Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel

by Beverly Connor

  She rose to leave. "Don't worry about me. I'll land on my feet."

  Lindsay and Sinjin walked to Park Hall. They crossed the street where the faded X's marked the place where Gloria Rankin had lain, had passed LeConte, and had walked across to Park.

  "What are you going to do about your job?" asked Sinjin.

  "I don't know. I told Frank I'm not going to take it lying down, but in reality there's not a lot I can do."

  "What are you going to do about a new job?"

  "I've been toying with the idea of being a full-time consultant. Maybe become a garage archaeologist."

  "Garage archaeologist?"

  "Work out of my home. You know, respond to a few bids on salvage archaeology jobs."

  "Will that pay the bills?"

  "I don't know. I don't really want to move, but I may have to. We'll see."

  Lindsay went straight to Gloria's old office and knocked on the door. Theodora was there reading an article; in fact she looked like she hadn't moved since Lindsay's last visit. She didn't look glad to see Lindsay.

  "I would like to take a look at Gloria Rankin's thesis. Would you mind?"

  Theodora shrugged. "Go ahead."

  Lindsay took the thesis from the bookshelf and sat at Gloria's desk. Sinjin pulled up a chair and sat beside her. She flipped to the abstract. The thesis combined Gloria's interests in chemistry and classics. Lindsay looked at the review of literature first.

  "She mentions Shirley Foster," Sinjin said.

  Lindsay whispered so she wouldn't disturb Theodora. "Shirley is prominent in her field. If Gloria wrote about textiles at all, she would have to mention Shirley's work. It doesn't mean she knew her."

  Gloria's literature review described two legends whose primary characters suffer very similar deaths. One was the legend of Hercules, the other of Glauce, the Corinthian princess who met her death at the hands of the sorceress Medea.

  "His cloak wasn't poisoned," whispered Lindsay. "It caught fire."

  According to the account by Sophocles, wrote Gloria, Hercules shot the centaur Nesus with an arrow dipped in the poisonous blood of the Hydra. Seeking revenge, the clever dying centaur Nesus told Hercules's wife how to make a love potion by collecting some of the centaur's blood and mixing it with oil. The potion was to be kept in a sealed jar. If Hercules ever were to fall in love with anyone besides his wife, she was to weave him a cloak and treat it with the potion. Once the cloak was treated, she must keep it in a box and allow neither sun nor heat nor water nor anyone but Hercules to touch it.

  The potion was not a love potion at all, of course, but a deadly concoction. And as these legends often go, Hercules did fall for another woman, and his wife sent him the magic cloak that supposedly would bring him back to her. To the great surprise and dismay of everyone, except the centaur's spirit, when Hercules put on the cloak sent to him by his wife, his perspiration caused it to burst into flames, burning his skin and boiling his blood. He tried to rip off the cloak, but by this time it had become part of his flesh. He jumped into water, but then the fire burned even hotter. Finally, Hercules could no longer take the pain, and he lay down on a burning altar. There he was consumed and his spirit rose to Olympus.

  "Never trust a dying centaur," Sinjin said.

  The death of Hercules, wrote Gloria, was almost identical to the fate of Glauce as described by Euripides. Jason, husband of Medea, fell in love with Glauce. Medea treated a gown with a potion that was like liquid fire. She sent the gown to Glauce in an airtight container. When Glauce put on the gown, she immediately burst into flames. The gown clung to her skin, and she sought water from a fountain, but the flames grew hotter, killing Glauce and eventually burning down the palace.

  One scholar identified critical similarities of the events in the two myths. A garment treated with a potion had to be sealed in a container that kept it from water, heat, and air. The garment was to be given only to the one for whom it was intended, and only they could touch it. When donned, the garment burst into flames, melted into the skin, and water caused the flame to burn hotter. She also identified chemicals she believed were used.

  "Jeez," said Sinjin, "that does sound exactly like what happened to Shirley Foster."

  Lindsay flipped to the methodology chapter, which went on to describe Gloria's experiments with different substances suggested by Mayor and chemicals she added herself, all of which, she said, were used in the dyeing and cleaning of ancient fabrics. When describing her results, Gloria stated that she would list the chemicals involved in the process but would not reveal the critical amounts, nor would she reveal the exact steps in treating the fabric.

  "That means whoever used her formula probably knew her and got the formula from her," Lindsay said. "They didn't get it from her thesis." Lindsay moved her finger down the pages, looking for the list of substances that Gloria finally came up with. "Here." She pointed to the list of the major ingredients. "Mainly sulfur, quicklime, and bitumen. Interesting, Lila Poole talked about fire and brimstone. Isn't brimstone sulfur? I wonder if that's what she smelled."

  Sinjin stared at the page a long moment. "It might work. Add water and you could get spontaneous combustion from the quicklime," he whispered. "More water would make it worse. As it burned, you'd create sulfuric acid, which would dissolve human tissue. The petroleum would add fuel and give the substance clinging properties. You could make something mean with that. I'm glad she didn't publish the exact process in her thesis. Who would know the exact process? Wouldn't her committee have to?"

  "Yes," Lindsay said, "they would have to know that she really did the work before they would sign off. This is a master's thesis, so there are probably three faculty members on her committee. But she could have told anyone she trusted, and they might have told other people." She paused. "So, water would ignite something like this?"

  "Possibly, but I think you'd need a heat source to set it off, something like the heat from the sun, or a campfire, or a fireplace. Then the water would act as a catalyst and make the fire hot and uncontrollable."

  "Wouldn't the fabric smell suspicious after being treated with those chemicals?" Lindsay asked.

  "Yes, but it could have smelled like cleaning fluid or mothballs. Both are derived from hydrocarbons, which is what bitumen is. This is similar to the problem you get with storing oily rags in the basement, only you never know when oily rags are going to spontaneously combust. Gloria figured out how to make it quicker and perhaps more controlled. But she still needed an ignition source."

  "Smart girl," Lindsay said.

  "Yeah, but apparently it was the death of her."

  "If it weren't for Gloria's death, I'd think Shirley's death might have been an accident that she brought on herself. I believe that if she read this thesis, she would want to try these formulas. It's the kind of thing she would do. I wonder if Gloria's death could have been just an accident. The bruise was very small, and the umbrella is just suggestive."

  "What are you going to do with this information?" asked Sinjin.

  "Give it to the medical examiner. Maybe he can run tests for these particular chemicals in Shirley's remains," she said.

  Lindsay looked up and Theodora was staring at them. Lindsay grinned at her. "Thanks for letting us look at the thesis."

  "Sure," she said, not taking her eyes off them.

  "I think that's all I need. I won't trouble you again."

  "Good." She watched them put the thesis back on the shelf and go out the door.

  "I think we may have upset her," said Sinjin.

  "Yeah, I think so."

  Students were gathered outside Lindsay's office when she returned: Sally, Brandon, Liza, Bobbie, Bethany, and Robin.

  "We heard," Brandon said.

  "It's not fair," added Bethany.

  "You are going to protest, aren't you?" Bobbie asked.

  "We're going to write a letter to the dean," Sally said.

  "I appreciate your support, I really do. I won't take it lying down, but don
't expect them to change their minds. Bureaucrats don't often do that."

  "This is just spite," Bobbie said. "Surely the administration won't let it happen."

  "It was the dean himself and not Einer who signed the letter," said Lindsay. "There is more to it than just spite."

  They all turned just as Gerri Chapman rounded the corner. She stopped abruptly, frozen by the hostile stares. "I'll come back," she said.

  "No," said Lindsay, gesturing toward her open door. "Please, I want to talk to you." The students stepped aside, giving her a path, but not a wide one. Gem looked as if she were running a gauntlet. She almost jumped inside when she reached the door. "Excuse us," said Lindsay as she closed the door.

  Inside, Gem looked even more uncomfortable. Lindsay had a good six inches in height on her. "Listen," said Gerri, running a hand through her auburn curls, "I know what you are going to say."

  "Did you take my letter opener?"

  "What?" Gem stared at Lindsay open-mouthed.

  "When you were in my office the other day, did you take my silver letter opener?"

  "Letter opener? What are you talking about? No, of course not. Is that what you brought me in here for?"

  "Do you know Ellis Einer?"

  "No, should I?"

  "Who is Lewis's backer on campus? It's not Einer?"

  "No, it's the dean-and the vice president of the university. The vice president and 'Cisco were at Oxford together. I don't know any Einer."

  Gerri looked as if she were telling the truth. Either she was a good actress, or she was genuinely baffled by Lindsay's questions.

  "And what are you doing down here? Come to measure my windows for curtains?"

  "I know you must feel bitter," Gerri said.

  "Bitter? No. Mostly puzzled, but I'm working it out," Lindsay said.

  "I just came to tell you that we can give you a lot of consulting work," said Gerri.

  "Consulting work? You're kidding, right?"

  "No. I have no ill will toward you. With everything that's going on, I know it will take you a while to find another job."

  "What do you know about what's going on?"

  "I know about the cloud you're under because of the missing artifacts."

  "You wouldn't, by any chance, have been making those clouds, would you?"

  "No, I'm trying to be friends. I know this is hard for you. I'm trying to make it easier."

  "It's quite a coincidence that I start having all these troubles when you show up here after my job. I hope you see how that would make me suspicious."

  "Is that what you think? Is that what they think?" Gerri gestured toward the door.

  "I'm asking. I imagine others will, too," Lindsay said.

  "I know I can sometimes be a bitch, but I would never deal in artifacts. Never. I'll admit to maybe using your bad luck just a little. I mean, I guess Brian talked to you, but I didn't instigate any of it."

  Lindsay stared at her, arms folded. "If you did, I'll find out about it."

  "I didn't. Look, I didn't come down here to gloat or anything. I came to offer you work."

  Lindsay smiled. "When you have work to offer, we can talk. Until then, Pancho, this won't be over until it's over." Lindsay opened the door for her. The students were still waiting outside. Lindsay smiled and winked at them as Gem passed.

  "Sinjin's taking me to lunch," Sally told her after the students went back to their work. "Why don't you come with us?"

  "Thanks, but no. I'm not hungry, and I have a few things to do."

  "All the students are on your side."

  "That means a lot to me." Lindsay wanted to hug Sally.

  "Gerri's such a jerk," Sally said.

  "She's certainly a woman who's not afraid of going after what she wants, that's for sure."

  Lindsay sat at her desk and keyed into her word processor all the information she had learned from Gloria Rankin's thesis relevant to Shirley Foster's death. She printed out two copies and addressed two envelopes: one to Sheriff Irene Varnadore and one to Medical Examiner Eddie Peck. Next, she reached for the phone to dial Will Patterson's office. If she could make him consider the possibility that Shirley's death was an accident, it might take his mind off Tom Foster and Luke Ferris, at least long enough for the authorities to find the murderer. It struck her, as her hand rested on the phone, that this method of murder didn't seem like something the volatile Tom Foster would do. She could see Tom shooting Shirley or strangling her but not anything as melodramatic as reenacting an ancient myth.

  The murderer was someone who really hated Shirley Foster, like Medea and Nesus hated their enemies. This was someone with a different mindset from the suspects Lindsay knew. Even if Irene Vamadore were jealous of Shirley, Lindsay couldn't see Irene doing this. And what connection could Irene have had with Gloria Rankin? Maybe it was an accident, after all. Maybe Gloria wasn't murdered and neither was Shirley. But who buried Shirley and why? Tom Foster? Had he found her dead and decided to just not report the body so that he could use her money? That was possible. It made more sense. Tom loved Shirley and would have buried her carefully, but he seemed genuinely surprised when Lindsay found the bones. Could he have been acting? Lindsay dialed Will's office.

  "Patterson. What can I do for you?"

  "Will, this is Lindsay Chamberlain."

  "Lindsay. Need some more information?"

  "Yes, something a little different this time. Do you know if Shirley Foster knew Gloria Rankin?"

  "Gloria Rankin? Where have I heard that name before?"

  "She was the student hit and killed by a bus a couple of weeks ago."

  "That's right, by that kid, Luke Ferris. Why do you want to know if Shirley knew her?"

  "I've come across information suggesting that perhaps Shirley's death was an accident. Can I come by and talk with you, say in fifteen minutes?"

  "Sure. I'm in my office all day today. An accident? Yeah, please come by."

  Lindsay took the letters to the main office to be picked up by the postman, and set out for downtown Athens by way of the sidewalk on Jackson Street. Downtown was only a few blocks from Baldwin Hall, an easy walk. The day was clear and cool, and flowers were blooming all over campus. Walking would give her a chance to think, to wade through all the permutations of possible events in Shirley Foster's last days and try to weed some of them out. Lindsay ignored the hordes of students changing classes and waiting for and leaving buses. She could just as easily have been alone.

  She passed Personnel Services and grimaced. She might soon be using their services to look for a job unless she could think of a way to get hers back. And despite telling Frank and her students that she would fight for it, she knew it was virtually impossible to change a decision by the administration. Someone would have to admit they were wrong. Unless she could remove the cloud from her name, she would have a hard time finding another job as good as the one she had here. Maybe she could hire Will to follow Einer. Perhaps Einer would lead them to the artifacts-if they hadn't already been sold on the black market. She hadn't really investigated the illegal collector's market. That would be an enormous undertaking. It all seemed impossible. However, Will could find out for her what information the campus police had about the missing artifacts; that would be a start. Surely, Kaufman had collected some information. Of course he had-why else had he been killed?

  The wind gusted and Lindsay pulled the front of her denim jacket together. She glanced across the street back at the old building where the Georgia Museum of Art used to be housed. The people at the museum must have some information on the thefts that occurred there a couple of years ago. She made a mental note to talk with them after she talked to Will.

  "Hey, babe, need a ride?" Lindsay arched her eyebrow and turned, ready to give a sharp retort to the guy in the car that had pulled up beside her. When she saw it was Chris Pryor, she grinned. "Sorry, couldn't resist," he said. "I just went to your office looking for you."

  "I'm on my way to an appointment."

&
nbsp; "I have a surprise for you," he said.

  "What?" She leaned over to talk through the open window of his car. Chris was dressed in jeans and a navy blue heavy T-shirt and smelled like Safari. He definitely was better away from his parents. Lindsay imagined that had probably been true of Shirley as well.

  "If you could make a wish right now," he said, "what would you wish for-besides world peace and an end to hunger?"

  "That's easy, the artifacts."

  "I love this. I have always wanted to grant a beautiful woman her heart's desire. But I'm warning you, it's going to cost you at least a month of dates."

  "You're kidding! You found them? I don't believe it. Where?"

  Traffic was backing up in the street behind Chris's car. Someone beeped a horn for him to move on.

  "I'm blocking traffic," he said. "Get in and I'll tell you all about it."

  She got in the car. Chris frowned. "Unfortunately, you were right about Einer, and I have to confess, I didn't really believe you."

  "You found them at his house?" asked Lindsay.

  "No." Chris pulled away from the curb and turned the corner toward Thomas Street. "By the way, I left a message for an Officer Sharon Meyers of the campus police to meet us. They said she's working on the case. Is that all right?"

  "Yes. Sure. Where are the artifacts?"

  Chris sighed. "I hope they're at my glass factory. If they aren't, I'll have called the police and got your hopes up for nothing."

  "Your factory?" Lindsay asked. "I don't understand."

  Chris headed out North Avenue. "After we talked last night, I called Brooke Einer, Ellis's daughter. She just got her vet degree. We used to date. We're still pretty good friends. I thought I'd just kind of ask about her father and antiques, that kind of thing, nothing too heavy. I remembered that a week or so ago she had asked if she could store some boxes in the old glass factory. She knew I didn't use it very much. I store everything in my gallery downtown, and I only use the old factory when I'm doing some glassblowing or etching. I told her sure. I thought she was moving her things, you know, getting her own apartment or something. Anyway, last night when I asked her about it, she said it had really been for her father. She had given him the key."