by Hazel Holt
‘You think she’s got something on her mind?’ Linda asked.
‘That’s the feeling I get,’ I replied. ‘Of course I hardly know her, so I don’t like to ask any personal questions ...’
‘Maybe I should speak to her,’ Linda said.
‘Boyfriend trouble?’ I asked.
‘Not with Gina,’ Linda replied. ‘She doesn’t care for men.’
Tiger, who had come into the room, suddenly jumped on to my bed and began kneading the covers with his claws.
‘No, Tiger,’ I said. ‘I’m getting up now.’
He ignored me and came up on to the pillow, rubbing his head against my arm.
‘Oh, Tiger!’ I said weakly. ‘Well, perhaps five more minutes.’
He curled up beside me, purring loudly, and Linda laughed.
‘I’ll leave you two,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have a shower. Have a rest—you’ve had a bad experience, after all. Take things easy this morning. You’ve got nothing scheduled until three thirty.’
I settled myself more comfortably and stroked Tiger’s tawny head. ‘What about you?’
Linda groaned. ‘Departmental committee meeting. Still,’ she brightened up, ‘perhaps Loring will be so upset about his brother he won’t show up!’
When Linda returned at midday to collect some books and to have what passes for lunch with her (an apple and a mug of herbal tea) I asked her if Carl Loring had been at the meeting.
‘He sure was,’ she said. ‘Rob Huron made a little speech about how sorry we all were about Max and he sat there—well, I won’t say he was actually revelling in it, but he certainly was pleased to be the centre of attention. He had on that smug look I loathe so much. Godammit, his brother was killed last night and there he was ... Honestly, Sheila, I went to that meeting prepared to be sorry for the sleaze!’
She bit fiercely into her apple and I said, ‘Perhaps he’s one of those people who hide their real feelings.’
Linda snorted. ‘Feelings! That creep has nothing you could describe as feelings! No, he obviously doesn’t give a damn about Max’s death, except to bask in whatever sympathy he can call up and use it as an excuse for getting his own way. Do you know he nearly got away with what he calls peer workshops for students to evaluate the feedback on their writing—can you believe the jargon!—because we all felt bad about really laying into him today. Fortunately Dave realized what the little toad was up to and put a stop to it, but it was a close thing!’
The next day, when she came for her conference, I regarded Sam with something like awe. She was looking marvellous in what looked like a Chanel original and she appeared to have yet another diamond ring, larger and even more sparkling than the rest, on her engagement finger. She gave me a brilliant smile and handed me a large paper bag.
‘Hi!’ she said. ‘I baked you some bread, fresh this morning.’
Inside the bag was a golden brown, intricately plaited loaf.
‘Oh, Sam, how kind. It smells heavenly. I can hardly resist eating it here and now!’
‘I love to bake and I was up early this morning because my horse, you know, the chestnut gelding, was sick and I had to tend to him. I made a whole batch of cookies, too—the chocolate ones that Hal likes. That man surely can eat cookies!’
Was a plate of cookies a reasonable exchange for a six-million-dollar contract? I wondered. And I looked at Sam, glowing and golden, and I decided that Hal probably thought so.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘thank you for changing the times. I’m afraid I overslept yesterday.’
‘You must have felt really bad,’ Sam said, looking at me with concern. ‘It surely must have been a bad moment for you, finding him like that.’
‘It was pretty awful,’ I said. ‘I suppose it would have been worse if I’d actually known him, but even so ... Did you know him?’
Her face clouded.
‘He was a creep,’ she said. ‘He made a pass at me once and when I slapped him down, he got that slimy little brother of his and all his minions to make life hell for me here at Wilmot so that I’d drop out. But,’ she continued with a grim smile, ‘he chose the wrong person to try that on. I guess when I’ve made up my mind to do something I usually see it through! Besides, Linda and Dave were great, so supportive! I owe them a lot.’
‘Max Loring sounds as vile as his brother,’ I said.
‘He’s a sleaze,’ Sam said dismissively. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.’
Indeed, there seemed to be few people who would grieve for Max Loring.
Chapter Six
I had begun to find my way about the town, and one afternoon, when I had finished classes for the day I went to a little cafe in Main Street to eat home-made brownies and drink lemon tea. It was a delightful place, part of a kitchen shop, which sold all sorts of exciting and (to me) exotic kitchen equipment. I had already marked out a tablecloth and napkins decorated with little birds and other Pennsylvania Dutch good-luck symbols as a suitable present to take back for my friend Rosemary. A few days after the murder I was sitting there, stirring my lemon tea and idly turning the pages of the fall issue of The Wilmot Literary Review when a voice at my elbow said, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
I looked up, and for a moment didn’t recognize the man standing beside me. Then I realized that it was Lieutenant Landis. He looked different somehow, less tired, I suppose, and of course I wasn’t really expecting to see a policeman in Katy’s Kitchen.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘How nice to see you. Though I’m a little surprised to find you in these feminine surroundings!’
He smiled and sat down opposite me.
‘I used to come here with my wife in the old days,’ he said, ‘and now—well, it’s one place where no one ever thinks to look for me.’
The waitress came up and he ordered a blueberry muffin.
‘Oh dear, muffins,’ I said. ‘My one and only disappointment in America.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, ‘don’t you like them?’
‘They’re, well, too cakey if you know what I mean, like our fairy cakes, not a bit what I’d expected. Oh, and there is one other thing: cinnamon in coffee—disgusting!’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘And those are the only things about America that have disappointed you?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’m not sure about lima beans, but no, otherwise, I love everything.’
‘Everything? Well, we have to get you on to the Allen-brook tourist board right away. You might even run for mayor!’
We both laughed.
‘You say you used to come here with your wife,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t she like it here any more?’
‘She doesn’t like it here,’ he replied, ‘or Allenbrook either for that matter. We’re divorced. She lives in Santa Barbara now, with our daughter.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I crumbled the last of my brownie.
‘I guess the job had something to do with it too,’ he said. ‘Difficult hours, always on call, never being able to make plans ... you know, all the routine things that cops say when their marriages break up, when maybe it’s just incompatibility and they’re ashamed to admit it.’ He smiled. ‘How about you? Is there a Mr Malory?’
‘He died,’ I said, ‘a few years ago. I still miss him. I’m lucky, though, my son Michael lives at home—he works as a lawyer in the small town where I live. I suppose he’ll marry and move out one day, but for the present I have company, and it’s nice to have someone to look after.’
He had finished his muffin and his coffee but seemed content to linger. I was curious about this policeman who seemed so very different from the hard-boiled cops in the thrillers and television serials, which had, up to now, been my only source of information, so I asked, ‘Is Allenbrook your home town?’
‘I was born and raised in Bucks County,’ he said. ‘It’s not far from here. I guess you’d call me a farm boy, though it wasn’t much of a farm, just a few acres and a couple of cows. My father wasn’t that interested
in the farm—he was the local preacher, you see, and that kind of took all his energy. My mother and sister did what they could, and so did I, when I was old enough, but we never did more than scratch a living.’
‘My father was a clergyman,’ I said.
‘An English country clergyman, like in Anthony Trollope?’ he asked.
‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ I said, disconcerted by this plunge into English literature. ‘The Church of England hadn’t changed all that much from its Victorian image when he died soon after the War. It’s all different now, of course.’
‘Kind of different from my pa, too.’ Lieutenant Landis laughed. ‘He was a Lutheran, of a pretty strict sect. Life was dull for us. That’s when I took to reading. The Bible on Sunday, of course, there’s a lot of reading in the Bible. The only other book he allowed in the house was a complete Shakespeare. I guess he’d never actually read it himself, because there’s sure a lot of things in Shakespeare my pa wouldn’t have approved of! But he knew a few lines here and there and used to quote them in his preaching; “Who steals my purse steals trash”, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be”—you know the kind of thing—I guess he thought the whole book was like that!’
‘So that’s what started you on Shakespeare?’ I said. ‘Did you go to school in Allenbrook?’
‘No, the village school, in Lebanon. But I learned to read and write there—after that I guess it’s up to you.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sure, I’d have liked to go to college and that stuff, but I needed to get a job so that was that. Being a cop seemed the best way out, though I guess it was just another dead end after all. My wife used to say I had no ambition, and she was right. Allenbrook suits me. I can do without the stress and the hassle of a big city. I like to work in a small police department where I can do things my way.’
‘I like living in a small town, too,’ I said. ‘I like to know everyone, people I’ve grown up with, who know me as well. Perhaps Shakespeare came to feel like that—after all, he went back to Stratford in the end.’ I smiled. ‘I hope you manage to make your trip.’
‘I guess reading so much English literature,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I’m kind of hung up on the country and the people. We don’t get many British—sorry—English people in Allenbrook. Well, I guess there are some at Wilmot, but I don’t usually get to meet them. That’s why it’s been really nice talking to you.’
He smiled again, transforming his rather severe features.
‘It’s been nice talking to you, too,’ I said.
It was true, I did find these glimpses of American life fascinating, and I was curious to learn more about the lieutenant himself. We were both silent for a moment, not really knowing what to say next, perhaps feeling that we had covered more ground than ordinary chance-met acquaintances. Then the lieutenant said hesitantly, ‘It would be nice to talk some more—that is, if you’d like that?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that would be very nice.’
He leaned forward and placed his hands one on top of the other on the table. They were strong, capable-looking hands with well-kept nails. ‘I reckon you could help me too—if you would.’
I was startled and looked at him enquiringly.
‘It’s about this case, this thing at the Institute. I won’t say I’m out of my depth, but I don’t know the people involved, there or at Wilmot—I can’t make judgements about them, if you get my meaning. It would help to have someone tell me about them, someone who knows them but isn’t a suspect. Someone like you from outside, who can see things with a kind of unbiased eye.’
I swirled the remains of my lemon tea round the glass and said doubtfully, ‘Well, I don’t know most of them at all well. My friends Linda and Anna I’ve known for ages, but the others ... My judgements might be quite wrong.’
‘It’s your observations I want,’ he said earnestly. ‘I reckon you have a pretty good idea about what makes people tick, you’ve got a critical mind and, because you’re sympathetic kind of person, I guess people talk to you.’ He laughed. ‘Look at me for instance, talking to you like this.’
‘I wouldn’t want ...’ I began.
‘I’m not asking you to be some kind of spy or anything like that,’ he said hastily. ‘That would be a lousy thing to ask anyone, and of course, I know Dr Kowalski is your friend and all that. No, I just want you to tell me how you see these people, what they’re like, how they react to each other, that sort of stuff. It’s fairly easy for you, working with them, but kind of difficult for me in a formal sort of interview. What do you say?’
I was silent for a moment. It seemed a strange request from a policeman, and someone I had only just met. But somehow Lieutenant Landis didn’t seem like a stranger. Perhaps I was flattered by his interest—not just in me, but in all things English.
‘Well,’ I said at last, ‘I must confess I have a great curiosity about it all, having been in at the death, as it were. I suppose I feel somehow involved.’
‘That’s great, Mrs Malory.’ He held out his hand. ‘Say, can I call you Sheila, if we’re going to be friends?’
‘Of course,’ I said, and we solemnly shook hands across the table.
‘My name’s the same as your son’s,’ he said, ‘but mine is spelt Michal and most people call me Mike.’
When Linda got back that evening I told her about my encounter.
‘Drinking tea with a literary cop in Katy’s Kitchen! Whatever did you talk about?’
For some reason I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell Linda what Mike Landis had asked of me. Now that I was away from his rather compelling personality it seemed a little disloyal, so I said vaguely, ‘Oh, we just chatted. I think he liked talking to someone from England. He was quite cosy, really.’
‘Cosy?’ Linda laughed. ‘Oh, Sheila!’
She paused in the act of opening a tin for Tiger and said, ‘Did he talk about the murder? How far has he got?’
‘Not very far,’ I replied. ‘I think he’s uncertain about how to deal with all the Institute and Wilmot people. I imagine they’re a bit different from his usual suspects.’
Linda put the saucer of food down for Tiger, who sniffed at it and walked disdainfully away.
‘I’d love to know what he makes of our Carl,’ she said. ‘Though I don’t suppose,’ she continued regretfully, ‘he’s a suspect. Still, you never know—he might have had some long-standing grievance against Max, way back, from childhood.’
‘But why would he suddenly kill him now?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘maybe something came up. I suppose I just want Carl Loring to be the murderer so’s we can be rid of him!’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a motive?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know him well enough to say. Anna might know, she’s had more to do with him than I have. But I guess a guy like that must have made a lot of enemies for a lot of reasons.’
I thought of Sam. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I replied. ‘I gather from Sam that she had a sort of run-in with him and that it was all very unpleasant.’
Linda snorted.
‘That man—and his little toad of a brother!’ she said. ‘Yes, they tried to make her life a misery here in the department, just because she resisted Max’s advances! He certainly knew how to hold a grudge, that man.’
‘If he could do that to Sam,’ I said, ‘goodness knows what he’s tried to do to other people who may have crossed him in some way.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I dare say there were quite a few people at the Institute who hated his guts.’
I remembered Theo Portman’s remark about Max Loring having bitched things up as usual and said, ‘I imagine the field of suspects there is pretty wide,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Anna will be able to suggest a few.’
‘Well, you can ask her tomorrow,’ Linda said. ‘She’s coming down for a few days. Some research she needs to do at the Institute.’
The next morning, just as I was leaving
for college, the telephone rang and a pleasant female voice said, ‘Mrs Malory? This is Mr Walter Cleveland’s secretary. Mr Cleveland apologizes for giving you such short notice, but he wonders if you would care to have lunch with him today?’
‘Oh, goodness,’ I stammered. ‘Well, yes, I think I’m free. I’d love to ...’
‘Will you be at Wilmot College?’ the voice enquired. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes, I will ...’
‘That’s fine, then. We’ll send a car for you at twelve-thirty, if that will be convenient?’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘that will be lovely.’
I put the receiver down and rushed off to change into something more worthy. I surveyed my wardrobe in despair, wondering what I possessed that might be suitable for lunching with the head of a multinational corporation. Finally I decided on my suit, hoping that the fact that it was made of good Scottish tweed would compensate for its relative lack of chic. It would be too hot, of course, but fortunately I did have quite an elegant blouse, so I could take the jacket off, and anyway, the air conditioning might still be on ... I put in a little energetic work on my hair with the curling tongs, added a bit more eye-shadow than I would normally wear in class, dabbed on some scent and dashed off to Wilmot.
Just before half-past twelve an enormous black limousine drew up outside Brook Hall and I was driven the two or three miles along the Allen River road to the Orlando headquarters. As Walter Cleveland had promised, it was a fine example of High Victorian Gothic with many turrets, crenellations and soaring stone arches, as if some over-ambitious pupil of Sir Gilbert Scott had been given unlimited funds and allowed to run riot. Inside, the reception area was housed in a vast baronial hall with a great marble staircase and, at first-floor level, there was a splendid gallery, decorated with ornate carving, from which banners (some with heraldic devices, some with the Orlando logo) hung down, like battle honours in a cathedral. Indeed the general atmosphere was more ecclesiastical than commercial and I wondered if some moral might be drawn about the twentieth century’s worship of Mammon.