Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 633 & 634, October 1994

by Doug Allyn

  “Yes, ma’am. I think so.” He seemed to be the only one in the room at ease.

  “Very well, then,” Hilde said, nodding to Ellen. “When you finish, will you drop by the house? We’ll have to go over whatever other tasks you have to abandon, see if they can be put off for the present.” She drew her phone closer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to start calling the trustees.” She looked fierce. Hers would be the hardest job, it was clear.

  Walking with the sheriff and the detective down the wide corridor to the marble stairs to the second floor, Ellen was aware of the curious looks from work-study students at the front desk, from several people who just happened to step out of their offices as the trio passed. A cluster of students fell into silence at the foot of the stairs and stared at them frankly.

  “Pretty building,” Haliday said. “Looks like a pretty campus, from what I’ve seen of it. Maybe you can show me around later.”

  Ellen nodded. Conference Room A was too big, Haliday said when she opened the door to it. She went on down the hall to Conference Room D, and he said fine, just fine. The sheriff glanced around it, seemed to be waiting for something, and when it was not forthcoming, he shrugged. “HI be at the mayor’s office, you need anything.” He hesitated another second and left.

  Haliday closed the door after him. He began to move about the room. He was compact; although his movements were quick and decisive, they also were fluid, like a cat’s. He regarded the long conference table with ten chairs, and extra chairs along one wall. Cabinets under the windows were empty, but there was a coffee maker on a table. He pointed at it inquiringly. “Fixings go with this?” he asked.

  “I can have coffee brought in,” Ellen said.

  “Relaxes people sometimes, having something to do with their hands,” he said amiably. He picked up a chair, carried it across the room to the wall with the other extras. “Did you know him?”

  She started. “No. I knew who he was, that’s all.”

  He picked up another chair. “What did you know about him?”

  “Nothing. I mean, he was a teacher here, people said he was rich. He was handsome. He came to the store a few times.”

  “He wasn’t a gardener, was he?” He continued to rearrange the furniture.

  Ellen shook her head. “He bought cut flowers, or potted plants.”

  “Did he have them delivered?”

  “We didn’t deliver. He just took them with him.”

  “Talk to you?”

  “No.”

  He surveyed the table; he had left four chairs, one at the head. “That’s better. Now the windows.” He went to the wide windows and gazed out. Beyond and below was a view of the rhododendrons in bloom, and massive fir trees that towered over the building. “Don’t know,” he said. “Might be distracting, but it’s familiar. What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  He grinned at her. “Would you rather look at the trees or at me if I’m asking you questions?”

  She stared at him.

  He laughed and returned to the table and pulled out a chair. “Sit down, let’s talk a minute.” She sat down and he took a chair opposite her; she was facing the windows. He nodded. “I’ll leave the drapes open, I think. See, Blair, by the time you get out of here today, everyone in town will know I’ve recruited you. You’re going to be hit with a zillion questions. Rumors will be thicker than bees in a swarm. Maybe you’re the only one who’ll have the straight story, so I thought I might as well give it to you. They’ll believe what they want, regardless of what you say.” He shrugged. “I’m from a small town myself, I know how that works. Okay. First, why me and why not the sheriff. The Seymour family is very wealthy, richer than you’d believe a family could be. And they know everyone; they’ve been on the phone to the governor, the FBI, Congress... They are not happy with the sheriff. They say if he hadn’t bungled his investigation thirteen years ago, this would have been settled then. They seem to believe the sheriff and the college have a cozy arrangement whereby he never makes trouble for a student, and his sons get scholarships, something like that.” He spread his hands. “Me, I don’t know from nothing. Everyone believed Philip Seymour left under his own power in his own van, and you can’t fault them. No signs of violence, nothing was there to indicate otherwise. Anyway, I’m in charge.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Ellen asked. “I can’t repeat anything like that.”

  “You don’t have to. But there will be rumors, and they’ll be nasty before this is all over. If you’re going to help out, it will be easier if you know my position. You didn’t go to school here, did you?” He waited for her to shake her head. “See, no old loyalties to get in the way. Next thing, the forensic lab guys say Seymour was naked when he was killed. That’s going to be all over town, too.”

  She swallowed hard and felt her stomach spasm. “He was killed? How?”

  “His head was bashed in.” He regarded her for a moment, then said, “Stretch out your hand, Blair, this way.”

  He was mad, she thought then. They had put a madman in charge. He nodded at her and reluctantly she stretched her arm out across the table; she could not reach the other side.

  “My point,” he said softly. “Out of reach. Someone was close enough to a naked Philip Seymour to hit him over the head.” He touched his own temple. “Right about here. I’m afraid the rumor mill will run overtime with this one.” He stood up. “Let’s take a walk. The psychology building, dorms, faculty housing, archives storage... I’ll think of the rest while we’re walking.”

  It was after five when he walked with her through the terraced gardens to the president’s mansion. At the top of a flight of brick steps he paused to look back over the campus. “Don’t they get younger every year.”

  All afternoon more and more students had appeared on the grounds until now it seemed that most of the student body was visible, moving without too much obvious purpose toward the student union building and the cafeteria in the basement. A few months ago she would have been more comfortable down there with them than up here. Today they looked like children.

  He started to walk again. The campus was terraced throughout; up here the terraces were gardens, a rose garden, spring bulbs in full bloom, rhododendrons, azaleas...

  At the entrance to the house, he stopped and said, “Thanks for the tour, Blair. Bright and early tomorrow. Go on in for your grilling now.” He grinned.

  Hilde opened the door. “Come in, Ellen.” She nodded coolly to the lieutenant. He turned and walked away.

  “Ellen, I can’t tell you how sorry I am to saddle you with his work,” Hilde said as she led her through the wide entrance foyer, past the formal rooms to a small sitting room in the rear of the house.

  The parts of the house that Ellen had seen before were all formal interior-decorator rooms; this was personal. Shelves were cluttered with artifacts from around the world, Indonesian dolls, African masks, pottery... Walter Melton had been an archaeologist, had traveled extensively, and had collected whatever took his fancy. One wall was covered with diplomas, certificates, plaques. Tables were laden with books; wall hangings from Brazil, silk prayer rugs... It was like walking into an eclectic museum.

  Janice Ayers was seated in a leather-covered chair holding a drink. She smiled at Ellen and mouthed, “Sit down,” pointing to another chair.

  Janice Ayers was in her forties, tall and graceful, with long pale hair that she wore in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. She lived with Michael Wyland when he was in town and rumor had it that when the former president of the college had suggested that she either marry the man or give him up, she had laughed. Most of the time Wyland was in Seattle, where he had a computer business.

  “That lieutenant,” Hilde was saying, “said he would bring in people to go through the files, and he would interview all of us down in City Hall. The idea of going to town one by one to be questioned! To have strangers pawing through files...” She went to a table with liquor, wine, glasses
. “What would you like, Ellen? Wine? Something stronger?”

  Ellen said wine.

  “We’re mapping our strategy,” Hilde said, pouring white wine. “No statements to the press, first of all. I already posted that. All statements come from the president’s office.” She handed the glass to Ellen. “I’ll want a record of everything he copies. I already told him copies only; he can’t have originals of our files.”

  Janice laughed. “Hilde, forget it. You’re not in charge. I think the police will take what they want.”

  Hilde’s mouth tightened. “We’ll see. He intends to drag the college into whatever mess he stirs up; I intend to limit the damage.” Janice laughed again.

  Ellen felt as if she had intruded on an ongoing argument between two old friends. Janice was mocking and sardonic, Hilde was angry, but there was a deep understanding between them. Ellen avoided looking at either of them, looked instead at the commemorative wall ahead.

  Janice took a sip of her drink. “What we really want, Ellen,” she said, “is a blow-by-blow account. Tell.”

  Ellen glanced at Hilde, who nodded, and she repeated everything the lieutenant had said to her, and described the tour. “Stuff is in boxes, as well as the files, it’s a mess in archives. He said someone will be there to help me. I suppose he really means to keep an eye on me, make sure I don’t hide anything.”

  “Family influence,” Hilde murmured when Ellen finished. “That explains why Roy is cooling his heels.”

  “He botched it,” Janice said flatly. “The sheriff didn’t want to make waves. I told him Philip wouldn’t have gone off and left the stuff he did. Expensive clothes, a thousand-dollar typewriter, television. Philip had money, but he wasn’t irresponsible about it. There weren’t any personal letters, and his manuscript was missing. Just the wrong mix of what was there and what was missing.”

  “How do you know that?” Hilde asked.

  “I saw the inventory the sheriff made. Seems I’m the only one who’d admit to having been in Philip’s apartment.” She set her glass down on a table. “We arrived here a week apart fifteen years ago, had our little fling early on, and went our own ways, but I knew he was writing a book, and I knew there should have been letters. I told the sheriff. Pryor was riding him harder than I was, it’s that simple.”

  Warren Pryor had been the president until his retirement eight years earlier, when Hilde was appointed to replace him. Ellen had never met Pryor. She said slowly, “I don’t see how anything can come of an investigation now, after so many years. Too many people have left, or died.”

  “Exactly,” Hilde said. “It’s obvious that he picked up a woman somewhere, parked with her, and they fought. She killed him, panicked probably, and just drove away in his van after she dumped his body. A hitchhiker, someone here for the commencement, a transient... We’ll never know.”

  Patty’s version of what happened, Ellen thought. She had hardly touched her wine. Now she drank it all, wanting to be gone, wanting to be at home.

  “And she just left all that gold behind,” Janice said. “Not terribly likely, is it? I hear it’s worth thousands as jewelry, and if it’s authentic antiquity, it’s priceless.” She stood up. “Well, we have things to think about. Hilde, go with the flow. Okay? The school can weather a little scandal. The sky won’t fall. You ready, Ellen? I’ll walk to your car with you.”

  They walked in silence through the gardens now lighted with warm yellow lanterns; as they were drawing near the Mazda in the parking lot Janice put her hand on Ellen’s arm. “If this really bugs you, bow out. You don’t have to work for the police, you realize. Not in your job description.”

  Ellen’s mouth was dry. “What do you mean?”

  “Look how you’re shaking. Your hands were shaking back in the house. Something’s under your skin, and if it’s Philip Seymour, call in sick. Or, you know how it goes, just say no.” She withdrew her hand. “See you.” Her hair gleamed like gold under the brilliant lights in the parking lot as she walked away.

  In her car Ellen sat watching her hands, which had become quite steady. But they had noticed. She bit her lip and turned the key. She could handle it, she told herself. Overactive imagination, she would say; this was her first murder, after all. She would laugh. Her hands were too tight on the steering wheel; she forced them to relax.

  Her apartment was a mile from the school, usually a pleasant walk, but today she had driven in order to go to the Safeway to shop for dinner. Instead, she drove straight home; she knew everyone in the market, knew the people who would be shopping there, and they would all be full of questions. Parked in front of her apartment house was Jordan’s car; he was leaning against it, talking to a woman. He waved when Ellen pulled into her driveway. The woman turned and now Ellen could see her: Beverly Kirchner. She gritted her teeth.

  They came forward as she got out of her car. “Hi, Ellen,” Beverly said. “I’m covering this story for my paper. Ask you a few questions?”

  “Sorry,” Ellen said. “Comments will come from the president’s office only. Or the police.” She started to walk.

  “Hey, Ellen, come on.” Beverly caught Ellen’s arm. “It’s me. Tomorrow there’s going to be a million outsiders asking questions. Give me a break, okay? What’s the lieutenant after at the school? Are they trying to link the death to someone there? Why are you working for the police? Is it true that Seymour was naked?”

  “Can’t comment,” Ellen said, shrugging away from her hand.

  For a moment Beverly dug in, her eyes narrowed; then she grinned and moved back a step. “Did you volunteer to help, or were you drafted?” Ellen moved toward her door. “Well, if you aren’t talking, I guess that’s my story. Who gagged you, Melton or the police?”

  Beverly had always been insistent, Ellen remembered; being a reporter had not given her that trait, merely sharpened it. Beverly was watching her with an intense look. Slowly Ellen said, “I’m not talking, Bev.” For an instant Ellen saw her as she had been that night, knees drawn up with her chin on them, her arms wrapped around her legs, a blanket over her shoulders, rocking back and forth, humming tunelessly.

  Beverly nodded. “I’ll be around town for a while. Be seeing you, I guess. Nice meeting you, Jordan. So long.” She strode away down the street.

  “Just a second,” Jordan said then and hurried to his car, brought out a grocery bag, and joined her at the door. “Thought I’d make us some dinner,” he said. “Okay?”

  Inside, he went to the kitchen with his groceries, and she went to the living room, where it appeared that her answering machine was stuck on blink. She knew who had made six of the calls, she thought, and her parents would have called, and then many more people. She sat on her sofa and called her mother.

  It was an unsatisfactory call in every way. Her mother put her on conference call, but her father never had any small talk, and all her mother wanted to talk about was “the case.” After Ellen said she couldn’t discuss it, her mother was silent for a moment, but recovered with a rush of inconsequentials about weather, the store, her new glasses...

  “Mom, Jordan’s cooking, and I’d better go help,” Ellen said finally. “I’ll be over Friday. Don’t worry. I’ll just be looking up old files. Dirty work, that’s all.”

  After they hung up, she sat without moving, thinking what her father would have done if he had caught her with an older, naked man. He would not have hit him over the head and dumped his body in a thicket of blackberries. He would have beat the crap out of him on the spot. But who else would believe that?

  Dinner was steaks and potatoes and salad, all very good. And Jordan was almost aggressively cheerful, to the point where Ellen wanted to yell at him to stop smiling, stop chattering. Neither mentioned Beverly Kirchner until the table was cleared and they had coffee.

  “Old friend, she said,” Jordan commented. “But if you two are friends, I don’t ever want to see you with an enemy.”

  “Old acquaintance is more like it,” she muttered. “Did
she get a story from you?”

  “Just what’s been in the news for a month now. That’s all I know.” He hesitated and then said, “Ellen, you can’t talk about it. Understood. But something’s bugging the bejesus out of you. Maybe you need to talk to someone about it.”

  She felt herself grow tense with his words. How transparent she must be to everyone — Janice Ayers, Jordan... who else? “Thanks,” she said. “I’m just jumpy. Not used to seeing bones dug up. My first murder, after all.” It sounded as faked as it was. She couldn’t manage the laugh.

  Although he did not move, she knew he recoiled as if she had rejected him physically. Where he had been excessively cheerful a few minutes earlier, he now became excessively polite, and she felt powerless to remove the barrier she had erected. They stood up and finished clearing the table, washed the few dishes, and then faced each other awkwardly.

  “You’d better go,” she said. “Someone probably will make a note of how long you stay. You know, if there’s no real story, create one.”

  “I expect your machine will go into overtime mode; I won’t add to it. Will you call me?”

  She felt they had come to a crisis of some kind, that it had to do with trust, and hurt, and his new awareness of the fragility of their relationship. She would deal with it later, not now. “I’ll call,” she said. “Thanks. For dinner, for... Just thanks.”

  He shrugged and went to get his jacket, and then paused at the door. “Call me,” he said, and left.

  Later, soaking in the long deep tub, she regretted that he had not had his usual bath. He always liked to bathe in her old-fashioned tub that let him stretch out and relax. She thought of his words: maybe you need to talk to someone about it. In a town of eighteen hundred people, most of them familiar, some of them lifelong friends, there was not a single one she could talk to about that night.