5 - Murder on Campus

by Hazel Holt

  ‘Did you find out what it was about?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, she finally told me.’ Sam sounded very subdued, quite unlike herself.

  ‘What was it?’ I asked.

  She sat with her head bent down, seemingly absorbed by one of her bracelets, twisting it round and round on her wrist so that the gold caught the light.

  ‘Sam,’ I said, ‘please tell me what she said. You know it’s important.’

  There was silence for several minutes and then she said at last, ‘It was Rebecca.’

  ‘Rebecca?’

  ‘Yes, Rebecca Long—she used to be in the department, as assistant professor,’ Sam said.

  ‘Of course, I remember now. Loring managed to get the department not to give her tenure, didn’t he? But what did that have to do with Gina?’

  ‘She and Rebecca were a couple, you know,’ Sam said. ‘They’d been together quite a while, way back, from the time Gina first came to Wilmot. When they threw Rebecca out, Gina wanted to go with her to Washington, but Rebecca made Gina promise to stay on here and finish her incompletes and her thesis. I guess she was living for the day when she could be with Rebecca again.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why she’s not been concentrating too well on her work,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Sam went on, ‘she started off OK, really trying to do things well, for Rebecca’s sake. But then things began to go kind of wrong. Rebecca couldn’t get a proper academic situation, she had to take a job teaching public school in one of those tough inner city areas. It was really bad. I guess she tried not to let Gina know just how bad—the violence, the drugs and stuff like that—but Gina was no fool. She could read between the lines and she was really worried ...’

  ‘Poor child,’ I said, ‘it must have been very difficult for her. Did she go and visit Rebecca in Washington?’

  ‘No, Rebecca kept putting her off. Maybe she didn’t want Gina to see how things were. Well, things went on for a while like that—they wrote to each other and talked on the telephone—then Rebecca stopped writing and she didn’t answer when Gina called. Gina got more and more worried and finally she told me she just had to go to Washington to see what was happening. Then—’ Sam broke off.

  ‘Then?’ I prompted her.

  ‘Then, that day, the morning I saw her,’ Sam said ‘she’d just had a call from the police in Washington.’

  ‘The police!’

  ‘Yeah. Rebecca left a note for Gina ...’

  ‘A note? What ...? Oh no! How terrible.’

  ‘Rebecca had taken an overdose,’ Sam said slowly. ‘She’d been there three days before they found her.’

  ‘Oh God, how awful! No wonder Gina was in such state.’ I looked at Sam. ‘She was asking for Loring?’

  ‘I guess she wanted to tell him about Rebecca,’ Sam said. ‘She’d have blamed him ...’

  ‘Did she say anything about that?’ I asked. ‘I mean, about Rebecca’s death being Loring’s fault?’

  Sam nodded. ‘She was really wild, saying dreadful things.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Well, I can understand why you didn’t say anything about seeing her. Poor Gina, who knows what thoughts were going through her mind that morning.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I replied wearily. ‘I suppose I’d better go and see her. Where does she live?’

  ‘Here.’ Sam tore a piece of paper off her pad and scribbled an address. ‘It’s almost in the centre of town, not far.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I looked at the paper. ‘I think I know where it is—one of those streets off Lafayette Avenue, just past the Moravian church, is that it?’

  ‘I guess I should have gone myself, before now,’ Sam said. ‘I feel bad that I didn’t.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘I’ll go this afternoon, I’m free after four o’clock.’

  Gina’s apartment was in fact the ground floor of a small house, white clapboard, front porch, like all the others in the street. They were quite old and looked a little rundown. I rang the bell and waited. Next door a young woman was sweeping leaves from her porch while a little boy in a brightly checked lumber jacket and cap played with a small grey cat. After a while I rang again and then, when there was still no reply, moved along the porch and looked in through the window. There was no sign of life and I was just going to see if I could find a way round to the back when the woman next door came over.

  ‘You looking for Gina?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can’t seem to make her hear. She’s one of my students and she hasn’t been well. I’ve been a bit worried about her.’

  ‘She ain’t there,’ the woman said. ‘She’s gone away.’

  ‘Gone away?’ I echoed stupidly.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘A couple of days ago. Said she had to go away for a while. Asked me to look after her cat.’

  ‘Do you know where she was going or how long she’ll be away?’ I asked.

  ‘She didn’t say.’ The woman regarded me curiously. ‘Say, you’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, a little taken aback.

  ‘Thought so. My pa, he was in England in the war. Some place called Norfolk. Are you from around there?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid not. But I have a friend who lives there, near Swaffham.’

  ‘Hey,’ she cried, ‘he used to talk about that! And a place called Norwich, do you know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s a very beautiful city.’

  ‘Well, fancy that,’ she said, ‘You want a cup of coffee?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘that would be lovely.’

  She led me into her house, saying to the child, ‘You come right in with me, Johnny, I don’t want you scattering those leaves just when I’ve raked them.’

  The little boy picked up the cat and thrust it towards me.

  ‘That’s Minna,’ he said. ‘She’s Gina’s cat, but I get to play with her when Gina’s not here.’

  I took the cat from him and stroked her soft grey fur. ‘She’s lovely,’ I said. ‘Is she allowed to come indoors?’ The woman laughed. ‘He’s crazy about that cat. I don’t mind it indoors—keeps him quiet and it’s a clean little thing.’

  I followed her into a bright, cheerfully decorated kitchen and we sat round a wooden table, while she put a kettle on the stove.

  ‘My name’s Gerda,’ she said, ‘Gerda Schantz, and this is Johnny.’

  ‘I’m Sheila Malory,’ I replied.

  She took a jar down from the shelf.

  ‘You want a cookie?’

  I accepted one and looked round the kitchen.

  ‘What beautiful plants,’ I said looking at the profusion of greenery on the window sills, ‘I’ve never seen such a gorgeous variegated ivy!’

  The grey cat settled down on my lap and began to purr. The little boy standing beside me gently stroked her head.

  We talked for a while about plants and gardens and about England and her father and then I tried to bring the conversation back to Gina.

  ‘I’ve been worried about her,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t been well.’

  ‘She’s looked pretty bad for a while now,’ Gerda agreed. ‘Not that I’ve seen her much, she’s stayed indoors. Then that morning she went away, I was real shocked to see her. She looked terrible, like she hadn’t slept for days. Real bad!’

  ‘Did she have any luggage with her?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t know. She just rang my bell and asked about the cat and I said, sure I’d see to it, and she thanked me and drove away. I tell you, I didn’t think she looked fit to be driving, but what can you say to people? They’d just think you was interfering.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘it’s very difficult. And that was two days ago?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘I sure hope she was OK. But I guess if there’d been an accident we’d have heard by now.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said.

&nbs
p; I got up and put the cat into the little boy’s arms.

  ‘Thank you so much for the coffee,’ I said, ‘and I’ve enjoyed talking to you so much.’

  ‘Any time you’re around here,’ she said, ‘call in.’

  I walked away slowly, trying to fit this new piece of information into the puzzle of Loring’s death. Gina, distraught at Rebecca’s death, had gone in search of Loring. For what? To vent her hurt and pain on the person she held responsible for all that she and Rebecca had suffered? That much was obvious. But had she found him, and, if she had, how far had she gone to revenge them both?

  I had wandered into the burial ground of the small Moravian church, a white wooden edifice surrounded by trees and a large grassy plot. At my feet were small rectangular markers, the gravestones of early settlers in the town.

  Lewis David De Schweinitz, died January 1834, I read. Thomas Pechtowappid, a Mohican, dep. Aug. 26th 1746. Charles Colvier, a Revolutionary Soldier, dep. November 1817.

  The dead brown leaves blew across the greyish-white flat stones, a squirrel ran down from one of the plane trees, now leafless, paused and looked at me for a moment, and went on its way. Everything was very peaceful. Here in this quiet place, sheltered by the bare branches of the trees reaching up into the pale, late-afternoon sky, there was no sound of traffic or, indeed, of any human activity. I stood for a while, my mind empty of all thought, until the light began to fail and I turned to go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘I must say I don’t like the sound of that.’ Linda’s voice was worried. I’d just told her about Gina. ‘She must have been in a terrible state when she went off,’ she said. ‘She was really devoted to Rebecca, went through a bad time when she went to Washington, but she was trying so hard to do what Rebecca wanted—finish her incompletes and her thesis ...’

  Linda paused while she set a bowl of salad on the table. ‘I mean,’ she continued, ‘if she’d been brooding about Rebecca, all by herself like that!’

  ‘I know,’ I replied. ‘Both Sam and the woman who lives next door were appalled at how dreadful she looked. Distraught, Sam said.’

  ‘She might have been going to Washington to pick up Rebecca’s stuff or something,’ Linda suggested. ‘That would have been upsetting.’

  ‘I suppose so. I wish I knew what we ought to do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  We ate our salad in silence, then Linda said, ‘Perhaps you ought to call your friend Mike and tell him.’

  ‘But Linda, I can’t!’ I cried. ‘He’d be frightfully suspicious of her if he knew!’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she said, ‘but if something’s happened ...’

  ‘Oh Lord! what a mess!’

  I pushed my plate to one side. ‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘I could just say we were worried about her, in general terms, I mean. I could say she was upset about Rebecca, but I don’t have to tell him why Rebecca left and the motive that gave Gina for killing Loring.’

  ‘You could do that.’

  We talked round and round the possibilities until I said wearily, ‘We have to tell him.’

  I got to my feet and dialled Mike’s home number.

  ‘Hi!’ he said. ‘What’s happened? Can’t you make it on Sunday?’

  ‘Sunday?’ I echoed stupidly. ‘Oh, no, that’s all right. No, it’s something else. I’m rather worried ...’

  I told him about Rebecca’s suicide and Gina’s distress.

  ‘She hasn’t been in touch with Linda or me, or anyone at Wilmot, for a while, and now she’s gone off and we don’t know where. She was in a terrible state—I’m so afraid something might have happened ...’

  ‘I see.’ Mike sounded thoughtful. ‘You don’t happen to know the licence number of her car, do you?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Never mind,’ he replied, ‘I can check that. The Washington police were in touch with her, you say? I’ll see if she’s contacted them. Don’t worry, Sheila, I’ll do what I can and let you know as soon as I’ve got any news.’

  ‘Thank you, Mike,’ I said. ‘I’m awfully sorry to bother you about this, but she was frightfully upset and, honestly, if she had just gone to Washington I think she’d have told somebody, even if it was only her next-door neighbour.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you called. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  It was next morning that he called. I’d just finished a class and had started to read through some of the student papers when the phone rang.

  ‘Sheila? It’s Mike.’

  Something in the tone of his voice made me ask quickly: ‘Mike! What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news,’ he said. ‘One of my officers found Gina’s car in the forest at Cedar Creek Park.’

  ‘Her car?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m afraid she was in it,’ he said quietly. ‘She’d taken some pills.’

  ‘Oh, no! Poor Gina, how terrible!’

  Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. In a way it was what I’d been expecting, and yet, as Mike said the words, I was suddenly and shockingly brought face to face with the awful fact of her death.

  There was a little silence and then Mike said, ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Can I come around?’ he said hesitantly. ‘There’s something I need to show you.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied. ‘When?’

  ‘Can I come right away?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I can stay on for as long as you like.’

  I got up and went along to Linda’s room, but she was in class. I thought of leaving her a note to tell her about Gina, but I didn’t. I knew how upset she’d be, so it only seemed right that I should tell her in person.

  I went back to my room and tried to settle to the class papers while I waited but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t banish from my mind the picture of Gina slumped over the wheel of her car, alone, somewhere in the forest.

  There was a tap on the door and Mike came in.

  ‘Mike, what is it?’ I asked.

  He sat down slowly in the chair facing me across the desk.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sheila. I have to ask you if you recognize this writing.’

  As he had done once before, he took out a plastic wallet from his pocket and laid it on the desk before me.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said in response to my enquiring look. ‘It’s been checked for fingerprints.’

  I took the envelope out of the wallet. It was addressed to Linda. The writing was Gina’s.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s her handwriting. Was it ...?’

  ‘It was beside her on the seat of the car,’ he said.

  I looked at the envelope again.

  ‘I suppose she wrote it to Linda because she hasn’t got any sort of family.’

  ‘No one at all?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Her parents are dead and there were no brothers or sisters. She didn’t make friends easily—I think she had a very lonely life until she met Rebecca. That’s why it was so important to her, I suppose. Poor Gina.’

  I turned the envelope over. It had been opened.

  ‘Can I read it?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Mike said, ‘I think you should see what she says.’

  I took the letter out of the envelope and read it. It began abruptly.

  I can’t go on. There’s no point in anything any more now Rebecca’s gone, not my thesis or my life. Please tell Sheila I’m sorry. Everyone must know what Loring did to Rebecca, so she had to kill herself, she couldn’t bear it there any longer and there was nothing else she could do. Everyone must know he killed her, please tell them that. He killed Rebecca and it was only right he should be killed too. It was only justice. When I looked down and saw him lying there I was so glad. It won’t bring Rebecca back, I know that, but it’s only right he should be dead too.

  Please ask Gerda if she’ll take my cat. I’m sorry.

  Gina

  I l
aid the letter down on the desk. It seemed as if I could almost feel the pain and hopelessness in the very texture of the paper.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said, ‘how terrible.’

  I felt the tears come into my eyes, tears for Gina’s desolation, tears too for the reference to her thesis and to me. Gina’s work had meant a great deal to her, but it hadn’t been enough.

  ‘Yes,’ Mike said. ‘Poor kid.’

  He folded up the letter and put it into the envelope.

  ‘I guess this just about wraps it up,’ he said. ‘Carl Loring’s death.’

  ‘Carl Loring’s ...’ I echoed stupidly. ‘Oh! You mean ...?’

  ‘Well,’ Mike said, ‘it reads like a confession of murder to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said slowly, ‘yes, I suppose it does.’

  ‘I’ve been making a few more enquiries since this was found,’ he went on. ‘And that man Johnson, Rick Johnson, says he saw her earlier on the morning Loring was killed. He says she was asking if he’d seen Loring anyplace. He reckoned she must have had bad news because she looked as if she’d been crying.’

  ‘She had,’ I said. ‘That was the morning she heard about Rebecca.’

  ‘And it was Loring’s fault that Rebecca Long had to leave Wilmot?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I explained the circumstances of Rebecca’s departure and the bad time she’d had afterwards. ‘I suppose, in a way, he was responsible for Rebecca’s death,’ I said. ‘I can understand why Gina must have thought so.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me,’ Mike looked at me quizzically.

  ‘I honestly didn’t make that sort of connection. I would have said Gina was the last person in the world to resort to that sort of violence. She was so quiet ...’

  ‘Still waters ...’ Mike said. ‘You can never tell what a person’s capable of if the provocation’s strong enough. Poor kid,’ he repeated, ‘what a lousy business.’

  ‘I wonder why she waited until now to kill herself?’ I asked.

  ‘Getting up the nerve, I guess.’ Mike replied. ‘She’d have been in shock for a couple of days after the killing.’