A Little Class on Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  2. No publication for a period of several weeks. Therefore, no further exposés, but the press, once alerted, is probably seeking information at the present moment. The story certainly won’t die.

  3. Kelly is under police protection and surfacing only long enough to reveal the story behind the exposé. He is receiving quite a bit of attention from the press.

  The phone was ringing when Annie and Max left Death on Demand to go to dinner at the country club. Annie fretted over who the call might have been from. Max merely said, “You can’t imagine?” That did seem to answer the question, so she relaxed and enjoyed her fried scallops, insisting that they had no more fat than Max’s with a cream sauce.

  The phone was ringing as they unlocked the front door to the tree house. Annie, of course, sprinted for it.

  8:46 P.M. Monday: “Moss took that young whippersnapper, Kelly, to lunch at the Faculty Club, along with a half-dozen of the state’s most prominent publishers. I was invited, of course. From a newspaper family.” Miss Dora paused, then admitted reluctantly, “Young Kelly handles himself well. On the other side of the fence from me when it comes to ethics. Shame to see grown men fawn over him.” She gave an irritated sniff. “Well, time for a report. I do assume you have not frittered away your weekend. Who is the depraved creature who revealed that highly confidential information to that young idiot?”

  Annie handed the phone to Max. “Your client, my love. Wants to know what the hell we’ve figured out.”

  Max approached the telephone with all the enthusiasm of a Jim Thompson addict being presented with a crate full of Dorothy Gilman novels.

  Annie propped her feet on the coffee table and sank back against a stack of soft cushions. But she had to hand it to Max. He was as suave as Sir Percy Blakeney, a/k/a the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  “We have almost completed our investigation.” A pause. “Certainly, but we must tally up all the facts first. When? When?” He looked desperately at Annie, then made the plunge. “In the morning. We will make our final report in the morning.”

  It was exceedingly quiet after he hung up. He avoided Annie’s eyes. “Well, dammit,” he said, gesturing at the stack of paperwork they’d dropped on the coffee table as they came in, “what else is there to know? Annie, the answer has to be there. Now, come on. I’m not going to admit to that old harridan that we can’t figure it out.” He looked at Annie accusingly. “You’ve read more mysteries than H. R. F. Keating. Who did it?”

  They reread their notes, studied the timetable, and analyzed the suspects: what they were like, what they would do and would not do. But at midnight they finally turned in, exhausted and thwarted, no solution in view. As Max turned off the light, he said wearily, “Maybe inspiration will strike in the morning.”

  It was impossible to sleep. Annie twisted and turned and then lay resentfully listening to Max’s even, regular, relaxed breathing. How could he sleep? Why couldn’t they figure it out? Sleep did come finally, that on-the-edge, skittery kind of sleep when every nerve is tensed and the mind races, image piling on image: Burke’s choleric face when he railed against guttersniping journalism the day they’d met; tears streaming down Josh Norden’s cheeks but suddenly the face was Emily’s, red and gross and swollen; Brad Kelly looming into view through the writhing clouds of masonry dust; bloody footprints leading out of Burke’s office; Malcolm Moss’s smug half-smile and Victor Garrison’s sleek facade; Sue Tarrant’s passionate defense of Frank Crandall; Kurt Diggs’s sardonic appraisal of Burke.

  Fragments of the phone calls rippled in her mind, too, a sentence here and there, Laurel’s husky voice, Miss Dora’s irascible tone, Henny’s crisp accent. The three had retrieved bits and pieces, odds and ends, like silky black feathered crows, keen eyes noting the smallest vestige of movement.

  Smallest vestige of movement …

  Annie sat bolt upright in bed.

  Movement.

  What had happened since Friday? Very damn little.

  Her three most dedicated students retrieved information, little pieces here and there, but all the drama had occurred on Friday.

  Why?

  The luminous dial of the clock glowed in the darkness.

  Time.

  Why did everything happen in such a short span of time?

  The explosion was the result—had to be the result—of careful preparation.

  Every fact, from the snatched-up weapon to the use of Burke’s raincoat as a shield from blood, argued for haste and immediacy in Burke’s murder.

  Two acts antithetical in their origin, one done with careful craft, the other a desperate response to immediate threat.

  It was obvious, wasn’t it, that the bomber intended at the least to destroy the Crier offices and at the most to injure or kill Brad Kelly. That could have happened at any time that day.

  But why did Burke die when he did? What prompted his attacker to don the coat, grab up the iron bar, and bring it crashing down upon his head?

  A wavering, tremulous moan, plaintive and forlorn, wafted on the night air. Annie’s heart pumped until the hoo-hoo sounded again. A screech owl. Winter belongs to the owls in the low country, but knowing this did nothing to lessen the prickling at the back of Annie’s neck as the moan sounded again. Taking care not to disturb Max, she slipped out of bed.

  Laurel would nod and murmur about lost souls, questing for justice. Annie, of course, was not superstitious, but she moved with brisk determination to the coffee table. Thumbing through their notes, she recreated in her mind Burke’s office as it was in the moments preceding his death. And the owl continued his mournful calls.

  Burke’s office. Emily Everett’s name scrawled on his legal pad. Emily Everett arriving at the journalism building, her face swollen from hours of crying. Emily lumbering heavily down the hall to the Crier offices.

  A bombing already planned. A murder committed in haste.

  “Oh my God. Of course,” she said aloud. She knew the identity of the killer now, the necessity for murder. She knew why vicious blows rained down on Burke’s head. She knew why Emily Everett died.

  And Henny was right. It all came down to character.

  Whirling, she raced back to the bedroom. “Max, Max, I know who did it. I know how it happened.”

  He struggled to wakefulness and listened. When she finished her reconstruction, he nodded.

  “It makes sense, Annie. It makes all kinds of sense.” He looked at her admiringly, if still a little sleepily, and she attempted to appear humble. Then came the damper. “How are you going to prove it?”

  But she had an idea there, too. Max wasn’t convinced it would work, but, what the hell, it was worth a try.

  He cleared his throat. “Only problem … you’ll have to have some cooperation.”

  “Miss Dora can swing it.”

  “Sure. But will she?”

  “For extra credit, I’m sure she will,” Annie said demurely. Then she trotted back into the living room.

  Max joined her as she picked up the receiver.

  “Annie, it’s three o’clock in the morning! Who’re you calling?”

  “Miss Dora,” she replied happily. It had scarcely ever given her such exquisite pleasure to dial a telephone number.

  17

  Annie stepped back to look at her handiwork. The chalk-drawn floor plans of the journalism building weren’t scale, that was for sure, but they were easy to understand. She labeled Burke’s office, the middle office with the file closet, the Crier offices, and the men’s restroom on the first floor and the faculty offices on the second floor. Then, with a brisk nod, she wrote “48 seconds” by the stairwell.

  When she turned to face the class, almost every seat was taken. A little surprisingly to Annie, all twelve members of her class were in attendance, from Pink Hair to Mr. Jessup. Although perhaps the last was to be expected. He sat directly behind Laurel and the rest of the room might not have existed. Brad Kelly scanned the assemblage eagerly, making notes in an open spiral. He wore a blue blaz
er, cream shirt, and tan worsted slacks. Annie wondered if the crusading young editor had more media interviews scheduled for today. The regularly enrolled members looked puzzled at the sudden expansion of the class size, except, of course, for the three. Annie wondered vaguely if ever after she would think of them as “the three.”

  Laurel was a vision of nautical grace in a blue-and-white cable sweater and white linen slacks. She was every man’s vision of the perfect companion on a slow boat to summer. She leaned forward, her cameo-perfect profile turned to the best advantage, and fixed Annie with an attentive, supportive look.

  Miss Dora’s eyes glittered like lumps of burnished coal. Her silver hair was bunched beneath her wide-brimmed gray velvet hat, throwing her yellowish, crumpled face into greater prominence, emphasizing the sharp hook of her nose and the jut of her determined small chin. Her dress and gloves were gray today too. Mother-of-pearl buttons gleamed at her tiny wrists. She sat in her accustomed place, first row, center seat, with her customary unbending posture, gloved hands locked on the silver knob of her ebony cane.

  Henny’s rust-colored cardigan seemed even more stretched out than usual this morning. She must have crammed the pockets with apples. She flashed Annie a hearty smile, lifted out a Macintosh, and took an enormous bite.

  It was one of the few smiles around.

  Chief Wells stood across the room, his back to them all, staring out of a window. The hunched set of his massive shoulders proclaimed his extreme reluctance to be there.

  But he had come. (Miss Dora was awesome, indeed.)

  And Chief Wells had brought with him Georgia Finney, who sat between Laurel, who occasionally gave her a reassuring pat, and tiny, balding Jed McClanahan, the world’s greatest trial lawyer, who surveyed the scene with bleary eyes, and kept repeating, “A little class on murder, what the hell’s that? And why’s it so goddamned early in the morning?” He sucked unhappily on a can of Mountain Dew and glared at the clock on the wall. The little lawyer dismissed the Death on Demand contest paintings with a bored look.

  Georgia stared down at the desk, her cheeks flushed. She wouldn’t look behind her where the members of the faculty sat, all in a row. Her red hair hung straight and limp, and fatigue marked dark circles beneath her eyes.

  There was no way Annie could have compelled the faculty members to come. She found it interesting that all had responded to her invitation. As she had phrased it, “I know you are concerned about the dreadful occurrences on Thursday. I know what happened and why. If you want to find out, you are invited to attend my class this morning.” And like the suspects in a Nero Wolfe novel, each had shown up at the appointed hour.

  Sue Tarrant sat beside Frank Crandall, her hand possessively on his arm. He slouched unhappily, staring at the back of Georgia’s bent head. Malcolm Moss made the student desk look pint-sized. His china blue eyes were alert and watchful. Victor Garrison surveyed the room, his unlit pipe cupped in his hand. His cheeks were ruddy, probably from an early morning run. Josh Norden’s bleak face, his mouth pinched with anger, his eyes somber, was the clearest reminder that death had stalked the campus. Kurt Diggs leaned back insolently in his chair, a Marlboro man unwillingly corraled.

  The bell rang. Max closed the door and dropped into the end seat next to it.

  Silence fell.

  Annie knew she would never again capture the attention of a class quite so completely. She found it exhilarating, and understood why Nero Wolfe arranged for every suspect to be present as he revealed all.

  “I appreciate the cooperation of the college,”—Miss Dora nodded complacently—“the Chastain police,”—Chief Wells continued to look out the window—“the faculty of the journalism department,”—a row of wary faces—“and the members of my class. Especially,” she managed not to sound grudging, “three of them.”

  Laurel moved just a little and a shaft of morning sun highlighted her flawless profile. Miss Dora’s tiny, pursed mouth might have moved in a smile. Henny hoisted out another apple, looked at it with loathing, and stuffed it back in a bulging pocket.

  “Each of these three students—Mrs. Roethke, Miss Brevard, and Mrs. Brawley—contributed to the solution of the crimes that occurred in this building by focusing my attention on three important elements—emotion,” (Laurel sighed delicately), “circumstances,” (Miss Dora thumped her cane), “and character” (Henny lifted her chin and was the image of indomitable British spinsterhood).

  Max pantomimed lifting a telephone receiver. Annie ignored him.

  “Let’s begin with character. As Charlie Chan might have said, When leopard changes spots, see sun rise in west.”

  Max winced. The student with the black braids looked bewildered. Chief Wells’s craggy face curdled in utter disgust. Annie wasn’t sure whether it was directed at her or a result of his unsuccessful search for a spittoon.

  “Why did R.T. Burke have to die? What kind of man was he? If we look at his life, his acts tell us a great deal. He was a superb investigative reporter. He had no tolerance for what he saw as unethical acts. He never forgave or forgot. He was determined to instill in the journalism department his principles of professionalism. Why, then, would this leopard suddenly change his spots and leak confidential information, even if it might help him in his campaign to change the program? The answer is simple. He wouldn’t. That would have contravened every tenet he’d held sacred throughout his life. Leopards don’t change their spots. R.T. Burke was not Deep Throat. So why was he killed? Because he posed a threat to the futures of several faculty members? Or was it because he discovered the identity of Deep Throat? And why Friday morning, within minutes of a massive explosion?

  “These two considerations, Burke’s character and the timing of his death, set me on the right track. Burke died because he was stubborn, vindictive, if you will, and intransigent when he made up his mind.”

  Henny nodded approvingly.

  “But what provoked that brutal attack? This is when I looked at the circumstances.” She nodded toward Miss Dora. “Professor Crandall”—his head jerked up and he looked at Annie with wild eyes—“saw Burke Friday morning but they had a very short conversation. Burke was on the telephone and not at all interested in talking to Crandall.

  “This is where we must look closely, because we are in the last few minutes of Burke’s life. A phone conversation. With whom? It could, of course, be anyone, a tennis friend, a stockbroker, a wrong number. But when Max and I saw Burke that morning, the phone was driving him mad.” (And didn’t she appreciate that feeling.) “His secretary, Emily, had called in, saying she was sick, and he had to answer the phone himself. In fact, while we were there, he turned it off. He was concentrating solely on his search for Kelly’s informant to the exclusion of any other concern. So I suggest that he was pursuing this goal on the telephone, that he had made a phone call and it had reaped an unexpected bonanza—because he now knew how that confidential information was obtained.”

  Her listeners scarcely breathed. The silence was oppressive.

  “Whom did he call?”

  She looked at the row of faculty.

  “He had just talked to most of the faculty members, Professors Moss, Tarrant, Garrison, Diggs, and Norden. He didn’t want to talk to Crandall. Those are the names in his appointment book. Another name is scrawled across his legal pad and circled. He called Emily Everett, who was distraught over Mrs. Porter’s suicide and vulnerable to questions. Here is where emotion came into play, the emotions of loss, guilt, and grief. Burke knew how to ask questions. He asked them, because he was a thorough man and he covered all the possibilities. And he discovered the source of the ugly story on Charlotte Porter.

  “I’m not certain of the exact sequence of events. Did Emily then alert Deep Throat? Did Burke call Deep Throat? I think perhaps the latter, because Burke was committed to one of the basic tenets of journalism, get both sides of the story. Burke wouldn’t have made a final move, to call in the police, to press charges, until he heard the other side o
f the story. Because Emily could have been lying.

  “But she wasn’t lying. Imagine the shock, then, when the phone rings in Deep Throat’s office. There is the demand for a meeting. Deep Throat hurries to Burke’s office. Burke announces that Emily is on her way to the school at Burke’s request, that a thorough investigation will be held, that Burke intends to call the college legal counsel and press charges.

  “Deep Throat whirls around, grabs the coat, grips the bar with a sleeve, and bludgeons Burke to death.

  “But Deep Throat isn’t safe yet. There is Emily. Of course, she will know immediately who murdered Burke. There must have been a sense of panic, but there was a way out, oh God, such a clever way out!”

  She looked at Deep Throat.

  He saw the certainty, the total confidence in her eyes. He jumped up and plunged toward the front of the room.

  Miss Dora’s cane shot out.

  Brad Kelly stumbled and swore as he careened to the floor.

  Chief Wells and Max together had to pull away a shouting, cursing Josh Norden from the struggling editor.

  18

  It took time for the arrival of a deputy to escort Brad Kelly to jail and for Chief Wells to take Annie’s statement, but not a single member of her class or any of that morning’s guests departed.

  As Wells gave a final nod, saying, “That should cover it,” he glowered at Georgia Finney. “If people would call the police when they discover a crime and not mess with the evidence, we’d all be better off. I damn well ought to file charges.”

  Georgia’s eyes filled with tears.

  Laurel sprang lightly to her feet. “Chief,” she murmured. She lightly touched his arm, smiling tremulously up at him. “We all remember when we were so young and our hearts ruled our heads. I know a wonderful man such as yourself has many dear memories of those years. You will be kind, won’t you?”