A Nice Murder For Mom

by James Yaffe

  “But what’s all this going to lead to?”

  “It’s a little idea I’ve got, but I don’t want yet to tell you.”

  “Not even a hint?”

  “All right, you want a hint? A dark lady is going to come into your life and tell you a secret.”

  “Mom, it sounds like a fortune cookie!”

  “Why not? You can learn a lot from fortune cookies, if you know how to read them right.”

  And so, at two o’clock, I was at the college chapel for the Bellamy memorial service.

  I was among the last to slip in, but there was no problem finding a seat up close. There weren’t more than thirty faculty and students, sitting in the central section just below the altar. The rest of that large dimly lit interior was empty. This produced a pretty eerie effect, with those imitation Gothic arches stretched high above our little group and the organ playing. No instrument gives me the creeps like an organ.

  On the podium, in chairs grouped behind the college chaplain, seven or eight solemn professorial types were sitting. I saw Marcus Van Horn and Samantha Fletcher but no Mike Russo.

  The college chaplain is the Reverend Ethelbert Underwood, D.D., professor of religion, and I run into him every few months at dinners given by the local Rotarians, where he’s called upon to deliver the invocation and the benediction. Several times I’ve sat at the same table with him and been entertained by his inexhaustible supply of dirty limericks.

  Like so many clergymen—all creeds and denominations including all the rabbis I’ve ever known—Bert changes his whole personality as soon as he steps into a pulpit. His voice goes down an octave and develops a tremolo, his eyes roll heavenward, his hands clasp together, he turns into God. So it was this afternoon, as he delivered a sermon about death not being the end but the beginning. Sermon Number 10-A, they all use it sooner or later.

  The professors then stood up one by one and read their poems, in historical order.

  Samantha Fletcher began, in a low intense voice that kept threatening to turn into a sob, with something from the Middle Ages. It was written in some kind of Old English, which made the words totally incomprehensible.

  The Shakespearean man read a sonnet by Shakespeare, all about how the deceased didn’t want people to mourn for him because he loved them so much that he just couldn’t bear for them to shed tears on his account.

  From what I’d been hearing about Stuart Bellamy, he didn’t have to worry.

  Marcus Van Horn, in a voice that was reeking with sadness and solemnity—but also very controlled, so that every word carried in that big room—read a selection from Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.”

  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

  And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

  Awaits alike the inevitable hour.

  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

  Very true, I suppose. But I’ll bet, in his mind, Van Horn was making an exception of full professors of English and department chairmen. Their paths certainly couldn’t lead to the grave. God wouldn’t have such a distorted sense of values.

  Several other professors covered the stretch of literary history from the romantics to the moderns, and then that organ music sent us out to the campus again. After the darkness of the chapel, I blinked from the afternoon sun. After Thursday’s snowstorm, we had been having nothing but bright sun. Most of the snow had melted away, you’d hardly have believed it was ever there.

  On the grass just below the chapel steps, a knot of people had formed, and a line of others was filing past them. In the knot I noticed the dean of the college, Lewis Bradbury, with thick white hair whose waves must have been cultivated through hours of brushing every morning. With him were two women, one in her middle thirties, the other in her sixties, both dressed in extremely chic black dresses. The younger one was very blond, and the older one, before her hair turned white, must have been, too. Bellamy’s sister and mother, I figured, all the way from Providence, Rhode Island.

  I didn’t join the line. Instead I wandered around among the mourners, letting myself be looked at, as Mom had told me to do. Along the way I noticed how many of them were chatting with one another very cheerfully. I’ve noticed that before at funerals. Sometimes, except for the costumes, it’s hard to tell them from weddings.

  I hung around this way for close to half an hour, until the crowd in front of the chapel was down to a few stragglers. Then I went home and told Mom what I had done.

  “And I’m damned if I’ve got the foggiest idea why I did it!”

  Mom just gave me her gentlest smile. “Only wait,” she said. “What time is it now? A little after four? So give it another hour. Take my word for it, you’ll hear from her by five-thirty.”

  “Hear from who?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “Whose girlfriend?”

  “The Chicano boy—his girlfriend.”

  “What girlfriend? He may have one, but we don’t have any idea who she is.”

  “Of course we know who she is. It’s the lady professor—what’s her name?—Samantha Fletcher.”

  I stared at Mom for a second or two. I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

  “But you couldn’t have any doubts about it, could you?” Mom went on. “When she talked to you yesterday, at that Snuggery place, you asked her if she knows any short dark-haired student who wears earrings. She said she didn’t. Later on in the conversation, though, she told you don’t waste your time looking for mysterious Chicano students with earrings. How did she know that the student you were asking about was a Chicano? You never mentioned that to her. She knew it because she knew the boy, he was in touch with her since you talked to him, he told her already that you were suspicious of him.

  “Once I noticed this little slip, it wasn’t so hard to remember something else. The boy told you that he showed his midterm exam to a friend of his, somebody who knew a lot about literature. Somebody, like the boy said, ‘who knows what these English-professor dudes are looking for.’ Who would be likely to know such a thing? Another student, or another English-professor dude? Does it make sense this boy should think his exam deserved an A-minus just because another student told him so? Is any student going to believe, with such confidence, that some other student could be a judge of his work? But such a thing he could believe about a professor.

  “So do you follow it now, why it’s such a good thing you spoke tough to the boy this morning and made him think he was going to be arrested for the murder? As soon as he could, he told her about it, what else? And she’s been worrying what to do ever since. And then she saw you at the service this afternoon, and she’s been saying to herself, ‘He’s a kind, sympathetic type, maybe he’ll listen to reason.’”

  “Listen to reason about what?”

  “You’ll find out as soon as you talk to her. She’ll phone you any minute now.”

  I was shaking my head. “Mom, you can’t possibly make such a prediction!”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m all wrong. So suppose we sit here and wait, and if the phone wouldn’t ring I’ll be happy to beg your pardon.”

  Mom settled back in the chintz-covered rocker, folded her hands in her lap, and looked as if she was prepared to wait forever.

  At that moment the phone rang, and I picked up the receiver.

  “I have to talk to you—please!” said the voice at the other end of the line. “This is Samantha Fletcher from the college!”

  CHAPTER 22

  MOM RECOGNIZED THE VOICE, and I saw the little flash of triumph in her eyes. Along with a lot of other things in life, Mom loves her little triumphs.

  I arranged to meet Samantha Fletcher in fifteen minutes, on the front steps of the courthouse. The building closes early on Saturdays, so I told her I’d have to let us in with my key, and then we could talk in my office.

  I promised to come alone.

  She was there ahead of me, pacing in
front of the long stone steps that led up to the front entrance. She didn’t say anything when I came up to her. She looked pretty shaky to me, so I took hold of her arm, and with my other hand I opened one of the small doors next to the big revolving door.

  The inside of the courthouse, usually so noisy and crowded, looked like a deserted canyon. The elevators were locked, of course, so we had to climb two flights of stairs. The sound of our shoes clicking against the marble steps echoed loudly through those high-ceilinged hallways.

  I opened my office door, and Samantha Fletcher slid past me quickly. As I shut the door, she muttered, “Oh God, I know I’m going to regret this! If anybody ever found out—”

  “Then you’d better leave right now,” I said.

  She flinched, as if I had made a threatening gesture. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you’ve got information about the Bellamy murder, there may not be any way of keeping it confidential. You may have to testify in court.”

  She looked as if I had followed through on the threatening gesture. “But what I have to say—you won’t want to bring it out in court. It can’t help Mike—I wish it could, but it can’t. All I’m trying to do is keep you from hurting somebody else.”

  “Luis Vallejos?”

  She stared at me, then she gave a low moan. “How did you find out about us? Did Luis—?” She wasn’t able to finish the sentence.

  “He didn’t say a word about you. He gave us a crazy story about eating alone on Wednesday night at a restaurant, he said he couldn’t remember what it was called or where it was. I think he’d go off to the gas chamber without ever giving you away.”

  I saw that her eyes were wet, and there was a soft smile on her face. “I’d never let him do that. No matter what happens to me.”

  She paused, struggled to get her voice under control, then said, “I’d like to take off my coat.”

  It was a winter overcoat, with a faded look; I don’t suppose she bought clothes for herself very often. I started over to help her with the coat, but she jerked away from me. “For God’s sake, no chivalry please! I’m feeling foolish enough as it is.”

  I stepped back, and took the coat from her when it was off. I hung it up in the closet, as she dropped into my battered old leather armchair.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I asked. “Or maybe something to drink?”

  I keep a bottle of Scotch in the bottom drawer of my desk. I’m no big drinker myself, but sometimes it comes in handy for a client.

  “No—no thank you,” she said. “I want to know—are you really going to do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “What you and the public defender threatened to do—when you talked to Luis this morning.”

  “We didn’t threaten anything. He was out at Bellamy’s house Wednesday night, he admits it himself. We’ll look into that further, and if it helps our client—”

  “But Luis didn’t do it. He got there too late—he wasn’t near that house at the time of the murder. I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Luis and I were together that night, just before he went out to Stu’s house. He wanted to see me because he was worried about flunking Stu Bellamy’s course, he wanted my advice on what to do. So we went to a restaurant, the Seafood Grotto, on Kit Carson Boulevard.”

  “What time was that?”

  “We met there at six-thirty. The Seafood Grotto is one of our usual places. Not exactly a gourmet palace, but it’s way over Luis’ head in price. He never lets me pay the check, though, his manhood wouldn’t stand for that. Anyway, we go there because it’s very big and crowded, and the college people don’t go there. Much too lower class, strictly for the rednecks.

  “We take our own separate cars and meet at the entrance—too much risk we might be seen driving together. Afterward we usually go back to my place, but Wednesday night I had to put in an appearance at Marcus Van Horn’s gathering, so I was planning to give Luis my house key. The idea was he’d wait for me at my house, and I’d be with him by eleven o’clock or so.”

  “But it didn’t work out that way?”

  “No. There was something funny about that night from the start. Something on Luis’ mind. He even looked different somehow, his face was different. I know what it was now, of course, he was thinking about going out to see Stu Bellamy, about how he had to make some last attempt to get Stu off his back.”

  “Did Luis know about—?”

  “That Stu and I were lovers once? No, I never told Luis that. He’s too honest and open. Stu was riding him pretty hard in that course, and Luis could’ve lost control one day, and accused Stu of getting back at me on account of our affair. Luis could’ve played the noble lover standing up for my honor. And Stu was no dope, he would’ve figured out exactly what was going on between us. That was one thing I didn’t want to happen, to give Stu Bellamy that kind of a weapon against me.

  “You want me to get back to Wednesday night, don’t you? Well, Luis and I had dinner, and then he went out to the men’s room to comb his hair. He always does that just before we go home together. It’s his little-boy vanity, I suppose. It didn’t matter to me, I love him whether his hair is combed or mussed.

  “He came back from the men’s room, he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. ‘I have to go,’ he said, ‘there’s something I have to do.’ He paid the check, and we left the restaurant, and he saw me to my car and said, ‘I’ll be at your house by ten, long before you get there. We won’t lose any time at all.’ Then he drove off, going very fast in that jalopy he always borrowed from his sister.”

  “What time was it when you and Luis left the Seafood Grotto?”

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s why I’m talking to you now, getting ready to flush my academic career down the drain. It was about twenty to eight or so when we left the Grotto. It’s only a few minutes from there to Marcus Van Horn’s house, so I was at the party by a quarter of. But Stu lived way out, Luis couldn’t have made it from the restaurant to Blackhawk Road in less than twenty-five minutes, and that would be going fast—which I guess he was doing, because Luis likes to drive fast. The point is, he couldn’t have got to Stu’s house any earlier than five or ten after eight. And Stu was killed at five before eight—I heard it happening with my own ears.”

  “Can anyone confirm the time you and Luis left the restaurant?”

  “Meaning a woman in love might lie to save her boyfriend’s neck? Yes, I’m sure that’s true. But there were people at the Seafood Grotto who must’ve seen us there until twenty of eight. The waitress—the woman who seats people—the people we talked to at the table next to us, all of them singing ‘Happy Birthday’ for this old couple. You’ll talk to them, won’t you? You’ll see that Luis couldn’t have done the murder!”

  She stopped talking, but when I didn’t say anything right away, she spoke up again. “Are you going to tell the police about him now?”

  I didn’t want to answer that yet. So I started a question of my own. “How did you get—” I didn’t finish though, because my question already sounded pretty tactless in my ears.

  “How did I ever get involved with him?” She didn’t seem to be the least bit offended. “It’s natural to ask, isn’t it? Older women and younger men—they’re still a strange sight in our society. In spite of all those ancient Hollywood glamour girls with their young studs. Though I don’t see myself that way, you know. Glamorous I’m not. And not ancient either, though I’m feeling pretty close to it at the moment. And to me Luis has never been any kind of stud. I never want any man to be a stud to me. Just as I never want to be a piece of ass to any man.

  “And that’s not what I was to Luis either, in case you’re thinking it. He’s a sweet boy. From the beginning that’s mostly what he was, sweet. And that turned out to be exactly what I was looking for. After Stu Bellamy, I mean. Whatever else I got from Stu, sweet definitely wasn’t part of it.”

  “How did it begin?”

  “It
was back in January, when Luis was just starting Stu’s Nineteenth-Century American Novel class. He was having trouble with one of the books, and he went to Stu’s office to ask for help. Stu wasn’t there, but I was in my office, and I heard him knocking on Stu’s door, and he looked so forlorn—well, I asked him if there was anything I could do to help, and the next thing you know he was sitting across the desk from me in my office, and I was giving him the word on Washington Irving.

  “And all the time I was droning away about Ichabod Crane, I was thinking how beautiful and vulnerable and serious and—and sweet this boy was. Boy. I called him a boy, in my mind, that first time. I still think of him as a boy. And believe me, I don’t think of myself as a girl. A grown woman lusting after a boy. Maternal fixation and so on. I suppose I’d had about enough of grown men for a while.

  “Well, I’ll try very hard to make a long story short. After that first session—that pure, high-minded, totally innocent tutoring session—I suggested it might be of some value for him if we did it again. Maybe he could come to my house some evening after dinner. Yes, it was just as crude as that. You can’t blame him for accepting the invitation. For a boy of nineteen it’s exciting and flattering when an older woman takes an interest in him, when for once he isn’t the one who has to make the advances.”

  “It’s been going on since the beginning of the term?”

  “Two months, a little longer. It won’t keep going for another two months, I can tell you that. Not that I ever expected it would.”

  “But the way he’s acting now—”

  “Oh yes. He thinks it’s forever. He hasn’t found out yet how boring it’s going to be for him. One more month, that’s about what I give it—if you don’t drag him into this murder case.” She took a breath, then went on, “You didn’t answer my question yet. Are you going to drag him in?”

  I didn’t know what to say. If she was telling the truth—and there seemed to be witnesses who could confirm her story—what would be the point of bringing the Vallejos boy into the case?