Phi Beta Murder: A Rex Graves Mystery © 2010 by C. S. Challinor.
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Rex Graves—Scottish Barrister, QC, and part-time sleuth
Moira Wilcox—Rex’s ardent ex-flame back from Iraq
Mrs. Graves—Rex’s aging but spry mother who lives in Edinburgh
Campbell Graves—Rex’s son, sophomore at Hilliard University in Jacksonville, Florida
Helen d’Arcy—Rex’s current love interest
Dixon Clark—resident assistant found dead in his dorm room
Kris Florek—victim’s girlfriend attending the School of Nursing
Justin Paul—clean-cut jock “Greek” of Phi Beta Kappa, a less than squeaky clean fraternity
Andy Palmer—bookworm who enjoys chemistry experiments
“Red” Simmons—engineer student from Colorado, as handy with a rope as a drum kit
Mike Ricardi—Colts fan and fan of Kris Florek, the deceased’s girlfriend
“Klepto” Clapham—psychology major with kleptomanic tendencies
R. J. Wylie—expelled student who had everything going for him
Dominic Jean-Baptiste—sultry lead singer-guitarist in Dirty Laundry, a university band
Keith and Katherine Clark—Dixon’s grieving parents from Nantucket
Melodie Clark—victim’s dead-gorgeous sister
Dr. Binkley—Dean of Students at Hilliard University
Astra Knowles—garrulous School Registrar with her own agenda
Al Cormack—hot-headed mathematics professor
Bethany Johnson—bombshell assistant marine science professor
Becky Ward—on-campus nurse practitioner
Luella Shaw—Klepto’s twice-divorced partner
Wayne Price—unsavory police informant
From Blackford Hill, the volcanic formation of Arthur’s Seat resembled a pair of buttocks. People with a more sophisticated imagination likened the shape to a sleeping lion, but Rex thought Arthur’s Seat was aptly named. He enjoyed coming up here to clear his head, especially after a heavy week in court or when he had a problem to mull over, as now. For a minute or two, he pondered the troubling phone call from his son, but it was futile to try and read behind what Campbell had said. It would just have to wait until he got to the States.
Yellow-flowered gorse carpeted the grassy slopes on the way up to the top of the lava rock summit. From this vantage point the skyline of the Royal Mile—Edinburgh Castle, the Highland Tolbooth, the hollow-crowned tower of St. Giles’ Cathedral—stood out in crystalline purity, reassuring landmarks that had withstood the test of time and which lent Rex a perspective on the vagaries of life. He had brought Helen up here at Christmas, though the view had not been as spectacular then as on this fresh and sunny spring day.
The sky was so clear he could see, quite distinctly, the road and railway bridges spanning the Firth of Forth, and the Pentland Hills to the south. Feeling warm after his climb, he decided to remove his sweater. Then, seated on a knoll, he watched the swans glide across the reflective blue surface of the loch below and thought of Helen and their time together.
Dreary rain had bleakened the gray stone of the grandiose buildings on Princes Street as they sheltered beneath his brolly, window-shopping at the elegant department stores. Her stay at the house in Morningside had been a hoot (to quote Helen). Separate bedrooms, of course—his mother had even put her on a separate floor for good measure. On the occasions Mrs. Graves had left to attend a charity function and the housekeeper was out shopping, they had managed a few furtive assignations in his room, reminding him nostalgically of his teenage years when he would sneak a girl up the fire escape. Now that he was in his late forties, such subterfuges seemed ridiculous, albeit necessary in view of his mother’s strict Presbyterian ways.
Brushing the grass from the seat of his corduroys, he began his descent down the hill. He had worked up an appetite and was wondering what Miss Bird might have prepared for tea when he caught sight of a tiny, dark-haired figure wrapped in a shawl, waving to him from half way down the path. It couldn’t be … And yet, upon their approaching one another, he saw that it was indeed Moira, whom he had not seen in at least eighteen months.
“How did you know I’d be here?” he demanded, suspecting the housekeeper of divulging his whereabouts. That morning at breakfast he had mentioned he would be going up Arthur’s Seat. “Be sure to take yer sweater,” Miss Bird had warned. “It can get windy up there.” An old joke that had reduced him to giggles when he was a lad …
“We used to climb up here all the time,” Moira reminded him. “I spotted you from the Crags.”
“Sometimes I walk to Blackford Hill or to the Botanic Garden,” he said crossly.
“On a fine day you’d go up here for the view.”
Admittedly, she knew him well. They had dated for over two years before she went off to Iraq.
“When did you get back?” he asked.
“Last week.”
“Did you bring your Australian boyfriend?” It still irked Rex that she had dumped him following months of silence when he didn’t know what might have befallen her, and all the while she’d been seeing this Aussie!
“Don’t be daft. I wouldna be chasing you up this hill if he were with me.”
“What happened to him?”
All Rex knew was that he was a photographer for Sydney News who had rescued Moira from a pile of rubble after a bombing at a Baghdad market. That and the fact he had blue eyes, a detail she had thought fit to mention in her Dear John letter.
“He went back to Australia,” she told him.
“Why did you not go with him?”
Her brown eyes avoided his for a moment. “He’s married.”
“Ah, I see.” Rex refrained from asking if she had known that about him when they first became involved. “Listen, Moira. I have to get home to pack. I’m flying to Florida tomorrow to see Campbell. He seems down about something.”
Her sharp features expressed shock and disappointment. “I only just got back.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were coming back. And, anyway, it wouldna’ve made a difference.”
“What do you mean?”
Sticking his hands in the pockets of his pants, he fingered through the loose change. “I’m seeing someone else.”
“Who is she?”
“You don’t know her.”
“And how long has this been going on?”
That was a difficult question to answer. He had only been intimate with Helen since the summer, after he received the farewell note from Moira, but he had kept in contact with her since he had met her while solving his first case.
“Fifteen months,” he informed Moira. “I told her about you and said there could never be more than a friendship between us while I was seeing you. Though technically I wasna seeing you since you were miles away in Iraq.” His Scots accent intensified as always when he was stressed.
“You don’t need to sound so het up about it. It was my work that kept me there.”
“It was always about your work, Moira. Aye, I know,” Rex said, warding off her objections with a grandiose wave. “It’s right commendable what you’ve been doing for the Iraqi civilians and what have you. I respected that and I was prepared to wait. It’s you who veered from the path—not I.” He didn’t even know why he was bothering to have this conversation. It was over between them.
“You have no idea what it’s like out there!”
“I don’t,” Rex conceded. “Look, let’s drop it.” He stood aside to allow a group of walkers to pass on the slope.
“I made a mistake and I came to tell you I’m sorry!”
“Apology accepted. Take care of yourself, Moira.” Turning abruptly, he continued down the path.
She grabbed his arm. “Ye canna jist leave,” she pleaded. “We need to talk!”
“There’s nothing more to say.”
“Are you in love with her then?”
Rex looked upon Moira’s anxious face. He hated emotional scenes. “Aye, I suppose so.”
A shrewd gleam of triumph lit her eyes. “You don’t sound so sure.”
He sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know what being in love is supposed to feel like at my age.” Yet he felt all the right things for Helen: affection, desire, respect—all the necessary ingredients for love once they spent more time together. As it was, he lived in Scotland and she in north central England.
“Rex,” Moira said, reaching for his sleeve again.
“Goodbye, Moira.”
He strode off down the hill, confident she would never be able to catch up with him, even in her sensible shoes. He blamed her for upsetting his peaceful afternoon. He had wanted to get his thoughts in order before his trip to Florida, and she had thrown them in turmoil. He even found himself wishing she had stayed in Iraq or else emigrated to Australia. He didn’t need this extra complication in his life.
Rex had not liked leaving Moira in a state, but hadn’t known what else to do, since he needed to get back home to pack and leave last-minute instructions for his law clerk. That done, he sat down to tea in the parlor.
His mother prided herself on serving the best afternoon tea in Morningside, the tiered cake tray arranged with drop scones prepared by Miss Bird and eaten off gold-rimmed Royal Doulton side plates, the dainty repast conducted with as much ritual as a Japanese tea ceremony.
At Christmas, Helen had had the fortuitous intuition to inquire about the lace doilies on the table, thus ingratiating herself with his mother forever. “Such delicate crochet work. Wherever did you find them?”
“My dear, I made them myself! Likewise the headrest covers on the armchairs. I must give ye a set to take home wi’ ye.”
Helen had recovered quickly. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Graves, but only if you can spare them. They are truly exquisite.”
“Mother can always make some more,” Rex assured her.
“Get away wi’ ye! They don’t grow on trees.” Mrs. Graves turned to Helen. “Men have nary an appreciation for the finer things. If it weren’t for women, they’d still be living in caves!”
Rex felt this was a gross exaggeration, but confined himself to a patient smile, delighted that the two women were getting on so well.
“I do like your mother,” Helen had approved when they found themselves alone. “She’s such a grand old lady. Do you think she likes me?”
“You have completely won her over, lass. What are you going to do with the lace doilies?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Helen admitted, and they had both laughed.
Just as important, Helen got on famously with his son Campbell, who had made a few appearances at the house over the holidays when he wasn’t busy catching up with old school friends. She seemed amazingly informed about contemporary music, probably because she worked with teenagers—and had asked Campbell about American groups with names you wouldn’t dream of giving a pet hamster.
“Don’t forget to take Campbell the sweater I knitted him,” his mother said, interrupting his reverie as she poured tea from a fine china pot.
Even in her mid-eighties, her features were still delicate, her figure as graceful as a girl’s, although her once red-gold hair had faded to pure white. Her hands retained their dexterity, her green eyes their sharp vision, and she had been able to pursue her needlework and Bible-reading all these years without the aid of spectacles.
“Mother, it’s 80 degrees in Florida. Campbell will no be needing a sweater.”
“Best he have it just in case. The weather is unpredictable. Remember the flooding they had in England last year and the heat wave in Europe?”
“All right, Mother.” Pointless to argue with her, even though he felt certain his son would never wear the tangerine sweater, which even Rex knew was all wrong for his coloring. It would merely be a waste of space in his suitcase.
“There could be another Ice Age over there, for all we know,” his mother insisted.
Scenes of destruction from The Day After Tomorrow filed through Rex’s mind. “Unlikely that would happen in the three years Campbell has left at college,” he reasoned.
“I do wish the lad had stayed home. It seems you’re always hopping on a plane these days. Now I have to worry about terrorist hijackings, metal fatigue, and the prepackaged food they serve on board.”
“You worry too much, Mother.”
His father had been killed by a drunk driver, which had put her faith in all things severely to the test.
“It’s the phone for ye,” the old housekeeper informed him, shuffling into the parlor and giving Rex a meaningful look.
He sighed. It was probably Moira. She had called several times already, leaving frantic messages on his cell phone. “Please take a message, Miss Bird.”
“It’s Moira,” the housekeeper grudgingly confirmed, her eyes sliding to Mrs. Graves.
Rex guessed Moira had not wanted his mother to find out she was calling and had told Miss Bird not to say anything. His mother had been very put out when she discovered Moira had left him for another man.
“Moira Wilcox?” she asked, astounded. “Is she back from Iraq then?”
“Aye, she followed me to Arthur’s Seat.”
“What shall I tell her?” the housekeeper asked. Miss Bird was a timorous woman and Moira not one to be easily put off.
With an aggravated sigh, Rex threw his napkin aside and rose from the table. In the hall, he picked up the receiver. “Rex here.”
“Can we talk?”
“There really is no point, Moira.”
“There’s every point! You don’t understand.”
He hated it when women said that. It usually meant, “You are failing to see things from my point of view.”
“When are you returning from Florida?”
“In a week,” Rex said evasively.
“Can we get together then?”
“Moira … Please don’t call me ag
ain.” He hung up and strode back to the parlor.
“That was a short call,” his mother remarked as Miss Bird refilled his tea cup.
“I did not want to take it in the first place.” He looked with reproach at the housekeeper, who shrugged her wiry shoulders.
“Well, I dare say you’re right,” his mother conceded. “But if Moira comes back to the Charitable Ladies of Morningside, it could make things right awkward. And I hope she’s not planning on rejoining the bridge club.”
Wishing to drop the subject, Rex picked up the crisply folded newspaper on the table. Sometimes it got a bit wearing living under the same roof as two old women. Fortunately he had a private suite upstairs. All his needs were met, from the provision of meals to the ironing of his shirts. Most importantly, his aging mother enjoyed having him at home.
Rex and Campbell had moved back in to his mother’s house after his wife died. The arrangement had provided stability for his son, along with daily doses of the Bible and cod liver oil, both of which the old Mrs. Graves deemed essential for a clean and healthy life. Rex had been brought up on them too and used to pull the same faces as Campbell, either one of boredom or disgust, depending on the torment presented.
The memory brought Campbell back into focus. Rex felt sure something was amiss in spite of his son’s assurances on the phone that all was well: his second year at Hilliard University in Jacksonville was going fine; he had not been troubled by his bronchitis all winter; and he was still seeing the girl Rex had met in the summer on his way to the Caribbean to look into the case of the missing actress. Campbell had never suffered a lack of female company to his father’s knowledge. He was, as Helen pointed out, “a chick magnet.”
It had been something in his son’s tone. Rex couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he was certain he wasn’t imagining things. Three months had passed since he had last seen his son, and that was a long time in a young adult’s life. Still, he would be with Campbell soon, and there were things left to do in the meantime.
When his cell phone rang later that evening, he almost didn’t answer it, thinking it might be Moira until he saw Helen’s name on the display. “Hello there, lass,” he said with a smile.
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