by Crider, Bill
A loud cheer from outside made Burns look through the window again. The Mud Tug was over, and now the general frolicking had begun. First year students were shoving sophomores into the mud, while upperclassmen (or upperclasspersons, or whatever they were supposed to be called now—Burns couldn't quite remember) were pushing one another toward the gooey area lately wallowed in by the faculty.
Burns couldn't see Elaine, which was probably just as well. He hoped that she had gone inside.
But now he had to hurry. Everyone would be staying outside for a few more minutes, and then many of them would be going to get cleaned up. Some of them, however, like Clem and Miss Darling, would be coming back into the buildings.
Burns looked back at the yearbook. There was no one in there whose photo looked familiar. He ran his finger along under the pictures. A lot of young, earnest faces. Maybe Henderson had known them, but Burns didn't.
His finger continued to move. It went past one photo, stopped, slid back.
Henry (Hank) Mitchum. A clean-shaven young man with wide eyes, well-groomed hair, a weak chin.
Burns had never heard of him, but there was something about him that looked familiar. Something about the eyes.
They looked like Eric Holt's eyes.
Burns closed the yearbook and looked back at the desk. There was something else there that hadn't been there before.
An HGC recruiting brochure.
Burns stuck the yearbook under his left arm and reached for the brochure with is right hand.
Just as he touched it, someone rattled the doorknob.
Burns jerked his hand back, thinking of being caught by the police inside an office where he wasn't supposed to be. He looked for a place to hide, but of course there wasn't any such place, unless he ducked into the kneehole of the desk. That might hide him for about two seconds.
The doorknob rattled again, harder this time, and Burns realized that the police wouldn't rattle the knob. They would simply use the key and unlock the door. Whoever was trying to get in had no more right to be there than Burns did.
Panic turned to curiosity. Burns decided to help out by whoever was trying to get in by opening the door, but as he reached for the knob the yearbook slid from under his arm. It struck the carpeted floor with a dull thump.
There was a moment of silence. Then Burns heard footsteps thudding down the hallway outside the door.
He jerked open the door and charged out, ripping away the police ribbon in the process. He wondered what Boss Napier would do to him for that. Probably nothing, since Burns made an instantaneous decision not to tell the police chief who had done it. He pulled the ribbon away from his waist and threw it to the floor as he ran down the hallway.
The person who had rattled the doorknob was no longer in sight, having turned the corner at the end of the hall. Burns was no track star, but he thought he might be able to catch up.
When he reached the head of the stairs, he could hear footsteps on the bare first floor. He was going to have to hurry to get even a glimpse.
He might have made it had he not hooked a toe in the frayed carpeting and pitched head first down the stairs.
He hit the stairs halfway down, had the presence of mind to tuck his head, and did a complete flip, touching down this time on his tailbone and bouncing forward over the last two steps to the landing where the stairway turned to go on down to the first floor.
Burns sat very still for a while, trying to decide which was hurting worse, his tailbone or his pride. Other parts of him hurt as well. His shoulders, his neck, and his back.
He was sure he must have been quite a sight during his pratfall, at least as funny as the Mud Tuggers and maybe even funnier. He was extremely thankful that there had been no one there to see him take the plunge, though whoever had rattled the doorknob had probably heard him whumpty-whumping down the stairway.
After a minute or so, Burns tried to get up. It wasn't easy, but by bracing himself on the wall and pushing with his hands, he was able to stand. He didn't feel any better in that position, and rather than risk walking he simply stood there for another minute.
There was still no one in the building. There was that to be grateful for. He wondered if he had broken any important bones. It was bad enough that he had recently broken his nose and had to go around looking like the Masked Avenger. This would be even worse.
He took a few deep breaths and decided it was about time to try going back upstairs.
The first step was the hardest. After that, he just kept going. It wasn't so bad. A little like having a spear jabbed into your lower backbone with every step. He thought about what it was going to be like to sit down. It wasn't a very pleasant thought.
On the positive side, there didn't seem to be any bones grinding together in ways that they shouldn't have. Maybe nothing was broken.
It took Burns several minutes to get back to Henderson's office. He wasn't going to bother replacing the police ribbon, but he was going to pick up the yearbook and the recruiting brochure, both of which he wanted to think about a little longer.
Neither was proof of anything, but the brochure was suggestive. It was the kind of thing that Walt Melling might have been carrying, might even have dropped in the office. If the police had seen it on the floor, they might have assumed that it was knocked off the desk and replaced it there.
The yearbook was suggestive too. There was nothing out of the ordinary about a yearbook in a professor's office. Burns had several yearbooks in his own office, both from his student days and his more recent years at HGC. But he didn't look at them often, and he was sure that Henderson had gotten this one out and looked at it for a good reason. Henry Mitchum's photo would bear closer examination.
And there was one other thing.
Something that wasn't there.
It was a little like the dog in the Sherlock Holmes story, the dog that didn't bark.
The bust of Freud was missing.
Chapter Eleven
By the time he went home that afternoon, Burns's tailbone wasn't hurting quite as much as it had been. He was even able to sit in his car without shrieking aloud when he touched the seat. It wasn't very pleasant to hit even the smallest of Pecan City's chuck holes as he drove along, however.
He spent some of his time at home debating about whether to call Elaine Tanner and ask her to visit Samantha Henderson with him. He finally decided that she wouldn't hold his association with George (the Ghost) Kaspar against him and punched in the librarian's number on his phone.
"I don't think I know her," she said, when he told her what he wanted.
He'd been afraid she might say something like that. She hadn't been at HGC long enough to meet everyone.
"I don't like to go alone," he told her. "I never know what to say."
"All right, then. I'll go."
She didn't sound enthusiastic about it, but Burns didn't care. He was just glad to have company for the visit, especially Elaine's company.
"Thanks," he said. He paused. "I saw you at the Mud Tug this afternoon."
"I didn't see you. Earl and Mal told me you thought you were too good to roll in the mud."
"It's not that." He thought about his sore tailbone. "It's just that I have an injury."
"What kind of injury?" She sounded skeptical.
"It's . . . and old baseball injury. My back. It acts up now and then, but I hardly ever mention it. I don't like to use it as an excuse."
"Your back?" She didn't sound exactly convinced, but he could tell she was weakening.
"Yes." Burns felt inspired. He could almost hear the crack of the bat against the old horsehide. "I hurt it turning a double play."
"You played the infield?"
"That's right. Second base." That much was true. It was Little League ball, but he had been a second baseman. "The ball took a bad hop, so I had to twist around to make the throw to the shortstop. I felt something pop, but we got the two."
"You'll have to tell me more about your baseball ca
reer someday."
"Sure," Burns said, wondering where he could get his hands on a book that would have some good baseball stories in it. "Maybe we could take in one of the college's games."
Elaine wasn't going to let him off the hook about George that easily. "Maybe."
Maybe was better than nothing. Burns was feeling a little better when he hung up.
Samantha Henderson lived in an older section of town known as "The Heights," for reasons that might have been clear to an earlier generation of Pecan City inhabitants but that made no sense at all to Burns. Unless, of course, you considered an elevation of maybe thirty feet a "height." The homes in The Heights were mostly frame houses shaded by oak trees and surrounded by green lawns.
Samantha Henderson lived in the middle of a block, and Burns parked his gigantic old Plymouth at the curb. He stepped out on the cracked sidewalk and waited for Elaine to join him. The thought of going around the car to open the door for her had entered his mind, but he had quickly rejected it. He didn't want her to think he was an old-fashioned dweeb.
It was nearly dark, but Burns could see no lights on in the Henderson house as he hobbled up the walk.
Elaine pretended not to notice the hitch in his stride. "Do you think she's home?"
"Where else would she be?"
"At the funeral home."
"The visitation was yesterday," Burns said.
Visitation was another custom he wasn't in favor of. He knew that he should go to the funeral home to show his support for the family, but he didn't like the idea of sitting around talking cheerfully in the presence of a corpse. It wasn't so bad if the casket was closed, but that usually wasn't the case. So if faced with the choice of visiting the family at home or at the funeral parlor, Burns chose the home.
They reached the door, and Burns rang the bell. There was no response for what seemed like a long time. Then Burns heard the sound of a deadbolt being thrown, and the door opened.
Samantha Henderson looked terrible. There were dark circles underneath her eyes, her hair was uncombed, and she was wearing a dress that looked as if she might have slept in it.
Burns knew that he was guilty of lookism, but he couldn't help it. Even Elaine looked somewhat shocked.
"Oh," Samantha said. Her voice was not much more than a whisper. "Hello, Dr. Burns."
"Hello, Samantha," Burns said. "This is Elaine Tanner. She's the school librarian. You may have met her at school."
"Hello, Miss Tanner. It was nice of you to come."
Burns thought that she couldn't have sounded less enthusiastic had Dracula himself, or maybe the Wolfman, been standing outside her door. He waited for her to invite them in, but she said nothing further. They all stood there awkwardly.
Finally Burns said, "Could we come in for a minute?"
Samantha stepped back. "Of course."
She turned and walked in front of them to the living room. All the curtains were drawn, and the room was so dark that Burns could hardly make out the furniture.
"I suppose I should turn on a light," Samantha said, but she made no move to do so.
"A light might be a good idea," Burns said.
"Yes," Elaine said, walking over to a floor lamp and switching it on when Samantha made no move to do so.
The light didn't help the room. It appeared that Samantha had done no cleaning since Tom's death. In fact, it appeared that she hadn't done any cleaning for a long time before that. There were magazines lying in the floor by an overstuffed chair that seemed to be leaning slightly to the left as if its springs were broken, there was a thin layer of dust on the coffee table, and there was a faint odor of decay that Burns couldn't identify.
"Please have a seat," Samantha said.
Burns looked at Elaine, who went directly to the couch and sat down. Burns joined her. A sharp pain ran up his back when he sat, but he was a former athlete. It wasn't anything he couldn't deal with. Samantha continued to stand. She wasn't looking at her guests. She was looking out one of the living room windows, though there was nothing to see.
"We were certainly sorry about Tom's death," Burns said. It was the only thing he could think of.
"Thank you," Samantha said. She was still looking out the window. "I miss him very much."
There was another awkward pause while Burns tried to think of something else to say. Elaine wasn't any help at all.
"They told me he was murdered," Samantha said, her voice growing a little stronger. "But I don't believe it."
It was the last thing Burns would have expected her to say, but since she had brought it up herself, he thought it was worth pursuing.
"Why not?" he asked.
Samantha turned and looked at him. "Everyone loved Tom. Who would have killed him?"
"That's what I've been wondering," Burns said. Elaine jabbed him with an elbow, but he paid her no attention.
"It might have been that horrible Mal Tomlin," Samantha said.
Burns sat up a little straighter, ignoring the twinge in his tailbone. "Who?
"Mal Tomlin. You must know who he is."
"I know him," Burns said. "Why would he kill Tom?"
"He was jealous of him. Mal's wife was very attracted to Tom."
Burns thought of Joynell Tomlin, a cheerful blonde who liked to think of herself as resembling Dolly Parton, though the truth was that she was more likely to be the winner in a Pillsbury Doughboy lookalike contest. As far as Burns knew she was completely faithful to Mal.
"Or maybe it was Earl Fox."
"Earl Fox?"
"Of course. His wife made several advances toward Tom."
This had to be one of the most bizarre conversations of Burns's life. Rae Fox was a tall, thin brunette with a tan that rivaled George Hamilton's. Earl sometimes joked that if she died before he did, he was going to make seatcovers for his car from her skin. He didn't make the joke in front of Rae, however. Burns would have bet a year's salary that Rae Fox had never looked at Tom Henderson with anything resembling interest.
"That was Tom's trouble, you know," Samantha said.
"What was?"
"What I said before. Everyone loved him. Especially the women. The women loved him so much that it got him killed."
Burns wondered if she knew about Dawn Melling, but he thought it would be better not to mention it. She seemed to have enough candidates for her husband's murderer already.
"Did you tell the police what you suspect?" he asked.
"Yes. I didn't see any need to protect those men. If they're guilty, they should be punished."
"That's probably true," Burns said, though he didn't think that either of the two men she had mentioned had anything to do with Henderson's death. Boss Napier, however, might be another story. He might be very willing to believe Samantha Henderson.
"The funeral is tomorrow, you know," Samantha said.
"Yes," Burns told her. "We know. We'll be there."
"That will be nice," Samantha said.
Burns got up. He thought he'd brought about as much comfort into Samantha Henderson's home as he possibly could. Elaine got up and stood beside him.
"We'll have to be going now," Burns said.
"It was nice of you to come by. You, too, Miss Tanner."
"We're so sorry about Tom," Elaine said, and Samantha started to cry.
"That was interesting," Elaine said when they were in Burns's car.
"It certainly was. Did you believe any of it?"
Elaine was stony-faced. "I don't know the people involved well enough to believe or disbelieve anything."
Burns wondered about her tone. Then he had a thought. "Did you ever talk much to Tom?"
Elaine half-turned to look at him. "What do you mean by that?"
"I think you know."
"All right. I did talk to him once. He came to the library to ask me about ordering a book."
"He came to your office?"
"That's right. And there was no one else there, if that's your next question, Mr. Private Detecti
ve."
"Wait a minute," Burns said. "You're the one who was going on to Boss Napier about my being one of his ace investigators." He had another thought. "You didn't tell Napier about Henderson's visit to your office, did you?"
"Why should I?"
"Because he made a pass at you, didn't he?"
"'Made a pass.' That's such old-fashioned language."
"You're avoiding the question," Burns pointed out.
"All right. Maybe I am. But he didn't make a pass, as you put it. Not exactly. It wasn't so much what he said as the way he said it."
Remembering what Henderson had said to Dawn, Burns wondered if the late psychology professor had said something similar to Elaine. He didn't think it would be a good idea to ask, however. So he just waited to see if Elaine would go on.
"That's why I was a little hesitant about coming with you tonight," she said. "Because of that little incident."
"What about Samantha's idea that Joynell and Rae were coming on to Tom?"
"That was projection on Tom's part if he told his wife that," Elaine said. "I'm sure that if anything happened, the women weren't responsible. Doesn't that help you to see how insidious sexism can be?"
"I don't have any trouble seeing that. But I think it's wrong to hold all men responsible for the acts of a creep like Tom Henderson. I don't believe that most men are like that."
"Only because you're not."
Burns tried to leer. "Maybe I am."
Elaine smiled. "No you're not. I wouldn't be here if you were."
"I guess that's a compliment. And since you're so sure I'm harmless, if we go by my house, would you come in and look at something?"
"What? Your etchings?"
"I don't have any etchings. I'm not even sure what etchings are."
"Good. So what do you want me to look at?"
"It's a surprise," Burns said.
"All right," Elaine said.
Burns didn't have any wine, and he didn't have any designer water, so he asked Elaine if she would like some Pepsi. She said that would be fine.
"What did you have to show me?" she asked when he had poured the soft drink.
