Death in Lovers' Lane

by Carolyn G. Hart

  I picked up the envelope. My name was scrawled on the outside. I opened it, pulled out a memo sheet.

  Henrie O—

  You can see Rita at eleven o’clock.

  Dennis

  Yes, Your Majesty.

  But I couldn’t afford to worry about highhandedness. I needed information, and I’d do what it took to get it. Eleven o’clock wasn’t much time. I had a lot to do before I spoke to Rita.

  I went upstairs and posted notes on the doors of two classrooms, canceling my nine-and ten-o’clock classes.

  Back in my office, I poured a mug of coffee and turned on my computer. I pulled up class schedules for Margaret Winslow and Eric March. I noted Maggie’s Wednesday classes. It gave me some starting points. On a map I could now place her at various times that final day of her life. I rechecked her schedule: 7-9 P.M. W, American Literature, A Popular Cultural Analysis, 1850 to the Present, S. Singletary, Evans Hall, LL1.

  S. Singletary.

  I grabbed a University directory, flipped to the faculty section: Stuart Singletary, assistant professor of English. According to Helen Tracy, Singletary had shared an apartment with Howard Rosen.

  That was certainly a link to the old crime, wasn’t it?

  So Maggie’s final class had been with someone involved—okay, maybe involved was too strong—with a man who had been interviewed by the police in the double murder in Lovers’ Lane.

  On the other hand, Stuart Singletary had had a big date the night of the Rosen-Voss murders. And he had been teaching the night Maggie died.

  I wished I had a better sense of when Maggie died. Lieutenant Urschel had grudgingly said early evening. What did that encompass? I needed to trace Maggie’s movements Wednesday night.

  Ivy clung to the soft-gray limestone walls of Evans Hall. The turreted battlement looked like something out of Disney by way of an Irish Spring soap ad.

  As befitted a junior member of the faculty, Stuart Singletary’s office was on the third floor, next to a storeroom at the far end of an ill-lit hall. Old bookcases were stacked haphazardly by one wall.

  I tapped on his partially open door.

  “Come in, come in.” The tenor voice was high and reedy.

  I pushed the door, stepped into a narrow office and was startled by the luxuriousness of this enclave. Velvet curtains framed the tall windows. An antique silver filigree clock glistened in a shaft of sunlight on the ornately carved rosewood desk. There was even a small Persian rug tucked into the narrow space between the desk and the door.

  A junior office, to be sure, but one with furnishings a good deal more expensive than most assistant professors could provide. Or most full professors, for that matter. Family money? It isn’t unknown in academic circles.

  Thick chestnut-brown hair, overlong for my taste, cupped a long face with sharply defined features, a thin nose, a pointed chin with a distinct cleft. A bristly black mustache curved above narrow lips.

  He looked up.

  For an instant, his face was absolutely without expression.

  Which interested me enormously. Was he ordinarily so gauche—or did he know who I was and did that worry him?

  “Professor Singletary?”

  “Yes.” That was all he said. The word hung uninflected between us.

  “I’d like to visit with you, if you have a moment, Professor. About a student. I’m Henrietta Collins. I teach in the Journalism School.”

  Stuart Singletary pushed back his chair and stood. He wasn’t very tall, about my height. His chocolate cashmere pullover emphasized the velvety brown of his eyes and the vivid black of his mustache. The sweater’s smooth thickness gave his narrow shoulders some bulk. “Yes, Mrs. Collins.” He sounded politely puzzled, but his eyes were intent.

  I pointed to The Clarion on his desk. “Perhaps you saw the story on the front page…about the articles I’m writing.”

  He reached for the paper, lifted it, looked at the page. Stared at the page.

  It was a charade. I felt sure that he’d already read the paper and had known who I was from the moment I stepped into his office.

  Which was also enormously interesting. And surprising to me. Helen Tracy had indicated the police had looked hard at Stuart Singletary as a possible suspect in the 1988 murders. But, obviously, they had found nothing incriminating.

  So what was making Singletary nervous?

  He scanned the article. Taking his time. Making time.

  I waited.

  Finally, he looked up at me, his narrow face furrowed with distress. “This is all very shocking. Why, I know the Duffys. It doesn’t seem possible. But”—he rattled the page—“I can’t see how Maggie Winslow’s murder could have anything to do

  with those other crimes. That seems extremely sensational to me.”

  “Does it?” I moved toward the wooden chair that faced his desk. “May I?”

  “Oh, of course. Please.” I’ve seen IRS agents greeted with more enthusiasm.

  I sat down.

  Reluctantly, or so it seemed to me, Singletary sat, too. He placed his copy of The Clarion on the desk in front of him, but his eyes never left my face.

  “You know the Duffys. And you knew Maggie Winslow, too.”

  “Maggie was one of my students.” There was a flicker of enthusiasm in his reply. “An excellent student.”

  “Yes, she was a superb student. That’s why I’m here, Mr. Singletary. She was writing the series about these unsolved crimes, including the Rosen-Voss murders, under my supervision. So I’d like to talk to you about the Rosen-Voss murders—as I’m sure Maggie must have done.”

  He pursed his thin lips, then said carefully, “We spoke briefly. She caught me after my nine-o’clock on Wednesday morning. But there wasn’t much to tell. Nobody’s ever figured out what happened. I don’t think anyone ever will.”

  I opened my purse, pulled out a pen and pad. “Was Maggie in class Wednesday night?”

  “No.” His headshake was firm. “I was surprised when I called roll and she wasn’t there. She’d never missed. I don’t have many who never cut. You know, they think three cuts are some kind of mandate from heaven.” It was a little joke and his teeth gleamed briefly beneath his mustache, then once again his face was somber. “But it means she was

  with someone, doesn’t it? The person who killed her. I told the detective that’s what I thought.”

  It’s very easy to have portentous thoughts after an event, but any deviation from Maggie’s usual routine could be very important. Why did she miss class? Was she indeed with someone? Seven o’clock. Did that qualify as early evening in Lieutenant Urschel’s mind? I made a big “7” on my pad and underlined it.

  “I kept expecting her to come in. But she never did. It seems so strange to think I was having fun with the class.” Singletary leaned forward, his expression suddenly lively. “I’d asked the class to pretend they were Japanese students studying English, then to tell me how they would picture the United States if the only American novels they’d ever read were An American Tragedy, The Fountainhead, and The Catcher in the Rye.” He grinned. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” The smile died away. “But, God, that lovely girl…” For an instant, his dark eyes looked sickened.

  The young professor sank back in his chair, pressed the tips of his fingers together. He hesitated, then blurted out, “What was she doing in Lovers’ Lane? The paper said they found her in Lovers’ Lane.” He laced his fingers tightly together. “That’s where they found Howard and Gail. But what was Maggie doing there? That’s weird. Like a cult or something.”

  I didn’t respond to that gambit. I thought a suggestion of a cult was reaching, reaching a long way.

  I was finding Stuart Singletary more and more intriguing.

  “You talked to Maggie Wednesday morning?”

  “Yes. She wanted to know all about Howard and Gail and if I had any ideas about the murders.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Same thing I’ve told everybod
y ever since it happened.” He was impatient, irritable. “I roomed with Howard for about six months. We were both grad students in English. He was going to finish a master’s before he went to Germany on a Fulbright. But he wasn’t really an academic kind of guy. I think he was just hanging around to be with Gail. They’d met when he was a senior, and he was crazy about her. I never thought he was serious about grad school. But he had all kinds of money, so why not another year in school?” There was an undercurrent of jealousy in his tone.

  On my pad, I scrawled “$$$”—and underlined that, too. “How did you and Howard meet?”

  He took too long to answer. “Meet?” he echoed.

  “Yes.” I smiled blandly.

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s see…I guess Cheryl introduced us.”

  “Cheryl?”

  “My wife.” His glance flicked toward a studio portrait of a smiling redhead. “We were dating then.”

  “How did Cheryl know Howard?” It was like prizing open an oyster shell. So I was on the lookout for a pearl.

  “Oh, English department stuff. Her dad’s Dr. Abbott. Chair of the English department. They had parties for the grad students. So Cheryl knew all the grad students. She introduced me to Howard. We hit it off. I needed a place to live and his roommate had just moved out.”

  He spoke more easily the more he said, but I had to wonder whether there was something discredita

  ble about that meeting. Or had Howard been interested in Cheryl Or Cheryl in Howard? Something here was making Singletary uncomfortable.

  “Had Howard ever dated Cheryl?”

  He shot me a quick, startled look. “No. Never. She just knew him casually.”

  “Were you and Howard close friends?”

  Singletary smoothed his mustache. “Not really. He was a nice guy. And funny. God, he was so funny.” Singletary relaxed back in his chair. “Howard was never serious. He always had some kind of gag going. Once he put a fake mouse in my cereal box. The tail was poking up out of the cornflakes. God, I about fainted.” His grin was vivid, though fleeting. He suddenly seemed quite young and likable. “And he told me about one girl he’d dated—this was before Gail—Howard convinced her that he was twins, and he’d act completely different on dates and she’d think she was out with Harold, not Howard.” A quick snort of laughter. “See, Harold was a real shy guy, had to be encouraged to even try and kiss a girl. God, how he loved to play jokes. And he was so damn funny. At parties, he’d get everybody started doing emotions: anger, fear, despair, lust. You can’t believe how many different ways he could screw his face up. It was hilarious.” Singletary spoke now with animation. “Nobody could ever be bored around Howard. And he was always on the move. I think maybe he slept four hours a night.”

  Howard the clown. Howard the kidder. Who kills somebody like that?

  But I asked the question anyway. “Did Howard have any enemies? Anyone who disliked him or was angry with him?”

  “Enemies—that’s a heavy word, Mrs. Collins. I mean, Gail’s brother didn’t like him. Howard told me about that.” Singletary shrugged. “A lot of people thought Howard came on too strong. But I can’t say anybody would have been his enemy.”

  “What about the girls he dated before Gail? Anyone who might have been jealous?”

  Singletary’s gaze was thoughtful. “I don’t think so. Howard had dated a bunch of different girls. But as far as I know, he wasn’t serious about anybody until he met Gail.”

  “How about Gail? Was there another man who might have been angry that she was going to marry Howard?”

  “I don’t think so.” But his voice wasn’t so confident. “At least, not that I know of.”

  “Did you see Howard and Gail that night?”

  “Howard. Not Gail. He left about seven to pick her up.” These words came quickly, as if they’d been said many times. There was no hesitation, no tension. “I think he said they were going out to dinner. Anyway, I invited Cheryl over for pizza.” He looked again at the framed photo.

  Even at a quick glance, I could see Cheryl Singletary’s resemblance to the man who’d hurried to help Dennis at the Green Owl last night. Tom Abbott’s daughter had the same open, freckled face. Her lips curved in a warm smile.

  Singletary’s gaze was proud. He nodded toward another photo. “That’s our daughter, Cindy.” The little girl had smooth chestnut hair and a narrow face.

  Stuart’s pleased expression fled. “Anyway, that night Cheryl and I hung out, watched TV. I took her home around eleven. Then, bam, bam, bam, a

  knock on the door about six-thirty woke me up. I didn’t

  even know until then that Howard hadn’t come in.”

  “A two-bedroom apartment?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So if Howard had wanted to have Gail over for the night, it would have been okay.”

  “Sure.” He hesitated briefly, then continued. “Sometimes she spent the night. Sometimes, he stayed at her place.”

  “So why Lovers’ Lane?”

  He stared at me. Something flickered deep in those velvety brown eyes, flickered and was gone.

  I asked, “Do you think they went there to make love?”

  “I don’t know why they went there.”

  “Did it surprise you when the police told you where they’d been shot?”

  His frown was quick and irritated. “Surprise me? Listen, you can’t imagine what it’s like. Your roommate shot and killed! I was knocked over. Sick. I don’t think I even thought about where it happened. It was a nightmare.”

  Now I was thoroughly at sea. I pride myself on detecting genuine emotion. As a reporter, I had observed people in every kind of stressful situation. My instinct told me that Singletary’s unhesitating answer to my question was truthful.

  But that was definitely at odds with the sense of strain at various points in our interview.

  What caused the swift swings in Singletary’s mood?

  “Is this basically what you told Maggie on Wednesday?”

  “Yes.” The irritation bubbled close to anger.

  “It’s what I’ve always told everybody, ever since it

  happened.” Now his glare was defiant.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No. Believe me, if I knew anything that would have helped, I would have told the cops. I never could figure any reason why it happened. And that’s exactly what I told Maggie. I told her it had to be a drifter. Somebody on Lovers’ Lane that night, somebody who just wanted to kill people. Anybody. For no reason. Things like that happen sometimes. You read about it all the time. People who are so alone, it’s like they’re sheathed in ice.” The words were smooth and quick, almost a patter. “They see other people as stick figures. Not real. Somebody like that. Maybe he killed them just to see life end.”

  “He?”

  His fingers smoothed his mustache. “That’s sexist, isn’t it? But I can’t see a woman doing something like that, walking up to a car with two people sitting there, talking, hell, I don’t know, maybe making love, and shooting them dead.”

  “So you think the murders of Howard and Gail happened for no reason? Simply because they were in Lovers’ Lane the wrong time, the wrong night?”

  “Yes. Definitely.” His reedy voice was truculent.

  “Did you tell this to Maggie?”

  “Yeah. But she said she wanted to keep on looking into it.” His shoulders rose and fell. “So I gave her some names. Gail’s family still lives here. Her brother Frank’s a lawyer in town.”

  “And that’s all you told Maggie?”

  “That’s all I know.” He spoke with finality.

  “When did you last see Maggie?”

  “After my nine-o’clock Wednesday morning.” His mouth closed into a tight thin line.

  I closed my notebook, dropped it in my purse. “Do you know Rita Duffy?”

  “Casually. I’ve seen Rita and Dennis around. The Faculty Club, basketball games. That sort of thing.”

&nb
sp; “Do you think she could have killed Maggie?”

  He stroked his mustache. “Well, she’s pretty volatile, and everybody knows he’s a womanizer. So”—he frowned—“maybe it happened like the police think.” A quick frown. “But why would she and Maggie be in Lovers’ Lane?”

  I opened my mouth, then realized the morning paper had simply reported that Maggie’s body had been found in Lovers’ Lane and that she had been strangled.

  There was no mention that the police believed the murder had occurred elsewhere.

  So I simply shrugged as I stood. “I wish I knew, Professor Singletary.”

  As I walked out, I glanced at some framed daguerreotypes of the Battle of Gettysburg. I wasn’t a collector, but they looked pricey to me. But my last glimpse as the door closed on the beautifully furnished office was dominated by the uneasy expression on the face of the young professor.

  I pre-empted a monitor in the J-School morgue from one of my students. “Ten minutes, John. I promise.”

  “No problem, Mrs. Collins.” John flashed me a grin and moved over to the filing cabinets.

  I hadn’t intended to come back to the J-School yet. I had other stops I planned to make. But Professor Stuart Singletary had attracted my attention.

  He’d been alternately nervous, convincing, uptight, and relaxed.

  Of course, it’s unnerving to have a close connection to murder. Maybe that’s all it was.

  And I wondered a hell of a lot about Singletary’s expensive clothes and fancy office furnishings. Although I saw no connection between the deaths of Howard Rosen and Gail Voss and Singletary’s somewhat surprising affluence, still, it was an odd note, it bugged me, and I wouldn’t let it go until I understood.

  I punched in Singletary’s name.

  Good grief, twenty-six stories.

  I’d said ten minutes. It took thirty. There were little stories and big ones—scholarship awards, Phi Beta Kappa, awarding of degrees—and then I found the coverage of Singletary’s wedding in 1990 to Cheryl Marie Abbott, daughter of Thomas Wheeler Abbott, chairman of the Thorndyke University English department, and Mr. and Mrs. Wendell Blaise Harrison, La Jolla and Chicago.

  As I scanned the story and the photos of the wedding reception—flowers and ferns sprouting like the Hollywood version of a rain forest—I was impatient with myself. Of course! I knew where the money came from now. Tom Abbott was not only Stuart Singletary’s father-in-law, he was the author of Listen to Me, which hit the top of the best-seller charts. So there wasn’t any mystery about Singletary’s expensive polish. But as long as I was taking the time, I looked over all the entries.