Kim found it significant that Lorette wasn’t at her own apartment or with Jim. She would have liked to ask more questions, but it seemed inappropriate.
“We’ll talk tomorrow then.”
“Right. I’ll be at the library around noon and if I can’t make it at that time for some reason, I’ll let you know.”
The conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. Kim tossed and turned for hours afterward, unable to rest peacefully, filled with a sense of foreboding.
On Friday morning, Kim woke up at seven. Looking at a box of oatmeal, but unable to bring herself to cook it no matter how healthy it might be, she rummaged in the cupboard and found a half empty package of cold cereal. As tired as she felt, Kim doubted that even the breakfast of champions would totally rejuvenate her. She glanced in the refrigerator for orange juice or oranges, and finding neither, made do with some tomato juice which, having been there for a while, had seen better days and thickened. She whimsically toasted the air with the beverage.
“Bottoms up. Drink it before it clots.” She imagined herself the Queen of the Damned and managed half a glass before spilling the rest down the kitchen sink drain. By the time she’d gotten herself together, it was after eight. She hurried out the door. If there was one thing certain, she never wanted to be late for work. Wendell revered punctuality the way cavemen worshipped fire. But as Robert Burns so aptly put it, the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley. A highway accident backed traffic up for miles. She got to the parking deck at 9:30 a.m., one-half hour late for work.
There was no point telling Wendell about the accident. He himself was punctilious, too much the perfect machine ever to be late. He was the first person to arrive in the morning. Long before anyone else came, he was at his desk, working his computer programs, sipping a cup of coffee or reading the Times. As she breathlessly walked behind the reference desk, Wendell was there looking meaningfully at his watch. She felt her face color.
“You will, of course, make up the extra half-hour today.”
This was definitely not the time to ask his permission to leave for lunch at noon instead of whatever time he deemed appropriate. She would just play it by ear and hope Lorette was able to wait for her if it proved necessary.
As it turned out, Lorette never came. Wendell informed her that she could go to lunch at one, and Lorette still hadn’t arrived by then. Kim was concerned because it wasn’t like Lorette to forget an engagement. One of her friend’s good traits was reliability. The rest of the day, she had a nagging feeling that something was very wrong. Her awareness kicked in big-time.
But work kept her busy and diverted her thoughts from Lorette and her problems. Students came and went all afternoon in need of help with research papers. And then there were the phone calls. One man claimed he was calling from Zurich, Switzerland, and needed to find out if they had a certain treatise.
Rita Mosler turned up her needle nose at this bit of information. “They’ll tell you anything to get you to hurry up and get them the information they want. He’s probably calling from Kinley Hall around the corner.” Rita was an old-timer and somewhat jaded by the job. People rarely went to Rita for help when they could ask Kim. Rita was too sharp-tongued. Her caustic manner frightened students almost as much as her bony, arthritic fingers that resembled bent twigs. Her customary expression was that of someone who’d swallowed a lemon whole.
Later, Rita received a phone call from the Mad Movie Fan, as she referred to him. “Take it for me,” she said. “I can’t stand to talk to that idiot again. If I do, I’ll give him a piece of my mind.”
Kim got on the line. It was an old man’s shaky voice. He asked her to look up information for him and she did so as he held on. He wanted the original cast list, director and producer of A Streetcar Named Desire.
“It didn’t seem like too much to ask,” Kim said after she’d finished with him. “He’s likely a shut-in or something.”
“He’s a pest. Calls everyday with some silly question. I’d like to wring the old geezer’s neck.”
“The man is probably just lonely,” Kim said. There were times when she would have liked to phone somebody and just talk for no particular reason herself. She understood about feeling isolated.
The workday ended a great deal better than it began. For one thing, Wendell seemed preoccupied most of the morning and left for the day early. She knew he had some teaching responsibilities at the school of library science and was grateful for it. She’d been braced for some sort of subtle punishment and was relieved that it had been averted.
That evening, she phoned Lorette’s apartment as soon as she got home from work. There was no answer. She called again later. Still no answer. She would have phoned Jim, but did not know his address or phone number. Anxious, Kim decided to drive over to Lorette’s apartment around nine o’clock to see why she wasn’t answering her phone. She couldn’t shake the sense that her friend was in serious danger, even if that seemed illogical.
Kim rang the doorbell several times but no one answered. She could see light emanating from the interior. Trying the door, she found it was not locked. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the apartment and called out Lorette’s name as she moved. The kitchenette light was on, and it partially illuminated the living room area. As her eyes adjusted to the limited light, she saw that Lorette was on the couch, slumped over. At first, Kim thought her friend was sleeping, but when she went to touch her, Lorette felt oddly cold. She called Lorette’s name again, but there was no answer. She tried to lift her friend’s head up. This proved difficult because Lorette’s neck seemed stiff; Kim saw her eyes were open, staring at her sightlessly, the corneas clouded. And then she knew. Oh God, she knew!
Her hand trembled as she used the telephone to call 911. She simply stood there and stared blankly as if in a trance until the paramedics arrived. She could not believe that Lorette was dead. It brought back awful memories, terrible memories of another time and place.
“Lorette, what were you going to tell me?” she asked.
But the dead did not always speak, and this was one of those times. The silence was deafening.
Police and ambulance arrived together. They asked her questions that she somehow managed to answer, although later she could not remember what she said. When they put Lorette’s body on the stretcher and covered her, Kim let out a cry of astonishment and disbelief. The sound came out of her involuntarily, as if someone had punched a hard blow to her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She could barely catch her breath.
A young policeman in uniform took hold of her. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
“No, I’m not. She was my friend.”
He had a small notebook that he began writing in, and started by asking her name and address.
“How long did you know the deceased?”
Lorette, the deceased. The words held no reality for her. “I knew her for several years. She is, I mean was, a graduate student.”
They surrounded her now, four men in blue uniforms. The policeman who’d been speaking continued to ask her questions. She tried to answer slowly, to organize her scattered thoughts, reluctant to say very much. The questions they were asking, did they believe she had something to do with Lorette’s death? All she could think of was how badly she wanted to get away from here and go back to her own apartment. She had an awful feeling that she’d somehow let her friend down, that there was something she could have done to help her but hadn’t. She tried to shake it.
Kim slept very little that night and was grateful she did not have to go to work the next day. The schedule called for one Saturday or Sunday per week. She would work Sunday, but not today. She felt paralyzed with depression. She didn’t get dressed, but merely lay on the sofa bed lost in thought.
At ten that morning, the telephone rang. The voice at the other end asked for her and then identified himself as a Lieutenant Gardner of the Wilson Township Police. He wanted to talk to her, he said, and asked if he could drop b
y the apartment in an hour if it was convenient. The voice, resonant and deep, sounded sympathetic and familiar.
Acquiescing to his request, she wondered what he could possibly want to ask her. I’ll make the bed. I’ll get dressed. I’ll cook myself an egg. But I just want to stay curled up in a fetal position and not talk to anyone. Even as she thought it, she knew it was sick. Life goes on.
Kim recognized the policeman who came to her door, wondered why she hadn’t realized who he was before. He was just as tall and well built, with the same calm, steady gray eyes. But he was no longer casually dressed as he had been at the library. His conservative gray suit matched his eyes, making him look more like an accountant than a law enforcement officer. His manner was friendly and not the least bit intimidating. But Kim wasn’t fooled. She studied his rugged, masculine features. This was a formidable, dangerous man, even if he chose not to emphasize those qualities.
Michael Gardner took out his shield and showed it to her. “May I come in and talk with you? I’ve been assigned to check into the death of Lorette Campbell. I understand you found her body and identified yourself as a friend of the deceased.”
Kim could only manage to nod her head. For a moment, his eyes met hers. Then he was staring at her, connecting on a metaphysical level. She resented the intrusion into her psyche, into her soul, and met his gaze with defiance. Something passed between them, a jolt of kinetic energy. She recognized it for what it was. Why should there be this potent attraction between them? She quickly looked away, confused and frightened, denying the chemistry—and that something more.
He followed her into the living area and sat down on a straight-back chair, removing a small notebook and clicking a pen.
“I want to go over what you told the uniformed officers last night.” Much to her relief, his tone was polite and professional. “I have some questions for you.”
She furrowed her brow. “I told them everything I knew. Why do I have to go over it again? It was awful.” Careful what you say to him. You can’t trust a policeman.
He gave her a kind look. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your friend didn’t die of natural causes.”
She did not respond, waiting for him to say more. He studied her thoughtfully, no doubt observing her lack of surprise, and then he continued.
“What was your overall impression of Ms. Campbell’s health?”
The question bewildered her. What was he driving at?
“She was a little on the thin side and sometimes seemed nervous, but basically she was in excellent health.”
“Did she take drugs in your presence?”
“No, never.” So that was it; they’d somehow found out about Lorette’s past history. That hadn’t taken very long.
“You never saw her ingest illegal substances of any kind?”
“I said not.” He was beginning to annoy her. “Maybe Lorette had some problems a long time ago, but she overcame them. She didn’t drink, smoke or take drugs at any time since I’ve known her, and that’s been several years.”
“I wasn’t referring to her past. She took a substance that brought on her death. Ms. Reynolds, we found cocaine in her purse and in a hypodermic needle that had been injected into the vein in her arm. The ME has done a preliminary postmortem exam and has ruled her death heart failure brought on by an overdose of the drug. He estimates she injected a full gram of coke. That’s a very heavy dose. What do you think about that?”
Kim began pacing the room. “I’d have to say someone murdered her.” Her eyes met his with directness. “She would never have become involved with drugs or alcohol again.”
“You’re a loyal friend, but there’s a big difference between fact and opinion.”
She shook her head with conviction. “No. I knew her, and I’m positive.”
He looked at her askance, clearly pitying her naïveté. “Are you a detective or a psychologist?”
“Neither, but I deal with people every day on my job, too, and I get to understand how they feel and think.”
“How close was your friendship?”
“There were limits to it. We were both very private people. However, she was frightened lately. Things had been happening to her. She asked for my help. Really, I think she just wanted someone she felt she could trust to confide in.”
“I think you’d better tell me what was going on.” His strong, square jaw implied character and tenacity. He reminded her of a pit bull.
And so she told him everything: about the threatening letters, the auto accident, the harassment at school. It was a relief to unburden herself to a professional this way. But when he asked for names, she felt awkward. She didn’t want to tell him about Jim or even mention Professor Packingham, so she shook her head and pretended ignorance. Lieutenant Gardner didn’t press her; he looked at her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and how she felt. It was just a police trick, she decided. He couldn’t possibly guess at or understand her reluctance. She wasn’t certain she fully understood it herself.
“You see any copies of those threatening letters?”
“Not the second one,” she admitted. “Lorette threw away the first one, but I think the second was still in her apartment. She was going to show it to me but never got around to it. Yesterday, she was supposed to have lunch with me. She said she’d learned something important in connection with the trouble she was having. I was also supposed to check into the whereabouts of an inferno collection that she believed was kept at the university.” Kim explained about her job at the university.
“Inferno collection? What’s that?” The gray eyes had sharpened to the color of steel.
“They’re special collections that aren’t open to the general public.”
“Secret stuff?”
“Not necessarily. Inferno collections really belong to another era. Banned books. Victorian sensibilities. An inferno collection has to do with manuscripts that would be considered morally unacceptable. You can see how that normally wouldn’t exist at a university where free thinking and intellectual awareness are the status quo.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” The policeman scratched his ear pensively. “But then why was Ms. Campbell asking you about it?”
“I can’t say. No one seems to have heard of any such thing. We have special collections, but they’re all open to our patrons.”
“You think your friend knew something that got her into trouble? Something about this inferno collection?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. I could ask around more.”
“Let me do that,” he told her. “It’s my job. You don’t want to see me unemployed, do you? I got a family to support.”
Kim stiffened. Of course, he would have a family, a wife and children. He was around thirty-five, maybe a few years older. Why wouldn’t she expect him to have a family?
“You sure you can’t tell me more about who her friends were?” Back to that again. He was a shrewd interrogator.
“She didn’t have a lot of friends.”
“Well, I’ll be talking to her family and her teachers. Maybe they have some ideas. Meantime, I’ll keep the investigation open. If you find anything out or you remember anything that you think would help, just call, I know you’ve got my number, and ask for Mike Gardner. I’ll get back to you.”
She was relieved when he left. Talking to a police detective was a frightening experience and had been terribly stressful. Still, she supposed he wasn’t as bad as some of them. But there had been that tension between them, that frisson of awareness.
I want to talk to Ma, she thought, knowing it was a mistake before she dialed the familiar number. But she needed to hear that reassuring voice once again, even if it brought back painful memories.
“How you doing, honey?”
Somehow, she had to talk about it, about finding Lorette, about being questioned by the police. The story poured from her like wine escaping a shattered bottle. Ma listened quietly, speaking only when Kim had finally finished
.
“What a terrible thing to happen. That poor girl! I realize it wasn’t easy for you talking to the police, but you have to remember, they’re just doing their jobs. Mostly, they help people.”
Ma did have a way of making her feel better. She remembered how it had been when she was little. Even though Ma worked hard at the supermarket, there had never been a time when she didn’t care about “my little girl.”
“You’re very generous. I wish I could feel the same way, but I don’t trust them. I haven’t forgotten the way they treated us afterwards.”
“Yes, dear, but it was understandable under the circumstances.”
“No, it wasn’t. We didn’t do anything. They acted like it was our fault.”
“Really, they didn’t. You were very upset, very sensitive.”
But she hadn’t forgotten what the one with the beer-belly and the red face had said to Ma: “You must have known or suspected. You might have prevented it from happening.”
“Ma, did you find Jen’s diary?”
There was a hesitation on the other end. “It would be better if you forgot about it.”
“I want to read it through.”
“Your Uncle Joe called. Said it’s beautiful in Idaho this time of year. Wanted me to send his regards and those of Aunt Sarah.”
“That’s nice to hear.” She knew Ma was changing the subject. There was nothing very subtle about her. All the same, she wanted to know about Jen. Ma could have told her the details of Jen’s death, but that was one of the secrets they never discussed. A house full of secrets. A house of pain and anguish, a house where people lived in denial. That was how she had grown up. She was weary of lies, deceptions and half-truths. Since Ma wouldn’t tell her, she would have to discover other ways to find out.
It was the same with Lorette. There was a need for connection. Lorette had wanted her friendship and her help, but she wouldn’t tell her the whole truth. Now Lorette was dead. Should she try to probe further? If someone had murdered Lorette as she suspected, what would stop that individual from trying to kill her if she became too nosy? But she wanted, needed, to know more. She could always call that hot hunk of a policeman, tell him everything she knew. No, only as a last resort would she do that.
The Inferno Collection Page 6