“I appreciate that, Dr. Zelinsky. When do you think the autopsy will take place?”
“Well, seeing as I’m the one doing it, it can take place whenever I have the time. I’ll probably get to it today, tomorrow at the latest. Don’t want the body hanging around. I expect I’ll be getting a call from Markham’s Funeral Home anytime now. That usually pushes me along.”
“By the way, I understand you were a regular in Wes Newmark’s poker game.”
“Who told you that?”
“Harriet Schoolman Bennett.”
“Ah, the small-town grapevine. My secret is out. I’m a closet poker player,” he said, smiling.
“Who else played in that game?”
“Any particular reason you want to know?”
“I’m helping to arrange the memorial service. I want to make certain all his friends are invited.”
“Well, there’s me; Wes, of course; Phil on occasion; Lowell; Larry Durbin; and Manny Rosenfeld. Harriet even sat in once or twice.”
“Lowell? Would that be President Needler?”
“Yeah, although he’s a lousy poker player. Loses every month. We had to put in the thirty-dollar-limit rule for him. Otherwise he would have gone broke.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to get back to work. Nice meeting you.”
I thanked him, left the laboratory, and found my way to the gift shop on the main floor. Harriet hadn’t arrived yet, and I perused items for sale while I waited for her. There was a large selection of toilet articles, powder, cologne, toothbrushes and toothpaste, and other personal items a patient might need but not have brought to the hospital. Toys and games, for adults as well as children, took up several shelves, as did silk flower arrangements, displayed next to a sign that read REAL PLANTS AND FLOWERS ARE NOT PERMITTED IN THE CARDIAC UNIT. In one corner was a large display of books and magazines, and I wandered in that direction, stopping along the way to admire a hand-crocheted bed jacket made by a hospital volunteer, according to its label.
“She’s such a talent, that one,” said a blond lady in a pink apron, who was marking prices on a box of teddy bears. “We have other things by her, too. If you need any help, just sing out.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m just looking.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked, pulling off her eyeglasses and letting them dangle by a gold chain attached to the earpieces.
“How do you know?”
“I could say that I can tell by your accent, but that would be stretching it a bit,” she said. “Truth is, I know by sight most everyone who lives around here, and yours is a new face, even though you do look familiar. You wouldn’t be one of those Hollywood people, would you?”
I laughed. “No. I’m from Maine,” I said. “Just visiting for the semester at Schoolman College.”
“We had a movie crew here once. Looking for ‘small-town ambience,’ they said. Turned the place upside down, blocking off traffic on the streets, closing the local bakery while they filmed inside. People were excited at first, but when they couldn’t get their morning pastry they got mighty annoyed, I can tell you. By the way, I’m Eunice Carberra. I live here in New Salem.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”
“The mystery writer?” Her face lit up at my smile. “We’ve got some of your books. I knew you looked familiar. Would you mind signing them?”
“I’d be delighted,” I said, following her to the book corner.
“I could put up a little placard,” she said, handing me two of my books. “ ‘Signed by the author.’ I can’t wait. Let me get you a pen.”
I browsed the bookshelf while she rummaged in a drawer next to the cash register.
“We’ve got some nice books on Indiana, if you plan to sightsee on the weekends,” she said, giving up on the drawer, pulling a pen from a canister on display, and bustling over to me.
“Are you sure?” I asked, looking askance at the colorful pen. It had a little figure on top with blue hair. She nodded. I wrote my name in shocking pink ink and gave her back the pen and books.
“I’m going to make the sign right now,” she said, returning to the register.
I scanned the shelves and noticed children’s books on Abraham Lincoln and Johnny Appleseed; both had been Indiana residents at times in their lives. There was also a picture book on Amish quilts. I pulled it down and flipped through the pages, pausing at a pretty design in blue and yellow.
“There’s quite a large Amish population in the state,” Eunice said, seeing what I was reading. She carried over a roll of tape and a small card on which she’d hand-lettered her message. “Most of them live up around Nappanee, about an hour from here.” She placed my books on the shelf, front cover facing out, and taped the card to the shelf above them.
“I don’t drive,” I said.
“Too bad,” she said. “It’s a lovely ride. They still farm the land with horse-drawn plows—”
“Jessica, there you are,” said Harriet, interrupting the story. “I’m sorry I’m late. The social worker was on the phone when I walked in, and we barely had any time to talk by the time she got off. Hello, Eunice.”
“That’s all right,” I said, replacing the book on the shelf. “We were having a nice conversation.”
“I’m sorry to pull away a potential customer, Eunice, but we’ve got to get back to campus.”
“I’ll forgive you, Harriet,” Eunice said, winking at me. “Just bring her back another time.”
We climbed into Harriet’s Volvo, left the hospital grounds, followed the main street through the town of New Salem, and minutes later were passing fields of corn and soybeans that flanked the road to Schoolman. Most of the crops had been harvested, but here and there were blocks the farmers were still cutting. Harriet was occupied with her own thoughts and drove fast. Even though we could see for miles ahead, I was grateful there were no vehicles on the road other than several telephone trucks parked on the shoulder while their crews checked the overhead lines. We saw few signs of the tornado along our way. Whatever poles and trees had succumbed to the storm had already been removed. It was only when we drove onto the college grounds that the effects of the twister could be seen, as if it had chosen Schoolman as its main target and ignored the surrounding countryside.
The college was alive with the sounds of construction equipment when Harriet pulled into her parking space on the side of the Student Union and shut off the motor. Across the quad, a small crane hoisted rubble from one of the damaged buildings and deposited its load in a dump truck, while a dozen men dismantled what parts of the house they could reach and carted the pieces to a Dumpster in the driveway. Hammers, saws, and drills contributed to the cacophony as Frank and his workers completed repairs on the Hart Building. I was struck by how quickly the human community recovered from disaster, cleaning up, patching up, and moving on. Oddly, it reminded me of a time in my childhood when I’d accidentally stepped on an anthill and watched as its inhabitants poured forth, working together feverishly to mend the damage. We were not so far away from the insect kingdom in our response to calamity.
“I have a favor to ask,” Harriet said when we’d gotten out of the car. “Wes’s sister is expected sometime today. It’s a meeting I dread.” She paused.
“Would you like me to be there when you see her?”
“I know it’s an imposition.”
“It’s not an imposition. If my presence will make it easier for you, I’m happy to do it.”
“I’ve been leaning on you so much these last few days, I feel as if I’ve taken unfair advantage of our friendship.”
“Don’t think that for a minute. We’re all grateful for support during hard times. This is a time when I can help you, and I’m happy to do it.”
“You’d figure since I’m a widow, I would understand her loss and be able to say the right thing. But I get just as tongue-tied as the next person when it comes to dealing with the bereaved. And in this c
ase I feel guilty about Wes. I’m responsible for his death.”
“Why? You had no control over the storm.”
“I keep thinking that if that darn alarm had gone off earlier, he would have saved himself. I should have known Needler wouldn’t release the funds to fix it.”
“Harriet, Wes Newmark knew a storm was coming. As you told the press, he even warned me to take shelter.”
“I know, I know. Still, I keep thinking there must have been something I could have done.”
“Well, there wasn’t. Don’t torture yourself.”
“In addition to not having saved him, I’m angry at him for dying. Isn’t that ridiculous? Guilt and anger. What a combination.”
“That’s very common, Harriet.”
She sighed. “The college was just getting up to speed. All our programs were starting to take off. And now this. We’re still struggling financially, but that will resolve itself—at least, it would have if we hadn’t gotten hit with all these extra expenses. I should be mourning Wes, but I’m furious that he died and we have all this inconvenience instead of concentrating on building up the college funds.”
“Harriet, you’re being too hard on yourself. It’s perfectly fine to feel these things—normal, even natural. It’s how you act upon them that’s the key. And your behavior has been absolutely appropriate. You’re arranging a memorial service. You’re meeting with his sister. You’ve got the cleanup well under way, and you’re having all the necessary repairs taken care of. Seems to me you’re doing everything right.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I do. Feel better having gotten it all out?”
“Yes, now that I’ve told you how horrible I am.”
We both laughed.
“Enough self-flagellation for one day,” I said, happy to change the subject. “What time are we meeting Wes’s sister?”
“She wasn’t sure when she was arriving, so I suggested that we get together at Wes’s place at four.”
“Shall I meet you there?”
“That would be fine. It’s called La Salle House. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes. He hosted a department tea for me there. It’s a lovely house.”
“That’s one of the ways we reward our department heads. We can’t always match the pay of other colleges, but we provide beautiful accommodations. Wes lived there for fifteen years.”
“He never married, I take it.”
“He never mentioned it if he did. Letitia Tingwell may have hoped to change that, but now we’ll never know if she could have succeeded.”
“The department secretary?”
“Yes. She was devoted to him. As loyal as they come. He would ask her to tidy up after his parties, take his clothes to be laundered, things like that. She performed a lot of personal, wifely duties beyond what her job description entails. I always thought he took advantage of her, but she pooh-poohed me when I mentioned it. If there was more there than a typical boss-secretary relationship, they never demonstrated it in public. In fact, I’m not certain he even noticed her that way.”
“Maybe he took all those favors for granted as his right as a department head,” I said.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Wes was a fine academician, very knowledgeable, but not exactly the sensitive type.”
“I thought he was well liked. Wasn’t that the case?”
Harriet clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. “Oh, listen to me,” she said. “My mother used to say, ‘Never speak ill of the dead.’ Forget this conversation, please. I’m talking out of turn today.”
“Harriet?” I paused, debating whether to share the substance of my conversation with Dr. Zelinsky. Harriet had given me an opening, but perhaps it wasn’t the right time. She had so much on her mind; it would be unkind to burden her with my suspicions, especially since they were unconfirmed. There would be time to talk with her after the autopsy was completed.
“Jessica?”
“I’m sorry, Harriet. It wasn’t important.”
“What is it? I just poured all my thoughts out to you. You’re more than welcome to reciprocate. You certainly looked serious just now, so whatever you were thinking must be important.”
“What’s Wes’s sister’s name?”
“Is that what put that look on your face?” She laughed. “Lorraine. Lorraine Newmark.”
“That’s all,” I said. “I’ll meet you at La Salle House at four. Why don’t you relax till then, get some rest?”
“Rest? I don’t know the meaning of that word.”
Harriet went to her office, and I crossed the campus to where the heavy equipment was in operation. Construction machinery always seems to draw a crowd of sidewalk superintendents, and this site was no exception. Groups of students and faculty were standing around the perimeter of the bursar’s office, watching the construction crew pull apart the building. One section of the lawn was covered with whatever the crew had been able to salvage. Desks, chairs, copiers, filing cabinets, wastebaskets, and office supplies were set out haphazardly, staff members examining them for damage, making the scene look like a dusty furniture showroom or a flea market. A moving van stood nearby to take everything salvageable off to temporary office space in another building.
I walked over to Kammerer House, where the demolition had been temporarily suspended, the priority given to setting up the financial department. I slipped under the yellow tape and walked around to the rear of the building, hoping the activity down the street would divert attention from my trespassing.
Little had changed since Professor Newmark’s body had been removed. The black office chair that had blocked his corpse had been left on its side on the grass. I knelt down and peered into the house; the supports that jacked up the file cabinet and all the debris on top of it were still in place. Beneath it, a stain on the crumpled carpet marked where the body had lain. There was a smear that might have been blood several feet away, and another dark mark that clearly was a footprint. I stood up and looked at the hole in the ceiling where rubble from the second floor had tumbled through, and tried to remember the original arrangement of furniture and filing cabinets on the first floor.
“You’re not supposed to be here, you know.”
I jumped. “My goodness. You startled me.”
Lieutenant Bill Parish frowned at me. “That yellow tape is there for a reason, Mrs. Fletcher. It even says to keep out. You’re not setting a very good example for your students.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I shouldn’t be here. There was just something I wanted to check on that bothered me the other night.”
“And what might that be?”
I pointed under the supports. “You see that filing cabinet on its side, Lieutenant? I think that used to stand against the wall.”
“They usually do.”
“Yes, but I don’t see how debris falling from that hole in the ceiling could have toppled the filing cabinet in such a way as to hit Professor Newmark’s head. And why would he be sitting in that spot? There’s no desk over there.”
“Maybe he rolled his chair over to the file cabinet to look at something in one of the drawers.”
“But if he did that and the cabinet fell on him, it would have hit him in the front of the head, not the back.”
“Maybe he turned around just when it fell over.”
“But when the tornado tore a hole in the second floor, he would have heard it happen and should have had time to move out of the way.”
“Maybe he was crouching down by the file cabinet to protect himself.”
“But the cabinet fell into the room, not to the side.”
“Well, maybe it was something else that hit him on the head.”
“Exactly.”
“In a tornado, everything gets whipped around. It could have been anything flying in the air that knocked him down.”
“Yes, but then wouldn’t there be papers and other objects strewn all around the room? I don’t see any of that
.”
“I don’t know how you can say that. Look at all the junk that fell in from upstairs.”
“But that’s precisely what I mean, Lieutenant. All those pieces may have been swirling around the room upstairs, but when the floor gave way, they fell straight down through the hole.”
“What are you suggesting, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just wondering what exactly hit him.”
“Why is that important?”
“Don’t you think it’s important to know what killed him?”
“I think your imagination is getting the better of you, Mrs. Fletcher. Wes Newmark’s head was cracked open like an egg, and half a house was sitting on top of him. There were plenty of objects that could have killed him. The bottom line is that if he’d taken shelter, he’d be alive today.”
“I agree,” I said.
“You do?”
“Yes. Why do you think he didn’t take shelter?”
“I have no idea. Maybe he was a stubborn son of a gun. Maybe he thought he was infallible. Maybe he was one of those people who likes to tempt fate. Maybe he did it on a dare. Maybe there’s no logical explanation. Why do you think he didn’t take shelter?”
“I think he may already have been dead.”
Chapter Seven
Lorraine Newmark looked lost. She wore a faded blue parka, brown corduroy pants, a matching turtleneck, and an expression of bewilderment.
“Is this where he lived?”
“Yes,” I said. “The college provides housing for its department heads. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“This is nicer than anyplace we ever lived, anyplace I ever lived, anyway.”
She stood in the center of the spacious, old-fashioned parlor. Leaded-glass windows looked out over a garden pond and, beyond that, the green expanse of the athletic fields where the lacrosse team was practicing. Inside, a brocade sofa, small, square pillows perched on either end, faced the elegant fireplace with its beautifully carved mantel and surround. One side table held a neat stack of hardcover books, the titles on their dustcovers all facing the same direction. Matching Chippendale side chairs flanked the sofa, facing each other across a low mahogany table. Nineteenth-century oil paintings hung on the walls.
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