by Jean Flowers
I drove home reciting the acronym TNMHJ, the letters of the first names of the suspects on my list. I wondered how many of them I’d be able to watch and listen to on campus tomorrow. Possibly all but the band of thieves.
* * *
Dyson had left, but Quinn was there to greet me when I arrived home. I’d heard the sounds of his dobro as I climbed my steps and approached the door.
“Don’t stop playing,” I said, removing my layers of accessories.
“That’s okay. I was wrapping up.”
“Please? I’d love to have a private concert.”
Quinn took a seat on a straight-backed chair and placed his rich mahogany-colored dobro across his knees.
When he played with the Ashcots, his dobro hanging on a long strap in front of him, the tunes were mostly country or bluegrass, many of them foot-stomping, but tonight he picked and strummed away at a mellow Irish tune that a friend of his in San Francisco had written.
I sat in an easy chair, closed my eyes, and let the notes float over me.
After a stressful couple of days, with way too much food under my belt, there was nothing I needed more than soft dobro music. I gave up the idea of querying Quinn about his dinner with Dennis’s son, and running my TNMHJ mnemonic by him. I felt myself drifting, unencumbered by the details of reality.
When I woke up at one o’clock, Quinn was gone, having draped an afghan over me and placed a sweet pre-valentine note next to me.
The new day was off to a good start.
Then I remembered it was the day of my presentation. The image of dozens of students in front of me, expecting words of substance, nearly woke me fully, but I staggered to my bed and followed Scarlett O’Hara’s “another day” rule of survival, even though technically it was already tomorrow.
16
My phone rang just before I was ready to crawl out of bed on Thursday morning. If I hadn’t seen Linda’s name on the screen, I might not have answered. I clicked on and barely squeaked out a “Hey.”
“Hey, it’s your turn,” she said, in much too cheery a voice for the hour.
“Excuse me?” I struggled into my robe, holding the phone under my neck.
“You know, you called me yesterday. Then I talked and talked and we hung up. So now it’s your turn.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m thrilled about your new job.”
“Yeah, yesterday was awesome. We actually had some action items for the new leadership and incentives programs. I have an intern who’s . . .” She paused and I heard a soft gasp. “There I go again. You. Cassie. Talk. Talk.”
I took her at her word and brought her up to date on the investigation. She was fascinated (or seemed so) by the handwriting analysis Sunni had carried out on the letters sent to Dennis and my role in ferreting out the student who might have written them.
“You still feel guilty, don’t you?” Linda said. “Because you didn’t send those notes off for inspection.”
“A little, I guess.”
“Cassie, don’t you remember how we scribbled notes to Dr. Rafferty when he moved up the exam date to the day after the homecoming game?”
“That was different. We didn’t threaten to have him fired.”
“We might have. I know we said uncool things about what he could do with the exam.”
I chuckled. “We were pretty bad, weren’t we?”
“Yes, but it didn’t mean we were about to murder him. Even if it turns out to be one of those students who’s your friend’s killer, there was no way to predict that and it doesn’t mean anyone in the inspector’s office would have been able to help him in time. Wasn’t it only a few hours later that the murder occurred?”
I admitted that she had a point. “Thanks, Linda. I’m okay, really. We now have a few possibilities for suspects.”
“Those burglars?”
“As well as a couple of others on campus.”
“Where you’re going today, right?”
“Uh-huh. Thanks for the reminder. Now I’m nervous again.”
“You’re going to be great. Oh, and here’s something else for your talk. Did you know that George Washington has been on more stamps than anyone else?”
“Wow,” I said.
Linda laughed. “I know what that ‘wow’ means. G’bye.”
“Skype you later,” I said.
Since I was up and nearly awake, there was nothing left to do but get ready for school.
* * *
Possibly because I needed a transition from my stressful day yesterday to my long-awaited (or so it seemed) class day today, I attended the morning rehearsal of the Ashcots. The community room was cold, so I stayed huddled in my jacket in the first row of chairs.
The selections matched the soft tones of last night during Quinn’s solo concert for my ears only. But the mood patterns of the musicians were different from those of yesterday. This morning, the players were somber, their movements gentle. Whereas yesterday humorous skits had arisen, today they could have been preparing for a memorial service rather than a Valentine’s Day dance.
Because Dennis had been shot, and his shooter was still unknown, his body was being held by the coroner. There was no telling when it would be released. Why couldn’t I get rid of the feeling that it was partly my responsibility to find the shooter and give Dyson Somerville control over his father’s remains?
Mercedes, of more moods than I could count, was quiet today, as were Joyce and Shirley, the ones who knew Dennis best. I hadn’t decided how to handle the Annisquam Harbor Lighthouse globe. I was inclined to return it to Mercedes, but I didn’t want to start another riot. Maybe I’d wait a few months, or until she brought it up herself.
I heard a slight commotion at the back of the hall and turned to see Hank Blackwood tromping down the aisle, lugging his guitar. He’d timed his entrance during a slight lull between numbers. I figured he’d been waiting at the back for the right moment.
“I guess you changed your venue this week,” he said. “I went over to the school. That’s why I’m late.”
The Ashcots fell silent while Hank made his clumsy way to what would have been a pit if there’d been a barrier of any kind, but really was an invisible line on the floor to separate the performers from the audience.
I was surprised when Quinn stepped up. He’d been wearing his dobro, its wide black leather strap hanging around his neck. He removed the instrument and placed it on the chair he’d been using.
“We’re in the middle of things here, Hank, on a tight course for Saturday night’s dance,” Quinn said. He kept his voice low, but there was no doubt what he meant. Hank was not welcome. I thought it unusual that Quinn would take on the role of spokesperson, but it might have been because he was the closest to the oncoming, heavyset Hank.
“You know me,” Hank said, a shaky laugh coming from his mouth. “I’m a quick study.” He moved to Quinn’s left, heading for an empty chair behind the one Quinn had abandoned.
It took Quinn only one long-legged step to block his path. “Maybe we can revisit the situation after the weekend,” he said, not moving now, but clearly ready to intercept Hank whichever way he dared to go.
I held my breath. This was a new side of my boyfriend. I admired his self-control but wondered what was next. A foot taller than Hank, and certainly more fit, Quinn was clearly in charge and would win any contest. I had no idea how far he might go. At the moment it was a stalemate, neither man moving.
Hank leaned his body so he could address the musicians behind Quinn. “Do you mind telling me why I’m being harassed here, by the new boy, no less?”
Hank was correct that Quinn was the “new boy,” and the youngest, with less than two years in a group that had started decades ago.
“We mind a lot,” said Greg, his voice booming as only a drama coach’s could. “Now, why don’t you tur
n around and march out of here before things get nasty?” He punctuated his message with a drumroll.
Quinn stood in front of Hank, unthreatening, unless being taller and more muscular could be deemed a threat in itself, and waited for Hank’s next move.
Hank’s face reddened to the point of my concern for his well-being. His already beady eyes became narrower. He glared at me, as if I were Quinn’s accomplice, and stormed out of the hall, his guitar case bouncing two or three times on the way.
Someone—it might have been Arthur Chaplin, at the bass guitar, since Dennis was gone—struck a note and the Ashcots continued their rehearsal without further interruption. I didn’t dare smile until every one of the other musicians did.
I thought back to my TNMHJ list of suspects and in my mind made the H bold, wondering how long it would be before he’d be bumped to the first slot. I knew that Sunni had only this morning to sweat, as she’d put it, the T in the list, the trio of thieves before they’d be turned over to the feds.
One thing for sure was that I had a Q on my mind for a coffee before I left for campus. I hung around until Quinn had packed up and had no trouble talking him into a chat before he went to work. When he put his dobro down to give me a hug, I didn’t feel threatened in the least.
* * *
We walked across the street to Mahican’s together. Not quite nine o’clock and the flag was up at the post office end of the building. Ben had already clocked in. I tried not to feel guilty.
“I wish I could come and hear your presentation,” Quinn said as we crossed Main Street. “But Fred is determined to wrap things up with the Carey estate before the weekend. I can’t justifiably leave him with all the paperwork.”
How nice of him not to mention kitchen duty at my house several times that he might have been at work.
I’d had mixed feelings when Quinn told me he’d asked Mercedes if he could attend my talk. On the one hand, his presence might bolster me; on the other, if I failed I wanted as few people as possible to know. The relief I felt now, knowing he couldn’t make it, was a good indication of what my true preference was.
“You already know most of it,” I said.
“What’s your opening line?” he asked.
I froze, and not because the wind had blown my scarf aside, away from my neck. If it weren’t for Quinn’s hand on my elbow, I might have stopped in the middle of Main Street.
“I forgot.”
Quinn propelled me to the sidewalk in front of Mahican’s and in through the door. “I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot. Have a seat and I’ll get our coffees.”
He took his place in a long line while I scouted a table, as embarrassed about my panic attack as I was about the pettiness of the cause. What would I do if I were faced with a real fight-or-flight situation? A threat to my survival that was more worthy than a roomful of twenty-year-olds?
Most of Mahican’s customers at this hour were there for takeout, so it wasn’t hard to find a table in a long row against the wall. I removed my scarf and took a breath. Somewhere deep in the haphazard notes I’d made this week was my opening line. I just had to find it.
* * *
By the time Quinn returned with our coffees and the Berkshires’ best scones, I was somewhat calmed down. He took a seat and started what I knew would be a pep talk.
“You know, I still remember the first time I played music in front of an audience. I was in college, and I was terrified.”
“Is that so?”
If Quinn noticed my disbelief, he didn’t let on. “I’d been playing with this group for a couple years, just for ourselves. We were all friends and we’d let off steam by getting together and riffing off each other, making it up as we went along. Then one day the girlfriend of one of the guys suggested we play at the coffee shop on campus. It was a small place, an alternative to the cafeteria, and we’d sometimes hang out there on a weekend night. She thought it would be cool to have live music.”
“Don’t tell me: You were nervous.”
“I told you. I was terrified. That first night I kept trying to hide in the back. There were only four or five of us, not like the Ashcots, no drummer or anything like that, so it wasn’t easy to disappear.”
“Thanks for sharing, Quinn,” I said. “I’m not nervous anymore.”
We exchanged playful nudges and moved on to a burning question I had. “I didn’t hear much about your dinner with Dyson,” I said.
“Let’s see. The chicken could have been a little moister; Dyson likes his asparagus cooked until it’s limp, which defeats the purpose of veggies; but the mashed potatoes passed muster.” Still not through playing, maybe needing another nudge. I gave him one and he got serious. “Okay, well, it was pretty low-key. We talked music mostly. He loves his classes but doesn’t have a chance to play very much, like with a group.”
“Like with the Ashcots,” I said.
“Yeah, I suggested he do what we did back in the Dark Ages and just offer some music to the coffee house or a club on campus. He might look into it.” Quinn gave me a sheepish look, as if he’d failed me in some way. “I didn’t think it was the time to grill him about, you know, the murder.”
“I think you did just the right thing.” I meant it but couldn’t help slipping in a question. “Do you think Dyson knew about his dad and Mercedes? Either the breakup or the makeup?”
“As far as his father’s having a girlfriend goes—it didn’t come up, though he mentioned a girl in his own music theory class, Chrissy, a couple of times, without actually calling her his girlfriend. But I’m not surprised that kids and dads wouldn’t be discussing their love lives. And Dyson has been away a couple of years, so he might not even know that Mercedes and his dad were together.”
I thought back to the greeting when Dyson and Mercedes met in the post office and decided there was something special there, that Dyson was probably aware of the relationship between Mercedes and his dad. There was no reason to hide it in the first place, except that lives were complicated.
* * *
Once Quinn left for work, I had no excuse to stay in the coffee shop. I stayed on anyway, my mind going in many directions at once, dealing with questions as if I were taking the quiz of a lifetime. How was Dyson doing this morning? Where was his father’s killer at this moment? Would I fall on my face on campus? Would Linda still be on an upward swing when I talked to her next?
It was past nine o’clock and I could see out the window across the street to the flag Ben had raised. The first customers were making their way out the doors of the post office, clutching packages, opening letters. One young woman, whose name I couldn’t remember, walked across Main toward Mahican’s, oblivious to traffic, reading a letter. Her expression was one of joy. The image struck a chord with me and I pulled a quote out of my freshman English class.
More than kisses, letters mingle souls. Why a John Donne poem came to me at that moment was as mysterious as the rest of the workings of my mind. I couldn’t remember any other line except the one following. For thus, friends absent speak. I hoped the rest of the poem wasn’t nasty or offensive.
I had the first line of my talk. I left Mahican’s finally convinced that the other two hundred or so would fall into place.
17
Instead of parking in the same lot on the north side of campus, closest to Mary Draper Hall, today I chose the south lot, purposely giving myself a long walk to the classroom building. I thought the journey might increase my sense of where Dennis Somerville spent his time when he wasn’t strumming his guitar with the Ashcots. I had little hope of meeting the math majors I’d conned into signing the card in Mahican’s coffee shop and be able to follow up with a few questions. But I couldn’t risk another visit to the math department in Patrick Henry Hall where Norah Sampson and her friends were more likely to be gathered. The specter of Gatekeeper Gail put an end to that idea.
The college campus, situated on a small rise, seemed to be consistently cold and windy, no matter the season. I remembered taking an AP history class there one summer when I was in high school and wanting to linger on campus to keep cool.
Today I didn’t appreciate the drop in temperature from the lowlands. My head down, my mouth and nose buried in my scarf as far as possible without cutting off my breathing, I nearly bumped into oncoming foot traffic several times. Thursday was apparently a popular day for classes. I hoped only a few of the students rushing around me were headed for my presentation in Mary Draper.
At one point, I sensed a roadblock ahead of me. A student unwilling to yield the right of way on a narrow section of the path. I wriggled out of my cocoon and looked up to see Norah Sampson, just the young woman I wanted to run into. I wondered if real police work relied as much on random strokes of luck as mine did.
Either she was from Minnesota and had braved subzero temperatures all her life, or she was simply used to the climate at the college on the hill. She wore a down jacket, but barely zipped up, and a scarf that was more a fashion statement than a neck or chest warmer. Maybe I needed to look into vitamin supplements.
Norah stood before me, in a hands-on-hips posture, though her hands were stuffed in her pockets. She had such an unpleasant countenance I thought she might be fondling a weapon. I also had the sense that this was not the same kind of serendipitous meeting as the one I’d had in my mind with John Donne.
“That was some kind of trick,” she said, then let out a “Bravo” with a sneer.
“Excuse me?”
“I was called into the police station, to see Chief Smargon, no less, moments after we talked to you in Mahican’s. A coincidence? I think not.”
“Moments?” I asked, knowing it had to have been at least an hour. Norah glared at me. I thought I saw finger movement in her jacket pocket. “I think she’s talking to as many of Dr. Somerville’s students as she can,” I said.