Majoring In Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I searched for light switches, but the few I found were either inoperable, or the bulbs in the fixtures were broken or gone. Relying on my flashlight, I reached the end of the tunnel; the way ahead of me was blocked by rubble: slabs of concrete, fallen beams, and shards of metal. I estimated I was near the bursar’s office, which had already been razed.

  I looked back. Behind me the tunnel was black, the angle of the hall completely obscuring the illumination from the bare bulbs near the copy center door. I shone my flashlight on the wreckage. Spiders skittered away from the light, and I heard a scuffling noise as well. I didn’t want to think of what other creatures might be making their home in this subterranean passageway. Casting the beam along the wall, I came across a broken door and stopped to examine the damage. The metal frame had been fractured on the top, possibly by the weight of debris hurled down by the tornado, which put too much pressure on the lintel. I ran my hand down the edge of the door and felt where the lock had previously engaged the frame. A tongue of brass, a short, ineffective appendage, had been wrenched from the faceplate. I pushed on the door and it opened into a room with a sharp squeal, the sound jarring in the surrounding silence. I poked my head through the opening and aimed the flashlight inside. The room was about eight feet by ten feet, small and secure. The ceiling was cement, the walls made of concrete blocks. No rubble had fallen through. I squeezed through the gap and took shallow breaths. There was an odd, acrid odor.

  The chamber proved to be another of Professor Constantine’s fallout shelters, and was remarkable in that its remote location had kept it from being converted to a storeroom or other practical use. Once abandoned as a shelter, it had been left in its original state of readiness.

  Fascinated, I inspected the contents of the room. None of the supplies laid in for a 1960s emergency had been removed. Shelves along the walls held a variety of green canisters and brown cartons with food staples and other provisions. There was a Geiger counter to check for radiation, a pile of folded blankets, a first-aid kit for injuries, a portable radio, and what looked like a well-thumbed civil defense pamphlet. A box marked MADE IN JAPAN held a sanitation unit, which was still sealed in its original packaging. A schematic drawing showed how to set up the commode and attach it to a water source.

  Three cots with mattresses were stacked on top of each other, further attesting to plans to use the space as living quarters in the event of an attack. But the only living beings that had benefited from them were mice. In several places the ticking had been chewed through, and stuffing sprouted from the holes. I walked gingerly, trying to avoid the evidence of rodent infestation on the floor.

  On the wall was a framed map similar to the one I had pored over with Professor Constantine. The evacuation route had been highlighted with red ink to indicate the safest way out.

  Professor Constantine will be delighted with this find, I thought. It was a forty-year-old time capsule. He could bring his students here to demonstrate America’s fears of an atomic bomb blast and the precautions some had taken to survive it. I wondered whether the elaborate preparations would have been effective, and was thankful we’d never had to find out.

  At the back of the room, I aimed my flashlight at the large and small metal drums that had been stacked to save floor space. The light seemed not as strong as it had been. The batteries were fresh; at least the clerk in the hardware store had said they were. I gave the flashlight a shake and the light strengthened again. Just a loose connection. I focused on what had caught my eye.

  One large drum had fallen over and the cover had been dislodged. The word WATER had been stenciled on the outside of the drum but it clearly hadn’t been used for that purpose. Spilling out of the crack where the top separated from the drum was the edge of a soiled cloth. I wonder what they used that for? I thought as I moved closer to take a better look. Shining my light on the cover of the drum, I put my foot on the edge of the rim and pressed, trying to pry it open more. The lid fell off with a loud clatter, and the cloth tumbled out. But it wasn’t just cloth. It was a sleeve. And inside the sleeve was the desiccated arm of a corpse.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I backed up to the door and waited for my heartbeat to slow before creeping forward, careful not to touch anything, and aiming the flashlight on the victim.

  From the look of the clothing and considering the size of the drum, the person who had been stuffed inside was a small woman. The sleeve had a ruffled cuff. Stiff now, it might have been a gauzy material at one time. There were several silver rings on the skeletal hand. I leaned in to see what I could of the body. A skein of long blond hair was still attached to the skull. The fabric on the bent knees was denim.

  I had a sinking suspicion I knew who it was. It was safe to assume that the woman in the drum hadn’t died a natural death, and it was highly unlikely that whoever placed her there had been following the deceased’s instructions to be interred and left for eternity in an abandoned bomb shelter. In this case, “eternity” had been interrupted by an act of nature, and by what my old friend Seth has been known to call my “unnatural” curiosity.

  I couldn’t tell how long the body had been there, but the open lid of the drum had exposed it to the air and allowed it to decay. The location of the shelter, which I presumed to be beneath the building that had housed the bursar’s office, could not be a coincidence. No one had spoken to Kate Adler in a year. She hadn’t contacted anyone in her family, nor visited any of her friends. Mail sent to her had been returned. And much of her clothing still remained in the home she had shared with her husband, including a pair of high heels flung into a storage room.

  Was it Phil who’d killed her—or someone else? Was Wes Newmark’s death connected to this one? Was the same person responsible for both murders?

  Ignoring the squealing hinges, I pulled back the door and stepped out into the tunnel. Away from the decomposed body and the moldering mattresses, I took a deep breath. The moist air in the tunnel, which I’d barely noticed before, was beginning to become uncomfortable.

  I shone my flashlight on the floor ahead of me. There were damp patches on the concrete. The light flickered slightly. I shook the flashlight again, but the beam seemed to be fading. Apparently the batteries I’d purchased were not as fresh as promised. If they failed while I was underground, it would be an unpleasant trip back to the library.

  I walked down the corridor, taking care to avoid puddles forming on the floor.

  I heard a door slam in the distance. Was it the door to the copy center, or one of the doors to the tunnel? I hurried forward, eager to end this adventure. Finding the access to Kammerer House could wait for another time.

  I reached the place where I thought the hall angled back toward the library, but I couldn’t see the lights outside the copy center. Had I missed the turn? Perhaps the bulbs were weak, and the light from my flashlight blinded me to them. I pushed the switch to off and was plunged into blackness. I shut my eyes and waited. The air was getting chillier, and goose bumps rose on my arms, despite the warmth of the wool suit I was wearing. I concentrated on my hearing: the only sounds I could discern were the dripping of water and the rustle of my own clothing as I waited restlessly for my sight to adjust to the lack of light. I opened my eyes and squinted. The lights were definitely gone, and I chided myself for leaving the bulbs on while exploring the tunnel. If they were old, they may have burned out quickly.

  I switched the flashlight back on, needing the comfort of light. The beam was thin and spasmodic. Should I go back and see if I missed a turn, or move forward and possibly lose my way in the maze of corridors?

  Trusting that I hadn’t mistaken the turn, I walked swiftly down the hall, hoping the pace would warm me up. The tunnel seemed longer than it had been when I’d first walked its length. Had I gone this far on the way in? I couldn’t remember. The flashlight’s beam flickered. Shaking it no longer strengthened the light. When the light died completely—a situation that looked likely—I would have to keep one
hand on the wall and make my way slowly to avoid stumbling.

  The copiers were silent now. I listened for any hint of activity that might assure me I was on the right trail. And then it happened. A breeze caught me from the side, and a tunnel yawned on my right. There had been no tunnels to my left on the way in, and shouldn’t have been on my right on the way out.

  You’ve always had a good sense of direction, Jessica, I lectured myself. Think this through. There has to be a logical way back. I tried to envision Archie’s map, and where it defined the location of the shelters and tunnels. But his plan, he had told me, had been made early in the building process, and hadn’t shown the final layout.

  I lingered at the entrance to this new tunnel, debating my next move. The flashlight flickered again, and my decision was made. I took the right and entered the new corridor. Three steps later I was in the dark. I gave the flashlight a final shake. No go. Don’t panic, I told myself. You can do this.

  The tunnel was about six feet across. If I extended one arm and touched the wall, I needed only a step or two to the side for my other hand to reach the opposite wall. To keep myself from literally bouncing off walls as I walked, I decided to cling to the wall on the right, and use the end of the flashlight as a bumper. At first I walked slowly and dragged the flashlight along the rough surface, but as I became accustomed to the dark and could gauge the distance, I let the flashlight hover near the wall without touching it. Using my hearing, I could “feel” where the wall was. I’d often heard that people who are blind are able to sense when a wall or other large object is in front of them. I was beginning to feel that way, too, and imagined that my hearing was more acute, given my “blindness” in the tunnel.

  I’d counted sixty-five steps when I heard a noise that made me halt—something being slammed, a door or a drawer. It was definitely a human noise, not one made by an animal or dripping water. I listened carefully, hoping I’d hear it again. There it was, somewhere up ahead, on the right.

  I tiptoed forward, making sure my shoes didn’t tap against the concrete and distract me from pinpointing the location of the sound. I switched the dead flashlight to my left hand so I could feel along the wall with my right for the frame of a door or a gap indicating another tunnel. My fingers slipped over a bump and then another ripple before my hand connected with a flat plane. I concentrated on the floor. If it was a door, perhaps I could see a light under the jamb. But there wasn’t any light. I tucked the flashlight under my arm and used both hands to feel around the wall. The surface I touched was cold and smooth. The walls were rough. This must be a door. I patted it, felt for the knob, found one, twisted it, and pulled. Nothing happened. I tried pushing instead and the door moved; something was blocking it. I pressed my weight against the door and it budged a few more inches.

  “Is anyone there?” I called. “If you’re there, please help me open this door.”

  I stopped pushing to listen for a reply, but when there was none, I stepped back and slammed my shoulder into the door three times till I had moved whatever it was that was blocking the exit enough to squeeze through.

  The room I entered was cluttered. I could feel the presence of objects in front of me and to the side. I listened. Did I hear breathing, or was it only my own respiration from the exertion of forcing the door? Gingerly I put out my hands and touched metal. I slid my hand around, feeling a handle. I tugged on it and a drawer slid open. It was a filing cabinet. Oh, if only the flashlight worked. I shook it again, just in case, but it was definitely dead.

  I moved around the front of the filing cabinet and, proceeding slowly, slid one foot forward at a time, reaching out with one hand to the side and the other in front of my face to avoid knocking my head against low beams or hanging objects. Something or someone was there. I sensed it. But my hand encountered only metal as I inched along. I counted six cabinets in a row before reaching a wall. Filing cabinets. Could this be the basement of Kammerer House?

  As I turned to the right, my foot connected with a hard object. “Nuts,” I muttered. I’d bumped into a step. I’d placed my foot on the step when an arm swung around my middle and pulled me tight against a large body.

  “Don’t you dare move,” he said in a growl.

  “Who are you? Let me go!” I said, struggling against the arm imprisoning me.

  “You’re trespassing where you don’t belong.”

  “I was lost, just trying to find my way out of the tunnel. Let go. You’re hurting me.”

  The arm released me, replaced by an iron hand gripping my arm. I heard him reach for something, and then a brilliant light blinded me.

  “I might have known it would be you.”

  I was still blinking rapidly when he let me go and set the torch on the step, its huge beam bouncing off the ceiling and illuminating the room.

  “Lieutenant Parish!”

  “None other,” he said, scowling at me.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” I said, brushing cobwebs from my sleeve.

  “I’m not glad to see you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I was just trying to find my way out of the tunnel. My flashlight failed, you see.” I showed him my dead flashlight, and he pulled it from my hand. Wouldn’t it be just my luck if it worked now? Fortunately, it didn’t.

  Parish flicked the switch on and off several times, and nothing happened. “You probably have the batteries in backward,” he said. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”

  “Honestly, Lieutenant! I was using it up till about an hour or so ago.” I realized I had no notion of how long I’d actually been in the tunnels.

  “Well, you managed to find your way to Kammerer House once again, didn’t you? Or are you going to insist that being here is just a happy accident?”

  “I told you, I got lost.”

  “What were you doing here to begin with?”

  “Professor Constantine showed me an old map of the tunnels and bomb shelters, and I was curious to see them. I was in the copy center in the library and found the entrance. There’s nothing against the law in exploring the tunnels, is there? But I made the most shocking discovery. I found a room you’ll want to see. Actually, it’s a fallout shelter from the fifties or sixties.”

  “Nice story, Mrs. Fletcher. But then again, that’s your business, isn’t it, telling stories? Harriet warned me about you.”

  “Please, Lieutenant, I’m trying to tell you that there’s something you must see back there, in one of the rooms—”

  “Lady,” he interrupted, “you’ve been a thorn in my side all week long. And you’re not getting away with it this time, judge or no judge. You’re going to sit in the New Salem jail until Kammerer House comes down. That way I’ll know you won’t be breaking into this place again.” He picked up his powerful light and put a foot on the step. “You’re coming with me, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I straightened my jacket and looked him in the eye. “On the contrary, Lieutenant,” I said, hardening my voice. “This time you’re coming with me.”

  For a moment I thought my stand might cause him to strike out at me. His square face turned red, and there was a visible tremor in his hand. But then he caught hold of himself and said, “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a very dead body in one of the rooms off the tunnels. It’s a woman I believe to be Kate Adler. She’s been dead a very long time, Lieutenant.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Why don’t you come with me and see.”

  “You’d better not be playing a game with me, Mrs. Fletcher. I have no sense of humor where you’re concerned.”

  “Murders are not a joking matter, Lieutenant. I hope you’ll take both of them seriously. This one and Professor Newmark’s.”

  With our way lighted by his powerful flashlight, we retraced my steps until reaching the room containing the remains of Kate Adler. I stood just outside as he entered the room and did a cursory examination of the corpse without touching anything. When he was finished, he joined me in the
tunnel.

  “You were right,” he said.

  “Of course I was right,” I said. “Why would you doubt me?”

  “Because—”

  “And why have you been so adamant about Wes Newmark’s death?” I asked. “Why have you and others refused to even consider that he was murdered? There’s enough evidence to at least warrant an investigation.”

  “You don’t understand, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said quietly. “We have an arrangement with the school.”

  “Arrangement? What arrangement?”

  “We try and keep a lid on things here, to make sure the school doesn’t get a bad reputation.”

  “And this arrangement,” I said, “does it even extend to murder?”

  He sighed deeply and looked away from me, making it obvious that he was having trouble answering my question. Finally he again looked at me. “Let’s just say we’ve been cooperating with the school for a while to keep things cool, not make a big deal out of students getting in jams in town, things like that.”

  “I see,” I said. “I assume this so-called arrangement began when Harriet returned to take over Schoolman’s future.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I—”

  “Your cooperation is with her, not the school itself, isn’t it? And Harriet, it seems, has convinced you that the school’s reputation is more important than the truth.”

  “When it comes to truth, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, bristling, “I’ll take Harriet Schoolman Bennett’s word over yours any day. We go back a long time. She was my mother’s best friend, and if she says Newmark was a nut and made up stories to make himself look important, I believe her.”

  “But we’re talking about covering up a murder, Lieutenant. Even Harriet couldn’t ask you to do that. Could she?”

  “Let’s go,” he said. “I have to report this.”

  “Are you paid for this cooperation?” I asked, trailing behind as he moved down the tunnel with deliberate speed. I received no answer, which was answer enough. Finally things began to make sense to me. The stonewalling of Newmark’s murder was for reasons I could understand, although never agree with. I had wondered how, for so many years, Schoolman had escaped the usual student hijinks that occasionally required police intervention. Harriet was paying off the local police, that was how. Through her young friend Lieutenant Parish, any legal problems that might arise from student misbehavior in town were covered up, and now the same thing was happening to spare the school from possible involvement in a murder. I was making progress.