Majoring In Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I carried the laundry basket out of the room and left it on the landing. The second floor contained two small bedrooms in addition to the master bedroom. One was set up as a home office, with a tall file cabinet and an ugly metal desk that looked as if it had been salvaged from a garbage heap. Someone had painted it orange, but dents and scratches showed its original color had been gray. I tiptoed into the office and slid open the top drawer. Under a slew of papers, I found a small address book written in a female hand. I tucked it in my pocket with the tapes, and returned to the hall.

  The second bedroom was used for storage. Old furniture—chairs, a bureau, nightstands—was lined up against the walls in no particular arrangement. On the far wall I could see a half door that led to what I assumed was crawl space. I pressed the door back, peeked inside, then ducked into the low room, which was littered with piles of open boxes overflowing with papers, books, handbags, shoes, crockery, linens, and photographs. It looks as if they’d never finished unpacking, I told myself. In addition, a rolled-up rug, a lady’s dressing table with a cracked mirror, several pieces of luggage, and old stereo equipment had been shoved in willy-nilly. A pair of high heels lay against the dressing table, as if they’d been flung in there and left where they landed.

  “What’s taking you so long? The man is only going to wear a sweat suit for the next couple of weeks.”

  “I’m coming now,” I called back. I closed the door to the storage room and carried the laundry basket downstairs. Together we laid Phil’s clothing along the perimeter of the dining room table within easy reach of a man in a wheelchair. After the nurse left, I locked up and biked back to my apartment. The first order of business was to duplicate the tape and return the original to the answering machine. The second would be to scan the address book and, if my luck held, to find a phone number for Kate’s sister. Perhaps she could help answer some questions that were starting to bother me. Why had Kate left so much behind? Why take her outerwear and leave her underwear? Why empty her closet but abandon her shoes and handbags? Had she wanted to start afresh, with no reminders of her life with Phil? Had she planned to send for her belongings, but found her new living quarters too small to accommodate them? And had Phil returned Linda’s call to let her know that the marriage had broken up, and that her sister was no longer living at Schoolman?

  I hate unanswered questions. And the more I looked into Wes Newmark’s death, the more they were piling up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “Shhh. Someone will hear.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “Not yet! But I will be if you don’t let me in.”

  “This can’t wait till tomorrow?”

  “No, ma’am. I gotta see you tonight. It’s important.”

  “Well, then you’d best come in.” I stepped back from the open door to my apartment.

  Eli loped in, his book bag slung across his shoulders, a florist’s box under his arm, and a sheepish grin on his face.

  Fortunately, I hadn’t dressed for bed yet. I didn’t fancy the idea of entertaining a student in the faculty quarters at ten o’clock at night in my pajamas.

  “You’ve got a nice place here,” Eli said, turning in a circle and nodding his approval of the furnishings. “Way cool.”

  “You didn’t come to admire my apartment, Eli. Why are you here?”

  “I brought you this,” Eli said, sobering at my tone. He handed me the long white box, and wiped his palms on the sides of his jeans.

  I carried the box to the oak table in the comer that doubled as my desk when I wasn’t taking meals at it, and closed the lid on my laptop computer. I’d been reviewing the photographs I’d taken inside Kammerer House, and I didn’t want Eli to see them. “This box is a little heavy for roses,” I said.

  “Yeah. I think you’re going to like it, though.”

  He hung back while I lifted the lid and parted the green tissue paper inside. There, covered in clear plastic and nestled in bubble wrap, was the fireplace poker from Kammerer House.

  “I didn’t get any fingerprints on it,” he said. “Just like the TV shows, I used rubber gloves. I only touched it long enough to put it in the box.”

  I frowned at him. “You eavesdropped on my telephone call, didn’t you?”

  “I couldn’t help it. You were talking loud, and I was right outside the door.”

  “I was not talking loudly, and why didn’t you come into the classroom?”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

  “Who else was there with you?”

  “No one, I swear. As soon as everyone else started coming in for class, I made a lot of noise in the hall so you’d hear me and know.”

  “This is terrible,” I said. “You never should have done it.”

  “I thought you’d be thrilled. This is an important piece of evidence, isn’t it? Now we can prove that Professor Newmark was murdered.”

  “Don’t ‘we’ me, young man. This doesn’t concern you. And furthermore, how could you think I’d be thrilled when you had to cross a police line to get this?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “A patrol car has been sitting there all day. You could have been arrested. I would not have been thrilled with that.”

  “But I wasn’t—arrested.”

  “You broke the law, and I feel responsible.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What do you mean, you didn’t?”

  “I didn’t cross any lines. That’s the best part.”

  “How could you get into Kammerer House without going past the yellow tape?”

  “There’s another way in.”

  “How?”

  “From the basement.”

  “The basement?”

  “It’s connected to the library.”

  “A tunnel!”

  “Yeah. From the library basement.”

  Of course, I thought. Professor Constantine had said there were tunnels connecting the bomb shelters, and that he had a map of them. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Where were the other tunnels? What buildings did they connect?

  “Want me to show you the tunnel?”

  “Not tonight.” I drew the paper back over the poker and replaced the lid on the box. Eli had packed it very well, and the box might only need wrapping in heavy paper to get it ready for shipping. “I’ll call Zelinsky tomorrow,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “No.”

  “There’s a mailbox place in New Salem. I can borrow Tyler’s brother’s car. I’ll be very discreet. I won’t tell them what we need it for.”

  “No. I’m not letting you get more involved in this.”

  “Look. You wouldn’t have the poker if I didn’t get it. Tomorrow I’ll show you where the tunnel is. See how helpful I can be? I’ll be the perfect assistant. I’ll do whatever you tell me. I won’t question anything you ask me to do. I won’t say a word to anyone. Please don’t shake your head no. There’s got to be some way I can help.”

  “There isn’t,” I said. “Wait a minute. Yes, there is something you can do.”

  Eli’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Anything. You won’t regret it. I’m a great investigator. I’ll be Dr. Watson to your Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Do you have your tape recorder with you, Dr. Watson?” I asked. “The one you use in class?”

  “Sure, but what do you need that for?”

  “I need to copy a tape. Or rather, I need you to copy a tape for me. Can you do it?”

  “Well, sure, but copying a tape is nothing. What do you need it for?”

  “You said you’d never question what I ask you to do. Are you reneging already?”

  “No! I’ll copy a million tapes for you. I won’t ask why. Only trouble is I don’t have a second recorder with me.”

  “You can use mine if you have the wire that connects them.”

  “Yeah, a patch cord. I have that
.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. The recorder came with it. Earphones and a remote control, too.

  I picked up the florist’s box with the poker and put it on the floor in a comer, where I wouldn’t trip on it, and went to find my recorder and the tapes I’d taken from Phil Adler’s house. Eli shrugged off his backpack and emptied half its contents onto the table before pulling out his minicassette recorder and a patch cord.

  “One is blank,” I said, slipping a tape into my recorder. “Let’s make sure you copy the right one.” I pressed the rewind button, and then play after the tape was back to the beginning. I kept the volume low and held the recorder to my ear so Eli wouldn’t hear Wes Newmark’s voice. “This is it,” I said, rewinding the tape.

  He put the blank tape in his recorder and used the patch cord to connect the two. Moments later I had my copy.

  “Okay, what else?” he asked.

  “Nothing else. You’re leaving now.”

  “I am?”

  “You are. You’ve been very helpful and you’ve given me a lot to think about. Now I want you safely back in the dorm. Call me when you get there. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am. So I guess now that you have the poker and I helped you with the tapes and all, you’re not mad at me anymore, right?”

  “Wrong! I appreciate that you were trying to help, Eli, but I’m still upset with you. More than that, I’m worried about you. What you did tonight is not the way to investigate a crime.”

  “A good investigator has to be courageous if he’s going to be successful. You said that in class.”

  “I also said a good investigator always weighs whether the risk is worth the reward. You didn’t do that. Instead you took on a tremendous responsibility and didn’t even think about the risks.”

  “What risks? I walked through a tunnel, climbed some stairs, snatched the poker, and ran out again.”

  “If the unstable mound of debris in Kammerer House had shifted or collapsed, you could have been hurt, or worse. Did you think of that?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “If the police officer outside had decided to make the inside of Kammerer House part of his patrol, you could have been caught, arrested, and jailed. Did you think about that? What would happen to your scholarship if you were charged with a crime?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do. You would have lost it, that’s what would’ve happened. And worst of all, if you were followed or seen by the murderer, your life could be in danger. Can you be sure you weren’t?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Think of your parents, your family, your friends, Eli, how devastated they would be if anything happened to you. You can’t just act without thinking. You have to know what you’re getting into, and you have to consider your responsibility to others. So yes, Eli, I’m still angry at you for taking those chances.”

  “I’m sorry, Professor Fletcher. I didn’t realize.”

  “I know you didn’t. That’s what scares me. We’re not playing a game, Eli. If the one who killed Wes Newmark is still on campus, he’ll go to great lengths to make sure he’s not found out.”

  “Or she.”

  “This is no time for wisecracking. Don’t tell anyone what you did or where you went tonight. Does Tyler know?”

  “No, I came right here.”

  “That’s good. Don’t tell him under any circumstances. I don’t want to scare you—well, maybe I do, a little. If you’re not concerned for yourself, keep in mind that you could put in jeopardy the lives of everyone you tell.”

  I watched as Eli walked out into the night. Young people have no concept of danger, I thought. It was ironic. I had chided him for doing in effect what I had done myself. But I had been truthful in telling him that the risks must be weighed. A decision to act made with full knowledge and understanding of the consequences could be justified. But he had dashed into the water without gauging the potential depth. It was a perilous move. Now we would see if he’d created any waves.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Did you get a sample of the deceased’s hair?” asked Mort Metzger, the sheriff in my hometown of Cabot Cove and a former New York City policeman.

  “The coroner said he’ll send it separately, along with his autopsy findings to date. A few test results haven’t come back yet.”

  “Are you sure he’ll do it, Mrs. F.? Is this Dr. Zelinsky a trustworthy guy?”

  “I think so, Mort. I talked to him before I called you. He sounded embarrassed. I think he’s sorry that he backed down when Lieutenant Parish dismissed the idea of Newmark’s death being a murder. He’d like to show the lieutenant that the coroner’s office was correct in its findings, but he’s afraid to stick his neck out without the proof. If we can confirm that there’s a residue on the shaft that matches Newmark’s blood and hair, then we can make a good case that the poker was what killed him. And I think I can persuade Zelinsky to ask for a further analysis of the carbon in the wound to see if it will match the carbon on the poker.”

  “You’ll want the lab to look for fingerprints, too.”

  Mort had provided me with the name and address of one of the country’s foremost forensic laboratories, where I was to send the fireplace poker. He had personally placed a call to the laboratory director, and had authorized the use of his name and his position to get past the strict requirements regarding who was allowed to utilize the lab’s services.

  “I’m not sure we’ll find fingerprints even if the poker proves to be the murder weapon,” I said. “I’m concerned that it’s been contaminated by so much handling.”

  “How so, Mrs. F.?”

  “When I pulled it out, I used my kerchief. Then it lay under the desk, so I’m sure it picked up some of the fibers from the carpet. At least the hair that was caught on the shaft is still on it. But there may be smudges where the original fingerprints were, assuming the killer didn’t wipe them off, because Eli used rubber gloves when he retrieved the poker.”

  “No kidding. You’ve got a smart student there. Think he might be interested in going into law enforcement? Tell him to give me a call, if he is. I know a lot of departments that’d like to have a smart one like him on the force.”

  “He’s smart, all right, Mort. After he got the poker, he put it in a plastic bag and sealed it. But I’m not going to praise him just yet. He took a big chance, and I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to him.”

  “Well, he got the evidence, so send off that box and the experts will take it from there. Even if there’s only a partial print, the lab will pick it up. Did you give them all the information you’ve told me?”

  “Yes. I typed up a report and placed it in the box, along with your name and address as a reference. I’m going to ship it later today.”

  “I expect they’ll send both of us copies, but I’ll call you when I get mine, just to be sure.”

  “That’s a great load off my mind, Mort. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “We help each other. Always have. Always will. I’m looking forward to sharing a pot of coffee and hearing all the details when you get back.”

  “Me, too,” I said, adding to myself, I hope the police will realize they have a murder on their hands before then.

  It had started to drizzle when I rode my bike over to Phil Adler’s house to replace the tape in his answering machine and the address book in his desk upstairs. I had paged through the book following Eli’s nighttime visit, and found two entries that could have been Kate’s sister, a Linda under the Ws, and a Linda and Ken under the Bs. No last name was given. After I’d called Mort, I’d tried the Linda W. first and got a recording stating that the number had been disconnected. I hung up and dialed the number for Linda and Ken B. A man answered. His wife was out shopping. Yes, she had a sister Kate, who’d been married to a Philip Adler, and who’d lived in Indiana. But no, they hadn’t heard from her. It was sad, really. The two of them hadn’t spoken since their parents passed on, som
ething about who got which piece of jewelry. I left my telephone number and asked that his wife call at her convenience.

  I pedaled around to the back of Phil’s house and pulled the bike up onto the rear porch and out of the weather. It was raining in earnest now. The second key on Phil’s key ring fit the kitchen door, and I let myself in. The house looked even gloomier than I’d remembered it.

  I put my bag on the counter, rummaged around inside until I found the minicassette tape with the three messages on it, and went to the telephone. The panel that concealed the tapes was open, revealing the gap where I’d removed the message tape. I replaced the missing cassette, pressed down the panel, and studied the phone. I hadn’t left that panel open the last time I was in the house. I was sure I’d closed it.

  Not bothering to turn on any lights, I left the kitchen, went down the hall, and trotted upstairs to the little office. I replaced the address book where I’d found it in the orange desk and returned downstairs. There were several envelopes scattered on the rug in the foyer beneath the mail slot. I gathered them up and scanned the return addresses as I walked back into the kitchen.

  “Find anything interesting?” said a large figure silhouetted against the open porch door.

  I must have jumped a mile. “Larry? Oh, my gracious, you gave me a turn,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Jessica,” Larry Durbin said, coming into the room. “Melissa said she saw someone breaking into Phil’s back door, and I came over to investigate.”

  “Well, I’d hardly call it breaking in when I used the key,” I said, realizing that I’d foolishly left it in the lock. “You can see it’s right there in the door.”

  “You don’t say? I thought you barely knew Phil. How did you get his keys?”

  “Harriet Schoolman Bennett gave them to me. She had an appointment she couldn’t get out of. She asked me to meet the lady from the Visiting Nurse Association, and help get the house ready for Phil’s return.” It was only a slight distortion of the truth, since the nurse had already been and gone, but Durbin didn’t need to know that. “Do you know when he’s coming home?” I asked, adding the day’s mail to the pile on the kitchen table.