“Why?”
“Get her away from her professional comfort zone.”
• • •
Elizabeth Gala Martin’s office had been filled with antiques, but at home she preferred modern.
Her house was a wide, gray collection of cubes set on a large lot in a good part of Pasadena. The landscaping was low-profile, Japanese-inspired, glossed by strategic lighting. A sculptural gong stood off center in the broad, impeccable lawn. Two cars shared the double-wide driveway: a silver, late model BMW sedan and an identically colored Mercedes coupe of slightly older vintage.
Every blade of grass in place. As if the exterior was vacuumed regularly.
Half a mile from Everett Kipper’s place, but that didn’t seem relevant, now. It was 8 P.M. when Milo knocked on the front door.
Martin answered her own door, wearing a long, green silk caftan embroidered with golden dragons. On her feet were gold sandals. Her toenails were pink. Her hennaed hair appeared freshly set, and she wore huge gold hexagonal earrings. Behind her was a wide, white entry hall floored in travertine.
Her initial surprise was replaced by flinty scrutiny. “Professor Delaware.”
“Thanks for remembering,” I said.
“You made an . . . impression.” She studied Milo. I introduced him.
“The police,” she said, evenly. “More about Mr. Drummond?”
Milo said, “More about Mr. Shull.”
Martin’s hands flexed, and she let them fall to her side.
“Come in,” she said.
• • •
The house was rambling, mood-lit, topped by skylights. A rear wall of windows looked out to a softly illuminated garden and a long, skinny lap pool that traced the curves of a high white wall. Large, abstract paintings hung on the walls. Brass cases were filled with contemporary glass.
Elizabeth Martin seated us on a low, black suede couch and took her place in a black leather sling-chair.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me what this is all about.”
Milo said, “Professor Martin, we’re looking into possible criminal activity on the part of A. Gordon Shull. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”
Sounds filtered from across the dining room. Footsteps and rattles behind white double doors. Utensil clink, running water. Someone in the kitchen.
“You can’t tell me more, but you’d like me to tell you whatever you want to know.”
Milo smiled. “Exactly.”
“Well, that seems fair.” Green silk rippled as Martin’s legs crossed. She was wearing perfume— something grassy— and it drifted toward us. Body-heat activated? She looked composed, but you never knew.
“Professor Martin,” said Milo, “this is a very serious matter, and I can promise you that the information will come out eventually.”
“What information is that?”
“Mr. Shull’s problems.”
“Oh,” she said. “Gordon’s got problems, does he?”
“You know he does,” I said.
She turned to me. “Professor Delaware, when you came to me you said Kevin Drummond had something to do with a murder. That’s not an everyday occurrence for a boring academic. That’s why you made an impression.” Back to Milo: “Are you now saying that Gordon Shull’s suspected of being a murderer?”
“You don’t seem surprised,” he said.
“I try to avoid being surprised,” she said. “But before we proceed, you must tell me this: Is something highly embarrassing to my department fulminating?”
“I’m afraid yes, ma’am.”
“That’s too bad,” said Martin. “A murderer.” Her smile was sudden, feral, unsettling. “Well, I suppose when too much garbage piles up, the best thing to do is to take it out. So let’s talk about Gordon. Perhaps you’ll be able to take him off my hands.”
She recrossed her legs. Seemed amused. “A murderer . . . I must admit, I’ve never thought of Gordon in those terms.”
“What terms have you thought of, ma’am?”
“Lack of substance,” said Martin. “Gordon’s a phony. All talk, no action.”
The kitchen doors opened and a man stepped out, bearing a hefty sandwich on a plate. “Liz?”
The same gray-haired man I’d seen in Martin’s office photos. He wore a white polo shirt, beige linen trousers, brown loafers. Tall and well built but running to paunch. Older than Martin by at least a decade.
“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “Just the police.”
“The police?” He approached us. The sandwich was a triple-decker, full of green stuff and turkey.
“Something to do with Gordon Shull, dear.”
“What, he stole something?” He positioned himself next to Martin’s chair.
“This is my husband, Dr. Vernon Lewis. Vernon, this is Detective . . .”
“Sturgis,” said Milo. To Lewis: “Are you a professor, as well, sir?”
“No,” said Martin. “Vernon’s a real doctor. Orthopedic surgeon.”
“That comment about stealing, Doctor,” said Milo. “Sounds like you know Gordon Shull, too.”
“Mostly by reputation,” said Vernon Lewis. “I’ve met him at faculty parties.”
Elizabeth Martin said, “Honey, why don’t you relax?”
Lewis shot her a quizzical glance. She smiled at him. His eyebrows rose, and he looked at his sandwich. “How long will this take, Liz?”
“Not too long.”
“Okay,” he said. “Nice meeting you fellows. Don’t keep my sweetheart too long.” He continued across the room, turned a corner, was gone.
Milo said, “What reputation was Dr. Lewis referring to?”
Martin said, “General amorality. Gordon’s been a problem— my problem, since the beginning.”
“Does amorality include theft?”
“If that were all of it.” Martin frowned. “Lord only knows what I’m doing to myself by talking to you, but the truth is I’ve had my fill of nonsense with that man. I run a three-person department, should have control over who I bring on.”
I said, “You were forced to hire Shull?”
“ ‘Forced’ would be too . . . coarse a word.” She looked as if she’d swallowed something spoiled. “I was strongly advised to hire Gordon.”
“Because his family’s got money.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s always about money, isn’t it? Six years ago, I was brought to Charter College to create a first-rate department of communications. Promises were made to me. I had several other offers— larger schools, better facilities. But all were in other cities, and I’d just met Vernon and his practice was established here. I chose romance over practicality.” Small smile. “The right choice, but . . . there are consequences to any decision.”
“Charter broke its promise,” I said.
“Broken promises are a given in the academic world. The issue is the proportion of truth to nonsense. Don’t get me wrong. For the most part, I’m not miserable. Charter’s a good school. For what it is.”
“Which is . . .”
“A small place. A very small place. That affords one the opportunity to interact with students closely, which was initially appealing and still is. All in all, the kids are a nice bunch. After five years at Berkeley, all the left-wing nonsense, Charter seemed positively quaint. But sometimes it’s limiting.”
“Which promises were broken?” I said.
She ticked her finger. “I was pledged a five-person faculty and got three; my budget was cut by thirty percent because several pledges dried up— the recession was in full force back then, donors’ stock portfolios had tumbled, et cetera. My planned curriculum was severely attenuated, because I now had a smaller faculty.”
“Which promises did they keep?”
“I got a nice desk.” She smiled. “I could’ve walked. Vernon’s practice is more than adequate in terms of financial support. But I didn’t go to school for twenty-three years in order to play golf and have my nails done. So I resolved to ma
ke the best of the situation and set about enjoying the one thing they hadn’t reneged on: ‘wide latitude’ in hiring faculty. I was fortunate to snag Susan Santorini because she, too, wanted to remain in Southern California, her partner’s a film agent. Then I set about finding the third member of our tight little group and was informed by the dean that a strong candidate had come up and that I was highly advised to look favorably upon his application.”
She touched a pearl earring. “Gordon Shull is a joke. However, his stepfather is one of our wealthiest alumni. Gordon’s an alumnus, as well.”
“A joke in terms of scholarship?” I said.
“A joke, period. When his application came across my desk and I noted that he’d graduated from Charter, I got hold of his undergrad transcripts.”
“Suspicious?”
She smiled. “I was rather displeased to be advised. When I read the transcript, my displeasure turned to wrath. To say Gordon had been an undistinguished student would have been too kind. He was on academic probation several semesters, put together a C-minus average by taking Mickey Mouse courses, took five years to graduate. Somehow along the line, he managed to get himself a master’s.” Her lips curled. “I got my doctorate at Berkeley, did a postdoc at London University, and another at Columbia. Susan Santorini’s doctorate is from Columbia, she taught in Florence, Italy, and at Cornell before I snagged her. The way the job market for academics is running, we could’ve had our pick of bright Ph.D.s from top places. Instead, we were forced to occupy the same intellectual space as that clown.”
“Which helps the budget,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Every year the department receives a check from The Trueblood Endowment— the stepfather’s foundation. Just enough to keep us . . . motivated.”
“Academic stranglehold,” said Milo.
“Very well put, Detective. And, truth be told, your visit tonight may very well have crystallized things for me. If Gordon’s transgressions have stretched beyond my wildest imagination, I may finally have to make some serious life choices. But before I tell you more, I need one thing: You must keep me informed, provide me enough lead time so I can take my leave well before the storm and thus avoid embroiling myself in criminal-legal matters.”
“You’re resigning, ma’am?”
“Why not, if the parachute’s sufficiently golden?” said Martin. “Vernon’s been talking about cutting back, the two of us have been itching to do more traveling. Perhaps this is providence. So if you want to know more about Gordon’s character flaws, you must keep me in the loop.”
“Fair enough,” said Milo. “What problems have you had with Shull?”
“Pilferage, sloppy expense accounts, spotty attendance as a teacher, shoddy grading,” said Martin. “His lectures— when he chooses to show up— are execrable. Low-level discourses on pop culture with cretinous reading lists. Everything centers on Gordon’s insight of the moment, and Gordon’s attention span is severely attenuated.”
“A dilettante,” I said. Shull had applied the term to Kevin Drummond.
“He’d have to work at being a dilettante,” said Martin. “Gordon is everything I despise about what passes for scholarship in contemporary academia. He fancies himself an avatar of pop culture. Oracle on the mount passing judgment on the creative world. No doubt because he sees himself as an artist but has failed miserably.”
Milo sat up. “How so?”
“Gordon fancies himself quite the Renaissance man. He paints horrid blotchy canvases— garden scenes purporting to be Impressionistic but at a level of competence most middle school children could surpass. Shortly after he came on, he brought several canvases to me, asked for a one-man show sponsored by the department.” She snorted. “I put him off and he went to the dean. Even Gordon’s connections couldn’t help with that.”
“Renaissance man,” said Milo. “What else?”
“He plays drums and guitar very poorly. I know that because he’s always talking about gigging or riffing, whatever. Last year he volunteered to play at a party Vernon and I threw for the honor students. This time, I was foolish enough to agree.” Her eyes rolled. “As if all that self-delusion wasn’t enough, he also claims to be working on a novel— some magnum opus in progress that he’s been touting since I’ve known him. I’ve never seen a page of manuscript.”
“Big talk, no walk,” said Milo.
“A real California guy,” said Martin. “Without family money, he’d be waiting tables and lying about his next big audition.”
“You said his attendance was spotty,” said Milo.
“He’s always off on some jaunt, financed by his stepfather.”
“What kind of jaunts?”
“Alleged research trips, symposia, conventions. In addition to his other pretensions, he sees himself as an adventurer, has been to Asia, Europe, you name it. It’s all part of that macho thing he has going on— plaid shirts with ties, hiking boots, the Arafat beard. He always claims to be working up some profound paper, but, again, he’s never produced.” She jabbed a finger. “In a sense, the world’s fortunate he never follows through. Because Gordon’s a horrid writer. Incoherent, puffed up, pompous.”
“Faithful Scrivener,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “You know about that?”
“Know about what?”
“Gordon likes to refer to himself in third person. Graces himself with a slew of obnoxious nicknames. The Gordster, The Intrepid Mr. Shull, Faithful Scrivener.” She bared her teeth. “He’s always been a joke. Unfortunately, he’s my personal sick joke. And now you’re telling me he killed someone . . . and our offices are footsteps away . . . that is unsettling. Am I in danger?”
“Not that I see, Professor,” said Milo.
“Who has he killed?”
“Artistic individuals.”
Martin’s eyes saucered. “More than one?”
“I’m afraid so, Professor.”
She sighed. “I’m definitely going to take some time off.”
“What can you tell us about Kevin Drummond?” said Milo.
“What I told Professor Delaware was true: I have no specific memory of the boy. After the visit, I took a closer look at his transcripts. Mediocre student, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”
“You have no memory of his hanging out with Shull?”
“Sorry, no. Students come in and out of Gordon’s office. To a certain type, he’s appealing. I don’t recall Mr. Drummond, specifically.”
“What type of student finds him appealing?” said Milo.
“Gordon stays abreast of all the latest trends, and that impresses the easily impressed. I’m sure what he’d really like would be to host a show on MTV.”
I said, “Has Shull acted out sexually with students?”
“Probably,” she said.
“Probably?” said Milo. “Just like that?”
“There’ve been no complaints, but it certainly wouldn’t surprise me. Most of the students who take advantage of Gordon’s office hours seem to be female.”
“But there’ve been no actual sexual harassment complaints.”
“No,” said Martin. “Faculty-student sex is a fixture of college life and complaints are very rare. For the most part, it’s consensual. Isn’t that so, Professor Delaware?”
I nodded.
“Kevin Drummond’s gay,” said Milo. “Should we be looking at that?”
“You’re asking if Gordon’s bisexual?” said Martin. “Well, I haven’t picked up on that, but the truth is nothing you’d tell me about him would surprise me. He’s what used to be referred to as a scoundrel. Nice word, that. Too bad it’s fallen out of usage. He’s your prototypical spoiled brat, he bounces along, doing exactly what he pleases. Have you met his mother?”
“Not yet.”
Martin smiled. “You really should. Especially you, Professor Delaware. Right up your alley.”
“A font of psychopathology?” said Milo.
Martin regarded him wit
h a long, amused look. “The woman’s devoid of basic courtesy and simple good sense. Every year at the endowment luncheon she corrals me and reminds me how much money her husband’s doled out, then she proceeds to lecture me about the wondrous accomplishments of her baby boy. Gordon comes by his pretentiousness honestly. She presents herself as so-ciety, but from what I’ve gathered, her first husband— Gordon’s real father— was a drunk. An unsuccessful real estate agent who spent time in prison for fraud. Both he and Gordon’s brother died in a house fire when Gordon was young and a few years later, the mother found herself a sugar daddy.”
A Cold Heart Page 35