An Act of Murder Page 17

  I swerved between groups of students and teachers and laptop carts, silently cursing their immobility. I didn’t see people but obstacles in my way, so when André tapped my shoulder, I jumped noticeably, despite the fact that the hallway was buzzing with traffic.

  “Emmeline! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

  “You didn’t,” I lied. “How are you?”

  A smile spread across his face. “I am walking on water.”

  “Should I call the pope?”

  “You should call anyone you like and tell them that you and I are headed to Paris this spring.” He squeezed my shoulder in a feeble embrace.

  I stood baffled for a few moments, puzzling over his words or his touch—I wasn’t sure which. Then it hit me. “Of course! The grant. You got the money.”

  “Correction. The French Department got the money.”

  His radiant smile made it impossible for me to grasp the ramifications of his statement. “We don’t have a French Department,” I finally said.

  “Dean Richardson says if I can sustain enrollment this spring, he will put the idea to the test this fall. And I’m happy to say that you will be my first new hire.”

  I just stood there, perplexed, and for some absurd reason I found myself thinking about Lenny.

  “No more freshman composition … yay!” He did a little cheer and waved his hands around.

  “This is terrific news, André,” I said. “I am so happy for you.”

  “And you, Em. I am so happy for you.” He took my hands and grasped them for a moment before releasing them. “You are happy at this news, no?”

  I smiled. “Of course. It’s what I always wanted. I am ecstatic. Absolutely ecstatic. I just happen to be on my way to an appointment right now that I can’t miss. I apologize.”

  “No, no. You go. I understand. We will talk about this later. Perhaps over dinner again?”

  Was this André’s way of asking me out on a real date? It was too much, and I had too many other things on my mind to think about at the moment. “Of course,” I said, turning toward the exit. “Great … good. Can’t wait. See you soon then.”

  Claudia was right, I thought as I shoved my empty coffee tumbler into my tote. This ordeal with Austin was making me positively strange. All my dreams were coming true three steps in the other direction, and here I was, walking away. It was as if I didn’t care at all about the future, only the past and how it related to one person: Austin. I needed to find answers and put my preoccupation with his death to rest once and for all.

  There’s something eerie about a theater not in use—its size, its curtains, its empty seats.

  And then there was the murder; it had happened right here on this stage. An act of murder. It sent goose bumps all over me to think that Austin had lain inside this theater, dead, for hours in a campus of five thousand. How could that be? It couldn’t possibly, and yet it had been. I closed my eyes for a moment and then opened them, shaking my head to rid myself of the tingly feeling slowly passing over my body. I flung open the door, disgusted with my own fears.

  Luckily I caught the door—and myself—just in time before making a grander entrance than I intended, for there were two people rehearsing on stage. I stood silent for a moment beside the door, listening, before I realized I recognized the voices. One belonged to Alex; the other, I couldn’t completely comprehend, but from the softness of it, it must have been Dan’s. I inched slowly against the wall, toward the stage, and discovered it was Dan. And they certainly weren’t rehearsing for the play.

  “I explained to you already that nothing in my theater killed that student. She can look all she likes, but she isn’t going to find one thing, not one,” said Alex in loud voice. Obviously he wasn’t worried about being overheard.

  Dan’s response was much quieter. “I’m just asking why Officer Barnes keeps coming around. Obviously she thinks something in here is responsible.”

  “Or do you mean someone, Dan? Isn’t that what you’re really implying? By all means, accuse me of killing the boy, but please do so in a direct manner. I can’t take all this wishy-washy bullshit.”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep my surprise from escaping.

  “Come on, Alex. I didn’t say that.” Dan shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “You didn’t have to. You sulk every time I come around, looking at me out of the corner of your eye. And the set? It’s weeks behind!”

  “A few days at most … and I think that’s pretty good with everything going on around here lately.”

  I was impressed with Dan’s newfound nerve. At least his voice had lost its shakiness.

  “Pretty good? Pretty good? When has pretty good ever been enough for you?” boomed Alex.

  “It’s always been enough for me. It’s just never been enough for you,” said Dan. “Nothing’s ever good enough for you. And that’s why … that’s why I can’t believe you weren’t here the night Austin died. You live, eat, and breathe in this theater.”

  Alex just laughed. “There. You see? I knew you were holding something against me. I’m glad you finally had the gall to say it. Now maybe you’ll be able to get some work done.”

  Dan remained motionless. “So? Were you?”

  Alex stopped mid-stage, and the theater went as quiet as I’d ever heard it. I could feel my heart knocking in my chest as loudly as the narrator thought he heard the heart of the buried man in Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart.” For a moment, I imagined I had been discovered. Then Alex turned to Dan.

  “How dare you insinuate I had anything to do with that boy’s death! No wonder the police keep hanging around here—feeding off your every word. I don’t need to answer to you, and I won’t. You, you … don’t even have a PhD!”

  With that, Alex stormed off the stage, and Dan muttered, “It always comes down to that.”

  Dan, like me, suspected that Alex knew more than he was letting on, but what it was exactly, I couldn’t say. It wasn’t as if he had a motive for killing Austin; he barely knew him. And as he told Dan the day of our meeting, it was nice to have a volunteer like Austin around. Did that mean he wouldn’t cover up something to protect his precious theater? Not at all. I believed he would go to any lengths necessary for the show to go on as planned. The theater, after all, was his life.

  Alex was here constantly. He didn’t have a family or any close friends to care for at home, and in the midst of a production, he was prone to seven-day work weeks. He had said as much before to our committee and was proud of it. What if Dan were right, then, and Alex had been at the theater the night Austin was murdered? Perhaps there was something wrong with the gloves, something defective. That would explain why they were missing; it might also explain why Sophie kept “hanging around,” as Dan put it. She didn’t believe anyone would be dimwitted enough to bring the gloves to his or her own house, which would only underscore the person’s guilt.

  I waited for Dan to leave the stage, but he didn’t. He looked ghostly, moving slowly and deliberately against the pale city streets. At any moment, I expected to hear the grim voice of Javert from Les Mis, but all was quiet and remained quiet, affording me no opportunity to leave or even move.

  I don’t know how long I stood like that—it felt like hours—but when Dan left, I finally squeezed open the door. The light pierced my eyes, and I had to blink the tears away before I could see. I reached into my purse for a tissue and was startled by a woman’s voice.

  “Em! What are you doing over here?”

  Two women were mere inches away from me, waiting for an answer, but I was still disoriented and couldn’t manage a word. Instead I dabbed at my eyes, recognizing in quick bursts that it was Ann, from Women’s Studies, dressed in slim jeans and knee-high boots, and the long-fingered lady, draped in a fabulously yellow shirt. “Hi Ann. And … Martha? Right?”

  “Right you are,” said Martha. “Emmeline and I met the other day,” she told Ann by way of explanation. “Ann just stopped by to go
to lunch. The theater is a popular place today.”

  “Small world, right? You can join us if you’re not busy. We’d love to hear your take on the new electronic grading system,” said Ann. “It’s cumbersome, if you ask me.”

  I was quite hungry, and Ann was always fun to talk to. Plus, I wanted to ask her about Owen’s interview. But the thought of an hour-long lunch was unbearable because my mind was still on Alex and Dan’s conversation. I would probably be less than adequate company. “Thanks, I’d love to, but I have so many papers to grade, I’d better not. I’m just going to grab a quick bite.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll do it another time. Hey, we didn’t have a meeting with Alex, did we?” asked Ann, glancing around the entryway.

  By the anxious look on her face, I could tell that she thought she had been left out of something. I did my best to reassure her she had not. “No, no. I just peeked in at the set to see what they came up with. Have you seen it? It’s awe-inspiring. Your Art Department is doing a terrific job.”

  “It takes a village, doesn’t it?” answered Martha. “I can’t believe all the people Alex pulled into this production. Even Ann here,” she said with a playful push. “It’s going to be well worth it, though. Well worth the work.”

  “Indeed. Anything great always is. Let’s just hope it opens on time and without a hitch. It would be a shame to waste all this talent.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?” asked Martha.

  Ann and I looked at each other. “You know,” said Ann. “The accident.”

  Martha dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her hand. “If I know Alex, and I most certainly do, he won’t let anything interfere with opening night. As they always say, ‘The show must go on.’ ”

  Ann began buttoning up her leather jacket. “I suppose you’re right. It feels a little morbid just the same.”

  “I have to agree,” I said. “It’s going to be hard to forget Austin died right there as I’m watching the play.”

  “I suppose a lot of people will be thinking the same thing. Anyway,” Martha said in an extra chipper voice, “we should think of it as a memorial, a tribute, to Austin in some way. After all, he himself was an active member of the theater.”

  I forced my jaw to remain steady. Some academics really had a flare for the dramatic. “Well, have a good lunch, ladies,” I said. “It was nice seeing you again, Martha.”

  “You, too, Em,” said Ann. “And stop by soon. We need to chat.”

  “I will. We have a lot to catch up on.” I gave her a sly wink, and she smiled.

  I was the first one out the door, and I rushed to the streetlight to cross. A cold October wind was blowing, and my eyes began to water all over again. Martha and Ann drove by in Ann’s little Honda and gave me a beep. I waved back, wondering what they must think of me with tears sliding down my face.

  After picking up a sandwich to go at the Express, I came across Claudia Swift as I was exiting the commons. She was discarding her lunch tray.

  “Claudia!”

  She turned and looked.

  “How was your weekend?” I asked her as I approached.

  “Wonderful.”

  “Wonderful?” That was it? When I asked Claudia a question, I never received a one-word answer.

  She smiled. “Yes, wonderful. Gene and I have decided to take a couples’ cruise in the spring. If everything goes as planned, he will propose to me in Italy.”

  I was confused. “But you’re already married.”

  “Not really. Not anymore. We must renew our vows before I will allow him back upstairs.”

  My anticipation for spring semester was growing every day.

  “Are you headed out?” I said.

  “Yes. Let’s walk.”

  “So I wanted to ask you something.” I wrapped my long knit scarf twice around my neck.

  “I could tell,” she said, pulling on her leather gloves.

  “Really? Okay. Well, it’s about Thomas Cook.”

  “I know,” said Claudia. “His marriage to Lydia seems highly suspect.”

  “Now that you mention it … but that’s not what I was going to ask you.”

  She turned to look at me.

  “It’s his research,” I said. “I thought his PhD was in composition and rhetoric, but the other day, he told me he was reading an article on temper and violence. What am I missing?”

  “A lot. If you’d hang around after the faculty meetings, instead of darting out right away, you would have heard him talking about his new research project: violence on American campuses.”

  I raised my eyebrows as if surprised. “Wouldn’t that research be better suited to a sociology professor or something?”

  “Not the way he’s looking at it. He’s examining the language journalists use to portray violence on college campuses. He’s very smart and very hip and very young. My bet is he won’t stay in Copper Bluff long.”

  I threw up my hands, and my sandwich jumped inside the paper sack. “He’s only a few years younger than I am.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s married anyway.”

  “That’s not why I was asking,” I said, exasperated. “I was asking because he inquired about Austin Oliver. I had to know why.”

  She stopped and pointed her finger at me. “I won’t participate in this witch hunt, Em. You and I both know it’s become a substitute for your research. When’s the last time you finished a chapter? Don’t answer. I can see a lie forming on your lips. Now go. Stop thinking about Austin Oliver. Start thinking about Heloise. Write. Write as if your life depended on it.” With a dramatic toss of her hair, she turned toward Harriman Hall.

  I walked across the remainder of campus alone, but despite Claudia’s advice, I did not stop thinking about Austin. At least I knew now that Thomas Cook’s interest in Austin was academically related. After running into him at the theater, I had suspected he was there for a more sinister reason.

  When I arrived home, I snuggled up on my couch with a cup of coffee. Then I called Lenny and told him what I had overheard in the theater.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have met you there,” he said.

  “Because I want you to come back tonight with me.”

  I heard a deep sigh on the other end.

  “Hold your air antics,” I said. “I think Dan is on to something. Alex works incessantly on a production. How is it that he wasn’t the one to find Austin? How is it that he remains clueless about Austin’s death?”

  “Okay, so let’s just say that we mastermind our way into the theater undetected. What then? What are we looking for?”

  I sat up straight, putting my coffee cup down hard on the table. “For starters, the missing gloves. And who knows? Maybe the poison that was used to kill him. I’d love to get a good look at that cleaning cabinet.”

  “I thought Sophie said it was poison, not Pine Sol.”

  Lenny could really be insufferable. “Well, we don’t know what Alex is hiding in there until we look, do we? Besides, Pine Sol can be poisonous when it’s ingested.”

  Now he laughed out loud. “Gloves, poison, a fake ID, and getaway cash? The sky’s the limit when it comes to your imagination.”

  “So are you coming or not?” I said.

  “Of course. What time?”

  I looked out my window as if determining the time by the color of the sky. I knew the campus doors were locked at ten o’clock, so there was no way we were getting in there after hours without a key.

  “Nine thirty? What do you think?” I asked.

  “That’s what I was thinking. Okay. I’ll pick you up a little after nine,” said Lenny.

  “Meet me at my house. We’ll walk over.”

  “Ah yes. Tire tracks.”

  I smiled. “And wear black.”

  “I was thinking camouflage ….”

  “You don’t own anything camouflage. One of your Beatles t-shirts will do just fine.”

  “You know Prather, I’ve had just about enough of your ap
parel suggestions. You’re starting to get downright … personal.”

  “Don’t be late,” I said, clicking off the phone. I gathered my legs beneath me, curling up in the corner of the couch. Last night’s sleep had been fleeting at best, and tonight’s would be even worse, for my mind had a hard time quitting an engagement even long after it had quit me. Dickinson jumped onto my lap, as if on cue, and began purring and shedding copiously. I knew there was no chance of my large cup of coffee taking its effect now, and my eyelids succumbed to the heaviness weighing them down. Ten minutes … surely ten minutes never killed anybody.

  I had read enough about dreams to be leery of them, to watch for unconscious signs of distress and despair. Every dream I had ever looked up in my dream dictionary was defined as an obstacle dream; I was always going through or about to go through or overcoming some sort of obstacle. I concurred with the book. Yes, life presented its share of obstacles, and I found myself constantly entangled in their courses. But this dream—this ten-minute interlude—I didn’t dare to look up. For if it were truly a sign of my repressed feelings, I didn’t know a thing about love or romance or all those things I had read about in books. It was incongruous, really. To think that I had arrived at this age so completely naïve.

  I pushed the cat aside, blaming her for my hot cheeks. “Good god, Dickinson! Look at all this fur. No wonder I’m sweating.” I took the lint roller off the coffee table and rolled it over my sweater. “You’d think you didn’t bathe fifty times a day.”

  Dickinson sat looking right through me.

  “Go on,” I continued. “Sit and stare. You’re not the borderline insomniac. You can’t imagine the things one can dream when bereft of sleep. It means nothing. My dream about Lenny means nothing.” I folded up my blanket. “Actually, it means one thing. It means I’m tired—exhausted. It means I can’t even dream sanely anymore.” I shook my head. “Imagine what I’m like conscious. A walking time bomb!” I tossed the pillows from the floor to the couch. “Well, that’s all going to change when I figure out this thing tonight. You wait and see.”