Death in Lovers' Lane

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Betrayal. That argues a close, intense relationship.

  And how had Maggie known? What had tipped Maggie to Stuart Singletary’s guilt? And not merely his guilt, but the reason for the murders. I could be certain that Stuart was a murderer, but if I never knew why, I couldn’t prove it.

  Somehow Maggie had discovered the reason why. And that knowledge was deadly.

  I stopped at the library. But it only took minutes to satisfy myself that Stuart’s thesis, as Dr. Abbott had indicated, was about the work and life of a minor American poet.

  So that was a dead end.

  I took the Rosen-Voss file with me to the Green Owl. Even this early it was crowded. I had to wait ten minutes for a small table. As I skimmed the file, I ate an old-fashioned hamburger and fries with ketchup.

  But there was nothing in the file I had not already considered.

  I walked back to my MG and sat for a moment before turning on the ignition. I had a definite feeling I could quite safely return home tonight.

  Stuart Singletary had no fear of me.

  I might be convinced of his guilt, but I had no proof.

  Proof.

  I turned on the motor.

  Whatever Maggie had known, whatever she had surmised, it must have been linked to proof that would destroy Stuart Singletary’s assured position.

  When I’d rattled the knob to the third-floor closet in Evans Hall, I’d had Singletary worried. That’s where he must have put Maggie’s body until his class was done.

  Could I persuade Lieutenant Urschel to get a search warrant and have the lab technicians scour that closet? Surely there was a trace of dust, some fiber that would link Maggie and the closet.

  Urschel had to have more reason than I could provide.

  No, that wasn’t a possibility at this point.

  But that didn’t mean I was without recourse. I definitely would keep up the pressure on Singletary.

  And maybe he would crack.

  seventeen

  walked into Evans Hall slightly after seven. I passed Abbott’s office. The light once again gleamed behind the glass. Wednesday-night office hours. I would have given a great deal to know whether he and his son-in-law had spoken together since I’d visited the Singletary house.

  I hurried down the central stairs. Singletary’s class was held in Lower Level 1. I stood behind the swinging door and looked through the small window. This was one of the large theater-style classrooms, with seats sloping down to a well and a stage. There were two entrances. About seventy-five students were scattered about the auditorium. But I’d known he was a popular teacher.

  The young professor stood by the lectern, relaxed and confident. In fact, he had the air of a performer enjoying himself immensely.

  I pushed through the door. I was halfway down the center aisle when Singletary saw me.

  His reedy voice faltered for just an instant and then he continued. “…if we ever need reminding that the American humor of today has deep roots, we have only to go back to the works of authors such as Artemus Ward and Mark Twain to recog

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  nize that laughter is indeed a universal language and there is a particularly American…”

  I slipped into a seat next to Sally Cummings, one of my editorial students this semester.

  She gave me a sharp, quick look.

  Sally is an excellent student. I saw the class syllabus neatly tucked in the front of her notebook.

  I tapped it. “May I?” I asked softly.

  She handed it to me.

  “…let’s think for a moment of Ward’s wonderful London Punch letters. Here’s an excerpt from number five, published in 1866. Ward wrote: ‘The Puritans nobly fled from a land of despotism to a land of freedim, where they could not only enjoy their own religion, but could prevent everybody else from enjoyin his.’”

  There was a burst of appreciative laughter.

  “Class, let’s think for a moment about the political expression of today and how talk-radio hosts…”

  I glanced down the syllabus. I was impressed. Singletary covered the period in depth and the requested list of reading should keep any lazy students out of his class.

  “…compare with Twain’s comment in Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar: ‘It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress.’”

  He waited until the laughter subsided.

  “It should be clear that…”

  For Mark Twain alone, Singletary expected his students to read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar, and Twain’s autobiography.

  I looked toward the stage. The faded blue curtains were closed. As Singletary gestured, his shadow moved against the curtain. Although his eyes occasionally jerked toward me, his voice didn’t falter again. He had hit full stride now and was deep into the importance of Huckleberry Finn to American literature.

  I glanced at the rest of the syllabus. It was a star-studded survey of great American writers. My lips quirked a little when I saw the title Listen to Me. Okay, so maybe, as some critics had said, it really was the defining novel of the last decade of the twentieth century. But it certainly didn’t do any harm to family relations for Singletary to list his father-in-law’s book as required reading in this survey of the greatest of American literature.

  From that list, Singletary expected his students to read at least one book by each author. So many books, so many wonderful authors.

  “…Mark Twain…”

  I looked again at the syllabus.

  Singletary had listed all of the books by each author.

  I scanned Twain’s titles; more than a dozen.

  Many authors had from five to twenty books to their credit.

  One book.

  Mark Twain.

  Artemus Ward.

  Two of the most famous pen names in American literary history.

  Pen names.

  I handed the syllabus back to Sally.

  Singletary moved away from the lectern, walking to the edge of the stage. “I want you to think about

  Huck and Jim,” he told his students. “And then I want you to tell me why this passage is one of the great moments in American literature: ‘I was a-trembling because I’d got to decide forever betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied it for a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself, “All right then, I’ll go to hell.”’”

  The class got into it, with vigor. I had to admire Singletary’s skill as a teacher, his love for his task.

  One of my favorite passages from Twain is from Life on the Mississippi: “Your true pilot cares nothing about anything on earth but the river, and his pride in his occupation surpasses the pride of kings.”

  I had more than a little in common with Twain’s riverboat pilot.

  I care only for justice.

  There is a danger in true passion, an inexorable progression. It will not rest with anything less than fulfillment.

  Tonight I would see justice done, no matter the cost.

  I didn’t look toward Singletary when I rose and walked up the aisle.

  For an instant, Singletary paused, then his voice picked up again.

  I didn’t have to look back to know he was watching me every step of the way.

  I wondered if he realized that now I knew. I understood—and I would do what I had to do.

  Maggie Winslow was a writer. That’s how she had figured it out, the heart of one writer understanding the heart of another, the sensitivity, the passion, the reluctance to be hurt. And Maggie must have understood that yes, Gail Voss had loved

  Howard Rosen, and Gail had known Howard better than anyone, had known all about Howard and Joe Smith and the reason for a grand celebration.

  All I had to do was prove it.

  I pushed through the swinging door, hurried up the stairs, then out the main entrance into the cool darkness. But I wasn’t worried. Stuart might guess
the reason for my departure, but what could he do?

  The newsroom was silent.

  Eric March hunched over his computer keyboard. Dennis Duffy wasn’t at his desk. Buddy Neville gave me a languid wave. Kitty Brewster slumped in her chair and stared dully toward the main doorway. Waiting for Dennis?

  I unlocked my office, hurried to my desk, and picked up the phone. I glanced at my wall clock.

  I called an old friend in New York who covers publishing for Newsweek. She gave me a list of a half dozen names and numbers.

  I made call after call.

  The minute hand continued its jerky sweep.

  Seven forty-five.

  Seven-fifty. Time for Singletary’s class to take a ten-minute break. I wanted to be outside Singletary’s class when it ended at nine. With what I’d learned or surmised, I was certain I could make Singletary reveal what he knew.

  Eight o’clock. Time for class to resume.

  Eight-ten.

  Eight-twenty.

  I located Coleman Shelby at his home in suburban Connecticut at eight thirty-seven. I spoke fast and hard and waited tensely for his answer.

  The editor’s precise voice was matter-of-fact.

  “Mrs. Collins, I have every piece of correspondence

  since the initial submission.”

  I thanked him.

  I slammed out of my office.

  Eric lifted his head at the sound of my hurried steps. “Mrs. Collins—”

  “Later.” I was moving at a near run.

  Once again I plunged out into the night. As soon as I reached Evans Hall—

  But I never reached the building. I was still in the thick shadows of a line of cedars, their branches rustling in the north wind, when a fast-moving figure bolted out from the shadows.

  I knew who it was, of course.

  I’d made a grave miscalculation.

  I’d been confident that Stuart Singletary was powerless. Though I’d realized Stuart was worried about what he feared might happen, I didn’t expect him to take action. But he’d had that ten-minute break at eight o’clock.

  My mistake.

  Perhaps my fatal mistake.

  A creamy light sifted down from the golden-globed street lamp.

  The figure was almost upon me now. His steps gritted on the sidewalk.

  At almost the same instant, I heard faintly the asthmatic wheeze of the J-School main door.

  I had to pray that this deadly attacker didn’t know that sound, that his attention was focused utterly on me.

  I said clearly, distinctly, and I hoped loudly enough, but not so loud as to provoke attack, “Is that the face you wore the night you killed Howard and Gail?”

  The rubber mask, the head of a lion, glistened yellow and brown in the chalky glow. It looked almost charming atop the light tan of his trench coat. “Shut up, Mrs. Collins.” It was a sibilant whisper.

  “You saw them that night at the Green Owl. He’d told you earlier in the day, of course, about the wonderful news, that the publishing house was going to buy his book, the book he’d submitted over the transom using the pen name Joe Smith. A pseudonym, like Mark Twain or Artemus Ward. Howard used it because he was still hiding his true interests from his financier father. But Gail knew. Yes, Gail loved Joe Smith because she loved Howard Rosen. So the double murders in Lovers’ Lane came down to greed. Listen to Me received one of the highest advances ever paid for a first novel. The letter came that day, didn’t it, Dr. Abbott? We can verify that, the date of the letter to Joe Smith, offering riches and success and fame far beyond anything you would ever have. When the letter arrived, Howard must have been so excited. He immediately called Gail, to go and celebrate. But he met with you that day and he told you his great news. After all, he’d written that novel as his graduate-school thesis. And you knew Howard, knew how secretive he was, so you could be confident that no one else in the world was aware of the offer from the publishing house—except you and Howard and Gail. And who knew that Joe Smith was Howard Rosen? Only you and Howard and Gail. Before the night of April 15 ended, no one would know but you. We can prove what happened. All we have to do is get the letter signed by Joe Smith in submitting the manuscript. That signature will prove to have been written by

  Howard Rosen. And Dr. Abbott, I just talked to your editor—that letter exists.”

  I wondered how Tom Abbott felt inside that hot, stuffy mask. Was sweat turning his red hair into tight ringlets? Or was his skin clammy and icy?

  “What did you want most, Dr. Abbott—the money? Or the fame? Was it at the Green Owl that you made up your mind? Did you go home and get your gun? Were you waiting in the shadows by Howard’s car when they came out of the café? Did you make them drive to Lovers’ Lane?” I shook my head in disdain. “Lovers’ Lane. That was such a tip-off. Only someone as old as you would have hoped to make their murders look like kids caught in a romantic moment on a remote road.”

  “Nobody knows.” It was a vicious whisper.

  I almost challenged that statement.

  Because Stuart Singletary knew. At the very least, Stuart had realized, when Listen to Me was published, that he’d seen scraps of that work before. On the desk of his roommate. But what could Stuart do about it?

  What was he willing to do?

  Stuart had looked the other way.

  Tonight, he had not. He must have gone downstairs, warned his father-in-law, perhaps straight out, perhaps obliquely.

  Perhaps he meant only to warn him to escape.

  What would Stuart do when my body was found?

  I didn’t say anything about Stuart.

  Was that rustle just the wind?

  I lifted my voice. “Maggie Winslow figured it out, didn’t she? You had an appointment with her at six, a time when no one was likely to see her in the building. And if they did, well, she had a seven

  o’clock class at Evans Hall. Maggie was a writer. She talked to Howard’s brother and she thought about the notebooks Howard always kept and she knew he was working on a master’s in creative writing.”

  “She said she knew I hadn’t written it—that no old man could have written Listen to Me. She laughed at me.” The whisper was low and ugly, shaking with fury.

  “You struck her down. You strangled her, shoved the body in your office closet. Then you kept your office hours. But later that night you took her body to Lovers’ Lane. Did it amuse you to leave her body there?”

  Abbott raised his hand. The gun gleamed dully in the milky light. “Nobody knows.”

  The sudden onset of brutally loud noise was bewildering, shocking, disorienting, a high piercing buzz alternating with a siren’s wail.

  The sound came from behind the cedars.

  That huge rubbery head jerked toward the trees.

  Eric March exploded from the other direction, slamming into Abbott’s back.

  Then the deep hoarse violent yell began, an ungodly, mournful howl.

  I will never forget that sound.

  Eric was astride Abbott, the scream coming from deep in Eric’s throat as he pounded the lion head against the sidewalk.

  Abbott’s gun flung loose from his hand. I was on my hands and knees, scrabbling toward the weapon. I picked it up by the barrel. But I was prepared, fingerprints be damned, to grasp it properly if need be.

  The shrill buzzing sound—I recognized it as the kind of small safety alarm often carried by female students at night—suddenly ceased its clamor.

  Buddy Neville plunged toward Eric. Kitty Brewster panted up beside them.

  It took Kitty and me and Buddy to grapple with Eric and pull him away from the motionless figure sprawled on the sidewalk.

  I didn’t have to worry about how I held the gun.

  Tom Abbott didn’t move. Blood oozed from beneath the lion mask.

  From the unnatural angle of his neck, I knew he would never kill again.

  eighteen

  T was fairly late Thursday morning when I reached my office. I had The Clarion tucked
under my arm. I’d scanned it at breakfast. I didn’t need to read it. I’d lived it.

  The lead story, of course, was Eric March’s rescue of me from Dr. Thomas Abbott. Most of the story was Kitty Brewster’s eyewitness account, then her subsequent interview with me at the Derry Hills police station. I made it clear that Abbott was guilty of three murders and that he was lifting the gun to shoot me and only Eric’s intervention saved my life.

  Additional stories focused on Maggie Winslow’s murder, Rita Duffy’s release, my efforts to clear Rita, and the expected revelations about the book that Howard Rosen had written and Tom Abbott had stolen from him.

  But I was finished.

  In, of course, more ways than one.

  I unlocked my office door.

  Two envelopes addressed to me had been slipped beneath the door.

  The first bore the letterhead of the Office of the President of Thorndyke University.

  I opened the thick envelope. The University’s

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  crest in gold and blue was emblazoned in the top center of a thick white notecard. There was a single line written in a heavy, looping script:

  Dear Mrs. Collins,

  You have served the University well.

  Sincerely,

  David Tucker

  I crossed to my desk, dropped the note in the wastebasket. I sat in my chair and opened the second.

  Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins Assistant Professor of Journalism School of Journalism and Mass Communications Dear Henrie O:

  The School wishes formally to recognize your extraordinary efforts on behalf of both students and faculty. We are delighted with your commitment to justice. You have demonstrated the highest levels of professional achievement.

  Very truly yours,

  Susan

  Susan Dillon Director School of Journalism and Mass Communications

  Smooth words. But I knew I’d made an implacable enemy of Susan. I was sure there would be a budget difficulty in the spring which would, regrettably, of course, mean that my position could not be filled in the coming academic year. Her letter was simply a feline means of ensuring I could not complain that I was being dropped because of malice on her part.

  No, my days at Thorndyke were over. But that was all right. I know that nothing—for good or ill—lasts forever. I’d had fun here, made good friends, fought a good fight. That was as much as I could ever ask of any job.