The Kingdom of Dog

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “You have a list of the guests who were here last night?” Tony asked. “I need to cross-reference it against the names we collected at the door.”

  “About that list,” I said. “You won’t make too much of a fuss with those people, will you? I realize you have to find out who killed Joe, but those donors and friends are all very important to us.”

  “Don’t worry. I just have some routine questions. We save the spotlight and the water boarding for later in the investigation.”

  I thought he smiled briefly.

  As we walked into my office, the phone rang again. “Busy today,” he said.

  “You get a crazy little thing called murder and everything changes,” I quoted back to him. He sat down across from my desk and waited for me to finish my conversation. Rochester sprawled next to him, and Tony even scratched behind the dog’s ears.

  When I hung up, he pulled out his yellow legal pad again and said, “I’d like you to tell me exactly what you did and said last night.” He took notes as I recreated the evening, in minute detail.

  “So the first people you saw coming in from outside were these kids from the singing group?”

  “The Rising Sons. All except Ike Arumba. He’s the leader. He didn’t come back in for a few minutes after the rest of them.”

  “Ike Arumba? That his real name? Or some kind of Desi Arnaz Babalu alias?”

  “Far as I know it’s his real name.”

  He made another note. “How long was he outside after the rest of them had come in?”

  I frowned. “Can’t say for sure. I saw a reporter I’d been looking for, and we had a conversation. Maybe ten minutes?”

  “And how long after he came in did Norah Leedom follow him?”

  “That was a while,” I said. “The Rising Sons sang a couple of numbers. At least fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  We sat silently for a minute while he finished his notes. He stood and I saw the holster slung low around his hips, the billy club and the handcuffs that hung from one side.

  “I’ll be in touch.” He picked up his hat and slung his coat over his shoulder. He jangled as he walked out the door, and I had a crazy urge to salute him, which I am pleased to say I held back.

  He must have gone down the hall to speak to Sally after he left me, because around one o’clock she came into my office beaming. “I’m officially not a suspect,” she said. “Thank god. I spoke to that police detective, and it looks like I can prove that I was inside during the whole party.”

  “Congratulations. What do you say we grab some sandwiches and celebrate?”

  Sally agreed, so I got my coat and met her in the lobby. As we walked outside, I said, “So have you planned any major changes in admissions yet?”

  “Well, for starters, I sent an acceptance letter to Marty Moran. I don’t have the balls Joe had to argue with President Babson and Mike MacCormac. After that, I’m thinking of a few things.” Sally stuffed her hands in her pockets and leaned forward as we walked down the hill to Main Street in Leighville. “You know Joe never let me change anything around here. Well, I’ve been talking to Babson for a while now. He was hoping Joe would retire in a year or two and I’d get his position then. Joe getting killed just sort of speeds up the agenda.”

  We stopped at the Sunrise Deli, where we ordered sandwiches at the counter. As we ate, we talked about life at Eastern, trading the kind of gossip and griping that co-workers always do. Who was mad at who, whose office was in trouble. Oh, and who might have murdered Joe. “I just can’t imagine somebody killing him,” Sally said. She shivered.

  “I know what you mean. But Tony’s a good guy. I trust him to figure things out.”

  I picked up an extra couple of slices of roast beef for Rochester. When I got into my office, Mike’s work-study assistant Dezhanne was waiting for me. She was a short, chunky girl who had been in my class the semester before.

  I remembered how the roster in that class was like a grocery list—a boy called Felae, and girls named Honey and Cinnamon, in addition to Dezhanne. I always wondered if she had been named after the mustard but had never asked her. She had huge circular holes in each earlobe and a rotating set of weird earrings, usually flat disks in electric colors. Today’s were bright red and matched her lipstick.

  A couple of dark curls had come loose from her ponytail, and she looked frazzled. “Oh, Mr. Levitan, I’m glad you’re back. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing, and President Babson was hunting for you. He said the police were terrible and he’s worried that if they talk to all the guests they’ll ruin our fund-raising forever. He’s meeting with Mr. MacCormac in his office now and he wants you to go down there as soon as you get in.”

  “Thanks, Dezhanne. Don’t worry, he just gets excited.”

  The phone rang and she picked it up. “Hi!” she said. “Um, I mean, thank you for calling the office of public relations and publicity at Eastern College. How may I help you?”

  I smiled and walked into my office, where I hung up my coat, took a swig of cold water from a bottle on my desk, and went down the hall to Babson’s office. I found him sitting on the corner of his desk, his long, lanky frame leaning over Mike MacCormac’s shoulder, peering at a set of figures. His blue wool suit jacket was still buttoned, and it strained across his chest. “Come in, Steve, come in,” he said. “We’re trying to assess the damages last night caused.”

  “Before we go any further, sir, I want to say I’m sorry it didn’t turn out as we planned. I still believe it was a good idea, if it had gone smoothly.”

  “No one’s blaming you, Steve. I was all for the party, and I’m not going to waste time crying over it. Let’s just figure out how to move on from here.”

  Mike said, “The good news is that we’ve gotten more press for Eastern than any of us hoped for. And every article mentions the campaign and Eastern’s reputation. It’ll certainly enhance our recognition factor, and once the excitement over last night dies down I think it’ll have a good effect on both admissions and donations.”

  That was cold, I thought. But that was Mike. At least he wasn’t as eager-looking as I was accustomed to. That afternoon he looked more like Richard Nixon after Watergate.

  “This is a short-lived excitement,” Babson said. “What matters is the long-term recognition Eastern gets.” He turned to me. “I want you to get as much press coverage out of this event as you can, Steve. Forget about maudlin sentimentality. Joe Dagorian would have wanted his death to serve Eastern as much as he did in life. Use it as a hook, if you have to. Promise interviews, pictures, whatever you have to do to get those newspapers and magazines here. I’d like to see this in Time, Newsweek, The Wall Street Journal, for Christ’s sake.”

  I was officially creeped out at that point. It seemed like neither of them cared that a man had died the night before—a man we all knew and worked with. But I wasn’t in any position to criticize either of them. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “And get me a report by the end of the week-- analyze the costs of the party and the positive and negative publicity you can see materializing.” He stood up and stretched. “I saw that police detective in your office, and the yellow tape out in the garden. Have they discovered anything else?”

  My English teacher background kicked in, and I considered how to phrase what I wanted to say, opting for the passive voice. “It looks like the murder weapon was found,” I said. I wasn’t about to say that my dog found it.

  “Suspects?” Babson asked.

  Once again I paused. I wasn’t sure how much of what I had spoken about with Tony I should be passing on to Babson and Mike, even though they were my bosses. What if one of them was Joe’s murderer? “He hasn’t told me.”

  “I always go for the ex-wife in situations like this,” Mike said. “Believe me, I know.”

  He grimaced. I knew that Mike’s wife had left him two years before for a coach at a big ten college, and figured that was mostly why he suspected Norah Leedom. Or was he the killer, and trying
to deflect suspicion from himself?

  “I heard them arguing that night and I saw her go outside,” Mike continued. “I don’t know the woman personally, but it seems pretty obvious. Maybe the police are too dense to see it.”

  “I’m sure the police will interview her,” I said. “Either of you need anything else from me? The phone has been ringing off the wall.”

  Babson sat down in the chair across from Mike’s desk and steepled his fingers. “No, if we need anything we’ll call you,” he said to me. He turned to Mike. “I hope you’re right about the positive publicity we can get out of Joe’s death. I’d hate to have to kill this campaign just as it’s getting started.”

  I couldn’t help shuddering every time somebody mentioned death. Poor Joe, I thought. Dead, and no one to mourn him. I started to shiver out there in the hallway, and when I got back to my office I turned the heat up and swiveled my chair around, watching the French doors fog up and block my view of the distant hills.

  Rochester came over to sit next to me on his hind legs, so I could pet his head and scratch behind his ears. “You know anything more about who killed Joe?” I asked.

  He shook his head and the metal chain around his neck clanked.

  7 – Owing Joe

  Dezhanne came in to my office a few minutes later. “I’ve got a class at two,” she said. “I left your messages on your desk.”

  “Thanks, Dezhanne.”

  I returned a couple of class, then wrote a statement that regretted Joe’s death, but gave most emphasis to the capital campaign. What the hell, I thought, Joe would have wanted it that way. He was that devoted to Eastern. It was hard to concentrate because so many calls came in, many from newspapers I’d never heard of. I kept thinking about Joe getting killed, and worrying about what Tony would uncover. I knew there were secrets all around the college, and if too many of them came to light it would make my job a lot harder.

  I was just printing the release when Norah Leedom appeared in my office door. Rochester jumped up and rushed toward her.

  She was obviously upset. Her hair had fallen out of its bun, and grey-brown strands fell loosely across her face. Her eyes were red and puffy. But she managed a smile as she reached down to pat Rochester.

  “You have such good light here,” she said, looking around. “A poet needs good light. At least I do. I can’t write a thing when it’s dark and gloomy.”

  She didn’t strike me as a woman who needed airiness and light in order to write. She was a strong, no-nonsense sort of woman and if I didn’t know her I’d expect her to dismiss poetry with a wave of one callused hand. She was about five-six, slim and athletic, with short brown hair going to grey and cut severely just below her chin line. She had well-chiseled features and a piercing gaze.

  “I’ve just been interrogated. The police think I killed him,” she said, standing in the doorway. “But I didn’t. You believe me, don’t you Steve?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I hardly knew Norah. She had been a colleague when I was an adjunct in the English department, but we’d only talked about literature and student writing skills. I wouldn’t consider myself her friend.

  “Come on in, Norah. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” I made an executive decision. “We have a great cappuccino machine in the kitchen. Why don’t I make us a couple of mochas?”

  “That would be nice.” She followed me to the kitchen, and sat down at the table. Rochester sat on his haunches next to her and she stroked his golden head as I bustled around the kitchen.

  “I’m angry,” she said. “I’m not angry that they suspect me. I’m angry that they’ll stop looking for the real killer until long after I go on trial and they realize they’ve made a mistake. By then they’ll have no chance to find out who killed Joe. And I want them to!”

  “Why do you think they suspect you, Norah?”

  I poured the coffee into two mugs with the Eastern College seal and motto and nodded. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? As Joe’s ex-wife, I’m the most likely person to have had a grudge against him.”

  I flashed back to Mary. Did she hate me? Or had she already relegated me to her past?

  “Did you have one?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “We fought—not as much as we used to when we were married, but we just couldn’t change those old patterns. To make life less awkward Joe and I tried to get along. But it seemed like every time we got together we argued. Even last night, we fought. I’m thinking of going out west-- I have an offer to teach and run a writing program in Nevada. Joe couldn’t believe I wanted to leave Eastern. It was as bad as when I asked him for a divorce.”

  “You were arguing last night?” I asked. “Outside?”

  She nodded. “I slipped out for a cigarette and ran into Joe. He used to smoke, too you know. But then he stopped, and every time he caught me smoking he started in on me. I got so frustrated with him. I said some foolish things and apparently that police detective found out about them.”

  I stirred in some chocolate syrup with one hand as I foamed the milk with the other. While the machine buzzed, I wondered what it would be like to see Mary again—to know where she lived, to pass her at the grocery or while I was out walking Rochester. But that kind of thinking was useless.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You threatened to kill him.”

  “More or less. I think I actually said something like, ‘Sometimes you frustrate me so much I could just kill you, Joe Dagorian!’ But of course I didn’t mean it. I promised to go over to the house after the party was over so he could tell me why he needed me around to support him.”

  I found a can of whipped cream in the refrigerator and topped the mochas, then handed hers to her. “Norah, who do you think killed Joe?”

  “I don’t know, Steve, I just don’t know. He was a good man at heart, and I loved him once. But when I took back my name I took back my heart, and that was six years ago. Joe never understood me and he never understood why we divorced. I can imagine that he misunderstood someone else, and that’s what led to his death.”

  “Someone at the college?”

  She reached down and scratched behind Rochester’s ears, and he yawned, stretching his mouth open and showing his rows of white teeth.

  “I can’t say. Although you know, as I do, that Joe didn’t have much of a life beyond Eastern College. If he had, maybe he would have let me go a little easier. It’s awful to say, but his death has freed me of a terrible burden. I can go to Nevada now, or I can stay here in Leighville without him watching me and provoking me. It’s a wonderful sense of freedom.”

  “He wasn’t your husband any more, Norah,” I said.

  “When two people are married for as long as Joe and I were you have a history between you that doesn’t dissolve with the legal decree. Joe depended on me, and I still cared for him enough to listen to him sometimes. I knew that he was desperate that I stay around Leighville, but he wouldn’t tell me why. He just kept saying he would need me soon, that I had to be there for him.”

  “Did you see or hear anyone else while you were outside?”

  “I can’t really remember. I know it was very quiet. The only people I saw were two older women waiting to go into the party. They must have heard me arguing with Joe.”

  “Probably. Probably repeated it word for word to the police.”

  I retrieved a carton of biscotti from the cabinet and sat down across from Norah. “What do you think I can do for you?”

  I broke off a piece of biscotti and fed it to Rochester.

  “You’re friendly with that police detective. Rinaldi. Can you talk to him for me? Tell him I didn’t do it?”

  “We’re not friends. Just acquaintances. And honestly, Norah, I don’t have any influence over him. ” I shook my head. “But someone else spoke to Joe after you did. That person killed him. We just have to trust Tony to find that person.”

  I sipped my café mocha. It wasn’t quite as good as I could have gotten at a café, but it was all right.
“Can you think of anyone who might have held a grudge against Joe?”

  She shook her head. “I sat up most of last night thinking, and I can’t come up with anyone. But you know, Joe saved everything. Maybe if you looked through his files you could come up with something.”

  "I can do that. I’ll get Sally Marston to help," I said.

  I walked Norah back to the front door of Fields Hall, Rochester by my side. “I’ll do what I can, Norah. I want to find out what happened to Joe. You know he was a mentor to me.”

  “Thank you, Steve. ” She leaned down and scratched behind Rochester’s ears. “And you take care of this good boy, here.”

  “No worries about that. Rochester knows who’s in charge around here, and that character has four paws and a tail.”

  8 – The Crackpot Files

  I took Rochester back to my office and left him there, then walked to Sally’s office, which was empty. I found her down the hall in Joe’s old office, one of the largest in Fields Hall, with French doors like the ones in my office, and a sweeping view over the front of the campus. Downhill I could see the massive iron gates that marked the entrance to Eastern. To the right and left were classroom buildings in gray and brown fieldstone. A few students crossed the campus, bundled against the cold.

  “I was just talking to Norah Leedom,” I said. “She says the police think she killed Joe.”

  “I can’t believe that. She’s such a nice person. And she’s a vegan.”

  “Like vegans never commit murder,” I said. “Anyway, she suggested I look through Joe's files and see if I can come up with any other suspects. I was hoping you might have some free time to help.”

  "Joe saved every letter ever written to him," Sally said drily. "I'm sure we can turn up a few crackpots with a motive for murder.” She stood up and crossed the room to a file cabinet against the back wall. “It’s creepy to be in here when he hasn’t even been buried yet. But I need access to all his files and I can’t keep running back and forth.”