When Thelma finally got downstairs, Gilda, now with her teeth in, was sitting quivering, with Wally Bowman asking her about what she saw.
“N-nothing!” she stuttered.
“Look, Miss Bachman, Sophie Taylor says you hauled the garbage out to the street just before she did; that’s how she was reminded it was garbage night. She heard you, then looked out the window and saw you. Did you see anything? Anyone?”
Gilda shook her head. Wally sighed and made a note in a booklet, then looked up at Thelma. “What about you, ma’am? Did you see or hear anything?”
How much to say? Thelma eyed Wally; he was Cissy’s beau, and she didn’t exactly want to lie to him, but she sure wasn’t going to tell him the truth. She had to think that over, first, for sure. Then she’d decide. “After I told Gilda to haul her butt down and take out the garbage, I hopped into bed and was dead asleep in two seconds flat. Gilda had to come wake me up just now. I was in la-la land dreaming of Rock Hudson and Cary Grant engaging in fisticuffs over me at the Gracious Grove Methodist Church picnic. Is it true it’s that school dean that’s dead?”
“I can’t comment on that, ma’am.”
“Oh, come on, Wally,” she said, eyeing the boy slyly. She’d known him forever, since he was a little boy, and then a boney skinny teen kicking a Hacky Sack in her driveway, trying to make up to her granddaughter. He flushed up to the roots of his sandy hair and looked away. “Now, you’re my Cissy’s steady fellow. Surely you can tell her poor old grandmother who raised her something about it, so I don’t worry? Is there some mad killer on the loose? Should I be getting out my daddy’s shotgun?”
He swiveled and stared at her, wide-eyed, an uneasy look on his face. “You don’t really have a shotgun, do you, Mrs. Earnshaw?”
She stayed quiet, puckering up her lips and squinting.
“Okay, okay! It is Dean Asquith; I guess there’s no harm in telling you that much. But I can’t say anything more. We won’t know a lot until the autopsy is done. But you don’t need to worry. The police will be watching your houses, and Detective Morris will be around to talk to you.”
“That’s that woman detective?” Thelma asked.
“Yes.”
“Changed my mind about that one. Maybe more women ought to be detectives, since we’re a whole lot smarter than most men.”
* * *
Sophie felt like she was going to jump out of her skin, she was so agitated. Wally had sent her back to the tearoom kitchen to sit with Nana as the night commenced. More police had arrived, the whole street lit up like the Vegas strip.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Sophie asked her grandmother.
Her lined face weary, she cradled Pearl on her lap, slowly petting the chocolate-point Birman as the cat purred her pleasure. “I don’t know, and I don’t think you should dwell on it, honey.”
“I can’t help it. I keep seeing the dean’s face.” It was the contrast between the last time she saw him, disapproval etched on his aristocratic face, distaste twisting his mouth, and then in death . . . the string of drool, the contorted hands, the slack mouth, the eyes, wide and startled. She saw again the blossom of blood on the white shirt under the wool blazer. And a bloody wound on his neck; what was that, a knife cut? It all kept coming, unbidden, into her mind. She needed a distraction. “Nana, do you think the dean was killed by someone in his group tonight?”
“We won’t know what happened until we know what actually killed him.”
“His skin looked bluish, to me, and so did his lips,” Sophie mused. “He had a cut on his neck, but then he had some kind of wound on his chest, too. His white shirt was saturated in blood, and the cloth was kind of in tatters. I didn’t hear a gunshot; I think I would have, right?”
Nana nodded. “You were in your room right at the front of the house. I’m sure you would have heard a gunshot.” Her grandmother eyed her but remained silent.
“Is something wrong?” Sophie asked. “I mean, other than the obvious? You seem concerned.”
“I was wondering if it had occurred to you that this might change how things go for Jason.”
“I’m glad you said it. I felt like a monster for even thinking it, but I don’t know. Whatever Dean Asquith was going to say will be said anyway, right? He must have written down his conclusions, and put into effect his intent.”
Nana nodded and stroked the cat. “I hope . . . I don’t mean to alarm you, honey, but I do hope . . . I mean, I know he didn’t do anything . . .”
Sophie got the gist of what her grandmother was not saying. Her stomach twisted. “You’re hoping they don’t blame Jason for this. He lives alone, and that’s not much of an alibi. We were texting back and forth though, so that ought to help. I hope.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes, glancing up at the clock. It was now well after midnight. She wondered how Jason would find out about the dean’s death. They likely would have gone to the dean’s wife first, to inform her of her husband’s death, the wife who had a lover on the side, just as he did.
She frowned down at her hands; Dean Asquith had a lover he was trying to dump, and who was angry at him. His wife had a boyfriend. People other than Jason were upset about the grading scandal. And then there was whoever really did alter Mac MacAlister’s grade. Did someone fear they were going to be exposed as the culprit, not Jason? “It seems to me that there were a dozen people angry at the dean, and any one of them could have killed him.”
“You’re so right, honey. I have a feeling this isn’t going to be an easy case to investigate unless someone confesses.”
Finally, at about one in the morning, Sophie and her grandmother were briefly interviewed by Detective Morris, who then strolled across to Belle Époque to interview Gilda and Thelma. Sophie wished her well of it. It had come out, during the interview, about Thelma and/or Gilda’s tampering with the Auntie Rose sugar packets.
Sophie felt bad exposing Thelma and Gilda to the detective’s questions, but she was not going to hide anything, and at some point the dean’s reaction to his salted tea, when he implied that Sophie was targeting him for his behavior toward Jason, would come up. It was better coming from her. The detective heard her out, nodding, but there was a definite twinkle in her eye. She was familiar with Thelma Mae Earnshaw from the past, but it was difficult for Sophie to tell if Detective Morris most dreaded or looked forward to confronting her again.
Nana toddled over to the counter and peered through the dark across the lane at Belle Époque. Absently, she picked up a cloth, wet it and began wiping down surfaces that were already spotlessly clean.
“Remember what the doctor said?” Sophie asked her grandmother. “You’re to get enough rest.”
“My darling Sophie, I know that,” she said, turning back to Sophie. “But a man has been murdered on our doorstep. It’s terrible. I feel like I’ll never sleep again. I know it doesn’t seem so to you, but to me he was so young! So much life to live.”
“My darling Nana,” Sophie said, leaping up to her feet and hugging her grandmother, hovering over the tiny lady with a fierce desire to protect her. “That’s true, I know. But I don’t care about him, as hard as that sounds. I care about you. You can’t help him now, but you can take care of yourself. Go upstairs and get some sleep.”
“What about you?”
Sophie straightened. “Didn’t you know I’m invulnerable? When I ran In Fashion, I made do on about three hours of sleep a night. My sous chef claimed he thought I was an alien who lived on the energy of other beings. One sleepless night isn’t going to kill me.” She made a face when she realized what she had said. “I mean, it won’t hurt me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do what I do best when I’m thinking; I’m going to cook.” In her mind she added, And I’m going to figure out who did this on our doorstep so that Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House doesn’t become synon
ymous with murder, and so that Jason Murphy isn’t for one second suspected of the dean’s murder.
And that was that!
Chapter 10
Nana agreed and toddled up to bed, with Pearl softly thumping up the stairs after her.
Sophie got out some ingredients and began to cook. She went back to basics and made trays of cookies and muffins, mindless chores she had been doing since she was a child. While she worked, she reviewed what she knew about every person who had a reason to be angry with the dean. That she knew of, anyway; there could be a legion she didn’t know about.
Vince Nomuro, the registrar, had been shadowing him at the basketball game, and openly told his assistant that he didn’t trust the man. He had been named as one of the people who could have changed the grade. His assistant Brenda Fletcher was likely just as capable.
Sherri Shaw, his mistress, was angry at him, while he appeared to be trying to get rid of her. And yet here she was, hanging around, clinging to him. Didn’t the woman have any dignity? That was a puzzle to Sophie. But was she angry or hurt enough to kill him? Sophie pulled another tray of muffins out of the oven and tested them for “bounce back.” They seemed done, so she set them on a rack to cool.
The spouse was always a suspect, and in this case there were numerous reasons why Jeanette Asquith could want the dean dead. He had a girlfriend, she had a boyfriend and then there was money. There was always money. Did she want to get rid of him but didn’t want to leave the marriage without financial security?
Sophie didn’t know who, in that relationship, had the most money. He was the one working, but for all Sophie knew Jeanette had a job, too, though she doubted it. On the other hand, the dean’s wife had spoken of her family’s home in the Hamptons, and she knew Sophie’s mother. Rosalind Taylor drifted in exclusive circles; Jeanette might be the one with wealth, and maybe she didn’t want to share it in a divorce.
Sophie needed to know more about the woman, her past and her marriage, and she had a ready-made source. She would call her mother and ask about Jeanette Asquith. That meant speaking to her mother, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that yet, given how angry she still was about the bribery of the restaurant owner, but . . . she had to talk to her sometime.
The police would be looking at Jason; that was a given. She eyed her phone, sitting on the small table by the window, but wasn’t sure if she should try calling or texting him just yet. Would it look like she thought he was guilty if she warned him about the dean’s death?
And then there was the grading scandal, and the number of people who could be angry with or worried about the dean’s involvement and impending announcement. Among those, there were several at the tea: Vince Nomuro and Brenda Fletcher, who she had already considered. Kimmy Gabrielson. Tara Mitchells was there, too; Sophie wondered if it would be worth talking to her as a source of information. The girl had an agenda, true, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t a sharp-eyed reporter who noticed things. What had she seen last evening? Even though she was furious with the girl for tricking her into talking about Jason and then twisting her words for the newspaper, she could talk to her, if it came to that.
Of course the very best source of information at some point was going to be right down the street from Auntie Rose’s: Julia Dandridge. The professor had been with those people all evening, and had further insight into their character and interactions that even Jason didn’t have. Sophie’s stomach rumbled. Were her nerves finally getting to her? Was it the fear of Jason being railroaded with accusations? He had a powerful motive to be angry with the dean, but she hoped his innocence would protect him.
Her stomach rumbled again. It was now three in the morning; she hadn’t slept and hadn’t eaten since her sandwich supper the evening before. She slunk through the dark tearoom and peeked out the front window. The body was hidden by a white canvas tent ablaze from within by brilliant lights, mysterious shadows moving inside as investigators did their job. She moved to look out the window on the other side of the door. Out by the road there were cruisers lining the street and uniformed officers clustered in groups, illuminated by the streetlights.
Every one of them must be hungry and tired, maybe more so than herself. One thing she could do was feed people. She slipped back into the kitchen and fortified herself with a muffin and glass of milk while she put on the big coffee urn. She pulled over a stepladder and got down paper cups from the highest cupboard, and set to baking more comfort food. Tea biscuits, mini-muffins and cookies. By four she had coffee made and another big batch of muffins baking in the double industrial oven. She grabbed her hoodie, pushed her feet into runners and snuck out the side door, down the alley and to the front.
There was Detective Morris alone, by the front bumper of a cruiser. Sophie strolled close, her ears perked, and heard the detective muttering into her phone, but the woman caught sight of Sophie and stared at her as she put her phone away in her suit jacket pocket. “Yes?”
Sophie folded her arms over her chest. “I thought you all might be tired and hungry and cold. I’ve put on a big pot of coffee and got out paper cups. I’ve made muffins, too.”
“I appreciate the offer, Sophie, but we can’t accept. I can’t allow my guys to have anything from your kitchen. Not right now.”
Her stomach clenched and her hands trembled. “Why?”
The woman shook her head and sighed. “I can’t explain.”
“Please, tell me. I don’t under—” She broke off as it came to her. There was only one possible explanation; they suspected the dean may have been poisoned. Her mind raced and she turned away, examining the scene, remembering the man as she had last seen him, bluish and contorted, with the string of drool from his mouth.
The small front yard of Auntie Rose’s was bordered by hedges. Why was the dean there? She recalled something she had told the detective already, about the sound of the car door, and looking out the front window to witness what had looked like two people embracing or dancing. A chill raced down her spine as she truly realized that she had quite likely witnessed the dean and his assailant. Perhaps he was being wrestled into the graveled area under the tree, dead or still alive. But why? Unless . . . did the killer want to pinpoint the blame? Did he or she want Sophie or Jason to be implicated? Or had they witnessed the dean’s reaction earlier when he drank the salted tea and thought to use that to point blame at Auntie Rose’s? If only she had run downstairs when she saw the two!
She turned back and noted the detective calmly watching her, sharp eyes focused. “You must think that I could be involved in the dean’s murder, given the drama lately. But you’ll discover that I wasn’t, and Jason wasn’t, either. If you wait until you figure that out, though, the killer might have already escaped.”
The detective took a deep breath, clearly suppressing her first reaction.
“I’m sorry. That sounded snarky, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way,” Sophie said. “I’ve thrust my foot in my mouth more than once lately.”
“You were helpful last time, when the murder next door occurred,” the detective said evenly. “But you can trust me to not jump to conclusions. Just because I say we can’t have anything to eat or drink from your place, and you know we are investigating you and your friend as suspects, it doesn’t mean we aren’t casting a wider net. There are officers right this minute questioning many others, across our whole town. Some are knocking on doors in this very neighborhood. No stone will be left unturned.”
Sophie nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I was questioning your ability, or your methods, Detective. I have nothing but respect for you and your team. I hope . . .” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat. “I guess I’m scared. I’m so sorry this happened, and it’s only complicated things for Jason and me, truly. This is the last thing either of us wanted to happen.”
The detective nodded but said nothing more.
“Okay. I’ll go now.” She returned up the dim alleyway and slipped inside the warm kitchen as the timer went off. She took the muffins out of the oven, set them on a rack to cool and turned away from the dark window, tears clogging her throat, like a lump she couldn’t swallow past. Pearl had descended and sat at the bottom of the stairs looking up at her. Sophie plunked down cross-legged on the floor and picked the soft fluffy cat up, cradling and stroking her. It was instantly calming as the Birman purred and snuggled down with a contented sigh.
Her phone chimed. She grabbed it off the edge of the table. There was a text from Jason; all it said was, Sophie, you up?
She tapped back Yes, and waited.
It chimed. “Jason?” she said.
“So it’s true?” he said. “The dean was found dead outside Auntie Rose’s?”
They talked over their shock about what happened, but he seemed distracted. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Soph, I didn’t want to upset you last night. You were so busy and stressed! But the dean and I had a run-in before the fling. I tried to talk to him but it got out of hand. I told him he needed to hold off if he was thinking of accusing me, because I wasn’t guilty, and he’d look like an idiot—actually I said he’d look like a cloth-headed oaf of infinite absurdity—if it came out later who really changed Mac’s grade.”
“Cloth-headed oaf? That probably wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”
“I know. I’ve been reading too much Shakespeare lately. But he had just told me that I should think about getting my resume in order. It was the way he said it, with a smirk, and in front of the Board of Governors! I’m sure every one of them will tell the cops how I reacted. I lost my cool, Soph. I yelled.”
“But you’re always so calm!” What a time for him to lose it.
“I love Cruickshank, and . . . you and I are just getting to a good place.”
The Grim Steeper Page 10