Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

  A thought jolted me. Maybe Kathleen didn’t think Isobel killed Max. Maybe she thought her husband had. Part of me hoped this was true. I’d liked Isobel and I didn’t like the way Royal had grabbed her.

  Still, Detective Rosato had come to the hospital to see Madame. The police focus was on her.

  My mind settled as I got into the van. Detective Rosato was a dogged investigator. I’d be just as dogged to prove that Madame was innocent. With Detective Rosato on the case, Madame would need me in her corner to find the truth.

  I’d talk to Isobel. I knew where to find her. The fencing class met right down the hall from Madame Monachova’s dance class at the Arts Center.

  Chapter 22

  The next day, I received a text from college administration asking me to fill out some paperwork in their office. While Madame Monachova was in the hospital, I’d be the instructor of her class. I wouldn’t be paid more, of course, but paperwork must be done.

  I’d go after my shift at the Mermaid.

  Officer Petrie came in for chowder to go. “I was just up at Parish cemetery. State police released the scene but we had to set up a security perimeter. Had lots of trespassers disregarding the crime scene tape. Lots of crazies going up to the graveyard to visit old Otis. Some say Otis is walking again.”

  Aunt Gully snorted. “Pish!”

  * * *

  I headed to campus at four, giving me an hour before my class started and time, I hoped, to see Isobel Parish at her fencing class after I handled the paperwork for Madame’s class.

  The administration building was one of the oldest on campus, three stories of gray granite with a broad outdoor stairway leading to tall glass doors. I ran up the steps and went in.

  As I hefted my bag and ran upstairs to the second floor, I passed giggling girls and a guy who almost bumped into me since he was looking at the screen of his phone instead of where he was walking.

  Sometimes I envied students here—the luxury of studying topics that intrigued them, no responsibilities outside those of class or sports.

  I’d been a nontraditional student all my life. I’d left my junior year at Mystic Bay High School to attend the New England Conservatory, a school of the arts in a quiet town in northern Connecticut. There had been academic requirements, but mostly it was dance class, music, history of dance, and performance. Instead of going to college, I moved from the conservatory into the preprofessional level at New England Ballet Theater, sort of a farm team. I danced in the corps de ballet, but in a couple of years moved into more important roles. As Dewdrop, I’d finally have the coveted title soloist.

  I pulled up short. I’d been so lost in my reverie that I’d walked down the wrong hallway. Now I stood in a reception area with wood-paneled walls, a cushy leather couch, huge leaded windows, and a large fireplace. A discreet sign read HISTORY DEPARTMENT.

  Four doors led off the reception lobby. A familiar painting hung over the fireplace: A man in colonial garb, pilgrim hat, flowing black cape, his pointed chin held high. His very arrogance was a magnet. I stepped closer. Deep-set dark eyes looked to the distance, which included a harbor, as he pointed to a map on the table. The artist must have imagined him standing on this very hill, since the college looked out over the same harbor.

  I’d seen this painting before in the library at Royal Parish’s house. Isobel had shown it to me. The Parish sword had hung next to it over the mantel.

  A student sprawled on the couch, headphones on, head bobbing, his arms and legs spread wide, hogging the couch. I sat in a hard, straight-backed chair and angled my camera at the portrait to snap a picture. I wanted to look at it later.

  There were four magazines on the coffee table, all issues of New England Scholarly History. The subhead on the top one read: “The Diary of Rosamund Parish: Colonial Women, Emerging Voices.” Rosamund Parish? I did a double take, then flipped the magazine open to “The Diary of Rosamund Parish” by Lyman Smith, an alphabet soup of initials and degrees following his name.

  A door behind me opened and I heard a familiar voice.

  “Glad we had a chance to make sure we’re on the same page.” I remembered his satisfied tone from the grant presentation. Royal Parish, Isobel’s father. I lifted the magazine to cover my face.

  “Thanks again for stopping by, Royal. It’s rough, but I’ll manage. You know Max was really important to the department and the frat. We’ll continue, certainly. I’ll have another TA very soon.” The deep voice that answered belonged to Lyman Smith.

  I set the magazine in my lap, turned away from them, and hunched over my phone. I hoped they wouldn’t recognize me. They’d think I was stalking them.

  Just then Fern Doucette wheeled Prudie in a stroller around the corner. Fern’s hair was glossy, held back with a headband. She wore a sweet floral dress, marred by an orange splotch on one shoulder. Prudie saw me, reached out, and bounced in her seat.

  Fern blinked, then smiled. “Seems you’ve made a friend. Prudie remembers you.”

  “Hi.” I tried to keep my face angled away from Royal and Lyman. “I remember her, too.”

  Royal passed by, his shoes ringing on the polished floors. Fern nodded to him and he gave her a brief nod back.

  Fern raised her chin, her fingers tightening on the stroller handles. “Lyman, may I”—she cleared her throat—“speak to you for a few minutes? About my job?”

  I threw a glance over my shoulder.

  Professor Smith made a show of looking at his watch. “I have another appointment very soon.”

  She looked at the magazine in my lap. Her voice shook. “It’s important. It won’t take long.”

  “Very well. I have only ten minutes, Fern.”

  I remembered—Max had taken Fern’s job when she went on maternity leave. Maybe she’d know if there was a connection between Madame Monachova and Max Hempstead.

  “Can I talk to you about something? When you’re done? Just for a couple of minutes?” I whispered.

  Fern nodded. “Sure.” She frowned. “It looks like I’ll be out of this meeting soon.”

  “I’ll meet you here.”

  I gathered my things as she passed by me. I threw another a look back.

  Lyman Smith looked every inch the history professor. Stylish dark glasses, bow tie, vest over a button-down shirt. His corduroy jacket even had suede patches on the elbows. With his high cheekbones and firm jaw, he looked like a model playing a professor.

  “Thanks for squeezing me in, Lyman.” Fern’s voice had an edge at odds with her sweet round face and floral dress.

  They went into his office.

  I rushed down the hall to the administrative office. Thank goodness there was no line and I was able to sign my paperwork and rush back to the history department. Moments later, Professor Smith’s door opened and Prudie’s wailing filled the hallway.

  Fern’s broad face was crumpled. She was trying to keep her composure but her lips trembled and her eyes brimmed behind her thick glasses.

  “What happened?” I said.

  She shook her head. Prudie reached for me.

  “Do you have time for a quick cup of coffee?” I asked.

  She took a deep breath. “There’s a café in the basement.”

  * * *

  We took the elevator and minutes later we sat with hot drinks on a patio behind the building.

  “Sorry. I’m a mess. I just went through hell to get child care set up for Prudie so I could get my TA job back, but then Professor Smith tells me that he doesn’t have an opening. Max died three days ago! He’d promised to rehire me when I was ready to come back. He said my work was exemplary. Now he said he’d give me a recommendation for a job elsewhere—oh, the way he said elsewhere—but how does that look? He didn’t rehire me himself? Like he couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

  “That’s awful.” I’d heard Lyman Smith tell Royal Parish, We’ll have another TA soon. Lyman lied. Clearly, he didn’t want Fern back.

  Prudie chewed on the ear of a terry-c
loth puppy dog.

  “So what did you want to ask me?” Fern said.

  “Do you know, did Max Hempstead ever take any dance classes? Or know Madame Monachova?”

  Fern blinked. “Max? Dancing? I’m sorry I don’t know a Madame Monachova. Oh, wait, Svetlana Monachova. She was one of the grant applicants. I don’t remember Max ever mentioning dance classes. He might have met her at the grant presentation?”

  Somehow, I didn’t think so. It was worth a shot. “I know Madame Monachova. She was questioned by the police about Max’s murder.”

  “How terrible,” Fern said, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere.

  “Damn Professor Smith.” She rooted in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose. “Max replaced me when I left for maternity leave, though generally TAs are grad students, not undergrads. While I was on leave, I started doing my own research, showed some of my projects to Lyman Smith. Max handled the paperwork. Which he could barely do.”

  I remembered what Nate Ellis had said. “Running papers?”

  She grimaced. “There are some web sites out there that sell papers to kids who don’t want to bother to research and write their own.” Bitterness made her words sharp. “Or they don’t quite get the meaning of plagiarism. You know, that’s hard for a college student. Don’t take other people’s words and pretend you wrote them.”

  She nodded toward the fraternity house. “There’s a rumor that the frat keeps a drawer of A papers that the brothers can use if they get in a bind.”

  “Would the software catch that?” Had Max discovered some student’s cheating? Would it be worth murdering him, to keep it silent?

  “Not if the original work wasn’t in the database. Besides, some kids just hire someone to do their papers. Easier, the work is original, nobody gets hurt. Except for the integrity of the entire educational process.” Blotches bloomed on her pale cheeks.

  “Are you okay?”

  She took a deep breath. “Professor Smith is such a jerk. I did a lot of research on women in colonial times. Lyman and I authored a paper together. Well, I thought together. There was no mention of me as his second on the paper that just got published in New England Scholarly History.” The magazine I’d seen in Lyman Smith’s office.

  “Second?”

  “Coauthor. Big deal to publish an academic paper. Lyman told me that Max sent in the article but made a clerical error that left me off. A clerical error! He says he’ll get it fixed, but in the meantime, he’s getting all these accolades for his groundbreaking work. And I get no job and no credit because Max Hempstead made a fricking clerical error.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” Had her professor stolen her work?

  Fern laid her head in her hand. “No. Not for a minute. Lyman took all the credit. But that’s the story I’ll stick to if I want a job. Lyman is the only professor I’ve ever worked with. I need a recommendation from him to get into any decent PhD programs. There’s no proof that he stole my work.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Fern didn’t seem to hear. “My word against his.”

  The clock chimed the quarter hour. “I’d like to hear more but I have to teach a class.”

  She gathered her things. “And we have to get to Mommy and Me Yoga.”

  “At Blissful?” I took Pilates there.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you parked?”

  “By the Arts Center.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  As I stood and tossed our cups in a trash bin, I looked up. Two stories up, Lyman Smith stood at the window, watching Fern go. I shouldered my bag. Fern followed my gaze. Smith turned from the window.

  “God, I don’t owe him anything anymore.” She shot me a look. I was surprised to see a small smile playing around her lips. “Did you ever go to the grave of Otis Parish? Hear the stories?”

  We hurried down the sidewalk to the Arts Center, Fern pushing Prudie’s stroller.

  “Yes,” I said slowly.

  She laughed bitterly. “Oh, how Royal Parish hates those stories. That’s why…” She hesitated then continued, “We did studies in the graveyard. To disprove all that business about Otis Parish and Uriah Parish.”

  “What kind of studies?”

  She seemed to come to a decision. “Lyman and Royal can screw themselves. Royal wanted to prove once and for all that the stories about Otis Parish were just stories. We did research. Of all kinds.”

  Her face took on a sly look. “Absolutely fascinating. They dug up lots of new discoveries.”

  “Dug up.” I remembered the stakes and string in the graveyard. It dawned on me what they reminded me of—an archaeological dig. “You mean…” Oh my God, did she mean …

  The clock in the tower tolled five, breaking the spell of her words. Fern laughed.

  “Royal Parish is so arrogant! He thought he knew better than three hundred years of folk wisdom. Come on, Prudie. Let’s go get mommy some Zen.” Prudie waved to me as they turned into the parking lot. “Sorry about your friend, Madame Monachova.”

  “Thanks. Um, did you mean—”

  “I’ll see you at Blissful!”

  She pushed the stroller across the parking lot to a battered gray sedan with several stickers on the rusted bumper. I ran toward the Arts Center.

  Dug up. Did she mean they had dug up the grave of Otis Parish? I’d felt the soft earth beneath my feet.

  I shook myself. Overactive imagination, Allie. One thing was certain, there was no love lost between Professor Smith and Fern Doucette. Had that animosity spilled over toward Max? Had Fern been jealous?

  Had she been at the Halloween party? I didn’t remember seeing her. I’d assumed she’d taken Prudie home after the grant presentation. I could imagine how Fern would feel, not getting any credit for her work. Would she be angry enough to kill Max for his part in derailing her career?

  * * *

  It was too late to go to the fencing class to speak to Isobel, so I ran to the dance studio. There was an envelope taped to the door, “Allie” scrawled on it in bold, black marker.

  I tore it open.

  “Allie, could you please come see me? I want to talk to you about something I found.” The note was signed Isobel Parish, with her cell number.

  My mind whirled. What could she have found? Something to do with Max’s murder?

  Thank goodness dance class went smoothly. Even though my thoughts were distracted by Isobel’s note, I enjoyed the class. The joy I felt, watching the students as they mastered complicated steps, surprised me. The hour-and-a-half class flew by.

  I wished the students good night, turned off the lights, and closed the door. I watched the last students leave the building then dialed Isobel’s number.

  She didn’t pick up. I left a message and drove home, mulling what news she had for me.

  Chapter 23

  Isobel didn’t return my call so I texted her the next morning that I had to be in Boston for rehearsal. She texted back. Come to Parish cemetery 7 P.M. Meet me at gate at Old Farms Road.

  The cemetery? I hesitated but texted back, See you then.

  In Boston, I did a rehearsal with two dancers who would understudy my role, Dawn Atkins and Kellye Garrett, terrific dancers and good friends. Then we dressed in our costumes and joined the rest of the company for some publicity shots.

  No surprise, Margot pushed to the front of the group, smiling coquettishly. I straightened my shoulders, determined to stay positive. Margot in her Dewdrop costume was the epitome of ballet pretty. Her pink lipstick matched the costume perfectly, her dark hair pulled back into a high bun, not a hair out of place.

  “Oh, I’m in love.” The photographer started shooting her, having her pose in different positions. “Perfect.”

  “Am I your cover girl?” Margot said.

  The photographer laughed. “The editor will let us know.”

  Kellye squeezed my hand.

  “I’m okay.” And I was. The gorgeous dress Virginia had desig
ned for me made me feel powerful. My dancing was going well. I was having fun and I wasn’t going to let Margot spoil it.

  “Oh my gawd.” The photographer’s eyes lit up. He took my hand and spun me around. “Baby, you sure do Hollywood glamour right.”

  “It’s easy in this outfit.”

  The photographer took several shots and gave me a thumbs-up.

  * * *

  As I drove back home from Boston, I basked in a glow. The shoot had made me feel great. Plus, somehow, I finally felt confident that my ankle was completely healed. It was only a matter of time until I could dance full-out again.

  But as the familiar exit for Mystic Bay approached, I grew restless as I remembered what I planned to do at 7 P.M. Should I be wary of meeting Isobel Parish alone in the graveyard? And wasn’t it a crime scene? Was this legal?

  A few minutes later I pulled into the driveway of Gull’s Nest and called Bronwyn.

  “Can you come with me?”

  “Rats, I’m still up in Meriden at training. So, Isobel Parish invited you to the cemetery? Then it’s not trespassing. It’s her property. Just don’t go into anything taped off by the cops, okay?” Bronwyn sighed. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. You’ll have to tell me every detail. And don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  “Okay.” It wasn’t stupid to go alone, was it? I liked Isobel, but … I needed backup.

  I called Verity.

  “Hmmm,” Verity said. “Tell you what. I can go with you and wait safely in the car. Then we can go get dinner at that new Ethiopian place.”

  My mouth watered. I’d barely had more than some cheese and crackers and an apple in the van as I drove back from Boston. “I love Ethiopian. It’s a plan. I’ll just have a quick shower.”

  “I live to serve. I’ll drive. If we need a quick getaway, I’d rather have the Tank than Aunt Gully’s rust bucket, no offense. I’ll be there soon.”