by Jessa Archer
But most of the women in attendance seemed almost…angry. And while it could be anger at Amundsen’s murderer, there was something else I couldn’t quite place.
It wasn’t glee. Not exactly. It was more like…relief?
If it had only been one woman or two, I might have shrugged it off. But the longer I watched them, the more certain I was that at least a half dozen women in that chapel were quite happy Amundsen was gone.
“Mind if I join you?”
I nodded automatically, out of courtesy, even before I realized the new arrival was Samuel Davies. He gestured toward the memorial display and chuckled softly. “If Jerald can see that, he’s delighted. Center stage. Soft lighting to hide the signs of age. As in life, so in death. Perhaps this will make up for the fact that he didn’t have an audience for his death scene. Well…I mean, aside from you.”
I was about to snap at him, but then I caught his grin. “You really shouldn’t believe everything you read in the local papers, Sam Davies.”
The Clarion had actually been rather low-key that morning. An article on the front page featured Amundsen’s photo and information about the memorial service, along with a few quotes from college officials, including Dean Prendergast, about his time at SCU. There had been some discussion of his career highlights, both in academia and, very briefly, on Broadway. Only a single sentence about the investigation being “ongoing,” so overall it had lacked Alicia’s signature brand of yellow journalism. Maybe someone told her to rein it in a bit until after the funeral.
“So, why did you do it?” Sam teased. “I can’t quite picture you as one of his cast-off romances, and I’m not buying the notion that you wanted his job.”
Even though he was teasing, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with this line of conversation. The room was crowded and acoustics can be tricky in large rooms. Sam’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it could easily have carried to one of the nearby rows if someone was intent on spying.
But I also didn’t want to give Sam the impression that I lacked a sense of humor. I primly smoothed out the wrinkles in my skirt and said, “A girl has to have some secrets.”
Sam nodded toward the middle section of the church and whispered, “If you want secrets, that’s where you’ll find them. Half the women in those pews had a motive to dispatch your predecessor.”
“Hmmm. So it’s jealousy. That’s why you disliked him so much.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Why on earth would I be jealous? If anything, it’s reason to pity the man. He moved from one relationship to the next, a continuous string of physical encounters devoid of any emotional meaning. I’ll admit I found the bragging about his conquests a bit tasteless, but my dislike for the man was due more to his financial ethics. Or rather his lack thereof.”
Financial ethics? That reminded me of the possibly fraudulent claims of storm damage and Melinda’s dry observation that things had a tendency to walk away from the Coastal Playhouse. And since Sam clearly had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead, I pressed him further.
“Amundsen was a thief?”
“More of a rip-off artist, really. A swindler. Usually real-estate deals, and every one of them was a sure thing to hear him tell it. It was small stuff at first, a few people investing together in a couple of condos, but lately he’d been upping the stakes. Started a development company on the side—Amundsen Realty & Development. I steered clear, but he pulled a few of my colleagues into investing in a tourist complex on Hatteras Island—condos, restaurants, and a little waterpark. The thing tanked before it even got off the ground, and they each lost at least 10K. A few of them lost a good deal more. I don’t think Jerald actually had much of his own money in the project…he’d convinced others to provide the upfront cash. And as soon as that scheme dissolved into thin air, he started trying to lure them into something new to earn back what they’d lost.”
I opened my mouth to ask whether Sam thought one of them might have been angry enough to kill, and whether he had concrete evidence for any of these allegations, but he was looking over my shoulder and waving at someone. I turned to follow his gaze and spotted Travis, looking very handsome in a navy suit.
“I see you two have met,” Travis said as I slid over so that he could join us. “Sam might just be the smartest guy in town. Well, except for football. He’s clueless on that front.”
“You mean pointy football,” Sam said. “I know all about real football. What you Americans call football is watered-down rugby, designed for little boys whose mums make them wear padding so they don’t get a boo-boo.”
This was apparently an ongoing joke between the two of them, because Travis rolled his eyes and said, “Not this again. You need to bring Leila to a Caratoke Tigers game next year, and I’ll start both of you with the basics.” Then he whispered to me, “Melinda Barry Eastland dropped by the station this morning to drop off a written statement.”
“I thought she might. She was at the Playhouse yesterday.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to have to get her to come in to the station anyway. Her lawyer did a pretty thorough job, but I’ve got some questions her statement doesn’t exactly answer.”
I wanted to ask Travis to elaborate. Sam, however, was watching our whisper session out of the corner of his eye, clearly curious but not wanting to show it. And then the church bells tolled noon, signaling the start of the service, so it was a moot point anyway.
Everyone turned their attention toward the front of the chapel. Dean Prendergast stepped onto the platform, along with Martin Peele, the chaplain, and the university chancellor, each of them taking one of the four chairs positioned to the left of the altar.
Peele kept glancing down nervously at a sheet of paper in his hands. He must be one of those actors who gets a touch of stage fright when faced with an audience. I’ve been known to get it myself from time to time, so when Peele looked up a moment later, I gave him a reassuring smile. He didn’t return it, but just stared back down at the paper again.
A moment later, one of the back doors opened. The hinges were a bit squeaky, and several heads turned toward the sound as Melinda Barry slipped in and took a seat near the back. Most of them turned back to the front rather quickly since the chancellor had moved to the podium and was adjusting the microphone. One gaze lingered, but if Melinda noticed the killer glare Bethany was aiming at her she gave no sign. She was too busy staring at Martin Peele, who was staring right back at her.
Both of their expressions were sad, which was probably to be expected given that they’d both been friends, or at least colleagues, of Amundsen. Melinda also looked disappointed, possibly because he’d failed to let her know about the service.
Martin broke the stare after a moment and pinned his eyes once again on the paper in his hands, which he’d managed to twist into a rope.
The chancellor welcomed everyone to the memorial service and introduced two students—a vocalist and a pianist. They began “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” from Les Misérables. It was a beautiful performance. Even though I’d never met the deceased, I knew the song from both the play and movie, and my eyes began to water. I wasn’t alone. Several people were dabbing at their eyes. The music seemed to affect Martin Peele in particular. About halfway through, he whispered something to Dean Amundsen, then left the platform. He walked quickly to the side door and stepped outside.
“What do you think that was about?” Travis whispered.
I shook my head. “Maybe he’s just upset. They worked together for years. And I’m sure he’s seen Les Miz.” Travis’s blank look made it clear that he had no clue what I meant by the last comment, and since I didn’t want to keep whispering during the song, I turned my attention back to the stage.
Dean Prendergast stared at the door, apparently waiting for Peele to return. A quick glance down at the program in my hand told me why. A prayer was next, led by Chaplain Williams. After that, Martin Peele was scheduled to speak.
When both the song and the praye
r were over, Marjorie Prendergast glared at the door one last time, then sighed and approached the podium with her phone in hand. It looked as though the dean was going to be giving the eulogy after all.
“Apologies,” she said. “Martin Peele was supposed to speak on behalf of our faculty and students, but he’s apparently…indisposed.” She glanced down at her phone and then, without preamble, began to read off one of the student stories that I’d emailed to her.
At the rear of the chapel, a door clicked shut. When I glanced back, I saw that Melinda Barry was now gone, as well. How odd to travel all the way from New Jersey for Amundsen’s memorial service and vanish less than halfway in.
As much as I wanted to follow her, Dean Prendergast would definitely notice. I was already in the doghouse over the incident at the restaurant and slipping out in the middle of a eulogy that my boss had dreaded giving didn’t seem likely to win me any brownie points.
Travis must have noticed my distraction, because he gave me a questioning look. I shook my head and pretended to focus on the service.
When Prendergast finished speaking, and the vocalist returned to the stage, I took that as my cue. “Excuse me,” I said, tapping Travis’s knee so that I could slide out. “Ladies’ room.”
I could feel eyes on my back as I retreated to the rear of the sanctuary, but I kept going, quietly closing the door behind me. Knowing Travis, he didn’t believe my bathroom excuse, and that meant there was a better-than-even chance he’d be right behind me.
There was no sign of either Melinda or Dr. Peele when I stepped outside. As I walked around the corner of the church, though, I saw Melinda Barry sitting inside her Cooper, looking a bit like someone had punched her.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Melinda nodded, and pressed the ignition button. “This…coming here was a mistake,” she said. “I hate funerals. I’ve always hated funerals. So does Martin. I don’t know why either of us thought we’d be able to do this.”
Travis came into view as she was speaking. “Ms. Eastland?”
“Yes?” she said. “Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t believe we’ve met. Travis Lamm, Caratoke chief of police. I have a few questions about the statement you dropped off at the station. I’d planned to wait until after the service, but…if you’re leaving, maybe you could spare a few minutes now?”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lamm,” she said, although the little twitch at the edge of her mouth made me think this wasn’t entirely true. “My attorney was fairly sure we’d covered everything pertinent when he helped me write up my statement last night. But of course I’d be happy to answer any questions you still have.”
Travis raised his eyebrows at me, nodding back toward the church. Meaning that this needed to be a private conversation. I got it. This was his job. Still, I didn’t entirely like the hint of amusement in his eyes. He knew full well that my curiosity would be working overtime wondering what they were saying. But there was no avoiding it, so I gave Melinda Barry a little wave and left the two of them alone.
The last notes of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” drifted out of the chapel as I paused on the steps. Going back inside would be too disruptive. But would it be better to wait around until the service was over and answer the dean’s questions about why I left the chapel, or leave and hope that she’d forget by the next time we met?
I chose avoidance, and began hiking back uphill toward Muncey Auditorium. An email earlier in the day indicated that the theater was cleared for classes beginning on Monday, so maybe the building had aired out enough that I could hide in the office until my three o’clock class.
The path from the chapel meanders through the woods to the back entrance of the auditorium. While there are no actual parking spots near Muncey, there is a narrow driveway, used mostly for delivery vehicles, that comes up from the parking lot at the bottom of the hill and curves around the backside of the building. To my surprise, a white SUV was parked in the middle of the driveway. The engine was running and the driver’s door was wide open.
I was pretty sure this was the same vehicle that crushed Caroline’s flowers in my yard earlier this week. And I didn’t recall seeing Alicia at the memorial service.
Peeking inside the car, I spotted the red bag Alicia had been carrying the other day. With ownership now confirmed, I reached in, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and tossed them into the bushes next to the building.
Was that petty? Probably. But Alicia had put me—and Paige—through enough this week that I felt very much justified. And maybe it would teach her a lesson about leaving her keys in the car. College campuses aren’t exactly theft-free zones.
Both the exterior doors of the building and those leading into the main theater from the lobby were propped open, so I had a view clear to the stage as soon as I stepped inside. The industrial fans the cleaning crew were using to help the air circulate were still onstage, but they were now switched off. The building was eerily silent.
I craned my neck to see if Alicia was poking around on the stage, but there was no sign of her. Then a noise from the hallway caught my attention. The corridor was dark, except for a dim light streaming in from an office where the door was ajar.
My office. Formerly Jerald Amundsen’s office. And I had most definitely locked that door before I left.
I crept as quietly as possible down the hallway, something that would have been much easier if I hadn’t worn a skirt and heels for the memorial service. A rustle of paper was followed by footsteps, and just as I passed the janitor’s closet, Alicia stepped into the hall.
“Antigone,” she said, nodding curtly. “Looks like someone searched Amundsen’s office.”
Now that I was closer, I could see that this was actually an understatement. The place had been completely trashed. Books and papers were scattered everywhere. All three drawers were yanked out of the desk and the file cabinet was tipped over. The fluorescent light fixture overhead dangled by its hinges. Someone had even taken a knife to the chair cushions. The monitor was still on the desk, but the computer was gone.
“Correction,” I said. “Someone ransacked my office. And since you’re the one standing here in my office—an office that I locked before leaving—guess who is at the very top of my list of suspects?”
Alicia sniffed. “It was like this when I got here. As for whose office it is, most of the books on the floor have stickers inside with Amundsen’s name, and I really don’t see much in here of yours. If we’re going to start making baseless allegations—”
“Start? You’ve been doing that all week.” I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket and snapped a picture of Alicia standing in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking pictures of the crime scene.”
“I already did that.” Alicia nodded toward the phone in her hand.
“Well, unless you took a selfie,” I said, “your pictures were missing a key bit of evidence.”
Alicia rolled her eyes. “I could make a solid case that you damaged the office yourself, looking for some bit of evidence that you’re afraid might connect you to Amundsen’s death. After all, the door doesn’t show any sign of forcible entry. Must have been someone with a key, right?”
I snapped one more photo. Then I scrolled through my recent calls for Travis’s number, and hit the return call button. “And now,” I said, “I’m calling the police.”
“I’m a reporter investigating a crime,” she said, pushing past me. “No one in town is going to believe I had anything to do with this.”
But Alicia was walking toward the lobby as she spoke. And she was walking very quickly.
I’d spent the past five days thinking that Alicia’s motive for smearing me in the paper was pure jealousy, with perhaps a dash of revenge. Now, however, I was beginning to wonder if there might be something else going on. Maybe Alicia was casting the bright light of suspicion on me in order to keep it from landing on her.
W
as Alicia seeing Amundsen, too? Or was she involved in one of his financial schemes?
The latter felt more likely to me. Travis said that Alicia’s job with the paper was a hobby rather than something she needed to pay the bills, thanks to her real-estate investments. Maybe she was one of the people pulled into Amundsen Realty and Development.
Amundsen Realty and Development. ARD.
And if Amundsen had added the word Incorporated at the end when he set up the business? ARDI…
Travis wasn’t picking up the call. Just as I looked down to check the number to make sure I hadn’t misdialed, he finally answered. But it took a moment to find my voice, because I was staring at his number.
Ten digits.
Just like all cell numbers, including the dozens clipped to the ledger currently stashed in the nightstand in my bedroom.
Just like the one for ARDI.
Chapter Fourteen
By the time Travis made it up the hill, Alicia was back inside demanding that I return her car keys.
“Already told you, Alicia. I don’t have your keys.”
“Then what did you do with them?”
“I have this vague memory of seeing them, but…I just can’t recall the exact location. It might come back to me, though. Maybe while we’re waiting for my memory to kick in, you could tell Chief Lamm why you trashed my office? And explain your connection to Amundsen.”
Travis flashed me a confused look and then turned to Alicia. “We’ll get the situation with your keys sorted out in a minute. But yes, what were you doing in her office?”
“Reporting a story. I came by to take some pictures of the clean-up effort. I saw the office door was open and thought I might be able to get a statement from either Tig or Martin Peele. When I got down there, I saw the damage and stepped inside to get pictures of the mess. I can promise that you’ll find my fingerprints on absolutely nothing in this room. I doubt Antigone can say the same.”
