The Grim Steeper

by Amanda Cooper

  Sophie smiled. “My mother does that. She gets me French perfume and jewelry when I’d rather have the latest kitchen gadget.” Okay, so they’d made friends and shared stories; it was time to be blunt. “Mr. Nomuro, what would you say if someone said they had seen you late the night the dean was killed, right outside our establishment where he was murdered?”

  Without hesitation he replied, “I’d say I was not there, so someone is trying to frame me.”

  “And why would anyone do that?”

  He steepled his long, boney fingers in front of his mouth. After a lengthy pause, he said, “I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess.”

  “But you have suspicions?”

  He shook his head, staying silent. Everyone was stonewalling her, it seemed. She’d try another approach. “Did you and the dean get along?”

  “For the most part,” he said, flattening his hands on the desk surface. “Miss Taylor, why are you asking me all these particular questions?”

  “So if someone said you were arguing with him that night, they’d be lying?” she persisted.

  He hesitated a moment, but then said, his tone firm, “I would not occasion a guess as to what people may or may not assume from my demeanor.”

  That was a deflection, not an answer. Sophie recalled the conversation she had overheard between him and his assistant the night of the basketball game. He was tense, keeping his eye on Dean Asquith. What had he said, that he didn’t trust the dean? That Asquith was desperate for the scandal to go away before it hurt fund-raising or his job. That he was intent on keeping his eye on Asquith implied that he was afraid the dean would try to pawn blame off on someone handy, someone dispensable, maybe even the registrar. But did Vince have a reason to be afraid of what a thorough investigation would uncover?

  She eyed a photo among the pottery pieces on the shelf behind. The registrar had a wife and two teenagers. “I didn’t get a chance to meet your wife the night of the tea stroll. Was she there?”

  “No, she travels a lot on business.” His tone betrayed a growing impatience. “She’s in Hong Kong right now.”

  And teenage kids wouldn’t be likely to keep tabs on when dear old dad came home. He could easily have been the assailant. Just then the door swung open and Brenda Fletcher leaned into the room. “I’m back, Vince, and I’ve . . . oh, you’ve got company. Sorry.”

  Sophie turned in her chair, and the assistant registered her recognition.

  “You!” Brenda said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Brenda, don’t be rude. However, it’s a timely interruption; I’m sorry, Miss Taylor, but I do have a lot of work to do,” he said, waving his hand at the stack of paperwork and computer. “I’d appreciate it if you showed yourself out. I hope you’ll excuse me.”

  She sat for a moment, wondering if she could get any more questions in, but it would look too pointed if she did, certainly, and he was already tired of her. She scanned his wall of certificates, including his MAcc, and various plaques from local nature conservancy groups. He was Man of the Year two years before for his work in preserving natural plant species.

  Plant species. She glanced back toward him; he watched her with his dark brows knit, then he shoved some graying straight thick hair off his forehead and glanced pointedly at his computer monitor. “I’m keeping you,” she said. “I’ll go.”

  She followed Brenda to the outer office and closed Vince’s door behind her, but paused while the assistant registrar took off her bomber jacket and hung it up on the coatrack, fussing with one of the pins that caught on the lining. Distracted by an idea she had no clue how to pursue, Sophie lingered, as Brenda sat down at the desk. “You told Josh Sinclair to ask me, did I think that whoever killed the dean did it to hide another crime. What made you ask him that?”

  “I don’t know. I was just trying to figure it out.”

  “But what in particular did you mean?” Sophie pressed.

  “I was just wondering out loud, I guess.” She shrugged. “I didn’t have any tangible clue; I’m no investigator.”

  Sophie was disappointed; it would have been nice to have someone else’s input. “Could you tell me where Paul Wechsler’s office is?”

  “Paul Wechsler? Why do you want to see him?”

  “I’m trying to figure things out, you know? I’m still worried about what this is all doing to Jason’s reputation.” Or at least that was her cover story for asking questions.

  “You mean the grading scandal?” She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “All I know is, the dean had Paul going through the whole system, trying to figure out when the grade was changed. I think he asked him if he could tell what computer was used.”

  That confirmed Sophie’s suspicion about the computer that was used being recognizable to the system, even though they were all likely on a mainframe. “Isn’t that a little irregular?” When Brenda looked puzzled, she went on, “I mean, isn’t it irregular to have someone doing that kind of forensic examination of the computers when he’s one of the possible suspects?”

  The woman frowned down at her hands on the desk and scrunched up her mouth as she thought. “I guess I never considered Paul a suspect. You mean just the grade change, right? Not Dean Asquith’s murder?”

  “If he was the one who changed the grade, couldn’t he also be the murderer, if Dean Asquith discovered he was behind the grade tampering and accused him of it?”

  Brenda moved in her chair, looking agitated. She glanced toward the registrar’s closed office door. “Look, I’m worried about some stuff. Maybe . . . can we get out of here for a minute? I’ll glance into Paul’s office for you on our way out and see if he’s here.”

  Sophie nodded, wondering what was up. Brenda grabbed her jacket and they left the office. She slunk down the hall, then scooted into the main administrative office. Sophie followed. Vienna Hodge was at the desk, dealing with a student whose schedule was apparently messed up by some change in the curriculum. The fellow trudged out of the office as Brenda ducked past the desk and trotted through, weaving between desks as clerks glanced up from their computers.

  “Where is she going?” Vienna asked Sophie.

  “She’s checking to see if Paul Wechsler is in today.”

  Her dark eyes sparkling with mischief, she said, “He is not, and he hasn’t called in sick, either. We were all wondering if he and Mrs. Asquith took off together.” She sobered, and the mischief dissipated like mist. “But she actually came in a while ago to talk to the police, who are going through files in the dean’s office.”

  Why come here to talk to the police? Sophie wondered. Why not go to police headquarters? Though maybe she had already done that. “What’s your take on all of this?” Sophie asked, folding her arms on the counter and watching Vienna sift through a stack of papers. “There must be gossip. Usually support staff know a lot more about what’s going on than their bosses think they do.”

  Vienna glanced over her shoulder, but the older woman who was usually at the desk behind the administrative counter was absent, and the other clerks were too far away to hear. “It may sound mean, but there is kind of a betting pool on who changed the grade, and also on who killed the dean!”

  Sophie concealed her distaste. “And how are bets running?”

  “Don’t you dare tell Auntie Laverne about the betting thing,” Vienna said, shaking her head slightly, her heavy earrings jangling. “But my money is on Mrs. Asquith. She’s as cold as ice, and . . . Mrs. Asquith!” Her gaze had shifted to over Sophie’s shoulder and her tone had changed. “How nice to see you again!” she said, her eyes wide as she gave Sophie a look.

  Sophie turned. The dean’s wife, appearing as neat and calm as ever, strode into the office. She glanced at Sophie without appearing to recognize her, then strode past the counter, her high heels making clipped tapping noises on the terrazzo floor. “I need to take a look at something,”
she said, but didn’t explain further.

  Sophie leaned across the counter and murmured to Vienna, “What offices are back there? Not Dean Asquith’s.”

  “No, back there is secretarial, engineering and the mainframe.”

  “Engineering . . . you mean, like, systems engineering? Paul Wechsler’s office?”

  Just then they heard a screech and two voices engaged in an argument. The voices rose in volume as the two women emerged from the back room, with the exquisitely controlled (usually) Jeanette Asquith following Brenda Fletcher.

  “What were you doing in his desk? I want to know,” Mrs. Asquith asked.

  Brenda, red-faced, turned to her. “Mrs. Asquith, I’m sorry, but you don’t work here, and you don’t have any right to . . . and anyway, that’s my own business.”

  “Do you know where Paul is?” Jeanette shrieked, following. “Do you? Does anyone?” She looked around the office and Vienna shrugged. “He’s not answering my calls,” she continued, her gaze landing once again on Brenda, who appeared alarmed. “He’s not in his apartment,” the dean’s widow said, on a sob. “Please, do any of you know where he is?”

  “I certainly don’t, Mrs. Asquith,” Brenda said, walking past the counter. “If I knew, I’d tell you.” As she strode past Sophie, she grabbed her arm and muttered, “Come on, I need to talk to you.”

  Sophie let herself be pulled outside to the bracing autumn air. Both of them stood on the front steps of the administrative building for a moment, adjusting to the brilliant hard sunshine of October. Then Brenda started down the few steps, with Sophie tagging along. “Brenda, what’s going on? Were you going through Paul Wechsler’s desk?”

  “Yeah, and Mrs. Asquith caught me at it. I was trying to find his daily planner; we all have one issued by Cruickshank, and we’re supposed to keep both our computer planner and our hard copy updated with where we are at all times. His is gone. He’s gone.”

  “What does that mean?” Sophie said, trotting to keep up.

  “I wish I knew,” she said, slowing as she pondered the question. “I’m trying to figure out why Mrs. Asquith is so upset, and what she was doing there. It changes everything. Or . . . maybe not.” She stopped and turned to Sophie halfway to the parking lot. “Do you have any clue who killed Dean Asquith? It’s driving me crazy, and now the theory I had was just blown out of the water.”

  “What theory was that?”

  “You first,” she said.

  But Sophie was not about to break first. “No way. You work with all of these people; you must have an idea.”

  She looked undecided, but started across the parking lot and settled on a bench under a tree that had shed a blanket of golden leaves. Sophie followed and sat down next to her.

  “I’ve been torn apart,” Brenda said. “I mean, on the one hand . . . I don’t know. But now I want to know, where is Paul?”

  “Brenda, you’re going to have to be clearer than that. What are you talking about?”

  “Okay, all right, but I don’t want the police involved yet. I want to ask him myself.”

  “Him who? What are you talking about?” Sophie turned on the bench and put her knee up, staring at Brenda and waiting.

  “Did you notice, when you were talking to Vince, his collections?”

  “The pottery? Sure.”

  “He has expensive tastes. I think . . . I’m pretty sure he’s the one who altered the grades.”

  Sophie thought back to what Brenda had said to Josh about the murder being committed to cover up another crime. Maybe she knew or surmised more than she had initially been willing to admit. “Why do you say that?”

  There were tears in her eyes as she shook her head. “I don’t want it to be true. I’ve always gotten along with Vince. But he keeps buying expensive stuff, and taking trips, and doing renovations. I mean, one of those things, sure, but all of them? And with a family, kids near college age? I began to wonder where he was getting the money. I think . . .” She paused and shook her head. Her voice clogged in her throat as she said, “I think he’s been taking money to change grades for some time.”

  “Are you saying that you think he killed the dean?”

  “No, no of course not! In fact, he couldn’t have. He just couldn’t have!”

  “But?”

  “What?”

  “I thought I heard a ‘but’ at the end of your denial.”

  Brenda squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay, yeah. But . . . Paul Wechsler, who was looking into the grading thing and may have figured out from keystrokes or passwords or whatever who did it, is missing. And the last time I saw him was yesterday, in Vince’s car.”

  Chapter 21

  It all fell into place; Tara had told Thelma that she had seen two people together who didn’t belong. And Nana said that Thelma swore one sounded like an appliance. Wechsler; could that sound, in Thelma’s mind, like waxer? She explained to Brenda what she had heard, though not who she had heard it from. “Is that what my informant meant, then, about seeing two people together who didn’t fit? Were they friends? Did they hang out together usually?”

  “Well, no, never. I mean, Vince and Paul were about as different as you can get, and I don’t think they spoke to each other unless it was work related.” The woman looked stunned. “I don’t want it to be Vince. I don’t. He’s been decent to me, and always given me time when I needed it to study for my dissertation defense. He’s even fed my cat when I had to go out of town suddenly! He’s a decent egg.” She shook her head suddenly. “Look, there is no proof—none—that it’s Vince.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say there is no proof,” Sophie demurred. “I can think of a bunch.” Her eyes widened as she thought of one more, one that tied together a bunch of little threads, but she wasn’t about to share that idea right then until she’d had time to process it.

  “I won’t believe it.”

  “Brenda, let’s be clear . . . you’re worried that Paul’s disappearance has to do with the dean’s murder. Does that mean you’re worried that Paul said something to Vince that tipped him off, and that Vince has done something to him?”

  Brenda’s expression cleared. “No, hearing it out loud like that . . . it’s ridiculous. You’ve met Vince; he’s the cool, calm, collected type. There must be an explanation. I have one surefire way of figuring this out, and then I can tell you everything.”

  “What do you mean? What way?”

  But Brenda shook her head. “Look, I don’t know anything, and I’m certainly not going to throw Vince under the bus until I know for sure. There has to be another explanation.”

  Sophie nodded. That’s exactly what she would say and do in Brenda’s shoes.

  “So what if Paul and Vince were together; they’re colleagues, for heaven’s sake, right?” Brenda said. “They don’t have to be best of friends to be in a car together. They could have been just talking or . . .” Her eyes widened. “Maybe Paul is the culprit and has taken off now for good.”

  Sophie considered; it was possible. “Paul crashed the car he was driving yesterday, so maybe he needed a lift somewhere. I could go back and ask Vince.”

  Brenda shook her head. “Look, if I’m wrong and Vince did kill Dean Asquith . . .” She paused and shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m even entertaining that notion, but okay . . . if that’s the case and you confront Vince, that’ll show your hand. It could ruin things. Right? If there is a case against him?”

  Sophie nodded. “You’re right. But do you think Paul’s in any danger?”

  Brenda shook her head. “No way. I don’t really think Vince is the guilty one. I’ve worked with the guy for two years, and he’s not the type. But all I’m saying is, Vince will be here all day—he never leaves early—so we know where he is.”

  “You aren’t going to do anything foolish, are you?” Sophie asked, watching the other woman’s eyes, the cal
culating expression, the intense stare. “Please say you won’t take any risks.”

  “No, no way. I like living too much.” She shivered and fingered her lapel pin, the Sagittarius, maybe a lucky talisman. “Just promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m thinking about Vince, and you won’t turn him in. If he didn’t do anything . . . look, I don’t want him to go through . . .” She shook her head. “He’s a good guy. Unless I’m completely wrong. But . . . no, I’ll tell you later. Can I call you?”

  They exchanged cell phone numbers, and Brenda made her promise not to do anything until she got back to her later. She then strode off across the grass, back to the administrative building.

  So that was that, for now. Sophie’s cell phone chimed; it was a text from Jason, who was waiting for a student in his office. He said, Never leave my door unlocked and computer logged on; one of the things I told Dean A and Paul W. Gotta go; talk later?

  So that answered that. She tapped in See u later, and just then the phone rang. She answered.

  It was Dana. “So, I have a million things to tell you. I talked to Wally.”

  “Nothing about the investigation? I thought you were going to—”

  “Humor me, Sophie. Let me tell things my way.”

  Sophie sighed and sat back on the bench. There was nothing to do when Dana had something in her mind. She’d do it her way, or no way at all.

  “I talked to Wally, and told him what’s up with Cissy. The dufus is so freaking relieved! He was afraid Cissy had feelings for my man. Can you believe that?”

  “What’s he going to do?”

  “What I told him to. If you can hurry up and wrap up this case, he can get some time off and take Cissy for a weekend in the Poconos. I have a friend—an old boyfriend—who has a cabin he’ll lend me, and I’m sending those two kids on a weekend alone so he can propose properly without Thelma calling her every half hour.”