“If I can hurry up and wrap up this investigation?”
“That’s what I said. And by the way? He was so relieved, I got Wally to spill some details. There was poison in the dean’s system, but not enough to kill him, just to make him woozy. Something called aconite? I guess it can come from a local plant, the monkshood?”
Sophie immediately thought of Vince Nomuro’s Man of the Year plaque for preserving local plant species. She really hoped Brenda didn’t do anything that tipped him off to their suspicions.
“By the way, ‘woozy’ is not the official word; that’s mine,” Dana added. “Anyway, the cause of death ultimately was a stab wound to a major artery feeding the heart. He bled out quickly and died, possibly within a few minutes of being hit. A lucky strike, Wally called it.”
“No weapon?”
“The killer must have taken the weapon with him. Or her. If whatever he was stabbed with had stayed in, he may have had a better chance, from what I understand. It looks like, according the doctor, he was ripped up inside as the weapon was pulled out. Wally says the doctor was kind of puzzled and wouldn’t commit himself as to what kind of weapon it was, but maybe a barbed knife. I looked it up online; there’s this knife called a zombie killer, a throwing knife, and it is wicked!”
“That’s awful.”
“I’ll send you a pic of one I found.”
Sophie received the message and examined the knife. It was odd looking, like three arrow points on a shaft.
“Yikes, that looks lethal!” Something like that sure would do damage as it was pulled out of a wound.
“I know. I went to the dress shop to talk to Sherri Shaw. Nice place, by the way. You should go there, get some decent clothes. I found the cutest sundress for next year, half off! I’ll wear it when Eli and I go on our honeymoon to Madrid.”
Sophie shook her head, trying to get rid of the cotton between her ears. Dana was occasionally scattered and her thoughts were rapid fire, like a machine gun, rat-a-tat-tat, a barrage of words and half thoughts. “So did you find out anything from Sherri at the dress shop?”
“She’s mad and sad, all at once,” Dana said, her tone more sober. “That’ll be forty-three fifty-seven; cash, credit or debit?”
“What? Oh, you’re at work.”
“Yes, I am. Thank you. Have a nice day!”
Sophie was about to ask what again, when Dana said, “Now, where was I? Sherri . . . poor girl. This has hit her hard. She said the dean told her she was the love of his life, that he’d do anything for her, and that they were going to run away to New York together.”
“And she bought it?’
“She’s one of those women,” Dana said. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. Just that she buys it. She believes it. He says things, she takes them in, embellishes them and spins them into a fairy dream castle with her as the pretty pink Barbie at the center. Can I help you?”
“What? Oh . . . Dana, I’ve got another call coming in and you’ve got a customer. Can I call you back? Or, you call me when the store is deserted.”
“’Kay. We have a sale on textbooks for this season. What are you looking for?”
The other call was Josh. He had sneaked out during a study period. “Sophie, I wondered about something. We were trying to figure out how the poison got into the dean’s system, if there was any.”
“There was; I just got the confirmation. Aconite, maybe from a local plant called monkshood.”
He told her his idea, and it meshed exactly with what she had been thinking. It all worked together, eyewitness accounts, her own observations, even the physical evidence. Every little bit of information she had jibed. However, one thing worried her deeply; where was Paul Wechsler? Jeanette Asquith said she had been to his home, and he wasn’t there. Brenda was clearly worried about him, too. Sophie looked up at the college administration building. Jeanette had not emerged. Maybe she was still there and Sophie could catch her.
“I have to go, Josh. Thanks for the chat.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure. I guess I’ll give everything I have to the police and let them sort it out.”
“Good. I was worried you were thinking of tackling the killer yourself.”
“No. I have no plan to do that.”
Dana called moments after she finished with Josh, but she didn’t have much information, though it all confirmed what she already thought. Sherri knew that Jeanette and Paul were together, and she had even spoken to him. Both paramours were hopeful that their dalliance would turn into a permanent relationship. Sherri had left the tea stroll after Dale Asquith promised her he would come to her that night, to talk things over, but he never showed up.
He was concerned mostly about how he came out of the scandal, and not so much who actually did it, according to Sherri. Trouble was, his intent to go into full damage control by announcing he’d reveal who made the grade change, or changes, may have given his killer a reason to not wait another minute and kill him that very night. At the very least, in Sophie’s estimation, it tied his murder to the grading scandal.
“It’s odd that Paul Wechsler is not to be found today,” Sophie mused, but another customer came in that moment and Dana had to go.
Jeanette Asquith emerged from the administration building and headed down the walk to the parking lot. Sophie skipped across the green and caught up with her.
“Mrs. Asquith, I’m so sorry about everything you’re going through.”
The woman, her eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, her face lined with worry, stared at her. “I beg your pardon? Who are you?”
“I’m Sophie Taylor, you remember? Rosalind Taylor’s daughter? We’ve spoken a couple of times, the last was at the tea stroll. I work for my grandmother at Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House?”
“Yes, of course. You must forgive me. My brain is . . . with everything that’s happened I just . . .” She reached a champagne-colored Mercedes sedan and stood, her whole body wavering. She clutched the door handle but looked like she was holding on to keep from falling rather than about to get in the car.
“Mrs. Asquith, why don’t you come and sit down for a moment. You look like you’re about to faint.” Sophie felt terrible for her, but was also hopeful she could learn more and get the woman’s story. She led her across the grass to sit on a bench that was along the walk up to the building.
They sat in silence for a moment.
“How is your mother?” the woman asked, straightening her spine, her exquisite manners taking over even in the midst of her breakdown.
“She’s well, in Tahiti right now. Or Bora-Bora. I can’t remember. I talked to her yesterday.” Sophie hesitated a moment, glancing over at the late dean’s wife, who sat stiffly, rigidly upright. “I told her about your husband and she sent her condolences.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been getting lots of those . . . condolences. What does that even mean? Condolences; from the root word ‘condole’; to express sympathy for a person who is suffering grief, or loss.” She glanced at Sophie. “I’m a fallen woman, according to my late unlamented mother-in-law. She knew I had my . . . outside interests, and she knew Dale did, too. But she blamed me for both of them. Said if I was any kind of woman, I’d be able to keep him faithful. How about that? I not only strayed, but I was also to blame for my husband straying.”
She snorted an ungenteel laugh that ended on a sob. “No one could keep Dale faithful because his whole ego was tied up in being that kind of man, the one all women wanted. I know because for a long while I actually tried. But especially lately. He was worried about losing his appeal as he aged, so he had accelerated his pace of late. Poor Sherri, she thought she could change him.”
“Why didn’t you leave?” Sophie asked, genuinely curious.
“I knew what I signed up for. We weren’t in love; we were well matched. I didn’t th
ink I’d get to care, you know?” She sighed. “I did care. I didn’t love him, not in that way, but we spent a lot of years together and we made a compatible couple for much of it.”
Sophie sat sideways on the bench and watched her, seeing the frosty exterior as a cloak now, a cover to keep from caring, or at least to keep people from knowing she cared. “I’m so sorry. I truly am. No one can know how you feel but you.” She waited a moment. “I know you are . . . uh, friends with Paul Wechsler. Nobody seems to know where he is today. Where could he be?”
Tears welled in her gray eyes and she shook her head. She pushed back her shoulder-length silvery hair, tucking it behind her ears. Reaching in her purse, she drew out a tissue and blotted her eyes carefully, trying not to dab away her pale blue eyeliner. “After he crashed the car yesterday, we had a bit of a fight and I didn’t see him last night. I told him I had things to do. And now he’s not answering his phone, he’s not at home, he’s . . . I don’t know where.”
Sophie had a gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. Her suspicion of the registrar was growing, and with it, her fear for Paul. She’d have to tell someone; she just had to. But not Jeanette Asquith, not until she knew more. “Have you called his friends, or family?”
She shook her head. “What would I say? They don’t know about us.”
“Mrs. Asquith . . . may I call you Jeanette?”
She nodded.
“Did he share anything about this grade-change scandal with you? I happen to know Paul was looking into it for your husband, and I overheard him saying some stuff to him that night, the night your husband was murdered.”
She swallowed back her sobs and nodded, blew her nose, tucked the tissue back in her handbag and cleared her throat. “Dale asked to speak with him late last week. He had Paul go through every mark given and trace the computer trail. I don’t pretend to understand. At the time I thought it was Dale’s way of being nasty, because I told him Paul and I were going away over Christmas and he could go to his family gathering, which I loathe, alone.”
“But?”
“But Paul told me Dale actually said he trusted him. He didn’t want to bring in an outsider, and he wanted to be able to reassure the Board of Governors and President Schroeder that he had it all under control.”
“I’ve heard some stuff that makes me wonder if Paul originally told him one person was the guilty party, and then later changed his mind.”
“No, not at all. Paul told him one of two people were most likely to have changed the grade, but because of some security issue he had discovered, he wasn’t sure, and that Dale would have to wait. But stupid Dale . . . so sure of himself. So self-important. He thought he could pressure Paul into bringing him the name by Monday morning, so he made that stupid announcement.”
“It was like asking to be killed before Monday morning, if it was that serious an issue,” Sophie said. “I spoke with Paul briefly and he indicated that he had discovered a pattern of grade changes except for one anomaly. What was that? Do you know?”
She nodded. “Cruickshank apparently has an Olympic hopeful in its ranks of athletes.”
When she told Sophie the sport, it was not a surprise. Some things were beginning to make sense in a way she had not expected, though there were still a few loose ends, things she didn’t understand. “Has he spoken to the police about any of this yet?”
“No, he was supposed to be going there yesterday at some point, but I don’t think he made it. He was upset when we last spoke.”
“Mrs. Asquith, I have to ask something. I hope you don’t get offended, but someone overheard you saying something that night, something . . . well, I didn’t know what to make of it. You were on your cell phone and said something about getting something done before you ran out of time. What was that about?”
The woman looked mystified for a moment, before a ghostly smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Ah, yes, I know what you mean. I was speaking to my antiques dealer. He’s having a Louis Quatorze sideboard refinished for me, and I needed him to get it done before Thanksgiving.” She shook her head. “It seemed so important at the time. I always have people at the house for Thanksgiving, and I wanted it done to showcase the Sevres.”
It figured that something so ominous sounding would turn out to be innocent. Sophie made a quick decision that went against her promise to Brenda, but she felt justified. A man’s life may be at stake and that mattered more than anything. She told Jeanette what she had heard, that a witness reported last seeing Paul Wechsler in Vince Nomuro’s car. She recommended that Jeanette go to the police and file a missing person’s report on her boyfriend. They might not be able to do anything, but since they had information that he was involved in the evidence collecting for the grading scandal, they just might. Paul had information, and the police needed to speak with him; that would prompt them to search for the systems engineer.
Jeanette sped off in her sedan. Her sports car was likely to be in the shop indefinitely, given how complicated repairs on foreign cars could be.
Her sports car, which Paul had been borrowing. Sophie remembered the night of the murder, and the sound of a sporty car revving around the time of the murder. Something Josh said came back to her. If what she suspected was true, then she now knew who the killer was.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she was of her theory. But what to do? Just turn the info over to the police? She knew how good the police were at doing their jobs. She had nothing against them, but she also felt that sometimes her ability to circumvent the rules allowed her to uncover the truth much more quickly.
How much better would it be if she could enlist her friends to set the killer up to exposure? She nodded. SereniTea, in this instance, would be the perfect place. She left a message on Jason’s phone, and decided to head back to Auntie Rose’s.
* * *
Thelma was playing with her phone again, but it was hopeless. The only thing she had figured out with any surety was the danged camera function, but the stupid thing had a camera on both sides, because along with some photos of Gilda’s big bottom were a few fuzzy- and wrinkly-looking ones of what Thelma had at long last concluded were of her: a jowl with a few hairs sprouting, a double chin, and a bleary eye set in wrinkled folds of skin.
She had also finally figured out how to scan through the photos. Aha! There were the ones she remembered taking after the tea stroll from her bedroom window on the front of the house down to the street, which had been kinda dark. She was just able to make out a little car in one, and two figures together in another.
“Gilda!” she hollered.
“What do you want?” Gilda asked, tottering into the room on new two-inch heels.
Thelma stared. “What are you all gussied up for? Never mind.” She picked up the phone and stared at a picture. “Look, this is you the night of the tea thingie, when you were taking out the garbage. Remember? Well, I took some photos before that, while you did it, and later, trying to get the hang of this. Do you see the car?”
Gilda got close and brought up her cheaters, which dangled around her neck on a fancy string of beads like some useful version of a necklace. “Yeah. I see it.”
“And the next picture, do you see those two people?”
Gilda stared again. “Yeah. I still can’t believe you sent me out knowing someone was lurking! I could have been jumped and murdered, or worse!”
“Stop whining. Nothing happened, did it?”
Gilda tottered to the back door where there was a mirror on the wall and pulled an orange-colored lip balm out of her purse. She stroked some on her lips.
“Where are you going anyway?”
She stuck up her nose, snooty as could be, and said, “Out. With friends.” She tottered out the door.
Thelma stared closer at the pictures, but couldn’t be sure of what she was seeing. Her vision was not what it used to be. There wa
s only one thing to do. She grabbed the real phone, the reliable one that didn’t take a college degree in computers to work, and called Cissy.
* * *
Rose was working on the accounting and sighed at the end of a long line of numbers. She sure hoped they could open again, and soon. Not because they were losing money—though they were—but because she didn’t know what to do with her time. They had cleaned the place from top to bottom, and taken inventory. And now she was lost. Laverne had gone home to give her father something to eat, after which she, Gilda, and Laverne’s father, Malcolm, would be going to the Tuesday night church social.
Wherever Sophie was, Rose hoped she was safe. Her granddaughter had inherited her uncle Jack’s adventurous spirit, the resolve that had sent him, after they lost her other son, Harold Junior, to the Vietnam War, to the West Coast to join the antiwar protests. He got lost along the way, his ideals tainted by drugs and a broken heart. His brother was everything to Jack, and losing him changed him forever. Sometimes it felt like sorrow would close around Rose’s heart and smother it, but then she stiffened her spine and remembered Rosalind and her wonderful grandchildren, especially her own darling Sophie.
The phone rang. “Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House. How may I help you?” It came automatic after so many years.
“Is Sophie there?” It was a young woman’s voice.
“No, I’m sorry, she’s not. May I ask who’s calling?”
There was a moment of hesitation. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No. May I take a message?”
“Can you tell her Kimmy called? Kimmy Gabrielson. I’ve got some information, and I’m not sure what to do about it. I need someone to trust, someone who isn’t connected with the college.” Her voice held a note of desperation. “She seemed determined to get to the bottom of things.”
“Oh, honey, maybe you should tell me so I can tell her?”
The Grim Steeper Page 23