by Ada Madison
Bruce broke into my thoughts. “I assume you’re going to tell me why this matters to you?”
I gave him the short form of my reasoning. “I think it was Gil Bartholomew, not Hal, who killed Keith and Hal is taking the rap.”
“The rap? I knew it. You’ve been hanging around Virge too much.”
“Please, Bruce.”
“I’m just saying.”
I appreciated the levity, but continued past it. “It makes so much sense. Gil always reacted more strongly than Hal when Keith insulted her husband. And according to you and the other rumormongers, she suspected Hal and Rachel of having an affair.”
“That was more than a year ago.”
“That kind of thing doesn’t go away, Bruce.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I’m a girl. That’s all the experience I need. By framing Rachel, Gil’s actions get rid of two ugly people in her life.”
“Man, I am put on notice.”
“Believe it.”
“For real, I’m with you on this theory. I can see that Hal, good guy that he is, would rather be punished himself than have his wife pay the price,” Bruce said. “But it’s very hard for me to think of someone I thought I knew well as a killer.”
“I’m sure it is. Hal must have realized it was Gil as soon as Virgil brought him in and showed him the marked up pages. Virgil said he confessed immediately. Why else would he do that?”
I didn’t wait for or expect an answer. I was out of breath with excitement. I tried to calm down and plot the course of the next couple of hours. While I was on campus, I’d walk over to my office and see what I had in my files. I knew I’d recently had a note from Hal about changing my statistics exam date for one of his physics majors, and I’d seen his greetings on a “Welcome to Math and Science” poster Rachel was putting together for the incoming freshmen. She’d planned it for the display case. I hoped Keith hadn’t signed it yet. It would be too gruesome a reminder.
“What can I do?” Bruce asked, barging in again on my dizzy train of thought.
“If we had a couple of new samples, one from each of the Bartholomews, that would do it. Can you go to MAstar and get me a couple of samples of Gil’s handwriting?”
“Yeah.” Bruce stretched the word out. Suspicious. “What are you going to do with whatever I find?”
“Give it to Virgil.”
“Can I trust you to do that?”
“Yes.”
“You have to promise me that you won’t do anything yourself. You’ll turn over whatever we have to Virge.”
I was happy to hear the “we.”
“I promise,” I said, meaning it. I longed to get back to where the puzzles didn’t involve real humans and life and death.
It was almost pleasant this evening, still in the eighties, but with a slight breeze wafting across the Henley College lawns as the sun descended. There was talk that the heat wave was coming to an end. At least until the next one.
Near the library were a few students who must still have been living in Paul Revere dorm, but there were no cars to speak of. Even the lot nearest the admin building had emptied out. My car was near the tennis courts, only a short walk to my first-floor office in Franklin Hall.
I entered the building through the basement. It was hard not to relive my last trip through this door, the clumsy red dolly at my heels. The memory prompted a question in my mind. If Gil was Keith’s killer, as I now firmly believed, it must have been she who took the boxes from my garage, and then returned them here. The only reason I could think of was that Keith had secreted another incriminating letter or photograph—birth certificate?—that would be embarrassing to her or Hal or both. I wondered how he’d buried that one. In a file labeled “Christmas Lists” or “Facebook Friends” ?
Come to think of it, did Keith have a file on me? Maybe I should have bargained with the dean to let me look through the material in the boxes.
The basement was as creepy today as it had been on Saturday. I wished I’d taken the front steps to the first floor, but this seemed quicker and cooler than a lumbering trip up the long outside flight. The sounds of the generator and fans and the accumulated musty smells of waste and chemicals dominated the hallway. I hurried to the elevator.
More than any other year, I couldn’t wait for school to start, when generator sounds would be replaced by student footsteps and chatter and the smells would be of perfumes and lunches. Well, maybe not the lunches.
I got off on my floor and nearly ran to the far end where my office was, three floors below Keith’s. I unlocked the frosted glass-front door and stepped in for the first time since the day of the murder. With a strange reflex, I glanced at the floor behind my desk. Clear. That was one hurdle down.
The office seemed musty after four days of being closed up. Though I didn’t plan to stay very long, I opened a window onto the campus. I noticed a dark sedan parked next to mine but didn’t recognize it. It appeared to be empty, as did the campus around it. I walked back to the door, closed and locked it. I didn’t dwell on why I thought this was necessary.
I sat at my desk with my back to the window, enjoying the fresh air without benefit of cross ventilation. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. I pulled two notes from Hal from exam folders, and a page of notes from a recent Franklin Hall faculty meeting.
What I also needed was the handwriting binder Ariana had showed me. I wanted to present the most comprehensive case possible to Virgil in the morning.
Another day I might have enjoyed the peace and quiet and lingered a while to leaf through the journals stacked on a shelf in my bookcase. Not today. Nor did I allow myself the luxury of turning on my computer and posting to groups I belonged to.
I stuffed the notes in my briefcase, closed the window, and left. I made a quick on-the-run call to Ariana to alert her that I’d be stopping at her shop to borrow the binder.
“No need for you to go back,” I said. “I have my key. I’m going to collect the binder and zip back home.”
“Take as long as you want with the notes and let me know if I can help.”
“You’ve already helped a lot.”
“Keep me in the loop, okay?” she said, her tone expressing her delight at having been of assistance.
I assured her I would and hung up.
I exited through the basement, without mishap. The sedan was gone, thus eliminating the trepidation I’d felt over having to squeeze in next to it before I could drive away.
Once I had a chance to study the new samples from Hal and Gil, and the material in the binder, I’d take the package to Virge. It would be hard to wait, but I wanted to be sure this time.
I hated to admit that as much as I was looking forward to seeing Bruce tonight, I was also eager to see what he’d been able to round up from the various handwritten pieces around the MAstar trailer.
Some romantic girlfriend I was.
CHAPTER 25
A little after seven thirty I let myself in through the front door of A Hill of Beads. I punched in the alarm code on the wall pad, reminding myself first not to use my own code, but Ariana’s, a numerology sequence pertaining to her birth date.
It was still light out, but thanks to the semi-transparent solar window shades Ariana had had installed, the interior of the shop was dark.
I was tired of wandering into unlit, spooky spaces and hoped this was the last of them. At least this one smelled nice. Sage, I thought. I was also tired of being frightened of every little creak, like the sound of the rotating rack of stickers when I bumped into it. I wasn’t used to the new layout with added crafts supplies.
It wasn’t only the new nooks and crannies that got to me, however. How many times had I seen the row of dressmakers’ forms above the counters? The velvety necks and chests sporting beaded necklaces had been there for as long as I could remember. This evening the sight of the headless, bejeweled women sent a ripple of fright through my body. Familiar
baskets holding sale items made spindly shadows against the wall, which was crammed with beads, in plastic packages, on strings, and in small glass jars.
I’d decided against turning lights on so as not to attract attention or give would-be customers false hope. Now I questioned that decision, but I was more than halfway to my destination and I was determined not to give in further to irrational fear.
I dug my phone from my purse and hit “favorites” on the screen. I leaned on a counter and clicked on Bruce’s number, ostensibly to let him know what time I thought I’d be home, but mostly to have company in the store, if only in the form of a friendly voice.
I waited while the phone dialed. Or whatever these smartphones did.
Hal would know. Besides being a physicist, Hal was a techie and tutored everyone in Franklin on our latest i-purchases, doing a much better job than the manuals that accompanied them. I cheered myself with the fact that Hal’s ruse would soon be revealed and Timmy would have his father back, if not his mother.
I walked toward the new beaded curtain that led to the back room where I’d last seen Ariana’s binder.
I stepped over the threshold and into a loud noise.
Crash!
Gillian Bartholomew had smashed the window and entered the shop by the back window, the better to avoid being seen, I imagined. Even in my shock, I had to admire her agility as she climbed over the low sill.
My heart seemed to stop; my throat tightened to the maximum as I pretended not to scan her body for signs of a weapon. Both her hands were visible and empty, but she was wearing a khaki fisherman’s vest with many pockets. It couldn’t have been for warmth, so I imagined the worst. A knife in the top right pocket, a gun in the lower right, a venomous needle in the lower left, and a bomb strapped across her chest.
I hoped I was wrong and she was packing only lipstick and tissues, like a normal woman.
I slipped my phone into my own pocket, ruefully empty of weapons. I didn’t have “speaker” selected and couldn’t tell if Bruce had picked up or if it had gone to his voicemail.
“Gil,” I said, loudly, in case Bruce was listening. “What are you doing here?”
As if I didn’t know.
It didn’t surprise me that “breaking and entering gracefully” might be part of an army reserve soldier’s skill set.
“Why, Sophie, why?” Gil asked, a sad look on her face.
Wasn’t that a more appropriate question from me to her? Not the time for technicalities, however.
Gil had a good four inches on me, and more than a few pounds. Moreover, she’d spent her life building up strength in physically demanding jobs, whereas, except for the occasional bike ride and kicking the exercise ball out of my way in the garage, the most athletic thing I’d done this summer was sharpening my puzzle pencils.
It was lighter in this area since the back window had no shades, and now, no glass either. I thought of running to the window and waving and screaming madly for help, but Gil was between me and the window, and the alley seemed deserted anyway. I could turn and run out through the sales floor, but I had a feeling she was quicker than I was. Wrong or not, I envisioned emergency workers like Gil able to run at the speed of light.
I saw that Gil’s eyes were tear streaked, her face a map of despair. She inserted her hand into one of the vest pockets. I clutched at my shirt and swallowed audibly. She pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes. I relaxed. Sort of.
“We should talk, Gil,” I said.
Good luck with that, I added to myself.
Gil shifted from one leg to the other, nearly hopping off the floor. “The funny thing is I knew I blew it, going back, moving the cake inside, adding those thesis pages. Overkill.” Poor word choice, I thought. “But when I saw that Rachel was going up to his office”—this came out as a hiss—“I couldn’t resist. I knew I should leave well enough alone but I wanted to be sure the little tart was suspect number one.”
“Tart? You think Rachel and Hal—”
Gil stopped hopping and began rocking on the heels of her heavy athletic shoes. She seemed to be warming up for . . . I didn’t want to think what.
“It doesn’t matter if they did or they didn’t. Rachel wanted it and Hal’s weak. God, is he weak. He took it on the chin for years from the great Dr. Appleton. The slights, the public insults, and then the letter, the final straw.”
Except for Gil’s deranged look and the smashed window, a passerby might have thought she was witnessing two girlfriends talking things over, albeit one more agitated than the other.
I began to relax. Maybe Gil actually had come to talk. She hadn’t threatened me physically. Yet. I checked the alley for a dark sedan, but the broken window was too narrow to provide much of a view from where I stood. Most likely she’d followed me here from campus, or she might have been on my tail all day for that matter.
Ergo, I reasoned, if she’d wanted to do me harm she’d have taken one of a wealth of other opportunities.
I was safe. Gil needed to talk; that was all.
Gil had mentioned a letter as the final straw. I went into the bluffing mode Ariana had taught me and that had served me well with the dean.
“You needed to remove that letter from the files in Keith’s office.”
Gil threw up her hands; her face took on an angry expression, directed at me.
Not safe anymore, if I ever was.
“See, you had to butt in and take those files away, Sophie. I was there, you know, parked right around the corner. I was on my way to go through his office but you got to it first. I knew immediately what you’d done. There just wasn’t time the day before to stand there and sift through all his poisonous correspondence.”
Another nice choice of words. I needed Virgil’s advice on how to deal with a crazy killer. Actually I needed Virgil’s gun. With neither at my disposal, I chose the sympathetic route, at the same time looking around for something I could use as a weapon if the need arose. I held on as long as possible to the delusion that the need hadn’t already arisen.
Ariana’s back room served as a storage area, among its many uses, with boxes and bits of inventory everywhere. The workshop table held unfinished projects and sharp tools—scissors, pliers, even a wrench—but none longer than a few inches. I’d have to close the gap between us to grab one, and even if I could bring myself to attack her at close range, it would be child’s play for her to take me down. I longed for a remotely operated weapon. The only one I had was my brain and it was currently on hold.
I woke it up and tried my skills at communication.
“I know you absolutely had to get that letter from Keith’s files,” I said, now a master of the big bluff.
Gil’s face sank into a deeper frown and she stood still for a moment. “The all-powerful, well connected Keith Appleton drafted a letter to the doctoral committee at Massachusetts University requesting a review of Hal’s thesis and asking them to his revoke his degree.”
I was genuinely shocked. “Why would he do that?”
She gave me a screwy look. “You know how much he wanted to discredit my husband. He had no respect for MU, for one thing. Thought Henley should have as few faculty as possible from a state college. Hal and I think he had a physicist friend from some stupid Ivy League school that he wanted Fran to hire in Hal’s place.”
“That sounds awful.” Agree with the captor, that was my plan.
“Keith researched some archaic standards about how many words you’re allowed to cite from another work and claimed that Hal had violated an old guideline. He showed Hal the letter, offering not to send it if Hal withdrew his name as a candidate for the degree.”
Gil bit her lip. Her eyes stared beyond me while her feet beat to an inaudible rhythm.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, wondering too late how smart it was to keep reminding her of my presence.
“We thought he’d changed his mind. We told him how much Hal needed this job, with Timmy headed for private school. Without the degree
, he’d be so limited . . .” Gil threw her hands up. She’d made the best case she could. “But once Hal graduated, Keith brought the letter out again. I knew the police wouldn’t find it because he stuck it in a file labeled ‘Graduation Speeches.’ He had the nerve to show us where he was burying it.”
Keith’s office was a veritable hot bed of material for a tabloid, all in plain sight under innocuous labels. I was more certain than ever that somewhere in those boxes I’d ferried out of Franklin Hall was a piece of paper with research on me that he’d been keeping for leverage, should he ever have needed it.
Hal wasn’t in Keith’s department. Why would he bother vetting Hal’s thesis unless Gil was right and he simply wanted to hire his friend? Lucy’s defense of her boyfriend, that Keith wanted all medical workers to be from the top of their class, didn’t work here. Physicists didn’t do open heart surgery. But then, what did giving a baby up for adoption have to do with Dean Underwood’s academic credentials?
I was back to labeling my deceased former colleague “ruthless.”
“That was a terrible thing for Keith to do,” I told Gil.
“See, I knew you’d understand all this, Sophie, and I wish there had been a way to get your support before all this happened.”
Nothing had “happened.” Gil had killed Keith by her own hand. But once again I felt guilty—not only had I not befriended Lucy-the-new-girl, but I’d missed a chance to be pals with Gil and therefore have a chance to prevent Keith’s murder.
It was a lot to bear for a simple math teacher.
While keeping up my end of this life-and-death conversation, I’d been keeping up my search for a potential weapon. I knew there were knives in the drawer under the microwave oven. And there was always the flame from the small gas stove. And spray paint on a shelf in the sales area. Nothing I could reasonably reach or use. I’d already stopped fiddling with the phone in my pocket afraid that, instead of contacting help, I’d set off a ringtone and anger Gil beyond her current red-faced state.