A higher sweep of light showed Ms. Ogden's cosmetics on the vanity, even higher, reflected off the dressing table mirror to bounce back to the wall behind the lady's bed.
Across the way, a small bent-wood rocker had been put between the room's two separate windows, on the chair, items of apparel: either the clothes Ms. Ogden had taken off before putting on her night gown or clothes she intended to wear the next day.
A quick sweep of the room at eye level showed pictures hanging on the buff papered walls. Rural scenes: a dilapidated red barn, hedges surrounding a field, a pasture of grazing cows.
The bed ... was still made ... the first observation that added something new to the equation. After getting ready for bed, the lady had gone downstairs to check out ... what? Going down before actually getting into bed.
The order of events appeared to be this. Beth had come up to her bedroom, taken off her clothes, put on her night gown and immediately gone downstairs again.
Z played the light around the room once more. Bed in the center. Walk-in closet to the right. Beyond the closet was the vanity, Ms. Ogden's cosmetics jars lined up just so, seconding his impression that the lady was a meticulous person.
He was now aware of ... another odd feeling ... a sensation he'd learned to pay attention to, a perception that usually meant he'd just seen something ... wrong. Something in addition to the smell, but ... what?
Troubled, he started over, this time oscillating his line of light from ceiling to floor, moving the light forward at dead slow.
Bureau to the left.
Bed backed up to the wall just past the bureau.
Barn picture above the bed.
Table lamp and stand beyond the bed.
Turning the corner, there was a window, its blind pulled down behind frilly, white gauze curtains.
The rocking chair. With clothes on it. Clothes neatly folded .... the fresh change of clothing Ms. Ogden had intended to put on the next morning.
Then the other window, shade drawn.
Coming back from the far right, for the first time, low to the floor, he saw a wicker clothes hamper. That's where the lady had put the clothing she'd been wearing.
The dressing table with its padded bench was next; on the vanity, a neat row of cosmetics bottles.
Flashing the light from jar to jar, he could even identify the beauty aids. There were several bottles of red fingernail polish, for instance. Also squat, larger jars of creams, a compact for face power, a white plastic container of talcum -- brush, and comb -- all neatly arranged, one beside the other. And ....
That was it! That was what had disturbed him; what had tripped his inner "contact"!
A container ... out of line.
Clearly, Ms. Ogden had been using that little bottle when "something" had called her downstairs -- to her death.
Yes.
Looking closer, Z could see the space in the line of cosmetics, the place reserved for the bottle when not in use.
Either Ms. Ogden had not finished using that small vessel when she'd gone downstairs to investigate ... something ... or she'd just finished with the bottle, leaving in a hurry before putting the bottle back in its "hole" in the line of other cosmetic jars.
Five steps took him to the vanity where he stooped to get a better look at the "out-of-line" receptacle -- containers like that sometimes called vials, the flask small and oddly shaped; tall for its width; a misshapen cylinder about the size of a butane lighter, its cap unscrewed -- the cap lying on its side beside the bottle.
He played the flashlight full on the small flask. Then on its flaring cap. ... No. Not unscrewed, the container top seeming to be little more than a ground glass stopper, its stem meant to be fitted directly into the narrow neck of the vial.
Once more, Bob Zapolska concentrated the light on the receptacle.
Though the small flask was turned away, the vial's shiny paper label was reflected in the vanity mirror -- oobaT. ... T-a-b-o-o. Taboo.
Taboo ... perfume!
Real perfume. Not toilet water. Not cologne. Perfume -- the expensive, sixty dollars a half-ounce kind.
With that revelation, another piece of the Beth Ogden puzzle snapped in place. The lady had been sitting right here, putting on her perfume, when something had happened downstairs that had interrupted her. It had to be that way.
Furthermore, whatever "called" the lady to the first floor must have been of major importance. Why? Because only a "biggy" would have made Beth Ogden rush away before replacing the stopper in such an expensive bottle of perfume.
A woman just didn't let something as valuable as real perfume ... evaporate.
And that fit, too. What he'd smelled on entering the room was the generalized "Taboo" odor that had evaporated from that little bottle.
It was then, as suddenly as if the expensive flask had spoken, that the container told him two additional things, the first, something about Ms. Ogden as a person -- a startling fact that, in his brief contact with the lady, he'd not suspected.
The second? That there was a possibility that, like the "suicide" of the janitor, the lady's death had been no accident!
* * * * *
Chapter 13
Noon. Snowflakes had begun to fall from a solid Friday sky. Inside, Z and Calder had put their overcoats on a coat rack, made there way to a window booth, to sit on the newly varnished benches.
After waiting, they'd given their orders to the busy, middle-aged waitress with the dyed red hair and almost-matching artificial bun. "Ma' name's Janice. Y'all call out if ya need anythin', ya hear?" Another wait and she was back to deliver their drinks -- a hopeful sign that someone, somewhere was functioning in this new "southern-theme" restaurant.
"Nothing about the janitor's death from my police contact. Not yet." Though Z had already told Calder as much over the phone, he repeated it because it was the only thing he had to report. It was the professor who'd suggested lunch -- for reasons Z had yet to discover.
They were at the recently opened "Po' Folks" on Oak, waiting, like most of the "folks" around them, for their lunch. (Before Z could say anything, Calder had answered "non-smoking" to the hostess who seated them, making Z feel anxious at not having an ashtray for tidying up paper scraps).
Around them, diners fidgeted as uniformed waitresses darted here and there, pausing only to consult one another in low voices, unsure of what they were supposed to do. New places were like that, the confusion adding to the excitement some people liked about dining out.
It was Calder who'd suggested "Po' Folks," any experience with food interesting the chubby professor.
For the moment, Z could only hope the "grub" was better than the deliberately phony "Southernisms" of the place -- like apostrophes replacing letters in the long brown menu. (Po' folks don't speak the language s'good, don't ya know.)
"No more rumors to report on my part," Calder said, running his fingers through his sandy hair. "The tragic death of one of our secretaries, Beth Ogden, has been the sole topic of conversation around campus."
Death -- translated murder; two murders too many for the sleepy Northland -- a thought that led the detective in Big Bob Zapolska to wonder if the killings were related in some way.
"Want me off the janitor case?"
"No."
No? Z had thought that might be the reason for this meeting.
Though they'd placed their orders, Dr. Calder hadn't let the waitress take his menu; was concentrating on it more than he was paying attention to the conversation. Next to eating it, the professor enjoyed reading about food.
"I worked for Ms. Ogden," Z admitted, still feeling guilty.
Calder put down the brown "news-flier" menu and looked at Z with interest, Z wondering if there was something about over-sized lenses that gave people an academic appearance or if Calder just looked owlish.
"Installed her security," Z explained. "No way she could get back in."
"Is that bothering you?" Calder said as he whipped off his glasses to polish t
hem on the inside of his striped tie.
"No."
"Good. We all do enough rotten things to feel guilty about. No sense blaming ourselves for unfortunate happenstance."
Calder's advice delivered, it was time to find out if the professor knew something about Beth Ogden that could shed light on the lady's murder.
"I met her husband a year ago. When on another case."
"You do get around, don't you?" The Calder grin.
"Died right after that."
Putting his glasses back on, it was the professor's turn to nod. "Her husband had a drinking problem. I've heard it said that's what killed him."
"She must have been lonely after her husband's death," Z added, watching the doctor carefully.
"I ... imagine," the hesitation between "I" and "imagine" telling Z that Calder knew more than the prof was letting on.
"There's an old saying," Z continued, pressing, nothing about the professor's "look" escaping him, "that you should be totally honest with your lawyer, your doctor, and your private eye."
"Could it be that you modernized that aphorism?" Calder winked.
Z nodded, almost smiling. Calder's good humor was infectious. "But its sound advice." At that, Calder frowned, seemed mystified. Z explained. "You don't think Ms. Ogden has been lonely."
The doctor nodded sheepishly. "You should be a psychologist. You read people quite well." Calder paused. Pursed his lips. "It's just that there's a difference between telling it like it is and spreading rumors."
"Rumors can be clues."
Calder made a wry face; took a quick drink from his mason-jar-for-a-glass.
"Can I get anything for y'all?" It was their waitress, pausing beside their table.
"Just the food," said Calder, soberly, the easygoing professor serious about important matters. Like death. And lunch.
"I'll go check on that right now, honey." Smiling her quick, down-home smile, she charged off toward what had to be the kitchen.
The waitress gone, Calder explained. "Bateman College is a small school. Even at large schools, there's a lot of gossip." He hesitated, thinking before continuing. "In Beth's case, the rumor was that, shortly after her husband's death, she found herself a boyfriend."
"Figured."
Calder looked startled. Should Z tell Calder about the perfume? ... He decided against it, at least, not yet.
"A good-looking woman like that," Z said, as a substitute for the strict truth.
"Oh. ... Yes." Clearly, Calder wasn't attracted to Beth Ogden. (Men were seldom interested in older women. One of the few good things about being "older," Z thought cynically, was that he was now attracted to most women. For all the good that did.)
"This rumor have a name?"
"Lucas."
"Terbrugghen"?
"You do have an amazing capacity to remember names, don't you?" Calder smiled in his disarming way, shook his head, his powdery hair wisping down his broad forehead. "Tough names, at that."
"Maybe." One of the reasons high school had been fun, was that Z could concentrate on football and still memorize facts quickly enough to make A's. "So, what's Terbrugghen's story?"
"He's the prof who directs our plays."
"Think the rumor about Ogden and the professor is true?"
"Though I don't know in the sense that I have firsthand knowledge ....." Calder nodded yes.
"See them together on campus?"
"Not any more than anyone else could be said to be 'together' on campus. Like I said, Bateman's a small place." Calder's eyes looked inward for a moment before returning to glance about the room. "There were hints, though. Like how much better Beth was dressing. That, and the psychological fact that women tend to fall for the same type of man, over and over."
"Oh?" Ms. Ogden's husband was a salesman. The Z shrug.
"Men who have the same character, not the same job."
"Which means ...?"
"That Lucas -- has problems with the bottle, too. I'd guess that Beth Ogden's father was an alcoholic, which is why she'd be attracted to a man with that kind of weakness -- acting out what she'd become used to as a child. Father substitute. Trying to find, in her adult life, the father she loved, but who paid little attention to her."
"A rumor that Terbrugghen drinks?"
"More than conjecture on that score. And again, for all the standard reasons. Most of his family's fortune lost. Several wives who took the rest. Career going downhill for years. It's common knowledge that every Wednesday night Lucas locks himself in his apartment and drinks himself blind. Something to do with his father losing the family fortune on a Wednesday in the crash of '29."
"Every Wednesday?"
"I've heard that from so many people I've got to believe it. That, plus the way Lucas looks on Thursdays -- if he manages to get to school at all."
At that moment, their "Howdy, y'all" waitress -- who was really quite nice -- brought the tray with their food. "Southern-fried" chicken for Z; Chicken-fried steak, Southern-style, for the professor. As side dishes, Z had "Cajun" corn and "Georgia" mashed potatoes with "cream-of-the-sunny-South" gravy. Calder had "Texas" green beans and "down home" french fries -- meaning charred in a greasy pan. No doubt, fixed "cornpone" style.
The food on the table, Calder ate.
With single-minded intensity.
In total silence. (Just like during lunch at the Golden Corral.)
Silence -- if you failed to count the general buzz of conversation around them.
It was only after Calder had sucked in the last corn kernel that he got down to business.
Pushing back his plate, putting his elbows on the table to prop his chin on his hands, he said: "Do you believe in coincidence?" Something was bothering the professor; just not vexing him enough to get between the doctor and his food.
"In my business, no."
"I suppose." The professor leaned back to fold his napkin before putting it in its place beside his plate. "But you'd say that coincidences sometimes occur?" Z shrugged. "For instance, Fritz told me that two ex-presidents, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, died on the same day in 1826. The really odd thing was that the day they died was the 4th of July." Calder shrugged eloquently. "Nobody in his right mind would believe a work of fiction that had two former presidents dying on the same day, to say nothing of that day being the 4th of July! But it actually happened."
"Furlwangler. American history."
Calder grinned. "Yeah." The professor paused as if having trouble thinking what to say next. "My coincidence is that too many... odd ... things are happening on the Bateman campus on Wednesday nights."
"The Victor killing."
"Yes." The professor cleared his throat.
"The secretary's death, too."
"I ... guess." Beth Ogden had died on a Wednesday night, but not on campus; too much of a stretch for Calder's "coincidences."
Derailed for a moment by Z's observation about the secretary, the professor began again. "I wouldn't know about this except that I've started walking on the campus -- at night. I'd like to lose some weight and climbing stairs will do it." A quick smile. "But maybe I'd better start at the beginning." The prof cleared his throat again. "I almost told you once, why I got into psychology. I didn't tell you, because the reason is so stupid." He tapped the shiny new wood table with the fingertips of both hands. "It was something that happened to me when I was a boy." Making the decision to tell all, Calder settled back; was more relaxed. "One warm Halloween night, some friends of mine and I decided to pit our courage against our small town's haunted house. Every town has one, I suppose, a lonely old place at the end of a cul-de-sac, going to ruin. So we got our bikes and rode out there.
"We didn't go in, of course. Our parents had threatened us enough to prevent that. The floors were supposed to be all rotted away. We could fall through and hurt ourselves. That kind of thing. But we dared each other to get close to the house.
"Leaving our bikes by the street, we crept up to the decomposing structur
e, whispering and giggling. It was then that the moon came out, one of those silver November moons that casts a lot of light. And with the moon came a sudden gust of wind that made the old house creak.
"At that, my friends took off. But not me. This was my chance to go one-up on them." The professor paused; smiled to himself at the remembrance. "It was when they were running for their bikes that it happened. The grass around the old place hadn't been mowed forever, and I saw a patch of moonlit weeds begin to part ahead of me, as if something invisible was walking from around the side of the house right toward me." Calder paused again. "That's it. But that was enough to send me tearing off for my bike, too." He grinned. "I believed in ghosts for several years after that. Later, of course, I realized it was just the wind in the grass. Or maybe a raccoon or a cat making the grass move. Still, it was real to me at the time.
"Later -- sometime during my freshman year in college -- that scary incident got me to thinking about how our minds control our bodies. It's what we think that governs the chemicals our bodies secrete, for instance. You only have to think that a tiger is hiding behind a tree for your glands to pump you full of adrenalin. It's immaterial whether or not there really is a tiger behind the tree. In bodily response, at least.
"And coming to respect the enormous power of the mind over thoughts, feelings, even over body chemistry, I went into psychology to learn as much as possible about how people's thoughts affect their lives."
Interesting. Like much of what Calder had to say. Where this was leading -- if anywhere -- Z couldn't tell.
"Did you know," Calder said, looking across the table with that peculiar focused stare of his, "that Bateman college has the reputation of being haunted?"
Not knowing where this sudden shift in conversation was going, Z waited.
"Gives the place some class, don't you think?" It was Z's turn to lift an eyebrow. "The rumor is that Old Man Bateman -- the school's founder -- is still hanging around. In Bateman Hall, actually."
"Noises?"
"I don't know. I haven't been at Bateman college all that long. And I'm almost never in Bateman Hall. Plus, the story of the haunting comes up infrequently. Certainly, nothing anyone's serious about when it is brought up. I think it was a couple of years before I heard about it. Like everyone else, didn't give it any credence ... until recently."
Of Mice and Murderers Page 14
