prints painted by local artists dotted the walls. Always changing, the paintings could be plucked down and purchased, as could the homemade greeting cards and pottery near the register. Taking my first sip of coffee, I realized why I liked the café so much. It was a reflection of Copper Bluff—small, eclectic, and diverse.

  “Try it,” said Lenny, holding up his brownie. “It’s delicious.”

  Famous for my sweet tooth, I didn’t need persuading. I took a bite of the brownie, and a chocolate dream came true in my mouth. Unable to speak, I moaned in agreement.

  “Pen can really bake.” He washed down his brownie with a sip of coffee.

  I dabbed my lips with a napkin. “I’m glad her dad decided to give her the loan for the store. With confections like these, she’s going to make a fortune.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Sophie Barnes approaching the café. All business, she was dressed in slacks and a jacket, her brown hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck. I guessed she didn’t have to wear a police uniform now that she was a detective, but she still looked like a cop. I tapped on the window and waved, but she didn’t notice me. She was too focused on getting coffee—probably to-go.

  “Sophie!” I said as she rushed through the door.

  She stopped and turned toward our table. “How are you guys?”

  “Good,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Em thinks someone’s stalking her,” Lenny said.

  I gave him a look. Why was he sharing my concerns with Sophie?

  “I thought you should know,” he said.

  Sophie’s brow furrowed. “Is that true? Do you think someone’s stalking you?”

  I rushed to assure her stalking was too strong of a word. “A few times, I’ve felt a presence. That’s all.”

  “Dead or alive?” asked Sophie.

  It was a fair question. “Alive. It’s as if someone is toying with me.” I shook my head. That wasn’t exactly it either. “Forget it. It’s nothing. I want to know if you have Tanner’s initial blood results back.”

  “Just now,” she said. “I’m on my way to the station.”

  “And?” I pressed. “Were they helpful?”

  “Not as helpful as I’d hoped,” she said. “His pH levels were elevated, which could be for any number of reasons.”

  “What about alcohol? Did he have any in his system?”

  She hesitated to answer.

  “Remember, Beamer said you could consult me on this case.”

  “He said I could consult you about Shakespeare,” she corrected. “But no, Tanner didn’t have any alcohol in his system, which confirms what we were told. He didn’t drink.”

  “The waitress at the bar said he was slurring his words,” said Lenny. “He stumbled on his way out the door.”

  “And,” I was quick to add, “Denton said Tanner spent a lot of time in the bathroom that night.”

  Sophie shrugged. “It wasn’t because of alcohol.”

  “What about marijuana?” Lenny asked. “Is that a possibility?”

  “Cannabinoids aren’t included in routine blood draws,” said Sophie. “It’s on my list of things to ask for on Monday. Beamer had to pressure them to get this information to me quickly.”

  That made sense. Reed found Tanner Friday morning, giving the lab one working day to run initial tests. Specimens were usually collected within twenty-four hours. The nice thing about living in a small town was that Beamer could communicate with the coroner and staff directly. Maybe not so nice for the coroner’s office.

  Sophie glanced toward the register. “I’d better order my coffee. I’m meeting Beamer at the station in fifteen minutes.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Thanks for filling us in.”

  “Be careful, okay?” Sophie said. “Until we figure this out, you can’t be too cautious. Don’t go out alone.” She nodded toward Lenny. “Use the buddy system.”

  After she left, Lenny gave me a smile. “Where do you want to go next … buddy?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The only place I wanted to go was home. The coffee and brownie had revived me enough to grade papers—or at least quizzes. Felix’s keynote speech was at seven o’clock and dinner at eight. That left me a good chunk of time for grading. On my dining room table, I arranged two stacks: essays and quizzes. Then I set out my highlighters, pencils, and handbook. I felt very organized. As I took a seat, Dickinson decided to join me. Her plans didn’t include organization. She batted down one marker after the other—yellow, pink, blue—with her orange paw, then the rubber bands. I was gathering them off the floor when my cellphone rang.

  It was Dewberry Press. My earlier email came back to me in a wave of nausea. What had I said and how strongly? I was too panicked to remember. “Hello?”

  “Emmeline, this is Owen.” His voice was full of exasperation.

  “I know. Hi.” Dickinson gave me a look that relayed how stupid she thought I sounded. I pulled her off the table and onto my lap. I didn’t know why I couldn’t speak coherently to him. Every time a Los Angeles area code popped up, I became tongue-tied.

  “I received your email,” Owen continued. “I didn’t think the call could wait until Monday.”

  Good. I was glad he could sense the urgency of it.

  “I’m only going to say this once. The book is too long. The final chapters need to be revised. It’s not a question of if but how.”

  “Too long?” This was new criticism.

  “Too long, too wordy, too much,” said Owen.

  Sensing my irritation, Dickinson jumped off my lap and onto the dining table. She started working on the rubber bands again. “I hardly think three hundred and fifty pages can be considered too long. I have appliance manuals longer than that.”

  “It is,” he said. “Long books don’t sell. You want the book to sell, don’t you?”

  Of course I wanted the book to sell. But this wasn’t a large press. You didn’t see many of their titles on the shelves of bookstores. Were sales really driving his decision? Or was it his experience with fictional titles? “Yes, I do, but—”

  “You read, don’t you?” he asked.

  What kind of question was that? I was an English teacher. “Every day.”

  “You want to feel satisfied when you finish a novel, right?”

  “Yes, but this isn’t a novel,” I said. “And some novels are quite disturbing.”

  “The ones you read in college, maybe,” said Owen. “Not in real life. Readers want a happy ending. Your ending isn’t happy.”

  “That’s because there’s still work to be done in the field!”

  He let out a sigh. “Save it for another book, okay? Make the changes this week. Our graphic design department is working on a mock-up cover. They’ll take into consideration your requests from the questionnaire we sent. Look for it soon.”

  This week? If I wasn’t in the middle of a murder investigation, it might have been plausible, but there was no way I could rewrite the ending this week. But what other option did I have? Like Claudia said, I’d sealed my fate when I signed the contract. I had to make the changes or not publish the book. “I don’t feel good about these changes.”

  “Leave the feelings to me,” said Owen. “Stick to words. I’ll be in touch.”

  He clicked off the phone, leaving me staring at the screen. “Did you hear that animal? He said I should stick to words. Then he hung up on me.”

  Dickinson looked up from the rubber band.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as I lifted her off the table. “That was offensive to animals.”

  Grading m
ade the time drag, and I was glad to get up from my chair two hours later. When the papers tested my patience, I switched to the quizzes. When the quizzes irked me, I had no choice but to bemoan my students’ reading habits, or in this case, lack thereof. Dickinson listened to me recount stories from my own studious college days for about thirty seconds before she fled to the bedroom, leaving me with no one to talk to. That’s when I decided to tuck the papers away and get ready for Felix’s keynote speech.

  I was looking forward to it. A month ago, I’d started revisiting Shakespeare’s plays in preparation for my panel. Before that, I’d have been humdrum about the lecture. Now, as I put on my long pink dress and gray-and-pink-flowered scarf, I was excited for the event. Whoever killed Tanner knew a lot about Shakespeare. It made sense that the killer would attend tonight’s lecture. Felix was a noteworthy scholar in the field. If the murderer was a Shakespeare aficionado, he or she wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.

  I swiped my lips with Petal Pink lip gloss and stashed it in my purse. I tied my trench coat as I walked down the steps of my bungalow. The clear, warm day had turned cloudy and cool, but the event was only two blocks away. Lenny would drive us, and perhaps other faculty members, to the banquet afterwards.

  Crossing the quad, I noted the dim light from the old-fashioned lampposts. Just waking up, they would watch over the campus like sleepy parents. With their warm light, they made the campus feel safer, friendlier. I glanced about. This was the place I knew and loved. The bench where the begonias had sat was empty. The paths were filled with smiling people. Two stories of Stanton Hall were shining with yellow light; the prettiest building on campus was now the busiest. The university was its pleasant self.

  I scooted through the doors on my way to the formal lecture hall, where André Duman, a French professor and old friend, was handing out programs. Dressed in a fitted jacket and black beret, he was handsome, his cheeks flushed. When wasn’t he handsome and flushed? He was passionate—though Lenny hated it when I used that word to describe him. Lenny preferred excitable. Either way, I was surprised to see him handing out programs. Though his office was in the building, he had no other connection to the event I was aware of.