Mixed Up With Murder

by Susan C. Shea

  Time has a way of disappearing when you’re looking at a screen, and when I looked up, the sun had set, muting the landscape. I checked my watch and was glad I’d left a message for Coe Anderson. Putting my handbag in the trunk and locking the car, I made my way through the trees again, picking up a dry fallen branch that was long enough to serve as a probe if I decided to venture to the pond. There was no one in sight in either direction as I stepped onto the manicured green.

  I stood there and turned in a full circle. The dips and rises on the course meant that someone here might be visible to people farther away, then lost in the middle distance before becoming visible again when the golfer got close. That was if they were standing. I reminded myself that my question was whether or not anyone could have seen a man on the ground in the throes of a heart attack? Much less likely, even when the sun was still above the horizon, I realized.

  I walked over to the pond where Saylor had died. It was bigger than I had thought, certainly no puddle. There was a narrow strip of sand around the edge, scuffed but too fine and dry to show any footprints. I couldn’t tell how deep it was at the center, but the edge where I poked the stick was quite shallow, maybe two or three inches deep. I looked around. Hoping no one would catch me being such an idiot, I slipped off my shoes, turned the bottom of my slacks up a couple of folds, and stepped into the edge of the water cautiously, poking in front of me with the stick. How far out did you have to go before it got deep enough to drown while lying flat?

  Surprisingly, the sand gave way almost immediately to a muddy bottom. I shuddered at the feel of the mud between my toes. I’ve never liked wading in rivers. Give me white, sandy beaches anytime. The stick went a little deeper and I moved forward again. Suddenly, I jumped and cried out. An animal with a hard shell had moved under my foot. I scrambled backward, flailing with the tree limb. Was it a biting animal? Was it coming after me under the dark surface of the water? I lost my balance and sat down hard in four inches of water, and then it was underneath me. My hand brushed it as I scrambled to get my balance and stand up. Calm down, you fool. It was almost smooth, with a slightly pebbled surface. It was a perfect half circle. It was a golf ball, buried in the mud.

  Soaked and dirty, I stood there, tree branch in one hand, golf ball in the other, darkness falling, and wondered if Saylor had tried to retrieve a golf ball, lost his balance, and suffered a stroke or a heart attack while trying to stand up again in a panic. If he fell farther into the pond, he might have been in a foot of water, which would be enough to drown him, poor man. No mystery, really, a freak accident. The dean’s comment about there being no lake might have been true, but it might as well have been one when Saylor’s head lay flat in it.

  I heard a high-pitched whine coming from the course, and looked around as I hopped from one foot to the other to put on the sweet little ballet slippers that would now be ruined, and climbed to the green. Dark had almost fallen, but I could see a golf cart headed in my direction, still far off but clearly coming this way with one occupant. The last thing I wanted was to be seen in this condition, so I trotted back across the green as furtively as I could and picked my way through the trees, dropping the branch and the muddy golf ball in the fallen leaves. I retrieved my bag, shook out my pant legs and ducked into the car.

  The electric cart stopped on the green and a man in a white short-sleeved shirt and dark pants jumped out. I got nervous when he turned on a flashlight and headed toward the pond, but after a minute, he came back, got on his little cart, and continued toward the next green. Ah, the groundskeeper, maybe the same guy who found Larry Saylor. I bet they made a special stop at this green every day now.

  My wet slacks were uncomfortable and my watch said I had to hurry if I was going to change and meet the dean. I was alone on the way down until a car turned out from a side road. I was driving slowly since there were a lot of sharp turns in the road. No place for it to pass, and it was closer to my bumper than I liked. I eased to the right, hoping there was room for it to pass, but the driver didn’t take the hint. I sped up a bit to put some distance between us, but the car closed the gap immediately. I began to get nervous but told myself I was almost at the bottom of the hill, where the main road met this one and where there was bound to be traffic.

  Of course, my luck, there were no other cars as I signaled and turned toward town. All I could see were its headlights creeping closer to me. Then, the driver turned on the high beams, almost blinding me. By now, we were racing along together and I was scared. Ahead of us I could see a lighted strip mall with a gas station sign on my side of the road. Good. I clicked my turn signal on, tapped my brakes repeatedly, and held my breath. The car behind me didn’t give an inch.

  “Okay, buddy, this is it,” I said to the rear view mirror as the brightly lit station loomed. Getting as far to the right as I could without leaving the pavement, I swerved into the driveway and braked, peeking around my shoulder as soon as my car stopped moving. Nothing. The taillights of the car were rapidly receding from view.

  If someone had meant to hurt me, he had plenty of opportunity on the winding road or even on the flats. Bratty teenagers fooling around? All I had was another case of the shakes and a strong instinct to get back to home base and lock the damn door. I was beginning to think Bridgetown was the spookiest place I’d ever been, pretty college campus or not.

  CHAPTER 20

  The dean had been and gone, the desk clerk told me. “He seemed a little put out,” she said, eyeing my damp slacks. I could imagine what “a little put out” translated to, and didn’t envy the clerk. A maid had been in the room, picked up the mess of papers I had scattered in my rush to get going, and turned down the covers. No chocolate on the pillow, alas. No call from Dickie either. I guessed the lacrosse match was a thriller. After a hamburger and fries downstairs that I didn’t enjoy as much as I had a right to, I fell into bed and slept fitfully again, replaying the wild ride down the hill, and woke up with a jerk from dreams of falling through black space. When I gave up and took a hot shower at six the next morning, I told myself to get a grip. If I wanted to get back home where I would feel safe, I had to see what the dean wanted that was so important, return the call from Geoff’s contact, drill down into the short list of undocumented art purchases, and give Brennan a report of some kind.

  I wanted to lead with the Lichtenstein painting that Bart Corliss gave Vince for services rendered. The first hint I had that something was wrong was seeing the laptop lid raised. Surely I had closed it when I left the day before, and I hadn’t used it last night because I’d been so tired. The auction sheet should have been on top of the pile of papers on my desk, but after a five-minute search I knew for a fact that the page was gone. It couldn’t have been the maid.

  My neck and shoulders protested as I stood up after looking under the bed. I was going to feel the after effects of the accident for days, even if the damage was only superficial. But I had to accept that someone with a specific objective had been in my room while I had been on the golf course. Someone who could have looked at the map and guessed where I was going. I was obviously close to finding something important.

  The day manager assured me that none of their housekeepers would have touched my papers except to move them to make my bed. Was anything else taken, jewelry or valuables? I said I wanted to talk to whomever was on duty at the front desk last night. She was gone too, but the manager was able to get her on the phone. She had seen nothing, heard nothing. My only announced guest was the dean of Lynthorpe, but she had reported that to me right away.

  “Did he go up to my room?”

  “No. He sat in the lobby for about fifteen minutes, then got up and told me to say he’d left.”

  “Did you see him leave?” I persisted.

  “Well, sure, at least I assume so. I mean, I don’t remember seeing him go out the door, but after he left the message, he didn’t sit back down and I’m sure he didn’t head to the elevator. That I would have remembered.”

&nb
sp; “Could anyone talk their way into my room?” I said to the manager. “Your receptionist seems pleasant, but maybe she’s too nice, and tried to be helpful? And now she doesn’t want to admit it?”

  He got a little huffy and insisted that would never happen. He told me I could fill out a report and describe what had been taken, but suggested I search one more time.

  “It’s easy to overlook something, especially in a strange room. If you like, I could come with you.”

  I thanked him but said I was sure and would get along without the missing paper. I debated calling Detective Kirby, but there wasn’t anything concrete to say about the car that tailed me for a few minutes, certainly no useful facts about make, model, license plate, or driver. Charlie was on my side. Dickie was in the vicinity, although that was not necessarily a benefit. I had a lawyer. But now I was on my side too.

  I was too nervous to wait around for the police to figure out what was happening. The phone call proved I was a target, even if the tailgater didn’t, and the missing page cemented my conviction that I was on a criminal’s radar. I was going to get to the bottom of the puzzle surrounding Vince Margoletti’s proposed gift, no matter what President Brennan wanted.

  I looked at my watch. Plenty late in the morning to call Charlie in San Francisco. I wanted to tell him what happened, and ask him what I should do about it.

  “For one thing, forget about driving. Stick close to your hotel room if you have to stay in that town another day. Cabs only, and let the bellman call them for you so the dispatcher doesn’t have your name. Keep your cell phone with you all the time. Promise you won’t get any fancy ideas, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “I prom…wait. Get here? What do you mean?”

  “This is the last straw, Dani. One hit and run could be anything. The car tailing you could just be kids, but on top of the threatening phone call and someone getting into your hotel room, I’m not ready to dismiss it. To tell the truth, I don’t like the way this investigation’s going. Kirby’s honest but he’s not very aggressive.”

  “But what can you do? You can’t investigate on your own.”

  “No, and I don’t think they’d like me showing up in any official capacity, but I can’t sit around and watch while you’re in danger. At the least, I can keep you company. That car thing sounds fishy. I’m going to get someone to cover for me and fly to Boston tonight.”

  “Charlie, really you don’t need to. I have a lawyer, and I will take your advice and stick to cabs. I intend to get the hell out of here tomorrow or the next day with the lawyer’s help. By the time you got here, I’d be at the airport. Honest, I’m not taking any chances.”

  His job barely gave him enough free time to go to a movie, and coming all the way to Lynthorpe would mean several days off with no advance notice in a police station decimated by budget cuts and high case loads. We compromised. I would call him every evening and morning I was still at Lynthorpe to check in. I also agreed to give his name to Quentin.

  I didn’t tell Charlie that my ex was staying nearby. For one thing, it would hardly ease Charlie’s concern. Dickie saved my life once, even if it was sort of by accident, but he’s not cautious where danger is concerned. For another, I wasn’t sure that Charlie would understand how disinterested I was in Dickie, with or without the presence of his new girlfriend.

  ****

  An hour later, the hotel phone rang. After a moment’s hesitation because I didn’t want to hear proof that the car that followed me was driven by the same man who threatened me, I answered. It was Coe Anderson. I explained that I’d gotten lost while exploring the area, leaving out my trip to the golf course and leaving out my speculation about him worming his way into my room to steal the documents that held the clues to Gabby’s death.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, although his tone of voice suggested there was some fault involved on my part. “When can you come in for a brief meeting?”

  “Your office? But it’s Saturday.”

  “Welcome to the life of an administrator.”

  “You can’t tell me on the phone?”

  “The president and I met with Vince. There’s no time to lose.”

  It sounded urgent. I was, after all, a paid consultant here, and I was curious to see what could possibly have ratcheted up the pressure beyond what it already was. Maybe I was simply a glutton for punishment. I agreed to take a cab over in an hour. Setting my concerns about Coe Anderson aside, I turned to the list of tasks still waiting for me. First, I called Quentin’s office, expecting to get a recorded message. To my surprise, his assistant answered. She explained there was a trial beginning Monday morning. “We’re all in,” she said, resignation strong in her voice. I asked if the lawyer could see me, and she said she’d check when he got out of his conference, but it would be tough unless it was urgent. I told her I wasn’t sure how urgent it was, but a short conversation with him might answer the question. She laughed and said she’d try and I should call back later.

  Then I sat down to think through the tough part of the Margoletti gift memo. What do I include, I asked myself? Describe the problem attached to the auctioned paintings given to Vince Margoletti? Explain the two lists and recommend they be reconciled before the gift was finalized? No one would want that delay, but I’d be derelict not to point it out. Mention Margoletti’s mixed reputation as a P.R. issue to be faced and planned for? Given Rory Brennan’s stern rebuke, there wasn’t much sense including it. He’d just tell me to ax it before he signed off on the report.

  My other assignment, born out of the tragedies and underscored by the threats against me, was to collect, interpret as best I could, and hand over to Detective Kirby the clouded, dark aspects of this situation. Gabby’s face when she told me that Larry Saylor was dead flashed in front of me. She had turned big brown eyes on me, the kind that are hard to refuse, and asked me to help make sense of the executive’s findings. Even then, a little voice inside my head had warned me it might be sticky. Now it was too late to back away.

  By the time I had to leave for campus, I had figured out how to get the important stuff into the report with the goal of letting them sign off on the basic gift with a set of stipulations. I outlined it well enough so I could finish the text pretty quickly from my notes and the material that had piled up since day one. I didn’t know what to do about the auction sheets, since I didn’t have them and they obviously hid a clue about the puzzling issues, other than to describe what I could and list the artists’ names. I set that problem aside for now.

  Coe Anderson was twitching as he escorted me into his office. He jumped right in. “Rory and Vince want this business settled now, no more delays. Vince will make a stock transfer to Lynthorpe that will net enough cash to hire an architect and get started. We need your report today.” He leaned across his desk and emphasized his point by lifting his index finger in the air.

  Something about finger pointing sends me into resistance mode every time. “It might be hard to get it to you today, although I’m aiming for Monday morning. My plan is to send an email draft to the president tomorrow at the latest. I need to add a section about some specific works of art, and I’m missing some information for that.” Hint, hint, you wouldn’t have it by any chance?

  He rocked back in his chair. “How hard can this be? A man wants to give us a lot of money, he’s not a crook, and you keep bringing up imaginary problems.” He looked mad enough to bite a hole in the table. I was surprised into silence, and he went on. “Frankly, I don’t care if it upsets Geoff Johnson or not. We want you to turn in what you have by the end of today, along with the materials you worked from. Vince is set to bring in his P.R. team Monday morning.”

  “ ‘We’ is you and Vince, or you and Rory?”

  “All of us. It wasn’t your fault that Larry died, or the development assistant, but if you had finished your report sooner, perhaps…” He let his implication sit there while my face got hot.

  “You can’t mean you th
ink I am somehow responsible for Gabby’s death,” I said, fighting to keep my voice as cool as his.

  “No, but I don’t think any of us realized that having someone outside the college involved would complicate the process so much. I’m sure your report will be valuable, will give us some pointers going forward. And I’ll be happy to recommend you to my higher education colleagues, of course.” His smile was as phony as his gesture of professional courtesy. At least to my ears, his voice was patronizing and dripped with insincerity.

  “And if I report a problem with the gift, something that may be related to Larry’s and Gabby’s deaths?”

  “God forbid. You can’t do that.” He jumped up and started pacing the small space behind his desk. “Let me be quite candid here.” More finger pointing, this time at me. “Vince sat in that chair early this morning and said we either accept the collection now, or he withdraws the offer. So you see, my hands are tied.”

  Interesting, that choice of words. Tied? He couldn’t do, or had to do, what? “Then let me be candid too.” The dean sat down again, so hard his chair squeaked. “There’s something wrong about a few of the artworks, something that’s related to Gabby’s death. I will have to go to the police with what I’ve learned if it’s at all possible that it’s related to the events around here.”

  “The police?” he said, his eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. He looked frightened.

  “They know about the project Gabby and I were working on. They may not think it’s relevant but I decided after talking to an attorney that I couldn’t withhold it.”

  “You weren’t supposed to divulge our confidential business,” he said, his voice rising. “How much did you tell them?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Rory and Vince will be unhappy to hear about this. Send Rory your report, and make your plane reservations at the same time.”

  His words were tough, but the expression on his face didn’t match. Yes, he was afraid of something. If he was trying to cover up his involvement, this might be my only opportunity to force him to show his hand. I kept my voice pitched low. “What do you know about a Georgia O’Keeffe painting?”