Maid of Murder (An India Hayes Mystery)

by Amanda Flower

  I caught them in the staff parking lot. “Wait.”

  Bobby turned around. “Did I forget something?” He patted his pockets.

  “Who? Who did you mean when you said ‘he didn’t mean to hurt her’?” I was breathless.

  A group of students playing a scrap game of touch football in the library’s courtyard stopped and watched us.

  “I’m sorry for saying that, India. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Who?”

  She gave me a pitying smile. “Your brother, of course. Olivia talks, talked, all the time about him being obsessed with her. He sent her flowers and candies, begging her to come back.”

  “Maybe at first, he . . .” My face flushed.

  “Olivia never thought Mark would hurt her. And I know that he didn’t mean to do it. It was a horrible accident. The police believe the attack wasn’t planned.”

  “The attack wasn’t planned?” I screeched.

  The football players mumbled to themselves and moved closer. Bobby stepped between us, opening the passenger side door of his aged but well-cared-for car. Bree slipped inside.

  He shut the door. “India, please go back inside.”

  I gasped. “Did you hear what she said? She thinks Mark’s responsible for Olivia’s death.”

  “You’re making a scene. How is that going to help Mark?”

  I was dumbstruck.

  Bobby blew out a breath. “Can we talk about this when I get back?”

  When I didn’t answer, he shook his head and walked around the car. I watched them roll away.

  “That shows how loyal you are,” I shouted at his brake lights.

  The football players gaped.

  “What are you looking at?” I demanded.

  They snickered and resumed their game, this time as tackle.

  When my shift ended, I rushed out of the building at the fourth chime of the bell tower. The afternoon had trickled by. A handful of patrons had stopped in, but none of them had needed guidance from the reference desk. When Bobby returned from his lunch with Bree, I refused to talk to him. I knew it was childish, but I was too hurt by the scene in the parking lot to trust myself to speak.

  When I reached my car, I stood back from it and examined the rusted tire wells and dented, multicolored fender. I kicked the rear tire hard. The tire bit back through my thin-soled sandals. I dropped my shoulder bag and danced in place, holding my foot. Thankfully, the early afternoon football game had long since dispersed.

  I hobbled toward the driver’s door.

  “Ms. Hayes?” A refined voice called.

  I spun around. Provost Lepcheck approached me at a fast trot.

  Without pausing, I scooped up my bag. Thankfully, it had been zipped tight for once in my life. “Sam,” I replied, using his first name to irk him.

  He scowled, making his jowls more pronounced. A chin lift lay in the near future. Lepcheck looked office casual in a pressed polo shirt, polo with a big P, and corresponding charcoal slacks.

  “Do you know the current whereabouts of your brother, Mark Hayes?” His manner was grave.

  As opposed to my other brother, Mark Hayes, I thought. “I would think he’s in his office.”

  I squinted into the glaring sunlight. Maybe it would rain and cool the evening.

  “I’m afraid he isn’t. I’ve rung him several times throughout the day and just now stopped by his office. He was not present.”

  This was bad. Lepcheck had walked over to my brother’s office to speak to him, instead of sending one of his minions.

  “Your brother has placed the college in an awkward position with both the community and the local authorities. The president is not pleased.”

  He pronounced “president” as if declaring the name of a powerful warlord.

  “Both my brother and I are aware of the situation. I’m sorry I don’t know where Mark is. I’ve been working at the library since eight this morning. If you want to make certain of that, you’re welcome to speak to Lasha.”

  Lepcheck stiffened with obvious dislike of Lasha, who through some impressive finagling had secured tenure her third year at Martin. “The situation is urgent. The administration is not amused with the disregard that Mr. Hayes has shown for the college community on this matter. He has not contacted my office, or the office of the president, regardless of the numerous requests to do so by both. Because of this, and other questionable matters, a decision has been made. Mr. Hayes has been suspended from the college without pay, effective immediately, until these unfortunate circumstances are rectified. His two classes will be divided between Dr. Roth and Dr. Ames.”

  “You—” I began angrily.

  “I will warn you, Ms. Hayes, that we are also concerned with your behavior. Please, remember that Martin College is a respected and historic institution, and its faculty is not exempt from treating it as such.”

  The tips of my fingernails cut into the heels of my palms. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t get me immediately fired, suspended, or guillotined, so I clamped my teeth hard onto the inside of my lower lip.

  Done with the unpleasantries, Lepcheck brushed his hands across each other twice. “Please, inform Mr. Hayes of our decision.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I reached my apartment in two minutes and headed directly to the phone. When my father picked up on the other end, I told him about Mark’s suspension.

  Dad’s first outburst was, “Outrageous.” followed by a few choice words and declarations about the Bill of Rights.

  “Don’t worry,” he advised. “I’ll call Lew. He’ll have a lawsuit on Lepcheck’s desk tomorrow morning.”

  Lewis Clive was the attorney my parents kept on retainer in case they ever have the urge to be arrested. My parents’ tangles with the law usually were the result of tethering themselves with steel chains to old growth forests or dilapidated historic buildings.

  “Have you seen Mark?” I asked.

  “No. Your mother’s a wreck. She figures the Blockens blame Mark for Olivia’s death. I finally persuaded her to go to work today. It wouldn’t do any good for her to pace the floorboards here, not when there are people at the church who need her.”

  “Oh.”

  He recognized my tone. “I know Mark can be difficult and . . . er, emotional sometimes, but we need to support him the best we can. Your brother is tougher than you think. But the Blocken family . . . oh, to lose a child. I can’t think of anything worse in this life.”

  My eyes teared when I allowed myself to remember.

  “Will Mom visit the family?” My mother, in her capacity as minister, often calls on Stripling families in times of tragedy.

  “She thought it wise if she didn’t under the circumstances. She did call Bill Myer over at the Lutheran church, and he promised to drop in on them. The Blockens are members of that church, if you remember. Bill had planned to officiate at Olivia’s wedding.”

  And now he will officiate at her funeral, I thought.

  “I’ll talk to Lew,” my father said. “I’ll ring you back when I hear from him.”

  After I hung up, I called my brother’s apartment. No answer. I had left a message on his voicemail to call me immediately, using the word “urgent” an excessive number of times. I couldn’t leave a message about Lepcheck’s announcement.

  Hanging up the phone for a second time, I hovered beside it, trying to decide if I should call my sister on her cell phone or my mother at work or the Pope at the Vatican about Mark’s suspension. Maybe Ina was right, and I would make a good Catholic. I thought better of any more calls. My mom and sister—though probably not His Holiness—would learn of the situation soon enough. I wasn’t in the mood to discuss it, especially when I had yet to tell Mark.

  Templeton was suspiciously MIA. I perched on the couch next to Theodore, who had made himself quite comfortable in my home, when the phone rang.

  “India,” the voice rasped as consequence of two packs of cigarettes a day for forty years. �
�Lewis Clive. I just got a call from your old man and said that I’d call you myself. I’ll get the ball rolling on my end to take legal action against the college on Mark’s behalf. It’s unreasonable for the college to suspend him when he hasn’t even been officially charged by the police.” He paused, and I heard him inhale deeply through the end of his unfiltered cigarette.

  “Legal action?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Nothing too serious, only making noise about contract and compensation violations to let them know that we mean business.”

  “I see. Is there any chance that Martin could suspend me too?”

  Lew barked another laugh that turned into a ragged cough. He cleared his throat noisily. “They wouldn’t dare. They cannot dismiss you for something your sibling allegedly did. Martin may be a private college, but they take state and federal money like everybody else for scholarships, grants, and the like. They’re susceptible to state and federal law.”

  I nodded before remembering I was on the phone. “I understand.”

  “Terrific, terrific. When I’m done with those patsies, they won’t have a leg to stand on,” he said with unmitigated glee. “However, without Mark’s consent, I can’t move much further in this case except to become an irritant in the backside of Martin’s admin. It is imperative I speak to him ASAP. Your father implied that you know where Mark is most of the time. I need to find your brother, the sooner the better. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Terrific,” he rasped. “I should be in my office until eight tonight.” He gave me his office and cell phone numbers. “Remember, the sooner you find Mark, the sooner we can nip this thing in the bud.”

  After hanging up, I called my father back to tell him that I had heard from the lawyer and planned to look for Mark. Dad agreed to stay home in case Mark called, but his tone implied that he would have preferred to actively search for his son. He promised to call Carmen and Mom.

  I changed out of my skirt and blouse into an outfit more conducive to a suburban manhunt, as it were. It was a little past five when I left my apartment, and the sun was still well above the horizon.

  When I turned onto campus, I envisioned Lepcheck behind every stately oak and under every overpruned shrub with a fresh pink slip in hand—though the logical side of my brain argued that Lepcheck wouldn’t be on campus after five during the summer. I drove through Martin’s grounds without incident and parked in the Dexler lot.

  Dexler Math and Science, a squat two-story brick building, held few of the Western Reserve airs as the other structures scattered around campus did. When Martin’s board of directors vowed to improve Martin’s math and science reputation in the 1970s, they did so with half-hearted intentions. Martin trustees tended to be elderly alums, who had majored in pretentious subjects like Latin.

  The building was quiet, the result of summer campus hours, but unlocked. I tiptoed past a classroom with a lecturer waxing on to a classroom of drone-faced undergraduates. The mathematics department resided on the first floor of the building, but my brother’s office was on the basement level, the result of constant overcrowding. In addition to Mark’s office and an astounding number of cobwebs, the basement level housed the boiler room, chemistry lab, and offices of other low-ranking faculty. The cement-walled hallway was dark and the air was damp and musty.

  No light showed underneath Mark’s door, but I knocked anyway, I didn’t get an answer, nor had I expected one. Thinking maybe I’d leave a note, or pick up a clue where he was, I tried the doorknob—locked. Security has never been first and foremost in the Martin mindset, and the lock appeared flimsy enough. Taking a cue from television cop shows, I removed a spare library card from my wallet and slipped it in between the doorjamb and the lock. With a click, the lock gave way.

  Inside the tiny room, I shut the door behind me, elated with my exploit. My smugness evaporated when I turned on the light. On the desk sat an overturned picture frame, which immediately struck me as odd. Mark wasn’t one to decorate his office with personal items. The only bit of his personality he’d ever displayed in the room was an old classroom slide rule that he’d bought at a sale of out-of-date school supplies held at Stripling High School several years ago. The slide rule hung on his wall beside a College-issued calendar. I was happy to see that the calendar in his office at least displayed the current year.

  I walked around the desk and turned over the eight-by-ten picture frame. The sound of broken glass clattered as I moved the gilded frame. The glass was cracked, but I recognized the photograph immediately. It was Olivia and Kirk’s engagement picture, the one that had appeared in the Stripling newspaper. The matte photograph showed the couple looking at each other. They were wearing matching sweaters.

  Why does Mark have this? Where did he get it? I thought.

  My stomach turned. I thought of Lepcheck’s threats and the Blockens’ accusation against my brother. Wasn’t it my job to protect him? Wasn’t that what was drilled into me by my family? It was those thoughts that spurred me to do what I did next, even though the more logical side of my brain begged me not to.

  I picked up the frame and stuffed it in my oversized canvas bag. As I tucked it away, I heard the sound of feet thundering down the basement steps. I turned off the overhead light.

  Seconds later, someone pounded on Mark’s office door. “Mr. Hayes, Mark Hayes, this is the police. Open up. We have a warrant to search your office.”

  My heart dropped into my shoes. I had nowhere to hide. The tiny subterranean office didn’t have a window and the only sizable piece of furniture was Mark’s desk. For a millisecond, I thought of hiding underneath it. In the dark, I felt for the tiny space, but discarded the idea when I remembered the cobwebs in the hallway. Who knew what lurked under his desk.

  “Open it.” A key slid into the lock. Before the key could complete its turn, I opened the door and pasted a polite smile on my face as if I had every right and reason to be there. Which, of course, I didn’t.

  Two uniformed police officers, one a woman, a Martin maintenance worker, and Detective Mains faced me. They’d jumped in surprise when I whipped open the door. “Yes?” I asked.

  Mains found his voice first. “India. What a surprise.”

  His voice was dry, and I didn’t think he was really surprised at all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I swallowed. My mouth had gone dry. “Why are you surprised, detective? This is my brother’s office.”

  He said nothing and stepped inside. I backed up.

  He flipped on the lights. “Your brother’s not here.”

  “Afraid not,” I said. My heart was beating so hard, I was surprised that he couldn’t hear it.

  “We have a search warrant.” He handed me a folded document on legal-sized paper. I read it carefully.

  My shoulders twitched. “Okay,” I said as if they needed my permission.

  Mains motioned for the two officers to enter the office. The maintenance worker, eagerly watching the cops’ every movement, remained in the hallway, but peered through the door. The room was cramped, but I couldn’t abandon Mark’s office under the circumstances. Unfortunately, that wasn’t my decision.

  After instructing the officers where to pry, Mains turned to me. “Would you join me out in the hallway?”

  Walking through the door, my bag brushed up against the doorjamb, and I became acutely aware of the engagement picture resting at the bottom. What if I hadn’t found it before the police arrived? What if they asked for my bag? I worried. The shoulder strap cut across my body; I adjusted it to hide the bag behind my back.

  The maintenance worker, whose name tag read Pat, looked at us eagerly, undoubtedly thinking he was about to witness his first untelevised pistol whipping. Mains also seemed to notice Pat’s excited expression and asked the maintenance guy politely, but firmly, to wait in the stairwell.

  The two officers rooted through Mark’s desk, muttering to each other.

  Mains redirected his attention
to me. “Could you tell me what you were doing in your brother’s office? Alone, at this time of day?”

  “I was looking for Mark.”

  He appeared unconvinced. “How did you get inside the office?”

  “The door was unlocked,” I lied. “Mark often forgets simple things like locking doors.”

  “Why were the lights off?”

  “I turned the lights off. I was about to leave.” I counted that one as a half-truth.

  Mains made a note in the tiny vinyl-bound memo pad he had taken from his jacket pocket.

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in his office?”

  The frame weighed heavily inside my shoulder bag. “No.” No half-truth there.

  He snapped the memo pad shut. “You are free to stay if you like, but outside of the office.”

  I nodded. A loud crash escaped Mark’s office door, followed by an even louder curse from one of the officers. Mains sighed heavily.

  He and I peeked through the doorway and found one of the officers picking up the broken pieces of Mark’s prized slide rule from the floor.

  “Make a note of the damage,” Mains said.

  Red-faced, the youngest officer nodded.

  I slipped back out of the doorway. “I need to make a call. I’ll be upstairs. There’s no reception down here.”

  Mains barely gave me a nod in acknowledgment.

  I hurried to the exit. When I reached the stairwell, I found Pat had abandoned his post. I broke into a trot. In Dexler’s parking lot, I hurried to my car. I unlocked the car and grabbed a T-shirt from the backseat. Like a fugitive, I glanced around before unlocking the trunk. I opened it and shifted the junk around until I could pull back the carpeted bottom to expose the empty tire well. Currently, the spare tire was on the right front wheel. I pulled the frame from my bag and wrapped it in the T-shirt. Carefully, I place the wrapped frame into the tire well, rolled the carpet back, and slammed the trunk shut. The bag was thinner, but I had to hope that I was the only one who would notice.