Familiar Friend

by Cristina Sumners

  That extra trip had already been necessary once that week, when, on Monday, Meg’s right shoe had not been found before 8:37, at which point it had been discovered behind the toilet, hiding under a damp bath towel. Consequently Meg’s mother, one eye on the clock and one eye on the tuna fish, was putting together a lunch box with dazzling rapidity, while Meg’s father mopped up a small pond of milk on the breakfast table.

  “Whoops, darling, we’ve got to be a bit more careful how we pour that, don’t we? There you go, all clean, here’s another napkin—”

  “Meg, honey, you better eat a little faster, it’s almost time—”

  “Mommy, don’t pack those icky cookies, I want the good kind.”

  “Use your napkin, darling—”

  “Which are the good kind, honey? Don’t you like these? You ate them last week—”

  “No, I didn’t, I traded them to Jimmy Richards for a peanut butter and banana sandwich, but his mother won’t let him trade anymore, so don’t put ’em in, ’cause everybody else hates ’em—”

  “Yes, honey, I’ll look for the others, but I don’t know if we—Oh, my God, Edward, if that’s one of your students, tell them the next time they call at this hour I’ll personally throttle them.”

  “Yes, sure, sweetie—Hello? ’Scuse me—You dropped it on the floor, darling, it’s right under your chair. Sorry. Oh, hi, John—Well, a bit hectic, you know, trying to get the girls off to school—But John, I teach a class at nine o’clock—The police? What on earth—”

  Caroline bagged a sandwich, snapped the lid of the lunch box closed, observed that her husband gave all the appearances of a man turned to stone, and swept her younger daughter off to find her coat.

  Four-year-old Margaret Drew, breakfasted, lunch-boxed, coated, and shod, was thrust onto the front porch to wait for her ride, and her mother went looking for her father.

  He was sitting over his half-eaten breakfast, his elbows on the table, his chin resting in his clasped hands.

  Caroline pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. “You’re trying to figure out a way to tell me so it will be most dramatic,” she informed him. “Don’t.”

  He looked up with a quick smile. “Touché! Well, then, in the most simple and undramatic form possible: That was John MacDonald. He wishes me to show up at the Department at nine o’clock to be interviewed, along with everyone else on the faculty, by the police, who are investigating the murder of Mason Blaine.”

  The effect of this speech was entirely satisfactory. Caroline sat bolt upright, gaped, and stammered, “You don’t—you don’t mean it! The murder of—He’s actually dead?” Edward nodded. “And somebody killed him? I mean, intentionally?”

  “Looks that way. Not just mugging and robbery. Wallet and credit cards still on him.”

  “Well!” Caroline said. Then she emitted a little half-breath of a laugh. “Somebody beat me to it!”

  “Yes.” Edward nodded. “I had a bet with myself that you would say that.”

  “I’ve always been curious about these bets you make with yourself. What do you win?”

  “The added self-esteem that comes from having figured out my incomprehensible wife!”

  She laughed, slipped off her house-shoe, and felt for his foot under the table. “I’m actually such a simple creature,” she said soulfully, her toes tickling his ankle, and beginning to move up his leg.

  “If you’re trying to seduce me, forget it. I don’t seduce at the breakfast table.”

  “Why not?” she wondered, with the air of one asking an academic question.

  He considered a moment. “I think it has to do with my sense of order, and how my ego is dependent on order. But we’re off the subject,” he said firmly. “Mason has been murdered.”

  Caroline tucked both her feet primly under her chair and regarded him with an almost businesslike earnestness. “How do you feel about it?” she asked.

  Edward bent his mind to the examination of this entirely relevant question. “Hmmm. Well, stunned. Incredulous, even. Relieved, I think. Yes, relieved. It sounds terrible to say it, but kind of glad; kind of—a little bit—pleased. How about you?”

  “Stunned, yes. Very pleased. No ‘little bit’ about it. Also very worried.”

  “Worried?”

  “Sure. Aren’t you?”

  “What about? There’s nothing to worry about—now. I’ll get tenure now for the asking. Hell, I won’t even have to ask.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m worried.” Her husband looked more puzzled than ever, and she made an exasperated gesture. “Dummy! Don’t you see? He was murdered! Naturally you don’t know anything about it, but the police are bound to be a pain, at least at first.”

  Understanding dawned in Edward’s eyes, to be rapidly replaced by skepticism. He shook his head. “No. Too far-fetched. Tenure is no kind of a motive.”

  “Name me somebody who’s got a better one.”

  There was a pause. Then he answered, reluctantly, “John MacDonald.”

  It was Caroline’s turn to shake her head. “He only had a few years to wait.”

  “But John said himself that the Department wouldn’t survive for another five years of Mason quote ‘pickling our reputation in Scotch,’ unquote.”

  “Murder to save the Department’s reputation?”

  “O.K., O.K.”

  “I repeat,” Caroline persisted. “Name me somebody who’s got a better motive than that they were afraid Mason was going to ruin their career.”

  “It wouldn’t ruin my career if I didn’t get tenure here!”

  “No, but can you convince the police you don’t think so?” There was an uncomfortable silence. Suddenly Edward looked up with the light of triumph in his eye. “Charles Caldwell,” he pronounced. Caroline’s eyes widened a bit. “Of course,” she said, and nodded her approval. “Of course.”

  “Naturally,” he replied briskly. “Stupid of us not to have thought of it earlier.” He got up. “Anyhow, I gotta run. They want me in—” he looked at his watch, “ye gods, twenty minutes, and I’ve got to shave.”

  He bolted for the bathroom and went excavating for his electric shaver among the detritus his daughters had left behind. He found it cunningly hidden under Debbie’s bathrobe. He stood in front of the mirror running the shaver over his jaw; Caroline stood behind him, her arms around his waist, her face nuzzled against the back of his neck.

  “Are you trying to distract me?”

  “Mmmmm. Yes. I don’t want you to worry about this—this mess.”

  “I’m not worried. You know, you were doing this the other day, and it occurred to me that maybe you get some sort of satisfaction out of making me late.”

  She looked up, an arrested expression in her eyes. “I wonder if you’re right? I know I do feel sexy and desirable and all that when I can distract you, but I never thought about it being a matter of trying to make you late.”

  “Well, I think that’s it. It’s a kind of control, you know. I know I wanted to make you late to that damn meeting last night. I hope I didn’t succeed?”

  “Oh no.”

  “Good thing you went, as it turns out. You’ve got an alibi.”

  “Alibi?”

  “Sure. More than I can say for myself, unfortunately. John said Mason was killed last night as he walked home after his seminar, which would mean nine-thirty or ten. You didn’t get home until ten-thirty.”

  “But Edward,” Caroline laughed, “this is ridiculous! Why on earth should I need an alibi?”

  “Well, my love, you have been pretty public about how nice it would be if something fatal happened to Mason.”

  “Silly! Nobody would take that seriously.”

  “I don’t know, Caro,” he said slyly. “You’re such a tiger, you know; people might well think you would kill to protect your cubs!”

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever—”

  “Hey, Caro, I’m only joking!” He put down the razor and turned to give her a playfu
l shake. “Besides, what difference does it make? You were at—”

  “It does make a difference! I don’t like you saying things like that. I know you mean it as a joke, but I mean, people might think—”

  “So who cares what people think? As long as you were at that meeting between nine and ten it doesn’t matter.” He looked doubtfully at her a moment. “You were there, weren’t you? I mean, between nine and ten?”

  She shrugged. “Of course. Forget it.”

  He started to ask her something else, but she bent her head, leaning her forehead for an instant on his shoulder, then ran her hands slowly up his chest, and looked up at him with a smile that sent ripples down his spine. “You know,” she murmured, “maybe I would kill for my cubs and you’re one of them, of course…” She brushed his mouth with a warm, dry kiss, and then chuckled. “That excites you, doesn’t it?”

  “You excite me, you witch!” he mumbled into her hair, pressing her hard against him.

  She gave a soft laugh. “Mmmm. First I’m a tiger,” she purred, “then I’m a witch.” Her fingernails were doing something on the small of his back. “That’s a lot to handle.”

  “I can handle it,” he said thickly, reaching for the sash that tied her bathrobe.

  “Edward!” she mocked. “Twenty minutes!”

  “They can wait,” he said.

  CHAPTER 6

  Kathryn walked into the vestibule of the Student Center and smiled at the ID checker. “Hi, Mr. Wyble! How are you today?”

  “Just fine, Miss Koerney, and how are you?”

  “Enjoying the weather, thanks. Is the gang here yet?”

  “Yes, ma’am, they’re all in there.” He waved in the direction of the old dining room. “Mr. and Mrs. Newman, and the Spanish gentlemen, all of ’em!”

  Kathryn thanked him, and stepped into the noisy hall. She scanned the crowd for a second, then began to thread her way through the small tables to an alcove at the far corner of the room where the Spanish Department was accustomed to gather. A tall young man with quantities of uncooperative hair emerged from the alcove, and headed for the cafeteria line.

  “Patrick! Hey, Patrick!”

  He turned and saw her, and flashed a smile that transformed a set of odd features into something unusually attractive. “Father Koerney! What a pleasure!”

  “Stow it, Cunningham,” she said, extending a hand, which he proceeded to kiss with elaborate grace. Kathryn watched this operation with mild interest, and commented, “You’re in a good mood, aren’t you?”

  “My dear, the sight of you always puts me in a good mood. I hear you went over last night and poured syrup over Jamie until Tracy got home from the police station.”

  “That’s right. I mended a jacket for him, which is what he wanted her home doing.”

  “With the result that he forgot to chew her out when she got home. You’re a good soul, and I shall light a candle for you.”

  “The next time you happen to be saying your rosary in front of a statue of Our Lady.”

  “Which will be late in 2024, right. Are you eating? Shall I go through the line with you? I was just going back for some yogurt.”

  “I don’t want to keep you from your lunch—”

  “I’ve already eaten.” He took her elbow and firmly turned her in the direction of the line. “Besides, it’s a bit of a zoo back there anyway. Tracy’s there, her marshmallow of a boss sent her home when he found out what she’d been through last night. The entire Spanish Department, most of French and Italian, half of every other language, and smatterings of a few odd things like math and physics, are all back there crowding around her, wanting to know everything she knows, which isn’t much, and wanting to hear—again—all about how she found the body. I think she’s told it fifty times.”

  “How’s Jamie taking it?”

  “Pretty well. He was feeling a little left out at first, but when twice as many people were sitting at that table as could fit, he moved off to another table and the overflow started coming to him. He got to tell Tracy’s story secondhand, and his own talk with—what’s his name, the cop—”

  “Tom Holder.”

  “Holder. He got to tell his own story about talking to Holder, so he’s O.K. now.”

  “Patrick, you know what I like about you? You never try to pretend that the people you love don’t have any faults.”

  “It would be pretty stupid to pretend that anybody didn’t have faults. And I’ve known Jamie long enough to have a good idea of what his are.”

  “You certainly deal with them placidly. How about the rest of them back there? What’s being said?”

  “Well, needless to say, nobody’s precisely grief-stricken. They’re all having a grand time trying to guess who did it. Carlos has caused something of an uproar by making it pretty obvious that he thinks the likeliest suspect is Caroline Drew.”

  “What? You’re joking! Even if she were, how could Carlos be such an idiot? To go around accusing faculty wives of murder! Doesn’t he want to come back next year?”

  “He didn’t precisely accuse her. All he did was remind us all—as if we needed reminding—that Caroline said last spring that it would benefit the world in general if Blaine fell under a truck.”

  “Oh, fun. What happened then?”

  “José said that what Carlos was forgetting was that when she said it, all of us heartily agreed with her, including Carlos.”

  “Bully for José!”

  “So Carlos isn’t saying much more than that, but he does maintain that Edward won’t show up at lunch today.”

  “Marvelous. I gather he thinks Edward and Caroline did it together.”

  “As for what Carlos thinks, I’ve held the opinion for quite a while that Carlos doesn’t think at all, but at any rate, he isn’t explaining himself anymore. He just sits there looking knowing and hostile.”

  “Oh, now, that is very good. ‘Knowing and hostile’ precisely describes how Carlos looks all the time. Shall I go sit next to Jamie and butter him up?” she asked. “Just in case his satisfaction with playing second fiddle wears thin?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Valerie’s there.”

  “Damn. Patrick, what are we going to do? Don’t tell me, I know. Nothing.”

  “Except wait till it blows over.”

  Kathryn looked bitter. “Does he do this often?” She spoke quietly because they were inching their way through the cafeteria line and there were people all around them.

  “He’s never done it before. I think the problem is his ego. Jamie’s used to being with gorgeous women and then he went and fell in love with Tracy’s offbeat wit or something and married her before he knew what he was doing. I couldn’t believe it when he brought back this poor little dab of a thing from Vassar and told me he was engaged to her. Then after they were married Valerie flapped her eyelashes at him, and she’s much more what he’s used to.”

  Patrick paid for his yogurt and Kathryn for her salad plate and they began to make their way back across the crowded room.

  “I wonder if we could pin this murder on Valerie,” Kathryn speculated. “What do you think?”

  “I think that’s the most brilliant idea I’ve heard in decades.”

  As they entered the alcove, a few of the crowd detached themselves from homicide speculations long enough to greet Kathryn and invite her to pull up a chair.

  “Thanks, but I think it would be the better part of valor to start a new table at this point, don’t you? Hi, Jamie! Hello, Valerie. Thank you, José,” she said, sitting in the chair he drew up for her, and waving to Tracy over the heads of her rapt audience.

  José asked her if she had heard about their big news; Kathryn assured him she had, and they fell to discussing it.

  Patrick looked worried. “We can all think of about half a dozen people who would just love to have Mason Blaine out of the way. They’re all friends of ours. Or acquaintances, at least. I for one can’t imagine anybody in this Department bumping Mason off, but
try to tell the cops that.”

  “Ah, that is right!” José exclaimed. “To them, we are just some people who don’t like Blaine, some people who want him to be dead. We are all—ah, como se dice sospechosos?”

  “Suspects,” said Kathryn, whose south Texas childhood enabled her to catch most of the Spanish that decorated her friends’ conversation.

  “Sospechosos is right.” Patrick nodded. “I have a strong feeling that this is going to get grim. That is, unless people like John MacDonald and Edward Drew can produce alibis.”

  “Can they?” Kathryn asked. “Does anybody know? Who’s seen them this morning?”

  “Nobody except the police. MacDonald canceled his seminar this morning, and Edward canceled his 301 section. Carlos was up in the Department office around ten, and the secretary said that the police had cornered every faculty member in the place, and talked to them all about an hour apiece; MacDonald, Edward, and Ellen Caldwell seemed to be the favorites, and one can see why. Though Ellen’s husband might be more to the point.”

  “Exactamente!” cried José. “I hope that he did it, and that the police find out muy de prisa. Before they come to start asking bad questions to all the students.”

  “I’m afraid your hopes are doomed to disappointment,” Patrick said dryly, nodding toward the door, “because if those aren’t cops, I’m a pumpkin.” Sure enough, Tom Holder and Sergeant Pursley were making their way across the dining room to the alcove, their passage marked by a slight diminution in the conversational roar as students turned to look at the conspicuously unstudent-like pair. The people in the alcove became aware of the approaching presences and likewise stared.

  Kathryn, from mixed motives of curiosity and hospitality, went to meet them. She smiled at both of them, and extended a hand to Tom. “Arresting somebody?”

  “Ha! Don’t I wish! No, we’re just getting started, just asking a lot of routine questions.” He studied her a minute. “You know these people, huh?” Kathryn allowed as how she did, and Holder gave a nod of satisfaction. “Then you can tell me who some of them are. Carlos Barreda?”