Majoring In Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Eli, go ahead in. I need to speak with Mrs. Tingwell for a moment.”

  I drew the department secretary into the hall. “This is important or I wouldn’t hold you up,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind my asking something about Wes Newmark.”

  Her body stiffened, but she replied, “Go ahead.”

  Perhaps she expected a personal question, because she seemed surprised when I asked, “Do you know if Wes Newmark was working on a book before he died?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “When I met him outside the Hart Building before Saturday’s storm, his briefcase was bulging with something, but when his briefcase was found later, it was empty. I just wondered what papers he might have been carrying.”

  “I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you he usually had some writing project going. What that might have been, I have no idea. For as long as I knew him, he was very secretive about his work. He would take the manuscript with him wherever he went, and the computer disk, too. He didn’t want to risk anyone seeing what he’d written before it was published. I always wondered why, but he never told me. It was just one of his quirks.”

  “So he could have been carrying a manuscript.”

  “Yes, he certainly could have. But if the tornado blew the pages away, we’ll never know. All his work, like his life, gone in a moment. It’s such a waste.”

  I could see that she was struggling to maintain her composure.

  “Is that all you wanted to know?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you. I know it’s painful for you to talk about him.”

  “I’ll be on my way then.” She picked up her tote bag and walked swiftly down the hall.

  “These are pretty fancy digs,” Eli said as I walked through the main office to the smaller room. “I like that rug on the wall.”

  “It’s a copy of a medieval tapestry, the story of the unicorn,” I called back to him as I picked up papers from the in-box on the desk I shared with Manny Rosenfeld.

  Eli followed me into the room and whistled. “Who gets to sit here?” he asked, walking around the antique desk and letting his fingers run along the carved edge.

  “Professor Foner is using it now,” I said.

  “Ugh! That phony.”

  “That’s not nice, Eli.”

  “Sorry if I offend you, Professor Fletcher, but I don’t have enough bad things to say about the guy. I could fill three books with what an arrogant you-know-what he is.”

  “You didn’t like Professor Newmark either. I take it you’ve had Professor Foner as an instructor as well?”

  “Once was enough. He thinks so much of himself, he’ll only talk to those students he considers brilliant. All the rest of us are ‘merely intelligent,’ he once told me, not good enough to earn his attention.”

  “How unfortunate, if that’s the case.”

  “The guy thinks he’s so sharp, wearing suits every day now even when everyone else is casual.”

  I laughed. “Eli, I can’t believe you’d dislike someone because of the way he dresses.”

  He had the good grace to look embarrassed, but not for long. “The clothes are just a symbol,” he said. “But he sets himself up as a superior being, and then he can’t even remember what he writes in his own books. I actually read one of them and asked him about a passage. He says to me, ‘I never wrote that.’ I had to go get the book out of the library again and show it to him. He made up some excuse, like his mind is always so busy that he forgets things he did years ago.”

  “That can easily happen,” I said. “When you’ve written a lot of books, it’s not unusual to forget what you said in one. It’s happened to me.”

  “Yeah? When?”

  “Once, at an author luncheon. I started talking about a character I’d created, but had ended up discarding in a later draft. You can’t always count on a writer to remember everything he’s written.”

  “Well, he was arguing in class against his own philosophy in his book.”

  “Eli, I think you’ll find as you grow older that people change over the years, and their opinions change as well. You’re going to think very differently when you’re thirty years old than you think now.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t think I’ll take one position, and turn around and take another a year later.”

  “That’s not something to hold against him.”

  “Oh, that’s just one thing. I’ve got plenty. He’s lazy, makes Edgar Poole do all his dirty work. You know what he said to Tyler once?”

  “Eli, I appreciate that you feel passionately about Professor Foner, but I don’t think this conversation is appropriate. We’re talking about a colleague of mine, and he’s not here to defend himself.”

  Eli snorted, and tossed his library book in the air, catching it between his hands and twirling it around. “Okay, let’s change the subject.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said, riffling through the papers from my in-box. Mrs. Tingwell had taken a message for me from Harriet. Would I stop by her office? Rebecca McAllister had cut out the article in the student paper that announced my coming to campus and left it for me. I scanned it quickly and folded it, intending to put it in my bag, but a photo on the back of the page stopped me. It was cut off on the side, but there was no mistaking that the face was Wes Newmark’s. Why would President Needler have told Lorraine the student paper needed a photograph of her brother when it obviously already had one?

  Eli was pacing in front of the antique desk and bouncing the book up in the air like a ball.

  “Are you going to the memorial service for Professor Newmark?” I asked.

  “Do I have a choice? Everyone on campus is expected to go.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “My dorm adviser. He said Dean Bennett wants a big turnout to impress the prof’s sister. That’s what I heard. Besides, there’s liable to be some press there. Local press anyway. I hope no one throws stones at the coffin.”

  “Eli!”

  “Just kidding, Professor Fletcher. No offense. I’m going to the service. Alice sings with the campus choir. She’d kill me if I didn’t show up.”

  “I think it’s time to lock up,” I said, putting the rest of the papers back on the desk. “I’ve got to go make some copies downstairs.”

  “Professor Fletcher, can I ask you something?”

  “That depends. Is it going to be about any of the faculty? If so, I’d prefer you keep the question to yourself.”

  “Nuts! Well, if that’s the way you feel, okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  I shut off the lights and locked the door behind us. Eli guided me to the librarian’s desk, where I left the key for Mrs. Tingwell with the student on duty.

  “Is the copy machine available downstairs?” I asked her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Professor Fletcher. Mrs. St. Clair is running off a new emergency booklet, and the copier is reserved for the rest of the afternoon and evening. If you’d like to leave what you need copied, I can have it ready for you tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, but I may need to work on it tonight,” I said. “I’ll come back in the morning.”

  “Didn’t want to leave your stuff with her, did you?” Eli said as we exited the library.

  “That’s a personal question, Eli.”

  “Sorry. I’ll stop bugging you now. See you later, Professor Fletcher. I’ve got a paper due for this class I’m taking on writing murder mysteries.”

  He winked and loped off across the quad, leaving me to wonder what our encounter had really been about.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My timing was perfect when I walked into Harriet’s office; at least it was for her.

  “Oh, Jessica, thank goodness. If you hadn’t come, I would have had to cancel my meeting with the student government council.”

  I smiled. “I have a feeling I’m about to be shanghaied again.”

  “You are, and I hope you won’t mind.”

  She asked me if I wou
ld go to Phil Adler’s house to wait for a representative from the Visiting Nurse Association. The service was sending someone over to do a “needs assessment” to see how the house could be altered to accommodate the injured man once he was discharged from the hospital.

  “It won’t be longer than an hour,” Harriet said. “I promise. The lady is supposed to arrive at four-thirty. She can let herself out, if you need to leave before she’s finished. The house is just off the west campus, not a long walk, but I can get one of the students to drive you over if you’d prefer.”

  “I have my bicycle,” I said. “I just need the keys and directions how to get there.”

  Phil Adler’s house was on a tree-lined street several blocks from the faculty housing where I had an apartment. The white Cape Cod was on a large lot, flanked by a brick-fronted colonial on one side and a Tudor with cream-colored stucco on the other. I wondered which of the two belonged to Larry Durbin and his wife.

  Adler had been away less than a week, but there was an air of neglect about the place. The grass, which was turning brown, hadn’t been cut for a while. The paint on the door and around the window trim was flaking. A detached garage sat at the end of the driveway, its doors sagging on the hinges.

  Inside, I leaned down to pick up the bills, letters, and magazines that had been pushed through the mail slot, automatically sorted them by size and type, and set them on the stairs on my way into the living room. The drapes were tightly closed and the furniture was dusty. I turned on a few lamps, pulled back the drapery, and opened a window to get the musty smell out of the room. I had the impression Adler hadn’t been in this room since his wife had left. A fashion magazine, dated a year ago, sat on a table next to the mushroom-colored corduroy sofa. I nudged the magazine with my finger, exposing a portion of the wood where the dust hadn’t fallen.

  The small dining room was similarly unused, and contained only a cloth-covered table on which sat an empty laundry basket.

  I retrieved the mail and went to the kitchen, where I placed it on the round table under the window. The room ran the width of the back of the house, and one side was a family room with a big-screen television on a wheeled cart, and a door to the back porch. Adler probably spent all his time at home in this room, the only one with signs of life. A shirt was draped over the back of a chair. Stacks of magazines, newspapers, and opened mail covered the coffee table in front of a green-and-brown couch against the wall. An empty beer bottle sat on the floor.

  Mold had started growing in a coffee cup left in the sink. I washed it out and left the cup upside down in the dish drainer, grateful Phil hadn’t left a sinkful of dirty dishes. On the counter next to the refrigerator was a combination telephone-answering machine. The blinking light indicated three calls. Reasoning that Harriet might try to call me here, or that the VNA lady would leave word if she was going to be late, I pressed the messages button. The first call raised goose bumps on my arms. I recognized the voice. It belonged to Wesley Newmark.

  “Still have your wife’s voice on the machine, Phil? How sweet. You think you’re fooling everyone, but you didn’t fool me. I’ll be at your office at the appointed time. Be there. And make sure you have what we talked about.”

  The message clearly indicated they had talked before, yet Adler denied knowing what Newmark had wanted to see him about. When I’d questioned him in the hospital, Adler had theorized that Newmark was late keeping the appointment because he couldn’t find whatever it was he wanted to show the bursar. But this call sounded like it was Adler who was bringing something to the meeting. Before I could contemplate the possibilities, the second message began. This was a voice I didn’t know.

  “Katy, it’s Linda. I can’t believe how long it’s been since we’ve spoken. Can you still be so angry? I’m sorry if something I said offended you. I can’t even remember now what we argued about. Do you? Katy, we have to resolve this. Think of Mom and Dad. How disappointed they would be. I love you. I don’t want to go the rest of my life without talking to you. Please, please call me back. And Phil, if you get this message first, don’t you dare erase it. Let Katy make up her own mind.”

  It seemed her husband was not the only one the volatile Kate Adler fought with. She’d been estranged from her sister, and obviously hadn’t told her parents about the state of affairs. But if she’d moved back with them in Chicago, it was strange that they didn’t know by now. It was also peculiar that Adler had kept his wife’s outgoing message on his answering machine. They’d been separated for a year. Larry Durbin had said Phil took her departure hard. He must still be mooning over her, I thought.

  The third call was from Melissa Durbin, next door.

  “Phil? Larry told me about your accident. If you can use any help when you get back home, please don’t hesitate to call me. I can pick up whatever you need when I do my own grocery shopping. I know you don’t like to ask any favors, but I promise you, it’ll be no trouble at all. That’s what neighbors are for. You know the number.”

  I leaned over the telephone, trying to find where the answering machine tape was located. I’d never seen this model before and hoped it wasn’t a digital one in which the recording couldn’t be removed. I slid my fingernail in a seam on the side of the phone and lifted a small panel, revealing two tiny cassettes, one for the outgoing announcement, the other for incoming messages. If I moved quickly, I could get the tape copied and reinsert it in the machine before Phil was discharged.

  Hoping that Linda might have written to Kate in addition to calling, I went to the round table, flipped through the mail I’d left there, and checked the open envelopes on the table in front of the fireplace. There was no personal correspondence of any kind. The visiting nurse was due momentarily, and I felt time getting away from me. Quickly I opened every drawer in the kitchen, starting with the one near the telephone. Surely there had to be a personal address book somewhere. I didn’t find one, but what I did discover was the instruction booklet for the telephone, and with it, an extra miniature tape. As I pocketed the tape from the machine as well as the spare, there was a loud knock at the door. I closed the panel on the phone and greeted the nurse.

  Marvella Washington was a big-boned woman in a white uniform, a starched cap bobby-pinned to her black curls, who wasted not a moment on small talk and got directly down to business.

  “You’re going to need help getting him up those stairs,” she said, pointing to the two steps leading up to the front door, and making a note on her clipboard.

  “Yes, I see that.”

  “He’ll probably be released with crutches, but it would be better if he has a wheelchair to get around.”

  “Are there places nearby to rent one?” I asked.

  “There’s one in New Salem. The hospital will direct you.”

  She pulled out a tape measure and measured the width of the hall, the door to the kitchen, and the front and back doors, while I trailed after her.

  “Might have to move some of the furniture around temporarily,” she said, pushing a kitchen chair aside. In the dining room, she paused. “No chairs. That’s good.”

  “Actually, I won’t be the one taking care of him,” I said. “I think Harriet Bennett was the one who called you.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. I just do the assessment. The social work department is responsible for the rest.” She eyed the stairs to the second floor. “He won’t be going up there for a while. You’ll need a bed on this floor. Don’t let him use the couch. Bad for his back. Order up one of those hospital beds. It’s a little difficult to get into, but he’ll sleep much better.”

  “Will you leave a copy of your suggestions?”

  “I’ll send you a full report. You just have to tell me where.”

  I gave her Harriet’s name and address and she gave me her business card.

  “I need to finish my measurements, and if you don’t mind, I’ll move some furniture so it’ll be out of his way.”

  “I don’t mind at all. Will you need my help?”


  “No. You’ll only get in my way. Why don’t you go upstairs and bring down some clothing for him. We can lay it out on the dining room table so he can get to it easily.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that,” I said. She had given me the perfect excuse to look around upstairs. It was what I’d been intending to do when she left, but now I could snoop without guilt.

  “Use the laundry basket or you’ll be making a million trips. Don’t pick anything fancy. We may have to cut one leg off his pants to get the cast through.”

  I collected the laundry basket from the dining room and started up the stairs.

  “And don’t forget to bring down his shaver and toothbrush,” she called after me.

  The large master bedroom was simple and neat. A white chenille bedspread was bunched at the end of the bed; a gold blanket had been straightened but not folded back. The pillows had been flattened, Phil’s attempt at a made bed. In one comer of the room was a pile of pillows on the floor, which had probably been in that spot since Kate walked out.

  The heavy oak dresser with the oval mirror had eight drawers, four on each side. I opened the top one on the right. It contained a profusion of colorful bras and panties, matching sets on one side, unmatched pieces on the other, together with tights and folded panty hose, and balled socks in white and colors. Had Kate left without packing? Had Phil refused to send her clothing? Why, a year later, did he still keep her lingerie in the dresser drawer?

  The three remaining drawers on the right were empty, but all the ones on the left were bulging with Phil’s clothes, underwear, sweaters, shirts, and T-shirts stuffed in. Why wouldn’t he use the empty drawers?

  I looked in the closets. One was empty except for some belts that had fallen to the floor. A wire hanger dangled from the bar. The other was tightly packed with his suits, jackets, slacks, robe, heavy sweaters, and jeans. Belts and ties hung from the door.

  My mind churning, I laid out a selection of clothes on the bed and went to the bathroom in the hall to gather up toilet articles. It was no surprise to see two toothbrushes in the holder, but it was startling to open the medicine cabinet and face two bare shelves. Perhaps his obsession with her convinced him she would return at any moment, and he wanted to be sure she would know that he had expected her to come back, even leaving her drawers empty so she could replace her belongings where they had originally been.