An Act of Murder Read online

  I looked at the clock. Although my office hours weren’t officially over, no one had stopped in, and I didn’t have any appointments scheduled. If I left now, I would have time to visit the dorms, but not for lunch too. I rummaged through my coin jar, looking for quarters but finding dimes. The junk food in the vending machine was getting more expensive every year. I fondly remembered the days when I could buy a Snickers for fifty cents. Now I would be lucky to get a pack of Lifesavers for that.

  I shoved several coins in my pocket and locked the door behind me. For a moment, I stood absolutely still, struck with a desire to go through Windsor Hall. I shook my head. There was no reason to go that way. The meeting wasn’t until three o’clock, and the vending machine was directly downstairs.

  I decided on a Salted Nut Roll and proceeded out the back door of Harriman Hall. The Vanderwood dorms were behind our building and faced the parking lot. As the fall air entered my lungs, a thought entered my mind. This was the exact place I had overheard the conversation between Austin and the girl the night of the English Department potluck. Though I tried to recap the evening’s conversation in my head, the only thing I could remember was the woman’s threat. Austin wanted a woman to tell someone something—he wanted it badly. But who and what? Sarah was the first girl who came to my mind. Maybe he wanted her to tell Sean about their relationship, to make it official. It made sense.

  I continued toward Vanderwood. The freshmen dorms were not our campus’s best feature; they were small, dark, and old. How any eighteen-year-old could manage to stay in one an entire year was beyond me, but most did, though I’d heard more complaining this year than last. They were due for a remodel, that was certain, I thought as I pulled open the front door. If the sherbet-orange paint wasn’t enough to repel students, the sea-foam green furniture most certainly was.

  “Your ID, I said!” a student yelled from behind a desk, and I turned around and looked behind me, not realizing at first that she was talking to me.

  “Of course, you need a university ID. Well, let me just find you one here,” I said, rummaging through my oversized purse. “Here’s my library card,” I mumbled. “I suppose that won’t work. I’ve been looking for that for … oh here it is! It’s me with shorter hair. I really prefer it, don’t you? When it’s long, it’s constantly blowing in my face.”

  The student’s tight-lipped smile seemed to say, “Please move on. You’re bothering me.”

  “Thank you. I’m just going up to room twenty-two. Don’t worry, I’ll find it,” I added, though the girl didn’t budge an inch in my direction. She went back to her book without so much as a polite nod of the head.

  I assumed room twenty-two was on the second floor, since the girls and boys were usually separated by floors, and several females sat chatting or working on laptops on the first floor. I also assumed that room twenty-two was not off limits because the student downstairs hadn’t objected when I mentioned the number. Perhaps it was still in use by Austin’s roommate. Walking up the short staircase, I realized that I needed to come up with an explanation for being there—and soon. The door of the room before me looked just like the others, no yellow police tape in sight.

  Before I had a chance to knock (or find the right avenue of exploration), a young man flung open the door. Stunned, I stood with my mouth open, not moving. The student nearly knocked me over, but he stopped short, balancing on his toes like a tipsy ballerina.

  “Hey … sorry,” he said. His angry eyes relaxed a bit when he realized I was not a student.

  “Not at all,” I said, quickly recovering. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “No, I was just on my way out.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you long. I just have a few questions about Austin. He was your roommate?”

  “Oh, sure.” He let his skateboard fall to the floor. He’d had this conversation before. “He was a good guy. I liked him.”

  “You were friends, then?” I asked.

  “No. Not really. He wasn’t into skating. I don’t know what he was into. He wasn’t around much. Neither am I.”

  I nodded. Not all college roommates ended up being best friends. Not even most. “The night before Austin … died, he went out with some guys from a fraternity. When he came back, did he appear sick?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t think so. I know he was rushing them …. Are you with the cops?”

  “Oh no. I was his English teacher,” I said offhandedly. “What time did he return?”

  He looked bewildered by my line of questioning. “I don’t know. Midnight? I’d just got back myself.”

  “I know he had been drinking, but did he stumble or vomit or behave in a suspicious way?”

  “He just went to bed.”

  “Hmm,” I said, trying to extend this answer. I picked at something sticky on my sweater, which must have fallen from my Salted Nut Roll.

  He kicked at his skateboard.

  I smiled.

  He added, “He must not have been too sick, though. He woke up at the crack of dawn the next morning.”

  “Was that unusual?” I asked.

  “Hell no! I mean, no. That’s the one thing I hated about him. He got up every day around six o’clock. Said it was an old habit from the farm. It annoyed me.”

  With a sympathetic smile, I said, “Those early birds, who can stand them? So, did he seem the same that morning? Or was he hung over?”

  “He was fine as far as I could tell. I didn’t get up.”

  I nodded toward his skateboard. “I see you have somewhere to go. I won’t delay you any further. Thank you so much for your time.”

  He smiled shyly. “Oh … well … thank you, Professor …?”

  I smiled back. “You are welcome. Have a good skate.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The committee met in Windsor again, but this time, the group was rather subdued. After all, it had been only six days since Austin died in the theater, and nobody was as excited about the play as they had been two weeks ago.

  It was three o’clock, and the air was stale from inactivity. The narrow vault of the ceiling made the small room feel even smaller and the silence heavier. We were all waiting for Alex, though no one said as much. Jane was reading a journal, Rita was scanning a handout, Dan was looking out the window, and Ann was flipping through a magazine. I dug through the stuff at the bottom of my purse and found my cellphone. Unfortunately, it was out of battery life, and now I had nothing to do but wait.

  I caught Dan’s eye when there was a noise at the door we thought might be Alex. But it was just someone passing by.

  Dan barely smiled, but it was enough for me to start a conversation with him.

  “Have you heard any more from Officer Beamer?” I asked.

  Everyone looked at Dan, who glanced around the room before answering.

  “No. I saw that girl who was with him, though,” said Dan. “She searched the theater again. She seems to think Austin left behind a clue to his death.”

  “I’m sure she’s right,” said Rita, returning to her handout. “Something in there killed him. The sooner you find out the better … before the killer strikes again.”

  Dan looked shocked by her statement, but she didn’t notice—or care.

  “Did she say what she was looking for?” asked Ann.

  “No, she didn’t,” Dan said. “But I think maybe it was an article of clothing. She asked where he kept his belongings.”

  “Of course,” I said. Sophie was on to the gloves.

  Now everyone was staring at me, so I returned to Dan. “And then what?”

  “That’s all, I guess. I got the feeling she thought I knew more than I was telling her, but that wasn’t so. I told her everything I knew.”

  “I’m sure you did,” said Jane. “The police are treating everyone like suspects. It’s ridiculous.”

  “He died in the theater—that’s true—but that doesn’t mean a theater person or even a person killed him. He might ha
ve had asthma or some underlying condition ….” Dan’s sentence drifted off.

  “He was healthy as a horse as far as I could determine from the newspaper article,” added Rita. She was busy making corrections on her handout.

  “One never knows,” said Jane. “He could have been on drugs for all we know. Meth. It’s huge in the Midwest. Huge.”

  “That sounds like bullshit,” said Rita. “Wasn’t he in ROTC?”

  “Yes, he was in ROTC,” I said.

  “Sure he was. They don’t let a kid with asthma in ROTC,” said Rita.

  “Did you know him well, Emmeline?” asked Jane. “Your interview wasn’t mentioned in the article.”

  “Yes, I did. Quite well.” I said this only to spite Jane. “He was beginning to regard me as a confidante.”

  Ann looked back and forth between me and Jane. “But they really don’t know what happened to him, do they?” she said. “It could have been any number of things.”

  Now Rita put down her pencil. “If I were a betting woman, I’d bet what killed him is in the theater. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well I’m glad we got that out of the way,” said Alex as he breezed into the room. “A student is dead. It’s terrible. It’s sad. It’s unfortunate. But it doesn’t have anything to do with my theater. That I can assure you.” Here he looked directly at Rita, but she was unfazed. “We have a play to produce in less than six weeks; that is the subject at hand. So unless anyone has anything else they would like to add, I would like to move on to the play.”

  I certainly did, and I certainly wanted to, if only for Rita’s sake. But we all kept quiet.

  “Oh good,” said Alex. “I’m so glad we can move on.”

  And move on we did. We moved through all the items on the agenda within forty-five minutes. Alex appeared disgusted with us for even discussing Austin’s death. To him it was petty gossip that was undermining his play, and in some respect, I could see where he was coming from. If the death continued to be the focus of the theater, his production would suffer, and for a narcissist like Alex that would be devastating.

  When we cut out early, Jane looked crestfallen. She’d been counting on having the opportunity to discuss Medieval Mondays. The rest of us were relieved. The committee hadn’t been the artistic collaboration it had been last year, and I was glad my two-year commitment would be fulfilled in the spring. After the group dispersed, Ann and I walked down the hall to her office. She turned on the light and flung her purse onto the chair.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I said, taking the other free chair.

  “Didn’t you think Alex was just a bit over the top? It’s not like he holds some special title in the group.”

  “I agree. And I certainly do not want him speaking for the rest of us if that’s going to continue to be his attitude.”

  “I know. Right?” Ann said, clicking on a desk lamp. “It’s like he’s mad that that kid died in the theater.”

  “Can you believe the audacity of it?” I said, shaking my head. Jane passed Ann’s room on the way to the English Department. I smiled briefly as Jane’s eyes met mine. She waved and kept walking.

  Ann raised her eyebrows. “Speaking of audacity .…”

  I chuckled. “I know.”

  “Well, anyways, I was sorry to hear he was in your class. I know you’re pretty close to your students.”

  “Thank you,” I said, growing serious again. “I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I said his death has turned my life upside down.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “I completely understand. I would feel the same way if one of my students had an accident.”

  I wanted to say that I didn’t think his death was an accident, but after Claudia’s warning, I thought it better to refrain. Instead I smiled and switched topics. “So, I heard Owen had an interview in Minneapolis? You must be positively thrilled.”

  She leaned forward. “Thrilled isn’t the word. If they really want him, they’ll find something for me, too. Do you know how many faculty they have in their Women’s Studies program?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Eighteen! Eighteen people make a real department last time I checked.”

  “That’s larger than our English Department,” I said.

  “I know. Cross your fingers.”

  I stood up. “I can do better than that. I’ll light a candle for you at St. Agnes.”

  She laughed. “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

  I shrugged. “I used to be, but I’m seriously considering rejoining just to get in on the bake sale.”

  “See you later,” Ann called as I walked out and turned toward the English Department. I tiptoed across the narrow passageway that connected the two buildings, certain that one day I would fall right through.

  Jane was talking to Giles outside his door, which was also just outside my office. I tried to enter with as little commotion as possible, but since my keychain was twice the size it should have been, they heard me.

  “And that was it, right, Emmeline? He just dissolved the meeting without one mention of Medieval Mondays,” said Jane.

  “We’ll meet again,” I said noncommittally.

  “I think he was just annoyed with Rita and all that talk about the theater. It was embarrassing,” she said to Giles. He looked at me for confirmation.

  “He might have been irritated with her, but we covered everything on the agenda. Besides, he and Rita are really good friends.” She would know this if she had been in the group more than a few weeks.

  “Well it’s one less thing off your plate, right? Now you can get back to more important tasks—like grading your students’ papers.” Giles looked at me so directly that one would think he’d seen the stack gathering dust on my dining-room table.

  “They are our number one priority,” said Jane, oblivious to the silent exchange between Giles and me.

  I went inside my office and packed up my belongings. This weekend I would hit the grading hard. I would finish every paper, good and bad, and bring them back Monday morning. I wouldn’t think about Austin or the murder or the theater. I would think of only those students who could still use my help.

  As I shut and locked my door, I saw Thomas Cook, the avant-garde researcher of cereal boxes, do the same. His new office was two doors down from mine.

  “Have a good weekend,” I said as I approached the stairwell.

  “Any plans?” he asked.

  “Nothing special,” I said, not wanting to admit that I had an overdue appointment with a bottle of French wine. “You?”

  He tossed his shiny leather satchel over his shoulder. “No. I need to finish a conference proposal.”

  I turned toward the staircase.

  “Emmeline … I was going to ask you something.” He caught up with me.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “I read in the student newspaper that Austin Oliver was your student.”

  “Yes, he was,” I said. We walked down the staircase together.

  “You never mentioned it that day at the theater,” said Thomas.

  “I guess it didn’t come up. You were in a hurry to get out of there, if I remember correctly.”

  “If you remember correctly, I had class,” he said. He swept the thick hair out of his eyes.

  He was smart and direct. No insinuations would get by him without a rebuttal.

  “Anyway, I wanted to ask you what Austin was like.” He held open the outside door for me.

  “In what way do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean, was there anything about him that seemed peculiar? Unusual? Was he ill-tempered?”

  I stopped mid-path. “Ill-tempered? Not at all. Why would you think so?”

  “I read something recently in a well-received journal that claims ill-tempered people—even young ones—tend to come to violent ends.”

  I didn’t need a well-received journal to come to that conclusion. Besides, how did he know Austin’s end had been violent
? “The university has deemed his death accidental.”

  “Accidents are inherently violent. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I began walking again. His was the type of academic discussion that annoyed me. “I suppose. Why are you interested?”

  “I just told you. It would be primary research supporting this journal’s hypothesis.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to be a killjoy,” I said, my voice sterner, “but Austin was not an ill-tempered student. He was from a local farm.”

  His cheekbones grew sharper. “There is a substantial amount of violence that takes place on farms. Animals, for instance. It takes a certain temperament to kill another living thing.”

  Thomas Cook didn’t know the difference between a pig farm and a soybean farm. “Perhaps he milked one too many cows in his previous life, and he was secretly seething inside,” I said.

  His face relaxed. “You are mocking me.”

  I smiled. “No, I’m not. I promise. It’s just been one of those weeks.”

  “I get it. You are upset by his death. I should have thought of that, and I apologize.”

  “No apology necessary.”

  He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “It seems we keep getting off on the wrong foot. First you, now me.”

  At the recollection of the faculty potluck, I internally cringed. How he had the moxie to bring it up, I did not know, but I was gaining a new respect for him. “Well, I guess we’re even now.”

  We approached the edge of the campus, and he turned to say goodbye. He stuck out his hand. “Clean slate?”

  “Clean slate,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Have a good weekend, Emmeline.”

  “You also,” I said and turned toward my street.

  Chapter Eighteen

  If I anticipated Friday mornings because of the Catholic Daughters, I anticipated Friday evenings even more for the late-night movies on the Public Broadcasting channel. It was really the only time I turned on the TV, except to hear the morning news. I had an entire ritual that began with takeout from Vinny’s, my favorite Italian restaurant, a bottle of Bordeaux from Variety Liquors, and an enormous piece of chocolate cake from Sweet Nothings. The dessert I picked up first, since the store closed at five o’clock. A middle-aged woman name Debbie always waited for me—I think almost counted on me—to arrive every Friday just before five. We visited for the five minutes it took her to package the cake in a Styrofoam box; she was especially interested in hearing about any news at the college. Years before, she had worked in the college bookstore and was fascinated with campus gossip. I, too, looked forward to this visit. We were friends in a way.