Murder Is Academic

by P. M. Carlson

  “You mean this Edwards girl moved?”

  “She must have moved, yes.”

  “Are you sure? This is the exact address, 519 Walton.” The reporter was pushing forward, straining to see behind Maggie into the house. Two more strangers with tape recorders were starting up the walk.

  “Oh no,” said Maggie with a sort of breathless serenity. “You are mistaken.”

  “No, my daughter,” came a ringing mellow voice. “He is not mistaken. No one who knocks on this door is mistaken.”

  Mary Beth, amazed, looked back to see Nick sweeping the Guatemalan blanket off the sofa and around his shoulders. He strode, gracefully draped and barefoot, into the hall.

  Maggie didn’t even blink. She said, “You are right, of course, Father Nicholas.”

  “He is not mistaken,” continued Nick warmly. “The Great Lord, the Eternal Light, has sent him. He is a Seeker.” In the blanket he looked immense. His benevolent brow and kind voice set off the hard, frightening gleam of his half-closed eyes.

  The Eagle reporter almost stepped on one of his fellows as he backed away from the door. He said, “Christ!”

  “Yes. Some call Him Christ, some call Him Buddha,” agreed Nick in that deep hypnotic voice. “And there are many other names. All seek Him. As you do, my son, am I not correct?”

  “Look, I’m just trying to find Jacqueline Edwards’s house.”

  “No, my son. Do not battle your happy fate. Do not leave,” said Nick, stepping after him onto the porch. His dark eyes gleamed fanatically under half-closed lids.

  Maggie followed them out, hand extended in appeal. “Please, do not leave, my brothers! Father Nicholas is right. You were sent!”

  Mary Beth suddenly noticed that her own mouth was open. She closed it abruptly.

  “Please, my sons,” said Nick, rocking up a little on his bare feet, and looking huge and splendid in the blanket. “You must yield to the Divine Power that sent you here. Am I correct that you represent our newspapers? Am I correct that you could let the people hear of our efforts here at the Eternal Light Commune? Behold!” An impressive finger shot skyward. “Behold our symbols! The pierced pane!” He turned in a swirl of blanket, eyes glittering, and indicated the window Frank had smashed. “Symbol of the pure life further purified by the entrance of Divine Light!”

  One of the reporters had already slipped away. The other two now turned and left. One muttered, “Thanks a lot, Father Nicholas,” before his car door slammed.

  “Please, my sons, do not defy the Divine Power!” There was deep regret in the mellow voice that rolled after them as they drove away.

  Mary Beth, a bit staggered, moved back into the hall and sat down abruptly on the stairs. Nick stalked in with priestly gait, but the hard, glistening eyes had become mild and merry again. Maggie turned to the mailbox she had been leaning against and began scratching out all their names viciously and writing something on it. She came in after a minute and closed the door. Nick took off his blanket.

  “Hot little costume, Father Nicholas,” said Maggie a touch unsteadily.

  “Certainly is,” he agreed.

  “Yes. Mary Beth, until further notice we’re the Eternal Light Commune.”

  “Jeez,” said Mary Beth.

  “Yes. Some call Him Jeez,” mimicked Maggie, and then seemed to choke a little. She turned abruptly to hide her face against the comer of the wall. “Oh, holy shit, Nick!”

  “That’s what it was, all right,” he agreed gravely.

  Mary Beth giggled, then said, “Tartuffe.”

  “Yes. One of my secret yens is to play that role.” He grinned and took the blanket back into the living room, and arranged it carefully on the sofa again. Mary Beth followed him in.

  “Did you two plan that?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Of course not.” He pulled on his socks and smiled at her. “I see there are sides of Maggie you still haven’t discovered.”

  “Well, I guess we’ve had a few hints,” she admitted, thinking of the alarm clocks, and of Birgit Nilsson, and of the dowdy Maggie who had eased Frank into Jackie’s arms. Poor Frank. Poor Jackie. A little sob slipped through her tight throat.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just thinking of Jackie. You know.” She snuffled.

  “Yes. It catches you unawares sometimes.” He took her hand. “I heard you tell Mrs. Edwards it’s good to cry. You’re right, you know.”

  She nodded as he patted her hand. In a moment she took a deep breath, swallowed, and said, “I should let you get your other shoe on.”

  “Oh, no, I left it off on purpose,” he said. “I have a little project on the front porch.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you’re 519 Walton right now. I think maybe for a little while you should be 516.”

  “Hey. Brilliant!”

  “That’s me,” he said cheerfully.

  They went back into the hall. Maggie was exactly as they had left her, leaning against the wall in the corner, face hidden. Nick paused, worried, holding his shoe. Mary Beth hurried to her.

  “Hey. Hey, Maggie.”

  “Yeah?” She didn’t move.

  “Hey, come on. Is it Jackie? Come on in the living room.”

  “Okay.” She straightened up but her hands still hid her face.

  Nick said, “Maggie, I’m going to fix the house number and get some coffee. And then I won’t be back for a while. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She raised ravaged blue eyes to him and said, “If nothing else comes up I’ll try to say a civil good-bye later this week. You’ve caught me at a bad time.”

  “I know.”

  He watched, gripping the shoe, while Mary Beth led her to the living room sofa, and then he went out and rehung the number, using the heel of his shoe as a hammer. In a few minutes they heard his car start. Maggie sat huddled on the sofa, uncharacteristically still.

  Mary Beth put her hand on the hunched bony shoulder and asked, “Maggie, what’s wrong?”

  “Let’s see,” said Maggie, considering the question solemnly and enumerating on her fingers. “There’s Jackie. There’s you. There’s Vietnam, and Guatemala, and Martin Luther King, and riots, and Bobby Kennedy. Dr. Spock is going to jail. And a couple of personal things. I’m out of fingers. Shall I start on my toes?”

  “Never mind,” said Mary Beth. “I’ll bring you some tea.”

  XV

  11 Kach (June 19, 1968)

  The day wore on. Mr. and Mrs. Edwards left eventually, and later that afternoon Maggie, Mary Beth, and several visitors sat in the living room drinking iced tea. People had been collecting all afternoon, talking quietly about other things to fill the emptiness, and when Sue brought in the big pitcher and glasses, there was quite an assembly. Frank had returned, measured the windowpane, bought glass, and silently replaced it. Peter had come over too, and sat quietly in a chair, clicking his ballpoint pen in and out. Terry and Monica were there, as were Bill and Todd from across the street—awkward but genuinely sympathetic. They were just preparing to leave when Sue arrived with fresh provisions.

  “Have some iced tea and sandwiches before you go,” she suggested, putting the tray down. Bill started to decline.

  “Actually,” said Maggie, “there’s something you can help with, if you stay.”

  “Sure,” said Bill eagerly. “What?”

  “Well, it’s just that it seems crazy that we can’t figure out what she was doing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Jackie borrowed my car, she said she needed it to take books to the library. She didn’t say a word about going to Syracuse.”

  “Yeah. That’s not like her,” said Sue.

  “All I know is, I waited for her an hour in the library,” said Peter miserably.

  “Yes. When was she supposed to meet you?”

  “At four. We’d arranged it back, oh, Wednesday, I think.”

  “And she said nothing about not being able to make it?”

  “Nothing
at all. I called here at four-thirty to check.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Sue.

  “Okay.” said Maggie. “So it looks like something had already gone wrong by then. I saw her last at eleven. Right, Mary Beth?”

  “Yes. Maybe a few minutes later.”

  “And do you remember what she said then?”

  “That she had a date at the library, so she couldn’t go on the picnic.”

  “That’s right,” said Sue.

  “Okay. Now let’s go on. Sue, you and she were in the house alone for a while.”

  “And both working like dogs, not gamboling in the sun like you frivolous things.”

  Maggie made a face at her. “Try to restrain these personal attacks for a few minutes, Comrade Snyder. Did you see her at all, or hear her, while you slaved away?”

  “Let’s see. I grabbed a sandwich for lunch, and she came down after a few minutes. Looked into the refrigerator and groused because you’d used up all the tomatoes.” Her gruffness was masking the pain of remembering.

  “Guess I had,” said Maggie regretfully. “Needed them for the beef daube.”

  “Then she started fixing herself some lunch. I had finished eating so I went back up to work.”

  “Okay.”

  “She came up after a few minutes and made a phone call.”

  “Who to?”

  “I don’t know. I was busy. I did hear her say, ‘So everyone will be gone at two-thirty?’ and then ‘Fine, see you soon.’ And then she hung up.”

  “Interesting.” Maggie held out a page torn from the telephone notepad. “This seems to be her note about it: ‘2:30 LB.’”

  “Yeah. That would be it,” agreed Sue. “Unless Mary Beth made that note.”

  Mary Beth shook her head.

  Maggie was frowning at the note. “Any idea what LB means?”

  “Library,” suggested Sue.

  “Probably. Except it’s not empty at two-thirty.”

  “Parts of it are. The Georgian room?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mary Beth looked over Maggie’s shoulder. She said, “They’re both capital letters. Could they be initials?”

  “Possible. A person? A place?”

  They thought a while. Barnes, Brown. Someone thought of Lydia Bondini, and someone else suggested Lake Bowman, thirty miles east. Finally Maggie said dubiously, “There’s Professor Berryman.”

  A funny look came across Frank’s face. “Berryman?”

  “Lincoln Berryman,” Maggie repeated. “Psych department.”

  “Oh God. But that couldn’t be it.”

  “What, Frank?”

  “Well, Jackie said it was best not to say anything about it. And it may not mean anything.”

  “Frank ... ,” Maggie said encouragingly.

  “Well, a couple of months ago ... I’d just met her Friday afternoon. We were going out for dinner. She wanted to borrow a paper from Professor Freeman to use on her project. It was pretty late, and the door was closed, but she knocked anyway. Professor Freeman said come in, but when Jackie opened the door Professor Freeman was looking very upset, and this big guy was standing there looking upset too. I think Professor Freeman referred to him as Professor Berryman.”

  “Dark hair? Beard? Pretty heavy, but not really fat?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s him,” said Maggie. “What else?”

  “That’s it. When we’d left Jackie said it looked like we’d interrupted something, but, you know, faculty private lives aren’t really our business. I don’t think she ever mentioned it to anyone, and I certainly didn’t.”

  “And Professor Freeman told you to come in?”

  “Yes. Loud and quick.”

  “Well, it doesn’t sound like it was anything she was ashamed of,” said Sue. “I still vote for the library.”

  “Yeah. I agree,” said Frank.

  “Well, okay,” said Maggie. “What happened after the phone call, Sue?”

  “She muttered, ‘Damn, I’ll have to come back.’ Then she went to her room and I got back to work.”

  “What time was all this?”

  “Oh, maybe twelve-thirtyish.”

  “Okay. What next?”

  “I don’t remember anything else for the next hour, except for Dostoyevsky.”

  “Okay, we needn’t go into that.”

  “Philistine! Then she went downstairs again and messed around in the kitchen. Probably working on that unspeakable cake. Then she started out the front door and yelled up that she’d be back soon. And that’s the last I ever saw her.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Two-fifteen, maybe. Not much earlier.”

  “Two-fifteen.”

  “Right.”

  “And she didn’t say anything about Syracuse?”

  “Not one damn word.”

  “Okay.” Maggie was frowning. “Did she take my car then, or walk?”

  “I don’t know. I was slaving away over that Cyrillic novel—not listening at all.” Sue turned away from them and Maggie’s hand found hers consolingly.

  Bill said, “Was that her in your car?”

  “Yes,” said Maggie, “if you’re talking about Monday.”

  “Yeah. I think we saw her leave. Todd and I were picking up the lawn. Beer cans and stuff, you know, from the party. ‘Cause we were too hung over to do it Sunday. Remember, Todd?”

  “Yeah.” Todd looked uncomfortable.

  “I remember because I thought it was you. We couldn’t really see who was driving. And Todd said we ought to shoot out her goddamn tires. Remember, Todd?”

  Todd scowled, but Maggie grinned and said, “Well, thanks for your restraint. Did she go toward campus?”

  “Yes,” said Bill.

  “Okay. Did anybody see her at all after two-fifteen?”

  Everyone looked glumly at everyone else.

  “Well, let’s try a process of elimination. She wasn’t here; we know that. Peter, you were in the library at four to meet her.”

  “Yes, actually I was there a little earlier. We were going to go up to the graduate reading room, but I had to check something in the catalog first. So I was there about a quarter of, and went upstairs about four.”

  “And there was no sign of her, upstairs or down?”

  “No, none at all.”

  Monica said, “I was in the reading room all afternoon. She wasn’t there. I did see Peter come in about four, and leave at four-thirty and then come back maybe ten minutes later.”

  “That was when he phoned here, I guess.”

  “Right,” said Peter.

  “Okay. So if she was there she gave everyone the slip. But it’s possible, it’s a big place. What I don’t understand is why she’d arrange to be there at two-thirty and then again at four. Why not just stay? Make the appointments closer together, after the cake was out?”

  “Yes, or ask Sue to take the cake out,” said Mary Beth. “Unless she didn’t want to impose.”

  “Oh, that won’t wash, Mary Beth,” said Sue. “You know damn well that every one of you dump your responsibilities in my lap. I’ve taken out zillions of crappy cakes in the last few months!”

  “Gastronomy aside,” said Maggie, “you’re right. She was better organized than that. If she expected to be back in time, she would be. If not, she’d ask you to take it out.”

  “Maybe,” said Mary Beth dubiously, “she met whoever it was at two-thirty, and then forgot all about the cake and just stayed at the library, thinking Peter would be there soon.”

  “Then why didn’t Peter or I see her?” asked Monica.

  Mary Beth had already cooled to her idea. “Anyway, that still doesn’t explain why she was driving to Syracuse,” she said.

  Everyone looked at Frank. He said violently, “I can’t think of a damn thing! I was home most of that time, I was typing my damn bibliography. She knew that, knew I’d be home, so maybe if she thought of some reason she’d come to see me. But she’s never done that b
efore. We’ve always talked on the phone first.”

  “And,” said Peter defiantly, “she’s never stood me up.” He and Frank exchanged hostile looks.

  Maggie ignored the undertones. “You’re right,” she said. “She was always reliable. It really looks like her plans had nothing to do with Syracuse. Put in the cake. Go to the two-thirty thing. Come back and take out the cake. The box said it should bake fifty to sixty minutes, all right? So the two-thirty thing was supposed to be short. Then, after the cake, she was going to go back to meet Peter.”

  “And instead,” said Mary Beth, “whatever she did at two-thirty, or just before or just after, made her decide to go to Syracuse without telling anyone first. Made her forget the cake and maybe even Peter?”

  “Must have been earth-shattering,” said Maggie. “But I still think she would have called Peter if she could have. Were you home, Peter?”

  “Yeah, until three-thirty.”

  “She could’ve called, then. So whatever the news was, it made her hurry. Couldn’t stop for anything. So why would she stop for a guy on a highway ramp?”

  Sue said slowly, “Do you think he was the one she met at two-thirty? Do you think he lives around here?”

  The question had been hovering in many of their minds.

  “You mean someone was actually out to murder her? Made an appointment with her?” Peter was shaking his head. “That’s impossible. No one could hate Jackie.”

  “Rapists hate females, period,” said Sue.

  “She was in my car,” said Maggie, her expression coolly blank, and Mary Beth suddenly understood the source of the frustration and guilt that had been dogging her friend these past few days. “Maybe somebody hated me.” She didn’t look at Todd.

  Mary Beth said, “It was a knife, Maggie. It couldn’t be mistaken identity.”

  A flash of gratitude. “Yeah. I keep telling myself that,” she said. “And there are other problems too. For example, how would he force her to drive my car to Syracuse, if he had to be in his?”

  “Maybe he lives around here like Sue said. Maybe she knew him, believed his story.”

  “But if she was conned, she still would have called Sue and Peter before driving off. She was always thoughtful.”

  “Maybe he drove. Brought her along, tied up or something,” suggested Terry.