A Rare Murder In Princeton

by Ann Waldron

  Dodo continued, “I don’t know what we’ll do without him. I can’t imagine who would want to kill him, can you?”

  “No, I can’t, but then I don’t know anything about him, really. I presume he did get along with everybody at the library.”

  “Of course he did. He was a towering figure. Everybody adored him. That’s what I tried to tell all those policemen. We all looked up to him.” Dodo paused and looked at her scarlet fingernails a long time. McLeod looked at them, too, and wished she could manage to find time to get regular manicures and keep her nails long and red. How did other women do it? She had never been able to accomplish this simple feat. “Well, nearly everybody adored him, that is. There was one exception, of course.”

  McLeod wondered where all this was going. “Who was the exception?” she asked.

  “Chester.”

  “Really?”

  “Chester and Philip had some terrible quarrels.”

  “That’s amazing,” said McLeod. “I’d say that if anybody adored Philip Sheridan, it was Chester Holmes.”

  “Of course, in a way, he adored him. But don’t they always say it’s the spouse who does the murder. Well, Chester wasn’t his spouse, but you know what I mean. People like that—those relationships—are always charged with such tension. Those people are always so sort of unbalanced—”

  “Philip Sheridan, unbalanced?” said McLeod. “Dodo, be sensible. Think about it. Were they emotionally involved ? I got the impression that Chester was a faithful apprentice figure.”

  “He must have been more than that,” said Dodo.

  “He was good at the work he did at the library, wasn’t he?” said McLeod. “And it must have been a great help to Philip Sheridan at his age to have a young person living at the house. They weren’t inseparable.”

  “I know, but don’t you think Chester maybe wanted them to be inseparable? If Philip had found somebody else, wouldn’t Chester have gone berserk?”

  “Did Philip find somebody else?”

  “He must have. What else would make Chester kill him?”

  McLeod shook her head in an effort to clear it. Dodo was going in circles. “But surely you don’t know that Chester killed him? Do you?” McLeod asked.

  “No, but as I said, it just seems logical to me,” said Dodo. “That kind of relationship breeds violence. You are the kind of person who sees people in the best possible light. I guess I’m more cynical, and I just believe that Chester killed Philip. It’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s an interesting point of view,” said McLeod, keeping her voice neutral.

  “Do you think I should tell the police?” asked Dodo.

  “Tell the police what?”

  “Tell them that Chester murdered Philip,” said Dodo.

  “Dodo, do you have any evidence at all that Chester Holmes killed Philip Sheridan? Motive, means, opportunity —those are the things that count in a murder investigation. Do you have tangible, provable evidence about any of those things?”

  “I see what you mean. I just have this strong gut feeling, and my husband says my intuition is incredible. I just seem to be able to psych things out.”

  “That’s a remarkable gift,” said McLeod, wishing she was at home having a drink with George. Was she becoming an alcoholic, she wondered nervously. Wasn’t wishing for a drink a sign of addiction?

  “I knew you’d understand,” said Dodo.

  McLeod, who was far from understanding Dodo, shrugged. She stood up.

  Dodo stood up, too, but more reluctantly. “I was hoping we could have a nice long chat about it. A real heart-to-heart. You’re so smart, McLeod. You have a mind like a meat cleaver. You cut right to the main issue.”

  “Good heavens, Dodo. I don’t have a mind like a meat cleaver. It’s more like a can of hair spray. It just seizes on a cliché and hardens it into a fact.”

  “Oh, no. I wanted to talk to you immediately. I think you have good sense.”

  “Thanks, Dodo, but I’m not a good adviser. I get emotionally involved—I guess everybody does—and don’t always see an issue clearly.”

  “Well, thanks for talking to me,” said Dodo. “I really appreciate it. I’ll wait and think it over before I tell the police about Chester. Where are you parked?”

  “Down in the garage,” said McLeod.

  “Oh, I’m right on Nassau Street. I found a metered place just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  “Good for you, Dodo,” said McLeod. “I have to go upstairs to get my things, but you can go out this door. I’ll make sure it’s closed tight. I’m scared of Frieda. You know, she’s a regular martinet.”

  “I bet you’re not scared of anybody,” said Dodo as she left. “Thanks so much. See you soon.”

  “Hope so,” said McLeod. When she left, unburdened by the box of dresses she had brought that morning, she resolutely avoided the shuttle bus and walked down the hill to the garage, wondering about Dodo as she went. Why in the world had Dodo sought her out to try to blame Chester Holmes for the murder of Philip Sheridan?

  AT HOME SHE found George in the kitchen. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “Dodo Westcott wanted to talk to me. Have you been to the store?”

  “I have. I actually got away early. We have this new guy in public relations—Chuck Hammersmith—and he’s terrific. He handled the murder with the press quite well. Tom and I both left early—Tom said there would be so much to do tomorrow we’d better get away while we could.”

  “That’s great. Who is the new guy? I always liked Jim Massey. Where is he?”

  “He was fine,” said George, “but Chuck is better, I think. Jim got a good job at Stanford—he’s vice president. Anyway, I went by Wild Oats and got these felicitous filet mignons. I know you aren’t crazy about steak, but these really are superb.”

  “I know. They look good. I’m delighted.”

  “And I got some stuffed potatoes from Nassau Street Seafood. I’m just doing a salad. We’ll have a feast.”

  “Lovely. What can I do?”

  “Nothing. It’s all under control. Go sit down and I’ll come make us martinis in a jiffy.”

  “Splendid. What a nice life I lead. But what about Chester?”

  “I didn’t forget him. I bought three of everything. Call him. The phone would be listed under P. Sheridan.”

  McLeod went upstairs to dump her stuff, and while she was up there, she changed into a woolly caftan she loved. Back downstairs, she looked up Sheridan’s number and dialed it.

  Chester answered and said he believed he would come to dinner after all. He had found out how hard it was to be alone in the house on Hibben Road and he was very grateful. McLeod gave him the address on Edgehill, and relayed the news to George, who sighed.

  “It’s an act of charity. And it’s our duty, but duty’s hard,” he said. “Let’s have a drink and I’ll finish up after he gets here. I guess I’d better build a fire.”

  “I’ll go get my knitting,” said McLeod.

  “Yes, indeed, I think you should work on it with greater dedication. I’ve never had a hand-knit sweater before.”

  “I just hope I don’t screw up your sweater,” said McLeod when she came back downstairs. She got out the sweater, which she had barely started. “This part is pretty straightforward, but when I get up to where the pattern is, I’ll have to be very careful.”

  “Be very careful, then,” said George. They sat down before the fire with their martinis and a bowl of pretzels, and George said, “Now tell me how you happened to find the body.”

  So McLeod told him about her habit of stopping to look in on Belcher’s office and how this morning she had seen Philip Sheridan stretched out. “Was it just this morning? It seems like a century ago.”

  “And your old friend Nick Perry is back on the job. Do you have any ideas about who did it? You’ve been spending a lot of time in Rare Books.”

  “I don’t have any idea who did it. Philip Sheridan was such a nice man. But accusations
are already flying.” She told him about Dodo and her talk of Chester.

  “Do you think Mrs. Westcott is a reliable accuser?”

  “I don’t know,” said McLeod, then added, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What did you think of Tom?” asked George, changing the subject.

  “He seemed quite nice—in the two minutes I talked to him.”

  “I like him,” said George.

  “Who took your place as assistant to the president?”

  “A woman. She’s good at the job—but not as good as I was.”

  “Lots of changes,” said McLeod.

  “Yes,” said George.

  She was on the verge of telling George about the book and the crucifix when the doorbell rang and they both went to let Chester Holmes in.

  Twelve

  CHESTER COULD BARELY wait until McLeod had performed the introductions to express his gratitude for the invitation.

  “Chester, this is George Bridges. George, do you know Chester Holmes?” she was finally able to say. While George was hanging up Chester’s down jacket, Chester began chattering as he brushed his floppy brown hair out of his eyes. “I am so glad you called, McLeod. I can call you McLeod, can’t I? It seems friendlier than Ms. Dulaney. Anyway, I thought I should stay there at the house and answer the phone and deal with all the people who called. Then Mrs. Hamilton arrived, and she has never approved of me. Never. She tries her dead level best to be nice to me, but she just can’t. And so when you called, it was like a lifeline to a drowning sailor. I said to myself, ‘I can get out of here and she can be in charge and do what she likes.’ So I said, ‘Yes,’ and here I am.”

  “Who is Mrs. Hamilton?” asked McLeod. They were still standing around in the hall.

  “She’s Mr. Sheridan’s sister,” said Chester. “She’s his closest relative. I called her this morning. She lives in New York and she came right down. She does like to manage things and I guess it’s good she’s here, because I want Mr. Sheridan to have a proper funeral and she’ll see to that—”

  George interrupted. “Let’s go sit down, Chester. What would you like to drink?”

  “Oh, water’s fine,” said Chester. “I’m not much of a drinker.” He followed them into the parlor with its small blazing fire.

  “Come on,” said George. “Have a drink. McLeod and I are having martinis. Wouldn’t you like one? It’ll do you good.”

  “All right, I will. Maybe it will make me feel better.”

  “It will,” George assured him and headed to the kitchen.

  “I just hope Mrs. Hamilton is not going to be here for long,” Chester said. “It’s bad enough that Mr. Sheridan is dead. That breaks my heart. I can’t take it in—I’m sort of numb and I guess that’s good. But I’m not so numb that Mrs. Hamilton won’t get under my skin—even if she is good at managing things.”

  “What does she do that’s so annoying?”

  “It’s hard to describe. She makes me feel like I don’t belong there, even though I live there and she doesn’t. It’s a horrible feeling.”

  “Maybe you should stay here. George, can’t we put Chester up here?” she asked as George came back with Chester’s drink.

  “I don’t quite see how,” said George. “McLeod is in my very nice guest room at the moment,” he added for Chester’s benefit.

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t intrude. I’ll stay in Mr. Sheridan’s house. It is my home, after all. The only thing is I can’t go to work for a while, because the police are taking over Rare Books.”

  “I know,” said McLeod. “Natty called me. I can’t quite see why they need the whole area.”

  “They’re looking for the murder weapon,” said Chester, taking a gulp of his martini. “I told them what I thought it was and they’re looking for it.” He took another gulp.

  “What do you think it was?”

  “I’m sure it was Mr. Sheridan’s own paper knife,” said Chester. “It was a splendid ivory-handled knife, very old, designed originally to cut the pages in books—you know, when they used to come with ‘uncut pages.’ And he used it for a letter opener, too. It was very, very sharp. Some of the old paper knives were dull, but this one was sharp. Mr. Sheridan kept it that way. He had arthritis in his hands and it was hard for him to use a knife. So he kept it sharp. Anyway, it’s not on his desk, where he always kept it. So I’m sure that’s what the murderer used.” With a third gulp, he finished off his martini and set the glass down on a table beside the sofa.

  “Would you like another?” asked George, standing up to take the glass. “McLeod?”

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  Chester just smiled. George left carrying his glass.

  “Did you tell the police about the paper knife?” asked McLeod.

  “Yes,” said Chester. “Finally. Most of the day they were asking us all about times—times we last saw Mr. Sheridan and all that.”

  “When did you see him the last time?” asked McLeod as George came back in with Chester’s fresh drink.

  “I’m going to finish up supper,” said George, interrupting.

  “Can I help?” asked McLeod.

  “No, no. You talk to Chester. This will be easy.”

  “Chester, when did you see Mr. Sheridan the last time?” McLeod repeated.

  “That’s what’s so hard. I last saw him when I left about six o’ clock Tuesday. How did I know I’d never see him again?” He drank half his second martini.

  “You didn’t go home together?”

  “I left before he did most days. He liked to be alone with his books occasionally, and I would go out and see some of my friends—my other friends. That’s what I did Tuesday night. I left him at the library and went home and changed clothes—Mr. Sheridan was a stickler for a coat and tie at work—and went out to the Alchemist and Barrister with some friends. Then we went to a movie after dinner. I didn’t get home until almost midnight. I didn’t know Mr. Sheridan wasn’t home when I went to bed.”

  “What about the next morning?”

  “I still didn’t worry. Once in a while, Mr. Sheridan would sleep in, and not go to the library until noon. After all, he wasn’t on anybody’s payroll. I was. Mr. Sheridan paid my salary, but he did it through the university. Since I’m on the university payroll, I keep regular hours.” He polished off his second martini and set the glass down, just as George came in to call them to dinner.

  The filets were magnificently tender, the potatoes excellent, and George’s salad was marvelously filling since it contained Parmesan cheese, artichoke hearts, bacon, and beet slices as well as lettuce.

  George and McLeod drank sparingly of the Bordeaux, but Chester had several glasses as he ate. And he talked. He answered McLeod’s questions readily and fully.

  “So when I saw Mr. Sheridan in the Belcher room this morning—you had not seen him since late Tuesday afternoon ?”

  “That’s right, and that’s what the police kept asking me about. They asked me a zillion times if I could get in Rare Books when it was closed. And I told them I could if somebody was still here—they could let me in. I couldn’t get back in if everybody was gone and the alarm was set. They never quite understood about this and they just kept on and on. They asked me over and over, if I came back after I left Tuesday. And they asked me why I didn’t see Mr. Sheridan on the floor of the Belcher room this morning, and I said I never looked in there. Nobody ever looked in there but you, McLeod. They want to talk to me some more tomorrow, they said.”

  “They’ll probably talk to you tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” said McLeod.

  “I guess so,” said Chester.

  “A murder investigation is dreadful,” said George. “I was a suspect one time, and it was foul.”

  “Surely I’m not a suspect,” said Chester.

  “I think everybody is a suspect at this point,” said McLeod. “Everybody who had a chance to be at the library alone with Mr. Sheridan on Tuesday.”

  “That’s scary,” said Chester.
“I thought I was just helping the investigation. It never occurred to me they could suspect me.”

  “Everybody is suspect until they’re eliminated, I think,” said McLeod.

  “I can’t believe anybody would suspect me of killing Mr. Sheridan. He was my best friend. And since my parents died, he’s been like my only relative.”

  McLeod relented. “I’m sure you’re not really under suspicion.”

  “I should think not,” said Chester. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and switched topics. “This is good wine,” he said, picking up the bottle. “A Bordeaux—Mr. Sheridan always called it claret. He was a real oenophile as well as a bibliophile and an Anglophile.” He filled his glass and set the bottle down.

  “You said you told the police about the paper knife, didn’t you?” said McLeod.

  “I did. As soon as I noticed it was missing.”

  “You said he kept it on his desk.”

  “That’s right,” said Chester. “He kept it in a sheath—it was really sharp—and he stuck it in a little antique pitcher that sat on his desk. You know, it was in the sheath, but pointing down in this little pitcher. That was so it wouldn’t get lost among the papers on his desk.”

  “Did he use it much?”

  “He used it all the time—to open all his letters—but what he liked best was when we got a book with uncut pages, and he would cut the pages with the knife. He loved that. He loved old things, and an old book that nobody had ever read before—that really pleased him.”

  “When was the last time you saw the paper knife?” asked McLeod.

  “I’m sure it was on his desk Tuesday. Mr. Sheridan opened a lot of mail that day. If he hadn’t used the paper knife, I would have noticed.” Chester brushed his hair back and poured himself another glass of claret.

  “So the police are looking for the paper knife,” said McLeod. “Where had they looked when you left?”

  “Well, they weren’t devoting all their time to looking for the knife,” said Chester. “As I said, they spent more time asking the same questions of everybody there. When did you last see Philip Sheridan alive? And what time did you leave Rare Books? Who was there when you left? There were a lot of people to ask questions of, too—Mr. Ledbetter, Mr. Keaton, Mrs. Mobley, Mrs. Westcott, Molly, all the clerks and secretaries and conservators and curators.”