by Carolyn Hart
She expelled her breath in a slow sigh. Tension drained from her body. The presence of the letters appeared to provide her with enormous relief.
I made a quick decision. Detective M. Loy appeared with her blonde pageboy, purple-framed harlequin sunglasses, and shapeless gray dress. I cleared my throat. “I’ll take those.” I spoke quietly, but with confidence, and moved toward her.
She stood frozen for a moment, then jerked around, the packet of letters clutched to her chest. Her face was stark white, the red of her lipstick garish in contrast.
I pulled out the black leather folder, opened it. My steps sounded loud on the hardwood floor. “Detective M. Loy.” I held out my other hand for the letters.
She stared at me intently, then gave me a cool smile and opened her purse, dropped the letters inside, zipped it shut. “I think not.”
“Detective M. Loy,” I repeated stolidly. “You are removing material from a murder victim’s home. The house and its contents cannot be disturbed—”
She shook her head. Her lustrous black hair, fine as silk, rippled. “Pretty good job. Not good enough. You can’t hide bone structure.”
I suppose my astonishment was evident.
She studied me with a sharp gaze. “I admired your bone structure when you talked to me in the bar last night—high cheekbones, a slightly pointed chin. Judy Hope, as I recall.” Maureen took a step forward, reached up, pulled. The blonde wig dangled from her hand. “And your voice is rather distinctive.”
I’d forgotten to alter my tone.
She tossed the wig to me, tucked her purse under her arm, started for the door. “Perhaps it would be better for both of us if we pretend this moment never occurred. I doubt if your employer would be impressed by your behavior. Only the most scandalous online tabloids go in for disguises.”
Ah, yes, she thought I was Judy Hope, reporter extraordinaire for the Rabbit’s Foot. I blocked her path. “I can tell Sam Cobb about the letters and that Jay Knox threatened to publish them.”
She was shocked. Her hands tightened on the purse as she tried to figure out how this stranger, this woman who worked for an entertainment site, not only knew about the existence of the letters but was aware of Jay’s threat. “Did you talk to Jay?”
“Let’s leave it that I am well aware of all of Jay Knox’s activities.”
“Are you planning on writing a titillating tell-all story? You’d better think twice.” Her voice was harsh. “It’s a serious offense to impersonate a police officer. I don’t think the police chief would approve.”
She was unaware that I wasn’t worried about the chief being told of my actions. But perhaps, if I were adroit, I could take advantage of her perception.
I fluffed my hair. I knew it was squashed from the wig, and it never hurts to appear at one’s best. I wished I could also be rid of the ill-fitting gray dress. “I suggest we see if we can reach an understanding. I have no wish to cause you any concern about your letters.” If later evidence pointed to Maureen as the killer, the e-mails existed for the police to find. “However, it is imperative you tell me what you intended to report to Dr. Randall.”
She brushed back a strand of that incredibly fine, soft hair. She was puzzled. “I don’t understand how you know about that.” Her brows drew down in a tight frown. “Did Jay show you his e-mail? I would think he would have kept quiet about that night. But I have no reason not to tell you or anyone else who is interested. Jay and his agent and a few more men from the conference were here at Jay’s house on the Thursday night before the conference last year. Jay arranged for some ‘entertainment.’ I have no idea how he chose the girls involved but they were students. I have photos and some names. At least one girl was underage at the time. I was told it was a bang-up party with whiskey and plenty of sex. I intended to inform Dr. Randall. Jay was pretty much off-limits to criticism because of his family, but Gilbert wouldn’t ignore that kind of behavior, even though it was a year ago.”
“How did you know about the party?”
For the first time she looked uncomfortable. “A student told me.”
“When?” I watched her closely.
Her gaze dropped. “That doesn’t matter.” She moved around me, walking fast. She was in the hall. Hurried footsteps clicked on the hall floor. A door slammed.
I rather thought that when she became aware of the facts about the party mattered a great deal. Did she confront Jay at the time? Did Jay express remorse, promise never to take advantage of students again? Even though a year had passed, if one of the coeds had been underage at the time, somebody could be in big trouble. Had Jay—handsome, appealing Jay—set out to ensnare Maureen? Had he engineered an affair to ensure her silence? When he discarded her and she made her threat to report the evening to Randall, he taunted her with a threat to publish her love letters to him. That’s why she had been so relieved to find the packet of letters in the chest.
I understood her desire to protect her reputation, but the letters would be critical evidence if it was she who snatched up the champagne bottle and crashed the base against his temple.
That left me with a dilemma.
I disappeared.
Maureen was in the drive, hurrying to a red Corvette Stingray. She opened the driver door, slid into the seat, tossed her purse on the passenger seat.
Not even the most preoccupied driver would remain unaware if a purse in the next seat opened and an item appeared to depart of its own volition.
The motor roared.
I never had a sports car but the sound of the engine made me adjust my view of Maureen. Mid-forties and fiery.
I rapped five times on the trunk as the car started.
The Corvette jolted to a stop. Maureen put the car in park and climbed out, her face furrowed.
As she moved toward the trunk, I was in the passenger seat. I opened the purse, grabbed the letters, closed the purse. I lowered the window a couple of inches, pushed the packet through. By the time she slid behind the wheel, I was outside the car, picking up the letters from the drive. Would she notice the open window? Possibly. But she was likely preoccupied by her thoughts about our encounter. She would be interested in getting away as soon as possible with the letters safely in her purse.
As the Corvette roared down the drive, I settled on a sturdy limb of an oak tree. I surveyed the roof of Jay’s bungalow, shook my head. The likelihood of someone wandering about on the shingles was remote, but I didn’t want the letters to be found.
A deep-throated growl rose from behind the next-door neighbor’s fence. I looked down at one of the largest German shepherds I have ever seen. His hackles rose. He lifted his thin face and howled.
“Hey, boy.” I dropped down beside him, made soft cooing sounds.
He looked right at me. His taut shoulders relaxed.
A large doghouse, elevated on cinder blocks, sat in the shade of a sycamore. In an instant, I was there. I thrust the packet of letters deep beneath the house. The German shepherd had followed and stood watching. “Thanks, buddy.”
No one would get those letters now.
There is something reassuring in finding a pluperfect example of type in a world where often nothing is what it seems to be. Although there are many kinds of academics—the intellectual, the blowhard, the conniver, the dreamer, the overachiever, the floater—there are also plenty of piercing-glanced, goateed, lanky, tweedy (in season), dramatic iconoclasts.
Ashton Lewis jabbed a stubby forefinger, glared out at his listeners over heavy-rimmed glasses as he concluded the session on journalism. “Don’t play the big-time-news corporate game. Those reporters are shills. They don’t report. They interpret. How do they interpret?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “With insight.” His voice reverberated with disgust. “Insight. Hmm, it couldn’t be they’re crafty, could it, using words that demean one side, elevate the other? Grab a highlighter the next
time you read a news story. Pick out words that nudge opinion one way or the other. You’ll find them. But”—he leaned forward, gripped the edges of the lectern—“you can do better. Go out there, ask questions, delve to the bottom of each side’s claims, report the damn facts that you find, don’t embellish. Don’t interpret. If you give readers unembellished facts, they’ll draw conclusions, make judgments. Write the truth, and then, to paraphrase Kipling, then you’ll be a reporter, my son.” A sudden, charming smile lit his face. “And daughter.”
He bowed to resounding applause.
Behind the curtains, I appeared as Officer Loy, a redhead who felt quite comfortable in the French blue uniform. I rather thought Professor Lewis liked young women. I hurried across the stage.
He was almost to the steps when I caught up with him. “Professor Lewis.”
He turned, gave me an appreciative—I hew to truth—glance.
I opened the black leather folder. “If you’d be so kind, sir, we are seeking information about Professor Knox.”
His face transformed into a glower. “I don’t have anything good to say about the man. Being dead doesn’t grant a halo. If you want a testimonial, find a simpering woman.” He started to turn away.
“Sir.” I lifted my voice. “You e-mailed Jay that he had one week. Please explain the circumstances.”
He hunched his head down until his neck disappeared beneath the point of his white goatee, stared at me out of light blue eyes. “I suppose I have to. I always instruct students to tell it straight. But I won’t give you a name. There’s no point in hurting the girl’s reputation. I knocked on Jay’s office door Wednesday. I turned the knob and walked in. This was during faculty office hours. There was a girl in his arms. They jerked apart. Her hair was mussed, makeup smeared. He—well, no point in graphic details. I checked. She’s a student. She’s only nineteen. She ran out. I told Jay in no uncertain terms—” A bark of laugher. “I’m not given to uncertain terms. Ask anyone who knows me. I told him he’d crossed the line. I almost went to Randall then, but I thought it over. I wanted to save the girl embarrassment, but Jay had to go. I told Jay he had a week to resign. If he didn’t, I was going to Randall. If necessary, I intended to tell the world.” As he talked, his face turned an ever-deeper shade of red.
“Jay e-mailed you saying it would be your word against his.”
Lewis glowered. “He was an absolute cur. I don’t think anyone would ever accuse me of lying.”
I was touched. Very Kiplingesque. But I wasn’t deterred. “When did you talk to him last night?”
His shaggy gray brows knotted. “Least said, soonest mended. I didn’t kill him. But I’m not surprised someone did. As I said, he was an absolute cur. And now I’ve said all I’m going to say.” He turned and, head down, walked away, stomped down the steps. I watched his determined march away from me. The back of his neck was still red. Here was a man who was easily angered, the kind of man who might in a haze of fury pick up a champagne bottle and strike.
The auditorium was empty. As I recalled, no more main talks were scheduled. The afternoon was devoted to appointments. I moved behind dusty curtains, smothered a sneeze, and disappeared.
Conference room A was empty. That meant Sam Cobb had concluded interviews, but he would be at work, scanning reports at the police station.
I felt an uncertain lurch within. I hadn’t checked on Deirdre since lunch. I assumed she was still here at the lodge. I remembered the gloom of the interrogation room at the police station. Surely she wasn’t being questioned there, wasn’t close to arrest. But the evidence had been mounting against her.
Sunshine streamed through the windows in Deirdre’s room, adding light and cheer. She sat on the sofa, a soft smile on her face, hands loose in her lap.
I was so excited to see her, I gave a glad whoop.
She gasped and looked wildly about.
I was standing by the desk. “I’m over here.” I was cheery. I chose a navy tee with a V-neck and ankle pants in a matching navy with a silver fish pattern. Silver sandals completed my outfit.
Deirdre watched colors swirl and settle with a familiar look of disbelief and shock.
I would have thought she’d be more comfortable with me at this point.
Deirdre gazed at me with wide, strained eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t come and go, here one minute, gone the next. Maybe I’m really nuts. Hal says—” She looked at me questioningly.
“I know Hal.”
“Good.” She didn’t sound overjoyed. “You won’t mess things up with him, will you? Today at lunch, he knew that voice wasn’t mine. I don’t want him to think crazy things happen around me.”
“Sweetie”—I was reassuring—“nothing will come between you and Hal. Especially not if we can figure out what happened and satisfy the police that you had nothing to do with Jay’s death.”
“‘We can figure out what happened’?” Her voice rose. “Somehow I don’t like the sound of that. I’m not a detective. You’re not a detective.” A pause. “Are you?”
I was vague. “I do this and that. I’m here to help you, and right now we need to show the world that you are innocent. You know”—I tried to break it to her gently—“everyone here is fascinated by what’s happened, and I imagine there is a great deal of discussion. I think it’s likely that you’ve been mentioned as a suspect.” With waspish Gladys Samson on the loose, I was sure of it.
Deirdre said happily, “Hal promised he’d find out the truth.”
I was touched by her confidence in him. “Hal will certainly do his best. But you have a reputation to defend. You need to show the flag.”
She looked at me blankly.
Sometimes I wonder at the education young people receive now. I explained gently, “‘Show the flag’ means to make your presence known no matter what the circumstances.”
“Do you have any idea how quaint that sounds?” For an instant, she looked young and amused.
“Quaint or hip, I’m positive you have to be on the scene to make your case. The afternoon is winding down. Go mix and mingle. Show everyone you aren’t afraid.”
Deirdre gave a resigned shrug. “Okay. Have it your way. I might as well go downstairs. Maybe if I talk to people, I can forget about you.”
The afternoon sessions over, guests streamed from the hallways. The lobby was full. Some headed for the bar, others strolled out onto the terrace, blinking in the sunlight like moles awakening from a stupor. So many ways to write, so many notes to take.
Scraps of conversation floated past me. “Clichés are clichés because they’re true. . . . cardboard characters . . . If prologues are passé, how can the reader know the background? . . . I like using the present tense. . . . vampires in da Vinci’s studio . . .”
The speakers were also among the exodus from the meetings. Cliff Granger avoided looking directly at anyone, clearly hoping to escape yet another author ready to make the inevitable pitch. Long face preoccupied, obviously a man with a destination, he glanced at his watch, walked swiftly onto the terrace. He strode past a clump of writers and stopped at a table near the weeping willow and bent forward to speak to Jessica Forbes. She wore her silver hair in coronet braids today. A heavy-link gold necklace glittered in the sunlight. Granger made a gesture toward a chair. She nodded and he pulled out a chair and joined her. Her expression was pleasant, perhaps to indicate she wasn’t dwelling on their exchange last night at the bar. Once seated, he appeared to be making an effort to be charming.
Sidelong glances followed Deirdre as she crossed the terrace. When she approached a table, most faces reflected a mixture of embarrassment and uneasiness.
At a table in the center of the terrace, Gladys Samson tossed her head, a defiant gesture. It didn’t take a mind reader to know that she’d spent the afternoon regaling anyone who would listen with her version of Deirdre stalking down the hall on her way to
see Jay Knox in his cabin late at night.
Deirdre noted gazes shifting away from her, slight pauses in conversations as she passed.
I dropped down beside her, whispered softly. “Last night in the hall, you talked to Gladys Samson, the woman with short dark hair and a thin face and jangly bracelets. She told police she saw you and you admitted you were going to see Jay and she described you as distraught and upset.”
Deirdre looked around the terrace, spotted Gladys. Deirdre walked straight to Gladys’s table, gazed down at her. “To think”—her clear voice was easily audible to everyone in a sudden fraught silence—“that I spoke with you when I was on my way to see Jay last night. It’s shocking to remember that the last time I saw him he was full of life, eager to celebrate my happiness at joining the faculty. That’s how I will remember him. I’m so glad I hurried on my way there. If I’d stopped to look at your manuscript, I might have missed seeing him. It still seems unbelievable that someone killed him. I know we are all feeling sad today.”
At a nearby table, Maureen Matthews gave a nod of approval. Very likely she’d heard the rumors about Deirdre, didn’t believe them, was glad to have reassurance. Although Maureen still looked weary, she was quite lovely, her soft dark hair in a cloud around her elegant, memorable features. Her expression gave no hint of worry, so I assumed she had yet to discover that the packet of letters was no longer in her purse.
Jessica Forbes was a dominating presence, the coronet braids emphasizing the strength of her features—deep-set eyes, long nose, sharp chin. She watched Deirdre with interest. Likely she, too, was aware of the rumors swirling around Deirdre. She leaned toward Cliff Granger and spoke with one hand shielding her lips. He listened with an intrigued expression, his gaze riveted on Deirdre. He’d spent the afternoon meeting with authors and was likely just now learning from Jessica that Deirdre had been a subject of speculation by the conference attendees and gossip had fingered her as a suspect in Jay’s murder.
