by Ann Waldron
Without thinking, she interrupted the ongoing discussion between Natty and George. “Natty, I understand there are always rivalries and tensions in any office—although I would have thought a place like Rare Books might possibly be an exception—it’s so quiet and isolated from the crass world. But I can understand it’s like any other place where people work together. Feelings can run high. You said you didn’t believe Philip was ‘involved in serious altercations with anybody’—but can you really rule out the possibility that anybody could have hated Philip Sheridan enough to kill him? There’s been a murder, and we have to be so careful.”
“I realize that,” said Natty. “And if I knew of anybody who felt that way about Philip—in or out of my department —I would certainly say so—and say it to the police.” He sounded quite cross.
“Of course you would,” said McLeod. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of hiding something. I guess I’m just trying to think out loud.” She knitted furiously, speaking again after a minute. “I can’t think myself why anybody would want to kill him. He was kind of the goose that laid golden eggs, wasn’t he?”
“I can’t bear to hear Philip Sheridan referred to as a goose,” said Natty.
“Oh, Natty, you know what I mean,” cried McLeod. “Of course he wasn’t a goose. I’ve said over and over again that he was one of the nicest men I ever met—remember he ordered me that first edition of the The Vicar of Bullhampton—”
“And a pretty penny he paid for that, dear lady,” interrupted Natty, glowering.
“—I’m sure he did. And I meant that he was the source of many good things. Dodo wanted money for the Friends. I guess Buster wanted more rare books and Fanny more manuscripts . . .”
“You two had better talk about something else,” said George. “How about something calming like politics or religion ? Or better yet, the weather?”
“The weather’s cold,” said McLeod, frowning at her knitting.
“Indeed it is,” said Natty agreeably. “Don’t worry, George. McLeod and I won’t come to blows. I guess I’m more worried than I realized about this murder. I do hope the police get it cleaned up before long.”
“Have another brandy,” said George, pouring.
As she placidly knitted, McLeod marveled at their capacity for alcohol. “Are they through going over your space?” she asked. “Will you be able to open up to the public Monday?”
“I think so,” said Natty. “I’m pretty sure we will. They’ve been over the premises with a fine-tooth comb, with three or four fine-tooth combs, I guess you could say. They will continue to shut everybody, even the staff, out of Philip’s space and the Belcher display, of course. They’ve been closed to everybody but the police the whole time. We were allowed to be in and out of our own offices in a limited way on Thursday and Friday, vacating while they used those fine-tooth combs, but I think they’ve done all the searching they can do. As I understand it, we can open up Monday. I must call a couple of researchers first thing Monday—maybe I should call Barry Porter tomorrow. He wants to get back to the O’Neill stuff immediately.”
“The police were looking for the murder weapon, weren’t they?” asked McLeod.
“I guess so,” said Natty. “They never said.”
“Chester said he was sure it was Philip Sheridan’s paper knife,” said McLeod.
“Really? I didn’t know that,” said Natty.
McLeod wondered why there wasn’t more communication among the people in Rare Books and Special Collections, but decided not to say this out loud.
Natty was relaxing, definitely relaxing. Waving his brandy glass, he said, “You know, McLeod, speaking of people getting mad enough to kill dear Philip, we have to consider Miss Dodo.”
“Dodo? Dorothy Westcott?” said McLeod.
“Yes, the would-be social queen,” said Natty. “You know she has a consuming ambition to be the doyenne of Princeton society. That lust for social prominence is a great gift to me. That’s why she has labored so hard as a volunteer for the Friends of the Library and why the Friends have brought in so much money for Rare Books and Special Collections. We’ve been able to make some really splendid acquisitions with that money. Dodo, from whatever base motives, has worked really hard and it’s paid off handsomely. I, for one, appreciate it.”
McLeod did not quite see what Natty meant. “But why did that make her mad at Philip Sheridan?” she asked.
“Am I not making myself clear? Oh, dear, it’s late and I’ve had gallons of alcohol. My ex-student has plied me so generously . . . But back to Dodo. Yes, she has social ambitions, which, alas, are not shared by her husband. That provides no obstacle to dear Dodo, though. She saw Philip, the ne plus ultra of Princeton eligibility, as the means to achieve her ends. Oh, how she went after him. She invited him to little dinners at her house, to big dinners, to cocktail parties, and he wouldn’t come. Sure, he would turn up for Friends’ events. He was a good soldier about all that, although I believe darling Dodo was sometimes too zealous in milking him for financial support for Friends’ events. But he would not turn up for a strictly social occasion at the Westcott MacMansion. He just wouldn’t.”
“And that made Dodo mad enough to kill him?”
“Dearest McLeod, I jest. Forgive an old man’s feeble attempts at humor. But when you ask about people angry enough to kill dear Philip, I couldn’t help but think about our capable, but climbing, Dodo.” He paused. “That does sound like the name of a great vine, doesn’t it? Climbing Dodo, or maybe Creeping Dodo.”
“But Dodo couldn’t have done the murder. She told me she left the library while Philip was still alive.”
“Of course she would tell you that. Who knows when Dodo left? She was often hanging around after we closed. I didn’t see her leave, so I can’t say, of course. But remember her vinelike characteristics.”
McLeod, chilled, could think of nothing to say for a minute, then forced herself to come up with something ordinary to get the conversation back on track. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the Friends’ annual dinner. Dodo says I ought to go. Should I?”
“Indeed you should,” said Natty. “And you’re coming, aren’t you, dear boy?”
“I guess I’d better. I’m not a member, though. I should be.”
“Well, neither am I,” said McLeod. “Do I have to be a member to come to the annual dinner? I guess so. How much are the dues and how much is the dinner?”
When Natty told them, she gasped. “It must be awfully good food,” she said.
“It’s a fund-raiser, dear lady,” said Natty. “You’re a user of the collection, and George, you’re an official of the university. You both must join immediately and come to the dinner.”
“Oh, all right, Natty. I’ll send you a check Monday,” said George.
“Me, too,” said McLeod.
“It’s getting late,” said Natty. “I’ d better get home to bed. Dear boy, thank you so much for having me to dinner. And McLeod, thank you for asking me, and for cooking,” he added hastily. “I certainly enjoyed talking to you and I hope I didn’t snap at you too fiercely.”
“Of course you didn’t,” said McLeod, laying her knitting aside and rising. “I’ve been snapped at by much fiercer dragons than you, Natty.”
“You mean my august presence doesn’t terrify you?”
“Natty, I’m in awe of you, but not terrified.”
Natty looked pleased, and unexpectedly kissed her cheek. “Good night, dear girl,” he said.
McLeod headed for the kitchen with their brandy glasses and left George to see him out. When George joined her to help clear the dishes and load the dishwasher, she apologized. “I hope Natty’s not mad at me. I didn’t mean to annoy him.”
“Of course you didn’t,” said George. “He’s not annoyed with you. He’s afraid you’re annoyed with him. He said he hoped you wouldn’t give up on van Dyke because you were mad at him.”
“Oh, van Dyke,” said McLeod. “Phooey. Actually, I like Natty. Has
he ever been married or is he gay?”
“He’s not gay. He’s married right now.”
“What?”
“He’s married. His wife has Alzheimer’s. She’s in an institution. Natty doesn’t talk about her, but he goes to see her nearly every day.”
“That’s awful, but I love it that he’s loyal. You know, we forgot about the break-in Thursday. Do you suppose the police found out anything about it?”
“Not that I know of,” said George. “I don’t think that little break-in has a high priority with them right now.”
“I guess not, but it is unnerving when you think about somebody rummaging around in your things.”
“I’m sure it is,” said George, appearing not at all unnerved. “Actually, I shouldn’t think it would be as unnerving as finding a body.”
“That was unnerving,” McLeod conceded. “But so was finding the house had been burgled. This has been a high crime week. And then we’re living in what they call the murder house.”
“Be brave, McLeod. This, too, will pass. By the way, don’t expect to ever get a look at Natty’s books and pictures. He never asks people to his house.”
“He goes out a lot. Doesn’t he have to pay people back?”
“He takes people to restaurants from time to time. But he’s such an amusing old goat that I think he gets all the invitations he can handle without doing anything in return.”
“What a life!” said McLeod.
“I know. Are we all through in here? Good.”
Fifteen
WHEN SHE WAS in Princeton, McLeod occasionally went to services at Nassau Presbyterian Church, but on this Sunday morning, she decided that she would go to the university chapel. The chapel was Gothic and huge, not as cozy as the classic white Presbyterian Church, but she liked the service, which was interdenominational, although leaning in an Episcopal direction. She liked the prayer for Princeton University that the congregation always recited in unison, and she liked the choir, filled with fresh-faced students in black robes with the Princeton orange stoles.
After all that had happened in the past week, she found it very soothing to sit in that lofty nave and let the music wash over her. The chapel was not nearly full, but the empty spaces made it more peaceful. During the sermon, her mind wandered—McLeod always found church a great place to mull over problems—and tried to make sense of the kaleidoscopic events of the past week. There was the horrible murder in the library, of course, and then there was the burglary of George’s house and the pillaging of her own belongings, not to mention the long-ago murder of Jill Murray in that very same house. Good heavens—it was all too much for one small, beautiful college town. It couldn’t be true. But it was.
The sermon was over—it had seemed mercifully short—and she stood for the final hymn, piping away with the others, “Let there be light, Lord God of Hosts, let there be wisdom on the earth . . .” Let there be light and wisdom, indeed, she prayed silently.
As she moved out of the pew into the aisle, she was surprised to run into Buster Keaton, looking somewhat better groomed than he did at the library, but just as dark and gloomy.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m astonished to see you here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t see how anybody can take the Church seriously in this day and age.”
“But you’re here,” she pointed out.
“Oh, yes, I’m here, but I never take it seriously.”
“I see,” McLeod said.
“Actually, I’m here because my wife is the world’s biggest religious maniac. She insists on it.”
“Oh, where is she? I’d like to meet her,” said McLeod politely.
“She’s helping with the coffee hour—you know, where everybody is supposed to mingle in Christian fellowship after the service. All six of us.”
“Oh, there were more than six people here this morning.”
“Not many more. No matter.” By now they were in the narthex, and McLeod noticed the volunteer ladies fluttering around the table with the big coffee urn and cookies on it.
“Which is your wife?” she said.
“That’s her,” said Buster inelegantly as he waved toward the urn. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” He led her to a fiftyish woman with curly brown hair beginning to go gray. “Amelia, this is McLeod Dulaney. She’s working on Henry van Dyke.”
Amelia looked up from the coffee urn she was manning and smiled at McLeod. “So nice to meet you. Will you have some coffee? Cookies? They’re homemade.”
“I thought I’d take McLeod off to some place where we can sit down. I’ll be back by the time you’re through. Okay?” Buster said to Amelia.
“Sure,” said Amelia. “Have a good time.” She looked past McLeod to the man behind her. “Coffee?” she asked him.
“Come on to Small World,” Buster said to McLeod. “The coffee’s much better there than here. I can’t go home until Amelia gets through anyway.”
And he might as well kill time with me, thought McLeod; he really knows how to make a girl feel good. But why not? At least he had the sense to know Small World was better than Starbucks. “Sounds good,” she said and walked with him across the courtyard and along Nassau Street to Witherspoon and the Small World coffee shop.
She ordered latte and he a cappuccino and they took their cups to a small table by the window where they could watch the passersby.
“Well, what do you think about our murder?” Buster asked her. “Or have you forgotten it?”
“How could I forget it?” McLeod asked, thinking what an oaf Buster could be, even when he was dressed up for church.
“That’s right—you’re the one who found the body,” he said. “Too bad you had to notice it—look at all the trouble you’ve caused. I haven’t been able to get any work done since you did it.”
Was he serious? McLeod wondered. Just in case he was serious, she replied that surely it wasn’t her fault that he hadn’t been able to get any work done. “Somebody would have eventually looked in the window at the Belcher stuff,” she said.
“I know that,” he said. “I’m not a fool, although I know I look like one sometimes. But I’ve got enough sense to know that. I was trying to be cheerful about all this and tease you a bit. But I guess you can’t joke about murder, can you?”
“It’s hard,” said McLeod. “Although I appreciate the effort.” McLeod stirred her latte and Buster sipped his cappuccino. “It’s really a particularly horrible murder because Philip Sheridan was such a nice man.” She looked at Buster to see his reaction to this.
“Oh, he could be very, very nice,” he said. “But he had a darker side. I guess we all do, don’t we?”
“Really? What was his darker side like?”
“Oh, he was like a lot of very rich people,” said Buster. “He wanted to control everything. And he used his money as a tool. Oh, don’t misunderstand me—I got along famously with him. I certainly should have, since I always kowtowed like a crazy man, and it was ‘Yes, Philip,’ ‘No, Philip,’ ‘Whatever you say, Philip.’ That collection of his—any rare book curator in the world would kill for it. I wasn’t about to let it get away from me.”
McLeod thought briefly of Clement Odell, Buster’s predecessor, who was responsible for acquiring the Sheridan collection. “But it was already yours, wasn’t it? I mean, it was Princeton’s—he’d made it over to the university, hadn’t he?”
“Not exactly. It was to come to us as a legacy. It will be Princeton’s now, but he loved those books so much he couldn’t let them go while he was alive.” Unaware that he had a bit of cream from the cappuccino on his chin, he beamed blissfully. “But now that he’s dead, they belong to Princeton. It’s wonderful.”
Buster was a man who took happiness where he could find it, McLeod thought. Here was the benefactor, not cold in his grave, not yet even in his grave, and Buster was exulting over a legacy. “What I can’t understand,” she said, “is this: Who would want to kill that nice man? It happen
ed Tuesday and I haven’t heard about anybody yet with a real reason to kill Philip Sheridan.”
Buster shrugged. “Everybody has enemies.”
“Who was Philip Sheridan’s enemy?” asked McLeod. “Name one.”
“I don’t know that she was Philip’s enemy, but he was certainly hers. I mean Fanny Mobley, of course. The dame of the British Empire and the doyenne of manuscripts.”
“Is she really a dame?”
“Don’t be so literal,” said Buster. “I was just alluding to her ethnic heritage—upper-class Brit, she is, and proud of it. Well, upper middle class, at least.”
“But why would she kill Philip Sheridan? Wasn’t he a benefactor to manuscripts as well as books?”
“Of course he was. But Fanny wasn’t as diplomatic—or as deferential—as some of us. She didn’t fawn over Philip—and perhaps she should have. He disapproved violently of some of the things she did with manuscripts, for instance. They had, shall we say, heated discussions about it. Actually they were dreadful shouting matches.”
“What did she do with manuscripts that he disapproved of?” asked McLeod.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Buster, lapsing into uncharacteristic vagueness. “I think he thought she didn’t appreciate some of the things he had given the university.”
“That’s not a really terrific motive for murder, is it?” asked McLeod. “That Fanny would kill Philip because he thought she didn’t appreciate the value of manuscripts he brought in. I mean, what can you do with manuscripts? Put them in acid-free boxes if they’re books or stories or poems. If they’re letters, you sort them and put them in acid-free folders in acid-free boxes. And then you wait for researchers to come and use them, and watch like a hawk to make sure they don’t mark them or steal them.”
“You describe our life work so beautifully,” said Buster. “Still I think there was enough bad feeling there to justify a little investigation on the part of the police. I may have a talk with that nice lieutenant.”
“Do,” said McLeod. “The police will sort it out. But what about Chester? He and Philip Sheridan got along very well, didn’t they?”