Majoring In Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I don’t know, like a button torn off a jacket. I saw that in a TV show once.”

  “Good. So we have a familiar M.O., and evidence at the crime scene. Anything else? Freddie, did you have something to add?”

  “Yeah. What if someone tipped off the cops?”

  “An informer. That’s another thing the police will take into consideration. Of course, it would be helpful to know the motivation of the informant. Is this person being a good citizen, or is he trying to get someone else in trouble? Any other ideas? No? I’ve got one. Assuming there’s an autopsy, the medical examiner may find something that’s inconsistent with an accidental death. And you would want to investigate the nature of the accident itself to be sure there’s nothing amiss in how it occurred. Are we answering your question, Eli?”

  “Mostly. But what if the police say someone was killed accidentally, you know, like in a tornado, like Professor Newmark was. And what if the guy had some enemies. Not that I’m saying Professor Newmark had enemies or anything. But what if this guy—who wasn’t Professor Newmark but was killed in a storm like him—what if he had enemies? How would you know if they had anything to do with his death? It’s almost like the perfect circumstances. It looks like he was killed by a tornado. But how can you be sure his death was really an accident?”

  “Yeah, Eli, you must’ve done it,” Freddie called out. “Didn’t Newmark fail you last year?”

  “I’m not talking about Newmark. I’m making up a hypodermic case. Right, Professor Fletcher?”

  “I think you mean hypothetical, Eli.”

  “See?” Eli said to Freddie.

  “Sure, you were just making it up,” Freddie said.

  Eli fell off his chair and grabbed Tyler’s sleeve. “I’m innocent, Officer, innocent, I tell you.”

  There was uneasy laughter around the room.

  Tyler pulled away. “Cut it out, dork.” He flashed a nervous look at me.

  “Anyway, I have the perfect alibi,” Eli said, straightening up. “I was in the tornado shelter with Professor Fletcher. Wasn’t I, Professor?”

  “You were, but I don’t see—”

  Eli didn’t let me finish. “Freddie, you didn’t do too great on Newmark’s final either, as I remember,” he said.

  “Hey, don’t look at me, Eli. I was right next to you in the shelter.”

  “No, that was me,” said Tyler.

  “Then it must have been Edgar,” Eli said, pointing to the last row. “He hated the professor, didn’t you, Ed?”

  “That’s not funny, Eli,” Edgar said, his face bright red. “A man is dead. That’s nothing to make fun of.” He grabbed his papers and left the room, leaving the door agape.

  “Eli, I think you owe Edgar an apology,” I said.

  “Aw, I was just playacting.”

  The other students looked away, silently fidgeting or pretending to read.

  Eli looked around and, seeing no support, slipped back into his seat. “Sorry, Professor, lost my cool there a little.”

  “That was quite a dramatic display,” I said. “Are you trying to tell us something?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry I disrupted the class.”

  But he didn’t look sorry at all. In fact, he looked pleased with himself.

  I cleared my throat. “Let’s finish up then,” I said, looking at my watch. “We were talking earlier about the two factors that define a mystery—that a crime is committed and a crime is solved. While books have been written on theft, kidnapping, arson, and extortion, the crime that both fascinates and repels us the most is murder.” My words seemed to ring in the silent classroom. “For the next class, I’d like you to do a little analysis.” I wrote on the blackboard, Elements of a murder mystery. “Using your textbook and referring to one of the books or stories on the reading list Edgar has given you, please write down what a novel must contain to meet the definition of a murder mystery.”

  I listened to the scratching of pencils and pens on paper, keyboard keys clicking, followed by the sound of tape recorders being turned off and laptop cases being closed.

  “I’ll see you next time,” I said.

  The class stood and shuffled toward the door. Maria hung her book bag on the handlebars of Alice’s wheelchair and steered her friend out of the room. Tyler punched Eli in the arm. “You going to the gym to watch the basketball practice?” he asked.

  Eli feinted and pretended to jab at Tyler’s jaw. “Yeah.”

  “Me, too. I’ll walk you there.”

  “Eli?”

  He turned to me expectantly.

  “I’d like to see you, please.”

  Chapter Nine

  I waited until all the other students had left the classroom.

  “Would you like to tell me about that little scene the class just witnessed?”

  Eli shrugged.

  “I’m curious to know why you raised the subject,” I said, stuffing my papers into my briefcase. “It wasn’t just a hypothetical case. If you have reason to believe Professor Newmark’s death was anything other than an accident, I’d like to hear it.”

  “He wasn’t the most popular guy on campus, you know.”

  “I don’t know. I’m here only a short time. What makes you say that?”

  “He was a strange-o if ever there was one. Looked like the typical absentminded professor, but he had a mean streak.”

  “Are you saying that because he gave you a failing grade?” I picked up the eraser and began cleaning off the blackboard.

  “He didn’t fail me, but it was a close call. Almost lost my scholarship.” He levered himself up on my desk and swung his feet back and forth. “And sure did ruin my grade point average. I guess I’ll never get into Harvard now. Not that I was thinking about applying, but still.” He grinned. “My buddy Edgar Poole, now he might have had a legitimate chance to get into a really good graduate program. But Newmark made sure it wouldn’t happen.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Everyone knows. They had a big blowup. Edgar had asked the professor to let him out of his postgraduate assignment here so he could go back east. I think he wanted to attend Princeton or some other fancy Ivy League school. But the professor not only wouldn’t let him out of his duties; he wouldn’t give him a good recommendation, even wrote up a nasty one and threatened to send it to the grad schools if Edgar didn’t finish out his commitment. Edgar was really pissed—pardon my language—and they fought about it.”

  “And you think that was a sufficient motive for murder?”

  “I think that when you’re really angry, really angry, it can be a motive for murder for anybody.”

  “Interesting. Do you think anyone else had a motive for murder?”

  “You mean for murdering Professor Newmark?”

  “Do you?”

  “Well, there’s the ubiquitous Bo Peep Tingwell.”

  “Why do you call her that?”

  “He called her that once, because she was his shadow. Everywhere Newmark went, Mrs. Tingwell was sure to follow.”

  “Well, she is the department secretary, and he was the department head. Don’t you think it’s appropriate to see them together?”

  “The other department secretaries don’t follow their bosses around. Besides, she had a heavy crush on him.”

  “Now, Eli, how do you know this?”

  “I got eyes, don’t I? I could see the way she looked at him, all moony and such. Not that he gave a flying ... uh ... fig about her.”

  “No?”

  “Nah. He might’ve liked the attention, but that’s all. He was too caught up in himself to care what anyone else was feeling.”

  “And you think that gives her a motive for murder?”

  “You know, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ But even if it wasn’t her, no matter what others tell you, Professor Fletcher, this was not a nice guy.”

  “There are always people in the world we don’t like, or who we wish would behave in a manner we’re more c
omfortable with. It doesn’t mean someone is going to murder them.”

  “Sure. But they don’t show up dead when anyone with a flea’s brain knew a tornado was on the way. It just doesn’t make sense to me. Does it make sense to you?”

  “You’re a very observant young man, Eli. That’s admirable. But I’d like to see you be a bit more discreet as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s say someone did kill Professor Newmark—and I’m only putting this hypothetically.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not discounting my theory. I knew you wouldn’t.”

  “I haven’t finished, Eli. If—and it’s a big if—someone killed Professor Newmark, you don’t want to be broadcasting your suspicions in public. First of all, you don’t know who the possible killer is, and you don’t want to put yourself in danger.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” He pushed off the desk and straightened to his full height of six feet.

  “Even if that were the case—and I wouldn’t underestimate an opponent—you don’t want to tip your hand and have the killer go into hiding or disappear. If someone thinks they’ve gotten away with a crime, they may get sloppy and leave evidence unguarded. But if they think someone suspects them, they’re likely to behave flawlessly, and might never be caught.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “If it turns out you have any valid reasons to bring these suspicions to the police, you must be very sure of what you’re presenting. The police have no patience with speculation. And if they think you’re just making up a story, they won’t listen to you again, even if you later turn up something significant. You need proof of the possibility of murder before the authorities will entertain the idea. Otherwise, you’ll just be told you have too active an imagination.”

  “I’ve already been told that. I guess you have been, too.”

  “We’re not talking about me,” I said, smiling.

  “No. No. Of course not.” He picked up his book bag, flung it over one shoulder, opened the front door of the classroom, and held it for me.

  Tyler was lounging in the hall, waiting for his friend.

  “Thanks for the advice, Professor,” Eli said. He strolled over to Tyler and they walked down the hall to the exit.

  “Eli, you got a big mouth, you know that?” I heard Tyler say.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  And I hoped it wouldn’t get either of us in trouble. What concerned me most about Eli’s suspicions was that I had been thinking exactly the same thing.

  Chapter Ten

  The Langston Apartments in Sutherland Library had at one time been the on-campus living quarters of the college president. Only two rooms and a bathroom, they were nevertheless the most spacious, elegant, and luxurious rooms on campus, furnished with eighteenth- and nineteenth-century antiques and Persian carpets. A huge tapestry—said to be a copy of one hanging in the Cloisters, a medieval branch of the Metropolitan Museum in New York—covered one wall and almost reached to the carved crown molding that framed the coffered ceiling.

  The library had maintained the space for special purposes. The college’s board of trustees gathered there each spring, meeting in one room and dining in the other, additional furniture being brought in and out as required. Harriet had been reluctant to allow the English department to use the apartments as a temporary office, but since available space was at a premium, she had relented.

  Vernon Foner had ensconced himself in the smaller of the two large rooms and had taken over a massive mahogany desk with three leather cartouches set into the top, each surrounded by inlaid wreaths of laurel leaves in satinwood. I wouldn’t have allowed a piece of paper to touch its delicate surface, but Foner was blithely untroubled about it. In addition to several files stacked in a plastic holder, he had arrayed across the desk a stapler, a tape dispenser, a mug of pens and pencils, and a spiral-bound calendar book.

  Letitia Tingwell was exiting the room as I entered, an empty cup and saucer in her hand and a frown on her brow. “He has no respect, that man,” she muttered. “Resting a coffee cup on that precious furniture. I’ll give him what-for when he gets back. And I’m supposed to clean up after him?” She stomped out into the hall, the china pieces rattling against each other.

  Four plain teak desks and black office chairs had been brought in to accommodate the other members of the department. Mrs. Tingwell had one to herself in the large room, since she occupied it all day, and the other three were shared by the rest of the faculty, who checked in for messages during a break in classes, but usually found other places to lounge in their free time.

  Rebecca McAllister was correcting a pile of student papers when I entered the room. I stopped at her desk. “Hello, Rebecca. How are you?”

  “Oh, Jessica, I forgot to get you that article I told you about, the one about your coming to campus. I’ll write a note to myself right now. I’m such a sieve-brain these days. Otherwise, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “There’s no hurry,” I said.

  “There’s just so much to do, what with teaching the extra classes. And my paper was accepted by one of the smaller literary magazines. That’s good news, actually. I’m just glad someone wants to publish it. But they want me to make changes and I barely have time to breathe.” She bent to a paper in front of her. “I’d better get these done, however; my evaluation is coming up,” she said.

  I crossed to the desk I shared with Manny Rosenfeld. “How greatly do published works really count in your favor as an academic?” I asked, sitting in the steno chair and swiveling to face her.

  Rebecca looked up. “Publish or perish? Means the world. We’re all expected to keep up with what’s happening in modem literature, as well as demonstrate our knowledge of the classics. You can specialize, of course. Larry Durbin, our resident expert on the Bard, has a book out on Shakespeare’s lessons for modern life that’s getting a lot of attention.”

  “I’ll have to look for it. Do you have a specialty?”

  “Twentieth-century women’s lit, mostly American,” she said, taking up the next paper. “It’s amazing what poor spellers these kids are. S-E-S-O-N. That’s supposed to be ‘season.’ How did they ever make it into college? Anyway, where were we?”

  “Twentieth-century women’s lit,” I said.

  “Right! I start with the writings of the suffragettes and move forward from there. It’s an interesting segment of the American literary canon, the whole women’s movement.” She scribbled a note on the top of a page.

  “Did Wes Newmark specialize, too?” I asked.

  “I’d say he focused on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British. Not too many women there, outside of Jane Austen and the Bronte Sisters.”

  “Was he working on a manuscript recently?” I asked, trying to get Rebecca back to the topic.

  “Probably. He always had some writing going.”

  “Did he ever discuss what he was working on?”

  “Not with me. Probably not with anyone. Why do you ask?”

  “He was carrying a briefcase full of papers the last time I saw him, and when his body was found, the briefcase was empty.”

  “Well, if you listen to Vernon Foner—and I don’t—those papers are probably strewn all over campus by now. Ask Mrs. Tingwell. She might have a better idea.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  The lady in question, having gotten rid of the coffee cup, called to me from the large room. “You had two phone messages, Professor Fletcher. I left them on your desk.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tingwell.”

  The first call was from Dr. Zelinsky, and I returned it right away. An answering machine told me he was not available but that he could be reached later that afternoon at the same number.

  The second call was from one of the dearest people in my life, Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove. A country doctor nearing retirement, Seth was a friend of long standing. In addition to his companionship, over the years he had offered immeasura
ble help to me in writing my books, advising me on medical and psychological matters, and simply being there whenever I needed a calm and thoughtful intellect brought to bear on a knotty problem. I decided to wait to call back Seth when his office hours would be over and when I would have a good hour to spend on the phone. Not that our conversations ever ran that long, but I wanted to be sure that no obligations on either side would interrupt us.

  “Professor Rosenfeld left you the preliminary schedule for the memorial service,” Mrs. Tingwell said from the door, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s in the top drawer.”

  “Do you know if he’s had an opportunity to speak with Professor Newmark’s sister yet?” I asked, withdrawing the page and scanning its contents. “She may want to combine this with the funeral arrangements. Have you spoken to her about it?”

  “No one told me to run it by her,” she said, her tone frosty. “In fact, no one even introduced me to her.”

  “Surely you knew she was here,” I said, looking up from the paper. “You were at Professor Newmark’s house when she was due to arrive.”

  “No one saw fit to invite me to meet her. I’m good for cleaning up but not for introductions.” She pulled a tissue from the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “Professor Foner is asked to write a eulogy. Professor Rosenfeld is asked to make the memorial service arrangements. And what am I to do? ‘Mrs. Tingwell, will you straighten up Professor Newmark’s house for his sister?’ I certainly know my worth around here.”

  Rebecca looked up momentarily, then hunched over her student essays again.

  “Mrs. Tingwell, I’m sure that was an inadvertent oversight. Dean Bennett has been so busy with the rebuilding efforts. She must have just assumed you would be in charge of making Lorraine Newmark welcome, as you did for me when I first came to Schoolman. And I apologize if I have offended you in any way. It never occurred to me that you would wait for a formal introduction. Please don’t stand on ceremony. Lorraine Newmark is all by herself here; she’s in mourning for her brother, as I’m sure you are. The two of you knew Wes Newmark the best. That’s something important that you share.”