He cast her another sly, body-twisting look. “You might want to know what I saw. What are the police going to do, throw me in jail?” He gave a rusty laugh, and talked, giving her a complete rundown of everything he saw from his side of the street up to and including the late-night skulker that Mrs. Earnshaw claimed was Vince Nomuro.
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“Not really. Can’t imagine how Thelma was able to identify him from her window. She was upstairs when she saw him, right? Leastways, that’s what Gilda told me. Thelma Mae Earnshaw may have the sight of a bald eagle, or she may have the imagination of Isaac Asimov, but she don’t have both. I’m leaning toward the imagination.”
It didn’t surprise Sophie that Gilda Bachman had already been over spilling everything about her employer’s perfidy in sending her outside to do the garbage when she had seen someone slinking around the property. She had been complaining about Thelma since the day she started working for her, and it didn’t look like that would ever change. “So you didn’t notice if the person was wearing a hat?”
“Kinda looked like it, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
“Mr. Bellows, I heard a noise a while before I found the body, and when I looked out, I thought I saw two people embracing. Did you see anything like that?”
He squinted and screwed up his mouth, then said, “Yuh, I think I know what you mean. I was coming back from the bathroom ’bout then. I heard a noisy little car, and I kinda saw it, but I couldn’t get a make and model. I think I saw two people talking or hugging, but they disappeared into the shadows. Hey, you see all manner of things if you watch long enough. I told the police all about it.” He craned his neck and stared up at her. “You think I saw murder done?”
“It’s possible we both saw murder done.” A chill raced down her back. She knew the approximate time she had seen what she thought was someone hugging or dancing; if it was true, she had something to go on, and could maybe eliminate some of the suspects on her radar. She should be letting the police handle it all, but she still fully intended to snoop. “What was your impression of the people?”
“Well, now, one looked like a fella, tall, like that dean was, you know. The other . . . I had the impression it was a gal, but I wonder now, was that because I thought they were a couple, hugging? Not that two fellas—or two gals—can’t hug, but you know . . . it felt like that.” He shrugged and tapped his cane on the pavement. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Don’t know if you should listen to me or not.”
“I’m not sure of what I saw myself, Mr. Bellows. I wish I did. I had the impression one of the two was shorter than the other, but that unfortunately describes almost everyone, given that the dean was quite tall. I’d better get going.”
“Give my love to your grandmother, and tell her and Laverne to come visit me sometime. And bring some scones.”
Wally was sitting in his cruiser watching her speak to Mr. Bellows. She was undecided for a moment, and thought of going over to talk to him, but instead she smiled, waved, got in her car and took off. She was too anxious to go to police headquarters right away, so she drove out of town. She didn’t have a plan, yet, but maybe being there would inspire something.
Cruickshank College campus in autumn was lovely. The old brick and stone buildings were set amid oak, maple and birch trees going golden and red as autumn advanced. She parked in front of the administrative building, a redbrick structure with a bell tower in the center. Jason told her that it was the oldest college building, once housing all the classes as well as administration. The autumn sun made the windows glisten gold.
The parking lot was off to one side, not full, but with probably twenty cars, three of which were Gracious Grove police cars. Detective Morris would not be pleased if she thought Sophie was snooping where she oughtn’t and had come out to the college before stopping at the police station, so Sophie kept her wits about her as she dashed up the steps and into the cool, dim entry of the college administration building. From the directory board in the entrance she learned that President Schroeder and Provost Vilansky’s offices were on the second floor, along with boardrooms, while the various deans had offices on the main floor, along with the registrar, administration and various student services.
She passed from the entrance into the inner hallway along with a flow of students hefting backpacks, purses and laptop cases. Cruickshank’s stately atmosphere was somewhat diminished by the sight of students squabbling in the halls, examining the cluttered bulletin board on the wall by the office door, and standing in the main office at a chest-high counter complaining to harried staff. It appeared to be a hub for student services, scheduling, finances and other aspects of collegiate life, so kids were whining about class timetables, late grants, extra fees and even dorm conditions. Sophie poked her head in the office, but ducked back out to the hall and glanced around, doing her best to be inconspicuous while getting her bearings.
The halls were wide, with polished hardwood floors and bright lighting that glared off the glass cases holding academic and sport trophies, more of the former than the latter. Along the wall toward the deans’ offices (indicated by small signs that jutted out from over each door) was a line of paintings and photos of Cruickshank College presidents, provosts and deans through the years, almost entirely male, older and white. Diversity did not seem to have penetrated Cruickshank administration in the slightest, though the student body appeared diverse enough. She passed the dean of students’ closed door, and peeked into the dean of faculty’s office; two police officers were thumbing through files and searching his desk.
She definitely wanted to stay away from there, then, but luckily, Dean Asquith’s office was separate from everything else, befitting his position. She took a deep breath and looked around with more purpose as she got her bearings. Why was she here?
It had occurred to her that despite what Brenda Fletcher had told her—that the dean likely would not have been able to do anything to whomever fixed Mac MacAlister’s grade—there might be more to the case. Grade fixing was only the end result; there were possibly other indictable offenses. What if whoever did it had hacked into the college computer system? That was surely against the law. So was taking money to alter grades, she had to imagine.
She had an excuse of sorts to talk to Brenda Fletcher; after all, the assistant registrar had sent that message to Sophie via Josh Sinclair. She’d follow up on that, and try to bring the topic around to Vince Nomuro, to see if the assistant thought the registrar would have changed the grade. If he did, would he be afraid enough of the consequences to do harm to the dean? But she hesitated; was Brenda Fletcher purposely directing her toward her boss? Maybe Sophie should tackle Vince Nomuro first. What excuse could she use?
As she thought, she examined the bulletin board, staring at announcements of sporting events—football and basketball games, archery tournaments, track and field meets—as well as seminars, year abroad programs and other items of interest to students. A never-ending flow of students entered and exited various offices, clusters gathering in the hall like leaves in a stream caught in one place, then breaking up to drift away with the flow. She heard Dean Asquith’s name whispered among those who gathered, shifted and left, and among new arrivals, too, who waited for the office to clear out before entering to address their own concerns. His death had affected the student body more than she had expected, if just as a shocking tragedy.
Enough pondering. She needed to do something, and talking to Vince Nomuro would be a start. From there she would track down Brenda Fletcher, and maybe take a little side trip to see if she could dig anything up on Heck Donovan, who she had not forgotten had a huge stake in keeping Mac MacAlister able to play.
She was gathering her resolve when someone behind her said, “Sophie, I’m so glad you came!”
Chapter 18
She whirled. “Julia!”
The professor stood in the midd
le of the hall clutching an armload of papers, holding a briefcase with three fingers of her left hand, her purse slung over her shoulder. She looked frazzled, and dark circles bagged under her eyes.
Sophie’s surprise turned to concern. She sped down the hall and took the professor’s briefcase off her hands, put one hand under her elbow and asked, “Are you okay? You look so tired.”
Julia glanced around at the students who eyed them curiously and straightened, sucking in a long breath, letting it out slowly. “I’m all right. This has taken a toll on me, I think. Are you here to meet Jason? He’s still with his class, and then I think he has a meeting with Dr. Bolgan. After that he has student meetings for an hour in his office in the arts building.”
“I’m not here to see Jason.”
Julia leaned in and whispered, “Are you investigating?”
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
She nodded.
Sophie guided her aside to a quieter spot. “You’ve been a good friend to Jason. I’m afraid for him; the police questioned him again last night, and he won’t tell anyone, but I know he’s scared.”
“Further to our conversation, I’ve been asking around, trying to see if anyone knows anything. Every single person I’ve talked to here at Cruickshank wonders the same thing; does the grading thing have anything to do with the murder?”
“Does anyone have an answer?”
“So far, no,” Julia said, shifting the stack of papers. “Because of all this nonsense, the department is making me check over all of Jason’s work, including his students’ lit essays.” She rolled her eyes. “Just what I need. I’ve got morning sickness, raging hormones, heartburn, constipation and extra work. I need to get off my feet for a minute; follow me.” Julia led her to a room at the end of the hall, a quiet retreat that she had needed a key to open. There were two couches facing each other across a low coffee table, a soft chair, a shelf with some magazines and a few potted palms.
“What is this?” Sophie asked, looking around.
“This is the reflection room. It’s for teaching staff who have reached their limit. This qualifies as a day I’ve reached my limit. I’m only surprised there isn’t a line to get in.” She paused and grimaced, scanning the restricted space. “It used to be a storage closet. I swear I still smell the ammonia fumes.”
Sophie smiled, but didn’t get what Julia wanted. “So what are we going to do to get to the bottom of this? Have you got any more ideas since we talked yesterday morning?”
She nodded sharply. “I most certainly do, but look who I’m talking to! You’re the sleuth, Sophie . . . Gracious Grove’s very own Junior Marple! Now that you’re here I’m sure you’ll know exactly what to ask, and of whom. I’ll be your facilitator, right? Wait here. I’m going to get Vince Nomuro.”
“But Julia, what . . .” Sophie half rose from her chair in alarm. What was she supposed to say? How could she question a man she didn’t even know? But protest came too late; the professor had thrown her papers down on a chair and disappeared out the door.
The stack of papers slid sideways, so Sophie tided them. They appeared to be grading reports for various students, so she averted her eyes. None of her business. Unless . . . Julia said she had to check all of Jason’s printed-out student papers. She rapidly sifted through them and found one with Mac MacAlister’s name at the top and the class, which was, as Tara had mentioned, Literary Migrations. His piece was entitled “The Environment in American Literature.” She scanned it quickly; there was nothing interesting in it. His grasp of English grammar and spelling was shaky at best. Jason had given him a D, and there was a check mark beside the grade and Julia’s initials.
But what else she found in the stack gave her pause. There was a note. She scanned it quickly, a skill perfected from years of reading orders in her restaurant kitchen. It said, in part,
JM didn’t do anything, but I know who did. Ms. Dandridge, you should be very very carefull of all the cheets at this skool.
JM . . . Jason Murphy? And was that a threat toward Julia? Had she some accountability in the grade change, and did someone know? She heard a noise in the hall and tucked the note back into the stack with a corner hanging out.
The door opened and Julia shepherded in Vince Nomuro, who frowned as he glanced around and then focused on Sophie. “What is this about, professor?” he asked of Julia.
“This is Jason’s friend, Sophie Taylor. Remember her from the tea stroll? Dean Asquith was killed on her grandmother’s doorstep and she’s trying to sort out what happened. I thought maybe we could put our heads together and come up with something, Vince.”
Sophie fumed. She had planned to tackle him in his office one-on-one, and hadn’t even figured out what she was going to ask yet. It was harder with a third party present. Julia watched her eagerly, her gaze shifting from Sophie to the registrar and back. It was like she expected Sophie to pull a rabbit out of her hat. Or ponytail.
“Mr. Nomuro, I know how upset everyone is about the dean’s murder. Can we talk about it for a minute?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Julia, what is this? It feels like an ambush.”
“Mr. Nomuro, it’s not, really,” Sophie said. “I’m just a concerned citizen, mostly because it happened right outside my grandmother’s tearoom, and because Jason is a friend. His name is being thrown around in this mess. I know he didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m sure you know that, too.”
“I still don’t understand why you’ve come to me.”
Sophie gave Julia a look and she appeared to get the hint, finally. “I, uh, need to see the main desk about some interdepartmental mail. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a few . . . in a while.” She closed the door behind her.
“Can you sit for a moment?” Sophie asked, trying to make her tone appealing and a little lost.
He sank into one of the overstuffed chairs and crossed one leg over his knee. He was neatly dressed in navy dress slacks and a navy blazer over a white shirt, with a diamond-patterned tie in blue and silver, fastened with a silver arrow-shaped tie pin. He adjusted his tie. “You have my attention, Miss Taylor,” he said, his diction precise and formal.
Sophie tried to remember what Brenda had told her about the man. She had implied that he was a college administrator almost by default. His first career course halted when he failed as a pharmacy student, so he turned to accounting. He was on her short list of people who could have changed Mac MacAlister’s grade. But more importantly, he was named as someone seen close by the tearoom late the night of the murder. What could she ask him that would conceal her true aim, to find out if he could have killed Dean Asquith?
“I’m sorry Julia hauled you down here, Mr. Nomuro,” she said, with all sincerity. “I don’t know her very well, but she’s been a good friend to Jason and stood by him through all the worry over the grading scandal. Until the truth comes out, he’s going to be suspected.”
“I believe in letting investigations take their course, Miss Taylor.”
“Please call me Sophie. That’s fine, but I do think investigations can go off the rail at any time for so many reasons. Anything we can do to streamline the process will help, don’t you think? Now that Dean Asquith is dead, what will happen to Jason? Do we even know what the dean was going to say? Was he going to name Jason as the grade changer, or did he have someone else in mind?”
“Why do you think I would know?”
“Your department collects all the data, such as grades.”
“True, but as we have discovered, there are holes in our system we will have to plug.” He regarded her steadily for a moment. “Are you implying the dean was killed to stop him from naming the guilty party? That is patently absurd,” the registrar said, shifting in his chair, appearing agitated. “At most, Jason, or whomever, would be censured and their grading would be overseen for a while. As is happening in the interim, until it
is sorted out. No one would kill over that.”
That was reaffirmation of what she had already heard. “But what if whoever did it, did more than just change one grade?”
“Multiple grade changes, you mean? Why do you say that? Have you heard anything? What are you implying?”
His alarm was palpable, and interesting. His complexion had become blotchy, his dark eyes dilated. He was the likeliest candidate for a grade changer, since his office would have last stab at it. However . . . Julia said it happened before she saw the grade, so, between Jason and Julia, it had been altered. The registrar would likely know how to do that, but why would he, rather than wait until he received the grades from the department head, Julia? There would be less potential for being caught after she had signed off on the mark.
“I’m trying to figure things out.” She tapped her foot on the carpeted floor, watching the registrar. “You were with Dean Asquith’s group the night of the murder. Did you notice anything? See any suspicious interaction?” She was thinking specifically of his argument with the dean at SereniTea, but didn’t know how to bring him around to discussing it, directly.
“I did see something, now that you mention it.” He glanced at her, then fixed his gaze on the fake silk flowers in a vase in the corner of the room. “It was at SereniTea. I had taken Dean Asquith aside to speak with him about a professional matter that I felt a need to discuss before his announcement.”
“Oh? What was that?” she interjected.
“That is incidental to my story.”
She clamped her mouth shut, not wanting to agitate or upset him, but if he was innocent of the grade scandal charges, he was probably taking that opportunity to plead his case with the dean.
He sat forward and interlaced his fingers together between his knees. “After Dale and I spoke, he walked away, while I stayed back to speak to that woman . . . whomever it is that Julia has running the place.”
The Grim Steeper Page 19