by Liz Bradbury
There was a general feeling of nobody home. In front of the condos were parking spaces, but no cars. The snow had been cleared by a plow that had driven perpendicular to the empty spaces, piling the snow in a high mound in the last space. There were probably garages in the back. Skylar Carvelle’s unit was at the end of the row. I walked up the shoveled sidewalk. My footsteps seemed loud, causing me to tiptoe unconsciously.
When I got to the door, I looked for the doorbell button. Then I noticed the door was ajar.
Chapter 14
A door wide open in December, when the temperature is less than 30, is a bad sign. I reached in my shoulder bag and took out my gun, then pulled my sleeve over my other hand to avoid spoiling fingerprints in what I sincerely hoped was not going to be a crime scene.
“Dr. Carvelle?” I called, pushing the door open. Maybe he was just taking a shower and forgot to close the door, I hoped. Yeah, sure, right.
No sound of water running, no sound of anything. No lights on. The living room had big windows, but the overcast sky wasn’t helping the place seem cheerful. I moved cautiously with my gun held in both hands, arms extended, like a cop on TV. I moved straight ahead through the open floor plan. No one in the decorator furnished living area. I circled to my left returning to the front of the place through the fancy dining and kitchen areas.
Back in the foyer, I stepped quietly to the right. There was a room with a door slightly open. I pushed it with my elbow.
Dr. Skylar Carvelle was lying on the floor of his home office face down. He was wearing a velour forest green warm up jacket and matching sweat pants. The outfit didn’t go with the wet red stain that had flowed from his smashed skull onto the plush off-white carpet. A large Steuben glass bird, smeared with blood, lay on the floor beside him. I touched him... no pulse. Skylar Carvelle was dead, yet his body was warm.
I stood up fast. The killer could easily still be in the condo; this was no time to let my defenses down.
I stepped back into the corner of the room and faced the door with my gun ready. Flipping out my cell phone, I called the direct number of Police Lieutenant Ed O’Brien. Ed was a strong union guy and a friend of mine. He was smart and savvy but didn’t seem that way, which was one of his greatest assets. I trusted him.
“Ed? This is Maggie. I’m at a condo in the Hunterdon Development. Number 1259. Dr. Skylar Carvelle called me to meet him. When I got here, the door was open. Carvelle’s dead body is on the floor.”
Ed cut in, “Shit, Maggie, the killer could still be in the house!”
“Yeah, I know, so get over here.”
“Be right there,” he barked, not wasting time to say anything else.
I put my cell back in my pocket, then moved slowly out of the room and down the hallway to the right. There was a door that was probably a coat closet. I stood to the side and opened it. Three coats, two jackets, no killer.
The hall now angled ninety degrees to the left. A small door on the right was ajar. I pushed it open slowly. Powder room. No killer.
Farther down the hall I could see a bedroom. There was no place to go beyond that. If the killer was still in the house, he or she was in there. I leaned to look down the hall into the room. A shot broke the silence. The bullet ripping along the wall just over my head. Plaster dust floated in the air. I shot back to let the killer know I could, then flattening myself against the wall. I crouched down. A step closer and I’d be framed in the doorway as the perfect sitting duck. Another shot pierced the air. This one went wildly down the hall nowhere near me. I heard metal sliding on metal and then the sound of running footsteps. I moved slowly into the bedroom.
Faint police sirens were getting nearer. Good, I needed back-up.
The square bedroom held a large bed, a leather covered sofa and a pair of dressers. Sliding glass doors to outside were pushed open wide enough for someone to sidle through. I moved to the door and looked out. Footprints in the snow made for a group of trees directly behind the condo. I heard the distant sound of a car engine and a squeal of tires. I stepped out and ran for the trees, brushing against a snow covered yew branch dislodging powdery clouds that sifted into my collar. Beyond the trees was a roadside where a car could easily have been parked. Nobody there now, and no sign of witnesses.
Back at the condo the place was teeming with cops. Ed O’Brien yelled, “Let her in.”
“No, no,” I called back, “the killer shot at me from in there. Get these people out of the room; there could be all sorts of evidence on the carpet. Ed shooed everybody back out the door and closed it.
I told Ed what I could, but I didn’t mention who might have overheard my phone conversation with Carvelle. That was all circumstantial, anyway. We didn’t talk about whether this murder was related to Carl Rasmus. The Rasmus case was considered a suicide and the cops were treating the explosion at the College as a gas pipe accident.
Ed rubbed a hand over yesterday’s five-o’clock shadow, considering the murder scene. He said, “Here’s the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire question, why did the killer do it with a candlestick in the conservatory... I mean, why use a paperweight when he had a gun?”
I looked around the over decorated room for a minute, noting a drawer open in Carvelle’s faux Empire desk, “I bet the gun’s Carvelle’s. Carvelle must have known the killer and let his guard down.”
I moved to where Carvelle must have stood and said, “He turns his back for a second, the perp snags the first handy thing.” I pointed to a light ring of dust on a bookshelf near the door where the glass paperweight must have been, then mimed grabbing the glass bird and swinging it. “Then drops it, spies the gun in the open desk drawer, grabs it when he or she hears me at the door... The perp has a gun now.” I sighed thinking about the killer in a practical way. Before, the weapons were a balcony and a complicated firebomb. Now, murder would be as easy as squeezing a trigger.
Ed and a tech guy I didn’t know, talked to me for a long time about each move I’d made in the condo. They wanted me to come right to the station to give a statement, but it was 1:25 PM. I was supposed to meet Kathryn twenty-five minutes ago!
“Shit,” I said, “I have to go.” I told Ed I’d give him my statement later. He reluctantly agreed. I sped to Irwin, calling Bouchet on the way to tell him about Carvelle’s murder. Bouchet immediately clicked into administrator mode, beginning a plan to correctly deal with the situation.
*********
I finally found a parking place a block from the Student Union. I ran into the building and scanned the room. It was 1:52 PM according to the digital clock on the wall. Damn.
Kathryn Anthony was sitting with three guys at a table on the far side of the cafeteria. Two were grad students, the other was Jimmy Harmon. She had a plate in front of her. On it was a purple cabbage leaf garni and an orange rind. There was an empty Cafalatte bottle next to her. She was laughing at something one of them had said. She looked wonderful.
I crossed the room, pulled out a chair at her table and sat down. I was out of breath. She looked at me. She didn’t exactly frown, but annoyance flashed in her eyes. I had a feeling I might have to pay dearly for my tardiness.
I said, “I’m sorry I’m late. I have a note from my mom...?”
The other guys laughed. She leaned back in her chair and said flatly, “I’m sorry you’re late, too.” The frost was evident. The guys even felt it. I practically shivered.
Jimmy Harmon was smart enough to stand up and say hastily, “Good talking with you Kathryn, see you later,” and scram. The students were more dense. They stayed. I looked at them. I looked at her. She sure wasn’t going to help. Lunchtime was over and I’d missed it.
If the students hadn’t been there I would have said, “If you want to punish me severely, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” Kathryn unconsciously squeezed her shoulder near her neck to ease a tense muscle. Great, I’d stressed her out. Now I felt guilty for that, too.
“Are you free later today?” I asked tentatively.
She shook her head and said dryly, “No, I’m not.”
Damn, I thought again. I asked a trifle pathetically, “Tomorrow?”
She tilted her head to the side and looked deeply into my eyes for a moment. I could feel it to my toes. “You have a good excuse?”
“Very.”
“Later in the day tomorrow?” she suggested, thawing a tiny bit.
“What time?”
“Later in the evening, I’ll be in my office.”
“I promise I’ll be there.”
“Hmm,” she said quietly.
She stood up and said to everyone, “I have a meeting, nice seeing you all.” She glanced one last time at me and left.
Geez, she’s tough, I thought. Well, I really did have a good excuse. Whatever happened, I’d better damn well be on time tomorrow.
Chapter 15
Dr. Amanda Knightbridge’s office at 320 College Street in the middle of the Irwin campus, was easy to find because College Street is clearly marked and runs all the way through town. Clymer House, with its brick four story façade, slate block entrance steps, and six pane over six pane window frames, was a perfect example of Federal style architecture.
Inside, directly in front of the entrance, was a wide staircase with hardwood treads and risers. The railing was hand carved with grapeleaf ornamentation. I went closer to it to see if the twist balusters were hand carved as well.
“The entire balustrade was handmade,” said Dr. Amanda Knightbridge coming to my side.
“Chestnut?”
“Yes, yes it is,” she nodded approvingly. “Won’t you come into my office Ms. Gale?”
“This building must pre-date the college?” I asked conversationally.
“Well, yes and no,” said Dr. Knightbridge in her element. “Irwin College was founded in 1769 by the wealthy Irwin family. This building was built that year, but of course the College wasn’t on this site then. This was the family home of James Clymer who was the son-in-law of Walter Irwin and the brother of George Clymer, one of the signers of the Constitution. George Clymer was President of the Philadelphia Academy of Art, and James was the first President of Irwin College. There’s a portrait of James by C.W. Peale in the President’s house.”
“Yes, I saw it yesterday.”
“Did you?” she said smiling, “James Clymer willed this house and land to the college. When the college outgrew its original site downtown in the 1860s, the directors of the institution proposed to build on this site. They kept the house and built around it. Much of the design was influenced by Jeffersonian planning though less grand, of course.”
“Because James Clymer didn’t have slaves to build it?”
“Yes, yes, well, I feel that’s why. I’m doing research for a paper exploring that very point,” she said pausing to face me again. “This house has some wonderful details. There are majolica tile fireplaces in every room. The tiles are Minton...”
Amanda Knightbridge went on talking as we entered her fascinating office. The furniture was Windsor and Sheridan. There was an early pictorial baby quilt hanging on one wall and a Revolution era handdrawn map of Lenape County on another. Somehow, I could tell these things weren’t part of the College’s collection; they belonged to Dr. Knightbridge personally. An engraving of botanical specimens caught my attention. I looked at it closely.
“Is this by Maria Sibylla Merian!?!” I was sincerely awed.
Amanda Knightbridge was very pleased, she said, “Why yes it is. From one of her later botanical studies, still of the 1600s though. A little early for the room but... how do you know of her work?”
“Grad school research. I was interested in her travels. So fantastic that she could travel to South America to do botanical studies while Pilgrims were still barely scratching out an existence in New England,” I said looking more closely at the engraving.
She sat on a small couch. I sat in a wingback chair opposite her. Tucking a strand of long white hair back into the bun pinned at her neck, she drew her long Cardigan sweater more closely around her, folded her hands in her lap, and focused on me intently.
“Skylar Carvelle has been murdered,” I said without preamble.
Her expression sharpened with concentration. “How do you know this?” she asked concisely.
“He asked me to come to his home this morning. When I arrived, I found his body. He’d only been dead a short while.”
“You knew it was murder?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t ask how I knew, instead she asked, “Is this tied to the explosion and Carl’s death?”
“I think so, but I may be wrong. Dr. Carvelle wanted to speak to me about something he didn’t want others to overhear, and he seemed very nervous. Can you imagine what he might have wanted to say?”
“How very distressing, how very distressing,” she said shaking her head and looking down at her hands, then she went on, “Skylar is... was... the type of man who enjoyed knowing secrets and telling them to others. It made him feel powerful, I suppose. He was very observant and sometimes he pried. He also had an excellent memory. All important skills for a gossip. Perhaps he knew something, but, I can’t imagine what. I don’t find that type of conversation amusing, so Skylar rarely shared anything he deemed important with me,” she said shaking her head again, but she was more than distressed; now she was angry. “Will the police stop this killer?” she demanded.
“You’re presuming what happened in the conference room was deliberate, Dr. Knightbridge?”
“Was it not? Ms. Gale, I don’t know what the police are choosing to do, but surely you are perceptive enough to see it as more than a coincidence, especially now, after Skylar.” She stared at me for a long moment, then said, “This is a complicated problem. Creative thought is needed.” It sounded like something my mother would have said.
Amanda Knightbridge continued, “I was just on the phone with Miranda Juarez regarding Bart and Georgia’s condition. I’m relieved that the doctors believe they both will recover.”
“How did Georgia get along with Carl Rasmus?”
“She worked on a grant project with him. She also helped him set up some of his computer programs. She cared about him as a friend, I believe, and she was hurt... no, maybe it would be more accurate to say she was confused by Carl’s irrational behavior.”
“Irrational because he acted in an angry way? Or because he was rude?”
“We can all be rude...” she thought for a minute, “have you noticed that since the advent of email, people get into disagreements much more quickly? The time it takes to write and send a real letter tends to dilute rudeness, speaking on the phone allows compensation for emotion, but rapid email is too easy, too remote, a medium loaded with opportunities for miscommunication,” she went on, “it was Carl’s anger that was irrational. He seemed to be a very nice young man. A little unsure and perhaps too trusting at times, but a good person and a sound teacher. Then suddenly he seemed to have huge sweeping mood swings. Sweet one moment, then hateful. As though he had two separate personalities in conflict.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Yes... one day, Carl and I had coffee and talked about a National Public Radio presentation that we had both heard. Everything seemed fine with him. However, when I got back here, there was an email from him saying he felt I had been patronizing him because he was blind and it went on to say curtly he wished not to speak with me ever again. I was shocked. So I called him in his office. I asked him to explain his email; he asked me why I was concerned. He sounded sad and depressed and I think also confused. He told me he had other things to do and then hung up on me. That was just a day or two before he died. I think...” she paused considering, then shook her head.
“What? What do you think?
“I’m not sure exactly what I think about it all. Let me consider it further. Are there other things you wish to ask me?”
“Did you see him on the day he died?”
“No,
I didn’t.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“Where was I?” She gazed at me with piercing gray eyes, then nodded once, “ah yes, I see. Let me check.” She got up to refer to the date book on her desk. “I was in this office all day until 5:00 PM. My secretary was here for most of the day as well. She goes to lunch at 1:00 PM and comes back at about 2:00 PM.”
Which meant Amanda Knightbridge didn’t have an alibi for Carl Rasmus’s death. Changing the subject I asked, “Do you think someone may have been angry enough at Bart Edgar to plan to kill him?
“Kill Bart? Because he is incompetent? No, probably not. There are many incompetent people in the world. Have you read any of the Dilbert comics by Scott Adams? They stem from genuine stories about incompetent people in offices. Everyone knows someone like that. Unfortunately, incompetent people are not rare, but, Ms. Gale, I don’t think Carl’s death could have much to do with Georgia and certainly nothing to do with Bart.”
I pulled my laptop from my bag and opened it, scanning the information I’d collected so far. “During the meeting in the conference room, what kind of beverage did you have?”
“Eve’s Apple Juice. I like the small bottles.”
“What do you remember about people getting their drinks?”
A very serious look came over her face. Perhaps she understood the implications and now she was replaying the scene in her mind. She took a deep breath. “Well... I couldn’t see everything because in most instances their bodies hid the table, but... Lina Roth took a very long time pouring her bottle of ginger ale into the glass. Jimmy Harmon also took a long time. Skylar spent some time finding his selection and then got a glass and ice cubes. Leo was standing behind him waiting and he became impatient because Skylar was taking so long. Leo didn’t take as long, he popped his soda can open on the way back to his seat. At that point Daniel and Georgia came in and the President started the meeting. One more thing, I remember the odor of petroleum.”
