by Carolyn Hart
His long face crinkled in indecision. He seemed to pick his words carefully. “I had heard that he offered a consulting service to authors.”
“Is that ethical?”
He shrugged. “Some authors are willing to pay substantial sums to people they think can get them an entrée to being published. I can tell you”—he was emphatic—“that reputable agents never take money to represent a book. That’s against the canon of ethics. We take on an author and if we sell the book we receive a percentage of the royalties. No up-front money.”
“Do you think it was acceptable for Jay to take money from authors?”
A dismissive shrug. “He wasn’t an agent. He was a consultant. What he did was up to him. Savvy writers don’t go that route.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t like to criticize Jay when he isn’t here to defend himself. His attitude was hard-nosed. He said if somebody wanted to pay him for making a connection, that was their choice.”
“Did he recommend authors to you?”
“Sure. He and a lot of other people. We get more queries than we can handle. Sometimes I look at the books; usually I decline.”
“Did you take on any authors he recommended?”
“Occasionally.” He smoothed back a lock of hair, looked weary, as if contemplating a tsunami of manuscripts.
“Are any of those authors attending the conference?”
“A couple. There’s a woman from Dallas. And a guy from Tuscaloosa.”
“Did you find a publisher for their books?”
“Not yet. I’m still trying.”
“If you don’t find a publisher, how do those authors react?”
He looked surprised. “Look, I do my best. I send the books around. When there’s a rejection letter, I send it to the author. If I get three or four passes, that’s pretty much the end of the story.” He was thoughtful. “Nobody’s ever complained. I do what I promise to do. If it doesn’t work out, it isn’t because I don’t try. They can read the rejection letters.”
“Do you know any authors who were unhappy with Jay?”
Cliff shook his head. “We never talked about that.”
I waited. But he was done, regarding me with patient forbearance. This was his opportunity to inform the police about Liz Baker and her angry husband. But he said nothing. I was intrigued. Did he feel sorry for Liz? I wouldn’t have expected him to be kindly, but perhaps I did him an injustice. His silence about Liz and her angry husband suggested he felt no personal danger from the police investigation and therefore saw no need to set the hounds in motion after a possible suspect.
I found a table in the main lobby where a conference staffer was handing out box lunches to attendees. My mantra in life—one of them—is that it never hurts to ask. Others? You must be willing to fail to succeed. Smile, and, if the world doesn’t smile back, smile again. When you draw a lousy hand, remember the game isn’t over. Laughter should always be kind.
I walked up to the table. “Hello.”
The staffer was stout, perspiring, and faintly hostile. She had opened one of the box lunches and was munching on a sandwich. “I’m Officer L—” Oops. “Hope.” I held out my leather folder.
She gave it a perfunctory glance.
“I wanted to tell you how much we”—I was expansive, waving one hand to encompass all the surroundings—“appreciate the cooperation and support of the English Department for our investigation. You have excelled.”
The woman neatly wrapped the remainder of her sandwich in waxed paper. She brushed back an untidy loop of graying hair, looked less stressed. “We want to help.”
I noted her name tag: Sheila Devon, Administrative Assistant. “Ms. Devon, are you part of the English Department staff?”
Her fairly heavy face was suddenly less formidable. She looked at me with pride, her light blue eyes attentive. “I am Dr. Randall’s secretary.”
“That’s splendid. I know you can be a big help. It’s important for us to explore Professor Knox’s relationships. Obviously, you occupy an important post in the department. I’m hoping you can share knowledge only you might have about Professor Knox.” My tone was inviting, encouraging.
Sheila’s entire demeanor changed. Instead of an overworked woman, resentful at giving up her Friday, she blossomed. “I know a lot about the department. Dr. Randall is wonderful. I’m sure he didn’t have much choice about hiring Jay Knox. The family, you know. Everyone remembers his grandfather.” She looked troubled, hesitated, remained silent.
“You can be frank. Any information received during an investigation remains confidential, sources never revealed.” I doubted this was accurate, but it sounded persuasive to me.
Sheila leaned forward, dropped her voice. “To tell the truth, Jay Knox was”—a pause—“well, he was from a fine family and very good-looking, but he was a real womanizer. Last year there was some talk about a party he had at his house, some of the men attending the conference were there, and women were brought in, and you know what that means. His grandfather would have been very upset. Why, the conference is supported by the college, and to have that kind of thing going on is very distressing. And all the while he was acting sweet as pie to Professor Matthews. I should have told her, because I don’t think she had any idea, but some things you don’t feel comfortable talking about. I heard him one time when I started to open the door to her office, telling her how crazy he was about her, how gorgeous she was, and everybody can tell you, she really is beautiful, but getting older now. Well”—an angry sniff—“this past week she went in his office and the door wasn’t quite closed. She asked why he hadn’t called and he—oh, it was awful—he wasn’t nice at all, he told her he needed some space and to stop calling him, they’d had some fun together but that train had left the station. When she came out, I could have cried. She looked shocked. I’m surprised she’s here at the conference, but I guess she had no choice.”
We parted with smiles. I was almost to the terrace door when she called after me. “Would you like a box lunch?”
“I’m not free for lunch. Yet.” I suppose I looked wistful.
“I’ll save a box for you.”
I smiled my thanks. I looked about and was pleased to see Deirdre having lunch with Hal. I wondered how Sam Cobb would feel about this tête-à-tête. They sat at a table near the weeping willow, out of the main traffic flow on the terrace.
I walked briskly to the honeysuckle arbor, stepped inside. After a quick glance, I disappeared.
I slipped into the chair opposite Deirdre.
Deirdre was still wan but her long face was open and unguarded. Her gaze was fastened on Hal as if absorbing his presence, the kindness and reassurance in his face, the warmth of his voice, his solid muscularity.
Hal was being earnest. “. . . have to ask all kinds of questions. You’ve been very patient.”
She pushed back her sandwich box. “Chief Cobb looks at me like I’m”—she took a quick breath—“a criminal.”
Hal reached across the table, took her hand. “No one can look at you and not see how good you are.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” I placed my fingers over my lips. I’d been touched by the depth of feeling in his voice but that was no excuse for speaking aloud. No one could confuse my voice with Deirdre’s—a definite difference in tone, her voice light and clear, mine husky.
Hal looked startled.
Deirdre blurted out, “That wasn’t me.”
“I didn’t think it was.” He spoke slowly. His face was interesting—uncertainty, concern, a sudden attentiveness. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know”—her voice was scarcely above a whisper—“if I can make you understand.” Deirdre brushed back a frizzy lock of hair, and finally, reluctantly, said, “I think she’s there but we can’t see her.”
Deirdre took a shaky breath. “This is going to sound kind of crazy.” She stopped, shook her head. “What do I mean, kind of crazy? But maybe I can make you understand. I really need to get a book written and sell it, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get started. So I kept thinking, if I could just get some inspiration, I would be all right. And I thought and thought and thought about inspiration and then out of nowhere this really gorgeous redhead—”
Ooh, what a lovely thing to say.
“—showed up and said she was there to help me. She’s the one who came last night when Jay was there and said her name was Judy Hope.”
Hal’s eyes narrowed. “Red hair? About five foot five? Green eyes?”
Deirdre nodded.
“Judy Hope.” His face was thoughtful, and I had no doubt he was filing Judy Hope as an alias for Officer Loy. “Good to know. Well, I wouldn’t worry about her. Sometimes it’s swell to have an unseen champion.”
“I’m going to need all the champions I can get.” Deirdre’s voice was thin. “I’m afraid I’ll end up in jail unless they find out who killed Jay. I don’t know that much about Jay, but I think I’d better start finding out. Maybe I can help look for the murderer.”
Hal reached across the table, grabbed her hands. “You can relax. I’ll find out what happened. I promise. And now, you get busy with breakfast. You need to keep up your strength. As for the redhead who’s sometimes here and sometimes not, we know she’s on your side. Like Bill Shakespeare said, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in our philosophy.’”
They looked at each other in understanding, an acceptance that more existed in their lives and the lives of many than they would ever understand or be able to explain.
This time I reappeared in an old phone booth near the door to the ladies’ room. I felt confident as I stepped out that no one in the busy lobby was paying attention to this twentieth-century relic. As promised, a box lunch and ginger ale awaited me at the check-in table. I thanked Sheila. As I crossed the lobby, I glanced down the hall to my left and saw a row of occupied seats outside conference room B.
Cliff Granger, relaxed and smiling, strolled toward the door, nodded at the occupants of the chairs, the hopeful authors waiting to see him. Harry Toomey was in the third chair holding several copies of his book. One knee jounced as he fidgeted.
I strode outside and down the winding path, all the way to the end of the pier. I leaned against the railing as I ate a ham-and-cheese sandwich, enjoyed salty potato chips, sipped crisply cold ginger ale. I finished with a sugar cookie iced with a happy face. I’d hoped for more information from Cliff Granger, such as a handy list of authors attending the conference who were Jay’s clients. There might be others as disappointed and angry as Liz and Tom Baker. That was the problem of being on the outside of an investigation. If only I could take a look at Jay’s cell phone. He was young, hip, very likely to keep notes and schedules on his iPhone. But there was another possibility.
I deposited the box and soda can in a waste receptacle, strolled to the honeysuckle arbor, stepped inside, relished the sweet scent. I made sure no one was passing, and disappeared. Transport was no problem. I simply thought, Jay Knox’s house, and I was there.
Chapter 6
Jay’s house was in an older part of town, not far from the campus. One-story homes, mostly brick, were shaded by oaks and elms. Jay’s house was among the oldest, a mellow stucco bungalow. Mail was jammed in the black iron mailbox on the porch. Two newspapers in plastic bags were halfway up the lawn. There was no sign of life or movement, no car in the drive.
Inside, the air-conditioner hummed. Air-conditioners run 24–7 during an Oklahoma summer and Jay Knox had fully expected to return to his house. I was grateful for the coolness. There was no other sound. I was sure no living creature was in the house. Even though I was invisible, a dog or cat would have found me, known I was there, perhaps been friendly, perhaps not. But nothing broke the silence.
I stood in the center of a long living room, a rather well-appointed room for a bachelor—angular modern furniture with brightly colored cushions, two sofas, three chairs, a long, low glass-topped coffee table. A painting with huge splashes of crimson and turquoise hung above the fireplace mantel. I gave the room a cursory glance, noting what was likely an expensive black metal sculpture of geometric shapes in one corner. I wondered if the artist harked back to the assurance of mathematical precision or was illustrating the complexity of modern life.
I walked down a hallway, checked several rooms, found a large office at the back of the house. The door was open. I stepped inside. Everything appeared to be in order. The top of a brown wooden desk was bare except for in/out boxes and a small legal pad with a pen lying across it. A computer monitor glowed on a side table. The swivel chair was turned toward the monitor, away from the desk.
I was thoughtful when I stood by the desk. I looked from the monitor to the desk. The pad contained a list in large, looping handwriting. All of the notes were unremarkable reminders of tasks to be done—get a birthday card for Aunt Helen, attend dinner next week at Dr. Randall’s, renew driver’s license, make out bills. Each number had a check mark by it.
I glanced at the in/out boxes. The bottom tray was empty. Several stamped envelopes were stacked in the top tray. I picked them up, noted the addresses—utilities, a cable company, a car dealership.
Obviously, Jay paid some bills the old-fashioned way, rather than authorizing withdrawals from his checking account or making purchases with a debit card. What mattered to me at the moment was whether Jay’s last action at the desk had been paying bills or working at his computer.
If he paid the bills, checked the last number, pushed back the chair, and stood, it would seem more natural to slide the chair forward against the desk. Instead, the chair faced the computer.
Had someone other than Jay slipped into the house, come to the computer, looked for and possibly found a particular file or photo, and deleted it? It was quite possible. If a shadowy figure came to the house late last night, it could have been the murderer. Or it was possible, after Jay’s death was made public, that someone else hurried here today to access a particular file or photo.
I still held the envelopes Jay had placed in the out-box. As I returned them to the top tray, I was struck by an idea. I pulled open the center desk drawer. His checkbook was lying next to an ornate fountain pen with an eagle crest serving as the clip. I opened the checkbook, read the stubs. The recent checks had been written the day before. I skimmed back over the month and found a deposit of five thousand dollars marked Baker Consulting Fee. I closed the checkbook, shut the drawer.
I slipped into the chair facing the computer and had a sudden shivery feeling. I wondered if I’d spooked myself with my conjectures. Was I was sitting in a chair last occupied by a murderer?
I pushed away that shrinking feeling and focused on my task. Thankfully, Jay kept his computer on, so I wasn’t stymied by lack of a password. I didn’t bother to look at files or photos. That kind of search would take far more time and expertise than I possessed to discover if anything had been deleted after his death.
I went to e-mail.
I’ve learned my computer skills on the fly, so to speak, but they are adequate. It took only a few minutes to find a series of e-mails Jay sent to authors confirming the submission of manuscripts to Cliff Granger. Three responses indicated excitement over seeing Cliff at the conference and were effusive in their thanks. I memorized their names and would make sure Sam Cobb spoke to them, although it didn’t seem likely any were involved in Jay’s death, since they were apparently satisfied in their arrangement with Jay.
The e-mail string from Liz Baker was an entirely different matter. In five e-mails, the first late last week, she begged him to return the money. “. . . I took it
out of our joint checking account. . . . Tom didn’t know. . . . He left paying the bills to me . . . then his car went out. . . . He needs the money. . . . The money wasn’t mine. . . . I should have asked him before I wrote the check but you said I had to pay now or I couldn’t see Mr. Granger. . . . I’m afraid of what he might do.” An e-mail sent Thursday was stark. “I’ve never seen him like this. . . .”
Two other e-mails Jay received Thursday, and his answers, needed to be explained.
The first, from Maureen Matthews, was cryptic:
I have an appointment with Gilbert on Monday.
Jay’s reply was brutal:
Cancel it. Or I’ll do a collection of love letters, self-pubbed, a pink cover with a red hot arrow pointing at your name.
The second, from Professor Ashton Lewis, was apoplectic:
You have a week. I’ve warned you.
Jay:
Your word against mine.
A faint creak sounded, then the click of a door shutting.
I turned my head, listened.
Quick footsteps sounded in the hall. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Maureen Matthews walked past the open doorway to the office. She would have been a lovely figure in a swirling silk dress with splashes of violet against gray, except for the anguish in her face, her beauty shadowed by memory and fear.
I immediately followed her.
At the end of the hall, she turned to a closed door, stopped, one slender hand gripping the knob. Now her face carried an imprint of sadness. She remained with her hand in that tight grip, her shoulders tensed for one minute, two, then shook her head, turned the knob. She stepped into a masculine bedroom—dark furniture, a king-sized bed with an Indian blanket in a red and black, diamond-and-star pattern used as a spread. A brown chest of drawers sat against one wall next to a bookcase.
I watched from the open doorway.
Maureen walked to the chest, pulled out the top drawer, moved the contents about. In a moment, she lifted out a packet of letters, blue envelopes held together by a double-looped red rubber band.
