“I can’t give you his home phone number, if that’s what you mean. But I can say that if you were to look up his name in the Boston telephone directory, you would certainly find a David Jerrold on Massachusetts Avenue.”
I smiled. “What’s he like, this Jerrold? No departmental rules against talking about a professor, are there?”
She pursed her lips in thought. “I suppose not. He’s handsome, cultured, charming.”
“Was he involved with Jordan Shaw?”
“Not that I know. He’s happily married with a son. Did someone tell you they were seeing each other?”
I explained about Audrey Shaw’s suspicions and showed her the photograph from India. Phyllis remarked that Mr. Nichols was in the picture as well—didn’t I have any questions about him?
“I just can’t believe that he and Jordan were lovers,” I said, shaking my head. “How could I be so wrong about a man? He looks like Caspar Milquetoast. Then I’m told he’s married, dating the prettiest coed in the school on the sly, and, as graduate coordinator, he’s got the other students shaking in their boots.”
“Shaking in their boots? Who fed you that load of malarkey?”
I watched her laugh, unsure of what to say.
“Mr. Nichols may be the graduate coordinator, Miss Stone, but he hardly commands respect. It’s quite mean, actually, but the other students—even first-year plebes—walk all over him. And as for your rumor about him and Miss Shaw, that’s the first time I’ve heard it.”
Something was out of true in the Engineering Department, and someone or everyone was lying to me. At that moment, I was inclined to believe Phyllis’s version; it did, after all, match my own suspicions. I was not, however, confident enough to take her entirely at her word.
“Any chance I might sneak a look at the student files?” I asked.
Phyllis frowned and shook her head. “You know I can’t let you do that. What are you looking for anyway?”
“Is there a list of students and faculty somewhere?” I said, trying to avoid telling her what I really wanted. “That wouldn’t break any rules, would it?”
“I suppose not,” she answered, unsure.
She showed me a departmental directory that listed professors and graduate assistants, their campus phone numbers, and their office hours. I ran a finger down the list, looking not for a surname but for a first name: Jeffrey. None.
“Do you know anyone named Jeffrey?” I asked.
Phyllis shook her head. “My cousin’s name is Jeffrey.”
“What about Jerrold’s son. What’s his name?
“I don’t recall what his name is, but it’s not Jeffrey. He’s just a toddler; never been in here before.”
“And Nichols? Does he have a son?”
“I believe he does. Or is it a girl? You know, this is not a very social department. I’m embarrassed to know so little.”
“I don’t suppose you know if he has a car.”
“Not Mr. Nichols, but Dr. Jerrold has,” she said. “Everyone knows about his car. It’s his pride and joy. A sporty English job, a Jaguar, and I’ve seen it, too. Fast and very sexy.”
The undercarriage of Jerrold’s car was probably cleaner than Pukey Boyle’s.
“I was wondering about something,” I said. “How many foreigners are there in this department? It seems everyone I meet is from India.”
“Graduates? I think there are three Indians, two Germans, one Dutch, a Japanese, and several Taiwanese . . .”
“Only three from India?” I asked. “I’ve seen five already: one in here this afternoon, two in the hallway, and two in the graduate lounge.”
“Oh, no, Miss Stone. Just three.” Then she raised a finger in enlightenment. “You must be thinking of the Pakistanis. We have two of them as well. Of course, they don’t get on very well with the Indians . . . Some kind of political or religious disagreement, I think. But don’t get the wrong idea; we awarded twenty fellowships to graduate students this year, and all but three are Americans. Our foreign students are almost all supported by their own governments.”
“What about the Indians and Pakistanis?”
“Without exception, supported by their governments.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I think they were sent here to learn how to make a hydrogen bomb.” She tittered then grew serious. “But they really don’t get along. Personally, I can’t see much difference between them. Just what they wear on their heads.”
“Thank you, Miss Gorman,” I said, recalling descriptions of some of the more violent episodes that accompanied the Partition of India in 1947. (I’d taken a course in post–World War II geopolitics at Barnard.) “I may drop by to see you again.”
“You’re welcome. But don’t tell anyone you spoke to me. You know how things are in an office.”
The woman who answered Jerrold’s phone asked who was calling. Somewhere inside me, a voice urged me to cut the handsome professor a break. I decided not to identify myself to his wife as a reporter investigating the murder of her husband’s former lover—or so I believed. “It’s Miss Gorman from the office, calling for Dr. Benjamin.”
She asked me to wait, covered the receiver for a moment, and I got results. I heard a second phone pick up, and David Jerrold told his wife to hang up the extension.
“Yes, Phyllis, what is it?” English accent.
“Actually, I’m not Phyllis Gorman.”
“Then who are you and what do you mean bothering me at home?”
“My name’s Eleonora Stone,” I said. “I write for a newspaper in New Holland, New York.”
“I’m impressed. Now, please, what do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about Jordan Shaw.”
“Who?”
I’ve never liked coy men, especially when they’re talking to me. Personally, I go for the direct, take-charge types.
“Save the act for your wife,” I said. “Unless you’d like me to explain it to her.”
There was a long, dead pause down the line. He was thinking it over: How could he wriggle off this hook without me making things messy for him? Sure, I was playing hunches all the way down the line, assuming he had indeed been the author of the Dear Jordan letter and that the last thing he wanted was for his wife to be reminded of his infidelity. But it seemed to be working.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I know who she is, but I can’t talk to you now; my wife’s in the next room. Ring me back later this evening, and perhaps I can meet you somewhere.”
I didn’t like giving him time to collect himself or sneak away, but I couldn’t make him talk. “I’ll call you in an hour,” I said. “Be ready to meet me then.”
Behold the motor lodge, rich relation of the lowly motel, recommended by the Automobile Club and the chamber of commerce. Anonymous, unsophisticated, and devoid of taste, the motor lodge thrives on the modern traveler’s notion that he and his family are not good enough for a proper hotel. He resigns himself, and his station wagon, to paying a comparable price for an inferior room to match his worth. I’m no different; I took a room for $6.50 at the Paul Revere Motor Lodge in downtown Cambridge.
After checking the view from my room—a car wash and a White Castle—I phoned Jerrold. The conversation was short and sweet; we agreed to meet in an hour in the Minuteman Lounge downstairs at the Revere. That gave me enough time for a shower and a quick long-distance call to Charlie Reese back in New Holland.
“Looks like you picked the wrong time to leave town,” he said. “Frank Olney arrested Julio Hernandez a couple of hours ago. They’ve charged him with first-degree murder.”
“You got a pencil, Charlie?” I asked. “I’m going to dictate your lead story for tomorrow.”
“Didn’t you hear me, Ellie? The sheriff picked up Julio. His prints were all over the motel room and the knife. You’d better drive back tonight.”
“I’m not driving back tonight. I’ve still got work to do here.”
“You’ve got
some crust, Ellie. George Walsh is stealing your story. Now, I want you back here!”
I was grinning ear to ear; this was too much fun.
“Tell me if George Walsh has this, Charlie: Jordan Shaw’s roommate is dead, murdered in their shared apartment.”
Nothing but white fuzz coming down the line from New Holland. Then I heard some fumbling, and finally Charlie spoke:
“Okay, Ellie. I’ve got a pencil. Speak slowly.”
I made sure to arrive fifteen minutes before my appointment with Jerrold, intending to look around, but I ended up downing two White Labels while I waited. Jerrold was five minutes late. He looked relaxed in a jacket, open collar, and tan trousers, and I recognized him immediately as he stood in the Minuteman Lounge doorway. He was handsome all right. As he settled in at the bar and ordered a drink, I sneaked out to the parking lot. The silver Jaguar was hard to miss. I bent down to look for oil spots, still unsure of the utility of the exercise, but found nothing.
“Are you Dr. Jerrold?” I asked, taking the seat next to him at the bar. He already had a drink before him: a martini with three olives, pitted, no pimento. I notice these things.
“’Ello, ’ello,” he said in his best cockney voice, looking me up and down in a most unwholesome way. He smiled and seemed relieved. “You’re younger than I expected. Are you old enough to sit at the bar, Miss Stone?”
“I’m older than Jordan Shaw,” I answered, throwing cold water on his flirting.
“Yes, now I see it,” he said laconically, smile gone. “Would you like a drink?”
I ordered another Scotch. The bartender recognized me, looked back to where I had been sitting moments earlier, and raised his eyebrows. He said nothing, though, and fetched me my drink.
“Now what’s this all about, Miss Stone?”
“Excuse my candor, Dr. Jerrold, but would you mind if we skipped the I-don’t-know-what-you-want routine? What’s next, a fainting spell when I tell you Jordan Shaw is dead?”
“I knew she was dead when I came in here.”
“Who told you she was dead?”
“Please, Miss Stone. The entire Engineering Department knew she was dead inside of five minutes of your arrival. Lionel Benjamin rang me at home as soon as you left his office. He said you were asking questions about me and Mr. Nichols.”
“That’s right,” I said. “May I ask you a question now?” He nodded. “Were you romantically involved with Jordan Shaw?”
Jerrold smiled, sipped his drink, then began. “Imagine for one minute that my relationship with Miss Shaw is any of your affair,” he said, signaling to the bartender for a refill. He motioned to both our drinks, and the man raised his eyebrows again. “What makes you think I would know anything about her death? Furthermore, I assure you that Miss Shaw and I had no more than a nodding acquaintance.”
I placed the Indian snapshot before him on the bar. “Was this taken when you were nodding your acquaintance to her?” I asked.
He considered the photograph for several seconds, surely vexed by its inopportune appearance, but too suave to let on.
“Nicely played, young lady,” he said at last. “But this means nothing. I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood. We were in India together, but only by chance. There were twenty-five alumni, twelve of their spouses, and a smattering of children in our group as well. D. J. Nichols went along too, why don’t you interview him? You know the rumors about him and Miss Shaw, after all.”
Our refills arrived. Jerrold grabbed hold of the red plastic sword spearing his olives and drew it out like Excalibur from the stone.
“Garish things, these,” he said, tossing the cocktail sword into an ashtray. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Miss Stone. You see, contrary to your suspicions, I was not trysting with this Miss Shaw. And although I feel saddened by her passing, I don’t see how I can help you with your investigation.”
Having your neck snapped and pelvis carved up didn’t exactly qualify as passing in my book.
“Do you know anyone named Jeffrey?” I asked.
Jerrold shook his head and downed his drink. He turned to look me in the eye. “Afraid I’ve got to run, Miss Stone. Sorry I can’t be of more help, but I barely knew Jordan Shaw.” He paused, leaned in close—almost nose to nose—and said, “I don’t want you phoning my home again.”
He gazed deep into my eyes, and, despite myself, I felt both unsettled and drawn in by his charm at the same time.
“But if you’ll give me your number,” he said, suddenly all smiles, “I’ll be happy to phone you once this has all blown over.”
“But . . .”
“The drinks are on me,” he said with a smile, and he slapped five dollars on the bar. “Good night.”
A hotel is a lonely place. A motor lodge is a depressing, lonely place. I had already met with Jerrold and spoken to my editor in New Holland. By eight fifteen, the excitement in the Minuteman Lounge had leveled off, and last call seemed not far off. I wasn’t looking forward to an evening with the Gideons Bible and the television set in my room. Knowing no one in Boston, I decided to call Bernadette, the White family housekeeper.
She had spent the afternoon talking to the police, so at least I was spared the unpleasantness of breaking the news to her. She remembered me from my phone call on Monday, and, from the sound of it, she was stunned by Ginny’s death and frightened to stay in the White’s big, empty house by herself. I asked her if I could come see her to ask a few questions. She agreed and gave me directions.
I paid my tab at the bar and dropped off my key at the front desk. On my way out the door, I spied D. J. Nichols standing behind a plastic plant near the exit. He was sweating, looking at me over his glasses as if to implore my help.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’ve got to talk to you.” He glanced around the room. “But not here. Can we go up to your room?”
“I’m on my way to an appointment,” I said, not sure I wanted a strange man in my room. Not this strange man anyway. “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“No!” His eyes jumped about, and he snorted back a runny nose. “I’m afraid for my life!” He was whispering. “Please!”
I asked if he’d like to talk in the bar, but he said he didn’t drink. Reluctantly, I retrieved my key and led him to my room on the third and top floor, locking the door behind us.
“They want to frame me,” he stammered once he was seated on a chair in my room.
“Who’s they?”
“Whoever killed Jordan and Ginny. They must think I know something.”
“What do you know?”
“Nothing—I swear it!”
“Then why did you lie to me this afternoon?”
Nichols stopped panting long enough to look at me with the expression of a confused dog. “Lied to you? What do you mean?”
“You said the last time you’d seen Jordan was two weeks before Thanksgiving. Around the fifteenth.”
“That’s right,” he said, wiping his brow. “That’s the truth, I tell you.”
“One of Jordan’s neighbors identified you as the man she saw in the elevator last Tuesday, two days before the holiday.”
“Well, yes, of course. I was there all right, but I didn’t see Jordan. She wasn’t in. I had a cup of tea with Ginny.”
“Where was Jordan?”
He shrugged his shoulders, breathing easier now. “I suppose she was out with him.”
“Who’s him?”
“Didn’t you get the dirt this afternoon at the department? Surely someone told you. They’re such nasty gossips.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Everyone knows Jordan and David were an item. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that.”
I took a seat on the corner of the bed and considered Nichols carefully. Studying his eyes in the dim room was no easy task. I leaned forward and delivered my carefully worded answer:
“What I heard was that you and Jordan were an item. I asked several people
about Jerrold, and they all said no one had ever heard such a rumor.”
“Then they were lying to implicate me. They’ve been together for the past year and a half. They went to India together.”
“A trip you made with them.” I added. He hadn’t expected me to know that.
“Yes, that’s true, but totally irrelevant. Jordan and I were friends, nothing more, and everyone at the department knows that.”
“Are you married?” I asked.
“Yes, why?”
“Any kids?”
“One,” he said. “A boy, Ned. Why?”
I said it didn’t matter and reminded him I had to leave. His panic returned, and he grabbed my arm, begging me to give him some useful counsel.
“Relax and take it easy,” I said simply.
“Thanks loads,” he said. “I’ll be sure to remember that if you ever need help.”
Bernadette was about thirty-five, small and round. Her skin was porcelain white, and she wore her wavy auburn hair short. The line of her lower teeth twisted a bit behind her full lips, and her pale eyes and pug nose were rimmed with red from hours of crying.
I introduced myself, though she was expecting me, and she invited me in. The clapboard house’s cold gentility made an immediate impression on me, and I could see how an outsider like Bernadette, far from home, would feel lost and afraid when left alone inside its polite walls. She took my coat and led me past the parlor and dining room to the kitchen, where she offered me a cup of coffee. I looked around the room as she busied herself at the stove. Nothing out of place, everything polished and in perfect order. The house gave me the same unsettled feeling as had Judge Shaw’s perfect home.
Bernadette, or Bernie, as she liked to be called, had last seen Ginny the previous Friday evening, around ten. Bernie was washing up the dinner dishes when the phone rang. Ginny answered and took the call in her bedroom. Bernie didn’t know who had phoned.
I asked if Ginny had seemed nervous at all, but Bernie said she was the same as always: spirited, worried about her approaching exams, but happy. Ginny had lots of male admirers, but Bernie couldn’t give me any names. I asked her about Ginny’s roommate, but she had never met Jordan.
No Stone Unturned Page 14
