A Little Class on Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Annie almost took pity. After all, they could be home in five minutes, and she knew what would lighten his mood. Turn him effervescent, as a matter of fact.

  Then she vanquished temptation. Duty called. She had been so distraught over the unexpected composition of her class that she had thrown up her hands in despair last night and neglected to prepare.

  Preparation was paramount. She was determined, at all costs, to hew to the line. Nothing was going to deflect her from the task at hand. Nothing. In such a doughty fashion would Inspector French pursue even the most tedious investigation. (And he was as fond of food as was Annie, though, of course, this had nothing to do with her admiration for him.)

  So she smiled encouragingly at her husband. “Max, work is fun. Look at it that way.”

  “At eight o’clock in the morning?” he asked dismally.

  “It’s for your own good. You haven’t been busy enough. I can tell,” she said firmly.

  “Really? Does my hair turn green? Do my ears droop? What signal do you receive?”

  She grinned. “It’s much more subtle. You are as languid as a sunning cat. Max, you need to be stirred up. Activated. Energized. Now, I want you to promise me you’ll take on a new challenge today.”

  “Hmmph.”

  They reached the front door to Confidential Commissions, Max’s agency which specialized in solving problems. He had formed it and purposefully kept its nature and function vague, because the sovereign state of South Carolina has quite rigorous requirements for the establishment of private detective agencies. So Max ran a tasteful ad in The Island Gazette and The Chastain Courier:

  Troubled, puzzled, curious. Whatever your problem, contact CONFIDENTIAL COMMISSIONS, 555-1321, 11 Seaview, Broward’s Rock

  Annie stood on tiptoe and slipped her arms around his neck.

  Max immediately looked much more cheerful, and he caught her up in a vigorous embrace.

  “Max! Not here. That’s too—”

  Annie was trying to make her point, but somehow she lost track of it.

  In a moment, he surfaced. “Oh, yeah,” he said happily. “Hey, Annie, let’s go home. Just for a little while.”

  Honestly, he was appealing, his thick blond hair, now ruffled, those dark blue eager eyes, and the warmth of his lips.

  Annie almost succumbed, then drew herself up—and away—with a stern shake of her head. “Duty, Max. It calls.”

  “Lunch at home?” he asked hopefully. His vivid eyes took on a look of cunning. “Some R and R, Annie. It does wonders for morale.”

  One of Max’s stepfathers had been a bird colonel in the army, and, taking a fatherly interest in Laurel’s son, early explained the efficacy of rest-and-relaxation periods. Laurel had been so pleased at Max’s warm response to this military influence.

  “Well—” Annie temporized.

  Max bent close and his lips traveled from her cheek to her throat.

  “Oh Max, you make it so hard to be serious.”

  “This isn’t serious?”

  “Lunch,” she finally agreed feebly. But it was nice to leave a cheerful Max behind. She turned once to wave, but he was already inside Confidential Commissions.

  Annie hummed a little tune. She always enjoyed going to Death on Demand. Her bookstore. Her very special, wonderful lair of mysteries. As she unlocked the front door, she paused to admire the window displays. The south window featured Tony Hillerman’s supremely original books, so evocative of the glory and grandeur of New Mexico and its people, The Blessing Way, The Dark Wind, Dance Hall of the Dead, Listening Woman, The Ghostway, People of Darkness, A Thief of Time, and his only non-Indian book, The Fly on the Wall. (Hillerman wryly recounts how his agent responded to The Blessing Way, instructing him, “If you insist on rewriting this, get rid of all that Indian stuff.”) The north window contained an exhibit of golf mysteries, Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie, Death on the First Tee by Herbert Adams, The Murder on the Sixth Hole by David Frome, An Awkward Lie by Michael Innes, Lying Three by Ralph McInery, and Fer de Lance by Rex Stout.

  As the door swung in and she smelled the particular, exhilarating (to her) fragrance of Death on Demand, a compound of freshly ground roast coffee, ink, paper, and moist Whitmani ferns, she felt a thrill of happiness. The store to herself for two whole hours and books, books, books. She wanted to find that reference in Christie’s autobiography to the breakdown of the touring car in the desert when the young archeologist Max Mallowan was escorting her to Baghdad. It was, Agatha learned later, her unruffled acceptance of that potentially dangerous occurrence which convinced Mallowan that Agatha should be an excellent wife.

  Annie paused at the cash counter to see if Ingrid had left any messages from yesterday. A sheaf of slips rested beneath a skull-and-crossbones paperweight. Hmm. A call late in the afternoon from Miss Dora Brevard. No message, would call again. Annie’s shoulders tightened. Something to do with the course, no doubt. Had she left out one of Sayers’s publications? No, she’d checked and double-checked. The list was complete and included Sayers’s Dante translations and her religious writings (especially that brilliant theological exposition, The Mind of the Maker). A call from Henny Brawley, and this dramatic quote: Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Annie sighed. The last slip, on pink paper of course, carried a cherubic happy face, the pronouncement, “One has a duty to love,” and Ingrid’s editorial comment, “Laurel sounded quite chirpy but very determined. Something’s afoot.”

  Annie’s sense of peace eroded. Dammit, what did all of this mean? She stared down at the messages, then, with a decisive flourish, ripped the slips in half and tossed the scraps at the wastebasket.

  She flipped on the lights and strode purposefully down the central aisle. The click of claws on the heart pine flooring announced Agatha’s approach. As Annie reached the coffee bar, the sleek black cat jumped atop it. Annie bent down to nuzzle her silky ruff, and Agatha made a guttural demand deep in her throat.

  Agatha’s breakfast (salmon and fresh water) duly provided, Annie reached for the coffee pot. Colombian or Kona this morning? She opted for Kona and was filling the pot when the telephone rang. Annie reached out for the receiver, tucked it between shoulder and chin, caroled “Death on Demand,” and measured the coffee.

  “I am a trustee.”

  Annie’s heart sank. The voice, dry and crackly, like the rustle of old newspaper, was unmistakable.

  “That’s good, Miss Dora.”

  “My land, you see. Deeded it to the city for the campus. Life member of the Board of Trustees.”

  “Very generous of you,” Annie responded, switching on the coffee maker.

  “Don’t like controversy.”

  “Certainly not,” soothingly, taking a deep breath of the pungent aroma steaming from the pot.

  “Despise people who humor me.”

  Annie made a face at the mouthpiece.

  “You’re nosy. I want you to find out what that man’s up to.”

  “What man?” Annie asked blankly.

  “Burke. A new broom. Doesn’t give him license to sweep out the best and the brightest. Hideous way to treat Charlotte. She won’t even answer her phone. I want you to find out who said all these dreadful things about her. Talk to that Burke man first.”

  What was it about Miss Dora that evoked such a hostile reaction on Annie’s part? The arrogant assumption that all the world must do her bidding, because she was Dora Brevard of Chastain, South Carolina?

  Despite every good intention, Annie felt herself sizzle. “Miss Dora, I don’t know anything at all about Mr. Burke or Charlotte, whoever that is.” But, of course, she knew. That nice Charlotte Porter who had made a special trip to Broward’s Rock to tell Annie what an outstanding faculty member Josh Norden was. A too-thin woman who had once been beautiful. But she didn’t owe this knowledge to Miss Dora. “In fact, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, but I can tell you this, I’m not getting involved in any academic infighting. I�
�ve been hired to teach a mystery class and that’s what I intend to do. And that’s all I intend to do.”

  A long, lethal silence ensued, then a clipped demand. “Your last word?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The line went dead.

  Annie replaced the receiver with a troubled frown, then shrugged. The trials and tribulations of faculty, staff, and students at Chastain College were no responsibility of hers. What she needed was coffee. Nodding decisively, she turned to reach for a mug.

  The bell on the front door jingled. Annie swung toward the central aisle. Dammit. It was two hours before opening time. Obviously, she’d forgotten to lock the door behind her but what dolt would come inside when the CLOSED sign was prominently—

  “Knew you’d be here. Time for a conference. Sometimes the task of a good detective is to prevent crime.” Henny nodded sagely. “Think of Miss Marple in ‘The Affair at the Bungalow.’ ”

  From the collected short stories in The Tuesday Club Murders, Annie noted automatically. Then she shook her head and drew up for battle. “Henny, we are not detectives. You are not Miss Marple. You have to stand on tiptoe to reach five foot four and Miss Marple was tall. Your eyes are brown, hers were blue.”

  “China blue,” Henny said cheerfully.

  “She’s frail and knits. You’re about as frail as a low-country alligator.”

  Henny cupped her chin thoughtfully in her hand and gazed at the bookstore with a faraway manner. For the first time, Annie realized that her favorite customer wore a hand-knit shawl over the shoulders of a black grosgrain dress. Her hair was no longer sausagey, but was now fluffy and a delicate white. However, the telling transformation, Henny’s magic, was in attitude: the sudden sense of penetrating intelligence, modesty, Victorian sensibility, and village acumen.

  Damned if she didn’t look like Miss Marple.

  But it would just give her a big head to admit it. And she was impossible enough as it was. Annie picked up the coffee pot. “A cup?” she asked.

  Henny became Henny and shot an appraising glance at the collection of white mugs behind Annie. “Sure. I’ll take Death in a Tenured Position by Amanda Cross.” Annie picked out The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler, and they grinned at each other in mutual appreciation of their exquisite subtlety.

  Henny leaned against the counter. “I’ll put my cards on the table, Annie. I’ve never seen a situation so ripe for murder.”

  Annie gulped the hot, strong coffee. “Wishful thinking.”

  “Annie,” Henny chided, “I do not have blood lust.”

  Annie raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  “My motives are of the purest,” Henny insisted. “I scent trouble. We can forestall it.”

  “No. No. No,” Annie said simply, firmly, declaratively.

  Henny tipped open her knitting bag and fished out a crumpled newspaper. She spread it out across the coffee bar. Clear tape held the puckered edges of a jagged tear. She nodded at Annie’s look of inquiry. “Yes. The very paper that young woman, Georgia Finney, tore up so dramatically in class yesterday.”

  Annie ostentatiously yawned. Agatha finished her last scrap of salmon, looked up, and yawned, too.

  “Listen, this may be one of the few papers still in existence. They disappeared like wildfire. I understand Burke’s demanding that they be turned in and destroyed. He’s furious.”

  Annie bent down to retrieve the watering can beneath the coffee bar sink. Agatha meowed inquisitively. The pig. “Time to water the ferns,” Annie informed her.

  As water gushed from the faucet, Henny lifted her voice another level. “And talk about trauma! A highly respected professor revealed as an embezzler. Burke accused of a cover-up. Hints of more sensational revelations to come. Who’ll be fingered next? And who’s dishing out the dirt? A well-placed source—what does that mean?”

  Henny was hot on Annie’s heels as she toured the reading area, splashing water on the ferns and straightening the red and yellow cushions in the rattan chairs.

  “It’s dynamite,” Henny insisted.

  Annie returned to the coffee bar and stored the watering can, then faced her pursuer.

  “Henny, love, the passions abroad in the Department of Journalism at Chastain College are of no interest to me. Zero. Zip. Zilch. I do not intend to become involved. I was hired to teach a course in the mystery and—”

  The phone rang. Annie reached out, grateful for the interruption. “Death on Demand.”

  “Annie dearest.” The husky, mesmerizing voice dipped and rose. “There is no time to lose.”

  Annie stiffened. “Laurel. You’re up early this morning.”

  “We must seek out that lovely young woman and offer her succor.”

  “What lovely young woman?”

  “Georgia, of course. Georgia Finney.”

  Annie’s eyes dropped to the coffee bar and the taped-up front page of The Crier.

  “Laurel, we don’t know what’s behind that scene yesterday. And it isn’t any of our business. And I don’t know why she had to use my class to jump on the guy.”

  “Annie, I am amazed.” Laurel’s voice quivered with disappointment. “You, of all people. Why, how can you stand before a class and purport to teach us about Mary Roberts Rinehart and yet be oblivious to all that she stood for?”

  Annie was bewildered. “What does Mary Roberts Rinehart have to do with Georgia Finney?”

  Henny, who was unabashedly eavesdropping, pointed an index finger at her temple and twirled it. Annie ignored her.

  “Love,” Laurel said simply. “Oh my dear, we must get to the bottom of this before our next class. But, unbeknownst to yourself, you have led the way and I am seeking the truth. Love shall prevail.” The connection was abruptly broken.

  Annie slowly replaced the receiver and looked at Henny. “Laurel. Love shall prevail.”

  “Not in this world,” Henny retorted. “Now come on, Annie. Admit you’re curious. Admit you’re dying to know what’s happening at the college.” She jiggled the newspaper enticingly.

  “Not I,” said Annie stubbornly. “I’m going to prepare for my next class.”

  “You’re going to miss out on all the fun,” Henny warned. She took a last sip of coffee. “Good stuff,” and swung toward the center aisle. She did pause for just a moment, to frown fiercely at the fourth watercolor, then she charged briskly toward the door.

  Annie glanced at her watch. Good. Still quite a bit of time before the store opened. Time now to check out Christie’s autobiography. But she paused at the nonfiction section, her glance lingering on the top of the coffee bar.

  Henny had left that newspaper behind.

  Annie reached out.

  She yanked her hand back. She didn’t care! It was no concern of hers.

  What was it Henny had said? Embezzlement? A cover-up? More to come?

  She picked up the newspaper.

  The head to the lead story, one-column in forty-eight-point type, with a twelve-point kicker, read:

  Official Cover-Up?

  INFORMED SOURCE REVEALS

  PORTER MISUSED FUNDS

  BY BRAD KELLY

  An informed source has told The Crier that journalism professor Charlotte Porter has admitted to “borrowing” more than $8,000 from the Student Press Association during the school year 1986-87 and is presently making repayment.

  Porter, a member of the Chastain College faculty since 1976, has refused to comment upon the allegation.

  The revelation comes amid growing concern among faculty members over the policies of R.T. Burke, who assumed chairmanship of the journalism department in August. Burke, according to this informed source, intends to change the direction of the department and has indicated he would like to see several tenured faculty members leave, including Professors Joshua Norden and Kurt Diggs. However, it was reportedly Burke’s decision not to consider prosecution in the case of Porter and not to request her dismissal.

  Burke is critical of some faculty members over lack
of time spent in class, incidents of purported sexual harassment, and recalcitrance in accepting a new, more professional direction for the department.

  The Crier, now under the editorship of Brad Kelly, intends further disclosures revealing behind-the-scenes information about journalism department policies and decisions as information becomes available.

  Porter has served as faculty advisor to the Student Press Association since 1978. An audit this past September uncovered the missing funds. A further audit of previous years revealed no other irregularities, and all funds are duly accounted for until the year of 1986-87. According to the highly placed informant, the matter was discussed at several meetings of the Committee on Department Policies and Personnel, which serves in an advisory capacity to the chairman. However, the decision not to prosecute was made solely by Burke.

  Porter joined the faculty after working for several years in a local advertising agency. She was a several-time recipient of Addy Awards for excellence in print advertising. She is a graduate of Chastain College and has a background in both print and media advertising.

  A sidebar to the main story proclaimed:

  SEE FRIDAY’S EDITION OF THE CRIER TO FIND OUT MORE OF THE INSIDE STORY ON THE CHASTAIN COLLEGE JOURNALISM DEPARTMENT

  Annie looked again at the lead story. This was journalistic hardball, no doubt about it. If she hadn’t met Charlotte Porter and liked her, she would have admired a student editor for breaking a story of malfeasance. But she had met Charlotte Porter. She had liked her. And now she felt confused. But she agreed with Miss Dora; it was an ugly situation for a charming woman.

  The phone rang.

  “Death on Demand.”

  “Mrs. Darling?” A high, thin, somewhat unpleasant voice, vaguely familiar.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Emily Everett, the secretary at the journalism department. An emergency faculty meeting has been called for four o’clock.”

  Stymied.

  Until this moment, Annie had never understood to the fullest extent that state of being. She stared wordlessly at Max.

  That, of course, was enough to concern him.