Murder Misread

by P. M. Carlson

  “Okay.”

  “This whole case is a can of worms.” Walensky paced over to Charlie’s window and scowled at the bushes and parking lot below. “Hines bullying his way around the campus upsetting everyone; the dean screaming for us to arrest someone, anyone; the press hounding us—” He shook his head. “Well, tell me right away if anything else comes up. I’ll leave word to put you right through.”

  “Okay. Should I tell Hines too?”

  Walensky looked at him coldly. “You don’t give a damn about your department, do you? You think the press won’t be dancing if you give them that ad in Screw? And telling Hines is the same as telling the press.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I see. But he hasn’t given the newspapers a whole lot.”

  “Not yet. He’s playing by the rules so far, not giving out details. But the reporters already know there are leads pointing to the university. Some secretary starts spinning stories and it hits the fan.”

  “Okay. But I don’t want to hide anything from the investigation.”

  “You’ve told me, and Hines will learn what he has to know. We’ll get the Chandler killer, don’t worry.” He paced back to stand in front of Charlie’s desk. “God, I thought this place was going to be peaceful! Might as well be back in the Bronx.”

  “Do you think the killer might have sent it?” Charlie asked, still brooding. “Because he took my memo book and dropped it near, uh, the body. Maybe this is more of the same.”

  “Maybe.” Walensky nodded curtly. “I’ll drop a few careful questions to Bart Bickford and Nora Peterson, see if they received copies of this beauty. Only thing is, the envelope is postmarked New York City.”

  “Lorraine?” Charlie blurted. “But it’s been years! Why would she suddenly start hassling me now? And anyway, she wouldn’t kill Tal, and anyway, how could she kill him long-distance from Queens?”

  “Right, that’s what I’m saying. Either the killer moves fast, or there’s two of them,” Walensky said. “Now, this Ryan woman. She’s from New York, right?”

  “Yeah. But she just arrived yesterday, just met us!”

  “She was here before. She’s a cool one,” Walensky said. “I worked with the prosecutor on that Triangle Slasher trial because a couple of NYSU kids were victims. He said the defense really raked Ryan over, practically called her a hooker. He said it shook her up but she hung in there.”

  “Good. She’s really trying to help,” Charlie said.

  “Good.” Walensky tucked the Screw and its envelope inside his gray jacket and headed for the door. “Well, better get at it. Lot of work to do on this. God, what a can of worms!”

  Charlie shifted in his seat. This suburban mall theatre was fairly new, with bristly cherry-colored upholstery that prickled through his thin shirt. It was packed full of people, dim dark shapes before him. Behind his seat, a low wall separated the rows of seats from the rear cross aisle that led to the lobby. The red glow from the exit sign made Deanna’s hair shine.

  On the screen Luke Skywalker and Threepio sped across a striking desert landscape in a battered land-rocket, searching for the runaway Artoo Deetoo. The audience was rapt. But Charlie’s unhappy thoughts reeled on.

  After some serious reflection, he’d called Lorraine in Queens, to no avail. Not home. And the message he’d left at her office was still unanswered. Not that he’d been near a phone recently to receive a message. Nor had Maggie. This morning he’d tried to find her too, to probe cautiously if she’d learned anything new. But she wasn’t at her home number, nor anywhere in the department. Even her babysitter and the children were out somewhere. So he had no leads at all to find Maggie and—

  A huge fearsome creature loomed abruptly over Charlie. The audience gasped, and Deanna gasped too. Bless George Lucas. Charlie’s worries dissolved. He picked up her hand and was again ensnared in the magic of Deanna and the film. The towering on-screen figure held its ax high. Threepio had fallen off the cliff, and the creature was whacking at Luke Skywalker. Now Luke was down too.

  “Oh, no,” moaned Deanna. She sat erect and tense in her seat, her hand slipping from his to cover her mouth, eyes glued to the screen. He loved that about her, her ability to lose herself completely in the story and images. Her bright brown hair caught the flickering light of the screen, glinting now golden with the desert sand, now red in the alien sun. He picked up her hand again.

  On the screen Alec Guinness, dignified and kindly, had taken over. He was kneeling by the stunned Luke Skywalker, reassuring the nervous little Artoo Deetoo robot. Reassuring Deanna too. She relaxed, tugged her warm hand from under Charlie’s, and dove it into the popcorn. Damn Guinness. Charlie glared at the screen a moment, then was caught up again. What a superb actor! His lines were pure exposition, about the history of the Jedi knights and the Force, yet Guinness gave them such weight and sorrow that they seemed profound.

  Lucas had done a splendid job on this film. No wonder it was taking the country by storm, so that even in this shopping-mall theatre in a suburb of Syracuse, Charlie had had to stand in line for an hour to get the tickets. People of all ages had stood with him: several fond young couples in denim, a silent silver-haired pair in pastel polyester, a balding university type in an Aran sweater, a cowboy-booted young father occasionally visited by spouse and small children. There were lots of slightly older children doing the standing-in-line on their own, if constant giggles and shoves and trips to the restrooms or nearby shops, after instructing the next guy to “Save my place, okay?” could be called standing in line.

  The parking lot filled up, the acres of varicolored enamel and chrome sparkling in the June sunlight. About noon it had become warm enough even in the shade of the mall arcade for Charlie to take off his windbreaker. He’d noticed that the Aran sweater had come off too.

  At last, he’d reached the box office and obtained the precious tickets. He stood by the door and waited. And prayed. Deanna had been skittish this morning. A casual meeting would be best, he’d decided, and he’d lurked like a lovesick adolescent near her apartment building until he saw her come out. Alone, thank God. She was in jeans and a sunny yellow T-shirt, walking purposefully toward the little crossroads shopping center two blocks from her building. He fell into step beside her.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Oh—hi.” She was surprised, smiling her shy smile, pleased yet hesitant. Go easy, Charlie.

  “Doing anything special today?” he asked.

  “I have to get some groceries now.”

  “Yeah. Know what you mean. Maybe this afternoon?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” But her timid glance was desperate for his understanding. “I mean, I’ve got so much to do.”

  “Deanna, hey, you know I love you.” He swallowed, his palms damp. He rubbed them against his jeans. “So if there’s a problem, we should talk about it.”

  “No, that’s okay.” One narrow shoulder shrugged, too casually. “I just can’t see you today.”

  “Okay, look. No strings attached, I promise. We’ll just see a movie at the Greenwood, okay?”

  “You promise?” She wavered a moment, glancing at him, then coyly down again.

  “Of course.”

  But then she shook her head at the sidewalk. “I’ve really got a lot to do.”

  “Star Wars?”

  That did it. Excitement sparked in her eyes. Yet she protested weakly, “But it takes forever to get tickets…. ”

  “You just get everything done and show up there at twelve-thirty. I’ll have the tickets, okay?”

  “Well, okay.” She looked at the watch strapped onto her delicate wrist. “Oh, God, I’ll have to rush!”

  “See you at twelve-thirty!” He headed for the theatre.

  She was a couple of minutes late, but they were able to find seats in the last row, on the aisle. He’d bought popcorn. Deanna had a bottomless appetite, and popcorn was always an accompaniment of their movie-going. Charlie didn’t mind. As a kid he’d loved popcorn too, and the buttery s
mell of it was now half-nostalgic, half-infused with the sweet electricity of Deanna’s presence beside him.

  “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Deanna as a gasp ran through the audience. Amazing creatures filled the screen. A silly honky-tonk tune was being played by big fetuslike musicians dressed in black. A surly bartender served an astonishing array of customers—God, what imagination had gone into this! Charlie was amazed and delighted. Scaly creatures and slimy creatures, one-eyed and many-eyed creatures, beaked and fanged and cobra-headed creatures, gigantic insect creatures and manateelike creatures, all huddled over bizarre drinks. An unpleasant human with a blasted nose was picking a fight with Luke. Old Obi-Wan Kenobi was talking to a hulking monster that seemed to be a giant gorilla dressed in Yorkshire terrier pelts. But when the noseless man swatted Luke across the room, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s laser sword hummed and sliced off a limb. Deanna clapped both hands to her eyes in delighted disgust.

  Charlie could restrain himself no longer. He slid his arm around her slim waist, slipping his hand under her sunny T-shirt to the warm downiness of her skin beneath.

  “You promised!” she whispered fiercely, wriggling under his ecstatic hand. The popcorn fell to the floor.

  “C’mon, you can see better if you sit on my lap,” he murmured, and pulled her toward him. She resisted sweetly, bowing her head and pushing against his arm. She liked playing coy. But he understood her, loved her seductive wriggles, loved the intoxicating little games she played. Something clamped onto Charlie’s shoulder. Deanna twisted away from him, out into the aisle. What the hell? Charlie leaned across her abandoned seat, saw her running across the rear aisle toward the red-glowing exit sign. But the grip on his shoulder had tightened. He looked up.

  The big balding man in the Aran sweater was leaning across the half wall behind the seats, his powerful hand pressing Charlie down.

  Charlie didn’t think. He dove down, wrenching free of the heavy grasp, and pitched himself into the aisle like a runner from a starting block. Popcorn crunched under his soles. He sprinted toward the door that was still closing from Deanna’s departure. In the lobby he saw her disappearing through the glass doors that led to the parking lot. But as he approached those doors, thought returned and he hesitated. Following Deanna was a reflex, like gasping for air when drowning. But the big man was right behind him. He mustn’t lead that brute to his darling.

  But it turned out he had little choice. The man caught him by the elbow but instead of restraining him rushed him out the glass doors with the skill of a professional bouncer. Charlie looked frantically around for her and finally spotted the yellow T-shirt and bright brown hair. She’d come on her bike. The man stopped him a few steps from the theatre doors, and together they watched her speed across the parking lot, standing up on the pedals for power, pumping hard to pick up speed. Hurry, Deanna, Charlie urged silently. Get out of his sight. Had she noticed the man behind them? Is that why she had run?

  Charlie wasn’t resisting anymore, but the muscular hand still clamped viciously on his arm as they gazed at Deanna’s slender retreating figure. Finally the big man glanced at Charlie. “Tell me, Professor Fielding,” he asked courteously, “how old is your little girlfriend? Ten?”

  17

  A huge stack of mail awaited Anne inside the front door slot. She let Maggie and Cindy pass, then scooped up the pile and took it to the kitchen table. “Coffee’s in the cabinet over the sink,” she said, dumping the letters down. Bills, notes. Maggie went to start the coffee, and Anne pulled out French bread, cheese, and pâté.

  Cindy spread her arms. “What a treat! I’m usually the one to make the coffee. Occupational hazard.”

  “Don’t crow yet,” said Anne, slicing the bread. “Plates are in the cabinet up there. The one next to the sink.”

  Cindy sighed theatrically and set the table. She had succumbed to urging from Anne and Maggie to come by for a sandwich. “Okay, I’ve got to pick up some groceries anyway,” she’d said. “And hell, you’re right. I keep worrying about this mess too. It’s kind of good to talk about it with somebody besides those wooden-faced cops.”

  Anne put the moutarde de Meaux and the little cornichons on the table, opened a bottle of Beaujolais, and looked again at the pile of mail. She pulled the tall kitchen wastebasket over next to her chair and sat down. Cindy and Maggie joined her at the table.

  “Coffee’ll be ready by the time we’re done,” said Maggie. “May I?” She brandished her knife.

  “Sure. Dive in.” Anne tossed a couple of flyers into the wastebasket. Much of the stack seemed to be condolence notes. She set them aside to read later.

  Maggie put a slice of pâté onto some bread, hesitated, then placed it on Anne’s plate. “Eat,” she commanded, cutting herself a new slice.

  “God, you’re as bad as my neighbors,” grumbled Anne, but she abandoned the mail, speared a cornichon, and began eating.

  “So,” said Cindy to Maggie, “what are your questions?”

  “Well,” said Maggie, her mouth full, “let’s see. We’ve probably said what we can for now about Nora and her brother. And about Bart. You say Charlie’s out—”

  “Right,” said Cindy. “You say so too!”

  “—unless he was working with someone else. So maybe we should talk about Bernie.”

  “Bernie?”

  “Did you see him leave for lunch, Cindy?”

  “Yep. At twenty of. He had lunch at the faculty club with those Oriental computer guys.”

  “And when did he get back?”

  “He didn’t show up again until two-thirty or so, just before you and all the cops arrived.”

  “So the computer guys alibi him.”

  “Yeah. Except—well, the cops know this. He wasn’t supposed to meet them until twelve-thirty.”

  Maggie glanced up, alert. “It took him fifty minutes to walk a quarter mile to the faculty club?”

  “He always leaves early,” explained Cindy with a shrug of her pink-checked shoulder. “Hates being late, plus he loves his little glass of something before lunch.”

  “That’s true,” said Anne. “Bernie drinks a lot. Never shows, though. He just gets quieter and quieter.”

  “More and more uptight,” agreed Cindy. “Can’t imagine why he bothers. I like it to loosen me up.” She saluted them with her wineglass and took a swallow.

  Anne asked, “Cindy, did Bernie ever say anything about that problem he had in Iowa? The arrest?”

  “No. Not to me.”

  “Cindy, don’t be coy,” said Maggie impatiently. “Did you learn anything about it, by any other means?”

  “God, you’ve got me on some kind of pedestal of nosiness!”

  “There’s a whole crowd of us up here on that particular pedestal,” coaxed Maggie. “It’s a good cause.”

  “Yeah, okay, I heard bits of Tal’s conversation with his friend from Iowa,” Cindy admitted. “But the case was dropped, you know.”

  “We know,” said Anne. “But we still wonder what it was about. All Tal told me was that a couple of prostitutes had accused him of being a client.”

  “Well,” said Cindy. She took another sip of wine, put the glass down, turned it a couple of times with her fingers. “Well. It seems one of them mentioned chains and whips.”

  “Oh, boy,” said Anne. Clean, mild, uptight Bernie? “But of course the case was dismissed,” she reminded them feebly.

  “And he’s been a good boy for ten years now,” said Maggie.

  “Publicly, at least,” said Cindy.

  Maggie looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

  Cindy shrugged. “Nothing serious. He keeps magazines in his bottom drawer.”

  “So what?” said Anne. “I saw those magazines yesterday.”

  “He showed you?” asked Cindy in disbelief.

  “No. Just thought he was acting furtive about that drawer. So when he left I peeked.”

  “Good for you,” said Maggie.

  “But all he had was math puzzl
e magazines.”

  “Oh,” said Cindy. “You didn’t look inside, then.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Porn. Bondage. Just what you’d expect if the Iowa story was true.”

  “Oh, boy,” said Anne again.

  “He threw them away yesterday,” Cindy added. “Anne must have scared him.”

  “Yeah.” Maggie had gobbled her sandwich quickly and was now leaning back in her chair, balancing her empty wineglass in both hands, frowning at it. “Cindy, you have to admit, you’ve got a lot of dirt on these people.”

  Cindy nodded.

  Maggie glanced warily at Anne. “And so did Tal—”

  “Yes,” said Anne.

  Maggie’s gaze shifted back to Cindy. “More than he kept in the official records. More than he told his wife.”

  “Really wasn’t my business,” Anne pointed out. “Things have happened in the French department that I didn’t bother to tell Tal.”

  “Yeah.” Maggie was still looking at Cindy. “And yet, with you, he never—?”

  “Never,” said Cindy.

  “Of course he knew you had no money.”

  “Less than none,” said Cindy. “Literally.”

  Anne suddenly realized what they were talking about. She banged the table with her fist. “Leave it, Maggie!”

  “Anne, you can’t have it both ways! Either we try to find out what happened, or we forget it. Believe me, the cops will be asking the same questions.”

  “But it’s a waste of time!”

  “Probably.” Maggie shrugged. “But look, even if Tal wasn’t blackmailing anyone, suppose someone thought he might be planning to?”

  “Why would they think that? After all these years?”

  “Maybe they’d just learned that he knew something they didn’t want known. It might seem threatening.”