Death in Lovers' Lane

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “Thank you, Dr. Tucker.”

  As I walked to my office, I had a clearer than ever picture of Maggie’s last day, Maggie and her in-yourface journalism. Although editorial writers often bemoan what they see as an increasing lack of civility both in public discourse and its coverage, that phenomenon is nothing new. Joseph Pulitzer’s World and William Randolph Hearst’s Journal were simply the forerunners of today’s checkout-stand cheap sheets. Jenny Jones titillates viewers just as Arthur Brisbane titillated readers. In the Sunday magazine section of the World under Brisbane’s editorial direction, readers were invited to send letters discussing “Why I Failed in the Battle of Life.” The willingness to bare all for fifteen seconds of fame is nothing new.

  So I knew where Maggie was coming from. But she was too young, too brash, too confident to assess accurately the danger of directly challenging a man who’d successfully gotten away with murder.

  I paused and looked across the lawn at Evans Hall. I knew something important now. No wonder Stuart Singletary had been unnerved by my visit. Had Maggie shouted at him, too, threatened to reveal what she’d discovered about Singletary and his

  roommate? That she’d discovered something I was

  absolutely certain.

  I carried that thought upstairs to my office.

  I closed my door, but I didn’t settle with a file or at my computer. Instead, I looked out the stone-framed window at the parking lot and, past it, the back entrance to Evans Hall.

  Singletary was nervous.

  I needed to make him more nervous.

  I could do that.

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  packed a small duffel bag with toiletries and clothes. I am, I hope, a good deal cannier than Maggie. The years have taught me that. I’m certain I’m more cautious. Back on campus, I used a pay phone in the Commons to call Margaret Frazier, who is on the general news faculty. Margaret is a good friend. She was quite willing to expect me as an overnight guest whose presence must be kept secret.

  “Thanks, Margaret. I owe you.”

  Before I could hang up, however, she said sharply, “Henrie O, would it help if I came with you? Safety in numbers?”

  Margaret had been a longtime correspondent in Paris for INS. She keeps on top of the news. She knew I was working on Maggie’s series, and what that meant.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be careful. But sometimes you have to get out in front.”

  Her warning was swift. “Not too far in front.”

  “I know. Thanks, Margaret.”

  I crossed the street to Evans Hall.

  The light was on behind the pebbled glass of Dr. Abbott’s door. So Tom Abbott had come in to his office today, even though he didn’t keep daytime

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  hours on Wednesdays. Was it because he needed to talk with his son-in-law—away from Cheryl?

  When I stepped into the English department office, a spiky-haired coed immediately asked, “May I help you?” Her voice was firm. A corporate secretary in the making.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Abbott.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” Her expression was pleasant but distant.

  I didn’t intend to be stymied. Once again I took a card and scrawled a brief note. “Please give this to Dr. Abbott,” I told her. I, too, can be firm.

  She returned in only a moment, looking faintly surprised. “Yes, ma’am, Dr. Abbott will see you.”

  Glass-fronted bookcases, seventeenth-century maps, a fine old walnut desk—and a distinctly icy reception.

  Abbott stood by the corner of his desk, eyes dark with hostility, hands clasped behind his back, feet apart. “Mrs. Collins”—that dramatic, accomplished voice was dangerously low—“you have absolutely overstepped yourself.” He crumpled my card in his hand.

  I considered my note quite artful, certain to gain me entrée to a man who had no interest in talking to me. On the card, I’d written:

  Dear Dr. Abbott,

  There is a distinct possibility that the body of Maggie Winslow was hidden in Evans Hall before it was abandoned in Lovers’ Lane. Let’s discuss this. Before I go to the police.

  Sincerely,

  Henrietta Collins

  “This is outrageous.” His voice was taut with fury. “I intend to contact President Tucker if you do not cease these irrational accusations.”

  “Not irrational, Dr. Abbott. In fact, this is quite logically reasoned. Maggie was last seen walking toward Evans Hall.” This was being a bit creative with the truth, but I thought it was fair enough. “The assumption is that she had an appointment in this building and that she died here.” It sounded rather official. Of course, I didn’t have to tell him it was my assumption, not that of the police.

  “An appointment in this building?” He didn’t like that suggestion, didn’t like it at all. “With whom?” His blue eyes probed my face.

  “Professor Singletary.”

  It took a moment too long for his response. His voice grated, “That’s absurd. You have no right to say that.” And then some of the tension seeped out of his shoulders. “Besides, Stuart had already spoken to her. That morning.”

  “So you and Stuart have talked about Maggie’s murder?”

  Once again his reply was slow in coming. Finally, he said cautiously, “In passing.” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Collins, I simply will not allow you to besmirch Stuart’s reputation. Upon what basis are you suggesting this young woman came to talk to Stuart?”

  “The timing is right, Dr. Abbott. Maggie was last seen walking toward Evans Hall about six o’clock. She was dead by six-thirty—”

  His eyes widened at that.

  “—but her body wasn’t dropped in Lovers’ Lane until later that night. Stuart Singletary had a seven

  o’clock class. I’m certain that Maggie was strangled and her body hidden somewhere in this building until it could be disposed of. Stuart’s class ends at nine.”

  “That is a dreadful accusation.” Abbott’s voice was husky with shock.

  “I intend to prove every word of it.”

  They were brave words.

  Words I expected Dr. Abbott would soon share with his son-in-law.

  I climbed to the third floor. I’d timed it carefully. It was five minutes to four. Stuart Singletary’s class was from three to four.

  I stood outside his office, looking toward the adjacent closet.

  Singletary hurried up the stairs. He was halfway up the hall before he saw me. He jerked to a stop.

  I reached out for the knob of the closet door.

  I rattled the knob, then dropped my hand and faced him.

  His sharply angled face was absolutely without expression. I could see each feature as distinctly as the chisel marks in a sculpture: a bony forehead above deep-socketed eyes, a beaked nose, jutting cheekbones. His chocolate-brown eyes stared at me. Singletary’s ears were small and laid tight against his skull. His mouth was small, too, the thin lips almost a straight gash in that still face. His chestnut hair was thick and shiny. Today his sweater was the color of a lion pelt. His slacks were stylishly pleated. His cordovan loafers glistened like polished glass.

  We stood so close I could smell cinnamon aftershave and see the bristly texture of his neat black mustache.

  He forced out the words, his reedy voice harsh. “What are you doing here?”

  “Maggie came to see you before class Wednesday night, Dr. Singletary.” I made it a definitive, declarative, accusatory statement.

  “No. No, she didn’t.” His Adam’s apple wobbled in his thin neck.

  I looked from his office to the closet door.

  His gaze followed mine. I saw a flare of panic.

  “You have a key to that closet.” Faculty are routinely issued keys for storage areas near their offices.

  “What are you saying? What are you suggesting?” He took a step toward me.

  I stood my ground.

  A tiny tic flickered at the edge of his right eyelid.

  I reached out, as if
absentmindedly, and rattled the closet knob one more time.

  That tiny telltale flutter continued. “I’ve got papers to grade.” He strode past me, unlocked his office door, slammed it behind him.

  I started downstairs.

  As I turned at the landing, I came face-to-face with Dr. Abbott.

  “Give my regards to Dr. Singletary,” I said as I passed him.

  I walked swiftly down the stairs.

  I felt I had made a good beginning.

  I drove fast to the Singletary house.

  The two-story Tudor brick house stood on a rise with a long sweep of lawn to the street. Oak trees and an occasional maple provided a parklike atmo

  sphere. A white wooden fence marked the boundary on either side.

  I parked at the front curb and walked up the flagstone path.

  Midway to the house, I stepped around a doll buggy. On the porch, a Saint-Bernard-size stuffed lion with a red felt tongue was draped in a wooden swing.

  I stopped at the door. I remembered so clearly the vivid portrait over Dr. Abbott’s Adam mantel, the lively cheerful young woman brimming with vitality.

  If I lifted my hand, if I rang that bell, I was taking one more step on the road to destroying her home, breaking her heart.

  The wind ruffled the fluffy brown mane of the lion.

  On the last morning of her life, Maggie Winslow had placed on her pillow a scruffy, limp teddy bear with a blue cravat.

  Some years ago, Howard Rosen and Gail Voss lifted plastic champagne glasses in celebration.

  I reached up and pressed the bell. I heard the cheerful ring of high chimes.

  The door opened.

  Masses of bright-red hair framed Cheryl Abbott Singletary’s cheerful face. Her green eyes were lively and inquiring. Her pink lips curved in a welcoming smile. She had the lovely glow of good health and good humor. A bronze silk blouse was an excellent foil for alabaster-fair skin. The spatter of freckles across her cheeks added piquancy.

  “Who is it, Mommy? Who is it?” The little girl galloped into the foyer, her wooden hobbyhorse clattering on the parquet.

  “We’ll see, Cindy. Take Mr. Ed down to the playroom, please. We don’t want to scratch our lovely floor.” The sweetness of her tone turned the command into a gentle suggestion laced with love.

  “Hi-O, Silver,” Cindy trumpeted in a high cheerful voice so like her mother’s. She wheeled, stick held aloft, and galloped down the hallway to disappear through a doorway.

  Cheryl laughed. “We have a Cheyenne outpost in the basement. I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”

  I took a deep breath. I’ve found it hard many times over the years when I’ve asked questions and demanded answers that could transform or destroy lives.

  None was more difficult than this moment, with the sun spilling into the lovely foyer, capturing this young wife and mother in a pool of golden light. Happiness shimmered before me. I knew it was as insubstantial as a mirage, as easily destroyed as the wavering image reflected from baking sands.

  “I’m Henrietta Collins, Mrs. Singletary. I teach—”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” Her recognition was immediate. “I saw the story in The Clarion. About the reporter, Maggie Winslow, and the series she was writing. You know, I told Stuart I thought she must have found out something! And you’re trying to find out what it was, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” I steeled myself to look pleasant, agreeable, non-threatening. “And I’d appreciate it so much if we could talk for a few minutes about the murders in Lovers’ Lane when you were a student.”

  “Howard and Gail.” Cheryl’s voice quivered. “Oh, I still hate to think about it. They were so

  happy. They loved each other so much.” Sorrow softened the brightness in her eyes, turned down the corners of her rosy lips. “I’d do anything to help catch the awful person who killed them. Come in, Mrs. Collins.”

  Cheryl led the way down the spacious hall to a library with crammed bookshelves and easy chairs and a fire flickering in the fireplace. We sat in matching Windsor chairs on opposite sides of the fire.

  She held out her hands toward the heat, then her head swung toward me, her green eyes intent. “I’ve always felt there was something behind Howard and Gail being killed. Lovers’ Lane! That was silly. Nobody ever went to Lovers’ Lane.”

  “You don’t think they might have gone there—”

  She interrupted impatiently. “To make love? Of course not.” She put her elbow on the chair arm, propped her chin on her hand. “No, somebody made them go there. Or was going to meet them. Or something!”

  “Do you have any idea what it could have been? Why they would meet someone there?”

  Slowly, she shook her head and her shiny red hair glistened like Christmas tinsel.

  “Did you ever hear either of them mention a Joe Smith?”

  “No. Never. Stuart and I talked a lot about that. It didn’t make any sense to us.” Her diamond wedding band glistened in the firelight.

  “Did Stuart mention that Maggie had asked him about Joe Smith?”

  “No. He said she was curious about Howard, what he was really like.”

  “How did you meet Howard and Gail?”

  “My dad—”

  I nodded.

  “He’s chair of the department. So he invites the graduate students over, oh, once a month or so. And I helped him with those evenings after my mom…left. I met Howard at one of those parties. And I introduced Howard to Stuart.”

  Her tone was so casual, so relaxed. If there was something odd about that meeting, she’d never known about it.

  “Did you ever talk to Howard about his thesis?”

  She shook her head firmly. And grinned. “Mrs. Collins, I never talked to anybody about their thesis! God forbid. If you let that get started, it’s downhill from then on.”

  “Not even Stuart’s thesis?” I made my tone light.

  “Believe me, I didn’t go out with Stuart to talk about his thesis.”

  I heard a creak from the hallway.

  Cheryl was still smiling.

  “I suppose Stuart was terribly upset about the murders?”

  Her smile fled. “It was devastating. He was trying to get ready for his orals and the police were always underfoot, wanting to talk to him all the time. But there wasn’t much he could tell them. He saw Howard about seven or so, and that was it.”

  “You were at their apartment that evening?”

  “We had pizza. Stuart brought me home about eleven. We’d just started dating and I think he was scared to death of my dad. He always got me in so early.”

  An antique mirror on the wall behind Cheryl reflected a portion of the hall and a man’s arm. In a tawny cashmere sweater. Abruptly the image disappeared.

  Suddenly the front door slammed.

  Cheryl looked around. “Stuart, we have company. Mrs. Collins is here.”

  “Yes. So I see.” Her husband walked into the library, his angular face as rigid as a slab of concrete.

  Cheryl’s voice lifted in dismay. “Why, Stuart, what’s wrong?”

  He ignored her. “What are you doing here?”

  I feigned surprise. “I thought you realized my next stop would be here. Of course I wanted to talk to Cheryl.”

  “I don’t want you bothering my wife.”

  Cheryl looked from him to me, puzzled, her face suddenly wary.

  I stood. “Is it a bother to try and discover what happened to Howard and Gail?”

  Cheryl pressed a hand against her mouth.

  “But I’m all through. I won’t bother you any further. You see, Dr. Singletary, I’ve gotten what I came for.” I met his gaze directly. “What I needed. Everything is much clearer to me now.” I moved past him, stepped into the foyer.

  I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.

  I was halfway down the walk when the front door slammed. Stuart Singletary caught up with me as I reached my car.

  I unlocked the driver’s
door.

  He stood on the other side of the MG. “What do you think you’re doing, Mrs. Collins?”

  “I think you know, don’t you, Stuart? I’m hunting for a murderer, a man who’s murdered three people.”

  “Damn you, you’ve got it all wrong. I—I didn’t kill anybody.”

  For an instant, I was surprised. I didn’t sense fear. Or even anger. This man was worried, nervous, uncomfortable. Not afraid. But, dammit, he should be. No one else had pursued him as I was doing.

  I decided it was time to be absolutely clear. “I think you did,” I said gravely.

  “Listen.” His voice rose. “There would have to be a reason. Wouldn’t there?” Now he watched me closely, intently. “Why?” It was a demand, harsh, violent. “Why? I had no quarrel with Howard. I liked Howard.” Singletary was gaining confidence with every word. “Why would I shoot Howard? And Gail, too?”

  “I don’t know, Stuart. Yet. But I will find out.”

  As I drove away, I saw him in the rearview mirror, standing on the curb, staring after me.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to score that encounter.

  I hadn’t won.

  But if Stuart Singletary thought I’d lost, I’d teach him otherwise.

  I drove slowly, my mind whirling with the central question, the important question, the question that seemed to have no answer.

  Why? Why? Why?

  There had to be a reason, a real, concrete, specific reason for Stuart to kill his friends.

  Motives for murder cannot, perhaps, be reduced to a list, but any journalist knows only too well that anger, hatred, jealousy, greed, fear, revenge, and betrayal would head such a list.

  Anger. Roommates often don’t get along, but murder?

  Hatred. If Stuart and Howard had quarreled, no one knew of it.

  Jealousy. There was no hint that Stuart cared at all for Gail, Howard’s girlfriend. And certainly no one had suggested that Howard was interested in Cheryl Abbott.

  Greed. Certainly Howard’s death didn’t matter financially to Stuart. No one profited from Howard’s death except his faraway brother.

  Fear. What possible reason could Stuart have to be afraid of Howard?

  Revenge. No, this was not Shakespeare with hidden identities and family passions to be played out.