by Liz Bradbury
“Mrs. Crenshaw,” I started again, “I just have a few questions.”
“Waa? Oh yeah, OK.”
“Mrs. Crenshaw, Carl was made to leave high school. Did that make him depressed?”
“Oh, no, not Carl. He never was unhappy and he never got in trouble. He wanted to go to a different school,” she quipped with surprising bitterness.
“Why?”
“Didn’t like St. Bonnie’s. I mean, if he’d just tried to be normal, he would have been just fine there, but no, he wanted to be different.”
“Well, he was different wasn’t he?”
“Huh?” she said distractedly biting the side of her fingernail, focusing on the dog as it sniffed at the Christmas tree’s base.
“Well, he was different from other children, wasn’t he?”
“You mean because he was good at music? Yeah, Carl got all the talent, it was so easy for him. He got all the breaks.” I guessed she meant all the breaks, like being blind.
“Did you and your brother take music classes?”
“Sure I took... but I wasn’t any good. Same with Kevin.”
“About Carl...”
“Thrown out cuz he was queer with another boy and they caught him,” she stage whispered so Cindy and Bah-ins wouldn’t hear. “My mother was really pissed at the Sisters, but it was, you know, the rule. All Carl had to do was like, you know... say it was all a mistake and go to confession. If he’d just said, you know, that it was a sin and that he wouldn’t do it again, they woulda let him stay... but oh no, he wouldn’t. And Mom stuck up for him.”
I had to shake that rant off before I could focus on my next question. It’s interesting that people like Eileen Crenshaw assume everyone in the world thought just as she did. I coughed, then took a deep breath, and went on. “Mrs. Crenshaw, are you familiar with an organization called Rainbow Youth Symphony?”
“No, what’s that?”
“Carl designated that organization as recipient of his insurance benefits and the proceeds of his estate in his will.”
“What do you mean? I thought everything goes to, you know, his waddahya call... next of kin?” For the first time she spoke with concern.
“Well, I’m not a lawyer but a person can designate anyone they want to get their money.”
“But, but, I mean, we’re family. Family gets the money. Everybody knows that,” she insisted.
“I think if someone designates...”
She jumped up and poked buttons on the phone. When someone answered she said, “Janie? Is Kevin home?... Shit, well where is he?... Tell him to call me right away when he comes back! I’ll try his cell...”
She whipped back to me and bellowed in a coarse voice that made Cindy cower and Buh-ins whimper, “We have a right to that money!” Then her expression shifted to calculation. She said, “Maybe I should call a lawyer, do you think I should call a lawyer?”
“I don’t know... um, I’d like to talk to your brother Kevin...” I tried to ask her a few more things, but she was way too distracted to pay any attention to me. I left her my card, but firmly hoped she’d never call me.
At this time of year in Fenchester a variety of Christmas decorations, ranging from tasteful wreaths to onslaughts of giant inflated snowmen, Santas and Scoobydoos in red hats, jockey for the attention of innocent passersby. White skeletal frames of reindeer and sleds compete with garish plastic armies of elves and full-sized mannequins decked out like carolers. Front doors featuring metallic wrapping paper are disguised as huge faux gifts. I love this. Christmas over-decoration is far more fun than an amusement park for me. It’s American kitch at its most exhilarating. It’s straight people actually succeeding at camp... of course 90% of them don’t realize it.
But Hadesville was the Scrooge of Pennsylvania towns. Not a decoration in sight. The breeze had turned very cold; the sky was as gray as flagstone. I zipped up my jacket.
Kevin Rasmus lived just a block away from his sister Eileen. I already knew he wasn’t there, but I figured I might be able to get something out of his wife. A nice-looking woman wearing jeans and a sweater opened the door without even peeking out the curtains when I rang the bell. I held out my card and said, “Mrs. Rasmus? I’m Maggie Gale. I was just talking to your sister-in-law about Carl Rasmus’s death?”
She took my card and read it while I was talking; “You’re investigating Carl’s death?” she interpreted.
“Yes.”
“And you were just talking to Eileen? Well, that must have been interesting. Did you tell her she might not get his money?”
“I may have mentioned...”
She let out a chuckle and said, “Oh, do come in, I just have to hear all about this.” Janie Rasmus had straight dark blonde hair to her shoulders and light brown eyes. Her living room was plastic toy and yapping dog free, but there was sterility about the place that made it seem more like a house than a home.
“Please... sit,” she said motioning toward the couch as she took a chair. “Coffee?”
“No, I’m fine Mrs. Rasmus...”
“Call me Janie, I’m still imagining Eileen’s face... and wait until Kevin hears...” she laughed again lightly. “Kevin’s on a job, he’s a roofer, he’s just doing a patch job but he won’t be home until,” she looked at her watch, “about 5:00 PM.” She went on, “I’ll be honest with you, Carl’s siblings weren’t very fond of him, but I liked Carl. I’m sorry he’s gone.”
“Why didn’t his brother and sister care for him?”
“Simple. Carl was a successful, happy person; they bombed. They grew up being taught gay was bad by their school and their church and then along came baby brother Carl who was everything they weren’t. Including blind and gay, and their mother supported him. I liked her too. Her name was Annalee. She died three years ago. I miss her.” Janie Rasmus looked out the window. “Did you know Carl?” she asked after a while.
“No, I didn’t... there’s going to be a memorial service for him on Sunday at 11:00 AM at Irwin.”
“I’m going to get a divorce,” she said suddenly.
“Oh... um... I’m sorry to hear that...”
“No, no, don’t be. It’s just as well. I start a new job on the West Coast in a few weeks. I’ve told Kevin but he doesn’t believe I’ll go,” she sighed then went on, “it was so much easier when Annalee was alive. She loved Carl. Carl cared about her... and now he’s dead too.” I could see tears in Janie Rasmus’s eyes. She was the first person I’d seen cry for Carl.
“Did Carl seem unhappy to you lately?”
“I’m ashamed to admit, I hadn’t seen him in a long time, not since Annalee died. He was so sad about her going that way. It was cancer. She was only 60. Carl didn’t get along well with Kevin or Eileen, or Eileen’s husband Morley for that matter. They’re all asses. Here Carl knocked himself out. Of course they never acknowledged that he practiced ten hours a day, studied, worked hard, did all sorts of civic work. Took care of Annalee too.”
“Janie, Carl’s will leaves everything to a group called Rainbow Youth Symphony. Heard of it?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to wait to speak to your... to Kevin, so maybe I can ask you, were you around when Carl was in high school?”
“I didn’t know Carl until after he graduated from college. I play the piano a little too. We would do these duets...” she laughed to herself remembering, then shook her head gently.
“Did he have any friends around here that I could speak with?”
“Um, no I can’t think of anyone... all his friends went to college and then on to other places. Oh, wait, Barbara Getty, next door. She’s older but...”
“Is she related to Leo Getty?” I asked remembering Getty had said he’d lived near Carl’s family.
Janie Rasmus nodded, “They were married. Barbara divorced Leo. Oh, but she’s at work at the library until 7:00 PM.”
“I didn’t know they were divorced.” I wanted to ask if she knew why they di
vorced. More a matter of nosiness for me than anything else.
“She doesn’t talk about it, much. Things don’t always work out... People’s values change... that kind of thing, I guess,” she said fastening on her own future, then she said, “did you say you were investigating Carl? Why? Do you think he might not have killed himself?”
“I’m trying to get all the information I can...”
“I’m ashamed to say I didn’t really consider... but, of course he never would have. He wasn’t that kind of man. Maybe it was an accident?”
“Maybe,” I said getting up to leave. I didn’t have the heart to suggest to Janie Rasmus that Carl’s death was murder. She seemed nice and she wasn’t up to it.
While Carl’s brother and sister had a small monetary motive to bump him off, I had a hard time imaging they also killed Skylar and somehow rigged a bottle in the conference room. No, even though I’d like to have been able to pin this crime on these unpleasant people, chances were greatest that this was an inside-the-college job.
A gust of cold wind shook the van as I was getting in. I was glad the Mazda heater worked well. It was almost 3:00 PM. If I didn’t hit any traffic I could make it to Kathryn’s office by 6:00 PM. If I missed Kathryn Anthony this time, it might blow my chances with her all together. I didn’t even want to think about that. Luckily the gods were with me; I made it back to Fenchester by 5:45 PM.
Chapter 22
It was getting dark when I pulled into a parking place in front of the Irwin College Administration Building. An icy wind stiffened every muscle. I flipped my parka hood up against the cold and began walking.
Suddenly I realized, that I really had no idea where Kathryn Anthony’s office was. I needed to find it fast. Somebody must know, after all, everyone had to take English, but the sidewalks were empty. There was no one to ask.
I was thinking, you can never find one of those, You Are Here maps when you need one, when I rounded a corner and ran full tilt into one. I found the Language Arts Building on the map and started down a path that went between the Administration building and the Biology Lab into the quad.
The building I sought was the first one on the left. I looked up at its dark windows. Suddenly I was gripped with the realization that it was almost 6:00 PM, and that there was a good chance Kathryn had already gone home. In fact, it seemed ridiculous to imagine she would still be in her office. What college professor in their right mind would have late office hours on a Friday?
I felt a wave of disappointment. I’d been looking forward to seeing her all day. I’d been confident that getting shot at was a pretty good excuse for tardiness. Actually being hit by a bullet was a better excuse, but I wasn’t willing to go that far, even for Kathryn. Well maybe being grazed. Now, however, I understood the chances of seeing her were very slim and I was bummed.
The door to the building had one of those brass handles with a release at the top that you depress with your thumb. For a moment I was afraid it would be locked. But it opened, making that squeaking noise that every school door crafted between 1910 and 1960 makes. The door banged shut, producing a crashing echo that everyone in the building probably heard. If there was anyone in the building.
The directory on the wall said Dr. Kathryn Anthony’s office was on the second floor. Number 208. My footsteps made a shuffling tap sound common to stairways made of slabs of marble, slate steps and tile walls.
At the top of the stairs I pushed the brass bar on the fire door and let myself into a dimly lit hallway. Low wattage wall sconces with stained glass shades cast a pale yellow light. The walls were terra cotta tile. Blue, green and yellow figural Moravian squares, decorated with sheaves of wheat, corn cobs, sickles, or plows, dotted the wall at regular intervals. I slowed to look at them carefully, forestalling what I now felt sure was going to be disappointment.
When this building was built by WPA artisans in the 1930s, it had been a dorm for male students. The dorm rooms were now offices. The doors were evenly spaced down each side of the hallway, even numbers on the left. Their windows faced away from the quad, toward the College Street side, directly across the street from Clymer house where Amanda Knightbridge’s office was. So I couldn’t have seen Kathryn’s window from the quad side. I was absurdly elated by this glimmer of hope.
“Geez, am I really this hot for this babe?” I whispered to myself.
The door to office number 208 was slightly open. There was a light on and there was someone typing on a computer keyboard inside. I could have jumped up in the air and cheered. Instead, I knocked on the door lightly.
“Come in... Please take a seat. I just have to finish this,” said Kathryn Anthony as she continued to type. She was facing away from the door, looking intently at her computer screen, rapidly spell-checking an email.
What an attractive woman, even from the back, I thought. Her auburn hair looked thick and satiny; there was a gentle strength in her shoulders, and her voice... commanding, assured, but still soft and sexy. I was getting an answer to my own question about being hot. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, and a little lower, too.
She hadn’t turned to see who’d come in. She seemed to think I was someone else. I sat down in a leather chair in the corner of the small office. Just as I was thinking I should say something, the phone rang. She sent the email, then picked up the phone, still with her back to me.
“Kathryn Anthony,” she said into the phone. “Yes, yes, Paul I sent the entire proposal at 5:30 PM and I just sent the edited letter of support from the Chancellor a second ago. No... the letter from Temple went... Paul, I’ve been sitting here working on this since 7:00 this morning... Yes, I am to... I think it will too.”
She still faced the computer screen while she spoke. She held the phone in one hand and reached to knead tight muscles in her neck with the other.
I took a moment to look around the room. It was wall-to-wall oak bookcases with some comfortable leather easy chairs and a few framed pieces of art here and there. One was a Klimt print of two women hugging. One was a Frieda Kahlo self-portrait reproduction. One was a small landscape in Maxfield Parrish’s style. It looked like a real watercolor, not a print. On a wall shelf just behind her desk was a ten inch bronze figure of a seated nude woman reaching in the air with one hand. A lyrical tilt to the bronze head made the figure seem animated. It was a nice comfortable office, sensitively decorated by someone who planned to spend a lot of time in it.
As she finished the phone conversation, Kathryn slowly swiveled her chair back toward the front of the room. Occasionally her voice ran lyrically up and down the scale when she spoke, but most of the time it was a deep low tone. She sounded wonderful and she was just talking to some guy about a grant or something. What would she sound like if she were talking about...
“OK Paul, I’m tired, I’m stiff as a board. I have an appointment with a student now and I have another call coming in.” She clicked the call waiting button and said her name into the phone, then turned her chair more rapidly toward me. She raised her eyebrows when she saw me; she’d expected someone else, but that person was on the other end of the phone line. Her eyes narrowed more with interest than surprise and that excited feeling I’d felt a few minutes before increased.
She said to the caller, “Mr. Fields, your appointment was for 5:30... No, not tomorrow. Monday? All right then, Monday at 4:00 PM. Mr. Fields, next time you cancel an appointment, please do so before you’re already late for it. I’m not always... flexible.” She was looking right at me as she said it. I got the message. She hung up the phone and said evenly, “I’d almost given up on you.”
“Oh, dear, I hope not. You said evening and,” I looked at my watch, “it isn’t even six,” I insisted with amusement.
“I am still unhappy with you about yesterday.” She leaned back in her chair. She wanted to be stern but her voice had a gentle deep undertone. At least she wasn’t frowning at me.
“I need to talk to you about the people who were at the meeting
...” Oh crap, that sounded much too official.
“Ah,” she said, in a formal clipped tone.
“But please... please let, me explain why I was late...” I sounded so pathetic, I surprised myself, but her formal gaze softened. Maybe she liked begging.
Chapter 23
“Honestly?" she said raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” I’d told Kathryn about Skylar and the police. Now, she was resting her head on the high back of her chair. I was appreciating how terrific she looked.
She said, “When Max called me yesterday he was in a hurry, I guess he was just trying to alert everyone. We didn’t speak long but I wish he’d told me about you being there. I’m sorry I was so angry with you. How selfish of me...” I could just barely see she was blushing.
“Forget it,” I said lightly.
“Do you have any idea who killed Skylar?” she asked seriously.
“I’ve learned that there are a few people who couldn’t have done it... I’d like to get your impressions. Do you have time now?” Her eyes were tired but that fascinating glint was back in them.
“I’ve been working on that grant proposal since early this morning. I’m tired of being here. Unfortunately for me, the laundry room at the Hampshire has been out of order for a week. So tonight, I have to go to the laundromat because I’m out of clean clothes. And I haven’t really had anything to eat all day. I just don’t think I could concentrate. I wouldn’t be of any use to you. Did I mention that I hate laundromats?” she shook her head sighing.
I couldn’t let her get away; my brain went into high gear... “Well then, I have a deal for you. I have a washer and dryer at my place. You can do your laundry there and we’ll order some take-out food to be delivered, my treat. We can talk over dinner and you can wash your clothes without having to go to the laundromat. How about that?”
Even as I outlined my proposal she was still shaking her head no. She’d made up her mind and was too tired to change it. Unconsciously she’d put her hand on her shoulder again, kneading a place that was stiff from eleven hours of computer work.
