A Bias for Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Halley’s face seemed to be crumbling under Po’s concern. Slender fingers groped for a water bottle sitting on the counter beside a pad of paper.

  “Maybe you should sit down, Halley,” Po said. She touched her arm.

  Halley shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said softly. “But thank you.” She leaned forward, her arms on the counter, her level gaze holding Po’s attention. Her voice was low, but filled with a new sound, an intensity that for a moment startled Po and seemed out of place in the mild-mannered woman and in the quiet library.

  “Someone needs to listen,” Halley Peterson said. Her hands were shaking now, making small thumping noises on the library desk, her green eyes lit. “I don’t think Ollie’s death was normal. It wasn’t right. I think…I think someone wanted Ollie Harrington to die.”

  Chapter 6

  Po had had no time to respond. Several students needing Halley’s attention had cut short her conversation with the librarian. She checked out her book and left the library.

  But Halley’s words stayed with her, ringing in her ears. Surely she didn’t mean the words literally. She was emotional. A friend had died and she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. But the short conversation left Po disturbed and her head cluttered with questions.

  She checked her watch, wishing she had time to go back into the library when Halley was free. But it was late. And she had just enough time to get ready for Eleanor’s cocktail party before Max Elliot, the always prompt attorney and financial advisor, picked her up.

  A quick shower helped wash away the niggling feeling she carried home. A pair of silky black slacks and a bright blue wraparound blouse made her feel at least a semblance of festivity. She ran a brush through her hair, ignored the strands of gray woven through it, and glanced briefly in the full-length mirror, ensuring nothing was out of place.

  “Po, you up there?” Max Elliot stood at the foot of the staircase, one hand on the walnut post. “It’s time to go. And what did I tell you about locking these doors? I could have run off with everything.”

  A bark accompanied his words and Po laughed. Hoover wasn’t much of a watchdog, but he loved her. And also most of the people who came through the unlocked doors.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Po called back, ignoring the gentle scolding, even though his comment didn’t come out of the blue. It had only been a year since she and Max had both been in danger when someone entered her home through the open front door. And although she wouldn’t give Max the satisfaction by telling him, she did lock her doors. Sometimes.

  Po swept blush across her cheekbones and she was nearly set to go. Grabbing a black shawl from the back of a chair, she headed down to a waiting Max.

  “If I had locked the door, dear Max,” she said with a grin, “how could you possibly have gotten in?”

  Max sighed and kissed her on the cheek, the familiar answer lost in the pleasure of seeing her. “I would have broken it down to see you. You look lovely, by the way.”

  A friend of both Po and her husband Bruce’s for as long as Po could remember, Max had become a trusted confidant when Bruce died, helping Po sort through the investments and trusts Bruce had left.

  But in recent months the two had slipped into a habit of attending movies and lectures and social gatherings together, and Po admitted to Leah recently that the nice-looking widower with the quick wit was adding a new, surprising dimension to her life. “The heart can still somersault a bit,” she had confessed, although she wasn’t sure she wanted it to be much more than that. Bruce Paltrow still lived in her heart and her home and her life—and she wasn’t sure there was room in those places for anyone else.

  * * * *

  The ride to Eleanor’s was short and Po and Max drove in comfortable silence, speaking only when the lights from the large three-story house on the corner of the Canterbury campus lit up the night. In the distance, the ivy-covered campus buildings rose like silhouettes against the darkening sky.

  Max pulled into the long circle drive, parking behind a black SUV. “It looks like a full house.”

  “That’s our Eleanor—she loves her family home coming alive.” Although tonight’s event was officially a college function, Eleanor never hesitated to add her own guest list to the official one when she was opening the doors of Canterbury House for the event. It was her prerogative, she claimed, and no one complained. And with one of the honorees this evening being a popular professor, the crowd was bound to be colorful, eclectic, and noisy.

  They walked into the mix of voices and laughter, accompanied by a small jazz combo playing a medley of old Ray Charles tunes. If Eleanor had her way, which she surely would, Po knew the music would become livelier once the evening progressed.

  Kate and P.J. were standing in the high-ceilinged living room, just off the front hall, talking with Jed Fellers. Kate’s two-inch heels brought her green eyes up to P.J.’s level.

  Po swallowed the pleasure that being Kate’s godmother brought her on a continuous basis, even when she and Kate were at odds, which happened when Po tried to decide what was best for Kate. And most often Kate treated her the same way she had her own mother: with great love sometimes peppered with irritation.

  Po hugged her tightly, hiding the sudden spurt of emotion that sometimes overwhelmed her when she thought of Kate’s mother. She missed her best friend as much today as when she had died nearly four years earlier.

  Kate finally wiggled free. “Yes, I miss her too,” she whispered to her godmother.

  Po turned toward the tall, lanky professor standing across from her. “What a treat, seeing you twice in one day. Congratulations again.”

  “Thanks for coming, Po. You, too, Max. It was nice of the college and Eleanor to do this—it’s great to see old friends.”

  “Eleanor loves an excuse for a party. And you are part of a very nice excuse.”

  Max shook Jed’s hand. “Sounds like the pressure is on at the university to publish. Good for you. And for the record, it’s a great book. I got an advanced reader’s copy.”

  Jed nodded. “The publisher sent out a slew of those. Niggling for reviews and booksellers’ attention.”

  Kate picked up a copy of Jed’s book from a table displaying it. “A Plain Man’s Guide to a Starry Night,” she said out loud. “Well, that’s me, for sure. I will be a perfect test case.”

  Jed laughed. “Katie, you are anything but plain.”

  P.J. wrapped on arm around her shoulders, agreeing. “According to our favorite bookstore owner, the book isn’t plain either. Gus Schuette is devoting the whole window to you. It looks interesting. Astronomy has always been a secret passion of mine.”

  “Oh?” Kate turned her head and looked up into P.J.’s face. Her brows lifted. “A passion?”

  “Well, secondary passion,” P.J. said. He tugged lightly on a loose strand of Kate’s hair.

  Hearing his name, Gus Schuette walked over to the group. “It’s a terrific book,” he boomed. “And I know books. Even the Times agrees with me.”

  Jed’s face colored slightly. “It’s just a little book. The fuss is unmerited.”

  “Well, big or little, it will be nice to have the university’s publishing pressure off your back for a while,” Max said.

  “Here, here,” said Jed, lifting his glass. “That I will definitely toast to.”

  “Ah, my friends are here.” Eleanor walked up behind the professor. “The party can now begin. Good. Sometimes the university crew is a little boring.” She kissed Jed on the cheek. “You excluded, my dear.”

  “I think that’s a compliment,” Jed said. “El, you’re nice to do this.”

  “Pshaw with nice. I love it. It’s a chance to be merry. We needed a diversion, Jed, and you and the others have stepped into the excuse role nicely.”

  “You mean Ollie’s death,” Jed asked. “I agree with that. Even my students ar
e feeling it.”

  “Yes, of course. But in addition, I think the whole town is in an uproar over Adele Harrington and the house everyone and his brother seem to want.” Eleanor waved to an old friend walking in the door, excusing herself and playing the hostess.

  “The commotion over the Harrington house is curious,” Max said. “Folks have disagreed with property sales and zoning laws before, but this is out of proportion.”

  “Well, there’s a lot of money at stake,” Gus said.

  “Sure—but the land belongs to Adele, clean and clear. Tom Adler over at Prairie Development had me check—he claims Oliver promised to sell the house to him for a development. Says he saw the paper himself.”

  “Tom Adler?” Kate said. She took a piece of crisp pita topped with a sliver of rare tuna from a passing waiter.

  “Adler claims Oliver wrote it out, like a will,” Max said. “Ollie didn’t want Adele to get the house, according to Tom, and they were going to sign an agreement that would allow Oliver to live in the house free and clear as long as he liked, then Tom would take it over. But there’s nothing I can find that even hints at that.” Max took a drink of his bourbon and then added, “Tom claims someone should check more closely into how Oliver died. I told him suggestions like that could do damage in a town this size and his disappointment could be handled some other way.”

  Po listened to the conversation around her with interest, her thoughts returning to Halley Peterson and the sentiment Po had dismissed as the voice of grief. Oliver didn’t die from a fall down the stairs, she had implied.

  P.J. returned to the group carrying a tray of champagne and stood between Kate and Po. “What are you worried about, Po?”

  “Conversations like this are worrisome. Perhaps if Ollie’s body could be released and a memorial service held, people might settle down and we might all feel some closure.”

  P.J. nodded, but his silence was an uncomfortable one.

  Kate looked at him, frowning. “It’s not like you not to offer an opinion. What gives? Has Adele taken care of everything and we simply don’t know about it?”

  “Everything?” P.J. asked, avoiding the question.

  “You know what I’m asking. Has the body been released?”

  “Soon,” he said.

  “Well now, that’s just plain odd,” Eleanor said. She’d come up behind them quietly, listening to the conversation. “Let the poor man rest in peace. It was a heart attack, plain and simple.”

  P.J. felt his pocket as a vibrating cell phone interrupted their talk. He pulled it out and glanced at the number on the small screen, then looked up. “Sorry folks, gotta take this.” He moved to a quiet corner to take the call.

  Another waiter passed by, carrying a platter of chicken satay with a crystal cup of gingery peanut sauce. Small plates were passed around, and the group quickly emptied the tray.

  “Eleanor, you certainly know how to throw a party,” Kate said, balancing her plate in one hand and finding a tall table to set down her glass of champagne. “This is terrific.”

  “The house should be used this way. One old soul doesn’t do justice to it,” Eleanor said. “It was what old Grandpop Canterbury intended. He loved nothing better than a good party.”

  Po laughed and looked up at the enormous portrait of Harrison Canterbury hanging over the fireplace. White hair perfectly coiffed. Strong cheekbones and a serious chin. But the artist had caught an adventurous glint in his eyes that perfectly mirrored the one in his daughter Eleanor’s.

  Harrison had built his elegant home over a century before, after he had moved his family from the east to the small Kansas town. A much better place to raise kids, he had told anyone who asked. And having inherited a fortune as a railroad baron’s son, he soon built Crestwood a bank, a department store, and a church, and prettied up the city with several parks. But once his children were older, Harrison decided that what the town really needed was a college, and so he built one, right in the family’s wooded backyard. Though the home belonged to the Canterburys until they all died, Eleanor insisted the home remain an active part of the college, just as Harrison Canterbury himself had done.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Kate said, pausing between bites to stare at the front door. “Look who’s here.”

  Po glanced over. The double doors were left open as guests came and went and her view was blocked by a couple headed toward the exit. When they moved on, Po stared into the hallway. “Well, that’s a surprise,” she said.

  Adele Harrington stood alone, tall and elegant in a periwinkle silk dress. Her hair was down, falling loosely about her shoulders and held back from her face by a small ebony comb. It was a transformation that drew unintentional sounds from Kate and Po. “What happened to the wicked witch of the north?” Kate whispered.

  Though not beautiful in a traditional sense, Adele was striking tonight, her imposing manner heightened by careful makeup and clothing. She stood alone, like an actor on a stage looking out over her audience.

  “With her recent loss, I didn’t think she would want to come,” Eleanor said softly. “But everyone is welcome to these things. I’m happy she came.”

  Although she couldn’t have heard Eleanor’s kind words, Adele turned at that moment and spotted the small group, acknowledging them with a careful smile. She walked their way. “Hello, everyone. Po, Kate, Max.” She nodded to Gus, and then focused on her host. “This is a lovely party, Eleanor.”

  “It’s a happy group. And I for one, am so pleased you came, Adele.” Eleanor looked at Jed. “Do you and Professor Jed Fellers know one another? He’s one of our excuses for having this affair.”

  Jed shook Adele’s hand and bowed slightly.

  “Yes, we’ve met,” Adele said.

  “When Ollie won the award for his essay,” Jed said. “I remember. What I remember especially is how happy he was that you came.”

  Adele looked pleased.

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I am, Adele,” Jed went on. “I’ll miss your brother. He was a student of mine, but really more than that. Ollie was an inspiration to my students.” Jed paused, then said, “Ollie was my friend.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Adele said. Her voice softened, but only slightly. And then she turned back toward Eleanor and acknowledged that she hadn’t been invited. “But I was sure you wouldn’t mind. I wanted to be around people who knew Ollie.”

  “Of course,” Eleanor said. “You are welcome here. Always. And there are many people here who will be pleased to meet you. Come.” She took Adele’s arm and turned her away, introducing her to a passing couple that taught at the college.

  “Where’s P.J?” Kate whispered to Po.

  Po stepped away, looking around the groups of people. “I saw him reach for his phone as Adele walked in. Then he disappeared.”

  Taller than Po by an inch or two, Kate peered over the tops of heads. “Found him,” she said, pointing toward the foyer.

  P.J. spotted them at the same time and wove his way over, circling groups as if he were in a hurry. His face was tight, brows pulled together.

  “P.J., what’s wrong?” Kate’s smile faded when she looked into the concern clouding his face.

  “I have to leave,” he said softly. “Bad news.” He looked around, then motioned Kate and Po over to a quiet spot at the edge of the fireplace. “It’s what we were expecting. But it’s finally confirmed and will soon be public knowledge. Ollie didn’t have a heart attack. He was poisoned.”

  A sound behind them seemed to accompany P.J.’s muted awful words.

  Three steps away, standing alone and looking up at the portrait of the founder of Canterbury College, Adele Harrington stiffened at the sound of her brother’s name. And then, as if it had taken those few seconds for P.J.’s words to settle in a proper order that gave them meaning, her strong shoulders sagged and a sigh escaped her li
ps, the sound of trapped air escaping.

  “Adele—” Po took a step toward her, her hand outstretched.

  But before she could touch her, Adele Harrington’s carefully held-together body caved in on itself and began to slide, folding up like a rag doll in the center of Eleanor’s thick crimson Gabbeh rug.

  Chapter 7

  The gossip surrounding Adele Harrington’s new bed and breakfast paled in the wake of the news that her brother had been murdered.

  “I never thought I would feel sorry for Adele Harrington,” Selma Parker said, smoothing out a stretch of fabric on her cutting table. “But my heart goes out to the poor woman. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.”

  “My thoughts exactly. It doesn’t make sense. Ollie was a kind, simple man who would never hurt anyone.” Po stood at the counter in the quilt shop, watching Selma cut into the deep blue fabric. “I can only imagine how heavy her heart is.” Po rummaged in her purse for her wallet.

  Thoughts of Ollie had stayed with her through the night, pushing sleep aside. She’d finally driven away the sad thought and used the time to imagine his quilt—her quilt, the one she would put together for him. The one that would bring sweet thoughts of him alive and block out the awfulness of his death.

  She had imagined the perfect pattern, a multitude of stars of every shape. And with Selma’s help they’d found fabric in golds, rusts, and deep, rich greens to make the quilt come to life in the small clean room that had been Ollie’s.

  “These colors are perfect. It’s almost as if Ollie helped us pick them.” Selma folded the pieces into a neat pile and slipped them into a bag. “It must have been an awful scene last night at the Canterbury house.”

  Po handed Selma her credit card. She nodded. “Max and I took Adele home. By the time we got her inside and poured her a shot of brandy, she was thinking clearly and suggested strongly that we leave. I think she’s denying this horrible news. She tried to make light of her fall, saying something about crashing Eleanor’s party—then having it crash her. But as hard as she tried to hide her emotion, there was pure agony in her eyes.”