Passport to Murder

by Mary Angela

  “No,” she said, shaking her red head. Today her hair wasn’t pulled back into a ponytail. It hung straight to her shoulders, framing her pale face. “I noticed the group when we were waiting for the plane. A girl told me who you were when we were boarding.”

  “Yes, we were taking a group of students abroad to Paris for spring break,” I explained. “I guess we’re both here about the death on the plane?”

  Lenny took a step closer to the wall. It looked as if he was hoping to become one with it.

  “The police had some questions for me since I was sitting behind the teacher who died,” she said.

  “How did you know she was a teacher?” asked Lenny.

  We both glanced at him in surprise.

  “Because she wasn’t eighteen,” she answered.

  “So you didn’t know Professor Jaspers?” I confirmed.

  She shook her head.

  “I see,” I said. “Will you be traveling on to Paris?”

  “No. I was going for a long weekend; it hardly seems worth it now.” She moved toward the door again.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

  “Jean Erickson.”

  “Jean, thank you for talking with me. I hope you get to Paris another time.”

  Her face remained emotionless. “Right.” She opened the door. “I doubt that’s going to happen.” Her dull red hair faded in the sunlight as she walked out the door.

  “Ma’am. You may go back now,” said the officer at the front window. The door buzzed, and Lenny and I walked through in silence. As soon as the door shut and we were past the metal detector, I began to speak.

  “I think Jean Erickson knew more than she was telling us. She was acting odd, wasn’t she?”

  “It’s hard to tell how someone would act after being accosted by a curly-headed woman on a mission,” said Lenny.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets. “I am not on a mission, Lenny. Amanda told me Jean asked after Molly Jaspers, and she just denied knowing her right to my face… and yours.”

  “Hey, don’t pull me into this. I wasn’t even on the plane. My plans for spring break were music, beer, and sleep. In that order. But where do I suddenly find myself? At the police station chasing down a woman who may or may not have known some professor I’ve only met twice. Hmm. What does that sound like? It sounds like Em Prather throwing a monkey wrench into my entire week.”

  “Oh, oh?” I said, my face turning hot. “Then why did you ask her how she knew Jaspers was a teacher?”

  He crossed his arms. “That was for your benefit. In case you didn’t catch that she already knew Jaspers was a professor.”

  “Exactly,” I exclaimed with a stamp of my foot.

  Before he could respond, Ernest approached us.

  “Ernest,” I said, “I’d like you to meet my friend Professor Lenny Jenkins.”

  Ernest shook Lenny’s hand. “Good to meet you, Lenny. I’m Ernest Jones, but you can call me Ernie.” He smoothed his hair to one side.

  Lenny looked from me to Ernest. “Ernie? Do you work here?” he said, squinting at his clothes.

  “Oh yes, definitely. I’m one of the detectives on the case.”

  “Don’t let him tease you about your name,” I said confidentially. “His name is Leonard. Which reminds me, you might try another nickname. Maybe E or Jones… or EJ.”

  He moved closer to me. “Yes, I see what you mean. Jones sort of rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? But EJ… I think my middle name would have to start with a J before I would feel completely honest using it.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We only need go as far as e e cummings to prove that point.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Lenny said, shaking his head.

  “No, I think Ms. Prather is on to something,” Ernest said. “Nobody calls me Ernie. I mean nobody. It doesn’t stick for some reason.”

  “Are you on your way somewhere?” I asked.

  “Right. I was on my way to get your friend Nick Dramsdor a sandwich from the staff vending machine. He’s complaining about missing lunch, and I don’t blame him, but we need to get through these interrogations as soon as possible. He’s the last one.”

  “Well, we won’t stop you,” I said. “One quick thing, though. We ran into the lady in red, Jean Erickson? I assume you called her in for questioning.”

  “Of course I did. Jack Wood, my partner, thought you were trying to deflect suspicion from the group, but I told him it sounded like a solid tip to me.”

  “See there, Em?” whispered Lenny. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by getting caught up in this. You want to get back to Copper Bluff, don’t you? I sure as hell want you to.”

  “Oh she’s caught up in this already,” said Ernest. “But we didn’t get much from Jean. She claimed to have no association with Molly Jaspers whatsoever.”

  “I need to talk to Amanda again about the conversation. I’m certain she said Jean asked after Molly,” I said.

  “How do we know Amanda’s telling the truth?” said Lenny. “And now this Jack Wood suspects you.”

  “I like your friend here,” said Ernest. “I can see why you brought him.”

  “Because I saw them talking, that’s how,” I said, ignoring Ernest’s comment. “And let’s not forget I was sitting across the bar from her. The way she looked at me was disconcerting, to say the least. I know it’s not much to go on, but it was upsetting to have a stranger stare at me with such hostility.”

  Lenny spoke to Ernest, putting one large hand on his shoulder. “Ms. Prather here has a very active imagination. She imagines lots of things about lots of people, especially with a few airport cocktails coursing through her veins. She’s not used to drinking much and is terrified of flying. But she is also sort of brilliant and incredibly kind. She has nothing to do with this murder. I can promise you that.”

  A crowd of police officers around a TV screen scowled in our direction. Lenny stepped closer.

  “Did she tell you she teaches literature?” Lenny added in hushed tones. Even his quiet voice was loud and deep. “She excels at analyzing stories; that’s where her talent lies. You might explain that to your partner next time he gets suspicious. Tell him that’s the only reason she’s so inquisitive.”

  I knew Lenny was trying to help, but I didn’t need him to defend my actions. I had been nothing but forthright with the police, and if that drew suspicion to me, so be it. I was willing to deal with the consequences as long as I knew I was doing the right thing for André and the university. I opened my mouth to say so and realized Lenny was standing so close I could feel the heat between us. It was almost palpable. I took a step backwards, but my entire retort flew out of my head. I stood silently blinking. Lenny’s face broke into a smile, and I narrowed my eyes at him. I hated that he knew exactly what I was thinking.

  Unperturbed by our heated discussion, Ernest smoothed a wrinkled one-dollar bill on a nearby office doorframe. “You both bring up excellent points, about the redhead and the literature. But there is that sandwich I need to get, and your friend Nick is hungry.”

  “Of course. We’ll tell Nick you’re on your way,” I said.

  Now that we were away from the bustling office traffic, the hallway grew quiet. “I like Ernest,” I said. “Jack Wood, his partner, is not as easy to talk to. He’s got too much on his plate. He wants to close this case as soon as possible, no matter whom he arrests.”

  Lenny rolled his eyes.

  “Just wait until you meet him. You’ll see what I mean.”

  “He’ll probably be investigating me by the time we leave.”

  The benches were empty now, except the one occupied by Nick Dramsdor. He stood as we approached.

  “Emmeline, you’re back. André took the students and left a long time ago.”

  I nodded. “He texted and said they are heading back to the hotel now. By the way, we ran into Ernest in the hall. Your sandwich is coming. This is Lenny Jenkins.” Lenny shook Nick’s hand
. “He happened to be in Minneapolis for spring break.”

  Nick nodded. “Well, it’s not exactly Mexico, is it?”

  “You can say that again. Next year I’m stowing away in one of my student’s luggage,” said Lenny.

  “Do you teach in Copper Bluff?”

  Lenny nodded. “Yeah, American Lit.”

  Now we all sat down. “I teach at State.”

  Lenny leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. “So, how did you get in on this little shindig?”

  “Molly Jaspers and I collaborated on several projects. She invited me because she was going to give a lecture at the Sorbonne on organic farming.”

  “I bet she was a staunch advocate of that because of her work in land conservation,” I said.

  “She was surprisingly neutral on the issue,” said Nick. “She recently learned of the large carbon imprint organic farming could have on the environment due to the amount of methane that is emitted in composting. I mean, we always knew composting emitted methane, but a recent experiment of hers showed triple the emissions she expected.”

  “That couldn’t have been welcome news for organic farmers,” said Lenny.

  Nick shook his head. “Nor their supporters. In France, organic is big business, and the government has increased subsidies to encourage even more. France is Europe’s largest agricultural producer.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “And Molly was to speak to this problem—with methane emissions—at the Sorbonne?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t I just say that?” asked Nick, looking from me to Lenny.

  “You look lost, Nick, so I’m going to fill you in on what’s happening inside Em’s head. What Em is trying to suggest is that Molly was killed before she could share her study at the Sorbonne. Is that a possibility?”

  Nick blinked rapidly. Such a sinister thought had never crossed his mind. “It could be. Molly did have a tendency to make enemies when it came to her academic work.” Seeing the look on our faces, he continued, “She refused to tell people what they wanted to hear; that’s all. She was so intelligent and passionate. She was three steps ahead of everyone else. Even me. People hated that. I didn’t, though. I admired her intelligence.”

  That wasn’t all he admired, I guessed. From Lenny’s cocked eyebrow, I could tell he agreed. It was impossible to listen to this man and not suppose that he had a crush—academic and/or otherwise—on Molly. His words bordered on hero worship.

  “But there weren’t any French people on the flight,” Nick thought out loud.

  “Of course there were. We were flying to Paris,” I said. “The plane must have been full of French people returning home.”

  “I mean, we didn’t know any of them,” clarified Nick.

  A smile began at the corners of Lenny’s lips, and his eyes turned from intense to playful. He wasn’t looking at Nick; he was looking at me. “You know one of them, quite intimately.”

  Nick scowled. “Who? I don’t know a one of them.”

  But I knew whom he referred to: André Duman.

  Chapter Twelve

  Intimacy was such a loaded word, especially when used in conjunction with André. You could know someone intimately and not be intimate, or you could be intimate yet not know someone intimately. How well did I really know this man—or how well did he know me? For instance, there were things about myself I didn’t share. Period. But could people decipher those things without my telling them? Was that what “knowing” a person really meant? After all, wasn’t it easy enough to know a person, in an obvious way, by the things she shared about herself? Perhaps it was the unsaid things, the things people closest to you found out without your saying, that resulted in intimacy.

  What did I really know about André, then? The adjectives that came to mind were synonymous: good-looking, handsome, and attractive. Yet when I got beyond his appearance—no easy task—I realized that he, like Molly, had one overriding passion, and that passion just happened to be France.

  Ever since André came to Copper Bluff five years ago, he had been zealous in his commitment to bring the French language and culture to our campus. He had started as an adjunct, a part-time instructor, and now was a tenure-track professor, leading a team of students and professionals thanks to a grant he’d procured by sheer willpower. His accomplishments spoke to his dedication and fervor. Yet there was more. Despite variable enrollment, he had convinced the dean to consider creating a French major. Failed students wouldn’t deter André; he would find a way to enroll more students next fall.

  Now I no longer questioned if people could suspect André but would when it came to his prestigious Sorbonne. He had gone out of his way to procure a spot for Molly’s lecture, and what she had to say would have embarrassed him and angered his fellow Frenchmen as well. Maybe people would believe he’d rather poison her than suffer that humiliation. Maybe a part of me wondered that as well. I needed to prove to myself he couldn’t have killed Molly if I was going to prove it to anyone else.

  In my heart, I knew André didn’t kill Molly, but the truth was, I knew very little about his life before Copper Bluff. I shook my head, baffled by the superficiality of our relationship. How could I help defend André when I barely knew him?

  Until a laugh interrupted my deliberations, I didn’t realize Lenny was studying me on the drive back to the hotel.

  “Beret Boy doesn’t look too good in this light, does he, Em?” he chuckled. “You might have your work cut out for you.”

  He was reading my mind again.

  “André looks good in any light—candle, fluorescent, or otherwise,” I said, nibbling on the Skittles I had bought on the way out of the police station. “The problem is, I don’t know much about him. And I’ll need to find out everything I can if I’m going to help clear his name. I don’t suppose you could fill me in on any particulars you might have gleaned from him over the last couple of years?”

  He glanced at me then returned his attention to the traffic. His jaw was set and his expression serious. He was considering my question carefully, but from the look on his face, coming up with no immediate answer.

  “I know he likes scarves. I know he speaks French. I know he can’t play darts worth a damn.” He shrugged. “You’re the one who’s gone out to eat with him. What did you talk about?”

  I picked over several green Skittles, digging for a red one. I couldn’t think of a thing André and I had discussed in any depth. “We talked about Paris… he’s been there. He grew up in France. Obviously.”

  “Obviously.” Some of the playfulness returned to his face. “Did he say he had family there?”

  “Not that I remember. I think I asked,” I said, chewing thoughtfully. “Yes, I asked, but he was vague in his answer.”

  “You’re making that up,” Lenny snorted. “You can’t remember a damn thing except his eye color.”

  Dark brown came to mind. We sat in silence as I tried to recall the details of our single dinner together, but it had been impromptu. I had been eating alone at Dynasty, the Chinese restaurant in Copper Bluff, when André joined me. We hadn’t spoken of our families at all, but he had said he was from an area much like Copper Bluff. Maybe that meant he was from a farming community. What did I know about him that could confirm that? I knew he adored croissants. He drove to the small bakery in a town about twenty miles from campus just to buy them. Because they reminded him of his mother’s. His mother made her own croissants, her own bread, her own pies. She also canned pickles. “He has a mother who cans!”

  Lenny slapped his hands on the steering wheel. “See there? That proves he can’t be arrested.”

  I shook my head. “Actually, it supports the theory that he might come from a rural area.”

  “Ah. I get it. You think his family might own a farm. But lots of people can pickles and other stuff who don’t have farms. They’re called gardeners,” he said.

  I threw him a look. “He once said he came from a place that resembles Copper Bluff, and we have a lot of farms arou
nd our area. I need to discover if his family’s connected to organic farming in any way, shape, or form. I don’t want the police linking André to Molly’s lecture, and you know Nick Dramsdor will inform the police of the many merits of Molly Jaspers’ talk.”

  A giant smile spread across his face. “I wish I could be there.”

  “Where?”

  “When you interrogate André,” he said. “I wonder if he’ll start sweating like he does. Now there’s a time when I’d use the word profuse.”

  “Profusely.” I stuck the Skittles in my bag. “I’m not going to interrogate him. I’m just going to ask him about his family back in France. Really, I should have asked something like this a long time ago. I mean, I know your family so well I could sit down and eat Christmas dinner with them.”

  “Except that they’re Jewish.” Lenny laughed.

  “I’m sorry. I meant Hanukkah,” I said with a wave of my hand. “The point is, I know nothing of André’s backstory, and now I wonder if that was intentional.”

  Lenny pulled up alongside the hotel and put the car in park. He looked at me. “Remember how I warned you about confusing people with characters? You’re doing it again.”

  Lenny had once told me he thought I turned book characters into friends because I was an only child and had no one to play with when I was young. It was a habit, he claimed, that persisted into adulthood. When I heartily disagreed, his reply was, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  “Not everyone has a backstory,” he was saying now, “or even a front story. Sometimes people leave things out because they’re embarrassing. Or sad. Or not important.”

  I shook my head in disagreement. “Everyone has a backstory. What details they choose to leave out are just as important as the ones they choose to tell.”

  “Just be careful, Em. I’m not particularly keen on the guy, but that doesn’t mean I want you to kill your chances of teaching in an actual French Department with a few ill-timed questions. You know how sensitive he can be when he thinks he’s being insulted.”

  I knew what he meant. I loved André’s passionate nature—but I didn’t relish the thought that he might turn it on me. He could be as stubborn as anyone I’d ever known; once he had his mind made up, it was hard to change it.