"Duncan, I'm learning a lot from Mondo. One of the reasons your father wanted me to come was because of the new vicar. He thought a change of scenery would be good for me. He told me to Trust in the Lord with all my heart and lean not on mine own understanding. That's in the Bible, you know, Duncan, and it's exactly what I've tried to do. I'm trusting that the Lord has better things in store for me than running the kirk's kitchen. So, when did you last read your Bible?" she asked.
Uh, oh. He hadn't counted on an inquisition.
"I was just quoting a verse the other day, during my run, Mum. By the way," he said, changing the subject, "I'm going to Salamanca today. I'm not sure if I'll make it back tonight or not. Call Angus if anyone gets out of hand," he added, risking her ire.
"Why, what's Angus going to do, call Harold?" Margaret quipped. "Honestly, I'm almost old enough to be Mondo's mum!"
Duncan had already slipped into the hallway before she finished her last sentence. He could tell she was getting agitated again. He wasn't going to risk sticking around to witness her wrath. He left the academy unnoticed and took its car, as previously arranged with Frogo, back to the casa. He took the stairs two at a time and barged into his brother's bedroom.
"Get up, Angus! I need a lift."
After a breakfast of churros and hot chocolate, his brother drove the academy car to a neighboring village and left Duncan at the station. The train schedule showed an early morning commuter to Atocha in Madrid. From there, he had a few minutes to catch a direct line to Salamanca. With luck, he could arrive in the university town by ten. He took extra care with his appearance that morning, adding a jacket to his ensemble and carrying his briefcase. He hoped to look professional when meeting the president.
For once, all went smoothly and he made his connection in Madrid. Upon arriving in Salamanca, he found a queue of minivans outside the station waiting for passengers. He approached the first van he saw with a window rolled down. Outside the vehicle, a fat, hairy arm, sporting a taut watch band hung against the car door. Smoke from a cigarette dangling from pudgy fingers curled upward. He peeked in and told the driver that he must go to el office del presidente. This spurred some uncertainty, as the unkempt chauffeur of the minivan kept repeating Madrid, Madrid.
"No, I came from Madrid," he said, using hand gestures to intimate that he had just arrived by train from the capital. "I need to go to el office del presidente," he repeated, with more gestures.
The driver nodded and reiterated Madrid, several times. Duncan's gesturing became more detailed as he tried to communicate with the driver. He now resembled a mime. Adding to the confusion, a teenager loitered on the pavement nearby. Sheltered from the sun by the building's shadow, the boy leaned against the station and spat countless pipa shells around Duncan's feet as the Scotsman attempted to communicate with the cabbie. The boy's alacrity with the casings of the sunflower seeds, or pipas, was impressive.
The lad consumed a handful of seeds in seconds, disposing of the shells with great accuracy. The design around Duncan's shoes, just like ripples from a pebble thrown into a stream, spread out farther and farther as his discussion with the driver continued. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to ignore the teenager who was now chuckling at his predicament. Something muddled his communication with the chauffeur. He came to realize the man thought he wanted to see the President of the Spanish government.
"No, no, office del presidente del university," he said at last.
"Sí, sí, university!" the driver responded, finally convinced Duncan was not a crazed foreign assassin. "Get in," the driver said.
Surprised the man knew some English, he jumped in the vehicle. In a second, the van rumbled away from the curb, over cobblestone streets towards the school. The gangly teenager with the pipas waved after them, grinning ear to ear.
"You have un niño at university, no?" the driver asked.
"No, just visiting el presidente," he answered, annoyed that this man thought he was old enough for college-aged children.
He didn't look so old as that. But, he was beginning to sweat. He now understood why the driver kept his windows lowered. The minivan had no air conditioning.
After receiving his fare, the driver left him at the end of a stone paved drive on the campus of the University of Salamanca. He pointed to the closest building and asked if that was the office del presidente.
"Sí, sí," the man responded before easing the old van away from the curb, making several attempts at a U-turn and then roaring away at a fast clip.
It turned out the building was not the president's office, and Duncan spent a good half hour inquiring before encountering some kind soul who led him to his destination. He followed this helpful student through a shaded breezeway under Moorish arches and onto a large plaza filled with people coming and going. Buildings with ornate façades enclosed the vast square. He noticed some young people stretched out on blankets, enjoying the sun, while others gathered at café tables around the perimeter of the enormous courtyard.
His escort pointed to the tallest structure and confirmed it as Duncan's destination. He thanked his guide and they parted company, the friendly student speaking little English. He continued across the yard until he reached the building. Colorful flags perched above made loud flapping noises as the wind whipped them about. A balustrade topped the structure along with a bell tower and statues of ancient scholars. He proceeded through a set of archways and at last entered the lobby where a concierge directed him up a nearby flight of stairs to the president's office.
Verona Escobar was a woman in her early sixties. Intelligent eyes welcomed him into her office and begged him take a seat. She wore a tailored, red summer suit and crisp white blouse without any frills. A watch and wedding ring were her only ornaments. Her short dark hair matched the color of her large eyes. The president possessed an understated elegance that Duncan guessed sprung from a keen intellect and proper upbringing. She must have been the same age as Sunny, but oh, how different!
"Nigel Carlyle says I may be able to assist you, Mr. Dewar."
"Please, call me Duncan, and thank you for taking the time to see me."
"You are more than welcome. I'm happy to help. Please call me Verona. Now, tell me what I can do."
"I'm investigating a death at the Tormes Academy for the Arts."
Verona nodded as if she already knew this.
"The deceased's name was Ella Peña and she was a student here in the mid to late sixties. We've discovered that she had a roommate for a time whose name was Betty Gruber. We would like to track down Miss Gruber and would like to know if you have any further record of her."
"Hmm, that's a long time ago, Duncan," she said, tapping her chin with her forefinger.
A secretary entered and Verona asked, "Can I offer you a coffee, Duncan? I'm having a café con leche."
"I'll have the same, thank you."
She nodded and the secretary withdrew. Duncan noticed the president's mastery of the English language.
"I'd say Gruber was either a German, Swiss, or American name. Of course, I could be mistaken, but I believe we had many foreign students in the sixties from those countries. My father was a university official back then, so I'm familiar with the school's history," she explained.
The president continued, "Let's take this in alphabetical order, shall we? If an American girl came here for an education in the sixties, she would most likely be of Spanish decent or the winner of a prestigious scholarship. Because of the time frame, I'm guessing she was not of Spanish decent with a name like Gruber, which sounds German. She would have been conceived right after World War II and we weren't mixing well with the Germans at that time."
She paused as the secretary returned with their coffees. Duncan welcomed the pick me up. He was running on empty after trudging around the campus in the heat.
Verona continued, pulling a sizeable book from the case behind her and placing it on the desk, "The Tormes Scholarship for the Study of Spain and its Lan
guage was endowed in 1950 by the same family who now funds your academy. Each year, a committee chose one boy and one girl from abroad to study here for four terms, all expenses paid. In the early 1980's our general scholarship fund absorbed the endowment, the original grant parameters deemed somewhat sexist by then. This book," she said, tapping the volume, "contains a biography, in English, of each scholarship recipient from 1950 through 1970."
Her grin grew with each word she spoke.
She added, "Shall we take a look?"
Duncan's smile met hers. He shook his head in disbelief at the reasoning powers of the university's president.
"I'd love to," was all he managed to say.
She opened the large, leather bound tome and eased each page over until reaching 1960. She angled the book towards him, so they could both see its contents, and continued flipping pages. Each left page featured a photo of a male scholarship recipient, centered below the corresponding year, followed by his biography. The right pages contained the same information for the female winners. As Verona progressed through the book, he scanned its pages.
Tormes scholarship grantees were already accomplished college students when they arrived at the university. Most came as sophomores or juniors and went on to do great things. They were an impressive bunch which included future politicians, scientists, doctors, and professors.
He admired the photo of a pretty blonde before glancing at her bio. He moved his eyes back to the name below the year 1967. It wasn't Betty, but it was Gruber.
"Susan Gruber," he said aloud.
"That could be our girl."
"I agree," Duncan said, before adding, "could there have been another Gruber at Salamanca during this time?"
"It's possible, but going with our theory about Betty's nationality, this is most likely the girl you are searching for."
Duncan turned his attention to Susan Gruber's life story.
Susan Gruber comes to Salamanca from Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts, USA. A native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvannia, Miss Gruber exhibited an aptitude for the Spanish language in high school and a love of Spanish history in college, where she majored in European History before arriving at Salamanca University. Miss Gruber has the honor of receiving the 1967 Tormes Scholarship for the Study of Spain and its Language as a sophomore. She graduated first in her class at Benjamin Franklin High School in Pittsburgh and completed her freshman year at Smith College with highest honors.
"Is that all?" he asked, disappointment apparent in his voice.
"I doubt it," she said, the gracious expression on her face a constant.
Duncan raised his eyebrows in hope as she continued, "Anyone receiving this particular scholarship would have been featured in our university newspaper, perhaps more than once. The Tormes Award was a major international grant. Our library has a complete collection of these papers. They are in the process of transferring the microfiche onto computer disks, so I'm not sure which you'll have to view. Let's finish our coffees. I want you to tell me about your time in our country. Afterwards, I'll have someone escort you to the library."
Duncan took another sip of coffee as Verona directed a secretary to scan Susan's biography and email the page to him.
"I've enjoyed my time here. Spain is incredibly diverse and beautiful. I'm staying in Manchiego, where the terrain is similar to Toledo's, but just a few miles away everything flattens. I've also been able to visit Costa del Sol, and I had a wonderful time there."
He left out the time he spent in a Spanish jail cell.
"What has been your experience with the people of Spain?" she asked.
Duncan thought for a moment before saying, "I have only had contact with a few Spanish citizens on a personal level, but I've been impressed with the warmth and friendliness shown me."
The president beamed with pride.
"We have many international students at the university, so I appreciate a visitor's viewpoint," she said, finishing off her café con leche.
"How long have you been president?"
"Two years," she said before pushing a button on her phone. She continued as Duncan drank his coffee, "I was a professor and then department head before serving as the university's historian for five years. That's why I could be so helpful to you today."
"Well, I certainly appreciate it."
"You know, ever since Nigel telephoned, I've felt I recognized your name from somewhere."
Duncan held his breath and wished the president was not so sharp.
She continued, "Did you by any chance win the top prize at the European Congress of Mathematics a few years ago?"
He exhaled and said with as much humility as he could muster, "Yes, I did."
He worried the giddy relief he felt might be interpreted as pride. After being associated with scandal for six months, it was a welcome reprieve to be remembered for his accomplishments.
"You beat out one of our graduate students, Hector Balesterros, a fine young man. He's a chaired professor at the University of Barcelona now."
"Yes, I remember Hector. We were introduced at the finalists' reception, nice fellow," Duncan said, amazed at her memory.
Just then, a secretary appeared in the doorway.
"Mary, please take Mr. Dewar to the library and deliver him to Raol's office. I'll ring to let him know why you're coming," Verona said, rising from her chair and reaching across the desk to shake his hand. "It was nice meeting you, Duncan," she added.
"Thank you again, for everything. It was a pleasure meeting you, Verona," he said before trailing out behind the secretary.
They exited from the rear of the building into a small, grassy courtyard. This area was deserted and peaceful, a stark comparison to the busy, student-filled square out front. It was a short walk through another cloister to the new library and Raol Aguila's office on the third floor. Raol, a tall gregarious Spaniard with shoulder length black hair, saw them coming and called down the hall.
"I've got him, Mary, thank you," he said, waving his hand at the secretary.
"Thank you for everything, Mary," Duncan said in parting, as Raol strode to meet him.
The librarian walked with a strange cadence, both knees and elbows bending excessively with each step, like a robot with loose joints. Raol sported a three-piece black suit, which struck him as odd summer attire. The color made him appear even taller and skinnier than he actually was. His piercing blue eyes and pale complexion gave the impression he spent his days indoors, while his high, sharp cheek bones gave Duncan the idea the man could use more scran.
"Welcome, welcome," he said, giving Duncan a hearty handshake. "I'm Raol, and you must be Señor Dewar. I don't get visitors very often. President Escobar says you'd like to see our school newspapers from 1967 on, no?"
"Yes, please call me Duncan. Can you help me with the papers?"
"Of course. Can I get you something to drink first, a juice perhaps?" he asked, clasping his hands together.
"No, thank you, Raol. I just finished a coffee, so I'm content."
"Sí. Please accompany me to our microfiche room. Unfortunately, we have not transferred the newspapers to computer yet. But, I have set aside the necessary films for you," he said, as the two men walked towards the stairs. Raol continued, "Microfiche are kept one floor up."
He pointed towards the ceiling with his index finger and opened a metal door leading to a staircase. The stairwell was hot and dark, making the climb uncomfortable. The blast of cool air they felt upon opening the door to the fourth floor was most welcome.
"Not many use microfiche anymore," he said, pushing open a door with a large glass panel. "June, June, are you in here?" he called.
Duncan caught a glimpse of himself in the door's window. His hair looked like an explosion in a mattress factory. The open air minivan trip must have caused it. He tamped down his thick locks, hoping that would do the trick. He felt himself redden with embarrassment as he thought about his meeting with the president. He'd wanted to look professional yet ma
naged to show up with his hair all askew. How Verona kept from laughing, he'd never know. Her composure was admirable.
"Yes, Señor Raol, June is here. I help you and our guest, sí?" the tiny lady said.
Her thick hair, held in a tight bun, was gray with white streaks, and she appeared very old as she hobbled towards them. Duncan noticed she wore white athletic shoes with a pair of knit jogging pants and a colorful, long sleeved T-shirt, Musem of Barcelona emblazoned across the chest.
"Sí, I'll just stay to see Señor Dewar gets started off well," Raol said, giving June's hand a squeeze.
She pulled a chair out in front of an old microfiche reader and gestured for him to sit. She turned the machine on and demonstrated how to use it. Smiling and raising her eyebrows, she tried to confirm that he understood. He nodded as June placed an open box of film in front of him and removed the first piece of microfiche, sliding it into the tray. She waited for him to nod again before moving the dish into the machine and pointing to the screen where the details of the film could be seen.
"Sí, sí," Duncan said, nodding. "Gracias, muchas gracias," he added.
"If you require a photograph of anything you find, let June know and she'll make one for you. Just call out if you need anything. I'll be nearby," Raol said.
Duncan began scanning old articles. He soon found an announcement regarding the Scholarship award to Susan Gruber in an edition from January, 1967, which included a photo of the lass. Her name caught his eye, in the otherwise Spanish text. Duncan made a note so June could copy the article for him later. He worried that he might miss pertinent information from the newspaper due to his inability to read Spanish. Just as that thought crossed his mind, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see June, holding a Spanish/English dictionary.
Mystery: The Cook's Comeuppance: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder and Romantic Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 3) Page 17