Five minutes later, Jackson Bennett arrived, and a minute after that they were seated on one of the benches.
He took a deep breath, paused, and finally said:
“This may be difficult for you to hear, Nina. But I wanted you to get it from me first hand.”
There was something about Jackson’s demeanor that made her delay her own account of the conversation with Barbara Richardson.
“Go ahead, Jackson.”
“This concerns Rick’s article about the provost.”
“You mean the one that was found on his word processor?”
“That’s the one.”
“Rick didn’t write it.”
“Are you sure about that, Nina?”
“Of course I am. He wasn’t at his house when the article was written. And anyway, what is there about the article that’s so special?”
“Because it’s accurate.”
“It’s what?”
“Accurate. One hundred per cent. Every number.”
“Are you telling me that the provost was actually…”
“Embezzling money. Millions of dollars, out of the faculty retirement fund. He’s been running the scam for years, apparently.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Yes, but it’s true. And talk about some shame-faced administrators. A day or so ago, they were told they were useless, and they were fired. Then they think they might be re-hired. And then a bunch of them—the comptroller, the Director of Financial Management, and on and on and on—realize this one guy could have been siphoning off huge sums of money right under their noses and storing it in a secret bank account in the Azores.”
She thought about it for a while, then shook her head.
“Jackson the fact remains. Rick didn’t write it. He was walking in the town when the article was written.”
“I know, that’s his story.”
“That’s the truth. Rick wouldn’t lie.”
Bennett arose, walked in a tight circle, then looked at her and asked:
“Nina, who the hell else could have written it? From what Adam Marsh told me half an hour or so ago, it’s a supreme job of getting at the truth. There are facts in here that nobody but an ace investigative reporter could possibly have come up with.”
“But somebody else did, Jackson.”
“Okay. So somebody else did. That somebody needs to step forward, and now. Because the truth of the story makes things look even worse for Rick, I’m sure you see that. First, only a great reporter—like Rick––could have written it. Second, it would have given the provost every reason to come to Rick’s house and threaten him.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“And there is tougher problem.”
“Just what we need. All right, what is this tougher problem?”
“The Gazette is going with this story; they have to.”
“I see that.”
“The problem is, whom do they attribute it to?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nina, this story may have saved the retirement benefits of thousands of professors. The account is identified. This money can be confiscated now and returned to the fund it was taken from. If Rick wrote this story, it could mean a Pulitzer for him.”
“And life imprisonment.”
“Well, there’s that.”
“Has anybody talked to Rick about this?”
“March had just come from the jail when he called me. Rick still swears he didn’t write it.”
“Then he didn’t. And I’m sure he won’t want credit.”
“But listen, if he…”
They were interrupted by the buzzing of Jackson’s cell phone.
“I better take this, Nina.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
She rose and walked to the other side of the tower, gazing down on the campus while Jackson’s low soft voice, indistinct now, rumbled behind her.
Scenes unfolded in her mind. They were all unworldly, bizarre, moving everywhere and nowhere, and having neither beginning nor end.
She found herself thinking about what Barbara Richardson had told her.
How could she have killed the provost?
How? The two had been seen together after the Jumbotron show. She had seen the provost receive his provocative message, then stride off toward Rick’s.
Could she have beaten him there?
And written the piece that was found on the word processor?
And why was she asking Nina if Rick was guilty?
If she herself had committed the crime, then she clearly knew that Rick was not guilty.
Behind her Jackson Bennett stood up.
“Something else has come up, Nina.”
“What?”
“It’s Barbara Richardson.”
“That’s what I came to tell you.”
Jackson cocked his head:
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Barbara Richardson. Has she confessed to killing the provost?”
“No, she’s dead. Murdered no more than ten minutes ago in her hotel room. Somebody stuck a butcher knife in her heart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: THE WOMAN FROM VICKSBURG
The two of them simply sat where they were for a time, staring at each other.
The movie, stranger and stranger, continued to flow past, mingling with the clouds.
Finally Jackson spoke:
“Why did you think she confessed?”
“Because she did confess.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“In her hotel room.”
“To whom?”
“To me.”
“You were in her hotel room?”
“Yes.”
“My God. What did she say?”
“She asked me if I were certain that Rick had not killed the provost. I told her I was absolutely certain. We were standing in the doorway. She said that if Rick didn’t kill him, then she knew who did. I asked her who it was, and she answered, ‘I am.’ Then she shut the door.”
But that doesn’t make sense. Why would Barbara Richardson have wanted to kill Charles Iverson?”
“I don’t know. I do know that she was with him when he got the message that Rick had ostensibly written to him. He read the message, then, according to witnesses, took off to Rick’s house as fast as he could. How could she have beaten him there, gotten in, found the shotgun, and murdered him?”
Robinson shook his head:
“No, it doesn’t make sense. But that’s the least of our worries now.”
“What’s the most of our worries now?”
“The most of our worries now, is what the hell we’re going to do with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you were clearly the last person to see her alive, other than the killer. And she confessed to you that she murdered the provost. It may have been impossible for her to have done it, and she may have had no motive for it—but like it or not, she did confess.”
“I still don’t…”
And then she understood.
“I have to tell the police these things, don’t I?”
“I think you do, Nina.”
“And they’re going to think I did it.”
“I don’t know what they’re going to think.”
“I’ve already been arrested for murder once.”
“I know. But they’ve got to understand that you have no motive for wanting to kill Barbara Richardson.”
“I didn’t have a motive for wanting to kill Charles Iverson. It doesn’t seem to matter to the police in this town. They look at Nina Bannister and think Charles Manson.”
“Nina, for now, I want you to disappear. Ultimately, you’ll have to make a statement to the police, and, as an officer of the court as well as your attorney, I’m obligated to produce you. But that doesn’t mean I have to do it just this instant. Let me go downtown and at least gather as many facts about
this thing as possible. You wander on campus. Find some building and go inside. Keep out of everybody’s way. In an hour or so, after I know what’s really happened and how, I’ll call you. Then we’ll plot our strategy.”
“All right, Jackson.”
And with that, they descended the tower.
She said good-bye to Jackson Bennett and then wandered.
There was a small park in the center of the downtown area. She entered it, spotted a bench, and sat down.
It was now late afternoon, and shadows were lengthening. The light was turning golden.
A few children were throwing Frisbees.
What to do?
She thought.
And then it came to her.
There was, of course, only one thing to do.
She rose from the bench, turned, and walked back toward the campus.
Within ten minutes, she was entering the library.
She was relieved to find it open, and she was equally relieved to find it as deserted as it had been when she’d first visited it with Old Whittington of Classics.
A haunted house.
The thoughts and dreams of all man and womankind, slumbering peacefully within these musty volumes.
Sophocles.
Homer.
Virgil.
Horace.
And then another aisle, and yet another aisle, the centuries slipping past.
Chaucer.
Shakespeare.
Milton.
And another aisle and another aisle…
… and then she was home.
“Hello, Jane,” she whispered.
There it was.
Emma.
She touched the cover and seemed to breathe in the lines that had always been there for her.
“A mind lively and at ease can do with seeing nothing. And can see nothing that does not answer.”
Your mind has been lively, Nina. Very lively with all the revolutionary events going on around it, inundating it.
But it can no longer afford to be at ease.
Think, Nina. Force yourself to think.
There are enough elements in the puzzle now.
Something doesn’t fit.
Find that something.
Rick’s life may depend on it.
Your own life may depend on it.
Go over what has happened. Your first meeting with Lucinda; first meeting—an unpleasant enough one, heaven knows, with the provost; his breaking it off because he had to fly out to attend a convention of college and university administrators; meeting the adjuncts at Nick’s; coming here, to this library, with old Whittington; then the unforgettable faculty meeting the following morning; the board meeting where she was to see for the first time Barbara Richardson; the next adjunct meeting; the meeting with Lucinda in her office; the— ––but no, something had happened before that.
The encounter with—what was his name? Mathieson?
He’d learned about it while mowing the lawn. Learned that his career was over.
Then the encounter with two outraged women, one of them the provost’s wife.
Then the—
No, go back.
Lively and at ease, lively and at ease…
What had Mathieson said?
“I should not even have been here today. I was supposed to be at a convention of college and university administrators.
In Hattiesburg.
Hattiesburg.
Events had come up, making it impossible for him to attend.
Hattiesburg.
But go on, Nina. Let it all flow past.
The cabin with Rick; the meeting at the stadium; the fight; the announcement; the—
––back. Back…
The provost talking to that ring of reporters.
“I only learned about these shocking events some hours ago. I flew directly back here from Vicksburg, where I had been attending a convention.”
Vicksburg.
Hattiesburg.
But that would mean…
Where else had she heard Vicksburg?
And there were other places.
The Azores.
He had been funneling money into a secret account.
In the Azores.
Think, Nina, think.
Her mind was not at ease now.
And into it came Rick’s description of his early days with the provost.
‘We got along fine the first few months he was here. He and his wife even invited me over for dinner. I reciprocated.’
I reciprocated.
Vicksburg.
Not Hattiesburg.
The Azores.
I reciprocated.
“But who,” she whispered to herself, “was also in…”
Then she remembered.
“My God.”
Barbara Richardson.
“Crossing lines. Going too far. And then—we’re not the people we once were.”
Barbara Richardson.
“Because I was responsible for his death.”
“And you really did kill him,” Nina whispered. “You really did.”
She stood for a while, simply trying to grasp what had happened.
Then she whispered again, at the book which lay beneath her palm:
“Thank you again, dear Jane. You’re always there for me. Thank you again.”
Then she left the library.
Then she called Jackson.
One hour later he and she—both having insisted on being present—were in the second of two police cars that pulled up to a stately Victorian mansion on the west side of campus.
Several uniformed officers approached the door and rang the bell.
By the time the door opened there was a ring of people surrounding it.
Amy Iverson, professionally dressed in a blue business suit which contrasted starkly with her flaming red hair, scanned the circle.
Her eyes came to rest on Nina.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was coming down to turn myself in. You may not believe that, of course. I wouldn’t if I were in your place. I would never have let Rick be convicted, either. It’s just that I needed time. I had to do them both. They both deserved it. It would have been best to do them at the same time. But I never had that chance. After I shot Charles last night, I needed time to do the woman. I don’t want to say her name. She doesn’t deserve even to have a name. But at any rate, someone had to take the blame until I had time to do, today, just now, what was necessary. I don’t know why she let me in. It was as though she knew what she deserved, almost welcomed it. I do, too. I welcome it. And so this ends it. Let’s go.”
So saying, she walked out toward the first squad car in the row of cars.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: EXPLANATIONS
A lamp was burning on the central table in Rick Barnes’ back yard, and the four of them—she, Rick, Adam Marsh, and Peter Stockton––cast their shadows in dim light.
It was ten p.m.
Sounds of the campus could be heard buzzing and wailing in the distance.
The air hung redolent of summer spent and fruit ready to begin fall decay.
Four cans of beer stood on the table, each being taken up, drained, and put back, one after another.
Rick, who’d been released two hours earlier in the evening, leaned forward.
“Do you think, Adam, that she would really have turned herself in?”
Adam Marsh merely shrugged:
“No idea. If she could do the things she did—who knows how such a person’s mind works? At any rate, because of Nina here, it’s all a moot point.”
Rick:
“What can I say, Nina. I owe you my life.”
She took a sip of beer and shook her head:
“I’m not sure that’s true. She was so enraged, so embittered. She wasn’t trying to get away with anything. Or rather, not ultimately. The first murder was brilliantly contrived to make you seem guilty. But that was only to buy time for her to commit the second one. After that, her job wa
s done. She was probably even proud of what she’d done.”
Jackson Bennett:
“How did you figure it all out, Nina?”
She put the can carefully on the table.
“Vicksburg isn’t Hattiesburg.”
“Pardon?”
“When I first visited the office of the provost, Iverson cut the meeting short because he had to fly to a conference of college and university administrators. As well as I can remember, he didn’t say where the conference was. But Matheson, did say.”
Barnes nodded:
“I remember. We found him in his office when we were in the administration building, on our way to see Lucinda.”
“That’s right. He said he’d been scheduled to attend that conference too. In Hattiesburg. But something had come up and caused him to postpone the trip. The problem is, that evening, just before you had the fight, Iverson told a reporter, almost in passing, that his flight had just gotten in from Vicksburg. It didn’t make sense. So I started thinking: when had the name Vicksburg come up? The answer was, of course, during the board meeting. Barbara Richardson introduced herself as CEO of Adorn Cosmetics…”
Both men at the table said, simultaneously:
“Based in Vicksburg.”
“Yes. So there was that. And there was also Barbara Richardson’s tan.”
“Pardon?”
“That day after the board had met, and she came to tell Peter Stockton and the two of us, Rick, that the board was going along with Lucinda’s plans. Lucinda talked about what a good tan she had, and she said, not needing to lug a husband around, she’d just come back from some days in the Azores. That just lay dormant in the back of my mind—my mind being lively and at ease—until earlier this afternoon, Jackson, when you told me about Iverson’s embezzlement scheme.”
“He was,” Rick said, nodding, “funneling money to an account in the Azores.”
“The two of them,” Marsh chimed in, “were planning to leave the country together and live like millionaires in the Azores.”
Rick:
“But wouldn’t people have suspected?”
Marsh shook his head:
“The money was too expertly hidden. And as for Iverson? He leaves the country and lives in an island paradise. Who’s to blame him for that? He had no idea his wife was onto this. Clearly their marriage hadn’t been much for the last few years. He probably thought she’d accept generous divorce terms and never miss him.”
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