An Act of Murder Page 9

  The other man, scrawny and wrinkled, said, “No, sir. Nothing like that in Copper Bluff.”

  Harry was getting irritated. You could tell by the way he began to wipe the glasses more vigorously. “Well, I know what I know.”

  The man in the red and white cap slapped his knee and laughed again. “That ain’t much!”

  “I know a boy doesn’t just up and die for no reason, and I know a cop doesn’t come around asking questions for no reason, and I know when you, Jerry, have had too much to drink. You’d best be getting home to Alma before I call her myself.”

  At this, the old man pulled down the ear flaps on his cap, reached into his middle pocket, and threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter. He was no longer laughing.

  “See you tomorrow, Jerry,” said the thin one. Jerry grunted a reply and left.

  Harry took a drink from his glass of whiskey, wiping underneath it with his bar rag. “Amateur.”

  The thin man kept his head down, content not to respond.

  I turned my attention back to Lenny, who from the look of his face had also eavesdropped on the conversation. He finished the last of his beer, placing the heavy mug back on the napkin with a thud. “It looks like we’re not the only ones with suspicions.”

  I finished my beer also. “And Giles thinks we read too much Poe.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day, I arrived on campus bright and early. Though I didn’t teach on Tuesdays, I knew Lenny did, and I wanted to talk with him about what I’d mentally dubbed “The Case.” Dan had mentioned two things of interest: the gloves, which we had discussed at some length at Harry’s, and Sarah Sorenson. I didn’t know Sarah personally, but I was certain I could find someone in the English Department who did. I needed to know if she was the girl from the parking lot—if she was the one who had threatened Austin.

  As I entered Lenny’s office, I braced for an odor, but surprisingly, there was very little. He must have eaten at home—or at least thrown the food wrappers into another receptacle. When he noticed me eyeballing the trashcan, he explained, “Barb. I’ve been sneaking it into her office.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Are you sure you really want to get on her bad side?”

  “I didn’t know she had a good side,” he said as he laid down his pen. He had been making notes in a spiral notebook, probably his day’s lesson plan, when I came in. Now that he’d put down his pen, I hoped he had enough material to keep his students busy for at least an hour and fifteen minutes.

  “So let me guess what brings you to campus on a Tuesday,” he said. “Austin.”

  “Yes and no. I was thinking over what Dan said about Sarah. And that night in the parking lot. I kept wondering if Sarah might be the girl Austin was arguing with. Do you know her?”

  He shook his head. “Not personally, but she’ll be easy enough to get ahold of. I mean, she’s right here in our department. Who’s got her? Giles? Probably Dunsbar, if she’s a creative writer.”

  I nodded. “I think so. Giles would know, and so would Barb. But you heard Giles: I’m in a fragile state. We can’t risk him knowing about our inquiries.”

  “Right. I agree.”

  I stared at him blankly for a moment. “We agree? Oh dear. I’m in a more fragile state than Giles realizes.”

  Lenny leaned back in his chair. “I think I like this new fragile state. It’s a hell of a lot more exciting than … what’s an antonym for ‘fragile’?”

  “Indestructible?”

  Lenny shrugged. “Not exactly what I was looking for but yeah, whatever.”

  I laughed.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Come in,” Lenny said.

  It was Claudia Swift. We both breathed sighs of relief.

  “Oh, I had a feeling I’d find you here,” said Claudia. She found a folding chair beside his bookshelf and unfolded it. Sitting down, she carefully spread out her full broom skirt around her chair. “It’s hardly believable, is it? One of our students, dead.”

  “Did you know him, too?” I asked.

  “Well, I didn’t have him in any of my classes, exactly, but I still considered him every bit one of my own students,” said Claudia.

  “Of course,” said Lenny.

  “I’m going to have my creative writing students write eulogies today and select the best ones to read at his memorial service, a week from today, ” said Claudia.

  “You’re a creative writer!” I exclaimed as if I hadn’t taught alongside her for a year. Maybe she had Sarah in one of her classes.

  She didn’t notice. “Certainly I am, but I think the students should have the opportunity to memorialize their fellow student, don’t you?”

  I quickly recovered. “Yes, you’re right. Do you have many students in that class?”

  She seemed to be recalling each student’s face as she counted. “Oh I suppose … twenty or so.”

  “Twenty. That’s quite a few for a creative writing class,” I said. “Do you know Sarah—”

  “Sorenson,” Lenny added.

  “Sarah, yes. Of course. She’s a poet … and a pretty good one.” She looked between Lenny and me. “Why do you ask?”

  “I think she was a friend of Austin’s. Maybe even a good friend,” I said, hoping she’d catch my drift.

  “Really? I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure she dates Sean Chan,” said Claudia.

  “Sean Chan?” asked Lenny. “How do you know that?”

  I, too, was rather surprised that she would be able to recall a first and last name for the boyfriend of one of her students but said nothing.

  She walked over to his coffee pot and examined a chipped cup. “May I?”

  “Sure,” said Lenny. “It’s a couple hours old though.”

  She poured a cup anyway.

  She sat back down and crossed her legs, perching the cup atop her knee. “When you teach creative writing, you get to know your students … intimately. They write about their mothers, fathers, boyfriends, girlfriends, companions, cats, dogs, family vacation spots. No topic is barred. We allow our creative energy to reign supreme—”

  “So she writes about him in her poems?” Lenny broke in.

  I was glad of his question, for once Claudia got on the topic of creative energy, it was hard to get her off.

  “Yes. That, and I met him once at the spring banquet, when Sarah was awarded a Binger Scholarship.” She went to take a sip of her coffee and then stopped. Perhaps she had seen something floating in the cup. She set down the cup and looked at Lenny. “You are acting peculiar today. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  Lenny gave her his usual warm, boyish smile. “What about Em? Is she acting peculiar?”

  “Em is always peculiar … in a good, quirky way,” she added when she noticed my frown. “You, however, are a constant. Except for today.”

  I laughed at this and so did Lenny. Claudia, though, remained quite serious.

  I stretched out my legs and tried to appear casual. If I knew Claudia, she would not want me distressing one of her students or disturbing her creative energy. “So, what time is class?”

  She looked at her watch. “In about fifteen minutes. I’d better get going.”

  “Which way?” I said, standing up. “I’ll walk with you.”

  “Oh, it’s right here, downstairs. It couldn’t be a worse location. But I have to stop at my office.”

  Lenny and I watched Claudia leave. “I have to get going,” I said after she left.

  “Tell me what Sarah says, okay?” he said in a low voice.

  “I will,” I said and walked out of his office and down the stairwell.

  Harriman Hall had very few classrooms in the basement—five at the most—so it was no trouble finding Claudia’s. Two of the classrooms were completely dark. In one was a male professor writing on the blackboard, and in another, a teaching assistant already sitting in the corner, taking attendance. Claudia had to be teaching in the room in the farmost corner with the four small windows.


  I knew what Sarah looked like, vaguely, so when I peered into the classroom and did not see her long, dark hair, I knew she had not yet arrived. Several minutes remained before class, and I hoped she might arrive early. I was not disappointed. Within a few minutes, I saw a dark-haired girl with a small quilted knapsack coming down the stairs. She was tall and slender, with pale, fine-pored skin and willowy arms. I couldn’t imagine this waifish girl threatening Austin. Still, I was determined to ask her a few questions. As she approached me, she raised her eyes.

  “You’re Sarah, right?” I said.

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “I’m Emmeline Prather. I teach in the English Department.”

  She nodded again. “Is Professor Swift sick today?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just wanted to talk with you for a few moments about a student of mine. Austin? Austin Oliver?” I walked a few steps down the hall. “Could you join me for a few minutes?”

  Sarah looked at the classroom and then back at me. “Sure.”

  We were several feet away from the classroom before I began to speak. “I’m sure you know Austin was found dead on Sunday.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know, but I still can’t believe it.”

  She stopped near the restroom, and I supposed this was as far as she was willing to go. I’d have to talk quickly. “How did you know Austin?” I asked.

  “I knew him from theater. He was working on the set. I’m playing Fantine.”

  Her voice had a lilt to it that could have conveyed anything, and I could see why she was popular in the theater crowd. It was possible she was doing a nice bit of acting right now. Still, I couldn’t match her voice with the one from the parking lot.

  “Oh, how wonderful! You did an excellent job in Brigadoon,” I said, playing up to her vanity. “Had you known Austin a long time, then?”

  She shook her head. “No, not really. Just since the beginning of the school year. But he was so nice, so different from the other guys on campus. I liked him.”

  She seemed genuinely upset, and I began to feel uncomfortable. I didn’t want to add to her grief if she were truly close with Austin. “Were you dating, then?”

  “No,” she answered a little too quickly. “Who told you that?”

  “No one,” I replied. “You said you liked him, so I just assumed—”

  “Oh. No, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I liked the way he was, you know, so different … so considerate. He didn’t have to shove his ego in your face every ten seconds to make himself feel important. Plus, he was helping with the play. My boyfriend doesn’t even know who Fantine is.”

  I sympathized with her. “He must not be in theater then.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Chemistry.”

  “So yours was a … platonic friendship with Austin.”

  “Completely.”

  I nodded, but that didn’t mean I believed her. “Did he ever mention any problems he had with family or school or friends?

  “No. He was trying to get into that fraternity, although I don’t know why. They’re a bunch of jerks, not Austin’s style at all.”

  “I was surprised by that too. I was also surprised he was working in the theater. He wasn’t a fan of literature in my class.”

  She looked back at her classroom. “I think he enjoyed working with his hands. He grew up on a farm, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. One more question, and I’ll let you get back to class,” I said in an even voice. “When was the last time you saw Austin?”

  She continued to look past me. “Thursday, I think.”

  I waited for more, and I was not disappointed. It was surprising how many times not saying anything at all would prompt others to continue talking.

  “I was supposed to meet up with him on Saturday, but I didn’t. I didn’t meet him.”

  I looked at her directly. “Where were you to meet?”

  She stared at me for a moment, as if she didn’t want to say, and then said, “The theater.”

  “What time was this supposed to happen?” My questions were coming out more quickly than I intended, but I, too, was in a rush to get out of there before Claudia arrived.

  “That night, around seven, but like I said, I couldn’t make it. I ended up working late. Professor Prather, I’d really better get back ….”

  I began walking with her down the hall. “Of course,” I said. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Oh sure. It was nothing,” she said, continuing toward her classroom.

  I paused at the stairwell. “Oh, by the way, did you enjoy yourself at the poetry slam?”

  She looked back. “Yeah, it was fun,” she said. “I had a good time.”

  “Next time maybe I’ll get a chance to hear some of your work.”

  She smiled. “You’ll have to ask Professor Swift.”

  As I continued up the stairs, I became certain of one thing: Sarah had been with Austin the night of the poetry reading, which meant Lenny was right. They’d probably been seeing each other in some capacity. After all, Austin had befriended her with vigor and even attended an event that I had to presume did not interest him at all. In fact, she could have been the reason for his volunteering at the theater. It certainly was a plausible explanation. Still, both Dan Fox and Sarah had said she and Austin met while working at the theater, so that explanation didn’t exactly pass the litmus test.

  I stopped at the vending machine on the main entrance floor. I had a sweet tooth, a weakness widely known in my circle. Anytime anybody wanted something of me, they usually approached me with a Kit Kat or some other piece of chocolate. The ploy was often effective.

  I pushed E5 and waited for the telltale plunk. Meanwhile, I noticed the wire rack by the door overflowing with a special edition of Campus Views, our student newspaper. On the front cover was a picture of Austin Oliver with the headline, “Student Found Dead in Campus Theater.” I started scanning the article, then tucked it under my arm as I retrieved the candy bar and continued up the stairs toward my office.

  I opened my window—the small room was stuffy and warm in the afternoon sun—and spread out the newspaper to the second and third pages. The article contained short interviews with Austin’s professors—all except me. Apparently I could not be reached for comment. For a moment, I was incensed. I had never been contacted for an interview. Nobody had asked me my opinion. Then I looked up at my desk phone and saw that the red light was blinking. I rummaged through my purse; my cellphone had inadvertently been left on Do Not Disturb, and I had three new voicemails. I shook my head. I really needed to keep better track of my phones.

  I was able to determine Austin’s fall schedule from the list of professors in the article; there were three of them, besides me, who had better insight into Austin’s character than the rest of the college. This would be extremely helpful in determining his actions during his last days on campus. The first one was Owen Jorgenson, the science professor and Ann’s husband. He taught freshmen earth science classes in a lecture-style hall, so his comments revealed very little beyond the fact that Austin was always attentive in class and participatory in lab, even staying late to help set up lab trays. The second was Martha Church, who taught art appreciation, which would have met the fine arts requirement Austin needed to graduate. Her comments were more flowery but no more revealing than Owen’s. She talked of Austin’s interest in set design and his involvement in this semester’s play, for which she credited herself. The third, then, was Robert Reynolds, who was a military science instructor for ROTC. He stated that Austin was a fine young man who was making “swell” progress in his leadership and personal development class. He also said he knew Austin’s family and that they could be proud of Austin’s involvement in the program.

  I pushed back my chair. Austin’s composition class met Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Friday morning, Austin did not show up, but he was on campus because he came to my office. I wondered if any of his other classes met Friday and if h
e’d missed those as well. This would make me feel somewhat better about him missing my class; perhaps the poetry recitation had nothing at all to do with his absence.

  The only way to know for certain was to ask his other professors if their classes met that day and if he’d been absent. If I remembered correctly, science courses usually met on Tuesdays and Thursdays with a lab component scheduled once a week. Professor Jorgenson’s account would therefore not reveal much; the last day he saw Austin was probably Thursday, and I doubted his lab was scheduled on a Friday afternoon. If I knew little about science classes, I knew even less about military science courses, or ROTC, and was unsure how they were even prefixed. Students who continued the program in their junior and senior years had to enroll in the National Guard or Army Reserve upon completion of their program. For their enrollment, they received a reduction in their college debt.

  Art appreciation, then, had the best chance of meeting on Friday, as it probably met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—same as my class. I decided I would talk to Martha Church first, which gave me another reason to go back to the theater building. I was certain it held the answers I sought—if not the answers then at least the people who knew them.

  I heard voices outside my door and realized one of them was Giles’s. The other male voice was harder to identify, yet it sounded familiar. I folded the newspaper quietly and carefully as I tried to eavesdrop. I didn’t have to listen long, however, because Giles was knocking on my door and asking to come in—a rare request.

  “Come in,” I said, hastily clearing my throat.

  To my surprise, the police officer from the theater was standing next to Giles, who looked calm and perfectly at ease.

  “Professor Prather, this is Officer Beamer,” said Giles, stepping aside so that the officer could enter. “He has a few questions he’d like to ask you about Austin Oliver.”

  “Hello again,” said Beamer.

  “Again?” said Giles, slightly elevating the word into a question. He shook his head and pulled the door behind him. “Do assist him with anything he requires, Emmeline.”

  “Of course,” I said. I motioned to the chair directly across from me. “Have a seat.”