Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

“I don’t know. He asked if the house belonged to Annabeth Rankin, and he identified himself as an FBI agent, but I guess when Susie heard that she went nuts. So I don’t know why he was there.”

  “Why on earth would a house-sitting college student shoot anyone?” Claire demanded.

  “Claire, I have no idea! We never even had a real conversation—she went her way and I went mine. I didn’t ask if she was skilled at small arms handling!”

  Every answer just raised more questions. “I’m going to get ready to go,” Claire said and retreated to the bathroom, where she made a quick stab at brushing her teeth and washing her face. When she emerged, she extended her hand for Jonathan’s shopping list.

  “Anything else? I’ll pick up some food, and the clothes, and see what I can find out. I should be gone a couple of hours.” Feel free to disappear while I’m gone.

  “Right. And, Claire? Thanks. I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

  Claire shrugged. “Don’t make me any sorrier.”

  She scraped the coating of ice off her car, fuming at Jonathan’s arrogance. Navigating the slippery, rutted lane to the main road, Claire drafted a mental checklist. Campus first, to use the library’s public computers, and to see what news she could collect. The death had occurred in the home of a faculty member, so no doubt the campus grapevine would be buzzing. Claire, you’re mangling your metaphors. She had avoided making any buddies on campus because she really, really didn’t want any more distractions—didn’t want to be tempted to hang out in the nice warm library, and wander over to the campus bookstore, and to the adjacent coffee shop for a latte after browsing through the latest publications. That’s where she’d gone wrong back in Northampton, and that’s why she had come here. A fat lot of good that had done her so far, even before Jonathan Daulton had stumbled into the cabin.

  But now, she realized, her lack of human contact was a problem, and she was lousy at making casual chitchat with total strangers. She sighed. She’d just have to do the best she could, starting at the campus center. And then find food and bandages and antiseptic stuff. Maybe she should look up treatment of bullet wounds while she was on the Internet—although if her unwelcome guest started oozing green pus, she’d hog-tie him and drag him to the nearest hospital.

  Then clothes. Most of what she needed to buy for Jonathan could be considered unisex, so nobody would look twice if she bought them. She wore men’s flannel shirts and corduroy pants around here; they were comfortable and warm. But boxer shorts? Maybe she could pretend she was going to sleep in them.

  But what he had said so flippantly, about the feds watching credit card purchases, worried her. As he had pointed out, the authorities would almost certainly be watching to see if his credit cards or debit card showed any activity, although it was moot since he’d left them all at the house. That meant, in this electronic age, that he was flat broke, which certainly limited his options. And they’d most likely be watching his computer accounts. While she had no reason to think that anyone was paying attention to her own activities, if it came out later that she had bought men’s clothing and bandages this morning, she could be implicated.

  Claire nearly slammed on the brakes at that thought. Whoa, woman, you have got to think seriously about this! It had been one thing when Jonathan had stumbled through her door, dazed and bleeding, in the middle of the night. Anyone would have given aid under those conditions, and asked questions later. Well, here it was later, and based on his flimsy story she had now lied to the police, was knowingly harboring a wanted fugitive, and was actually helping him by buying him underwear? Appalled as she was, she almost giggled: aiding and abetting by underwear.

  Why are you doing this, Claire? She pondered the question as she drove cautiously on slippery roads toward town. Because his story was vague and muddled enough to be true? Maybe. Any reasonably intelligent person, which presumably he was, would have come up with a more coherent story, not to mention one that didn’t make him look like such a spineless idiot, panicking and running out the door and getting lost in the dark. Unless he was really, really smart and had made up a stupid story because he knew that she would see through a smart one? No, that was far too complicated. Besides, the blood had been real. That much she knew.

  A young female eyewitness with a blameless record had pointed the finger at Jonathan and had told the policeman that Jonathan had shot the FBI agent. Since Jonathan was conspicuously absent, and the student was right there, no doubt having hysterics, of course the officer would believe her. Whatever the truth, Jonathan was right—it wouldn’t be easy to divert the police.

  Are you acting like an idiot because of what happened the last time you met? But that had been a chance encounter, never repeated. No, she was acting now based on a rational evaluation of the situation. She believed what he had told her about last night’s events. Therefore she was going to help him—to a point. The least she could do would be to find out the official story, so that Jonathan would know what he was up against when he turned himself in. Of course he was going to turn himself in—wasn’t he?

  And even as she sought a parking space on the half-empty campus, another little voice nagged at her: Face it, Claire—you just don’t want to admit you slept with a murderer. Even drunk and giddy, she couldn’t have been that stupid. Ergo, he couldn’t be a murderer, and she would have to find a way to prove it.

  6

  The campus scene looked perfectly normal. A few students and faculty members scuttling along the icy paths, everyone bundled to the eyes against the piercing cold. But any urgency in people’s actions was due to cold, not unease. No one feared a lurking killer hiding behind the shriveled rhododendrons. Claire headed for warmth, light, and human contact: the campus snack bar.

  Inside, there were more people than she had seen here before, and she guessed that many of them had come together for the same reason she had: they wanted news of the murder. Claire joined a line to order a cappuccino and eavesdropped shamelessly. As she had expected, all the snippets she heard were related to the shooting. The line inched forward, and when she finally reached the front, she decided she needed not only caffeine but carbs, and picked out a gigantic muffin. She was going to settle in for the long haul.

  She grabbed a table, sweeping off the stray crumbs, and then decided to seek out some informants. With eye contact and body language she made it clear that she was willing to share her table. She struck gold: three young women with laden trays made their way toward her.

  “Gee, thanks for sharing the table. This place is really busy today.”

  “Hey, no problem. Is something going on?” Claire smiled innocently.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to her in unison. “You didn’t hear? There was a murder last night!”

  Claire summoned up a look of horror. “A murder? What happened?” And she settled back to listen.

  The apparent ringleader, a stocky girl with muddy blondish hair, led off, after making sure she had everyone’s attention. “I heard this from my friend Sydney, who’s in the same house as Susie, well, except the houses are closed for interterm. Well, anyway, Susie was staying at Professor Rankin’s place, right? Watering her plants and stuff, because she didn’t have the cash to go home over break. And Professor Rankin let this guy she knew stay too, see? You know, what’s his name, the guy who’s teaching that course?” She looked at her friends in appeal.

  Follower Number One spoke up. “Jonathan Daulton. He wrote that book, a couple of years ago, remember? I think my mother read it.”

  Follower Number Two chimed in. “Oh, yeah. I wondered what the heck he was doing here—I mean, it’s not like he’s got a lot of credentials. Maybe he was the best they could get.”

  “Whatever.” Ringleader took back the reins. “Bet nobody ever thought he was a killer!”

  Claire decided to move the conversation along. “So what happened?”

  “Well, Susie was doing some stuff upstairs, and she heard the doorbell, and when she came down to see who
it was, ’cause she was, you know, taking care of the house, this Daulton guy is already there in the hall. And the guy at the door says something, Susie doesn’t catch it, and Susie’s just standing there, and Daulton pulls out a gun and shoots the guy at the door, and then these other guys come running up. And Susie’s all, like, holy shit, what’s going on? You know? Oh, sorry, ma’am.”

  Claire wondered whether she was more offended by the “shit” or the “ma’am,” but decided to let it pass. “Don’t worry—nothing I haven’t heard. So, is the guy dead? And then what happened?”

  Ringleader leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Well, from what I hear, Susie kinda lost it there, that’s what Sydney says, anyway, so the story’s a little fuzzy. This Daulton guy takes off, and somebody calls the cops because they heard shots, and there are flashing lights all over the place. But they couldn’t find him—the perp, I mean—or the gun.”

  Claire tried to look properly impressed. “Wow! Does anybody have a clue why this guy started shooting?”

  Three heads shook as one. “No! And Professor Rankin, she’s really well liked, and her classes are always full. I don’t know how she knew this guy, or why she let him stay at her house. She’s been out of town for a couple of weeks, I think. That’s why Susie was there.”

  “Poor Susie,” Claire threw out. “She must have been really upset by all this.” She watched with amusement as the three young women exchanged covert glances.

  “Well, yeah, sure. She was, like, hysterical, big-time.”

  “Not the first time,” Follower Number Two muttered.

  “She’s a fricking prima donna, if you ask me. Always sucking up to the faculty,” Follower Number One added. “That’s how she got that cushy house-sit. Real teacher’s pet type. What do you want to bet she’ll be too traumatized to get much work done for months? She’ll play this out as far as she can.”

  So Susie was not well liked by her peers. Claire wondered if that bit of information was good for anything. Did it mean she was less than honest? That she craved attention? And how did that fit with being a cold-blooded killer, if Jonathan’s version was true?

  “Do you all go to school here?” Claire ventured. The girls nodded. “Have you taken classes from this Professor, uh, Rankin, is it?”

  The nods were more vigorous this time. “Yeah, she teaches in the Comp Lit Department, but she does a lot of international courses, women’s history, feminist theory, that kind of thing. We’re lucky to have her here. A lot of the faculty has been around since Year One, and they just keep going over the same dead white men material. Boring! Right?” Ringleader looked at her posse for agreement, which was prompt in coming. Then she looked at her watch. “Jeez! I’m supposed to meet my thesis advisor like ten minutes ago. Gotta go!”

  She rose, and her entourage rose with her, leaving Claire in sole possession of the table again, with much food for thought. In sum, she thought, Annabeth Rankin is a popular teacher, Susie is a prima donna, and Jonathan has been cast as the villain of the piece. Now she needed to know what the official version was.

  The local paper was a weekly and couldn’t possibly have coverage on this story. And since everything had happened late last night, she wasn’t even sure the bigger papers would have picked it up yet. Maybe she should try the Internet. She could track down the campus security office and ask if she should be worried, but that might call attention to herself, which was the last thing she wanted. The Internet it was, then, and that meant the library, where she could use a terminal. She set off at a brisk walk across campus.

  An hour at a computer terminal left her more frustrated than informed. As she had feared, no more than the bare bones of the story had been made public, and the online sources said only that Jonathan Daulton, the author of the former bestseller Genderal Relations, was wanted for questioning in relation to a fatal shooting at Greenferne College. That much she already knew.

  She sat back in the creaking computer chair and stretched. The longer she waited, the more she risked. She didn’t think Jonathan would harm her, but if her involvement in hiding him became known, her career could be threatened, and she had worked too long and too hard to sacrifice that for the likes of Jonathan Daulton, even if he was innocent. If things got sticky, she would hand him over to the police without a second thought. Still, she had to admit he had been right about one thing: none of this made sense. A well-liked faculty member, a flighty student, a popular author—and armed men appearing in the middle of the night? Bullets flying? Something was missing here, but Claire didn’t have the faintest idea what.

  At least she could deal with the simple things, like food and drink and clothing. And then she would report back to Jonathan and see if he’d had any brainstorms. At the grocery store, she took out an extra supply of cash at the ATM—just in case. She bought food, and then went to the liquor store and bought some wine. Then she hunted down the nearest megastore and, with Jonathan’s list in hand, roamed the aisles and filled a cart with all the necessities. She threw in a few other items for herself, like spare socks and gloves, and then added the bandages and antibiotic ointment she needed. Like a good Girl Scout, she was going to be prepared. Although after the past twelve hours, she wondered what else she should be prepared for.

  The high school student at the register took no interest in her purchases. Maybe she—or Jonathan—was being paranoid. She hauled her bulky plastic bags to her car and headed back toward the Murrays’ cabin. Darkness was already gathering. More snow coming? Winters were long and hard in northern New England—maybe that was why so many Yankees in the old days had had a dozen kids: what else was there to do after dark? As she drove she wondered what Jonathan had found to occupy his time while he waited. Well, she snickered to herself, he was welcome to read any of the research materials she had brought along with her—and she had made sure that was all she had brought. Maybe he would find the contemporary feminist canon enlightening.

  When Jonathan had published that stupid book, it had popped to the top of the bestseller lists and stayed there. Maybe it was because the book was an easy read, even for a mouth-breathing truck-driver. She was willing to admit that Jonathan had come up with some zingy catchphrases that had been adopted by the public. The man did have a way with words. But the book had also been blatantly, wickedly insulting to all and any women.

  Still, its success did nothing to explain the trouble he was in now. He’d been invited to Greenferne on the strength of it—that much made sense. He claimed he had known Annabeth Rankin for years, so she’d have to accept her invitation to let him stay at her home as legitimate. But why would the FBI show up at a faculty member’s house in a quiet New England town? And why would that inspire anyone to start shooting? Claire acknowledged that law enforcement agencies were quite capable of getting things muddled, but this just didn’t feel right. Odd that the police hadn’t said anything about the FBI being there, just that there had been a shooting. Unless, of course, Jonathan had lied. But why would he lie?

  She had arrived back at the cabin, and all she had was more questions. The lights were on. Well, of course they were: had she expected Jonathan to sit in the dark? Oh—that meant the power was back, thank goodness. There was no one around to see, anyway. Still, she felt a small stab of dismay. If he was really in hiding, shouldn’t he be more careful? She pulled out her unwieldy assortment of bags and hurried to the door. With the approaching dark the temperature had fallen another ten degrees; she wanted to get inside, get warmed up, and get some answers.

  7

  Claire fumbled to find her keys, annoyed at Jonathan for not coming out to help, since most of the stuff she was dragging was for him. Maybe he’s taken a hike. Maybe he’s been eaten by a bear. Maybe his bullet wound was worse than I thought and he’s lying there dead. The lock finally yielded, and Claire all but fell into the room. It was blazing hot: Jonathan apparently had added half of her firewood supply to the fire. Then she spied him sitting at the table, staring at her laptop. That
pushed her over the edge.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She dropped the bulky bags on the floor and prepared to launch into battle.

  He looked up amiably. “Took you long enough. I’ve been looking at what you’ve got written so far—not bad, but it’s kind of dry reading.”

  “How would you know, you . . .” Claire couldn’t find a sufficiently scathing epithet. “Who gave you permission to use my computer, read my work? Get away from there!”

  Jonathan pushed back from the table and raised both hands. “I surrender. I’m moving away from the laptop . . . Oh, good, clothes. May I?”

  Claire growled something inarticulate and, while Jonathan began to rummage through the bags, she went to the computer and closed the file he had been so shamelessly reading. Dry indeed! It was a scholarly work, not a piece of popular fluff like his so-called book. “Couldn’t you find something to read?”

  Jonathan snorted. “Yeah, right. Everything in the place is either a high-minded feminist tract or lowbrow romance. Some of which, I might add, come perilously close to porn. I’m shocked!” He flashed a grin at her.

  “Yeah, right. I came here to work, and I brought only those references I thought were essential.”

  “Uh-huh. And where do the quivering thighs and pulsing loins enter into that? Or is it pulsing thighs and quivering loins?”

  “If you read anything of my text, you’ll know I’m analyzing the portrayal of women in what is currently an extremely popular genre—one which I find repugnant.”

  “Why, because of the role models they embody, or because they’re popular and sell well?”

  “Both! I’m appalled that women write this kind of trash, and that other women buy it! They’re both perpetuating the worst kind of sexist stereotypes. Pathetic women who melt the minute a man with big muscles and a strong jaw pays any attention to them.”