5 - Murder on Campus

by Hazel Holt

  Murder on Campus

  Hazel Holt

  Seattle, WA

  Published by Coffeetown Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.coffeetownpress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Photograph of JoJo the Cat by Nancy Johnson

  Murder on Campus

  Copyright © 2012 by Hazel Holt

  First published in 1994 by Macmillan London Limited

  a division of Pan Macmillan Publishers Limited

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-138-5 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-139-2 (eBook)

  Produced in the United States of America

  ‘Death is a word not to be declined in any case’

  Chapter One

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ Michael replied in the patient tone of one who has already answered this particular question several times before.

  ‘There’s enough stuff in the freezer for you and the animals for a month—after that they’ll have to have tins. And Rosemary said she’s always happy to give you a meal—just phone and say when.’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘Oh, and the phone bill’s due sometime this month—can you pay it...’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘Now are you sure I’ve left you enough money to see you through until I get back?’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’

  I caught Michael’s eye and we both laughed.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘Don’t fuss.’

  ‘I didn’t say a word.’

  We were sitting in some discomfort at a very small table cluttered with used coffee-cups at Heathrow. All around us loudspeakers were disseminating what was doubtless vital information about flight times in muffled and unintelligible tones to the crowds of would-be travellers, crouched protectively over their luggage. There had recently been another bomb scare and here and there, among all the people milling about, I saw, with a sense of shock, soldiers with rifles and sniffer dogs.

  ‘Goodness,’ I said, ‘look at that sweet dog! I wonder how they train them?’

  Michael very rightly ignored this question and said: ‘Do you want another cup of coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m nervous enough already without any more stimulants! How about you? Can you manage another Danish pastry?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I persisted. ‘It’s a long drive back—you’ll be hungry.’

  ‘If I’m hungry I’ll stop and get something on the way.’

  ‘Yes, of course—sorry, love.’

  ‘Carry on,’ Michael grinned. ‘You’ve got to use up all the fussing and fretting you would have spread over three whole months.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘it does sound an awfully long time. I wish I weren’t going.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Michael said bracingly, ‘you’ll love it when you get there. The time’ll fairly whizz by and you won’t want to come back.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know,’ I replied, ‘you’re absolutely right. It’s just the going that’s so awful!’

  I opened my handbag to check for the umpteenth time that my tickets and passport were safely there and said, ‘I think I’ll go through now. There’s no need for you to hang about and I’d like you to get back to Taviscombe before dark.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘It seems a bit unfriendly.’

  ‘I’ll have a nice read,’ I said. At the barrier I blinked hard to keep back the tears I knew would embarrass him.

  ‘Have a lovely peaceful time without me,’ I said, ‘and Jack and Rosemary are there if you need anything.’

  ‘I shall probably have wild parties every night or turn the house into a gambling hell. Have a lovely time and take megacare.’

  It was with some reluctance that I had left my West Country home to travel across the Atlantic but continual nagging from my old friend Linda Kowolski had led me to accept an invitation from the Chair (such an extraordinary title) of her department to spend a term (semester?—I hoped the language barrier wasn’t going to prove insuperable) at Wilmot, her college in Pennsylvania, teaching a course on lesser-known nineteenth-century British women writers.

  ‘It would be part of the Women’s Studies course,’ Linda had explained. ‘Marge Ellis, who normally teaches it, will be away on a sabbatical in the fall.’

  ‘I don’t think I know anything about Women’s Studies,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ she affirmed positively. ‘It’s what you do all the time—it’s just that you’ve never thought of it that way before.’

  Nevertheless as I opened my file of notes in an attempt to distract my mind from the fact that we were 30,000 feet over the Atlantic, I wondered if the material I had prepared on Mrs Oliphant, Mary Cholmondeley and Charlotte M. Yonge was sufficiently feminist for the young adherents of the Women’s Movement I would be faced with.

  ‘And I don’t really know the jargon,’ I had said helplessly. ‘You know I can’t be doing with structuralism or, what’s it called, deconstructionism.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Linda’s voice across the Atlantic telephone was positively vibrant with enthusiasm. ‘Just what they need—a refreshing dose of proper, old-fashioned Lit. Crit.—the sort of thing we can’t hope to get away with. We have to teach Theory! Think of it—only from you can those poor kids get any idea of what literature is really about—I mean enjoyment, actually reading for pleasure. Come and amaze them!’ So here I was nervously preparing to do just that.

  I hate flying. When I think of all that space underneath the plane my knees give way, and if I should inadvertently look out of the window my stomach turns over and I get vertigo. The 747 wasn’t too full and I’d managed to get a seat on the aisle, which helped my claustrophobia but left me a prey to the itinerant drinks trolleys and the constant passage of people up and down the aisles on their way to the lavatories. I congratulated myself on being well away from the nursery section, since I had seen several carrycots coming on board and the air of the departure lounge had been rent by the wails of toddlers who had quite sensibly decided that air travel was not for them.

  Carefully avoiding the (to me) terrifying instructions about what one had to do if the plane should come down into the sea (drown?), I reached for the flight magazine and tried to lose myself in the glossy advertisements.

  The stewardess crashed her trolley to a halt in the aisle and put a tray laden with goodies before me. I can’t understand people who complain about airline food, I always enjoy mine and I have a childish delight in all those fascinating hygienically wrapped-up bits and pieces, salt and pepper and mints and little cleansing pads. Lovely. I had a Campari and soda and a little bottle of wine (Californian) and a Drambuie afterwards (so as not to miss out on anything) so that by the time all the trays were cleared away and everyone else was watching the movie I was really quite sleepy. The blinds were drawn over the windows and my little light wasn’t working properly so I couldn’t read (if they can’t make the reading lights work, for God’s sake what sort of state is the engine in?) and gradually my eyelids drooped and I was asleep.

  An apologetic voice beside me brought me back to reality and I struggled up from my seat to allow my neighbour to get out into the
aisle. I felt confused and disoriented and for the rest of the flight I resolutely listened to music on my headphones and ate my way through the tray of tea that was put in front of me, giving myself a mental shake and vowing that on the flight home I would consume a more modest amount of alcohol.

  Linda’s sister Anna met me at Kennedy. I was to stay a few nights at her flat in Brooklyn Heights, just to have a quick look round New York. I’d been there before some years ago with my husband Peter and, after he died, Anna had often tried to persuade me to come over for a visit, but somehow there had never been the opportunity until now.

  I looked with amazement and admiration at the way Anna was steering the car effortlessly through the terrifying traffic that swirled about us on the Van Wyck Expressway, while keeping up a constant flow of chat.

  How was I, how was Michael, was that cute cat still as devilish as ever, and those darling dogs? Would I like to go out for a meal this evening? There was a wonderful new Chinese place on Henry Street that I would surely love, or was I tired? What say we phone for a pizza and watch a tape? There were millions of people who wanted to see me, but only if I wanted—though it might be nice to have a party on Saturday, the liquor store on the corner of Montague Street had a special offer on organic wine—did I know about organic wine? Everyone here was very into organic wine, there were these great vineyards in the state of Washington...

  I sat back and let it all flow over me until we turned into Pineapple Street and drew up in front of Anna’s apartment.

  ‘My God, there’s a place to park! Anna cried. ‘Quite unheard of—it must be your benign influence!’

  The doorman greeted us absently and went back to watching his television—some musical extravaganza in Spanish on the Puerto Rican channel—and we squashed into the tiny lift with one of Anna’s neighbours and his large and extremely friendly basset hound.

  I pleaded for a quiet evening and so we sat around eating linguini and gorgeous American ice-cream and chatting.

  ‘I’m worried about Linda,’ Anna said, scooping the last spoonful of Häagen-Dazs butter pecan out of the carton. ‘She’s working too hard—in her office until two or three every morning—she looks terrible. I tell her if you go on like this you’ll have a breakdown, but she doesn’t listen. She always was stubborn as a mule, just like when we were kids.’

  ‘I gather that her schedule is pretty full,’ I said, experimentally pronouncing it the American way.

  ‘Yes—her Chair is a nice guy but weak and there are certain members of that department who are pretty good at dodging anything that looks like hard work. It’s the conscientious ones like Linda, who care about their students, who get stuck with all the extra stuff.’

  Anna is the elder sister. There are just the two of them now; their brother Dan was killed in Vietnam. Their parents died when the two youngest were still at school and Anna, just out of college, more or less brought them up. She had been married briefly, but I gathered it hadn’t worked out; she and Linda didn’t speak about it and she always seems very tough and extrovert, lively, funny and bursting with energy. But I have seen (when she thought she wasn’t observed) an expression on her face of great sadness and even, occasionally, despair.

  I woke up quite early the next morning and went into the little kitchenette to make some coffee. I was touched to see that Anna had laid out a packet of bacon and some eggs for an English breakfast. As I was pouring a glass of orange juice Anna came in. She was wearing a sweat-stained track suit and her hair was caught back in a wide band.

  ‘Orange juice or coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘Juice, please,’ she said and sat down on a chair and to my immense surprise reached down and removed two curved metal objects from her ankles.

  ‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘What on earth are they?’

  ‘Weights.’ She leaned forward and pulled up her socks. ‘That’s better—they rub like hell!’

  ‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘Some kind of mediaeval torture?’

  ‘Sort of. No, the extra weight helps sweat off the pounds—and, brother, do I have a way to go!’

  Since both she and Linda were tall and thin I felt that this was an exaggeration.

  ‘Don’t tell me that Linda goes in for jogging, too?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure. She says it wakes her up after only having a few hours’ sleep. No weights, though.’

  ‘I should hope not indeed,’ I said. ‘Where do you jog?’

  ‘Sometimes along the Promenade, weekends I go across the Bridge.’

  ‘You must be very fit,’ I said enviously.

  ‘Yes, well,’ she replied, taking her headband off and shaking out her short dark hair. ‘I work out at the gym as well, sometimes in the evenings, but mostly lunchtimes—it stops me eating lunch!’

  ‘Where’s the gym?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s in college.’ Anna teaches Art History at one of the New York City colleges. ‘Which reminds me, I’m seeing a student at ten thirty, I’d better take a shower. Are you coming in this morning? What do you plan to do?’

  ‘If I get a move on, can I come in with you? I don’t know if I can remember how to manage the subway on my own.’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, and added, ‘I don’t have to ask, do I? Bloomingdale’s?’

  Linda and Anna always tease me about the fact that when I’m abroad I prefer wandering around department stores and supermarkets rather than improving my mind in museums and art galleries. But I maintain that all museums look alike, whichever country you’re in, whereas there’s no better way of getting the flavour of a country than in its shops.

  ‘Yes,’ I laughed, ‘Bloomingdale’s first, but I do want to go to the Frick—it’s one of my very favourite places anywhere.’

  Walking through Brooklyn Heights on our way to Borough Hall station I revelled in the marvellously complex mixture of the familiar and the strange that I find in America—the handsome brownstone houses, the flowerbeds filled with busy lizzies, the locust trees that line the streets, dropping their strange fruit that looks like coco pods, the mailboxes that could be mistaken for litter bins, police with guns on their hips, chubby fire hydrants that look like examples of the cartoonist’s art, elegant fire escapes with wonderful decorative iron-work—I seemed to see quite ordinary, everyday things with a fresh eye.

  The subway train was shiny and metallic, but even so someone had managed to spray a few graffiti on it, expertly, like pop art, so that it appeared to be intentional decoration. The carriages were spotlessly clean and I remarked upon this to Anna with approval.

  ‘No litter at all,’ I said. ‘Unbelievable. You should see London Transport!’

  I spent a couple of wonderful, exhausting days in New York marvelling at the beauty of the city, walking in the evenings with Anna along the Promenade, gazing at the breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline across the water.

  ‘It’s going to be very hard to get down to work at Wilmot,’ I said as we sat in Changs on my last evening, eating Hung Shao chicken and hot shredded beef with sour plum sauce. ‘I’ve had a simply wonderful time and I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘It’s nice to share New York with such an enthusiast,’ she smiled. ‘Here, have some of this tofu thing, it’s really good.’

  ‘And,’ I continued, ‘it really is kind of you to drive me up to Wilmot tomorrow. It’s an awfully long drive for you, there and back.’

  ‘I do it all the time,’ Anna said. ‘I do a lot of research at the Whittier Collection. They have one of the finest collections of early Italian paintings outside of the major galleries, you know.’

  ‘Is that part of the college?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it’s housed in the old Whittier mansion, just off the campus. Gorgeous place—you’ll love it. So I drive back and forth several times a month and I don’t always stay over. Outside the rush hour I can do it in ninety minutes, portal to portal, as they say.’

  ‘What time should we leave tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, since it�
�s Sunday, how would you like to walk across the Bridge with me first?’

  ‘Across Brooklyn Bridge?’ I asked in some alarm, thinking of the mad welter of cars and taxi-cabs that rushed endlessly, across it. ‘Isn’t it rather dangerous?’ Anna laughed. ‘Just wait and see.’

  It was a beautiful morning in early fall and the sun hadn’t yet burnt the moisture out of the air as Anna led me up to the pedestrian level of the Bridge. The cars were down below, but up here where the wooden planking under our feet was divided into lanes for pedestrians and cyclists, it was quite free from noise and exhaust fumes. Down below and stretching on either side was the blue water of the East River, opening out into the Upper Bay with Governor’s Island to the left and beyond that, just discernible in the distance, the Statue of Liberty. It was a wonderful feeling to be walking level with the skyscrapers, with the sparkling water below and the great arching struts of the Bridge etched against the blue sky. Around us New Yorkers were jogging, cycling or just out for a Sunday stroll, all apparently at peace with the world and each other.

  ‘So much for the violent New York one is always reading about,’ I said as we were overtaken by a family of mother, father and two children on bicycles, who all smilingly thanked us as we stood to one side to let them pass.

  Anna laughed. ‘I guess there’s violence just about everywhere if you care to look for it.’

  As we drove in the strange Sunday quiet of Lower Manhattan, along Canal Street to the Holland Tunnel, Anna reverted to her earlier conversation about Linda. ‘I’m glad she’ll have you with her for a while,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll make her relax a little, take a little time out to do other things beside work.’