Murder in the Classic City

by Sheila S Hudson

  Tracy had the day off from wrangling the vice presidents’ children, so I made a date to meet her for lunch. Whoops! I forgot no dogs at in the café, so I texted her that we were outside on the patio. Over lunch we talked about what had just transpired. She didn’t know Dr. Camden, but she had met him on official occasions at the VP’s home when she was caring for the children. Her take on his demeanor was the same as mine.

  Tracey remarked, “Wouldn’t that be something if there was a big scandal and a lot of bigwigs were involved? I overheard Dr. Fazio tell the VP that there were metallic artifacts found in the lab. I supposed they don’t want folks to hear about that. Strange happenings. That’s just up Giles’s alley.”

  Yes, and that’s just what I’m afraid of. Up to now Giles’s involvement had taken him into other areas of the country. This was too close to home. Khaki and I walked back to where I had parked. I felt I needed a caffeine pick-me-up, so I ordered a peppermint latte at the window. Khaki was enjoying the sun while I enjoyed my guilty pleasure. A familiar face caught my attention – Pamela Jones. She was at the glass door speaking with someone. I couldn’t tell who. That’s strange. Why didn’t she let me know she was in town? I thought I was the only one she knew in town. When she saw me, she tried to retreat but I accidently on purpose bumped into her.

  “Hey Pamela. I didn’t know you were in town. Did you come to see me about the tardiness of my manuscript? Or has the screenplay been commissioned and the movie will be made making us rich beyond our wildest dreams?”

  With that last bit I made my voice go higher and higher and waved my arms a bit for effect. It had effect all right. Pamela looked shocked out of her socks.

  “Actually, none of the above. I had some other business here. Personal business,” she said and looked back into Starbucks.

  “Oh. Sorry. I just stopped in for a latte and thought I must have missed your call. See you later. Bye.”

  She hurried away. Whoever she had met with was in the wind.

  2

  By eleven o'clock in the evening, Giles hadn’t phoned, so I went on to bed. Khaki fell asleep on the sofa. I left her there sprawled on the afghan, snoring quietly. Sometime in the wee hours a warm body slipped in beside me and even in my semiconscious state, I recognized his touch.

  "Hi, Love. Did you miss me?" His arms encircled my waist and pulled me close. I nuzzled his caress and answered his kisses with complete surrender. We made love and fell asleep. The glow I felt could light up the room.

  The next morning, Giles was still deep in his dreams. I smiled, remembering his sexual hunger last night. I padded slowly downstairs and made the coffee. Khaki was stretched out full-length on the couch, never knowing her master was home.

  "Some watchdog you are," I teased. "I could have had Jack the Ripper in bed with me and you wouldn't have budged."

  I pulled on my gym shorts and T-shirt along with my worn Reeboks. I didn’t take time to put in my contact lens, so I pulled my prescription sunglasses from my purse and covered my unruly hair with a Rutherford College cap. Khaki strained against her lead, strangling and wheezing before settling down to a rhythm.

  “Brr. I should have put on my hoodie,” I said to no one in particular.

  Spring was on its way, but mornings were still chilly. Once we got going, I would warm up. I concentrated on the beautiful morning of promise. The golden forsythia would be blooming soon along with the apple blossoms whose petals resembled pink snow. I silently wished for a jacket, so we stepped up to a brisker pace to keep warm.

  Khaki nosed a Chick-Fil-A wrapper and trotted on. She responded to nature's call at the base of an old dogwood tree. I studied the tree flocked bursting with buds just in time for Easter. How did they always know when to bloom? Dogwoods are so sturdy, and their blossoms appear glued to the branches, hardy even against a spring cold snap. We began the home stretch.

  Later when I was writing at my desk, I thought about the dogwood blossoms and how much people are like them. Many people are so fragile that they are blown off-course by hardship and tragedy while others remain glued to the branch with celestial cement. These few don’t seem to waiver no matter how bad things may get. I wonder if Mary Ann Camden is an apple blossom or a dogwood. For that matter, which one am I?

  3

  Giles's circadian rhythm was still so whacked up that he couldn’t sleep for more than two hours at a time. I hated breaking the news of Dr. Camden’s death to him. Afterward I gave him some privacy in the study.

  Dennis’ memorial service was short, which was an answer to prayer. Mary Ann was thinner and a little older than I remembered her. Of course, grief can do that to a person. Family shielded her on all sides. President Fazio dismissed classes for today enabling all faculty, staff, and students to attend. And attend they did. The antebellum college chapel bulged at its seams with friends, family, spectators, mourners, and everything in between.

  I fortified Giles with caffeine, but he was still jet lagged. Only once did he nod off during the eulogy; I nudged him before he snored out loud. The Reverend spoke of Dennis' gentle and kind nature, of his unselfish lifestyle, and his devotion to family. The audience dabbed their eyes with damp tissues.

  At the graveside, Mary Ann collapsed into someone’s arms. My heart broke as we stood in silence during the lowering the casket. I squeezed Giles’s hand. We had barely discussed his trip since the news of Dennis’s death engulfed all else.

  On our way to the car, we walked hand in hand through the cemetery. Among the tombstones, we stopped short at a broken marker with an archangel sitting atop. Giles took out a notebook and began scribbling names and copied drawings that were etched into the stone. I stooped and cleared debris away in order to read the name. I was absorbed in my reading until I noticed a pair of leather pumps had joined us. Following them up a black linen skirt, my eyes met a tear-stained face. Mary Ann held out her arms. I hugged her and whispered my sympathies.

  Giles straightened and brushed off his tweed coat to regain his professorial dignity. He extended his hand as I backed out of the way.

  “Mary Ann,” he said, “I cannot tell you how shocked and deeply sorry I am about all this. As you know Dennis and I were not only colleagues, but friends. It is my desire to help in any way I can.”

  It had been months since I had seen Mary Ann at a Faculty Wives’ Luncheon. Dennis’s sudden death had furrowed her cream-colored complexion and lined her beautiful mouth. Silver sparkled in her short dark hair, but it was very becoming to her.

  “Thank you so much for coming. I can’t tell you what it means to have the faculty so supportive. President Fazio has been a great help,” Mary Ann said.

  I explained that we were going directly home since Giles hadn’t had a whole night’s sleep in three days due to the overseas trip, layovers, and jet lag. We promised to keep in touch. She leaned in and said in a near whisper, “Stephanie, could we lunch together next week? There are some things I’d like to talk over with you.”

  Trying not to show my surprise, I nodded.

  “Thursday noon okay at the bagel shop?” Mary Ann asked and attempted a weak smile.

  “Thanks a lot, see you then.”

  She turned on her heels and clicked down the garden walk. Mary Ann Camden was a very attractive woman. And with Dennis’ connections and careful planning, I’d wager a very rich one.

  4

  Entering the Bagelry, I felt out of my comfort zone amid the Bagel Head caps and Bagel Breath shirts. Fortunately, the lunchers were more interested in their bagels and herbal tea than in who entered the shop. Beneath my college sweatshirt, my heart was beating to Sousa’s march time. I scanned the room and ducked into a booth in the front corner. I pushed my sunglasses down a bit peering over them just enough to locate a menu. Lost between Turky-Lurky on an egg bagel, Savannah shrimp salad on wheat bagel, or Reuben-o-witz on a rye bagel, I turned the page and discover a whole page of soups and salads.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” Mary Ann said as she slipped
into the booth. “Have you ordered yet?”

  “No, I’m still studying the menu. There are so many choices, and I’ve not been here before.”

  “Don’t bother, “Mary Ann said as she quietly took charge. “Let me order.”

  It was as much a question as a command. With that she retrieved my menu and walked to the rear of the shop. I noticed how different she looked from the last time I’d seen her at Evergreen Memorial Gardens. She exuded confidence in her designer jeans and long-sleeved jade silk shirt, the expensive ones they sell in the Limited. She wore a matched set of malachite earrings. Jewelry is a hobby of mine and I noted the high quality of the matched stones. Mary Ann had good taste in jewelry and clothes, perhaps even in men. Still she hardly looked the role of the bereaved soul I had expected to find. She looked more like a business professional in her off-duty hours. Her conversation with the waitperson was punctuated with gestures toward our table accompanied by a few nods and smiles. Mary Ann returned to the booth with two blue, steaming ceramic cups.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “I was ordering us up two House Specials,” she said with a smile. “You’ll love it. It’s my own concoction; a cross between their Sam’s Bad Boy and the Georgia Lee’s Melt. You aren’t vegetarian, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Coffee?” she asked as she slid a mug of hot, black liquid toward me. Mary Ann seemed quite comfortable, not gaunt like other widows I have witnessed. But of course, they were all more than seventy years old! It had been a few days for her to adjust, but if I lost Giles could I ever recover?

  Part of me had not wanted to keep this lunch date, to let it slip my mind, and simply forget to reschedule. But, alas, I am a terrible liar. The exception to that of course is keeping a writing career a secret from Giles for three years, but that’s more of a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ than an actual lie. At least that’s how I justified it.

  So here I am in a bagel shop at Five Points on a Thursday morning waiting for my House Special, whatever that is, and listening to a newly widowed, almost stranger. My mind keeps pouncing from one conclusion to another. I am thankful that we are not on some future ethereal plane where she can read my thoughts.

  “I’m glad you suggested that we have lunch. I’ve been thinking about you ever since the funeral. How are you adjusting to . . . everything?” I held my face quite somber and stirred my coffee with the little plastic striped stirrer. I played with a packet of sweetener and then replaced it in its chrome cradle.

  Mary Ann emptied the container of half-and-half into her coffee and stirred it quickly in. Before answering, she raised the cup to her lips and blew the steam as she sipped the hot brew.

  “I think I’m still in shock and denial about Dennis’s death. I keep going over and over the details, trying to make some sense of it. I constantly search my memory for a clue, a hint, some little something that Dennis said or did.”

  “Did he get any mysterious telephone calls or notes? Anything threatening concerning the enzyme he was working on?” I asked.

  “No. But even if he did, he wouldn’t tell me because he wouldn’t want me to worry,” she answered.

  We ate our House Specials, which turned out to be very tasty. I mentioned Giles’s obsession with football. She commented about the weather. Then Mary Ann asked about my writing which kept me yakking for a while. Thankfully neither of us mentioned the fiasco with the Alewine family.

  After we finished the meal and were sipping our second cup of coffee, Mary Ann turned in the booth and began digging in her Gucci purse. I watched her pile a matching wallet, a tissue with red lip prints, a pill bottle, and a half-eaten roll of LifeSavers on the table.

  “Here it is,” she said as she jammed the contents pile back in their expensive leather home and laid something on the table next to my hand. A black velvet bag which I assumed contained something important.

  “I found this in the bedside table. I don’t recognize it as belonging to Dennis,” she said and emptied the contents onto the tabletop.

  “What does this symbol mean? Is it occult jewelry? I need some advice as to whether it is important enough to hand over to the police. I thought Giles, with his expertise, might identify it.”

  I turned it over in my hand. Some tiny letters were at the base. So tiny I could hardly make it out. I pulled my reading glasses out of my purse to examine it more closely. The clasp at the end of the snakelike silver chain was broken as if it was torn from a neck. Perhaps Mr. Mild Mannered wasn’t what he appeared to be.

  I shook my head.

  “It appears to be an amulet, maybe an antique piece. Can I keep it for a few days and let Giles research it? He has lots of books on this sort of thing. Maybe he can identify this symbol.”

  “Sure. Keep it if you want. It gives me the creeps to have it around,” Mary Ann said.

  Mary Ann placed the pendant into its black velvet bag and handed it over. We continued to chat. A passerby would have assumed that we were former sorority sisters. We laughed, took turns showing off family pictures, and relating hilarious stories about our “perfect” vacations. Mary Ann’s eyes shone with tears when she told of the last vacation she and Dennis had taken. It was their 30th wedding anniversary trip. Their children had sent them on a cruise to the Bahamas. The pain must have been bittersweet as she recalled their cruise. I listened with hope that some cathartic healing would come of the re-telling.

  When the meeting was winding down, I asked Mary Ann, “Has Dennis ever mentioned a Pamela Jones to you?”

  Was it my imagination or did her demeanor change? She placed the Gucci bag in her lap as a signal that she was ready to leave.

  “No, I don’t believe so. Dennis and I didn’t meet until after graduation, so we didn’t share those friendships. Does this person have information about Dennis’ death?”

  “No. I just was following a hunch about someone being in a place I didn’t expect them.”

  Mary Ann picked up the tab, “I’ve got this.”

  When she was paying with a credit card, I slipped her napkin into my tote. You never know when these things will come in handy. What was wrong with me? Did I suspect everyone? Yes.

  It had been a two-hour lunch. I had mixed feelings about Mary Ann Camden. Was she what she seemed? Only time would tell.

  5

  Giles and I were looking forward to a quiet dinner alone. He lit the gas grill. I prepared the potatoes for baking and washed the salad vegetables. Giles rubbed the rib eyes in seasoning salt and marinated the meat. I loved our Monday evening cookouts; we had faithfully kept this night for “us” for many years. We had trained everyone not to call, unless it was an extreme emergency. Then the doorbell rang. I looked out the glass doors and saw the neon orange cab glowing like an ember in our neighborhood. Only then did I remember that Uncle Harry had asked to stay with us while his house was getting painted. It had completely slipped my mind.

  “Hey Harry!” Giles’s welcome was warm and sincere even if he did wonder what was up. The two men clasp hands. Giles was a true, southern gentleman in every way.

  “Hello, Uncle Harry. So happy you could join us.”

  I caught Giles’s eye and put my finger to my lips. I mouthed ‘explain later.’

  “Come in. Here, let me help with your bags,” Giles offered.

  “Have you eaten dinner? We were just about to have ours,” I added.

  “That sounds first rate. Just let me wash up a bit first.”

  Harry followed Giles upstairs to the guest room. I heard the thud of suitcases and the closing of doors. Giles showed him the guest bedroom and bath. They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Giles came back down the stairs.

  “Okay Stephanie. Spill. What is Uncle Harry doing here with suitcases? And on a Monday?”

  Before Harry returned to the dining room, I gave Giles the Reader’s Digest version of how he was getting some rooms painted and was going to a hotel when I suggested he stay with us.

&n
bsp; We ate our salad, potatoes, and steak kebobs, a quick variation of our two rib eyes. Harry, as usual, entertained us with his adventures in New Guinea, his involvement with the CIA and FBI, and his latest interests in Somalia. Uncle Harry was an amazing man, a “larger than life” character, and someone I totally trusted.

  Giles slipped in a few anecdotes here and there when Harry asked about his Russian trip. We all had a laugh about AEROFLOT food and service or rather the lack of it.

  I scooped up the plates and started for the kitchen. Khaki trailed behind me.

  “Don’t feed her any table scraps. You know what the vet said. They’re not good for her,” Giles reminded.

  “Just a few bites of steak trimmings. What’s it going to hurt?”

  Giles shook his head. He and Harry polished off a slice of cheesecake each. The talking and wildly animated stories continued through dessert. I suggested that we take our coffee into the living room. On our way Giles’s cell phone rang. Harry and I took our mugs of coffee and settled ourselves, he on the couch and I in my rocker.

  “Who was on the phone?” I asked and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  “It was Detective Morrison. He called to ask for my help on a case they’re working on -- the Camden case. He asked me to help identify some occult symbols and give him some background. I seem to have somewhat of a reputation as having expertise on the occult and since I’m local, they’ve sort of pressed me into service.” He tried hard to make it sound cut-and-dry, a textbook case to Harry, but I knew better.

  “This is decaffeinated, I hope,” said Uncle Harry as I poured him another cup. “I can’t afford to stay awake tonight. I’m much too tired.”