The Inferno Collection

by Jacqueline Seewald

  SEVEN

  Since she had to be at work by nine a.m. on Monday, Kim decided to go over to Kinley Hall early and walk around. There were several people she wanted to talk with about Lorette. She wasn’t certain what she was going to say, but she couldn’t just forget about what had happened. Someone had threatened Lorette; someone had killed her. Maybe she could find out the reason. Maybe she just needed to find a way to lessen her own feelings of grief and guilt.

  Kinley hadn’t changed very much since the days when she was taking the courses that led to her Master’s Degree in English. She had thought to talk to one or two of the secretaries, but had forgotten they didn’t start until nine o’clock. Consulting her watch, she realized it was now 8:30. She walked through the nearly deserted building toward the graduate student lounge, striding along the central corridor with its old classrooms on either side of the hall. The lounge was in the furthest corner at the rear of the corridor right near the entrance/exit that led out to the parking lot. At this hour, it was rather empty. One or two grad students who taught freshman writing courses stopped by to check their mailboxes, but no one actually occupied the lounge.

  The room itself was spartan, with four or five beat-up chairs and a table that would later hold a hot water urn. An array of instant coffee, tea bags, Coffee-Mate and white foam cups adorned the table in permanent, unappealing, institutional splendor, as worthy of a prison as a university.

  She looked in the mailbox marked “Campbell, L.” and found that it was empty except for a Xerox announcing some organizational mixer. There were no answers here. She would come back another time and maybe talk with some of the students. Unfortunately, it was too early to catch Dr. Simpson-Watkins. She very much wanted to ask him who had tried to boot Lorette out of the school by sullying her reputation.

  Consulting the schedule of classes, she found that Dr. Forbes would be teaching upstairs shortly. She knew Lorette considered him an outstanding teacher and had been pleased to get a class with him this semester. Kim had never taken a course with him, but was aware of his reputation. Supposedly, he was an expert in the art of classical rhetoric as well as the study of occult literature. When she’d briefly observed his technique as a lecturer, she’d seen for herself that he mesmerized his classes. He also frightened his students. She’d sensed something dark about the man. She decided to stick around for a while.

  The only person in Dr. Forbes’ classroom at that hour was a custodian. She watched him clean wastepaper baskets and straighten chairs. He was a small man, no more than five-foot four at most, but he was broad and well muscled with a round Slavic-looking face. Embroidered on his shirt was the name Frank.

  “Is there any problem if I stay here a while?”

  “No, except the class won’t start for at least another hour.”

  “That long?”

  “Dr. Forbes, he doesn’t start to teach right away. Sometimes he talks to students before he begins. He also likes to talk to me.”

  “It sounds like you know him pretty well.”

  The custodian smiled. “I do. He doesn’t like everyone, you know. He’s very particular. He likes the way I clean. I’m thorough. He even hired me to clean his house for him.”

  “You must be very good at your job.”

  “He says he especially likes me ’cause I’m not taller than him.” The custodian spoke unguardedly with a kind of naive pride, almost the way a child would. She wondered if he were mildly retarded. A heavily tattooed arm reached over for some papers carelessly tossed on the floor.

  “Dr. Forbes has a thing about height?”

  The custodian smiled at her and leaned forward as if he were sharing a secret with her. “He’s a real important man, you know. But he likes men who are smaller than him and women who are much taller—calls them his giraffes.” He gave her a wink.

  “I can see you take pride in your work,” she said. “You probably know some of the students. Would you remember a tall, black-haired woman, a student in Dr. Forbes’ class? She was well dressed and attractive, like a model. Lorette Campbell by name. Maybe Dr. Forbes mentioned her to you?”

  Frank’s small, flat eyes showed no recognition. “I wouldn’t know. There are so many students here every day.”

  “A very beautiful woman?”

  “They’re all beautiful to me.”

  She nodded and left. There was no point waiting around. She would just have to come back another time.

  * * * *

  During her lunch break, Kim phoned Lorette’s mother. She wasn’t sure what to say to the woman, but she knew the call was necessary. Miranda’s voice was soft and solemn, different from when they had met in person.

  “A police officer told me,” she said. “I still can’t believe it.”

  Kim expressed her condolences. They spoke only briefly. Miranda told her the day and time of Lorette’s funeral, and Kim wrote down the information carefully. Miranda also asked if she would say a few words at the funeral.

  Two days later, she drove south for the service at a funeral chapel not far from where Miranda lived. She wondered if she should have come. Funerals were for the living not the dead. Lorette was gone; this gesture was not really for her. Who then? Perhaps herself. It was as if a part of her were being buried. Yet she and Lorette had never been what other people would call truly close. Still, there was a part of Lorette that was very much the same as herself, a likeness between them. It was fitting that she be here today.

  She was kept company by Jim Davis. He looked as if he were ill. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothing disheveled. There was no need to ask how he was taking Lorette’s death. During the service, she took his hand. He gave her a small, grateful smile. A clergyman spoke briefly in the chapel saying the usual things that people did about the dead. It was obvious to Kim that he didn’t know Lorette at all. After the empty eulogy, Miranda rose with some effort. She said very little about her daughter, except that she had loved her. Her tall, lean body swayed liked the mast of a sailboat. Then she asked Kim to say a few words.

  Ill at ease, Kim came to the podium with sweaty palms. She told these strangers that what Lorette loved most was poetry and she’d chosen to read a poem that seemed appropriate. It was Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Dirge Without Music.” She cleared her throat and began in a clear, steady voice. Her voice faltered only as she finished.

  Most of the people present were unfamiliar to her, but she went on to the cemetery anyway. The procession to the cemetery, a small chain of cars connected like a spinal cord, crept along under the brain-matter-gray sky. It had begun to rain, matching the somber mood of the day. It seemed as if the sky’s tears were washing away memory, cleansing grief, like a surgeon’s scalpel performing a lobotomy.

  Jim stood beside her at the cemetery. His pain was palpable. As the clergyman recited the Lord’s Prayer, followed by the Twenty-Third Psalm, those present joined in. Kim heard many voices, those of the living and the dead. She saw a clear, translucent vision of Lorette shedding tears of sorrow above her own grave. Kim wanted desperately to reach out to her.

  After it was over, Lorette’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Each person shoveled a bit of earth into the open grave, and then they left Lorette with the dead.

  Jim turned to Kim as they walked back to their automobiles. “Did she tell you that she decided not to marry me?”

  “No, we hadn’t discussed it.” Kim felt awkward talking about such a personal matter. She had no desire to hear his problems, but she didn’t want to be rude to him.

  “It wasn’t like we really argued or anything. She just said she wasn’t ready to marry anybody.”

  “I think she’d been hurt in the past and that stopped her from trusting people very easily.” Kim was aware she was talking as much about herself as about Lorette.

  “She trusted you though. She told me that. She said you were the kind of person who would never betray a confidence. Did she talk to you about me?”

  There was a kind of urg
ency to the question; he wasn’t just fishing for compliments.

  “She only said that she cared about you, nothing else.” Kim meant to be kind but didn’t know if she succeeded. She studied him thoughtfully. Did she sense relief on his part?

  He saw her look of doubt, and ran nervous fingers through his sand-colored hair. “I would never have hurt her.”

  “Someone did.”

  He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and dug his booted foot into the grassy earth.

  “I loved her.”

  “I want to find out what happened to her. She deserves that much. I don’t want people to think she killed herself with drugs. I don’t believe it’s true.”

  “Neither do I. I’ll help you find out the truth.” He seemed earnest and caring.

  “Good, I need help.” That was hard to admit, because she rarely asked other people for anything, preferring to do things in her own way by herself. But this was different. “Lorette told me that she was asked to voluntarily withdraw from the doctoral program. Did she talk to you about it?”

  He shook his head. “I knew she was really angry and upset about something, but she didn’t see fit to confide in me.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have known about Lorette’s past drug problem? I think whoever killed her had to have known. Since Lorette was such a private person, she wouldn’t tell just anyone.”

  There was a slight hesitation on his part, then a blinking of his eyes. “She did tell me,” he said. “But I don’t have any idea who else she might have confided in.”

  Jim didn’t appear to know any more than she did. Yet she got the distinct feeling he might be holding something back. Why would he do that, since he claimed to want to find out who killed Lorette as much as she did? After exchanging a few words with Miranda, Kim got into her Toyota and drove back to the highway. She resolved to see the matter through to the best of her abilities. If matters were reversed and it was she who had been murdered, would Lorette have done as much? Probably not, but then friendship needn’t be equated or balanced on a scale. This was something Kim felt was important and necessary. Logic dictated that she should leave all investigation to the police. But they clearly didn’t think that Lorette had been murdered and she definitely did.

  * * * *

  The following day, Kim found herself on the early lunch schedule and hurried over to Kinley Hall again. It was just 11:30 a.m., and Dr. Ian Simpson-Watkins, Director of Graduate English Studies, sat in his office looking patrician, sporting a reddish beard, a muttonchop affair distinctly Victorian. He wore a brown Harris tweed jacket which added to his distinguished mien.

  “Your secretary wasn’t out front. I thought perhaps I might take just a moment or two of your time.”

  “Certainly. I’m always available to students.”

  “I’m not exactly a student anymore, but I’ve come to talk to you about one.”

  “And how may I help you?” Simpson-Watkins looked across his desk at her in a detached and decidedly superior manner. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being examined through an X-ray machine, and the professor could see right through her.

  “It’s about Lorette Campbell.”

  The professor sat back in his chair. “Yes, her death was most unfortunate.”

  She moistened her lips. “Shortly before Lorette died, she told me you informed her she was no longer an acceptable student. You wanted her to leave the program voluntarily. Could you tell me why you came to that decision?”

  “I do not see the relevance,” he said through thinning lips, his manner stern and intimidating.

  “Someone gave you information about Lorette’s background. It might have been the same individual who was harassing and threatening her. That person was obviously out to destroy Lorette. She didn’t know why, or if she did, she was too frightened to tell anyone.”

  He stood up, rising to his full stature, which was impressive. “That information is confidential. I am unable to discuss it with you.” In a gesture of dismissal, his hand shooed her away as if she were a mosquito he would like to squash.

  She stood her ground. “Has it occurred to you that this person might be implicated in her death?”

  He remained an unyielding figure, folding his hands over his chest. “Utterly absurd! As I understand it, her death was either accident or suicide. No one wished her harm. The poor girl was obviously very troubled.”

  “Was she? Or are you making yourself an accomplice to a murder?”

  “What nonsense.” He pursed his lips stubbornly.

  “Is it? Whoever told you negative things about Lorette obviously hated or feared her enough to try to destroy her career. Lorette was very angry. Maybe she guessed who that individual was. There could have been a very ugly scene. This other party might have decided to kill her. She’d already received several threatening letters. Did you know about that?”

  “Foolish conjecture,” Simpson-Watkins said stonily. But he rubbed his hand across his beard in an uneasy gesture.

  “Perhaps you won’t talk to me, but you might have to discuss the matter with the police.”

  “If they should ask, but there has been no such request as yet. And you are in no position to request confidential information. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m already late for an appointment. Good day.” He looked at his watch meaningfully.

  That hadn’t gone very well. But investigation was hardly her forte. She’d surprised herself by not becoming tongue-tied, as she’d half-expected. Still, she had no intention of giving up quite so easily.

  She next paid a visit to Pat Norris, the graduate English department’s secretary who was back at her desk and, as usual, trying to orchestrate three things at once. She was cradling a phone, typing a memo and talking to a student. Kim stood in line, patiently waiting her turn. When she got to speak to Pat, the phone interrupted and Pat was off and running for another five minutes.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee?” The secretary indicated the machine she kept near her desk.

  Kim replied that she wasn’t interested in coffee. She tried not to look at her watch while she waited. Finally, Pat found time to talk to her.

  “Okay, let’s step outside for a minute. I could use some fresh air and a drag on a cigarette.”

  Somehow the two actions did not seem synonymous, but Kim decided to refrain from saying so. After all, she needed help; courting hostility was not the best way to get it. They walked out through the front of the building.

  “So how have you been? Is there life after leaving grad English?” Pat raised a questioning brow.

  “Believe it or not, there is. But I’m still with the university, over at the library.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Pat lit up and inhaled deeply on a filtered cigarette. “I’m no good without my cancer stick. It’s going to kill me, but I can’t seem to break the addiction. So what did you want to see me about?”

  “I wondered if you know anything about why your boss would think Lorette Campbell was unworthy to continue in the doctoral program.”

  Pat anxiously flicked an ash at the ground. A small, slender woman, she fairly burst with nervous energy. “How would I know? He doesn’t confide in me.”

  “When I was a student here, it seemed to me that you knew more of what was going on than anyone else in the place.”

  “Well, you were wrong.” Was it fear that caused her sudden animosity?

  “I don’t think I’m wrong. Dr. Ian Simpson-Watkins doesn’t know enough to wipe his nose if you don’t remind him. You know every student’s name; he doesn’t.”

  Pat wouldn’t look her in the eye.

  “You must have noticed something, someone, maybe overheard part of a conversation.”

  Pat ground out her cigarette with an air of finality. “I have to get back to work. Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing these days.”

  There was a double entendre there and Kim knew it. She watched Pat walk quickly back into the building and tried to
think what to do next. It was pretty obvious she wasn’t going to learn anything of consequence this way. She was not a sleuth; that fact had been driven home to her in no uncertain terms. She lacked authority, and she was discouraged. Yet she felt that she somehow owed it to Lorette to continue, to try to ferret out more information.

  Kim decided to approach it the way she did a reference question. Weren’t they also puzzles? Problems that required searching for answers? This was no different, except maybe for the element of risk. She didn’t even want to begin to think about that, except that she couldn’t help realizing that something Lorette knew might have gotten her killed. And here she was trying to find out what that was. Dumb and dumber? Kim shuddered involuntarily.

  EIGHT

  Was it Albert Einstein who said that common sense is not so common? She believed it was good old Albert. Probably her next action was less than sensible, but it seemed the right thing to do. Lorette had said that Dr. Packingham was sexually harassing her. Could he have taken it a step further?

  She consulted the graduate course schedule and then arranged to work a split shift, trading hours with another librarian so that she could get to Dr. Packingham’s seminar class before it began at the next meeting.

  The professor was late and the students were waiting for him, some out in the hallway, others in the meeting room. She recognized Jim Davis pacing up and down the corridor looking like a corralled bull.

  Glancing down at her watch, she eventually grew impatient herself. She was standing beside a girl whose hair was notable. The color was one-third brassy blond, one-third tangerine orange, and a final third grass green. It also looked as if she’d last styled it with a chain saw.

  “You’ve done quite a job with your hair,” Kim said in a neutral tone of voice.