An Act of Murder

by Mary Angela

  “Nothing. He didn’t see us,” said Lenny, wiping his hands. I did the same.

  “How can we be sure he wasn’t there the night of Austin’s death?” I asked, choosing my words more carefully. “Isn’t this proof that he could have been working late that night as well?”

  From the skeptical look on Beamer’s face, I thought for certain he would criticize my line of reasoning. Instead he put the car into drive. “It’s coincidental; that’s for sure.”

  Lenny and I looked at each other as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Where are you taking us? The station?” I said, unable to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

  He shook his head. He approached the stoplight and took a left, then a right. We were driving past the main campus, which looked friendly and bright again from the comfort of the detective’s car.

  “Hey, this is my street … this is my house.” I looked at Beamer, puzzled, as he pulled in behind Lenny’s car. He put his car in park.

  “I know it’s your house, Ms. Prather. I know it’s your house because a few nights ago your neighbor, Mrs. Gunderson, called 911, stating that she had seen a suspicious prowler near your house. I’ve kept an eye on it ever since.”

  “No kidding!” I exclaimed. “I knew that woman had to be good for something.”

  “Wash your hands,” the detective said. “No telling what was on those gloves.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  As I waved to Officer Beamer, I turned back to Lenny, who looked tired and a bit frazzled. His normally spunky hair was matted and flat, and his boyish dimple was nowhere to be seen. I searched for a little levity to pacify his nerves.

  “That was a close one, huh? I thought Beamer was going to cuff us and stuff us for sure.”

  “I don’t know if giving him the gloves was a good idea, Em,” he said, unlocking his car door. “I mean, for all he knows, we’re the murders.”

  I nodded. “I know. I thought about that. But what else could I do? I had to give him something. I had to tell him why we were there.”

  “True,” Lenny agreed. “And he did seem to buy our story.”

  “Of course he did. It was the truth!”

  His lips turned up at the corners, and a hint of his dimple returned. “After all that’s happened, you still believe in truth and justice and happily ever after?”

  I put my hands in my pockets. “I suppose you think I’m foolish.”

  “No, that’s the problem. I don’t. Why do you think I keep getting tangled up in all this?”

  From the motion of his hands, one would have thought ‘all this’ could have been plucked from the sky.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I’m not,” he said, smirking as he got into the car. “Get some sleep, Em. Austin’s memorial service is tomorrow. We’ll need our energy if you intend to keep up this game of cat and mouse.”

  Sleep, I thought as I walked up my front steps. I couldn’t count on it. My mind was too filled with timelines and suspects and motives. It had been nine days since Austin’s death, and what did we know for certain? We knew the gloves in fact had been hidden—but if not by the murderer, then by whom? It had to have been Alex—Alex or Dan—and my money was on Alex. He must have thought he was protecting his precious theater from liability, but that didn’t make sense either. The gloves would have proven that Austin was indeed wearing protective gear. Why would he want to dispose of them?

  I switched on the bathroom light and washed my hands thoroughly. Obviously Alex, Dan, or somebody from the theater building had found Austin, removed the gloves, and stashed them under the mattress. There must have been something on or in the gloves, some telltale sign of wrongdoing, that would prompt someone to dispose of them. Or perhaps the gloves themselves were defective or damaged—punctured or ripped. As I washed my face vigorously, I attempted to visualize the gloves but nothing particular came to mind. They appeared like any other pair of industrial gloves. I reached for a towel. If only I hadn’t given the gloves to Detective Beamer. If only I’d been able to examine them in the light of day.

  I changed into my pink and red pajamas dotted with the word amour, a Valentine’s present to myself years ago, and slipped into bed. The gloves were gone. There was no use thinking about them anymore. But it was like André and Paris—a prospect that often kept me awake. Think about them I did for the next hour or more, making superficial connections that eventually unraveled the deeper I went. Frustrated, I turned over my pillow, burying my head in the cool freshness of it. There must have been something or someone else I had forgotten about, but what or whom?

  When I awoke the next morning, it came to me. Robert Reynolds, Austin’s ROTC instructor. He was the only teacher I hadn’t spoken with. I had been so caught up in retracing Austin’s last day, I had forgotten all about Reynolds. And if I remembered correctly, the article in the school newspaper said Reynolds knew Austin’s family. Here was an angle that looked new and promising, especially as I remembered Austin’s discontent as he talked about his stepfather. Perhaps a friend of the family such as Robert Reynolds would know the story behind the family circumstances.

  I looked at the clock. Seven thirty a.m. Since I didn’t have class, I had plenty of time to stop by the Department of Military Science before Austin’s memorial service. I just needed a cup of coffee, a shower, another cup of coffee, and a to-go mug—in that order.

  The morning air cooled my warm face as I stepped out on my front porch. Although I rarely wore suits, I’d donned a black one today for the memorial service. I wore no coat over the suit jacket, just a brilliant blue scarf and matching blue-black earrings. The suit pants were slightly flared at the bottom to reveal my low-slung heals.

  I walked quickly down Oxford Street. As I approached campus and the trees cleared, I noted the dull-gray sky and wondered if it might rain. The air was suspiciously calm, and I scolded myself for forgetting an umbrella on the one day I wanted my hair to look presentable. Oh well, I thought as I checked the nape of my neck. My twist was still securely in place. As long as the wind didn’t pick up, I still had a chance of looking acceptable for the memorial.

  Military Science was located in a small building on campus called Hull House. This I had found out with a quick search of our university’s website before I left. I knew the building; it was close to our commons and looked like a little brick house. The inside, though, had been thoroughly gutted and didn’t resemble a home in any way. The stairs were metal and led to a metallic catwalk off of which were several rooms.

  I scanned a sign posted near the front entrance. Robert Reynolds was located in office number four.

  As I walked past doors, searching for number four, I was surprised how different this atmosphere was from the rest of the campus. It seemed more official, more businesslike. Several men were dressed in Army uniforms and walked quickly and with purpose. “Ma’am,” they repeated briefly as my eyes met theirs. I concentrated hard on not blushing, but the task proved difficult. By the time I found room number four, I decided I liked the pressed clothes, shiny boots, and sense of urgency. Reynolds confirmed this decision when he quickly stood up from his desk and said, “Yes, ma’am? May I help you?” when I entered the room.

  I silently celebrated my luck at finding him in his office.

  Reynolds was an older gentleman, close to seventy, and sported a pair of square-lensed glasses and a graying crew cut. He wasn’t in uniform but wore a red short-sleeved polo that showed off his well-defined arms.

  I stuck out my hand, and he shook it firmly, all business. I knew I could cut no corners of my explanation with this man. “I’m Emmeline Prather, and I teach in the English Department. I would like to talk to you about Austin Oliver. We both had him in our classes.”

  “Of course, Ms. Prather. Please, take a seat.”

  I sat down, and he sat back down behind his desk. I noted how orderly it was and free of clutter. I was pretty sure that with an identical three-tiered bin I could accomplish somethi
ng similar.

  “Austin’s memorial is today,” I began, perching lightly on the edge of the cushion.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m aware of that.”

  “I plan on going, of course.”

  He didn’t acknowledge my response; instead he took off his glasses and cleaned them.

  “I suppose you’ll attend as well. I read in the paper that you knew his family,” I said, straightening my shoulders.

  He put his glasses back on. “Yes, ma’am. I once knew his mother. She lives on a farm about two hundred miles north of here with her husband.”

  I nodded. “I suppose you knew Austin quite well then, too.”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t.”

  I remained silent. I was no stranger to the unspoken rules of hardball.

  “I knew Austin’s grandfather. He and I both grew up on farms near Milbank and were only too happy to join the Army when we turned eighteen. Not many other ways for poor kids like us to see the world. I only knew Austin’s mom, Patricia, when she attended school here for a time.”

  I furrowed my brows. “Here at Copper Bluff?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That’s correct.”

  My austere façade was beginning to crumble with each new piece of information he revealed. I tried, unsuccessfully, to remain reserved. “Well … what … huh.”

  I’m certain he estimated my response—or at least my speaking capabilities—to be below average. He continued more sympathetically. “Her father had big plans for her education. Told me so when he brought her here. He was a general in the Army. I don’t know if I said that.”

  An idea was forming in my mind. “What did she get her degree in?”

  “Unfortunately, she could not complete her course work,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Ma’am?” he questioned.

  For a moment, I wondered if I had spoken the previous words aloud. “Why couldn’t she complete her coursework?”

  Now his aspect changed, and I thought I saw his cheeks redden. Had I embarrassed him?

  “She was with child, ma’am. She got herself into trouble with some fraternity boy.”

  She got herself into trouble? That would be an interesting feat indeed. I wanted to say something, but I knew there was no way of correcting him and still continuing our conversation. “Of course. She was pregnant with Austin. I suppose you don’t know who the father was?”

  Now his look turned to one of irritation. He scowled at me as if I were a girl fresh out of high school. “Of course not. We never used to speak of such things.”

  I took my scolding good-naturedly and attempted to look ashamed. Secretly, though, I was brimming with theories. “No, certainly not. I apologize.” I waited a long moment before continuing. “So … I assume Patricia Oliver never returned to campus?”

  He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “No. As an unwed mother, she was forced to move back to the family farm up near Milbank. That’s how she met her new fella, I suppose. The Olivers were neighbors of theirs.” Now Reynolds released a thoughtful sigh. “It’s funny how things come full circle, isn’t it, Ms. Prather? The general never wanted anything to do with the farm—got rid of it the day Patricia married. But who did she turn around and marry? A farmer.” He shook his head.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” I said.

  “I suppose that’s the word you young folks would use. I prefer the word shame. A crying shame.”

  “It is that too,” I said, standing up from my chair. “Except the Olivers are selling their farmland as well. Perhaps the general would have found some consolation in that.”

  He stood also.

  “Thank you so much for your time,” I said, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. Old-fashioned or not, he had given me the information I needed to solve Austin’s murder. For that I would be forever grateful.

  “The pleasure is mine,” he said politely.

  I pushed open the door of Hull House and noticed the gray morning had turned darker, charcoal almost, and the October wind had picked up as well. I quickened my step toward the library.

  Reynolds had said that Patricia Oliver was involved with a fraternity man on campus, and it hadn’t taken long for me to determine which fraternity. That’s why Austin had been so desperate to join—not because of his own interests, but because his biological father had been a member. I thought back to the long row of framed pictures in the study of the fraternity, and my theory made perfect sense. All I needed was confirmation, and I knew just where to look.

  The Hoover Library was my favorite place on campus. It wasn’t old, and it wasn’t named for President Herbert Hoover but a retired history professor of the same name. It was built in the 1970s and had a lot of square windows filled with ordinary houseplants. Although at first I found this odd, it was probably why I ended up liking the place so much. The eclectic assortment of plants gave the library the touch it needed to make it seem familiar and homey.

  I walked through the security scanner and directly up two flights of stairs. The third floor emanated a strong smell of old books that was noticeable the moment one stepped onto the floor. The books seemed so much more important than the new books on the first floor because, in some respects, they were. Many of the sections housed books, periodicals, and newspapers that had never seen the light of a digital scanner. They were originals.

  As I progressed farther, the plants were replaced by dust. Walking by some of the windows created a stir of particles that wafted halfway up the window before they slowly fell back down again. I began scanning aisles, looking for the university’s yearbooks, which had still been popular and in print eighteen years ago. It took me several minutes to find the bookshelf and much longer to find the year I was searching for. My mouth went dry as I pulled the yearbook off the shelf.

  Crouching down, I flipped through it rather shakily, examining each page carefully but quickly. Even eighteen short years made the students seem somewhat antiquated when compared to today. Back then men still wore suits and ties, and women, dresses or blouses.

  I turned one page, then another, then another, then stopped. I put the book on the floor, smoothing the crease down the middle. Looking back at me was a young man with small crinkled eyes and a familiar grin. A fraternity man. I knew in an instant it was Austin’s biological father.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It had taken only ten days for the university to organize a memorial for Austin. It would take place in Pender Auditorium over the lunch hour, from twelve to twelve fifty. Since no classes were held from twelve to one in the afternoon, this meant anyone who wanted to be there could attend. Pender was one of the larger—and more beautiful—auditoriums on campus. It had a charming ceiling with a depiction of the birth of Venus more modest than Botticelli’s painting. Venus stood in a seashell with her lovely long hair concealing her body’s private places, the blue ocean and sky surrounding her.

  I headed for my office. I desperately wanted to tell Lenny what I had found out before the memorial service, but there simply wasn’t enough time to find him in between his Tuesday classes.

  Giles’s door was open, so I knew he was in, but I quickly slipped into my office and shut the door before anybody had a chance to intrude. I needed a moment before the memorial service to gather my thoughts—and reapply my lipstick.

  I stood at my window and looked out. On campus, nothing had changed but the weather; the mild days of September had turned into the bitter nights of October. Students gushed out of one building and into another, full of vitality and confidence in the future. One student was absent, though—my student—and now the story that had eluded me before seemed almost complete. The fragments of Austin Oliver’s life were forming a narrative I would be entrusted to tell, and tell it I would when the time was right and my suspicions confirmed.

  Revitalized by my new sense of purpose and a squirt of body spray, I peeked into Giles’s office to remind him about the memorial.

  “Look at this, Emmeline
! Everything on my screen has been … miniaturized.”

  I smiled as I came up behind him. Though my computer was old, I could still get Giles out of most of his computer jams. I relied heavily on programs for my daily work. “I see the problem. See here? You’re only at fifty percent screen size.” I clicked the down arrow in Microsoft Word and selected two hundred percent. “There.”

  “I cannot imagine how that came to be. I’ve never touched that menu in my life,” said Giles.

  I walked back toward the door, hiding my smile. The truth was I had caught him several times changing his font, background, and even screen resolution—the screen resolution being the worst of his problems. For two days he hadn’t used his computer at all.

  “I suppose you’re on your way to the memorial,” said Giles, saving his work.

  “Yes. Are you going?”

  “In a minute. If you want to wait, I’ll walk with you.” He shrugged into his corduroy jacket.

  “That’s okay. I promised Ann Jorgenson I’d stop by. I’m heading that way now.”

  “Well then, I’ll see you there,” said Giles.

  I walked halfway down the hallway, approaching the suspended passageway. Then I stopped and turned around. Straight down the hall was my office and Giles’s. Giles was shutting his door.

  “Did you forget something?” Giles asked.

  “No, it’s nothing,” I said and kept walking. But actually I had remembered something very, very important.

  Ann was in her office but didn’t notice me as I approached, so I knocked lightly. “Ann?”

  “Em! Come in. I’m just printing out my advisee list. It grows every semester. I seem to be the catchall for other departments.”

  “I feel for you.” Still standing at the door, I looked down the hall to make sure no one could overhear. “Hopefully that will change soon?” I asked quietly.

  She nodded her head slightly. “It looks encouraging.”

  “That’s great news. It will be so much better for you. How does Owen feel about it?”