“Good morning to you, too, Ralph,” I said. “I just wanted to point out to you again the beneficial publicity from having Peter Gerard appear on our campus last night. And you’ll note that he praised the popular culture program and pledged to donate twenty-five thousand dollars to it. That made the paper this morning.”
“It made the twenty-sixth paragraph of Ms. Teal’s story about an interloper shooting a cap pistol at Peter Gerard in front of eight hundred people. Is it your impression that this constitutes good publicity, Cody?”
Actually, Ralph, it was double-byline shared with Maggie Barton. But you probably don’t want to hear that. I looked at Sylvester. He was scribbling like mad to get it all down in his notebook.
“Then you haven’t changed your mind about trying to scuttle the popular culture program?” I asked.
He snorted. “Surely you jest. I am sure that shameful exhibition last night gave those who question the appropriateness of a so-called ‘popular culture’ curriculum on a college campus much to strengthen their position, not weaken it.”
“But what about Peter Gerard’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar contribution to the program? Surely that’s a great plus for the college?”
“Hardly.” His tone was contemptuous. “Even at a small college such as ours, that sum is insignificant in the big picture. Besides, murder is involved now. There isn’t any amount of money that can wash that away. Are you on a speakerphone?”
Sylvester stirred in his chair. I put an index finger to my mouth in a silencing gesture.
“Hold on just a minute, Ralph.” I let my voice get shocked and angry. “Are you seriously trying to somehow relate the death of Rodney Stonecipher to the popular culture program?”
“The relationship is there, Cody; that’s undeniable. Peter Gerard was brought to this campus by your brother-in-law in his capacity as head of the popular culture program. It was a blatant ploy to curry favor with the Administration by associating the program with a national celebrity. I, for one, was not impressed. The night before the lecture, a man impersonating Gerard was murdered during a dinner arranged by McCabe. I draw no conclusions, but perhaps it was significant that McCabe was at that dinner.”
“Watch it, Ralph. You’re skating where the ice is thin. You were at the murder scene yourself.”
“Meaning what?” He waxed indignant.
“I draw no conclusions. But if this were a detective story, the question I’d be asking myself is cui bono - who benefits? So far the only person I see benefitting from this murder is you. It’s obvious that you plan to use Rodney Stonecipher’s killing as the coup de grace when you give your excuses for axing the program.” I hope you’re impressed by all this foreign lingo I’m throwing your way, Ralph.
“Excuses is hardly the - blast it, Cody, you’ve practically accused me of murder. I don’t have to listen to this.” He slammed the phone down with a bang that echoed through my little office over the speaker.
“There ought to be something for you in all of that,” I told Sylvester Link as I hung up my own phone.
“I’ll say! Dr. Pendergast is really playing hardball. But do you really think there could be anything to the idea of him being involved in the murder?”
“Of course not, Sylvester! Please don’t use that in your story. That was just my way of playing hardball back at him.”
But I wondered.
Star Signs
A few hours later, Mac lumbered into my office carrying a stack of books and a laptop computer under his right arm.
“I received a most interesting phone call,” he announced by way of greeting as he set the class material on the chair and himself on the couch. “It was from the Reverend Elroy Semple.”
I looked up from a brochure I’d been writing. “You mean the faith healer? That guy Hoffer exposed?”
“The very same. He read about the circumstances surrounding the unfortunate demise of Rodney Stonecipher and called to suggest we investigate Professor Hoffer.”
HEADLINE: Pot calls kettle black. “And I suppose he had some good reason for this suggestion?”
“Indeed. He said the Lord had told him Hoffer is the murderer.”
“Well, with an Informer like that, we ought to look into this right away.”
“I already have. Hoffer is too self-important to suit me. I can’t entirely trust the seriousness of someone who never makes a joke. So I called a few conjurer friends of mine, fellow members of the International Brotherhood of Magicians with far-flung connections in the craft.”
As he talked he pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket and began unwrapping it.
“Stop that!” I said. “You will not pollute the air of my office. Now, what’s the dirt on Hoffer?”
Mac stuck the partially wrapped cigar back into his coat. “Apparently he was talented but unsuccessful in his previous occupation. That unfortunately happens to individuals in all walks of life. I am told that his career consisted primarily of performing sleight of hand and ventriloquism at amusement parks and children’s parties, with limited stage work. However, he did acquit himself creditably when performing at meetings of his local Ring of the I.B.M.”
I waited for more but nothing came. “That was your investigation?” I heard my voice turn shrill.
“Perhaps that is not especially helpful information. However, one never knows. I believe there are other things to be learned by talking directly to Professor Hoffer, who should be free at this moment, according to his class schedule.”
“What kind of things?”
“Things like a description of the voice that called for Peter on the murder night. Hoffer is the only person still alive who heard it. He could tell us if that voice was male or female, high pitched or deep, etc. Conceivably, this could be key evidence when we have assembled other pieces of the puzzle.”
Given that we had no idea how the caller and the killer were connected, if at all, I wasn’t sure I bought that. But I was willing to go along because that’s what partners do sometimes - just go along.
“Okay,” I said, “but first I’d better fill you in on what I’ve been up to. Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
I told him about Lynda, the conversation and the invitation.
“Her interest may be good or it may be bad from our point of view,” he said when I had finished. “However, it was almost certainly inevitable. I look forward to an interesting verbal joust with her.”
“I’ve just been jousting myself,” I said, and gave him an account of my conversation with Ralph as overheard by Sylvester Link. “I don’t feel great about cutting Sylvester in and not Lynda, but he already had part of the story from his sources. I’m going to give Lynda a heads-up as soon as this hits The Spectator.”
“By thunder, Jefferson, I must congratulate you on your boldness! You are taking quite a gamble. When this imbroglio spills over the college walls and into the broader community, highly influential alumni will form opinions and make them known. Perhaps that will be to our advantage, and perhaps not.”
“But the issue is bound to go public anyway,” I protested. “I just wanted that to happen before the trustees make a decision on killing your program - not after.”
Mac nodded. “I find no fault with your logic. Sylvester’s story, and perhaps a follow-up in The Observer & News-Ledger, will indeed force the moment to its crisis. Unfortunately, I am not yet prepared to wage that battle. I have been somewhat preoccupied with a murder.” He sighed - a big theatrically, if you ask me. “Oh, well, we shall simply have to sleuth faster.”
“And it wouldn’t hurt if we could pin the murder on Ralph,” I threw in. “After all, what I told him is true: I don’t see anybody else who’s benefited from this mess.”
“You are suggesting murder out of academic pique - just to advance his ambition of shutting down the popular cult
ure program? By a man who was sitting in our sight while the murder was being committed? Let us hope that getting out of this with our jobs and our freedom does not depend on defending that proposition,” Mac said grimly. “If that were the case, I would not put the odds in our favor.”
Karl Hoffer’s office, which he shared with a colleague, was as neat as his well-trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. He greeted us with a cordiality reined in by a certain reserve. I mean he was pleasant enough, but nobody would confuse him with a city councilman running for re-election.
“The sad events of the other evening still have me quite shaken,” he said, remaining seated at his metal desk in his half of the office. “Does this visit have something to do with that?”
“Regrettably, yes,” Mac said. “Jefferson and I were wondering about the person who called for Peter that night. You were the only one, except for Mr. Stonecipher, who talked to that caller. What can you tell us about the person: Male or female? Young or old? A high-pitched voice or a deep voice? Anything like that would be helpful.”
Hoffer looked from Mac to me as if confused. “I covered that in my statement to the police the night of the murder. Surely anything connected with the murder is a matter for them to handle?”
“Indisputably,” Mac agreed. “That does not, however, mean it is a matter for everyone else to shun. The college also has a stake, for example. The murder was committed on St. Benignus property, and thus reflects on the college.”
“But, and you will forgive me for saying this, you two are not the college. You are its employees, as am I, but I have no reason to believe you are its official representatives in this tragic business.”
“Why don’t you just can all that happy crap and answer the bloody question?” I said. Mac probably enjoyed this oh-so-polite cat and mouse game, but I was exasperated. “It’s not like we’re trying to hang a murder rap on you, for crap’s sake.”
“Very well, then,” Hoffer said crossly. “I don’t suppose it could do any harm. It was a woman. Young. But that’s all I can tell you. She only said a few words: ‘Is Peter Gerard there, please?’ I didn’t stop to analyze her voice for tonal qualities.”
“Most understandable,” Mac rumbled. “Thank you for your cooperation. Oh, by the way, did you happen to know Rodney Stonecipher?”
“Of course not. If I had, I would have seen right through his deception. As it was, this was one time I was taken in completely. Are you quite sure, Professor McC -”
“Excuse me.”
All eyes turned toward the office door. The newcomer was Peter Gerard, buoyant and grinning, with Quandra Hall at his side. It was the first time I’d seen them since the mayhem the night before.
“Well, I didn’t count on finding all of you here,” Gerard said. “This is a happy accident.”
“I thought you two would be gone by now,” I said, looking at Quandra. She was wearing a gray-green blouse, a charcoal skirt, and a set of silver fish earrings matching the gold ones that had dangled from her lobes yesterday. She’d changed the color of her eyes from brown to gray.
She smiled at me. “Trying to get rid of us?”
Before I could assure her that was far from the case, Gerard said: “I’m looking the town over with an eye toward filming here. I have a project in mind - not one of your mysteries, Mac - that Erin might be a good fit for. But there’s more than that keeping me here. I’m not satisfied with the progress of the official investigation into my murder, so I decided to stick around a while and ask a few questions of my own.”
Quandra was right: Gerard had this do-it-yourself detective work idea by the teeth and he wasn’t going to drop it even if it got him killed.
“You have not said that publicly,” Mac pointed out.
“And I won’t. Not until I have the solution all wrapped up.”
Hoffer stood up. I admired his tweed suit. “Amateur sleuths are getting rather thick on the ground around here. This office is quite crowded, in fact.” He looked around to see who would be polite enough to pick up on the hint and leave. Nobody did, and certainly not Peter Gerard.
“I hope you’ll excuse me for barging into your office like this without even introducing myself, Professor Hoffer,” Gerard said. He ran a hand through his curly blond top, and then stuck it out to Hoffer. “I’m Peter Gerard, and this is Quandra Hall, my executive assistant.”
“I am familiar with your work,” Hoffer said dryly. He shook Gerard’s hand and even Quandra’s without enthusiasm.
“In the past couple of days we’ve become familiar with yours,” Gerard said.
“I’ll bet you’re either a Taurus or a Capricorn,” Quandra told Hoffer, with a delivery that indicated she thought further investigation - the personal kind - would be a fine idea. “You strike me as being, conservative, practical, and maybe a bit too serious - that’s why you do what you do.”
“Try Capricorn,” he suggested.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed. “You fit the profile perfectly. You’re single-minded, conscientious, and ambitious.”
“I am all of those,” Hoffere conceded. “What I am not is a Capricorn. I was born on March 27. That makes me an Aries, according to astrological poppycock.”
Quandra protested, “But you said -”
Hoffer was all innocence. “I merely said try Capricorn and you did - without success. I, on the other hand, can tell you with a fair degree of confidence that you are a Pisces.”
“You must be better at reading the stars than I am, Professor.”
“Or perhaps he knows how to read earrings,” Mac said, pointing toward Quandra’s silver fish with his cigar.
“Exactly that,” Hoffer said with a little nod. “Pisces the fish. It seemed likely that one as absorbed with the signs of the zodiac as you obviously are would be brandishing her own, Ms. Hall. It was an educated guess, but also a practical demonstration of how easily we can fool ourselves into reading signs where there are none. That is what astrology is all about and it is a particular passion of mine to debunk such silliness wherever possible. Forgive me for doing so, in this instance, at your expense.”
Quandra gave Hoffer the full treatment with her wide eyes. “Maybe we’ll find a way for you to make it up to me, Professor.”
Hoffer preened, unbending a bit now that he had scored his point. “I should be delighted.”
I could have gagged.
Mac turned the discussion to more constructive channels: “I am sure Ms. Hall is an enchanting travel companion, Peter, but perhaps a bit more muscle would be helpful.”
“You mean I should hire a bodyguard?” Gerard shook his handsome head. “Not if I wasn’t the intended victim. I told you before, I don’t have any enemies.”
“What about Geoffrey Kenlake?” I said.
“He did send you a number of vicious e-mails,” Quandra reminded her boss.
“He and dozens of others,” Gerard said dismissively. “There are lots of harmless screwballs out there. It’s all very well to talk about Rodney Stonecipher’s killing as ‘my’ murder; that keeps the public interested, which could be helpful. But I’m working a different angle. I’m going to find out everything I can about this Stonecipher character. I think the key questions in this case are: Why was he impersonating me? And how did he arrange it?”
“Damned good questions,” I said.
And the answers both led straight to Sebastian McCabe.
What the Records Showed
The rest of that session in Hoffer’s office was mostly Gerard probing for details on what Rodney Stonecipher said and did the night he died. Gerard had already pumped Oscar for everything he had and was willing to talk about. But the actor-writer-director wanted impressions, revealing gestures - all the stuff a couple of ace sleuths like Mac and me should already have used to solve the murder.
By the time Hoffer fi
nally kicked us all out, pleading an afternoon class, I felt as though I’d lived through it all again. That was an experience I’d just as soon have skipped. And for all the time it took and all the horror it brought back, the exercise didn’t shed any new light for me on the events of the murder night.
Back in my office, I tried to hunker down and concentrate on the glossy brochure I was putting together. We have a great website, a state-of-the-art Facebook page, and I tweet all the time. But there’s still an important place in the promotion program for an updated brochure with pretty color pictures (by Maggie Barton as a freelance job) and stirring words (by me) to help attract students and their parents. But it was tough to concentrate on the task at hand with murder on my mind. Where I was supposed to write about the special attractions of our historic campus (“home of quality Catholic education in Southern Ohio for more than 150 years”), I kept thinking about the site of the murder - just the thing every anxious parent or college-bound young man or woman wants to hear about.
That wasn’t the only thing on my mind, short-circuiting my creative juices. Sooner or later, Lem Carpenter was going to realize I wasn’t a cop. Then he’d go to the real cops and Mac and I would both go down in flames. He’d be the object of intense questioning about his previously concealed knowledge of Rodney Stonecipher. And I’d be hard-pressed to prove I hadn’t actually said I was a police officer, only implied it. I knew from experience that mere friendship wouldn’t stop Oscar Hummel from dropping the dime on Mac or me if he thought we were involved in murder.
Not that I was really worried about that - not much anyway. No, it was the use to which Ralph would put these little indiscretions that had me spazzing out. With our own ham-handed action we had given him a big sword to use in his campaign to cut down the popular culture program.
The only way out that I could see was to do what we’d been trying to do: Identify the killer. Then nobody would care why Rodney Stonecipher was impersonating Peter Gerard because it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the motive for murder. Could it?
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