Scheduled to Death

by Mary Feliz

  I frowned. “Does he usually eat with you and Linc, or was he making excuses to be here right now and pump you for information about why the police were here?” I shuddered. “I hate the feeling that Linc and Sarah’s life has turned into some sort of tabloid drama, being exploited for other people’s entertainment.” I stopped and rummaged in my pocket for a Kleenex. Belle turned, whined, and snuffled my hand, and I knelt to bury my face in her fur.

  Allen sniffed next to me, and Newton whined, leaning firmly against my back. Pull it together, Maggie, I told myself. Either that or upset the dogs and this nice young man.

  I stood and held out my hand for Newt’s leash. “Thanks so much, Allen. I can find my way from here.”

  “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do? Tell the professor I know he didn’t do this?”

  I nodded and turned before Allen could see another few tears spill from my eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that,” I said as I strode briskly toward my car.

  Chapter 10

  I allow time each day to check my schedule and plans to make sure they’ll still work. If not, I adjust accordingly, delegating, dropping, or delaying goals that can no longer fit in the available time.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald,

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Tuesday, November 4, 7:00 p.m.

  By the time I got home, I was ready to be done for the day. I took a shower, poured myself a glass of wine, and sat at the kitchen table surrounded by yellow legal pads, trying to pin down everything I needed to accomplish over the next few days.

  On one pad, I made a list of what I needed from the grocery store. Another was for all the ways I could juggle my schedule to make time to thwart Detective Awful and get Linc out of jail.

  But I quickly got distracted, replaying my discussion with Allen and Keenan. For now, I discarded their theory that anyone who was trying to sabotage Linc’s career could hurt him at the lab more easily than at his home. Maybe the murderer deliberately set a deadly trap at Linc’s house to shift attention away from any of his Stanford colleagues.

  I pulled my computer from its bag and fired it up. I knew that there were all sorts of expensive online services that could reveal details about people’s lives that at one time were considered private. But I also knew that with my library research skills and a few targeted search criteria, I could discover nearly as much as was available through those fancy programs. Enough to get started, anyway.

  I began with the names of the three men I’d met at Stanford: Keenan, Allen, and Walt. After only a few minutes, I learned that they all lived nearby and had all published articles in various academic journals. Allen, still a graduate student, had published the least and was almost always a secondary author. Keenan and Walt both had long lists of author credits in academic journals and popular science magazines. They’d been on panels at conferences and interviewed on network news programs and by national and local newspapers.

  Digging deeper, I learned that Keenan was one of the youngest assistant professors in Stanford history and had published more than I would have suspected for someone his age. Yet, he’d referred to Walt as being on the “fast track.” I wondered if Keenan had meant that remark to be sarcastic. I replayed the conversation in my mind, but couldn’t come to a conclusion one way or another.

  I looked more closely at the publication dates. Interesting. After years of regularly churning out articles and papers, Keenan Barnaby had published nothing in the last year.

  My fingers flew across the keys. Looking at his Facebook page, I discovered he was married with an adorable young son he obviously doted on. I smiled as I clicked through the pictures, remembering Max’s joy in playing with David and Brian when they were small.

  Keenan had mentioned that he lived in a “tiny apartment” with no room for a dog. A man with a family to support who was living in a compact apartment with a rambunctious toddler might be desperate to boost his career and focus on gaining a secure position and a larger paycheck. But desperate enough to commit murder? I didn’t think so. Lots of people might, on occasion, consider that their life might be simpler if they could eliminate one of the worst people in their lives. After all, I’d thought more than once about bumping off Detective Awful. But fantasy is a long way from reality. And thinking is a far cry from doing. I wanted to believe that Stanford professors would be smart enough to come up with alternative solutions to the problems they faced.

  Belle liked Keenan. For now, I’d trust her judgment.

  I turned my attention to Walt Quintana. He’d published widely, but was often not the first name on the paper. I wondered whether that was an indication that, as Allen had suggested, he had a tendency to ride on the coattails of others, neglecting his own once-promising research. Or, could it just mean that he was generous in helping graduate students hungry for publishing credits?

  I shifted to Stanford’s list of recent press releases. One release distributed in March said Quintana had been named to a research group that was “working in parallel with” the group Linc headed.

  Was “working in parallel” academic code for “in cutthroat competition?” I wasn’t sure. My parents had both been professors at the university in Stockton, as had Max. Every university was basically a gossip factory—even lofty academic minds were subject to human frailties. But I’d never heard of professors having the level of competitive zeal that might lead to murder. I made a note to ask Max about it when we both got home.

  Next, I checked into Allen. I found his address and the fact that he’d gone to University of California at Berkeley for his undergraduate work. I wondered which team he’d pick to win when archrivals Stanford and Cal faced each other in football.

  Other than four years spent at Cal and a reasonably sized list of publications for a graduate student, I couldn’t uncover many details about his life. I found a number of photographs of him with Linc in the lab and one of them playing in a fund-raising golf tournament. There was also a picture of the two of them laughing and wearing seventeenth-century wigs and knee-length pants that I couldn’t begin to figure out.

  I leaned back from the table and thought about Allen and what clues to his personality he might have dropped during my visit. He’d tried to shoot down my hypothesis that someone within the department had wanted to derail Linc’s research by murdering the love of his life and framing him for the crime. Had Allen been trying to deflect attention? Could he be the guilty party? Could there be other lab assistants who might be suspects, but who weren’t listed on Stanford’s online list of department members? I couldn’t think of any way to find out.

  Belle stirred under the table at my feet, stretched, and walked to the back door. Newton scrambled to join her. Seconds later, I heard the car. Max was home with the boys.

  Confusion reigned while the boys greeted the dogs and filled me in on their day. Quickly, though, they clamored up the stairs to practice their instruments and still have time for a rematch in the great video-game battle they’d begun at Influx. Belle and Newton followed.

  Max hung his jacket on a hook by the back door and put his computer bag on a shelf next to the stairs, ready to be picked up the next time he went out. He kissed me and pulled a bit of cupcake frosting from my hair.

  “I found a few leftovers from last night,” I said.

  “More wine?” he asked.

  I nodded and Max pulled a wineglass from the cupboard. He poured himself a glass, refilled mine, and sat down at the table.

  “What are you working on?” Max pulled one of my yellow pads closer to him.

  I filled him in on Linc’s arrest, Detective Awful’s dreadful behavior, and my visit to the lab to pick up Newton. After telling him about the strange dynamic at the lab, I asked him about university-level competition.

  “I have no idea how it works at Stanford,” Max said. “But there’s competition everywhere. You don’t get to be a university professor unless you’re passionate about your su
bject. Research grant money has been getting tighter and tighter, and has increased the pressure even more.”

  He took a sip of wine and stroked his chin where he’d once grown an admirable, but itchy, professorial beard. “One of the reasons I stayed in Stockton was that it’s a smaller institution. Grants were smaller but the professors had collegial relationships.” He paused and winked. “Most of the time, anyway. In general, we avoided the glaring spotlight of the large research universities and focused on teaching.”

  Max twirled the wine in his glass. “Are you thinking competition might have played a role in Sarah’s death?”

  I nodded and pushed the computer away so I wouldn’t be tempted to continue typing while Max and I were talking.

  “I was only in the lab for a few minutes when I went to pick up Newton,” I told him. “But there was definitely an undercurrent of tension. And the kind of conversation that could be laughed off as friendly banter, but seemed more like targeted barbs meant to inflict real pain.”

  “That’s the kind of fighting that academics normally do,” Max said. “Clever insults. But in my personal experience, there just wasn’t enough time in the day to accomplish everything I wanted to do. As soon as I got back to my lab or my office, I was very quickly enmeshed in research puzzles or my students’ problems or trying to meet a deadline. Those skirmishes between colleagues didn’t occupy much of my time. I certainly didn’t have the leisure hours required to plan a murder.”

  I laughed at the idea of the optimistic Max considering a situation so dire that the only solution would be to kill a colleague.

  Max put his palms on two of the yellow pads. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Not at all. Feel free to add to either one.” Sometimes, my work with my clients was confidential, but these lists concerned him as much as they did me. “And thanks for getting the boys.”

  “No problem. We had fun.”

  He wrote chocolate ice cream, chocolate chips, pecans on the grocery list. The man was addicted to chocolate ice cream and chocolate-chip cookies with pecans. He pulled the second list toward him.

  “Better put eggs, butter, and sugar on the list if you’re thinking of cookies,” I told him.

  He made the additions to the first list and picked up the second. “Get Linc out of jail” he read out loud, then looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “Are you planning a jailbreak? What’s this list going to be when it grows up?”

  I laughed and took a sip of my wine, giving myself time to figure out a way to respond. It was a simple question that required a complex and multilayered answer. When in doubt, lead with the truth.

  I sighed. “I don’t know, Max. It’s meant to be a list of all the things I need to do this week, but I’m getting nowhere with it.”

  “Want to dictate while I play scribe? We’ll figure this out together.” It was my turn to give Max a quizzical look. His ideas would be great, but his handwriting would make it nearly impossible for me to decipher his notes later on.

  “I’ll print carefully,” he said. I shrugged my shoulders and stood to grab an emergency package of Oreos from the freezer. They were my go-to antianxiety medication. I offered the package to Max. He took two and I popped one and put three more next to my wineglass. The cookies would make the wine taste weird, but I didn’t much care.

  “Have you talked to Forrest?” I asked. “I’m so glad you got those two together when you did. At least we know that Linc had someone to consult with.”

  “Forrest is a brilliant attorney. Linc is in good hands. And helping him is Forrest’s job. There’s nothing we can do to make Linc’s situation better tonight. So let’s see what we can do for you.”

  “Tomorrow, I want to head over to Linc’s house and make some progress on the last of his clutter. There’s only one room left. I can move the entire contents to Sarah’s cottage. I’m hoping that will make it easier for Tess and Linc to set their plans in motion as soon as the police cut him loose. They can’t really keep him in jail long, can they?”

  Max sighed. “I don’t know, Mags. I’m not a lawyer or a cop or a district attorney. The evidence seems thin to me, if that helps.” He sipped his wine. “But isn’t the house locked up? Because it’s a crime scene, I mean. Can you get in with your old key?”

  I considered Max’s words. I’d forgotten that the house had been locked up pending the arrival of the county’s electrical expert—or a hastily drafted substitute.

  “I’ll text Paolo to ask, but even if I can’t get into the main building, there are bags and boxes in the old carriage house there that are marked for donation, consignment, and trash. I’ll get those cleared out tomorrow.” I yawned and propped my head up with my hand.

  Max stood, took my glass and his, and put them in the sink. He came back to the table and held out his hand. “But now, I think the best thing you can do for all of us, including Linc and yourself, is to get some sleep.”

  He pulled me gently up from the chair and hugged me. “Let’s go shut down the boys’ marathon gaming session. We could all use an early night.”

  * * *

  The next morning on my way to Linc’s I stopped at the Starbucks off Foothill Expressway. The café was Orchard View’s unofficial conference room and mobile office. I ordered coffee and a hot croissant, then headed to Linc’s.

  I parked in front of the house and looked over the yard. The house looked empty and sad. The crime-scene tape was gone, but a lockbox like the ones Realtors use was suspended from the front doorknob. I didn’t know whether my key would still work, or whether the lockbox just enabled various members of law enforcement to access the scene.

  I texted Paolo to ask for permission to enter the house. While I waited for a reply, I ate my breakfast and checked email on my phone. By the time I’d finished both tasks and was brushing crumbs from my lap, I still hadn’t heard from him.

  I didn’t want to do anything that might disrupt the official investigation or cause any delay in uncovering clues that would help nab Sarah’s murderer. Especially if those clues pointed to someone other than Linc. But I needed to make progress on my own work for Linc.

  Instead of entering the house, I unlocked the garage, which Linc called the carriage house. I’m not sure it had ever actually held a carriage, but it might have. The house dated back to horse-and-buggy days. Three pairs of wide doors opened into three broad bays. On the right end of the building, closest to the house, an open wooden staircase led to a three-room loft apartment that might have once housed a chauffeur.

  It had taken us weeks to clear out the loft area, which was full of dusty, moth-eaten pieces of used furniture that weren’t worth the extensive repairs that would have been required to renovate them. We’d hired an antiques expert to tell us which furniture in the house was valuable, what should be donated, and what could be safely recycled or discarded.

  I tugged on the heavy door furthest to the right. It creaked open despite the fact that I’d oiled all the doors when we’d started working in the building. Stacks of boxes, bags, and other items filled half of the floor space. My heart sank. I’d remembered this pile of discards as much smaller and more manageable.

  I grabbed a handcart and started moving the boxes, three at a time, to the curb. A local charity I’d called the night before had promised to pick up everything we had for them at about ten o’clock. When they’d come and gone, I’d take the discards and recyclable items out to the curb to be picked up by the local garbage company. After that, if there was anything left, I hoped it would be easy for me to figure out where it belonged.

  I’d taken two trips to the curb with the handcart and was heading back for a third when I heard a car revving its motor somewhere down the street. I wrinkled my brow and looked up. I’d taken a few steps hesitantly toward the curb when I stopped and dropped the handcart. The black Range Rover, or at least one that looked just like it, was back. It slowed in front of Linc’s house. The driver pulled to the wrong side of the street, and gunned the en
gine.

  I reached for my cell phone in my pocket, hoping to get a better picture of the license plate, but the angle was wrong. I looked around to see if there were any neighbors who could call for help if the Range Rover driver took exception to having his picture taken. I didn’t see anyone. I straightened my back and took a deep breath, grabbed the handcart as if it could offer me both protection and camouflage, and walked deliberately toward the curb, hoping to get a better angle on the SUV and its license.

  I pulled my phone out again, searched for the camera app, and was all ready to take the picture when the Range Rover sped away, leaving me with a second blurry picture of what I was fairly sure was not a California plate. But it was difficult to be certain. California had so many specialized plates: whale tails, Lake Tahoe, Yosemite.

  Before I had time to scowl at the picture, the now-distressingly familiar vehicle of Detective Awful pulled to the curb in the Range Rover’s place. I turned with my handtruck and headed back to the carriage house for another load. If the detective had business inside Linc’s house, he didn’t need my help. And I certainly didn’t need any of his assistance with my own efforts.

  “Mrs. McDougal!” he called with his chainsaw-rough voice. “Stop right there. Right now.”

  I turned and then promptly wished I hadn’t. The detective lumbered up the drive, rolling from side to side as if he were the captain of a ship on stormy seas or, more likely, was in need of a hip replacement. He adjusted his pants, brushed crumbs from his jacket, and tugged at his stained tie as he approached.

  “Good morn–” I began.