Majoring In Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I haven’t heard,” he said.

  He was making me uncomfortable. He hadn’t moved from the door, and I couldn’t see the expression on his face in the dim light.

  “There’s a light switch to your left,” he said, as if divining my unease.

  I found it and flipped it up. The glare of the fluorescent fixture cast a harsh light on the dull cabinets and countertop, reinforcing the impression of neglect that permeated the whole house.

  “Not exactly House Beautiful, is it, Jessica?”

  “Not unusual for a man living alone. Many men don’t pay much attention to housekeeping.”

  I could see his face now and relaxed under his wistful gaze. He was dressed in a baggy gray sweatshirt and matching pants; the fabric, strained to accommodate his heavy build, was stretched at the knees and elbows, and had smears of tan paint on it where he’d wiped his fingers. He was a big man but looked more soft than muscular. He moved into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, sat down, and began idly looking through the mail.

  “When Kate was still ...” He hesitated. “When Kate was here, she kept this place just so. She was a very neat, pretty little thing. Loved to dress up. Rings on every finger. She had beautiful clothes. I used to tease her that she came out to the country so she could put on her finery and go dance with the cows.” He smiled.

  “What kind of marriage did they have?” I asked, taking the chair opposite him.

  He scratched the back of his head, further mussing red hair that looked as if he hadn’t combed it in a while. “You mean when they weren’t fighting?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘If ladies be but young and fair, they have the gift to know it.’ ”

  “As You Like It,” I said.

  “Aha, the lady knows her Shakespeare. Kate was like many pretty young women: narcissistic as hell. She was a fish out of water here at Schoolman, needed the excitement of the city to bring her alive. She was wasted here. Phil could never see that. He thought if he was happy in the country, she should be happy in the country, too. Stupid ass. He never appreciated her.” He chuckled. “Identify this: ‘The hind that would be mated with the lion must die of love.’ ”

  I shrugged.

  “All’s Well that Ends Well. If you aim beyond your boundaries in love, you’d better be prepared to suffer for it. Phil suffered plenty.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Kate? Little, delicate ... like, I don’t know, like a ... like a little pixie with long blond hair. She used to come crying to me. I would say she cried on my shoulder, but she only came up to here.” He put a hand at midchest.

  “Why would she be crying?”

  “She was begging me to talk to Phil, to convince him to move back north.”

  “Why did she think he’d listen to you?”

  “She said Phil admired me, respected my opinion.” He pulled a magazine from the pile and began leafing through it. “I told her I was sorry I couldn’t help her, that she should stay here and things might get better. But I wasn’t surprised when she went back to Chicago.”

  “What family does she have in Chicago?”

  “I don’t really know. She talked about a sister, but they weren’t close.”

  “What about her parents?”

  He shrugged. “I never heard her mention them. I assumed they were dead.”

  “So you never met her sister?”

  “No. Why are you interested in her sister?”

  “I just wondered where Kate went when she left here.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because she left a lot of things behind.”

  He looked at me for a long time. “Have you been going through Phil’s things?”

  “I had to bring down clothing for him,” I said. “He won’t be able to get upstairs if he’s in a wheelchair.”

  He lumbered to his feet. “Melissa probably knows. Ask her.”

  As if on cue, Melissa Durbin opened the door. “Larry, is everything okay? You never came back. I got nervous.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re nervous about. Nothing ever happens in Schoolman. That’s why we moved here.” He pushed past his wife and stepped out to the porch. “There’s your housebreaker,” he said, pointing at me. “The famous Jessica Fletcher.” The harsh tone in his voice put me on edge.

  “How do you do,” she said, ignoring him. She was a tall woman, almost as big as her husband. She wore a pastel green sweatshirt, a pair of worn jeans, and a baseball cap over her hair. “Larry told me that you were on campus. We haven’t had a chance to meet yet.” She thrust out her hand and I shook it.

  “C’mon, Melissa, I have to change for my class soon. If you want that room finished, don’t dawdle.”

  “Sorry I can’t stop and talk,” she said, backing out of the kitchen. “We’re repainting the den.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I think it’s time I left anyway.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Edgar Poole gave me a ride into New Salem and dropped me off in front of FedEx, with a promise to return in an hour. I arranged for overnight shipment of the florist’s box containing the fireplace poker to the laboratory Mort had recommended. I had no idea how long it would take the lab to analyze the evidence and get back to me, but I urgently needed the results. Any delay, even one day, was of concern now.

  The shop also had a copier, and I took advantage of the service to photocopy Wes’s cryptic notebook and his letter to his sister, planning to return them to her that evening. I looked forward to seeing Lorraine again. She was the only person in Schoolman, other than Eli, who shared my view that Wes’s death should be investigated.

  I paid for my copies and shipping charges at the register, and looked at my watch. Edgar would not be back for another fifty minutes.

  “Is there a coffee shop or luncheonette nearby?” I asked the clerk. “Somewhere where I can buy a newspaper and sit for a bit?”

  “The diner’s on the other end of town,” she said, “but it’s a long walk from here. There’s the bakery down the block. They serve cake and coffee. It’s across from the hardware store. You can get a paper in the market next door and bring it to the bakery.”

  I bought a newspaper and stopped at the hardware store to replace the flashlight that had been crushed during my foray into Kammerer House.

  The bakery was a charming, old-fashioned shop with polished wood floors and gleaming glass fixtures. A counter ran the length of one side, with a variety of baked goods displayed on top and below. On the other side, maple tables and chairs filled the space, almost all of them occupied. As I looked around for an empty seat, a woman beckoned me. It was Eunice Carberra, from the hospital gift shop.

  “Come join me,” she said, pointing to the empty chair at her table. “It’s hard to find a seat here at lunchtime.”

  “Thank you,” I said, laying my folded newspaper on the table. “I never expected it to be so crowded. I thought they didn’t serve lunch.”

  “They don’t, but they have terrific cake. Plus you can order a latte here. New Salem is right up-to-date with the latest coffee trends in the country.”

  I laughed and made sure to ask for a latte when the waitress arrived to take my order.

  “Have a piece of the lemon pound cake, too. Not too fattening, and it’s one of their specialties.”

  I added it to my order and looked at my watch. “I don’t have a lot of time,” I said. “I got a lift into town with a graduate assistant and he’s picking me up in a little while.”

  “If he’s been at Schoolman more than six months, he’ll know where to find you.”

  “What a pretty place,” I said. “No wonder the movie people wanted to shoot here.”

  “I told you about that, didn’t I? You have a good memory.”

  “Most days,” I said. “But I have my moments. I just hate it when I enter a room and can’t remember what I was looking for.”

  “Happens to the best of us. I once spent a half hour s
earching for my glasses, only to find I’d put them in my pocket so I wouldn’t lose them. That’s when I bought this,” she said, fingering the gold chain from which her glasses dangled.

  “Solves the problem.”

  “It does indeed. Everything back to normal at the college? I heard it was a mess over there.”

  “Pretty much. Three buildings sustained a lot of damage, but the cleanup is going well, and classes have resumed. Were you affected by the storm in New Salem?”

  “Not in town,” she said. “But the hospital was. The ER saw a lot of action. As soon as the weathermen predicted the storm, we canceled all our public service programs—Mommies and Me, Al Anon, that sort of thing—so we could be prepared to focus on the injured. All the doctors and nurses were called in to be on hand. And then it was mostly bruises and broken bones. Nothing exciting. By the way, we sold three of your books already.”

  “How nice.”

  “The signature really makes a difference.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I placed a new order for more of your books. I’m counting on you to come by and sign them.”

  I laughed. “I’ll be happy to sign as many as you get.”

  She appeared pleased. “So what brings you to town today, Jessica? Did you come to see Mr. Adler again?”

  “How did you know I visited Phil Adler?”

  “Oh, this is a small town, my dear. It’s next to impossible to keep secrets. And the hospital is like a small town within a small town. Phil’s going to be released tomorrow. Marvella Washington told me Harriet’s made arrangements for him to have a private duty nurse to help him while he’s recovering.”

  “That was considerate of her.”

  “I told Marvella to make sure the nurse is a pretty one. He’s been so blue since his wife took off. I thought a pretty nurse would perk up his spirits. But she told me the nurse they’re sending is a man. Can you imagine? We’ve women doctors and men nurses. Quite a change since my youth.”

  “Mine, too,” I agreed, “but it’s a good change. It’s nice to see women in positions of authority, and men who have a nurturing nature.”

  “Well, I’ll never get used it. I remember what a shock it was when Harriet came back to take over the college. Never had a woman head the school before, and the board didn’t like the idea at all. Lots of arguments, I heard.”

  “There are many colleges headed by women these days,” I said. “But Harriet doesn’t hold that post. The president of Schoolman College is a man.”

  “Don’t you believe it. Harriet has always run everything she’s ever touched. That man is just a figure-head. She controls it all.”

  The waitress interrupted our conversation to place a cup of latte and a plate with a square slice of cake in front of me. She returned a moment later to fill Eunice’s cup.

  “Tell me how you like the cake.”

  “It’s delicious,” I said, after taking a taste.

  “It was my great-aunt who gave the recipe to the original bakeshop owner.”

  “I would love to get the recipe myself. Is it difficult to make?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t bake. It’s too bad about that professor who was killed, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. Eunice reeled from one topic to another like a loose cart on the deck of a rolling ship.

  “I thought he and Harriet might make an item, but I guess that’s over now.”

  “They were a couple? I’d never heard that.”

  “She didn’t want anyone to know. Or else he didn’t want that secretary to find out. They used to meet at a diner out of town, over by Wabash. But one night the bus for the basketball team stopped to pick up a snack for the boys, and the coach saw them together in a booth. Is that your young man waving at us?”

  I looked up to see Edgar peering through the window. He pointed to his watch and to his car, parked at the curb.

  I nodded, tucked the newspaper under my arm, took a final sip of my latte, signaled the waitress, and took out my wallet. “It’s my treat, Eunice,” I said when the waitress put the bill on the table. “It was nice of you to invite me to join you.”

  “Well, I won’t say no. Thanks very much, Jessica. It was a real pleasure running into you today. Don’t forget to come back and sign the new books when they arrive.” She lowered her voice. “And I’ll let Dr. Brad Zelinsky know when you’re coming in.” She winked at me. “He’s a nice fellow,” she said, “although how anyone can spend his life cutting up dead people is beyond me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “In a murder case, the investigator is like a reporter on a news story, looking for the five Ws. Who can tell us what they are? If you’ve taken any classes in journalism, you would have come across this phrase. Yes, Maria?”

  “Who, what, where, when, and why.”

  “Exactly.” I wrote them on the blackboard. “The investigator asks these five questions: Who? What? Where? When? Why?”

  It was pouring rain outside. I had checked the TV in the faculty lounge to make sure there wasn’t another tornado watch in effect when I’d come in for my class. There wasn’t. But the wet weather was enough to keep some of my students away. Eli must have slept in. And Alice may have found it too cumbersome to get around in a wheelchair in the rain, because she was absent as well. The rest of the students were in their seats, but they were fidgety. The room had been abuzz, but when I entered, all conversation had stopped immediately. Still, every time I turned to write on the board, I heard disconcerting whisperings behind me.

  “Let’s start with the first question,” I said. “Who is the victim? Is it a man or a woman? Let’s say it’s a man. How old is he? What did he look like? What do we know about this person, his occupation, his marital status, his lifestyle?”

  “Like, did he have any enemies?”

  “Good point, Freddie. Understanding the victim is the first step in investigating the crime. For instance, was this person a criminal himself? Did he have a record? This might lead us in the direction of his criminal associates when we’re looking for suspects. Or did this person have a drug addiction? Did he owe someone money, or break up with his longtime lover? Was he fired recently, or did he fire someone else recently? You can see that by finding out about the victim, you develop other avenues for investigation that may lead you to the killer.

  “The next question is ‘what.’ What was it that killed him? Tyler, what do I mean by that question?”

  “You’re lookin’ for the weapon, right?”

  “Yes. The weapon, or the means used to kill the victim. Did someone shoot him or stab him or poison him or use something else? How did this person die?” I wrote means on the board, and was surprised to hear some giggles behind me. I turned. “Was there a struggle? Was he taken by surprise? What condition was the body in, and what does that tell us about the murder? Yes, Barbara?”

  “I know the question for ‘where.’ ”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Where was the body found?”

  More giggles.

  “I fail to see the humor in this,” I said. “Does anyone want to let me in on the joke?”

  All eyes were on their desks.

  “Okay, Barbara, would you give us the ‘where’ question again, please?”

  “Where was the body found?”

  “And also where did the murder take place?” I added. “Sometimes they’re not the same. We also want to know what the crime scene looks like. That investigation may take a long time. Don’t forget your papers on the crime scene are due next week, so I think we’ll hold up talking about that. Janine, do you think you can describe what the ‘when’ question asks?”

  “I think it’s: When did the murder take place?”

  “That’s right, and why is that important?”

  “Well, you want to know if it’s morning or afternoon or night.”

  “True, but why do you want to know that?”

  Tyler waved his hand. “Ooh, ooh, I know.”

 
“Give Janine a chance to figure it out. What do you think, Janine? Why is it important to know the time of death?”

  “Because if someone has an alibi for the time, they couldn’t be the killer.”

  “Very good. Remember what we said in an earlier class. The investigators look for motive and opportunity. We have to know when the victim died to determine who of the suspects had an opportunity to kill him.”

  “I know the ‘why’ question.”

  “Okay, Tyler, tell us.”

  “Why was the guy killed? That’s looking for the motive, right?”

  “You are correct. And it’s the motive that often leads us to the killer, although sometimes we don’t learn the motive until after the perpetrator is caught. Can you give us a motive for murder, Tyler?”

  “Sure. How about getting even with someone?”

  “You mean revenge.”

  “Yeah. Like if he did something bad to you and you want to get him back, like failing someone in a class.”

  There was a burst of guffaws, and I looked at my students in confusion. “What is going on today?”

  Janine gave me the answer. “Tyler thinks Professor Newmark was killed by somebody he gave a failing grade to.”

  “How did this happen to come up, Tyler?”

  “Someone said someone offed Professor Newmark. So I said it had to be somebody he failed because he had a reputation for giving bad marks.”

  “Everybody on campus is talking about it,” Barbara said, “trying to figure out who wanted to kill him. It’s a big joke.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” Freddie said. “I actually liked him. His classes were tough but they were interesting.”

  “Thank you, Freddie,” I said. I looked at Tyler. “Where is Eli today?”

  He shrugged. “I saw him this morning. I’m kind of surprised he’s not here. This is his favorite class.”