Death in Lovers' Lane

by Carolyn G. Hart

  The animation drained out of her face, leaving it once again bleak and composed. She pulled on her canvas gloves. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Mrs. Nugent—”

  “Get out.” Her voice was abruptly deep and harsh. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone.”

  eleven

  pulled into the graveled parking area in front of Acme Garage, Transmissions a Specialty. I found Emmett Wolf in the second bay, leaning beneath the open hood of a white Oldsmobile. A small space heater glowed brilliantly red. It did little to warm the cavernous, poorly lighted garage.

  “The kid who fell out of the tower? Sure, I remember.” Wolf wiped his hands on a rough red cloth. “When they rolled his body onto the gurney, it wobbled. Made me sick. The driver told me it meant the kid was all smashed up inside. And his head’d knocked into the wall and it was mashed and oozing blood. That’s when I decided I didn’t want to be a cop, and I went to work in a garage. Now I’ve got my own place.” He thumped his fist against the fender of the sedan. “Damn sure better than fooling with people’s broken-up bodies.”

  Wolf was mid-fortyish, with a skinny, wrinkled face, thinning brown hair, and oversize ears that sat square to his skull. His eyebrows drew down toward his nose, giving him a faintly worried look. A ragged orange muffler curled around his throat and disappeared into the neck of his stained green coveralls. He blinked at me owlishly. “You’re the

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  second one in a week wanting to talk about that kid.

  What’s going on?”

  “Do you read The Clarion?”

  “Nah. Who cares?” He lifted his shoulders in disdain.

  I’m always amazed when I find someone who neither reads newspapers nor watches newscasts. But these people exist.

  I had to make a quick decision. If he was telling the truth, he didn’t know what had happened to Maggie.

  I didn’t want to scare him.

  “I work for the newspaper. The girl who came to talk to you—”

  “Pretty.” His grin was admiring.

  “Yes. I’m working on that article, too. So, if you don’t mind going over it again…”

  Emmett Wolf glanced at the car.

  It was a struggle between promised work and the pleasure of a break in routine.

  “Well, I’ve got a few minutes…”

  “So you saw Leonard Cartwright’s body at the base of the bell tower?” Pernicious cold eddied up from the old, oil-stained concrete floor. I kept my hands in my coat pockets.

  “Leonard Cartwright.” Wolf drew out every syllable, as if his tongue were making acquaintance with the name. “Yeah. I’d forgotten his name. Like I told the girl. Forgot his name. Never forget his body.” The mechanic sniffed, rubbed his nose with the back of a grubby hand, leaving a smudge of oil on his cheek. “Not at the base of the tower. Out some. Maybe ten feet. The guy who took them pictures said the kid must have flipped over as he fell. When his head whacked into the wall, that shoved

  him way out. He slammed into the ground so hard it

  left a print. Damnedest thing I’d ever seen.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  He leaned against the fender, crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d just gone on duty. Maybe five minutes after six. I’d been a campus cop for about two months. It was a pretty good job. I had a dandy uniform, shirt and pants kind of a light blue. Even had this patch on my shirt sleeve, ‘Thorndyke University Campus Patrol,’ it said. I thought I was pretty hot stuff. The chief was Old Man McKay. Was he tough! He’d been a Marine and he never thought civilians did anything right. He stood like they’d rammed”—brown eyes squinted at me—“he stood up straighter than a flagpole and walked with his chest poked out and his butt tucked in. But even the chief didn’t look so starched when he saw the kid’s body. I was the first one there, except for the guy who found him. Our headquarters was an office in the basement of the stadium. I’d just opened up my sack of doughnuts—you know, my breakfast—when the door burst open and this chemistry prof ran in, wild-eyed and about to puke. He was riding his bike to his office and he ran right over the kid’s body. Knocked his bike over. He kept saying, ‘There’s blood on my bike. There’s blood on my bike!’ First thing I did was call the chief at home, then I went to the tower. The prof wouldn’t even go with me. He was too shook up. It was still dark when I got there. Sun hadn’t come up yet. I remember the light from the prof’s bike showed the kid’s hand. The chief got there real quick. Only time I ever saw the man that he wasn’t spit-perfect. Always remembered he didn’t have his shirt tucked in right. Hell of a day.”

  “What did you do first?”

  “The chief called President Tucker and the town cops.” He frowned. “And that was kind of funny.” His face creased in thought.

  “What was funny about that, Mr. Wolf?” I kept my voice casual, unassertive.

  Wolf gave me his worried look. “Well, Tucker was the president. A real big shot on campus. So I guess he figures he’s in charge. And he lived practically right next door, so he got there before the town people. He walked all around and craned his neck and stared up at that tower, then he told the chief they’d better go up and take a look. The chief held back, but Tucker charged ahead, so the chief went after him. They hurried around the building and just left me there. You have to go in the main entrance and up to the third floor to get into the tower. I didn’t like being down there by myself, just me and this dead kid. I kind of wandered around for a minute, then I decided to go after them. When I went inside the building, I couldn’t see them. I ran up the main stairs. They were already on the tower stairs. I started up after them, and it was real spooky, like some old castle. I’d never been in there before. The stairs were made of stone, and the walls too. There wasn’t much light, just these glass lamps screwed into the walls. I could hear the sound of their shoes on the steps. I didn’t go all the way to the top. I started thinking maybe the chief’d be mad at me, and man, I didn’t want that. That would be worse than being stuck down there alone with the body. So I turned around to go back down, but I could hear them. The chief says something like, ‘Look at that.’ Tucker says, ‘I don’t see a thing, Chief.’ Then Tucker says in this real loud voice,

  ‘Nothing of interest here.’ There’s a funny silence and all of sudden I hear steps coming down, so I hightail it out of there. I just made it outside before the chief got down. His face was red and his eyes had a glitter like a dog gone bad, but he didn’t say a word to Tucker and then the town cops showed up and that’s all there was to that.”

  “What do you think happened up there?”

  Wolf pushed away from the car, stepped closer to the little heater. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe there was some pot and Tucker didn’t want that to get in the papers. I don’t know. I know the chief didn’t like it. But he was the kind of guy who’d do what he was told, follow orders. And I guess it didn’t matter. They seemed pretty sure the kid jumped. They put out a story he was fooling with that statue, but that was just to make it sound better.”

  “Why were they so certain he jumped?” I edged nearer the heater, too.

  “His car. It was parked in the street close to the tower and it was crammed with his stuff, all jammed in there, books and clothes and everything. They figured he was upset and running away and then decided just to take a leap instead of drive off.”

  No one had mentioned Leonard’s car. Why hadn’t that been included in the police file? Was it because the University had taken advantage of the history of student pranks centering around the gargoyle and convinced the DHPD that Leonard’s death was just an unfortunate accident?

  The car stuffed with belongings certainly presented a different picture than Leonard’s cheerful departure from the dean’s office on Friday, his A-plus paper in hand.

  What had happened between his good-bye to Maude Galloway and the moment that he tumbled from the bell-tower window?

  “Did you ever tell anybody about Tucker and the chief goi
ng up in the tower?”

  “Just the girl from University,” Wolf said. “Last week was the first time anybody’s asked me about it in a long time. Until you.”

  “You told her all about Cartwright’s fall?”

  “Sure. And she wanted to know about the dean who took a powder, too. He disappeared that night. See, the kid’s fall was big stuff that day, but nobody ever talked about it much after that because the dean disappeared later the same day. The whole campus went crazy trying to figure out what happened to that guy.” Remembered bewilderment permeated his voice. “The chief had search parties all over the place. Student volunteers put up posters and flyers with his picture in shopping centers and along the highways in and out of town. But nobody ever found a trace of him. Not to this day.”

  “What do you think happened to the dean?”

  Wolf’s lips curled in a knowing smile. “I always say when a guy takes a powder, look for the dame.”

  I doubted Wolf knew the phrase “Cherchez la femme,” but it doesn’t take knowledge of French to understand human nature.

  No dame had surfaced in connection with the handsome dean, which ought to reflect a happy marriage. But Maude Galloway had recalled a man who was terribly proud of his family, yet not a man who seemed touched by love.

  And Kathryn Nugent didn’t want to talk about her missing husband.

  Was it because Mrs. Nugent hated reporters? Or were there facts about Darryl Nugent that she didn’t

  want to remember?

  “What did Chief McKay think?”

  Wolf folded his arms over his chest.

  “He was ticked, I can tell you.”

  “About the dean?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. About the town cops taking over the case. So the chief just went right ahead and did his own investigation. Funny—he didn’t figure it was a dame. He swore that guy was dead. I remember the look on the chief’s face, kind of cold and calm. He says to me, ‘Emmett, only a dead man’s that quiet.’”

  I had an hour before my appointment to have my portrait taken at Rodgers Studios, so I went back to my office.

  I found a note pushed under my door. The handwriting was large and childlike:

  Dear Mrs. Collins,

  I MUST talk to you soon and tell you the TRUTH

  about Maggie Winslow. It’s terrible how people

  will lie.

  Sincerely,

  Kitty Brewster

  I wondered, recalling Eric March’s harsh appraisal of The Clarion’s police reporter, just what Kitty would have to say.

  I rang her extension in the newsroom.

  “Kitty Brewster.” Her voice was pitched low. I wondered if she watched old Lauren Bacall movies.

  I asked her to come see me.

  My first thought when she hurried into my office was: Dennis, you should be ashamed.

  Kitty Brewster was apple-shaped, her clothes were cheap, and her huge brown eyes had the lost and vulnerable look of a child nobody had loved. Too much hair frizzed around a forlorn face liberally coated with unflattering orange-red makeup. The girl stumbled in her eagerness, bumping my desk, then floundered into the chair, her face flaming with embarrassment.

  I suspected this child’s face was often flushed.

  Her eyes skidded away from mine, locked onto the carnation airplane.

  Her mouth curved into an admiring bow. “Oh, Mrs. Collins, that’s so clever! Where did you get it?” She leaned forward and smoothed a wing tip, her blunt fingers surprisingly gentle.

  I’d crumbled an aspirin tablet and added water earlier. I’d not really looked closely, but now I did and I was surprised at the lift the elegant flower piece gave me, the sense of well-being and good humor.

  “A friend,” I said quietly. It was like pulling up an afghan on a snowy day.

  Kitty’s eyes eagerly absorbed every detail: bronze propellers, blue fuselage, white windows, pink wings and tail. Her nose wrinkled, seeking the dry, special scent of the carnations. “Oh, I love it.” Her lips curved again and her soft smile gave her face a winsome charm. “And someone must love you.”

  Those lost, lonely eyes looked at me in surprise.

  There was no bridge to span the gulf of years and experience that lay between us.

  I simply smiled and picked up her note. “Kitty, what can you tell me about Maggie?”

  The transformation of her face was startling, from softness and eagerness to sullen hatred. Her voice, too, grew venomous. “It’s time somebody told you the truth. Everybody goes on and on about how wonderful Maggie was. Well, she wasn’t wonderful. She was a slut—a jealous slut. And she was driving Eric crazy.” She scooted the chair so close she pressed against my desk. “Mrs. Collins, I’m going to have to tell you something private so that you’ll understand.”

  “Yes, Kitty.” I knew what was coming. When this was over, I intended to have a talk with Dennis Duffy. But of course it was too late. Forever too late for this child.

  Once again her face softened. “I know people might not understand.” Her eyes beseeched me. “Sometimes when you fall in love, you have to be brave. Things can be awfully complicated. Mr. Duffy—Dennis—I don’t know if you know, but his wife is awful to him.” She paused, frowned. “But I guess everybody knows that, now that they’ve arrested her for what she did to Maggie. But anyway, Maggie was just throwing herself at Dennis and she was so jealous of me that she tried to act like he was coming after her. And she tried to break us up. She told me”—anger throbbed in her voice—“that he was a womanizer, that he’d screw anything in skirts.” She stopped, swallowed convulsively, “Maggie said, ‘The fatter, the better.’”

  The vicious words hung in the air.

  I’d suspected Maggie could be cruel. Maggie was so sure of herself, so dismissive of those who couldn’t match her talents or brains or looks. And

  Maggie would be quick to confront anyone, anyone at all. I doubted she’d realized how much pain she had caused this desperately lonely girl.

  Or cared.

  I had to wonder where Kitty Brewster had been the night Maggie died.

  Kitty pressed trembling hands to her once-again flaming cheeks, then clasped them convulsively in her lap. “I thought you ought to know what she was like.”

  “I appreciate your coming to see me, Kitty. Yes, I’m trying to find out everything I can about Maggie.”

  And who was the real Maggie: my brilliant and ambitious student, Eric’s passionate lover, Buddy’s comrade in words, Kitty’s cruel slut? Which Maggie was murdered?

  I folded Kitty’s note. “And I’m trying to find out more about Wednesday night. I didn’t see you in the newsroom.”

  Now the anger was gone, leaving her vulnerable face limp and bereft. “Wednesday night? Oh”—she moved uncomfortably—“I just kind of hung around.”

  Maybe it was intuitive. Maybe it was the forlorn timbre of her voice. “Were you waiting for Dennis?”

  Kitty’s lips quivered. She tried to speak, couldn’t. She came to her feet, a hand pressed against her mouth, and blundered toward the door.

  In the newsroom, Dennis Duffy hunched at his computer. He didn’t even notice as Kitty bobbed her way clumsily past his desk.

  I blinked against the sharp white flash of the strobe.

  “Turn a little to your left, Mrs. Collins. And if you would lift your chin just a fraction…that’s good, very-y good. Now, just a few more shots…”

  I’d had no luck engaging Leonard Cartwright’s onetime roommate, Cameron Rodgers, in a coherent conversation. The photographer’s smooth patter was impervious to interruption, a nonstop monologue designed to entertain and relax his subjects. “…now you don’t want people to confuse this picture with a shot of West Point cadets marching! Come now, let’s have a little smile, then a big smile, then, hey, what’s the problem, have the teeth police been by here? Oh, now, that’s good, that’s better, that’s…”

  Rodgers was fortyish, balding, with a cherubic smile and aloof gray eyes. He bounc
ed around the studio with surprising agility for his bulk. He was under six feet and must have weighed two hundred pounds.

  We had the large studio to ourselves. Banks of lights, assorted backdrops, and several cameras on tripods crowded the big room.

  “That’s it. We got some good ones.” He gave me a final bright smile. “Mrs. Collins, you can pick up your proofs next Wednesday. I’m sure you’ll find some perfect shots for your family.” He turned to lead the way out of the studio.

  I didn’t move. “Mr. Rodgers, if you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about your years at the University. And about your fraternity.”

  Slowly he turned to face me. “My years…” His face was abruptly wooden. “Collins.” He looked at

  me sharply. “Collins,” he said again. His face flattened, the professional charm vanishing. “You’re the reporter, the one they had the story about on Friday. On page one.”

  Duffy would be pleased to know how carefully The Clarion was read.

  “Yes, and I’m here because I want to know what happened to Leonard Cartwright the night before he died.”

  The color seeped out of his face. “I don’t want to talk to you.” He said it firmly, his voice grim. “That’s what I told that girl, and that’s what I’m telling you. Look, I’ve taken the shots. We’re finished. If you want to come and get your proofs, fine. If not—”

  “Mr. Rodgers, do you have any children?”

  He scowled. “Why? What the hell does that have to do with anything?” His voice rose angrily.

  “Life. Death. Justice. Maybe you don’t care, Mr. Rodgers, but Maggie Winslow was young, just getting started. Maggie had a brilliant career ahead of her and someone killed her because she wanted to write about those people, those unsolved cases. Maybe you don’t have any children, maybe it doesn’t mean anything to you that Maggie died, but I’m asking you to help me find her killer.”

  Rodgers turned away from me. He walked heavily to a chair beyond a bank of lights and flung himself into it.

  I stood motionless, waiting and watching.