Coming Up Murder Page 10

  Sitting cross-legged on my couch Saturday morning, I paused mid-sip of my coffee. I had been in the women’s bathroom. Could the prankster be a woman? It was possible. The strand of hair in the bouquet was long and black, and I was convinced the person who left the flowers and took the skull were one in the same. Still, it would be easy enough for a man to slip into the downstairs women’s bathroom undetected, and Andy’s hair was black. Nobody was around, and the lighting was minimal.

  Setting down my cup, I grabbed my laptop. I couldn’t let the mystery overshadow my work responsibilities, and Owen Parrish had said he’d email me with the manuscript changes. Sure enough, a file attachment waited in my inbox. I double-clicked on it, eager to see his notes. His comments appeared in red, dozens of them. Starting with the Table of Contents. I hovered over the lengthy note, which said he’d like me to rewrite the concluding chapters; he wanted a happy ending. The resolution wasn’t as satisfying as it could be.

  I scrolled furiously to the final chapters. Owen was treating the book like a work of fiction. That was why he wanted the final chapters reworked. He liked ending on a progressive note. I would have liked that too, but history wasn’t linear; it didn’t start at point A and end at point B. Women writers had made progress; that was true. Anyone reading the book would understand that women writers had advanced by leaps and bounds. However, we couldn’t take those advances for granted. More progress was needed, especially when it came to promoting diverse voices.

  The more I read, the angrier I got, at Owen and myself. He’d found several cringe-worthy errors. As I told my students, everyone needs a fresh set of eyes to look over their work, including me. I was glad for his careful reading. But research, sources, and footnotes had been disregarded—or worse, deleted. Dewberry was a small press that published mostly fiction. They didn’t publish academic work, so why did I send them my manuscript in the first place? I wracked my brain for the reason. I couldn’t remember. They were on a list somewhere. I was a numbskull who trusted lists. I liked lists. But this one had let me down.

  If I approved Owen’s edits—did I have a choice?—the book would end with examples of men using initials, instead of names, to disguise their gender, a practice used historically by women. This ending made it appear as if women had overcome their creative barriers. Men imitating them became proof of that. It was a simplistic way to finish the book, and if it wasn’t late Saturday morning, I’d tell Owen just that. I closed the file and returned to my email. That was the wonder of technology. I could tell him. He might not be in the office, but he was certainly checking messages.

  I liked the sound of my fingers on the keys, punching out each word hard and fast. I couldn’t compromise my scholarship. I needed to make that understood. I could change words, sentences, or even paragraphs, but disregard the challenges women writers faced today? I didn’t think so.

  After I hit the send button, I felt much better. I could focus on the rest of my day, which included a trip to campus for an Elizabethan music concert. It was part of the Shakespeare Festival, the part Jane Lemort was in charge of. Despite Jane’s involvement, I was looking forward to the event, which would provide another opportunity to investigate Tanner’s death. Whoever killed him not only knew Shakespeare’s work but used a scene from Hamlet to stage his death. An Elizabethan concert seemed like an event the killer would attend.

  My cellphone buzzed from the kitchen counter, and I hurried to answer it, thinking it could be Owen Parrish. Had he received my email? I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. I peeked at the screen: Sophie Barnes. “Thank goodness it’s you.”

  “Hi, Professor Prather,” said Sophie. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing. Actually, one thing, but it has nothing to do with you. I’m publishing a book, and I thought you were the editor. I just sent him a seething email.”

  “In Business Writing, you said never to do that,” said Sophie. “You said give yourself twenty-four hours to cool down before responding to bad news.”

  “I know,” I said. “I wish I’d follow my own advice once in a while. Anyway, it’s good to hear from you. I’ve been wondering about the investigation.”

  “Officer Beamer told me you were my official contact at the university—for any questions about Shakespeare.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m glad to help.”

  “I knew you would be,” said Sophie, conspiratorially. “And I do have a question. It’s about the poison used in Hamlet. Does it have a name?”

  “Hebenon,” I said. “The problem is hebenon doesn’t exist. Henbane—a plant—is the closest scholars have come to naming the poison. They think it’s what Shakespeare meant when he wrote hebenon.”

  Sophie sighed. “This case just gets weirder and weirder.”

  “Did the coroner test the liquid in Tanner’s ear?”

  “That’s the problem,” said Sophie. “It came back plain H2O. There are no wounds or evidence of foul play.”

  “Except the dead body,” I said.

  “A dead body itself doesn’t determine foul play,” said Sophie. “We need evidence, and right now, the strongest evidence is the allusion to Hamlet. Beamer thinks Tanner might have staged it himself. He played the role of Hamlet. He, better than anyone, would have known that scene.”

  “Impossible,” I said. “Tanner was about to reveal an important breakthrough in his research on Shakespeare. Why would he kill himself?”

  “Why does anyone kill themselves?” said Sophie. “His girlfriend said he was upset opening night. Maybe he was unhappy with his performance and recreated the scene in the garden to ensure his death wouldn’t quickly be forgotten.”

  “But his body was moved,” I said. “Beamer told me about the blanching.”

  Sophie muttered something under her breath then said, “Maybe he had help.”

  “That’s still murder, isn’t it? Assisted suicide?”

  “Why can’t we find something then?” She sounded frustrated. She’d been working this case for over twenty-four hours and couldn’t call it murder yet. I’d be frustrated too.

  “You will,” I assured her. “The coroner will get back to you soon with the blood and urine analysis. And I’m sure the toxicology results will yield some information.”

  “But those tests take forever,” said Sophie. “I need something now. His parents want answers, and I don’t blame them.”

  I didn’t envy Sophie. I couldn’t imagine dealing with grieving loved ones. It was hard enough facing Reed and Giles, knowing how badly they were hurting. “Look, think of it this way. The H2O does tell you something. It tells you that the liquid in his ear was a prop, like any other in theater. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t henbane. You’ve eliminated one possibility.”

  The line was quiet for a moment. “Thanks, Professor. You still know how to make me feel better.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “And I have more news for you. I don’t know if it will help or hurt, though.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  I told her about the flowers in Jacob’s pocket and the skull in the bathroom.

  “Whoever we’re dealing with is an expert in theatrics,” said Sophie when I’d finished.

  “Or has gone to a lot of trouble making us believe he or she is an expert.”

  “True,” said Sophie. “Either way, take extra precautions until we figure it out.”

  I promised I would before I hung up. Then I texted Claudia, asking if we were still meeting at the concert. Though I’d pressed Lenny to attend, he’d refused, saying he’d promised to fix his elderly neighbor’s gutters. I peeked out my kitchen window. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It sounded like a repair that could wait, but he disagreed. He said you never knew when the next deluge would come. He didn’t want to see Jane. I knew that was the real reason. As a musician himself, he should put aside their petty squabbles for the greater good of music, and I told him so. But he said he was staying away for the greater good of his sanity. With all the crazy
things happening on campus, I could understand.

  Claudia said she would meet me there, so I hurried to finish dressing. I slipped into a purple top, jeans, and flats. With a quick swipe of lip gloss, I was out the door, walking down Oxford Street, the sweet scents of spring pushing away thoughts of death and murder.

  The fragrance of apple and cherry blossoms, heady and rich, reminded me how much I loved this time of year. Flowers seemed like a luxury in the heartland. Crops for food, grass for animals, rain for both—those were necessities—but flowers reminded one of the beauty in life, the color and diversity. The variety was appreciated, and townspeople tended to their gardens as if they were pets or children. They referred to their perennials as people. I once heard Mrs. Gunderson call her snapdragons tired after a thunderstorm. They required rest from the relentless winds.

  My thoughts changed when I came upon Mia and her roommates’ house. Since Tanner’s death, flowers evoked a new emotion, the opposite of delight: fear. Someone had used them to scare me and Jacob. I might never look at flowers the same way.

  Alice walked out the door, and my mood lifted. I was thankful she lived there. It was nice to see a familiar face, even if I didn’t know her from my classes. She was smart and approachable. If I asked her for help, she would give it. It felt as if I had an in with her roommates. “Hey, Alice. Heading to campus?”

  She stopped mid-step. Even though it was Saturday, she was toting a backpack. She smiled, her brown eyes tawny in the sunlight. “No way,” she laughed. “I’m on my way to work out.”

  “I’m going to the Elizabethan music concert.” I motioned toward campus. “How’s Mia doing?”

  Alice joined me on the sidewalk. “She’s okay. It will take some time.”

  “And how about you and the others?”

  “Good,” Alice said. “Well, not good, but better than Mia.”

  I nodded in understanding. “You and Tanner were both in the English Department. I imagine you had some classes together.”

  “Not even one,” she said. “He was a PhD student. I’m getting my master’s in TESOL. But like you said, we were in the same department, and his girlfriend is my roommate. I feel terrible about what happened.”

  “How long had Mia and Tanner been dating?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “A year? No, wait … Mackenzie dated him first. That’s how they met. So I guess Tanner and Mia dated maybe six months.”

  “That had to be a little awkward,” I said.

  “You said it, not me.” Her eyes were small but full of intelligence. I liked her sharpness.

  “Did Tanner and Mackenzie still—”

  “I hope not,” Alice was quick to answer. “You could ask Mackenzie. She’ll be at the concert. Just don’t tell her I told you. I don’t want her to think I’m gossiping behind her back. That would make life miserable for me.”

  “I won’t mention your name.”

  Alice started toward her car and stopped. “It’s just not right, what happened to him. You know what I mean? He should still be alive.”

  The depth of her disillusion was reflected in her clear brown eyes. It wasn’t fair. Tanner was a young student, like her. If he could die young, maybe she could too. The look made me even more determined to find Tanner’s murderer.

  “I know.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Anyway, I’d better get going. I’m late for my barre class.” Alice unlocked her car doors.

  “Have a good workout.”

  She got into her car and drove away, and I continued toward campus. I wished I’d been able to soothe her concerns. But I had no answers—yet. She’d given me a direction to pursue, however. She said Mackenzie and Tanner used to date, which meant Mia wasn’t the only one close to Tanner. The waitress at the pub said he was flirting the night before his death. Could Mackenzie have been one of his pursuits? A love triangle might explain his jealousy. If he was cheating on Mia, he might think Mia was repaying him in kind. I could ask Mackenzie about it at the concert.

  Cars were already lined up on the street parallel to the museum. Soon others would crowd Oxford Street for a parking spot, extending the line all the way to my house. Scholars had flown in for the conference, and attendees had paid for tickets. The festival attendees who knew about Tanner’s death believed it was a tragic accident—an isolated incident. After all, the word “murder” had not yet been spoken.

  A bustle of people congregated under the huge ash tree that spread its branches over the fountain outside Harmony Music Museum. It was the perfect day for a spring concert, warm with little wind, and concertgoers talked and laughed as they greeted one another. Claudia waved from one of the chairs that’d been placed in rows near the fountain, and I hurried to join her. The musicians had almost finished setting up, and the chairs would fill quickly.

  “Thanks for saving me a seat,” I said, tucking my backpack under the chair.

  “I knew you’d be running late.”

  “I’m not late,” I said. “I’m right on time.” I motioned to her outfit. “Love the dress, by the way.” Claudia wore a maxi dress that brushed the ground with its colorful, floral-patterned fabric. In her hair was an elaborate rose-blossom barrette. I had the feeling that getting dressed was an event at her house, not last-minute or rushed, as it always ended up being for me.

  “Thank you. I adore purple on you,” she said, returning the compliment.

  I adored purple, too, and all the other bright, bold colors. “I ran into Mia’s roommate, which held me up a little.” Seeing Claudia’s puzzlement, I added, “Tanner’s girlfriend, Mia. She lives right down the street from me. That’s another roommate.” I pointed to the girl setting up with her viol, a precursor of the violin. “Mackenzie. She used to date Tanner. It seems like he got around. A real player, if you know what I mean.”

  She adjusted her flower barrette. “Do me a favor. Strike that word from your vocabulary.”

  “Why? I used it correctly.”

  She gave me a look. “Correct—but still awkward.”

  Jane, her dress black with a high neck, approached the microphone, and the crowd quieted. After thanking us for coming, she began her lecture. “Music was very important in Shakespeare’s time,” she said. “Shakespeare made over five hundred references to music in his plays and poems. As You Like It and Twelfth Night had six songs each, and many of his sonnets were put to music.” It was a fascinating lecture. I couldn’t help but think of the Beat poets and how music, too, accompanied their poems, though in a different century. Of course it would be difficult to find two more different styles.

  Jane finished her lecture by introducing the musicians and their instruments. Mackenzie played the viol, one musician played a fife, another a cornet, and—could it be?—Jane Lemort played a lute. I hadn’t dreamt it after all. She must have mentioned it during one of our conversations. She was fond of listing her accomplishments. I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, bracing myself to witness yet another of her achievements. I couldn’t wait to tell Lenny.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Classical music isn’t my favorite, but the concert was excellent, lute and all. I had to give Jane her due for putting on a solid performance, and the other musicians as well. On top of being a popular softball player, Mackenzie was outstanding on the viol and I supposed the violin as well. During introductions, Jane mentioned that Mackenzie had been invited to play with the symphony, and considering today’s performance, no wonder. She must have spent hours practicing. That might explain her and Mia’s presence last night in the theater building, which housed the Music Department as well. It also made her a suspect in the bouquet and skull pranks. She could’ve given Jacob the flowers and placed the skull in the bathroom. But to what avail? I could understand seeking revenge on Jacob as motivation for the flowers, but why target me? I’d done nothing wrong. If anything, I was on her side, trying to solve Tanner’s murder. Unless she was the murderer. In that case, we were definitely on different sides.
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  The performance over, I clapped loudly, partly to blow off a little steam. I was starting to understand Sophie’s frustration. Each step forward in the case meant another one back. Hopefully talking to Mackenzie would constitute a giant leap forward.

  “Lenny should have been here,” said Claudia. “Where is he?”

  “Cleaning his neighbor’s gutters,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll get a full recap on Monday.” I nodded toward the stage, where Jane was accepting praise on behalf of the group. “Let’s go add our congratulations.”

  “First applause, now kudos for Jane?” She shook her head. “Did something happen to you today?”

  “As a matter of fact, it did,” I said, scooting out of the row. I explained about the email from Owen Parrish and my quick response.

  “Go back a sec,” said Claudia. “You signed the contract with Dewberry without telling me?”

  I couldn’t deny it.

  “I thought we agreed I was the published author here. You were going to talk to me and Gene before signing the contract.”

  “I know,” I said with an irritated wave of my hand. “But I was going to sign it anyway. Why waste time? You know me. I like getting things done.”

  “You and the rest of the Midwest,” she muttered.

  “The point is, I don’t like his revisions,” I said. “His comments lead me to believe he didn’t read the entire book, or if he did, he skimmed it.”

  “You said yourself they don’t publish nonfiction,” said Claudia. “That should have been a red flag.”

  “Regardless, we’re past red flags. I’m on fire here.”

  She smoothed a flyaway strand of hair. “You’ll have to make the changes. You signed the contract.”