“Gift-wrapped? The murderer gift-wrapped the lime?”
Leo shrugged. “A couple of presents would get him — or her — in the apartment”
“I thought you said it was a delivery man.”
“She said it was a man wearing a uniform, ill-fitting, complete with hat. A woman could disguise herself that way.”
“How big?” asked Elena.
“Slender. About five nine or ten.”
“Sarah’s only five five, maybe six.”
“The witness was a very short woman. You know how short people tend to overestimate height.”
“Except that Sarah left town Friday.”
“Maybe she came back Saturday or Sunday — to give him one or two all-night doses of lime. The actual conference sessions didn’t start until Monday. She didn’t have to be in Chicago Friday, and no one would have noticed if she wasn’t there. Maybe she killed him on — oh — Wednesday after he turned his grades in. Thursday she slipped back into his apartment to change the lime. She was still in town then.”
Elena remembered Sarah’s absence from the support group on Thursday night.
“Friday she leaves. Maybe she’s afraid she’s been seen. Maybe she just wants to establish herself as being somewhere else. Sunday she registers for the conference. Then she flies back here, dissolves the last of the ex-husband, and gets back to Chicago in time for the first meeting on Monday morning. We know she kept the hotel room in Chicago, so that gives her an alibi of sorts.”
“It’s too complicated, Leo. Murders are usually a lot simpler than that.”
“You’re looking for a simple solution? A murderer who’d dissolve the victim in unslaked lime isn’t going to offer any simple solutions, and your friend, Professor Tolland, was acting peculiar. Leaving town two, three days early, leaving the conference early for parts unknown, trying to blow him up with a — “
“So we’ll check the flights,” snapped Elena. “But if she came back, she’d be crazy not to use cash and an assumed name.”
“So we’ll check for cash fliers. Check to see if she could have got back here Sunday and still make the Monday morning meetings in Chicago.”
There were cash fliers, but Elena and Leo had no way to tell whether Sarah had been one. They’d have to interview flight attendants, most of whom were always somewhere else. There was a middle-of-the-night flight from Los Santos to DFW. From there Sarah could have made a connecting flight to Chicago, but would she? Elena knew that Sarah Tolland expected to get a full night’s sleep each and every night. Still, if you wanted to cover up a murder, you might be willing to break even the most cherished routines.
“It’s too complicated,” Elena protested.
“So she’s a complicated woman.”
She was, thought Elena with a heavy heart. The very complexity of the scheme might appeal to Sarah. And there were the fingerprints.
Eleven
* * *
Wednesday, May 20, 8:30 A.M.
“Hey, Elena, you wanna take an acid bath call?”
“Lime bath,” she muttered and picked up. “Detective Elena Jarvis.”
Silence. Then the caller stammered, “You’re a cop?”
“Right. Detective Elena Jarvis.” He’d been caught off guard by the idea of a woman police officer, she thought. “What’s your name, sir?”
“I’m Hector Montes, head of Buildings and Grounds out here at the university.”
“Which university?”
“Well, Herbert Hobart.”
“And you have information on the case?” she prodded.
“Yeah. Well, I don’t know, but I read in the paper the other day how they found unslaked lime in that bathtub. First, you know, they said it was acid, but then they said — “
“That’s right, Mr. Montes,” Elena interrupted, swiveling her chair around and staring at her gray tweed partition. The post-doc who had promised silence told the first reporter nosing around the university that he’d discovered the bath was lime, not acid. “It was unslaked lime and water, Mr. Montes,” said Elena.
“Yeah, well, I got to thinking. I ordered some of that. In fact, I ordered it twice. We got these rock walls that we stuccoed over. Then we whitewash ’em.”
Elena nodded, letting her silence nudge him on.
“Well, anyway, you mix this unslaked lime with salt and water, so I ordered a bunch of it. You know — for whitewash. And it never showed up. Company swore they sent it, but it never got to us, so I had to reorder. I got the second batch, all right.”
“How much did you order, sir?” Elena swung back and logged onto the computer.
“Just three barrels — each time. I don’t like to keep a whole lot around because it’s a bitch — ah — I mean it’s bad stuff if it gets exposed to water by someone who don’t know what they’re doin’.”
“Would you know if there’s any way to trace what happened to the missing order?” She typed in “three barrels” beneath Montes’ name.
“Ask the company, I guess — fat lotta good that did me. Maybe ask Central Receiving here at the university. All the orderin’ an’ routin’s done by computer. Maybe the Computer Center. I just couldn’t tell you for sure.”
Elena sighed. “Thanks for your information, Mr. Montes. Could you describe the barrels for me?” She typed the description — weight, dimensions, appearance. “Damn people,” she muttered after she’d hung up. The papers had made that correction two days ago, and it took Montes forty-eight hours to decide his missing unslaked lime might be important. Three barrels. That ought to be enough to dissolve Gus McGlenlevie and a few other people. To be sure, however, she called the university and talked to Abelard Moncrief himself. He said two barrels would be sufficient in his opinion.
After hanging up, Elena thought about the information she’d just received. Somebody had appropriated Mr. Montes’ lime. Who? Was it the lime used in Gus’s bathtub? Probably no way to tell. But if they could find the third barrel — the barrel the murderer wouldn’t have needed — oh hell, unslaked lime was unslaked lime — generic. If they found the third barrel, it might confirm their suspicions — hers and Leo’s — but it wouldn’t prove anything in court. A good defense attorney could suggest all kinds of innocent reasons for his client to be in possession of unslaked lime. He could point out that Detective Elena Jarvis used unslaked lime, and ask if the jury considered her a suspect.
Twelve
* * *
Wednesday, May 20, 10:40 A.M.
Like the Humanities and the Engineering buildings, the administration building was another Mayan Revival temple, except that it had a salmon and turquoise marble presidential reception hall, which President Sunnydale’s secretary, a beaming little white-haired, rosy-cheeked Mrs. Santa Claus type, had insisted on showing Leo and Elena while they waited for their appointment with the university president.
“Start at the top,” Elena had decided as they ran over the list of university officials they wanted to visit that day. She was dying to meet President Sunnydale, the wacko ex-California evangelist Sarah had told her about. Leo agreed, and they had called first for the appointment with President Sunnydale. Mrs. Santa Claus informed them that Dr. Harley Stanley, Vice-President for Academic Affairs, would attend the meeting also.
Bingo! thought Elena. Another oddball to add to her collection. When he wasn’t busy with academic affairs, Harley Stanley sponsored the Herbert Hobart Desert Adventure Club, a gang of student motorcyclists who were, according to environmentalists, ruining the delicate desert ecology. Sarah said he rode his motorcycle in a suit and tie — and, of course, a helmet.
Leo, who wasn’t paying much attention to the president’s secretary, tried out a little tap dance on the marble floor of the reception hall. Elena elbowed him when Mrs. Santa Claus’s back was turned. “She’ll think you’re weird,” Elena hissed.
“I think she’s weird,” Leo whispered back after executing a lively shuffle-off-to-Buffalo and looking very pleased with himself. “Thos
e kindergarten kids should have let me dance. I’m a better dancer than anyone in town.”
“There’s my beeper,” cried the presidential secretary. “Don’t you just love all this modern gadgetry?” She ushered them back to the president’s office. “Someday soon I expect I’ll even get around to trying the computer President Sunnydale bought me. Here we are. President Sunnydale, I’ve brought you these two fine young policemen — persons — goodness, what do people call you, dear?”
Before Elena could answer, the secretary added, “They’re going to solve our murder, and no doubt they need your spiritual guidance, President Sunnydale.” She beamed maternally at the president, who was at least her age but had more white hair and a startling tan for someone with a rather ethereal look — or was vague the word Elena wanted?
“I’ve been with President Sunnydale through his church career as well as his academic career.” The last was addressed to Elena, who was now mulling over the idea that she might be expected to accept spiritual guidance when she had been hoping for carte blanche to snoop in the university computers and question the university administrators. Having made all the necessary introductions, Mrs. Santa Claus tottered away with a promise of coffee and cookies, neither of which materialized.
Vice-President Stanley eyed them solemnly. “Detective Jarvis, Detective Weizell, we know why you’re here and want to assure you of the university’s cooperation in this most unfortunate matter.”
“Most unfortunate,” echoed President Sunnydale. “It must have been some maniac, don’t you think, Dr. Stanley? Well, perhaps not a maniac. One hardly likes to think of a maniac roving the groves of academe, but who would want to kill a poet?” He considered the matter, hands folded as if in prayer, and added, “An eminent poet. We were very proud here at Herbert Hobart to have a literary figure of the stature of Mr. — er — “ The president looked at a loss.
“McGlenlevie,” prompted Harley Stanley.
Elena could think of quite a few people who might have wanted to kill Angus McGlenlevie. She and Leo discovered more every day. But with Sunnydale having been such a famous TV evangelist — if the rumors were true, his ministry ran afoul of the IRS and lost its tax exemption — perhaps the more scandalous aspects of Angus McGlenlevie’s personality and character had been kept from the president.
“So if there’s anything at all we can do,” said Dr. Stanley, “to help resolve this unfortunate business, please do call upon us.”
“Unfortunate. Most unfortunate,” murmured President Sunnydale.
“We don’t want to cause our parents undue anxiety over the safety of their offspring,” said Dr. Stanley.
I’ll bet, thought Elena. Every parent connected with the university was probably worth a million dollars. They’d cut off the contributions, stop paying the outrageous tuition rates, withdraw their kids, and enroll them in some other university.
“We’re planning a memorial service for our poet, Angus — ah — “
“McGlenlevie,” prompted Dr. Stanley once again.
“Yes, McGlenlevie. We do hope you’ll attend.” President Sunnydale nodded at them with ecclesiastical benevolence.
“Do either of you know of anyone who might have had it in for him?” asked Leo.
The president and vice-president looked astounded that they might be expected to have such information, and both shook their heads vigorously. “He was very eminent,” said Dr. Stanley.
“And well loved — no doubt,” said President Sunnydale. “Do come to the services. This afternoon at two. In the chapel.”
Elena wondered what an art deco chapel would look like. Maybe they had the Virgin Mary doing the Charleston, au naturel. Then Elena recalled President Sunnydale’s agreement with the faculty — no drinks, no prayer. Would cocktails be served at the memorial service? To placate the faculty?
In her head she heard her mother’s voice saying, Shame on you, Elena. One must always show tolerance and respect for the religious beliefs of others. Mother wasn’t much of a Catholic, although she certainly showed tolerance for her husband’s beliefs, and Sheriff Portillo, although he thought of himself as a Catholic, didn’t attend mass all that often. They’d been a very nominal family, religion-wise. Her mother, if anything, was a pantheist. She could see God in a flowering chamisa bush but was always more interested in the ancient, home-carved santos in the church than anything the priest had to say.
“The memorial service will be followed by our biweekly prayer meeting and cocktail party. We’d be delighted to have you attend. The gathering after finals week is always quite festive.” Elena tried to imagine cocktails being served at the Sanctuario de Chimayo and had got as far as Aunt Josefina in her black church shawl with a Bloody Mary in her hand. The fantasy was interrupted when she noticed Leo on the verge of unseemly laughter as he accepted the invitation and then told the two university administrators that although the department wasn’t ready to make an arrest, he and Elena felt they were making progress.
Some progress, thought Elena. We don’t know when Angus died. He thinks Sarah did it. I don’t. That’s our progress.
They secured a promise of access to the university’s records and computer files, left the president’s office, and split up for separate interviews: Leo to corral additional members of the English department, with whom he now had appointments, Elena to visit Dr. Greta Marx at the Herbert Hobart University Health and Reproductive Services Center. What services are those? she wondered as she entered the waiting room, which had no patients that day, so many students having gone home.
“Detective Elena Jarvis,” she told the nurse receptionist. “I have an appointment with Dr. Marx.”
“Jarvis.” The nurse looked at her bare appointment book. “Right this way, please. Here’s your next appointment, Doctor. Ms. Jarvis.”
Without looking up from her paperwork, Dr. Marx said, “Take a seat. What kind of birth control are you using?”
Elena blinked.
The doctor looked up impatiently when she received no answer. “Well, you are using birth control, aren’t you? And don’t tell me you’re not sexually active. All you young people are. And let me say this: I’d rather prescribe the pill for you now than have to provide an abortion later. I do not consider abortion the birth control method of choice, although, of course, I do them. Better an abortion than an unwanted child.” The doctor laid down her pen and glared accusingly at Elena. “You might keep in mind that we’re bound to be hit sooner or later by those pro-lifers, and you won’t much like having to force your way through a crowd of screaming fanatics to keep yourself from becoming an unwed mother. And then there’s AIDS.”
“Look,” said Elena, “I’m from the police department. Detective Elena Jarvis. I’d like to ask you some questions about the late Angus McGlenlevie.”
The doctor squinted at her suspiciously as if she might be a student trying to evade the subject of responsible sex. “Doctor-patient relationships are privileged,” she said. “No matter how many girls have showed up at my door before or after being with that man, I can’t give you their names. God knows what they saw in that obnoxious twerp. What are we dealing with here? A charge of statutory rape? Just tell the parents he’s dead. That ought to — “
“That’s right. He’s dead, and you’re evidently the only doctor in town that ever saw him. All we’ve got to work with are teeth and bones, strange bones at that.”
Acid Bath Page 7