“Am I right to assume she’s single?”
“Widowed,” he said. “Her husband was killed in Vietnam.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
“You very likely will. Elena usually has lunch in the faculty dining room, sometimes at our table. And here we are.”
We took an elevator to the third floor of the Union, and entered a Colonial-style room with brass chandeliers and polished wood tables and chairs, and waitresses in starched white costumes scurrying around. You had to admit that on the whole the Prescott faculty had it pretty nice.
“There’s a table for six over in that corner,” Cortland said. “A group of us from Political Science and History usually sit together—the cast varies from day to day. But we occasionally have guests, so you shouldn’t feel at all uncomfortable.”
“I never do,” I assured him as we got to the circular table, where one man, stocky, ruddy, white-haired, and with a high forehead, was already seated. “Orville, I’d like to have you meet an old friend, Arnold Goodman. He’s in from Indiana, looking the place over. His nephew is thinking about coming here. Arnold, this is Orville Schmidt, chairman of our Political Science Department.”
“Mr. Goodman.” Schmidt smiled and rose halfway out of his chair and leaned across to pump my hand with his fat paw. “We’ll try to be on our best behavior for you. After all, a prospective tuition may hang in the balance.” He chuckled at his little joke and I grinned to show that I appreciated his insidiously witty humor. That appeared to cement our friendship. “Did you come east just to see Prescott?” he asked after I’d scanned the three-entrée menu and selected roast leg of lamb.
“No, I was in New York on business and tacked on an extra day,” I told him.
“What business are you in, Mr. Goodman?” Schmidt asked as he lavishly buttered a roll.
“I’m an insurance investigator, with a company based in Indianapolis.”
“Must be interesting work,” he said. I was getting an answer ready, but fortunately the conversation was interrupted by Ted Greenbaum’s arrival. Cortland went through the introduction routine again, and as we stood shaking hands, I realized Greenbaum was easily six-five, or would have been if he stood straight. I told him I’d been in his lecture that morning.
“I know,” he said with a crooked smile. “I noticed you, of course. And I’m afraid I must have bored you, judging by the length of your stay.”
“Not at all. It’s just that I wanted to see as much of the campus as—”
Greenbaum laughed. “You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Goodman. The Whigs are not one of my favorite topics, either.” In this setting, he didn’t seem quite so dry and humorless.
“Oh, I don’t know, Ted, I think you’d make a pretty good Whig,” Schmidt said with a wheezing chuckle. “Personally, I’ve always been struck by your resemblance to William Henry Harrison.”
“Our one-month president,” Cortland chimed in with relish. “He caught his death of pneumonia because he insisted on delivering a three-hour inaugural speech in the rain. Maybe you’d better shorten your lectures, Ted.”
Greenbaum was about to defend himself when we were joined by an attractive, exotic-looking brunette with her hair parted down the center and pulled back to show off large gold hoop earrings. She could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. “Mind if I crash this stag party?” she asked in a slightly husky voice.
“Of course not, Elena,” Schmidt said, polishing off his third roll. “We never do mind. And would it make any difference if we did?”
“None at all,” she replied, winking and sliding into a chair.
“Elena, we have a guest today, so try to behave yourself,” Greenbaum said. “This is Arnold Goodman, a friend of Walter’s; he’s looking the place over for a nephew who feels, oddly enough, that he might like to tread these sacred halls. Mr. Goodman, meet Elena Moreau, who’s in the History Department, but we let her sit with us occasionally anyway. We feel it’ll do her good—a little of our erudition might actually rub off on her someday.”
“The only thing from any of you that’s likely to rub off on me is cobwebs,” she fired back with a wicked smile. “Mr. Goodman, I’m glad to meet you, and I apologize for these Philistines. Lord knows, I’ve tried to work with them, but…” She shrugged expressively. “Your nephew—what is he thinking of majoring in?”
“I hadn’t mentioned this to Walter before, but…well, history,” I said, inspired.
“Voilà!” Elena looked around the table triumphantly. “Sounds like a young man who’s done his homework. He knows where the strength of this university lies.”
The three men groaned, but it was good-natured, and soon all four professors were involved in a lively skirmish about the latest presidential polls. Despite what Cortland had told me about both Schmidt and Greenbaum, I noticed that he seemed to get along with them well, although maybe he was on his best behavior with an outsider present. I was glad to be out of the spotlight as they talked—that way I was able to observe all of them, particularly Elena Moreau, who was definitely worth observing. I now put her at somewhere in her early forties, but that didn’t bother me—quite the contrary. Her dark eyes danced when she talked, and her oval face was full of expression. If Markham had indeed been playing games with her, as Cortland suggested, I gave him good marks for his taste. May I be thus blessed at age seventy-three.
Their banter went on for several minutes, until I noticed Cortland look over his shoulder. “Ah, our noble leader is present,” he said. He gestured toward a figure who was standing just inside the entrance to the dining room.
The newcomer was maybe six-one, slender, dark-haired, moderately handsome, and wearing a brown suit that probably set him back at least five bills. He looked around, then waved and headed for a table on the far side of the room.
“That, Mr. Goodman, is our president, the right honorable Keith Alan Potter, B.A., Dartmouth; M.A., Harvard; Ph.D., Oxford, and don’t you forget it,” Elena said. “We would have been happy to introduce you, but for some reason, he never condescends to join our little salon.”
“Now, be fair, Elena,” Schmidt admonished seriously. “You know he has a lot of commitments, even at lunch.”
“Such as sharing a table with his provost and dean of students—the same people he eats with every day?”
Schmidt shrugged and reached for the last roll. “The business of running the university never ends.”
“Business, my Aunt Matilda,” Elena snorted. “Look at the three of them huddled together laughing over there. I’ve got five dollars that says they’re either telling the latest sleazy ethnic joke or figuring out which teams to take Sunday in that pro football pool Charley runs—Charley’s the men’s dean, Mr. Goodman. He majored in odds making at Colgate.”
“As you can see, Mr. Goodman, Elena is our caustic wit,” Schmidt said. His face smiled but his voice distinctly lacked humor. Clearly Elena’s criticisms of Potter were hitting a sore spot. Before I could respond, Greenbaum, who was on my right, turned and asked about my business. I got away with a few generalities on insurance investigation that seemed to satisfy him; meanwhile, the others started in on whether Prescott should make a concentrated effort to increase its enrollment. Schmidt voted yes, claiming that it was essential the school grow by at least one thousand students over the next few years, which apparently was the party line as espoused by Potter.
Both Elena and Cortland took the other side, contending that Prescott was if anything too large already. Greenbaum pretty much stayed out of the discussion, although I couldn’t tell if it was from boredom or simply because he had no opinion.
“I think we’ve talked about this long enough,” Elena said at last, turning her lively eyes on me with what I translated to be interest. “Mr. Goodman, have you seen enough of Prescott so far to form any opinions? What are you going to tell your nephew?”
“I’m still doing research,” I answered. “And you can help me, if you will. If you have a few minutes after lunch, I’d like
to ask you about the History Department.”
“Careful what you say, Elena. Remember, he is an investigator,” Greenbaum admonished, signaling for more coffee.
“Let him investigate,” she challenged, smiling impishly. “I’ll be on my guard, Ted. Yes, Mr. Goodman, I can spare a little time. Do you mind going back to my office? I’ve got to pick up some papers there.”
I said that was fine with me as the group broke up. They each had separate checks, and Cortland picked mine up. We agreed that I’d meet him back in his office at two o’clock, and off I went with the exotic Mrs. Moreau. “My office is in Meriwether Hall,” she said as I caught a whiff of a scent I couldn’t identify, but liked. “Have you been there yet?”
“Nope. Richardson and Bailey, but not Meriwether.”
“Well, don’t get too excited,” she said. “They’re all pretty much the same—American Colonial on the outside and Academe Dreary on the inside.”
Meriwether indeed looked like the other buildings, although it was set in a nicer grove of trees and had more ivy on its brick walls. Elena’s office was on the first floor, and was barely bigger than Cortland’s, but considerably neater. There was a color photo of the New York skyline at night on the wall facing her and another of the Golden Gate Bridge behind her. “See what I told you?” she said, gesturing me to a chair facing her desk and closing the door. “I think schools hire somebody to come in and make the interiors of all their office and classroom buildings as cheerless as possible.”
“Could be worse,” I said, grinning. “At least you’ve got a nice view. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”
She flashed that impish smile again. “Oh, I would have invited you over here if you hadn’t invited yourself. I’m most curious as to what you’re up to here at Prescott, Mr. Archie Goodwin.”
SEVEN
I LIKE TO THINK VERY few things knock me off stride, but that did, and I probably showed it. “I beg your pardon?” was the best I could do in response, and Elena Moreau considered me with amusement from behind her desk.
“Mr. Goodwin, don’t tell me you thought you could come up here, less than ninety minutes from New York, and not be recognized by someone. Don’t you know that you’re famous?”
“Tell me about it.”
She shifted in her chair and her smile widened. “I thought you looked familiar when I walked into the dining room, but I couldn’t place you right off. Then when I heard that silly name—Arnold Goodman, really!—it clicked. I’ve seen your picture in the New York papers two or three times, I suppose in connection with some case or another of Nero Wolfe’s. At that, I should have recognized you anyway; we’ve met before.”
“Ouch,” I groaned. “In the words of somebody who’s probably famous, that’s the unkindliest cut of all.”
“Shakespeare, by name, and the actual phrasing is ‘most unkindest cut,’” she said, tossing her head so that her hoop earrings danced. She was having entirely too much fun. “We have a mutual friend, Mr. Goodwin.”
“Call me Archie, please. Especially since you seem to know me so well. I do believe it’s coming back, though. Would our mutual friend have the initials Lily Rowan?”
She chuckled. “Could be.”
“Look, I admit you’re holding the high cards, but give me a second to recover. Did I meet you at a Children’s Aid benefit ball, six years ago—possibly seven—at the Churchill?”
“Bravo!” she said, clapping nicely shaped and well-manicured hands. “I can’t swear to the year, but it was at the Churchill, and you were indeed with the charming Lily. And I can hardly blame you for not remembering me, either. Lily’s beauty is enough to put everyone else around her in the shade.”
“You do just fine yourself,” I assured her. “And you may not believe this, but I thought I recognized you at lunch, too.”
“Maybe I’ll choose to believe it,” she said with another toss of her head. “How’s Lily? It must be more than a year since I talked to her.”
“Just fine as of Saturday night. I was with her at, of all places, the Churchill, attending, of all things, a charity ball. How do you two know each other?”
“A number of years ago—never mind how many—I was on the faculty at City University, and she was in one of my classes. As I recall, she wasn’t a full-time student, just taking a course or two that interested her.”
“That’s Lily, all right, always shopping.”
“Anyway, we got to know each other, although I can’t say we were close friends—we traveled in somewhat different social circles, to say the least. She did get me involved in some of her good works, though; one of them was Children’s Aid, which was why I happened to be at that ball. By then I had switched over to NYU, but since I’ve moved up here—I’ve been at Prescott four years now—I don’t see my old New York acquaintances all that often. But we’re supposed to be talking about you, as in, why are you here?”
“To repeat what I said at lunch, I’m scouting the university.”
“Right. That’s why you were using an alias, and a pretty transparent one at that.”
“Okay, so it wasn’t terribly clever,” I conceded. “When I made it up, I didn’t realize it was going to get critiqued so thoroughly.”
“Mr. Goodwin—Archie—you don’t really have a nephew in Indianapolis, do you?”
“No comment.”
“If I may suggest a scenario,” she said, leaning back, smiling, and lacing her fingers behind her head. “Try this: Walter Cortland, poor myrmidon that he is, thinks that Hale Markham was bumped off, to use your vernacular. He realizes there’s little if any support for his contention at the school and less with the local police. So where does he go? To the world-famous sleuth Nero Wolfe in New York, the man hailed for his deductive miracles. And what does Nero Wolfe do, but—”
“Let me guess,” I said, holding up a hand. “He sends his lackey—that’s me—up to poke around.”
“Bingo! Although lackey is a word that demeans what I understand to be your not inconsiderable talents. I prefer associate at the very least. And colleague is even better.”
“Sounds good to me—colleague, that is,” I said. “As for your scenario, it’s amusing.”
“What other explanation is there?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Okay, for purposes of discussion only, let’s assume that you’ve got it more or less right. What do you think of the idea that Markham was murdered?”
“Absolute bunk,” Elena Moreau said, turning instantly serious.
“Why?”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, and fastened those big, dark eyes on me. “Archie, I’m sure you’re aware that I knew Hale well—I like to think better than anybody at this university, or anyplace else, for that matter. And that includes poor, deluded Walter Cortland. A lot of people took issue with Hale, both for his political philosophies, not all of which I agreed with myself, and because he always said exactly what he felt. Diplomacy was not among his qualities, and his candor upset some people. But as far as somebody killing him…” She shook her head emphatically.
“Okay, since we’re on the subject, how did he happen to tumble into Caldwell’s Gash?”
Her face darkened. “I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that I’ve thought about that a lot the last few weeks. Hale had had at least a couple of fainting spells a while back, around the beginning of summer. I tried to get him to see a doctor at the time, but he insisted it was nothing. I have to believe he may have had one of these spells when he was out on his walk…that night, and lost his balance. He often walked foolishly close to the edge of the Gash—I know, I’ve been with him occasionally on his strolls.”
“Did you ever see one of his fainting spells?”
“Umm, twice. One afternoon we were walking across campus, and he stumbled. I thought he’d tripped, but he was actually blacking out, and I caught him, more or less, and kept him from falling. He was okay after a few seconds, but he was very embar
rassed about what had happened. Hale’s physical condition was a terrific source of pride to him, Archie. The other time, we were just leaving a restaurant in town after dinner, and he got dizzy on the sidewalk out in front.”
“Had he been drinking?”
“One glass of wine. That’s all he ever had. Part of his physical-fitness thing. Again, I asked him if he was all right, and he got very testy, said he hadn’t slept well the night before, or something like that.”
“Those were the only times he blacked out?”
She shrugged and straightened a pile of papers that didn’t need tidying. “As far as I know, but I doubt very much if Hale would have told me about any others. He was chagrined enough as it was.”
“Do you know if he’d had a checkup recently?”
“He had a full physical in April, and the doctor told him he’d never seen anyone his age in such good condition. Heart, lungs, blood pressure, cholesterol level, everything. And you know what else the doctor told him?” she demanded. “That he was almost a cinch to make it to ninety.”
“And he didn’t see the doctor, or any doctor, after these fainting spells?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Is suicide a possibility?”
“Not at all! Inconceivable. No reason for it. Hale was healthy, he was happy, he was reasonably fulfilled professionally—and I like to think his personal life was fulfilling, too.”
“Do you have any other theories as to what might have happened?” I asked, letting my inquiries into Markham’s personal life rest for a moment.
“No, just that he must have blacked out. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the only possible explanation. I’d like to know why Walter is so certain it’s murder.”
“I never said he was. Remember, that’s your scenario.”
“Oh, come on, Archie,” she said, using a voice that would have turned an iceberg into a puddle. “Can’t we toss out this silly charade?”
“Speaking of your scenario,” I said, ignoring her question, “why do you believe Cortland thinks Markham was murdered? Has he voiced any suspicions?”
The Bloodied Ivy (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 3) Page 6
