A Little Class on Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “Logically,” she repeated dutifully.

  “You see, there could be a number of different reasons for R.T. Burke to be killed.” Max didn’t even seem tired. He hunched over his notepad and wrote:

  1. Burke discovered the identity of leak. Possible Deep Throats: a. Victor Garrison, b. Malcolm Moss, c. Kurt Diggs, d. Frank Crandall.

  He studied the list with satisfaction.

  Annie rubbed grainy eyes. How did Holmes manage to track criminals for days on end? “Why would Kurt Diggs or, for God’s sake, Frank Crandall want all the dirt out in public? Both of them had awfully good reasons to hope those personnel files stayed confidential.”

  “A gamble. A hope that there would be such a stink, especially focusing on Porter’s misuse of funds, that Burke would be discredited. A backlash kind of thing.”

  “I’d say they’d have to be pretty stupid to unplug the hornet’s nest.”

  Maybe Max was tired, too. Without any comment, he scratched through Diggs’s and Crandall’s names.

  Annie nodded. “So really, on any logical basis, there are only two faculty members who might reasonably be guilty of the leak, Garrison or Moss.” She nodded with such enthusiasm she spilled coffee on the blank page of her notebook. “Sure. Look at it! They are the only two who don’t have anything discreditable that could come out. They’re just cross-ways about academic matters.”

  “So far as we know,” Max cautioned.

  “Damn. We need to see those files.”

  “We sure do.” Max began to smile. He reached for the phone. It took a moment to be connected to the top floor of the Palmetto Inn.

  “Hi, Ma. No. We’re fine. Drinking raspberry chocolate coffee.” A pause. “Something romantic before bedtime?” He sounded puzzled. Then the tips of his ears flamed. “That’s all right. We’re fine. I mean, don’t worry about—Look, Ma, I need to talk to Miss Dora for a minute.” He avoided Annie’s piercing gaze. “Miss Dora, would you have access to a set of master keys for the journalism building?” He grinned. “Great! We’ll pick them up in the morning. Thanks a—Oh no, no, I don’t need to talk to her again. Good night,” and he thrust the receiver away from him as if it might bite his hand.

  Annie opened her mouth, then firmly closed it. Some questions were better left unasked.

  Besides, Max was rushing into speech. “Okay, so we’ve got Moss and Garrison as possibilities. Now, let’s turn it around, make Burke responsible. Who might have killed him?”

  “The same person who tried to blow up The Crier,” Annie offered. “Somebody who was determined that nothing more should be leaked.”

  Max briskly added:

  2. Burke betrays faculty. Possible killers: Crandall, Diggs, Norden, Finney.

  Annie rubbed her eyes again and blearily tried to focus. Okay, he didn’t bother to list Moss and Garrison this time. Obviously, Max didn’t believe anybody would kill just to hide an academic firestorm. As for Crandall and Diggs, they made sense. Each had a personnel problem that would look damn awful in cold print. One involved with a coed, the other suspected of trading A’s for sex. But she couldn’t buy Norden. Alcoholism is a disease and although Norden could be pressured to take a leave of absence for treatment, surely he wouldn’t face summary dismissal from a job he’d held for so long and previously done with distinction, according to Charlotte Porter. Besides, and she remembered his tears when he brought news of Charlotte’s death, this was a good-hearted man.

  “I can’t believe Norden would kill Burke to prevent public discussion of his problem. He doesn’t seem like that kind of man.”

  But Max’s face was grim. “I know,” he said heavily. “That isn’t why I listed him.” He sighed. “Funny. Now we’ll never know whether Burke would have revealed the reason behind Charlotte Porter’s theft.”

  Annie concentrated. Oh yes, the ill-starred press conference scheduled for three P.M., prevented by murder and explosion.

  “Max, nobody would do all that just to keep the truth—whatever it is—from coming out about poor Charlotte Porter!”

  “I know that. But if we’d had the press conference, it might have gone a long way toward telling us whether Burke was behind Kelly’s exposé. Think about it! He kept insisting that he’d never reveal personnel information publicly—but he gave it to us. Everything but the background on Charlotte Porter.” Pensively, he underlined Josh Norden’s name. “Norden told me.” His eyes narrowed. “I’d like to know how much Brad Kelly knows. Because if that kid knows the real story, he’s a bastard for sure. Charlotte Porter took the money because her only grandson, the son of her dead daughter, was dying with AIDS, and he didn’t have any health insurance. And he’d heard about a treatment down in Mexico. Desperate people try desperate remedies, and those always cost a lot.”

  “Oh God,” Annie said simply. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what it would have meant to Charlotte Porter if the truth came out. If her friends knew. She could bear only so much.

  “Josh Norden told you?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes. And he was sober this morning. Sober and white hot with anger. He said, ‘If I ever find out who did this to Charlotte, I’ll kill him.’ ”

  Once again, he underlined Norden’s name.

  Then, he made a final notation:

  3. Or, none of the above, and Burke was killed because he was chair and either thwarting or threatening someone. Possible killers: Moss, Garrison, Diggs, maybe Norden, unknown.

  “We can’t do much until we know for sure about Burke,” Annie concluded. “Was he the louse behind Kelly? Or did he discover who did it? Or did he pose some other serious threat to someone?”

  “You’re right,” Max agreed. “First we have to establish whether Burke was or wasn’t behind the leak.” Again, he shoved a hand impatiently through his hair. “All right, by God, let’s find out. Brad Kelly claims he doesn’t know Deep Throat’s identity, but is he really telling the truth?” Dropping his notepad, he grabbed the telephone.

  Brad Kelly. Annie wondered if the shaken young editor had managed to get free of the authorities long enough to contact the news services. Well, they’d know tomorrow. If he had, he would be in the news coast to coast.

  What did Brad Kelly know?

  If he had any brains, he would’ve unloaded every fact at his command and any suppositions to Chief Wells. Annie sure would have, if someone had tried to blow her away.

  That had to be the point of the bomb, of course. It had been planted in Brad’s office.

  Was the objective to stop the publication of The Crier or to stop ambitious Brad Kelly—permanently?

  And why was Emily Everett there?

  Was Emily an accidental victim?

  Well, surely so. How could anyone have known she would choose that critical moment to come to The Crier?

  Annie scrawled: Emily Everett. She and Max needed to find out a lot more about the dead girl. A lot more. Why was she at the Crier office? Why had Burke, in one of the final acts of his life, written her name and circled it?

  Was it coincidental or deliberate that Burke was killed and The Crier bombed within the space of half an hour?

  Was Burke’s murderer also the bomber?

  Did it make any sense to imagine two separate perpetrators of such violent deeds? Wouldn’t that indeed be an incredible coincidence?

  But weren’t these two acts entirely separate and different?

  A bomb presupposed planning.

  Careful, detailed, premeditative planning.

  And Burke’s murder appeared to be exactly the opposite, a spur-of-the-moment, unplanned attack, Burke’s own memento snatched up for use as a weapon, Burke’s own coat donned as a protective shield.

  A hurried, desperate murder.

  A thought, nebulous and unformed as the ectoplasm so beloved of Rinehart mediums, wriggled in the recesses of Annie’s tired mind.

  Hurry. No time. Quick—

  Max whistled and looked at the receiver.

  Annie blinked and lo
oked at him. “Yes?”

  “Wait till you hear this!” He redialed and handed her the phone.

  The prerecorded message began to roll after the second ring. “This is Brad Kelly, editor of The Crier. In cooperation with the authorities, I have agreed to accept protection because there is a reasonable assumption that the blast which killed Chastain student Emily Everett and destroyed my office at The Crier was aimed at me. However, the blast may have been intended to hinder publication of The Crier and/or serve as a warning to me to desist with my exposé of personnel and planning problems within the journalism department. Or the blast may have been intended to prevent the news conference which had been scheduled for three P.M. today. Whatever the intent of the blast, I refuse to be silenced in my role as a journalist and I am scheduling a news conference for nine A.M. Friday morning in the Blue Auditorium in Nelson Hall. I wish to make it clear to any and all interested parties that I have communicated fully with the police department of Chastain in regard to the information afforded me as the background of the planned exposé.” A long pause and the whistle of tape. Then, gruffly, “The Crier shall do everything in its power to see that the murderers of R.T. Burke and Emily Everett are brought to justice.”

  The wicker squeaked as Annie leaned across Max to replace the receiver. She frowned at her mystery collection, seeking inspiration. Anything there on recorded messages? Nope. There was a small silence. “Well. What do you think?”

  “I think Kelly’s not stupid. He doesn’t want his ass peppered with explosive.”

  “Or his cranium squashed,” Annie added. After all, Frankie Derwent (Lady Frances) had never minced words.

  “Pretty smart. He’s telling the world that the cops know everything he knows.”

  “And he has a nice touch for the dramatic,” Annie added dryly. “Everybody and his dog’ll be at that news conference.”

  “Yes,” Max agreed. “Including us.”

  13

  The first call Friday morning came at shortly after five.

  Max thrashed wildly against the sheet and made a guttural noise in his throat which Annie understood to mean, “Tear that instrument out of the wall and fling it into the marsh.”

  At five A.M., however, Annie’s little gray cells were not only colorless but nonfunctioning. She rolled groggily out of bed and stumbled into the living room to answer.

  “My sweet, there is an exquisite stillness abroad at this early hour before dawn speaks.”

  “Not quite still enough,” Annie retorted bitterly.

  An instant’s pause, then a trill of forgiving laughter. “Why, Annie, I sprang from my couch with vigor and cheer. I was so sure you and dear Maxwell would be up and about and already keenly engaged in the hunt.”

  Max appeared in the bedroom doorway, sleepily pawing at his eyes. He looked like Joe Hardy with a stubble of beard. Irresistible.

  Annie began to wake up. Early mornings could be fun.

  “Annie, my sweet?” her mother-in-law prodded gently.

  Stifling a yawn, the distracted newlywed managed, “Hmm?”

  A tiny sigh of dismay. “My dear, I am counting on you and Maxwell. Certainly, I believe the two of you have wit and sagacity enough to appreciate the importance of emotion in crime detection. Though, to tell the truth, your contributions to this point haven’t—But, then, each must give according to his ability. Now, I’ve been thinking.”

  Max scratched at his chin. “Anything wrong?”

  Annie shook her head. “Yes, Laurel?”

  “It’s clear to me”—Annie tucked the receiver under her chin and pantomimed turning on water, filling a pot. Max nodded and padded off to the kitchen—“dear Georgia is protecting that young professor.”

  Frank Crandall. A man with a self-deprecating smile, tousled chestnut hair, and attractively knobby knees in loose-fitting, pleated khakis. The kind of man that women noticed and instinctively wanted to help.

  “Surely he wouldn’t be rat enough to let her do that.” She was wide awake now and unconvinced.

  “Annie, what a horrid thought! Professor Crandall is a gentleman.”

  Annie arched a skeptical brow. Sure. But he was also running around on his wife and romantically involved with a student. Not exactly modes of behavior smiled upon by Miss Manners, kindly and understanding as she is, though such actions would come as no surprise to Miss Marple, conversant as she was with sexual peccadilloes in St. Mary Mead, ranging from those of the choirmaster to cottage weekenders.

  “No, no, no,” Laurel continued, making a tsk of dismay at this evidence of Annie’s obtuseness. “Obviously, this is what transpired. Professor Crandall talked to Mr. Burke. You remember, Miss Dora’s friend”—Annie thought about that one and wisely translated ‘friend’ to ‘subordinate,’ ‘lackey,’ ‘serf,’ or ‘vassal’—“reported that Crandall said he had a very civil talk with Burke and left him in excellent health. Well, obviously, Georgia, in the manner of young women pining after a beloved yet proscribed from public contact, must have been following Mr. Crandall. Don’t you agree?”

  Only the rich heavy aroma of brewing coffee gave Annie the strength to reply civilly. “Of course. No doubt about it. Georgia was following Crandall.” She looked anxiously toward the kitchen.

  “Yes. She saw him leave the journalism office.” A pause. “I don’t know through which door. Oh, but I do, I do. He must have departed through the main office door, because that is the door one normally enters and if he hadn’t departed as he entered, Georgia wouldn’t have seen him at all!”

  Annie had a sudden vision of a maze and a white rat (in khaki pants) flashing this way and that.

  “But, of course,” the husky voice continued thoughtfully, “if she didn’t see him come out, perhaps she crept into the main office because she was so concerned about the course of this interview and, hearing no sound, slipped closer and closer to the director’s open office door and then espied that dreadful sight …. ” A vexed sigh. “Dear me, it’s so complex. I do wish I could talk to that young woman. Oh, they’ve charged her with defacing the Crier office, too, with that rabbit blood. And I understand it’s only a matter of time before they tack on the bombing. But we’ll find out the truth before then. Poor, dear child. Such a mistake to try and hide things from the police, even to protect a loved one. Just like dear Judy Shepard.”

  She paused expectantly.

  It took Annie just an instant longer than it should have.

  Laurel said with only a hint of triumph, “Oh, I thought you would remem—”

  “Judy Shepard. Episode of the Wandering Knife. But she was trying to protect her brother, not her lover,” Annie objected.

  “A parallel nonetheless. And it is a recurring pattern in Rinehart’s works, the efforts of women, young and old, to protect a loved one. Carol Spencer in The Yellow Room, Janice Garrison in The Haunted Lady—”

  “So Georgia Finney’s protecting Crandall,” Annie said agreeably, reaching out for the pink pottery mug, filled with Colombian coffee not decaffeinated and a generous dollop of milk. Whole milk. (Cream was better but Max had a thing about cholesterol. You’d think it was alive and swarmed.) She smiled her thanks and took a deep gulp and even Laurel’s husky voice buzzing in her ear suddenly had a mellow ring.

  “—but the point is obvious, I think.”

  “The point?” Another luscious, blood-warming gulp and another.

  “Assuming Georgia to be innocent and, of course, Professor Crandall, the time for the murder to occur is limited. Very limited. Obviously, Georgia did not see anyone else enter or leave the office after Mr. Crandall’s departure—if she saw that—but I believe we can all imagine the various possibilities—or she would not assume he was the murderer.” Annie stopped trying to make sense of it. That way lay madness. “Which suggests to me that the murderer may have secreted himself—or herself—somewhere in the office before Professor Crandall engaged in his interview with Burke.”

  Annie was tilting the nearly empty mug. She
wasn’t sure whether it was the caffeine or Laurel’s nattering but, abruptly, she did see the point.

  “Laurel, that’s brilliant.”

  “Of course, my love. Sometimes I realize that one’s perceptions shine just like crystal. Don’t you—”

  But Annie had no desire to discuss crystals, their attributes, properties, or miraculous qualities.

  “Laurel, you just stay there and keep on thinking. That’s the ticket. And we’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve checked out some of these possibilities. Bye, now.”

  She replaced the receiver and watched it warily for a moment, then, slowly, her shoulder muscles relaxed. Good. Laurel was no doubt basking in a glow of self-congratulation and might possibly be occupied for several more hours.

  Annie hurried into the kitchen. Max was eating his oat bran sprinkled with extra wheat fiber. Was he trying to scour his intestines? She flipped up the bread box and tried to choose between a chocolate long john or a croissant, decided it was going to be a long day, and picked one of each.

  Max raised an eyebrow at her selection, but sagely made no comment.

  Annie poured fresh coffee for them, retrieved her pastries from the microwave, and spread honey liberally on her croissant. After all, she would need her strength. “Actually, Laurel may be onto something.”

  When she’d finished recounting his mother’s hypothesis, Max said irritably, “Damsels in distress cause more damn trouble.”

  Annie had fond memories of many wonderful books of that ilk by Kathleen Moore Knight, Mary Collins, Leslie Ford, Anne Maybury, Victoria Holt, Barbara Michaels, et al. She focused an icy stare on Max. “That’s sexist! The problems are created when the authorities are shortsighted, stubborn, and/or incompetent.”

  “What’s incompetent about arresting someone who’s caught trying to dump a murder weapon in the river?”

  Annie finished her croissant and concentrated on her long john. It was indecent to expect her to contribute intelligently to any discussion until she’d finished her breakfast.

  Displaying largeness of character, an altogether disgusting trait, Max chose to smile cheerfully at her. “Hungry? How about another long john?”