by Crider, Bill
There were other things, too. Last year her grandchildren had come for a visit and she had taken them to the park. Driving home they had seen a turtle in the road. The tenderhearted grandchildren had wanted to save the turtle, which they were convinced would soon be squashed to a bloody pulp if they left it there. Mary, equally tenderhearted, agreed with them and stopped to let them carry it to the side of the road.
The turtle, an old mossback, did not see things their way. He did not want to be saved or even bothered. He bit Mary's grandson on the hand, nipping the end off one finger. How many people could say their grandchildren had been bitten by a turtle?
And of course the kid had to have a tetanus shot, besides losing the tip of his finger.
And then, while Mary waited in the Emergency Room with the boy, her car was stolen.
And two weeks later, in a freak hailstorm, the roof of her house was ruined. Her husband, an absent-minded gentleman, had failed to mail in the home insurance payment the previous quarter.
And then . . . but Burns didn't want to think of anything else. He was sure Mary would have something new to tell him.
She looked up and saw him in the doorway. "Come in, Carl. This is a nice surprise. What on earth happened to your nose?"
Burns walked in and sat on the sofa. It was just as uncomfortable as it looked. "It was an accident," he said. He leaned back on the sofa, but a stray piece of wicker concealed in the afghan poked him in the small of the back. He sat up.
"How are things going, Mary?" he asked. With Mary, that was always enough of an opening.
"Oh, dear," she said. "Do you mind if I shut the door?"
"I'll get it," Burns said. He got up and closed the door. He knew he was in for a good story. Mary liked to tell the racier stories in private.
After Burns returned to his seat, Mary named a student. "Have you ever taught him?" she asked.
Burns had not.
"He's a ministerial student," Mary said. "He's taking my mass media course for some reason. It's at eight o'clock, you know."
Burns didn't know, but he nodded as if he did.
"Well," Mary went on, "I don't believe he's been on time for a single class this year. Of course, we've only been in school a short time, but I believe in promptness. Don't you?"
Burns agreed that he did.
"So this morning I asked him why he was always late, and he told me." Miss Winsor looked around the office as if she suspected that someone might be hiding behind a chair. "Do you know what he said?"
Burns had to admit that he did not.
"He said that he and his wife were trying to have a baby. And that the only time she was in the mood was early in the morning." Mary blushed furiously and shook her head. "Can you imagine saying a thing like that? To your teacher? In front of the whole class?"
Burns could not. When he had been in school, teachers were respected and, if the truth be known, feared. He would no more have confessed something like that to one of his college professors than he would have mooned one of his classes during the final exam, though he didn't put it like that to Mary.
"I don't know why those things happen to me," she said.
Burns didn't know either, and although it was an interesting subject, it was time to get down to cases. "I'd like to talk to you about Edward Street," he said.
"Poor Edward," Mary said. It seemed to Burns that she might be blushing, but maybe she was still thinking about her outspoken student. "He wasn't really so bad."
"I was wondering about enemies that he might have had, someone who was holding a grudge against him. You didn't happen to get a letter from him recently, by any chance?"
How's that for slipping one in casually? Burns thought.
Mary was taken aback. "How did you know about that?"
"It was just a guess," Burns said, pleased with himself. "I know of someone else who did. I wonder if you got the same letter."
"The one I received said that Edward had written another book, and that this one would have a college setting," Mary said.
"That's the same one. Do you know whether Street knew anything damaging about anyone who still teaches here at HGC?"
Mary ducked her head in confusion. There was no question about it. She was blushing because of the questions about Street, not because of anything her student had said.
"I imagine he knew a lot of things," she said.
Burns felt like a hotshot detective. He'd pushed the right buttons from the very first. "For example?" he said.
"Nothing in particular," Mary said quickly. "I just meant that anyone who teaches here naturally hears all kinds of things."
That was the truth, as Burns well knew, but he did not believe that was what Mary had meant at first.
"There must have been something specific on your mind," he said. "Did he know something about Dick Hayes? Or maybe Don Elliott?"
"Why Dick Hayes?"
"No reason. He just happens to have been here since Street's day. That's all."
"Oh. Well, there is that story about Dick and the student."
"The one he married?" Burns asked. He had heard the story, and it was unique only in the respect that Hayes had gotten away with it. In Burns's years at HGC, student/faculty relationships, in the intimate sense of the word, had been the cause for dismissal of more than one faculty member, including one member of the religion faculty. "What's strange about that?"
"Nothing," Mary said. "His wife was dying, after all, and he was certainly discreet if he was dating the girl. She did work in his office, but as far as I know, no one ever saw them together until after his wife had died."
"And they waited a year after that to get married," Burns said, repeating what he had heard. "What does that have to do with Street?"
"I think poor Edward was interested in that girl. There was a rumor around campus that Dick had in some way sped up the death of his wife, and Dick believed Edward had started it. There was quite a fuss about it, and some kind of confrontation. I don't recall how it all turned out, though."
Great, Burns thought. This is just the kind of stuff I need. He was hoping that Clem would remember the episode if he jogged her memory. And of course he would talk to Hayes about it.
"Can you remember anything else like that, any old grudges, arguments, anything at all?"
"No," she said. "Nothing."
Somehow Burns got the feeling that she was holding back on him. But that was all right. He felt that he had done a great job so far, and he just knew that he would do as well or better with his next victim. Or subject. Or whatever private eyes called the people they interviewed. He didn't remember Lew Archer ever saying exactly.
He stood up. "It's been nice talking to you, Mary. I hope your student and his wife get their wish soon."
"They'd better," Mary said. "One more tardy and I'm going to dismiss him from the class."
Chapter 12
Leaving the Journalism Building, Burns bumped into Melinda Land. Literally. He was thinking about what he had learned from Mary Winsor, and he wasn't watching where he was going.
Melinda Land was soft and resilient. Burns didn't mind bumping into her at all.
"Excuse me," he said. "I didn't mean—"
"That's all right," Melinda said. "I was preoccupied myself. I should have been watching."
Burns smiled. "Working on your story?"
"Yes. I'm going to talk to Mrs. Winsor. Is she in her office?"
"Yes," Burns said. It hadn't occurred to him that he was going to be crossing paths with Melinda and with Duncan again so soon, but of course they would be talking to the same people he would be. "Did you and Duncan divide up the work?"
Melinda wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something bad. "He's a vile little man," she said. "I suppose he must be a good reporter, but he doesn't know much about people."
"Why do you say that?" Burns asked.
"Because he asked me to go have a beer with him. I don't know what makes him think I would want a beer, much less with
a cretin like him."
Her taste probably ran more toward white wine and Perrier, Burns thought. And then he wondered if she might be hinting at something. He had lived a more or less celibate life in Pecan City for a long time, there not being an abundance of attractive unattached females around, and now he found himself attracted to two of them at the same time. His technique was rusty, but it was worth a try.
"Maybe you'd like to have a drink with me later on," he said. "There's a club at the Holiday Inn. We could have a little white wine, maybe dinner."
"That sounds nice. About seven-thirty."
"Uh, yes. Seven-thirty. Shall I meet you there or come by your room?"
"I'll meet you there," she said, giving him the old up-and-under. "I'm looking forward to it."
As Burns walked on to his car, he found himself hardly believing what was happening. He was investigating a murder, which was unusual enough in itself, but on top of that he seemed to have two dates in the same week, a record since his arrival in Pecan City. Things were definitely looking up.
He changed his mind the next morning, however. That was when he found the body of Harold Duncan. On the third floor of Main. In room 312, which just happened to be his own office. The dead pigeon was gone from the ledge, but Duncan was lying on the floor of the office, just as dead as the pigeon was.
"I just don't get it, Burns," Boss Napier said. He was sitting in a chair in Burns's office. The body of Harold Duncan had been carted away, finally, after a lot of investigation, and things in Main had calmed down somewhat. They would never quite be the same, however. Miller himself had mounted the three flights of stairs and done everything but tear his hair out. His first year as president of the school was obviously not working out exactly like he had planned.
Napier crossed his legs, showing off the ostrich quills on his boots. "How is it that a guy like you, who teaches stuff like Silas Marina—"
"Marner," Burns said.
"Yeah, that one. How can a guy like that get tangled up in so damn much trouble? That's what I'd like to know."
"Me too," Burns said.
"I tell you the truth, Burns, I'm disappointed. I thought you might could help me out on this one, you knowing the college people and all. It's hard for a cop to come on the campus and start asking questions, but you, I thought you could get away with it. But what happens? Another stiff."
Burns didn't like to think about the body. There was still a red stain on his rug where Duncan's head had rested. He had been shot, like Street, with a small-caliber gun.
"And of course you got you an alibi all ready, don't you?" Napier said.
"When did he die?" Burns asked.
"Now that's a good question. If you shot him, you'd know the answer, right? So that makes you innocent. Unless you're just a smart guy."
"I'm not a smart guy."
"I can believe it. Anyway, I don't know when he died. We'll have to let the doc tell us that. But I'd guess around midnight."
"Then I don't have an alibi." Burns's date with Melinda Land had ended about ten-thirty. They had drunk white wine, eaten a steak, and gone back to her room, where they had talked about teaching in a state university as opposed to a small private school, about the pitiable quality of the students they got these days, about why there had been no great American novels in the past twenty-five years.
They also drank a little more white wine, and Burns learned that all was not roses in the state universities. Though Melinda Land made a great deal more money than he did and had to teach only nine hours—three classes—per semester, she was under pressure to publish. She had not been as successful as her department head wished, and she was unlikely to get tenure unless she could get at least two articles accepted within the current academic year. In a way, Edward Street's murder was a godsend to her.
"Of course, I got to deliver my paper at your seminar, which was great and will probably count in my favor, but now I have a chance to do something really significant, especially if I can tie Street's death in to something directly from his books. If I can find how it fits the theme of death and dying, say. So I have to stay here until they find out who killed him. Then I'll have a unique approach to his works. It'll be a prestigious publication, I just know it."
Burns wished her well and drove home, but not before he received a sizzling kiss. He thought about it as he guided the big Plymouth through the quiet streets of Pecan City. By that time of night, everyone was at home and in bed. He did not pass more than two cars on his way back to his house, which was located at least five miles from the motel.
Burns had not been kissed like that in a long time. Too long. It woke his body up and made him realize what he had been missing. He was looking forward to seeing Melinda Land again.
"Hell," Napier said, trying to get comfortable in the chair, and bringing Burns out of his reverie. "It's better that you don't have an alibi, to tell the truth. If you had one, then I'd have to try to break it. This just makes it easier to me."
"Does that mean you think I killed Duncan?"
"Nope. I know you better than that, Burns. You wouldn't kill anybody. You just want to catch crooks and play like you're a tough guy, so you can forget what you really do for a living."
Yeah, and you play with kid's toys so you can forget what you do for your own living, Burns thought.
"So where does that leave us?" he said.
"Figuring out what Duncan was doing in your office," Napier said.
"I think he'd been in here before," Burns said. He told Napier about the way his desk had been rearranged.
"Did you ask the maid if she did it?"
"I haven't had a chance," Burns said.
"Well, ask her. Anything missing?"
Burns had looked around, though not carefully. Still, he did not believe anything was gone from his desk or shelves. "No," he said. "Everything's here."
"What do you think he was after?"
Burns had no answer for that one at first. And then he thought about the books. "Do you think he might have been after those library books that were stolen?" he asked.
"Why? You got 'em?"
"No, but he might have thought I took them. Maybe he thought I was hiding them for some reason."
"Concealing evidence? Yeah, he might've thought that. That's like you, Burns."
Burns tried to look innocent, but he knew that he was guilty of exactly that in a sense. He still had not told Napier that Miller had been the last one to check the books out or that he might have seen them on Miller's shelves.
"Did Street have any visitors that night he died? Get any phone calls?" Burns asked.
"Funny you should mention that. We actually checked. I'm not stupid, you know."
"I know. I didn't mean to imply that you were."
"Sure you didn't. Anyway, nobody saw any visitors, and he didn't get any calls."
Burns looked disappointed.
"He did make a few calls, though," Napier said. "Called some friends of yours, as a matter of fact." He named off the people on Burns's list.
"Should I talk to them?" Burns said. "Ask them questions, I mean?" His mind was racing. Why hadn't either Clem or Mary mentioned anything about a phone call?
"I guess you can carry on, Burns, but there'll be some of my men involved in things now. There's been too much dying already. It's like you were some kinda jinx."
"Maybe nothing else will happen," Burns said.
"It better not," Napier said.
Burns decided to go down to the History lounge at noon on the off chance that Fox and Tomlin might be there.
He had missed his morning class, but he would teach the one that night, Burns supposed. No need to call it off just because there had been a murder in the building. He did not know whether other classes had been canceled or not.
One of the windows on the stair landing was open. The air conditioning in Main had never been particularly efficient, though it had been doing an adequate job lately. The smell was almost gone from Burns's off
ice. Someone apparently didn't agree with Burns's opinion, however. People often opened the windows to try for a little cross-ventilation, despite the notes that Rose had taped to most of them. This one said:
Burns pulled down the window and went on down to the History lounge. There was no one there when he entered. He looked at the sign on the wall, and he knew immediately that someone had been there at some time during the day. Someone had taken a black felt tip pen and blacked out the "L" so that the sign now read:
NO SMOKING
PUB IC AREA
Burns figured it had to have been Tomlin who did it. Fox would never have dared.
"Admiring the artwork?" Tomlin said from behind him.
"Who did it?" Burns asked.
"The Phantom," Tomlin said. "Want a cigarette?"
"I want one," Burns said. "But I won't take one. Where's Fox?"
"In his office. Let's go."
"Why can't he come in here?"
"You'll see."
Burns followed Tomlin into the hall and down to Fox's office. They went in without knocking. Burns did not know exactly how the room had come into existence, but he thought the back of the classroom had been walled off to create it. It was more like a tunnel than an office. No more than eight feet wide, it was at least thirty feet long. Fox sat in the back, behind a makeshift room divider he had made from a portable bulletin board. There was a radio on his desk, and it was playing softly.
Fox wasn't wearing a shirt. It was obvious that he was never going to be a winner in the Arnold Schwarzenegger look-alike contest. He was hairy as a bear, and his body structure came more from fat than muscle.
"What's going on?" Burns asked.
"Earl had a little accident," Tomlin said. He got out a cigarette and lit it. "Let him tell you about it."
"I messed up my shirt," Fox said.
It was then that Burns noticed the shirt, though he couldn't say why or how he had missed it before. It was wet, and it was hanging across the top of the bulletin board. It was also typical of Fox's wardrobe. It had a white background, on which were displayed what looked like cattle, orange ones and tan ones, standing side by side. The orange cattle mostly concealed the tan ones.
