Majoring In Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  But the larger question still remained. There were now two murders to be solved.

  Who murdered Kate Adler and Wes Newmark?

  And why?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Jessica, I’ve been waiting for you. Where have you been?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t be able to stop by until later, Lorraine.”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot. It’s been such a full house this afternoon, and I kept looking for a familiar face.”

  “Where did Mrs. Tingwell go?”

  “She’s upstairs lying down. I insisted. The memorial service was too much for her. Dr. Zelinsky was here earlier, and he gave her some medication.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure she can use some rest.”

  “You look a little tired yourself. Are you all right?”

  “Nothing that a strong cup of tea won’t fix.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on right now.”

  I followed her down the hall. As we passed the front parlor, I glimpsed Vernon Foner and Manny Rosenfeld talking with President Needler. All three held glasses of red wine. Needler had told me he was going away for the weekend. Apparently courtesy toward the dead had detained him. I also spotted Larry Durbin and Rebecca McAllister, standing by a table laden with platters of sandwiches and talking to someone I couldn’t see.

  Zoe Colarulli and her husband were saying good-bye to Harriet in the kitchen when Lorraine and I walked in. Zoe turned to Lorraine and took her hand. “Miss Newmark, Harris and I are leaving now,” she said, “but we wanted to extend our sympathies again and wish you a safe trip back to Alaska.”

  “Thank you. It was nice meeting you,” Lorraine replied, “despite the circumstances.” She walked out of the kitchen with them. “Let me see you to the door.”

  “Hello, Harriet,” I said, crossing the room, picking up the kettle, and taking it to the faucet. The sink was piled high with dirty plates and glasses, the drain board filled with china that had already been washed. I shook the kettle, decided I could make do with the water already in it, placed it on the stove, and looked around for a dish towel.

  As I waited for the water to boil, I began drying dishes and putting them in the cupboard. Harriet stood next to the small table and fussed with a platter of cookies, taking them from the box and arranging them neatly on the plate. She hadn’t said anything since I’d greeted her.

  Eventually she cleared her throat. “Jessica, I’m sorry I was so short with you the other day,” she said. “Lorraine told me she was responsible for the murder rumor, not you.”

  “You were more than short, Harriet,” I said. “You accused me of behaving irresponsibly and selfishly, and wouldn’t let me defend myself. You were so convinced of the rightness of your opinion that you never gave me the benefit of the doubt. You just went ahead and convicted me of the crime, and passed your sentence. No fair trial. No innocent until proven guilty. And certainly no trust between friends. I was very disappointed, I admit.”

  “You have the right to be angry, Jessica. I acted irrationally. It’s just that—” She stopped when Lorraine entered the room.

  “Jessica, you’re not cleaning up,” Lorraine said, pulling the dish towel from my hand and hanging it on a hook under the sink.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” I said. “You’re going to need some help here.”

  “We’ll take care of it later.” She turned off the flame under the kettle and pulled my arm. “Someone brought a wonderful California wine. Come have a glass with me.”

  I smiled at her. “Lorraine, are you tipsy?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I want to drink a toast to my big brother. Will you do that with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Everyone thinks they knew the real Wes Newmark, but I don’t think any of us did. Not really.” Lorraine’s sadness was reflected in her eyes.

  I put my arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Come. I’ll bet you haven’t had anything to eat all day. Let’s have a sandwich. Then we can toast Wes with this fancy wine.” I looked back at Harriet, who’d started clearing the table and gathering up paper wrappings from food that had been delivered. “Harriet, why don’t you join us?” I said. She looked up at me, a faint smile on her lips, and followed us out of the room.

  Extra chairs had been brought into the parlor, and books from the table next to the sofa had been piled on the mantel to clear the surface for a dish of candy and coasters for the drinks. Platters of sandwiches, cheese and crackers, gelatin molds, chopped salads, cakes cut into square pieces, and pies and plates of cookies were spread across the top of a temporary table covered in blue linen that had been set against the wall. Between the extra furniture and the visitors, the usually spacious room was crowded.

  Vernon Foner hovered over the dessert portion of the table, eyeing the selections. Rebecca greeted me as she cut a slice of apple pie for him. “Isn’t this something? Between the cafeteria and the faculty spouses, Lorraine won’t have to cook for a month.”

  “If she stays that long,” I said.

  “I’ll help her out,” Foner said, forking a piece of apple into his mouth. “I’ll take home the rest of the pie.”

  “That’s one of the nice things about a small college,” Harriet put in as she poured a glass of wine for herself. “Community spirit.”

  It wasn’t until I had filled a plate for Lorraine and turned around to look for her that I noticed Phil Adler sitting in a wheelchair near the window, his leg in a cast pointed at the room, like the barrel of a cannon.

  Harriet saw the direction of my gaze. “He missed the service, but insisted on paying a condolence call,” she said. “He just got out of the hospital. See what I mean about community spirit?”

  I agreed with Harriet about the benefits of community spirit, but I wasn’t sure that was what had motivated Phil Adler. He looked much better than when I’d seen him earlier in the week. He was neatly dressed and his hair was washed and combed, but there was still a grayness to his complexion, and new lines on his brow that I hadn’t noticed before.

  Manny Rosenfeld had moved over on the sofa to make room for Lorraine. I placed a napkin on her lap and the plate in her hand.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” I said. “I want to say hello to Phil Adler.”

  Larry Durbin had pulled up a folding chair next to Phil, and the two were engaged in a low conversation when I approached. “Ah, Jessica,” Durbin said, rising. “Would you like to sit down? We were just talking about you. I was telling Phil how considerate you were to come over to his house and make sure his clothing and personal articles would be accessible for him.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt your conversation,” I said. “I just came to ask how you’re feeling, Phil.”

  Adler glared up at me. “I’m feeling fine, thank you very much, and I really don’t like people going through my house when I’m not there. Who gave you the right to do that?”

  The anger in his voice pierced the chatter in the room, and all conversation stopped.

  “I did, Phil,” Harriet said. She set the glass she’d been holding on the mantel and came to my side. “I had a meeting and couldn’t meet the visiting nurse. Jessica was kind enough to fill in for me. Why is that a problem?”

  “She snooped around, went through my bureau and medicine cabinet.”

  “How was she to bring down your clothing if she didn’t open your dresser drawers?”

  “She listened to the messages on my answering machine. What does that have to do with my clothing?”

  Harriet started to answer for me, and I held up my hand to stop her. “I can understand why you’re upset,” I said. “I only wanted to be sure Harriet or the nurse hadn’t called me, but when I heard Wes Newmark’s voice, I admit I listened to his message. I found it particularly interesting, since you were supposed to meet him the morning he was killed.”

  “So what?”

  “You told Harriet and me that Wes was going to show something to you, but his messa
ge to you said he expected you to deliver something to him. What were you supposed to bring him?”

  “Why do I have to answer any questions from you? What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a difference,” I replied, “because Wes Newmark was not killed by falling debris. He was murdered.”

  “That’s just a campus rumor,” Foner called out from his position by the refreshment table.

  “It’s not a rumor,” Lorraine said, jumping up from her seat. “Wes sent me a letter saying his life was in danger. He was afraid someone was going to kill him—and someone did.” She walked to where I stood, physically aligning herself with me.

  “I always thought it was odd that he hadn’t taken shelter,” Manny Rosenfeld murmured to no one in particular.

  “I did, too, Manny,” I said. “That’s why I began looking into his death.”

  “Why the hell didn’t we know about this letter?” Needler said.

  Harriet turned to him. “Because I didn’t want you to. I thought it was just a figment of Wes’s imagination, and I didn’t want rumors spread all over campus, upsetting the students and their parents.” She paused. “But it happened anyway.”

  “But as president, I should have been informed.”

  “Are you sure he was murdered, Jessica?” Rebecca asked. “How do you know?”

  “I found the murder weapon, Rebecca.” I looked at the faces around the room.

  Lorraine looked stricken. “You never told me,” she whispered.

  “I wanted the proof in hand, Lorraine. It’s at a forensic laboratory right now, being examined for evidence. We should hear back any day.”

  “So you don’t know that this so-called murder weapon is that, do you?” Durbin said. “You’re just guessing. Maybe Wes wasn’t murdered at all. Maybe we’re all just victims of your overactive imagination.”

  “Larry!” Rebecca said. “Why are you being so cruel?”

  “We’re all hanging on to this fairy tale and she has no proof that Wes Newmark was killed by anything other than a tornado. Murder mystery writers like our esteemed colleague here see villains around every corner, on every page. ‘Forbear to judge,’ Jessica, ‘for we are sinners all.’ That’s from Henry the Sixth, madam, and means you should take stock of your own evil before seeing it in others.”

  I ignored Durbin’s comment and said, “Someone hit Wes Newmark with an iron implement about three-quarters of an inch wide. You can read the autopsy report. Particles of rust and ashes were found in the wound. A fireplace poker from Kammerer House fits that description.”

  “Where did you find it?” Adler asked.

  “The killer had replaced the poker in the stand with the other fireplace tools.”

  Manny spoke up. “But, Jessica, Wes’s body was found under a pile of material and furniture that fell in from the second floor. Was the poker in all that mess?”

  “The firemen jacked up the rubble to get Wes’s body out,” Harriet said.

  “And I crawled underneath and found the poker,” I said.

  “How convenient,” Durbin said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “You can’t tell me that a killer assumed his crime would be covered up by a tornado. Those storms are unpredictable. You never know where they’re going to land until seconds before.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “But this could be a crime of opportunity. Someone had a grudge against Wes, heard the tornado coming, and took the chance. Or maybe it was just a lucky coincidence that the tornado covered up what would have been recognized as a crime immediately had the storm not occurred.”

  “But if they heard the tornado coming, how did they have time to get away themselves?” Rebecca asked.

  “I know,” Manny said. “There’s a tunnel off the basement connecting the office to the library. We used to go there during air-raid drills in the fifties and early sixties.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “That’s how you got into Kammerer House just before the storm, wasn’t it, Professor Foner?”

  “Me? I didn’t kill him. Don’t look at me. I was in the library during the entire storm, wasn’t I, Larry? You were there, too. So was Edgar. Where is that pip-squeak? Maybe he killed Wes. He hated him enough.”

  “I saw you for maybe two seconds,” Durbin said. “There were dozens of people in the library. I’m not vouching for you or anyone else.”

  I looked at Foner across the room. “You were in Kammerer House,” I said. “Your footprint in blood is on the carpet. I have a photograph of it.” I pulled the photo of the shoe print from my jacket pocket. “My guess,” I said to Foner, “is that the print in the picture will nicely match up with the soles of those expensive British shoes you’re so fond of, with their distinctive diamond-patterned soles. No matter how thoroughly you might have tried to clean off the blood you stepped in, a simple Luminol test will still pick it up.”

  Foner tucked his feet beneath his chair and said loudly, “Why would I want to kill Wes? What motive could I possibly have?”

  “You wanted his manuscript. You took it right out of his briefcase along with the computer disk.”

  All eyes turned to see who’d made the statement. It was Letitia Tingwell, standing in the doorway. Her eyes were ringed with smeared mascara and her lipstick was gone, leaving her face pale and haggard. But she held herself with dignity and aimed her charge at Foner. “That book you’ve been bragging about this week was written by Wes, not you.”

  She sagged against the wall. Having made the accusation, she had nothing more inside to hold herself up. Manny pushed himself up from his seat and went to assist her, but Rebecca was already there. Together they helped her to the sofa.

  “You’re pitiful. What do you know about my writing? Nothing,” Foner said.

  Mrs. Tingwell rallied. “You’ve been getting away with it for a long time, Verne, but not anymare.”

  “Just try and prove it,” Foner said, taunting her. “Wes never talked with anyone about his work, Letitia, and certainly not with you. Wes just used you. Everyone knew that.”

  “Wes wasn’t nice to me; that’s true,” she said. “And it’s also true that he didn’t talk about his work with me. But Jessica found some of the books he used for research. They’re right down the hall in his study. You didn’t know that, did you?” She looked at me and I nodded. “Not only that, we examined Wes’s computer together, and discovered where he kept his duplicate files. The whole manuscript is in his computer,” she said. “And if the police look at the disk you have, they’ll see the label is written in his handwriting.” She sat back. Tears coursed down her cheeks, but her expression was triumphant.

  “It’s my book,” Foner said angrily. “It’s my idea.”

  “It may have been your idea, but Wes wrote it,” I said. “In fact, you paid him to write all of your books, didn’t you? He was your ghostwriter. He kept a record of your payments to him in his safe. You paid thirty thousand dollars for the last one. Does that sound right?”

  “You’re lying,” Foner said, his face scarlet. “I’m not talking about this anymore.”

  “That’s too bad. It was just getting interesting.” Lieutenant Parish leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. Our attention had been so focused on Foner and Mrs. Tingwell that we’d all missed his entrance.

  “Are you finished with your questioning, Mrs. Fletcher?” Parish asked as I handed him the photograph of the footprint.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, don’t let me interrupt.”

  I looked at Foner. “You might as well tell the truth now, Verne,” I said. “Lying will only make it worse.”

  He looked around at his colleagues and smiled. “Really, ladies and gentlemen, you can see how ridiculous this is. Who is this woman anyway? Merely a purveyor of popular fiction. She’s certainly not a scholar, like us. What does she know about scholarly writing?”

  “ ‘One may smile, and smile, and be a villain,”’ Durbin intoned, and not waiting to be asked the line’s origin, he said,
“Hamlet,” sounding pleased to have come up with the right line at the right time.

  All eyes stared at Foner. The smile disappeared. He turned to Parish, who was waving the photograph and squinting at Foner’s expensive shoes. “I didn’t kill him; I swear it. I didn’t. He ... he ... was already dead when I got there.”

  “Ah, and when was that?”

  “Just before the tornado. I went through the tunnel, into the filing room, and up the stairs to the office. I needed a file I’d left on my desk. I figured I had plenty of time to get back to the shelter before the tornado hit, if it was going to. I walked into the office. He was lying on the rug all bloody. I just turned around and got the hell out of there.”

  “But not before taking the manuscript,” I added. “Lorraine has his briefcase. If we need to, we can examine it for your fingerprints.”

  “I don’t think Vernon is capable of murder,” Manny said.

  “Thank you, Manny.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. He looked at the policeman. “Vernon may be a thief—I can buy that—but I don’t think he’s brave enough to kill someone. But if Vernon didn’t kill Wes, who did?”

  “Let me take a crack at it,” said Parish. His eyes bored in on Phil Adler. “I’m guessing it was our favorite college accountant. You could have come through the tunnel, whacked Newmark, and hightailed it back to your office.”

  All color drained from Adler’s face. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I did nothing of the sort.”