A Little Class on Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  A lengthy pause.

  Annie couldn’t resist. “What happened?”

  “A student of Professor Tarrant’s discovered, somehow, that she belonged to one of those long-distance conversation clubs. You know, for lonely people. And the student put it on a bulletin board.”

  Funny. Annie wasn’t struck so much by the student’s cruelty as by Tarrant’s desperation.

  9:03 P.M. Saturday: “The quest continues.” Henny gave no evidence of fatigue. In fact, she sounded absolutely chipper and, of course, very British. Dame Beatrice Bradley? “When Victor Garrison was an undergraduate, he lost an election to the presidency of the Student Council. A few weeks later, an anonymous informant accused the newly elected president of plagiarism on a term paper. The charge was substantiated and the student expelled. A new election was held and Garrison won. Interesting psychological parallel, don’t you think?”

  10:15 P.M. Saturday: “I’ve met the loveliest young man. His name is Peter Strawn,” Laurel caroled. Annie tensed. Surely—“He works part-time for the student police and he claims there were three figures fleeing the journalism building the evening that I was there. I do believe Peter—he plays football and is so attractive—will be very suitable for Georgia when we succeed in clearing her.”

  11:06 P.M. Saturday: “Want a thing done and done well, do it yourself!” And wasn’t the old devil pleased with herself, Annie thought. Miss Dora’s crackly voice was plump with satisfaction. “President Markham escorted me. Kept looking nervously at the ceilings. By God, if the building hadn’t fallen by then, why should it? And he turned absolutely beet red at the urinals. But I grew up with chamber pots. The urinals held no interest for me. It was the trash cans. The trash cans!”

  “The trash cans,” Annie parroted obediently.

  “Of course. Do you think maintenance engineers—and what a silly damn fool name for a trashman, used to be just custodians, now it’s building maintenance engineers—do you think they look in trash barrels? Not likely. So I did and there they were.”

  Annie didn’t have to ask. So, the missing personnel files had been found. By Miss Dora. In the first floor men’s room, stuffed in the bottom of the trash sack in the waste barrel.

  6:03 A.M. Sunday: “Newspaper people are so difficult to track down. But, of course, it’s seven hours later in London. Nice young woman. Used to think the world of R.T. Burke, but upset when a good friend of hers, who had been a financial writer, found it impossible to get a job because of Burke. Seems the young man, Somebody Smith, profited financially from a story, delayed turning it in so he could buy some stock. Well, he made restitution and all that and even served a couple of years in the Peace Corps, but Burke said, ‘You can’t make a crooked stick straight,’ and kept him from getting another job in journalism.” Henny chirped, “I guess the moral is, watch out if you bat a sticky wicket.” The British accent fled. “Annie, what the hell is a sticky wicket?”

  That call awakened them, of course. They made the early church service for the first time. Max thought being up early on a Sunday kind of fun. Annie was grumpy.

  11:20 A.M. Sunday: “This is in total confidence, of course. My sources are impeccable but must remain unnamed.” A trill of laughter. “Oh, don’t you think I might do well as a journalist? I’ve always thought it would be so exciting to know an unimpeachable source or a highly placed executive or an administration spokesman. Do you think I should consider a new career?”

  “Heavens no, Laurel.” Fearing she’d lacked in tact, Annie added swiftly, “You’re so busy as you are. So involved.” She forbore to say that the nation’s news-gathering infrastructure would never survive an onslaught by Laurel.

  “That’s true, my dear. Oh, Annie, you are such an inspiration to me. I believe I have found my niche in life. Understanding the Mystery.” Her tone elevated it to a high calling. “We can encompass all experience within the purview of the Mystery, which serves as the morality play of our time.”

  Annie gripped the receiver. Oh God, what was she going to do about Laurel?

  “But I am drawn to the excitement, the drama, the behind-the-scenes delving of journalism.” That husky voice dropped even lower. “And I do have previously unreleased information. From a source I cannot reveal, I have learned that Georgia Finney has broken her silence. She denies emphatically that she had anything at all to do with the splashing of blood on the door of the Crier office on Wednesday night. Rather, she insists that she went to the building late in the evening because she hoped to enter when it was untenanted and search the electronic files of the paper to determine if Mr. Kelly had written a story on Professor Crandall. However, she was unable to make that search. She said that after she entered the building, she realized there was another figure near the door. Abruptly, there was a crashing sound, as of glass breaking. Frightened, she broke into a run. She skidded on some sticky substance. Fleeing from the building, she hid in a line of pines to avoid detection by the campus police. She returned to her sorority house and discovered at that time that the soles of her shoes were stained with blood. She was frightened and hid the shoes on the roof behind a chimney. Poor, dear child. Such a traumatic week, but I’ve sent her flowers. With a picture of that handsome Mr. Strawn tucked into the bouquet.”

  Over a leisurely lunch at the Island Hills Country Club, Annie and Max began work on a definitive motive summary. They made every effort to complete this task during the afternoon. When not engaged on the telephone.

  2:17 P.M. Sunday: “The Sunnymeade Home for Children is eighteen miles from Chastain. My pleasure to serve on the board of trustees there. The superintendent was only too happy to give me particulars about Emily Everett. Child came to the home when seven. Never knew her father. Abandoned by mother. Obese upon arrival. Hated sports. Always reading. In trouble often for hiding novels in her schoolwork in class.” A portentous pause. “Favorite holiday: Fourth of July.”

  Annie was tempted to ask if Miss Dora had also uncovered Emily’s favorite color, favorite food, and favorite pastime. But, as a native-born Texan, she had learned early on never to rile a rattlesnake, so she kept quiet.

  “Next door to the orphanage,” and Miss Dora’s voice bristled with import, “is one of the largest fireworks factories and outlets in the South.”

  That, Annie knew, meant fireworks on a magnitude of which non-southerners would never believe. Thousands of pounds of fireworks. Big ones. Little ones. Fireworks for every taste and every pocketbook. Fireworks that were sold every day of the year. In the South, fireworks are not relegated to the Fourth. Having a party? Why, dazzle the night sky.

  “A fireworks factory,” Annie said thoughtfully.

  Then, in the evenhanded tradition of Lord Peter, Miss Dora added grudgingly, “Of course any real southerner knows all about fireworks.”

  Real or, perhaps, adopted. Even outlanders could learn.

  Fireworks. Made of gunpowder. And easily, so easily, obtained in the sovereign state of South Carolina.

  Annie and Max enjoyed their outing to the forest preserve. Of course, they were soaked by the time they got back and quite cold. A hot shower did wonders for their morale. (The ringing of the phone couldn’t be heard in the shower. Max would gladly have remained in there, cramped as it was, until their skin turned to crepe paper, but Annie did think enough was enough.)

  6:11 P.M. Sunday: “Never would read those Fletch books after I started the first one and he’d thrown a cat out of a seventh-floor window.”

  “Humor, Henny,” Annie replied.

  “Black. Anyway, Josh Norden would’ve fixed his wagon. Three years ago he was arrested for going after his next-door neighbor with a bullwhip.”

  “Professor Norden?” Annie’s voice rose in shock.

  “He heard dogs screaming. That’s what he told the police, screaming. Norden went over there. His neighbor was whipping the dogs with coat hangers.”

  Annie shuddered.

  9:02 P.M. Sunday: “Sometimes I think Emmett hasn’t the i
ntelligence God gave a sea cucumber and less spine. Acts like one, too. Tries to roll up into a ball and refuse to talk. Well, I can tell you, I won’t put up with that.” Emmett. Emmett. Oh, of course. Miss Dora’s unwilling accomplice in Chief Wells’s office. “I gave him what for when he told me about the fingerprints. For pity’s sake, it should have been among the first information he provided!”

  “Fingerprints?” Annie wondered if a Greek chorus ever got bored.

  “There weren’t any! Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

  “Weren’t any. Where?” Annie asked wildly.

  “On the cabinet holding those confidential files. Been wiped shinier than a presidential limousine.”

  They did get to bed fairly early, but, in one sense, to no avail. It’s difficult to sleep well or enjoy any of the other joys of bedtime when the inner ear is ever-cocked for the telephone—whether it rings or not.

  Monday morning dawned clear and bright, and the day held promise of warmth. They wouldn’t need sweaters today. They fled the tree house early, enjoying breakfast at the grill at the Island Hills Country Club. Max even indulged in an egg. Boiled, of course. They lingered over coffee, but had time to spare to catch the nine o’clock ferry. They arrived in Chastain a good twenty minutes before R.T. Burke’s funeral was scheduled to begin. Parking in the shade of a live oak, they watched people arrive: Moss in a somber black suit, accompanied by a slender woman with melancholy eyes; Garrison politely shepherding his wife, his face suitably grave; Tarrant clutching Crandall’s elbow; Norden alone, his shaggy white eyebrows drawn in a tight frown; Kelly, clutching a notepad, and the girl with the long braids, almost unrecognizable in a denim skirt; Diggs in a blue blazer, his concession to formality. Annie spotted President Markham, escorting Miss Dora. She was willing to bet that frosted Laurel. But Laurel was walking with a very handsome young man in a letter jacket. Annie only hoped this was the romantic interest Laurel had selected for Georgia Finney, and not … But it was better not to borrow trouble. She decided to make no comment to Max. His mother and such a young man might very well be a coupling Max would find unpalatable.

  They found a place in the last row. The church was full. Burke had evidently had many friends from all walks of life, who had come to pay their last respects. The faculty sat together in the row behind President Markham and Miss Dora.

  During the sermon, the minister offered this tribute: “R.T. Burke was a man of honor, a man devoted to his profession, seeing in it the opportunity of serving his fellow men, his state, his country, and his God. He saw the profession of journalism as a noble endeavor, the earnest effort to protect freedom and democracy by providing to the citizens in a fair, honest, and decent manner the information necessary to conduct their lives. He valued fairness and he treasured the truth. He began this life …”

  There were six eulogies by newspapermen who had worked for Burke. At the service’s end, there was scarcely a dry eye as the attendees filed out. Except for members of Burke’s faculty. Annie watched them pass, their faces impassive, and knew there were no mourners among them.

  Outside, Max tugged at Annie’s arm, then nodded toward Moss, his wife, and Kelly, who were surrounded by a group of well-dressed men.

  They drifted close enough to hear Moss invite a number of the state publishers to join him and Mrs. Moss and Kelly at the Faculty Club for lunch, after the drive to the cemetery.

  As they walked back to Max’s car, Annie murmured, “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

  The Student Union wasn’t Max’s pick for lunch, but Annie finally persuaded him. No one would bother them. They could eat, then organize their thoughts until it was time for Emily Everett’s funeral. Charlotte Porter’s memorial service was, of course, to be private.

  The lunch was not memorable. Max poked unhappily at a square slab of fish with a ratty slice of orange as a decoration. Annie forbore to point out that anyone who ordered fish in a school cafeteria deserved what they got. She, of course, opted for a burrito, chili, and a root beer. Max averted his eyes.

  It was a fine place to spread out their papers, however. They settled down with coffee, not Kona, and, with only occasional bickering, got to work.

  About two, Annie lifted her head and looked at Max uneasily. “What do you suppose they’re—”

  But Max reached out, placed a cautionary finger on her lips, and murmured, “It isn’t that I believe in genies but let’s just not talk about them. They’re silent, quiescent, perhaps spirited away to another plane.”

  It was almost two-thirty when they finished. Annie looked at their efforts with pride, then they reread the report together.

  THE MURDER OF R.T. BURKE: MOTIVES

  1. MALCOLM MOSS. To gain the chairmanship of the department. Or Moss could have leaked the confidential information to Kelly and killed Burke to escape disclosure. Why would Moss reveal the contents of the files? To cause difficulty in the department, embarrass Burke.

  2. VICTOR GARRISON. To regain control of the department, stymie Burke’s effort to switch the emphasis from the academic to the professional. Or, if he leaked the confidential information to Kelly and Burke discovered it, to prevent disclosure.

  3. SUE TARRANT. To protect Frank Crandall’s job, because she is in love with him and would do anything to keep him on the faculty. Unlikely to be Deep Throat as continued revelations could only harm Crandall. Might attack Burke in a fury if convinced he had engineered the leak.

  4. JOSH NORDEN. To revenge Charlotte Porter’s death, if he decided Burke provided Kelly with the information about her embezzlement. Or in an angry frenzy because Burke refused to announce the reasons behind Porter’s theft.

  5. FRANK CRANDALL. To prevent disclosures about his personal life if he thought Burke was Kelly’s informant. Or in anger because Burke made it clear there was no likelihood of tenure on account of Crandall’s involvement with a student.

  6. KURT DIGGS. Because Burke threatened his pressure on coeds for sex. Or because Burke discovered Diggs was Kelly’s informant. But pushing Burke’s problems with the faculty, including Diggs, into public discussion should be the last thing Diggs would want. However, interesting to note that the informant had nothing to say about Diggs in the meeting with Kelly and never showed up for a second meeting, at which, presumably, more dirty linen would have been aired.

  7. EMILY EVERETT. To avenge the death of Charlotte Porter, if Emily thought Burke was responsible for the revelations. Emily, despite access to the closet key, could not be suspected of leaking the information, because she, like Josh Norden, would never intentionally have harmed Charlotte Porter.

  There was no crowd at the Baptist Student Center for Emily’s funeral. No more than a half-dozen students gathered. Josh Norden was the only faculty member there. Sudden tears pricked Annie’s eyes when she saw Laurel approach the closed casket with a delicate spray of white roses and baby’s breath.

  The youth minister, Joe Bill Hankins, spoke quietly, recalling Emily’s hard work, her determined efforts to gain an education, her hopes of becoming a reporter. There were no stories here of friendship or love. But, at the end of his eulogy, he said hopefully, “Emily seemed happier these last few weeks than I can ever remember, and we can hold that memory to us, and find solace in it, that Emily in her last few weeks had a kind of bloom about her. And we thank God for that.”

  It was almost closing time when they reached Death on Demand. Agatha was aloof. Only a single visit on Sunday and neither sight nor sound of Annie until after dark on Monday was absolutely beyond excuse. She didn’t even come back to the coffee bar (of course, Ingrid always overfed the beast) until Annie opened a can of salmon. Finally, after Annie had called cajolingly, Agatha strolled slowly into view, surveyed her dish, and emitted a grudging purr.

  With mugs (Annie chose Whose Body? and Max selected Murder at School) of freshly made Kona coffee, they spread their papers on the table nearest the coffee bar. Agatha leapt smoothly to the tabletop and settled to watch. Annie
reached out to pet her and was rewarded with a flick of claws. The lack of attention had yet to be forgiven. They worked in silence broken only by the irritated swish of Agatha’s tail, then exchanged their efforts, Annie handing Max her conclusions on Burke’s murder and Max giving her his judgments on the explosion.

  ANNIE SUMS UP RESULTS OF BURKE’S MURDER:

  1. Moss, at least for the moment, has the chairmanship.

  2. Garrison will probably keep intact the present program of the department, because he will have Moss’s support.

  3. Tarrant will still have the opportunity to see Crandall because Moss will probably support his efforts to win tenure.

  4. Norden. No definite result, unless it means he can win approval from Moss for the full story on Porter to be released.

  5. Crandall may win tenure.

  6. Diggs won’t face, from Moss, pressures to change his lifestyle.

  7. Everett. No gain.

  MAX SUMS UP MOTIVES FOR BLOWING UP THE CRIER OFFICES:

  1. Moss—Although he claimed he would enjoy a public discussion of department differences, he might have feared Burke’s position would be strengthened if the faculty were pictured as obstructionist in the exposé.

  2. Garrison—Infuriated by student editor’s admittance to faculty meeting.

  3. Tarrant—To prevent further disclosures about the faculty, especially Crandall.

  4. Norden—To avenge Charlotte Porter.

  5. Crandall—To protect his job.

  6. Diggs—Ditto.

  7. Everett—To revenge Charlotte Porter.

  MAX SUMS UP RESULTS OF THE CRIER EXPLOSION

  1. Emily Everett killed. Was Brad Kelly the intended victim? Was he lucky and Emily unlucky? Could Emily have been the intended victim? Could Emily have intended to destroy The Crier herself and been a casualty of her own design? Or could Emily have intended to be blown up with The Crier?