Obviously they’d succeeded, because otherwise Bryan would have been under arrest by now. I sucked my finger. One thing was certain. The library sure was a hell of a lot busier than when I’d gone to school. Maybe people were more studious now.
I turned to the next page. The sheet was taken up with a description of the physical search of the university and adjacent sites. Basically, security had retraced the path Bryan and Beth had taken, and they’d had just as little luck. The first thing they’d done was go through Melissa’s dorm, taking care to check both the basement and the roof. Nothing was found to be amiss.
Next, they’d driven through the main campus, pausing at each dormitory to query students and to check basements and rooftops. Then they’d made a careful circle through Tyler Park, stopping to question a number of joggers and Frisbee players about any unusual activity they’d noted the day before. The results had been negative. Finally, they had driven through Oakwood Cemetery, a place designed at a time when people thought visiting with the dead was the proper way to spend Sunday afternoons, and now used by dog walkers, frats for their initiations, and by groups of junior high and high school kids for spontaneous beer parties and other less savory adventures.
According to the report written by campus security officer Mike Chapman, he’d paid particular attention to both the areas around the old, ruined mortuary chapel and the caretaker’s house, and to the area where the older graves and mausoleums are located, going so far as to get out and try the doors on the mausoleums. All proved to be locked, a circumstance that had not always been the case several years before.
And that was that.
Seven hours later, the university finally conceded the truth of what Bryan Hayes had been saying all along by deed if not by word, and notified the Syracuse Police Department, who, although I didn’t have their report, I was willing to guess had gone through the same steps the campus cops did and came up with the same results.
Nothing. Zip. Nada.
I closed the file.
I was just about to put it away, when I heard a sound that set my heart racing.
Chapter 18
What I had heard was a thud as the door to the outer office slammed shut.
That was bad. What followed was worse.
“Betsy,” Morrell yelled out. “Where are you? I forgot. I need our department’s projected expenses for next year for my meeting with Andrews.”
I was moving toward the window, when I noticed what I should have noticed before but hadn’t, because the joining had been obscured by the curtains. There was a Plexiglas sheet fastened over the bottom half of the glass, put there, no doubt, to keep people like me out. Simple but effective.
Given the circumstances, there was only one thing left to do.
So I did it.
Taking a deep breath, I walked over to the door, opened it, and stepped into the outer office.
Morrell’s jaw dropped.
I gave him my biggest smile. “Your secretary will be right back,” I told him. “She said to wait out here, but I was sure you wouldn’t mind my sitting in the chair in your office. The ones out here are bad for my back.”
“Is that right?” By then Morrell had gotten control of his face back. He put his hands on his hips. “What the hell were you doing in there?”
I looked him in the eye and lied like a trooper. “I told you. Waiting for you. I have a question I forgot to ask you.”
“There’s going to be hell to pay,” Morrell managed to get out through clenched teeth as he pushed his way past me.
“Well, if you feel that way, I guess I’ll speak to you another time.” And I hurried out the door and into the hallway. It seemed like a good time to leave.
I was almost at the front door, when a hand grabbed my shoulder. I lifted it off and spun around.
Morrell was holding a file, the Melissa Hayes file I was willing to wager even though I couldn’t see the label, in his other hand. “You got this out of my cabinet, didn’t you?” he demanded, brandishing it under my nose.
I lied again. “No.”
Morrell’s eyes narrowed, his mouth thinned, he pushed his chin forward. The guy was really pissed. No doubt about that.
“I’m going to have your license revoked,” he growled.
“Go ahead.” I don’t think this was the time to tell him I didn’t have one.
A woman opened the door of the office we were standing next to and poked her head out. “Is everything okay?” she asked Morrell.
“It’s fine.” He waved her away. “Go back to work. Everything’s under control. I’m going to arrest you,” he continued in a lower voice.
“On what charge?”
“Breaking and entering, for a start.”
I laughed. “I doubt it.”
He waved the file in my face again. “This was misplaced. That means that someone—and that means you—put it back in a different place.”
“Maybe you misfiled it.”
“I never misfile things.” Then Morrell opened the manila folder and pointed to a page. “I suppose I did this too?”
“What?”
“This.” He pointed to a small spot of blood. A souvenir of my paper cut.
Terrific. I shrugged. “You cut yourself?”
Small drops of spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. “I can have this analyzed. I can prove you were here.”
I laughed. “A DNA screening for a B and E. The D.A.’s not going to underwrite something like that for something like this. And anyway, do you really want it to get out that the head of security’s files get broken into? How is that going to sound? Think about it.” I half turned to go.
Morrell’s fingers burrowed into my shoulder. He wrenched me around.
“This is the last time I’m going to tell you to get off me.”
He brought his face to within an inch of mine. “I find you on campus again, and you’re going to be very sorry.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” I slammed my elbow into his ribs as hard as I could.
Morrell let out a stifled gasp. His grip loosened.
I walked off without looking back.
I didn’t take Morrell’s threat too seriously—what was he going to do, print up a poster with my face on it and distribute it to all the secuirty guards?
It was a little after one-thirty in the afternoon and I was sitting on one of those blue chairs in the lobby of Schaefer, watching the students walk in and out, and waiting for Beth to return. According to the girl in the room across the hall, she should be coming by any minute, but any minute had proved to be over twenty minutes ago. I checked the clock on the wall, and then I tried calling Bryan Hayes again, but he wasn’t in either. I went back to the Times crossword puzzle.
At one-forty Beth came through the doors. Even though it was a little over thirty degrees and the wind was blowing, she was wearing a light cotton jacket. She’d been seduced by the sun, just as I had, into thinking it was warmer than it was. Her backpack was half hanging off her left shoulder, and she was carrying a white take-out bag, held out in front of her. She noticed me as I got up to greet her, and smiled.
I pointed to the bag. “Anything good in there?”
“Just my lunch. Have you made any progress with the Melissa thing?” she asked.
I told her I hadn’t.
She told me that was too bad, but then she really hadn’t expected any.
I nodded and said that there was just one little detail I wasn’t clear on.
Beth wanted to know what it was.
“Why don’t we go up to your room so you can eat that while we talk?” What I had to ask her was best asked in private.
She nodded her head in agreement. As we walked to the stairs, I filled Beth in on what I’d been doing in regard to Melissa. Even though I’d put in a fair number of hours—it’s amazing how many hours trying to get information from people takes—it didn’t sound as if I’d been doing much of anything when I laid it out.
“Your
new roommate never seems to be in,” I observed as Beth placed her key in the lock.
“That’s because she’s living with this guy off campus.”
“Then why is her family paying for a room in the dorm?”
“They don’t know.”
We stepped inside. “Seems like a leitmotif.”
The sugar glider was running around in excitement. Beth dropped her backpack and jacket on the floor, then went over and took the little animal out of his cage.
“Did you miss me?” she crooned to him as he ran up her arm and perched on her shoulder. He chittered a reply. She reached into the white paper bag and brought out a carrot stick and gave it to him. “Besides oranges, that’s his favorite food,” Beth explained to me. “Only you can’t give him too many because they upset his stomach.” Then she sat down on the bed, took her sandwich out, and began to eat. “Sorry,” she said through a mouth full of food. “I’m starving.”
I was too, but eating would have to wait till later.
The wind was rattling the windows as I sat down next to Beth. It sounded colder out than it was.
“I just have one question.”
Beth took another bite. “What’s that?”
“Did you meet anyone interesting at the Shake?”
“Oh, my God,” Beth cried. Then she started to cough.
Chapter 19
Beth continued to cough. Alarmed, the sugar glider leaped off Beth’s shoulder and onto the nightstand.
“Are you okay?” I inquired, thoughts of the Heimlich maneuver dancing in my head, when Beth didn’t stop. Her face was getting red. Her eyes were beginning to tear.
She nodded and pointed to her throat. “Down the wrong way,” she managed to gasp out before another fit of coughing overtook her.
I ran into the bathroom, got a glass of water, and handed it to her.
“Sorry,” she said when she could speak again. “I took too big a bite. My mother is always telling me to eat slower.” She wiped the tears away from under her eyes with the back of her hand, and began coaxing the sugar glider back onto her arm with low clucking sounds. A moment later he skittered up her sweater sleeve and settled himself on her shoulder.
“That’s not why you choked,” I said gently.
Beth raised her chin slightly and straightened her spine. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she insisted.
“If you didn’t want anyone to knowyou went to the Shake, why did you tell the security guard the name?”
Beth took another bite of her sandwich. This time she seemed to be directing all her energy into chewing. The sugar glider gurked, and she tore off a tiny piece of bread and gave it to him. It occurred to me as I watched her that it was fortunate she hadn’t asked how I knew, because I wouldn’t have had a good answer to give her.
“Why didn’t you just say you were someplace else?” I persisted. “No one would have known.”
“What’s wrong with the Shake?” she inquired defiantly after she swallowed.
“Nothing.” I studied Beth. Resolution had strengthened her features. “Nothing at all.” She was staring straight ahead at the wall across the way. Suddenly the answer to the question I’d just asked dawned on me. “You didn’t think anyone would know what the Shake was, did you?”
Beth finished the rest of her sandwich and carefully wiped her hands with the paper napkin that had come in the bag.
“You know, no one really cares anymore,” I said into the deepening silence. “I certainly don’t.” And it was true. I didn’t.
“Cares about what?” she asked, playing dumb.
Hoping to get a reaction, I replied, “Cares that you’re a lesbian. Excuse me, bisexual.”
Beth opened and closed her mouth, then opened it again, like a fish gasping for air. She was trying for outrage and ended up with silly. I’d seen high school kids give better performances in school plays. “Just because I went to—”
I interrupted, pointing out that most women would have picked another place.
“There was a group I wanted to hear, not that it’s any of your business.”
“In this case, I think it is.”
“Anyway, did you forget? I have a boyfriend.”
“No. I didn’t forget.” Years after the fact I’d found out my college roommate had been sleeping with my boyfriend and her girlfriend at the same time.
Beth crushed the white bag into a ball and tossed it into the direction of the trash can. It arched, hit the rim, and bounced off. She cursed under her breath and started to get up. The sugar glider let out an alarmed gurk, and she turned to quiet it.
I told her not to bother. “I’ll get it.” I scooped up the paper, tossed it in the trash, and sat back down. “It’s very fashionable these days. Magazine covers. Sitcoms.” When I’d been in school we’d never mentioned lesbianism, but then we hadn’t talked much about heterosexual sex either.
Beth tugged the neck of her turtleneck up and gave me a blank look. “So I hear.”
I tried the direct approach. “Were you having an affair with Melissa?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted after a pause of a second or two had gone by. We were back at indignation. She wasn’t too successful doing it the second time around either.
I tried again. “Was Melissa having an affair with Jill? Is that why she was so upset when she died?”
Beth laughed shrilly. “Where do you get this stuff? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. What makes you think Melissa was doing anything like that?”
“Someone told me.” I didn’t think it was necessary to tell her the someone was Marks.
Beth gnawed on her bottom lip.
“You know,” I continued as I studied the top of the dresser that had once housed Melissa’s clothes. Now it was covered with pictures of Beth’s roommate’s boyfriend. I wondered what Melissa had decorated it with when she had lived here, but it was an idle thought and I didn’t pursue it. “You’re not talking to a Christian fundamentalist. I couldn’t care less what you or Melissa did. The only reason I’m asking is that it could give me another line to explore in searching for her.”
Beth didn’t reply. I put one of my fingers under her chin and gently turned her face around until we were looking into each other’s eyes. She looked very young. If I’d had to have put an age to her then, I would have said thirteen. I lowered my hand. “You do want me to find her, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” she cried. “Why do you think I told you to talk to Professor Fell? Did you?”
“I just came from there.”
“And?” Beth demanded, her voice high and hard.
I thought about what he’d said about Bryan. “He gave me some ideas. Now I’d like to hear yours.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. You seem to be the person she confided in the most.”
“But I thought ...”
“I know. Evidently, though, he and Melissa talked mostly about psychology. You’re the one Melissa seems to have talked to the most.” I reached inside my backpack and got out a stick of gum. I would have killed for a cigarette, but that would have to wait till I got outside. “Want one?” I asked, offering the rest of the pack. Beth nodded. She reached over and took a stick. “I don’t think Melissa really confided in anyone,” I observed after a moment had gone by.
Beth smoothed out a wrinkle on the comforter in an automatic gesture, after which she lifted the sugar glider off her shoulder. He was so small, he fit into the palm of her cupped hand. “He reminds me of a stuffed animal I used to have when I was six years old,” she said. “I carried him around everywhere. His name was Leon.”
“What happened to him?”
Beth shrugged. “My mother threw him out. She said I was too old for toys like that.”
Mine had thrown out my blanket. “Were you?”
She shrugged again. “Probably. Anyway, how can I remember how I felt about something that happened that
long ago?” She lightly petted the top of the tiny animal’s head. “I wonder if that’s why I’ve always liked small things?” she mused.
“Is that why you kept him?”
Beth nodded. “No one else wanted him. It was the least I could do.”
“Why did you feel you had to do anything?”
Beth turned to face me. Her expression was fierce. “Because I was her roommate. I should have known something was wrong.”
“The same could be said about her brother and her boyfriend,” I pointed out.
“That’s different. They’re guys. The only way they’d notice anything was wrong is if you bled all over them.”
“A lot.”
Beth gave me a ghost of a smile and went back to fiddling with her comforter.
“So Bryan didn’t know about his sister?” I asked.
“He knew she was upset.”
“I’m not talking about that.”
Beth’s chin went up again. She wasn’t going to give it up. “There’s nothing to know,” she insisted, but this time her tone was a little weaker.
“But if there was,” I went on, determined to get something, anything, out of her. “Hypothetically speaking, would he be upset?”
Beth shook her head ever so slightly as the sugar glider chittered and climbed back on her shoulder. I wondered if the little animal thought she was a tree.
“I haven’t the vaguest idea what he would think,” she said. “We never talked about that kind of stuff.”
“How about Tommy?”
She shook her head again. But this time there was an almost imperceptible pause.
“Did you tell him?”
“No.” Beth studied her sneakers.
“Who did?”
“My boyfriend,” she whispered.
“Why did he do that?”
“Because he was his friend. He thought he should know.”
Vanishing Act Page 13
