Coming Up Murder

by Mary Angela

  “Don’t forget: chocolate and coffee. You can’t go wrong with that combination.”

  She promised she wouldn’t before she ended the call.

  I slipped my purse off the coat hook and started out the door. I needed to meet Thomas at ten, and it was a quarter till the hour. I stopped, went back, and grabbed my keys, noticed the full trash bag, and grabbed that too. Tuesday was garbage day, and the trash needed to be in the alley this morning if I had any hope of it getting picked up. Even though Mrs. Gunderson hated it when I put the garbage out early, I always did. Otherwise, I’d forget it, as I’d almost done today.

  The air was chilly, and after I placed the bag in my receptacle, I buttoned my blazer. The air was cold, the kind of cold that brought sleet and sometimes snow. I checked the sky: steel gray. Oh no. I didn’t want a snowstorm ruining our above-average spring. Ice now would freeze buds and break branches. The thought was inconceivable, and I shook it off and started toward campus. It was too warm for snow. Maybe rain. Possibly sleet, but not snow. I noticed Mrs. Gunderson’s garbage receptacle was open. I would shut it—just in case.

  As the lid clanked down, I hesitated and turned back. I didn’t want to snoop, but something had caught my eye. I reopened the lid. It was just as I thought. Through a clear bag, I could see a container of antifreeze. I looked at Mrs. Gunderson’s tidy white house. Was she still driving? I shut the can and kept walking. She had a spiffy black Cadillac tucked away in her garage. I’d seen the car but had never seen her drive it. For all I knew, she took it for a late-night drive every evening. I chuckled aloud. More likely, she kept her car as immaculate as she kept her house. I crossed the street, a smile still on my face. Mrs. Gunderson under the hood would be a sight to behold.

  Before going to Thomas’s office, I stopped at mine to pick up the copy of the anonymous sonnet. Giles’s door was open, so I grabbed the poem and poked my head in. “Alice Hudson stopped by yesterday to make a schedule change. I told her I’d let you know.”

  “Thank you,” said Giles. “She got ahold of me. Guess whose class she wants to add?”

  “Whose?” I said.

  “Yours,” he said. “It sounds as if you’ve made an impression on the student. She had good things to say about you. Nice work.”

  “Thank you.” Singing my praises to my boss? I was really starting to like that girl. “Did you hear about Andy?”

  “I did,” said Giles. “Felix called, but I told him I couldn’t miss class this morning. I’m glad Lenny could take him. I wonder why Andy’s not getting better. It seems every time Felix checks on him, he gets worse.”

  A new thought entered my head. I took a step into Giles’s office. “Like Munchausen’s Syndrome. You’ve heard of it, I assume.”

  “Of course.” The three grooves in Giles’s forehead grew more pronounced. “It’s when someone makes another person ill, usually a child, to get attention. That’s not what you think Felix is doing, do you?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “If Andy has food poisoning, he should be better by now, and he’s not. The only one who has been with him at the hospital is Felix. If someone’s making him worse, it could be him.”

  “But why would he do that?” asked Giles. “He’s his mentor and colleague.”

  “Andy was friends with Tanner at one time,” I said. “He might know something about Tanner’s death. If Felix was involved, Felix could be trying to silence him.”

  “But Felix is his advisor. He thinks of him as his own child.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. He might not be trying to kill Andy, at least intentionally, just keep him quiet. But, as is often the case with Munchausen’s, he could be doing irreparable harm.”

  Giles nodded, and his sweep of brown hair fell over his forehead, covering the wrinkles.

  I checked the clock on the wall. It was a few minutes after ten. “I’m late to meet Thomas. I have to go, but Lenny told me he’d call when he was done at the hospital. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Thank you, Emmeline,” said Giles. “It’s a great relief to know you’re asking questions. I’m confident you’ll have the answers soon.”

  I flashed him a smile as I scooted out the door. I wished I were as confident. My mind was spinning with possibilities, yet only one person killed Tanner, a person who reveled in the planning, the details, and the game. The killer was a formidable opponent, but like Giles said, I had justice on my side. Truth was like grass rising from the hard ground in spring, natural and good. Murder would never be natural or good. It took effort to keep evil hidden.

  “There you are,” said Thomas as I knocked on his door. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about the sonnet.”

  I took off my coat. “I wish. It seems I’m in my own personal Shakespearean hell these days. I dreamt I was Hamlet last night.”

  Thomas put down the paper he was reading, placing it on the tidy stack on his desk. His office was neat, noticeably so, and decorated with modern touches like a steel lamp and framed picture of New York City. The room was just as cool as its occupant. “Hamlet,” he repeated. “That makes sense. He’s trying to find his father’s killer, just as you’re trying to find Tanner’s killer.” He tapped his fingertips together. “Just don’t wind up dead.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered, smoothing out the copy of the poem on his desk. “This was turned in to the sonnet-writing contest. The last stanza in particular is troublesome.”

  I leaned back and let him study the poem. I knew what it said. I could probably recite it from memory if I had to. Thomas would see it with fresh eyes. I didn’t want to taint his impression with mine.

  “The person you’re looking for has an enormous ego,” said Thomas. “He’s probably smart but not social. He doesn’t play well with others, because he distrusts them, and has high aspirations. He might distrust technology, too. He knows it leaves a trail, which is why he wrote this by hand.”

  I blinked. “Where are you getting all this?”

  “Handwriting analysis,” he said, not looking up from the paper. “I wrote a paper on it.”

  Thomas wrote papers on everything. Maybe if I weren’t so busy solving murders, I’d write more papers. “I assumed the all-caps were a way to disguise the writer.”

  “A valid assumption, except when people disguise their handwriting, the line is smoother because they write more slowly. This shows wide variation in thickness, which means the author might naturally write in all-caps.”

  I was intrigued. Thomas wasn’t analyzing what it said but how it was said. A fresh perspective indeed.

  He brought the paper closer to his face. “This is interesting. The slant of the letters varies. The author might have a psychological problem.”

  “You think?” Obviously the person had a problem if he or she murdered Tanner.

  “I’m serious.” Thomas put down the paper. “You need to be careful. Whoever you’re dealing with might suffer from schizophrenia or another mental condition. You wouldn’t realize it until it’s too late.”

  His words sank into my bones, pushing me down into the chair. They confirmed the uneasiness I’d felt since Tanner’s death. “Do you think the poem was intended for me?”

  “Taking into account everything else you’ve told me—the flowers, etcetera—yes, I do. The person might admire you, but calls himself a foe.” He leaned toward me. “He’s issued you a challenge. Don’t trust anyone, especially your students.”

  The look in Thomas’s eyes changed, and I had the feeling he was speaking from personal experience. Usually cool and reserved, Thomas revealed emotion that wasn’t there before. In a moment I understood it was about Lydia. All of it: why Lydia taught online and not in person, why she rarely left the house, why Thomas studied violent rhetoric. She had been frightened, perhaps was still afraid, and he was looking for answers. “What happened to Lydia?”

  A small smile crossed his lips. “I knew you’d find out one day. I just didn’t think I’d be the one to tell
you.”

  “You can trust me,” I said. “I know what it means to be afraid.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I also know your curiosity is insatiable. If I tell you, I want the story to stop with my explanation. Promise me you won’t take it any further.”

  I promised, and he proceeded to tell me what happened. Lydia wasn’t always so shy and retiring. She, like him, had been a young professor on campus, excited to have a job in the big city. Unlike him, she was from a small town in Indiana. He said it singled her out in a way that made her more vulnerable. She wore her sweetness on her sleeve. One night on her way home from class, a man tried to assault her, but she’d had a whistle and blown it. Campus police showed up just as he was dragging her away. The man fled before they could catch him. Police were convinced he was the same man who’d assaulted many young women in the area. This assault had the same MO. After that, she started receiving threatening calls and letters. Police said the perpetrator couldn’t deal with the fact that one of his victims escaped. So they moved away, but she still feared for her safety, and so did Thomas.

  I let out a breath. It was a terrible situation, one I deeply sympathized with. “Does she still receive letters or calls?”

  Thomas shook his head. “No. We picked Copper Bluff because of its remote location. I’ve tried to assure her he will never find her here, but it’s hard for her to believe it.”

  “I’m sorry.” I knew it was all he wanted me to say, and I wanted him to understand I wouldn’t interfere.

  “Thank you, Em.” He caught himself by surprise. “It’s okay if I call you Em?”

  I smiled. “Of course. That’s what all my friends call me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  On my walk home, I realized that Thomas and I shared a new comradery. For some reason, we’d always felt like adversaries, though it wasn’t clear what we were on the opposite sides of. I suppose there was some academic jealousy on my part. He was the young professor I’d always thought I’d be, camel-hair coats and all. And I was just me, immersed in a mystery and now a love story that was all-consuming. I realized life was becoming more interesting than my career, and I was fine with that. Although the career part was heating up too, with my book about to be published. Which reminded me, I wanted to check my email before Lenny arrived to take me to the hospital.

  I hustled inside and grabbed my laptop from the coffee table. Like a notice of a library fine, a new book cover was waiting for me to open it, to see how much I would pay for my remarks to Owen. A great deal, from the looks of it. A fleshy woman sat on a garden bench with a book in her lap, her eyes half open. Was she waking from a nap? Hung over? It was hard to tell. She certainly wasn’t writing.

  A honk sounded outside, and I shut my laptop. The cover would need all my attention … later. Right now, I needed to figure out what was going on with Andy. I grabbed my jacket and hurried out the front door.

  “Wait until you see my new cover,” I said, buckling my seatbelt. “Owen emailed me another mock-up.”

  “Better?” said Lenny, pulling away from the curb.

  “Worse.”

  Lenny gave me a look. “You’re exaggerating.”

  “There’s cleavage.”

  “Oh god.” He turned onto one of the two main streets in town. “I thought you’d made progress.”

  “I thought so, too. I did make progress with Thomas, though.” I told him about the handwriting analysis and Lydia.

  “I always wondered why he came here from the East Coast,” said Lenny. “It makes perfect sense.”

  “I think I can use what he said about the killer’s handwriting. If the person habitually writes in all-caps, he or she should be easier to locate. Some evidence must exist on campus.”

  Lenny shut off the car in the hospital parking lot. “There’s something personal about all this that I don’t like.”

  “It’s your feelings for me, that’s all.” Lenny knitted his dark eyebrows in concentration as I tried to explain. “We’re dating now. It’s normal for you to feel more protective of me and I of you.”

  “Chasing criminals is not normal,” said Lenny. “I’m not dating a cop. I’m dating an English professor.”

  “One who was asked by her chair to investigate.” I squeezed his hand then reached for the door. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  We walked into the hospital and up to Andy’s room, where Felix waited outside. The nurses were running another test on Andy. I told Felix that Giles would be up after his class, and he thanked me and Lenny for all our help.

  “Andy isn’t getting better, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s on purpose,” I said, deciding there was no reason not to tell Felix my theory. If he was the one causing Andy’s illness, he would know I was on to him and stop. If he wasn’t responsible, he might be able to help me figure out who was.

  “What are you saying?” said Felix, his hawk eyes narrowing. “He’s making himself sick on purpose?”

  “Not at all. I’m saying someone else may be making him sick on purpose.”

  “Rubbish,” said Felix. “Why would anyone want to do that? We don’t know a person in town.”

  “Em thinks Andy might know something about Tanner’s murder,” said Lenny. “That’s why we’re here. She’s hoping to talk to him, to see if we can determine what it is he knows, and whether that it is enough to make the killer strike again.”

  Felix shook his head. “Impossible. He’s much worse than yesterday. He’s incoherent.” He took a step closer to us. “Personally, I think the doctors are running out of ideas. If they don’t figure out what’s going on soon, I’m worried Andy will die.”

  The nurse stepped out of Andy’s room. It was Zeb, Lenny’s old student.

  “Can I go back in now?” asked Felix.

  “Sure,” said Zeb. “The tech is just finishing up.”

  After Felix was gone, Lenny asked Zeb how Andy was doing.

  “Not good,” said Zeb. “His kidneys are failing.”

  A woman came closer with a food tray. Lenny’s eyes were on the tray.

  “So, not food poisoning?” asked Lenny.

  “Not food poisoning,” said Zeb, stopping the food ambassador from making her delivery. He told her Andy wouldn’t be eating. “The doctors think it’s something else. Do you have any idea what he might have gotten into? Anything at the school … a pesticide or chemical?”

  “Not a clue,” said Lenny.

  Gotten into. Chemical. An alarm went off in my head. It was the same words the vet had used when Dickinson had become ill three years ago. They asked if she might have wandered into a garage. Antifreeze was poisonous to pets—and people. That’s when it clicked. “I do.”

  They turned to me in surprise.

  “I think he was poisoned with antifreeze,” I said.

  “And you figured this out when?” asked Lenny.

  “Just this second,” I said. “Listen. Today is garbage day, and I noticed a container of antifreeze in Mrs. Gunderson’s garbage. I’ve thought of it on and off all morning. You know she doesn’t drive, so why was it there?” I turned to Zeb. “When you mentioned ‘getting into’ something, I remembered what the vet said a few years ago. He said my cat might have gotten into antifreeze from an open garage. Alcohol was the antidote, which might explain why Andy isn’t dead. He was drinking the night he got sick.”

  “I always knew alcohol was a good thing,” said Lenny.

  “It makes sense,” said Zeb, turning over the hypothesis.

  “You think the person who poisoned Andy dumped the evidence in Mrs. Gunderson’s garbage?” said Lenny.

  “Think about it,” I said. “The person had to do something with the evidence. Why not put it in an old lady’s recycling bin?”

  “Especially if she lives right down the street,” said Lenny.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Mia lives a block away. Either it’s her, or someone who wants me to think it’s her.”

  Zeb grabbed his phone. “Stay h
ere. I’m calling the doctor.”

  While Zeb made the call, Lenny asked, “Why would someone poison Andy? Like Felix said, they don’t know anybody in town.”

  “It’s just like we thought,” I said. “He must know something about Tanner’s murder, something he doesn’t know he knows.”

  Zeb returned. “We’re running a blood test. If it’s positive, we’ll start Antizol right away.”

  “You’ve run a thousand blood tests already,” said Lenny. “Why didn’t antifreeze show up?”

  “Because you have to look for it,” said Zeb. “You have to test for it specifically.”

  “If the test is positive, will Andy be okay?” I asked.

  “Probably,” said Zeb. “Antizol works within three hours. The worry is he’ll sustain permanent organ damage.” His phone rang. “I need to take this. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  “I’m going to call Sophie,” I said after Zeb left. “She needs to get over to Mrs. Gunderson’s house and pick up that container before it’s too late.”

  “Good idea,” said Lenny. “I’m going to see if I can snag one of those food trays.”

  I pulled out my phone. “Really?”

  “I didn’t eat lunch.”

  Watching Lenny stalk the food ambassador, I dialed Sophie’s direct number, and she answered on the second ring. I told her what I’d found this morning and the connection to Andy’s mysterious illness. She agreed to go to Mrs. Gunderson’s house.

  “When will you know for certain it’s antifreeze poisoning?” asked Sophie. She was typing on her keyboard.

  “Soon,” I said. “They are running the blood test now.”

  The typing stopped. “Antifreeze poisoning: clumsiness, nausea, vomiting, slurred speech. It sounds like what you’re describing.”

  It also described Tanner the night of his death. The only difference was that Tanner hadn’t been drinking; there was no alcohol to hinder the poison’s efficacy. The murderer used the same poison with different results. Imagine the killer’s surprise to find Andy still alive. “Sophie, you need to contact the medical examiner. I think we’ve just found what killed Tanner Sparks.”