A Rare Murder In Princeton

by Ann Waldron

  “I suppose,” said Buster. “But who knows what goes on inside a relationship like that? Who depends on whom? Was Chester a masochist who put up with Sheridan’s domination? Or did Chester have some sort of hold on Sheridan ? Did he know something that gave him power? It’s an interesting question, isn’t it?”

  McLeod thought it was an outlandish question, but she had to admire Keaton’s imagination. He should write fiction, she thought. She decided to ask one more question. “And Dodo? How did she and Philip Sheridan get along?”

  “Like a house afire,” said Buster. “That is to say that they were always hot with irritation at each other, believe me. Dodo wanted to use Philip for fund-raising purposes and he wouldn’t let himself be trotted out for things like that.”

  That wasn’t exactly the way Natty had put it, McLeod realized, but she was interested to see that Buster could find faults—and motives for murder—in everybody she mentioned. Still, enough was enough. “I really must go. Thanks for the coffee. And your wife must be waiting for you.”

  “Don’t worry about Amelia,” said Buster. “She’ll be all right. She always stays at the chapel, talking to every single person who stops for coffee. Then she helps with the cleanup. I’ll amble back toward the chapel, though. Are you going that way?”

  “No, I walked from Edgehill, so I go in the other direction. See you soon.”

  Buster Keaton really could be quite awful, she thought as she plodded toward Edgehill Street, but this was the only time she had ever seen him stay off the subject of books for such a long time. She noticed that it had turned cloudy since she had left home that morning and it looked as though it might snow again. Horrors.

  And poor Chester. He was sincerely mourning Philip Sheridan’s death, she was sure, and yet people had picked him as the suspect.

  What could she do to help Chester? As usual, her first thought was food. Should she ask him for dinner again tonight? What would George say? Was George going to be at home? She couldn’t remember. She would find out and then decide what to do next about Chester. He reminded her somehow of her own children, although she thought that both of those two were perhaps sturdier and more independent than Chester. Rosie was working on a newspaper in Charlotte, North Carolina, and had signed a contract to do a brief biography of Nadine Gordimer. Harry was finishing his Ph.D. in art history at Yale. As a matter of fact, he had been finishing his Ph.D. for years. He had vowed to complete his dissertation this year, but then he had vowed to finish it last year. How was it coming, she wondered. Thoughts of Harry’s dissertation and his elusive doctorate distracted her momentarily from worrying about Chester Holmes.

  Sixteen

  ONCE AT HOME, though, McLeod thought of Chester again, that poor lad with his big brown eyes and his hair flopping in his face. George was at home, reading the Sunday papers.

  “And how was church?” he asked. “Did you pray for me?”

  “Of course,” she lied. “And I prayed for light and wisdom. And then there’s always Christian charity, although I forgot to pray for it today. But speaking of Christian charity, I ran into Buster Keaton at the chapel and he is certainly not full of it—Christian charity, I mean. First, he said he thought Fanny Mobley killed Philip Sheridan—”

  George interrupted: “Fanny Mobley is that lady who always looks like she ought to be the figurehead of a sailing vessel, isn’t she? Wrapped in billowing sails and that kind of thing?”

  “Well, she does wear those floppy clothes and lots of them have fringe on them.”

  “Are clothes like that the mark of a murderer?”

  “Not necessarily, I’d say,” said McLeod. “But Buster has other suspects—Chester Holmes and Dodo Westcott. Back to Christian charity, could you bear it if I asked Chester Holmes to dinner again?”

  “Sure I could,” said George, “since I won’t be here.”

  “I think Sunday nights should be free of official events.”

  “They usually are, but didn’t I tell you? I have to meet with the mayor of Princeton Borough. He chose the time, not me, but I have to talk to him about the pedestrian overpass we want to build over Washington Road. So go ahead and ask Chester if you like.”

  “I guess I will, then, and maybe I’ll ask Fiona and Angus.” Fiona and Angus McKay were childhood friends of McLeod’s, and Angus taught at Princeton Theological Seminary.

  “Ask them when I’m here,” said George. “I want to meet them.”

  “All right. In that case, I’ll just cook something and take it to Chester for his supper. I think it would be kind of a strain to have him here alone. What shall I cook? I think I’ll do meat loaf—I’ll make one for Chester and one to keep here. It’s easy and the leftovers make good sandwiches.”

  “Something to look forward to—for me, I mean,” said George. “You know it’s supposed to snow tonight, so be careful when you go out.”

  “I will,” she said.

  A telephone call revealed that Chester would appreciate anything McLeod brought him, so she went off to the grocery store and then set to work in the kitchen.

  WHEN SHE TOOK a basket containing a small meatloaf, mashed potatoes, lima beans, spinach salad, and cookies (the cookies were store bought, but good) over to Hibben Road, Chester was very grateful indeed.

  “Won’t you come in for a drink?” he asked.

  “No, no, everything will get cold,” she said.

  “That’s all right—I can heat it up in the microwave,” said Chester, who looked a bit rumpled in blue jeans but a good cashmere sweater. “Do come in for a minute. You’ve been so good to me, and I appreciate it.”

  So McLeod followed him into the living room of Philip Sheridan’s house, and sat down. Chester offered sherry, and she accepted, noting that it was Tio Pepe, her favorite. The living room seemed rather bare and cheerless, in spite of the spectacular paintings on the wall and the good, solid furniture. It was somewhat untidy.

  “I take it Mrs. Hamilton is not here any longer,” she said, sipping her sherry.

  “That’s right,” said Chester, who had sat down in a big chair opposite her with a good stiff drink of Scotch in his hand. “She left yesterday. I must say I’m relieved.”

  “I can imagine,” said McLeod.

  “She had to go to New York to see about some business; she’ll be back, of course.” He paused, then spoke again, “And if it’s not one thing it’s another—the police have been here all day yesterday and all day today.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Searching, searching. Going through all of Mr. Sheridan’s papers. And asking me questions. It never stopped. I’m exhausted and the house is a mess.”

  “It’s a beautiful house,” said McLeod. “Do you have a housekeeper?”

  “Oh, yes. I hope when she gets here tomorrow she can tidy things up.”

  “I’m sure she will,” said McLeod.

  “But if the police come back tomorrow, they’ll mess things up again, I’m sure,” he said.

  “What were the police interested in? Do you know?”

  “Everything,” said Chester. “They went through all of Mr. Sheridan’s papers and searched his closets and his dresser and his chest of drawers. They were interested in all of his ‘relationships.’ Relationships! I’ve gotten so I hate the word. They wanted to know about our ‘relationship.’ Were we lovers? Partners? I said, ‘No, indeed, we were not,’ but they didn’t believe me. Nobody does, but we weren’t. Mr. Sheridan had a partner for years and years, but he died, and I don’t think Mr. Sheridan cared about anybody else. He just liked to have somebody in the house—that’s why he asked me if I wanted to live here. We hardly ever went anywhere together. It was enough for me just to work for him and be with him at home some of the time. I learned so much from him. Not just about rare books and literature but about lifestyles and how to set a table and what dessert spoons and fish forks look like and about modern art and modern music. It was a graduate school education just to know him.”

 
“What a testimonial,” said McLeod. “It’s good to hear you remember him so fondly.” She set down her sherry glass.

  “Ms. Dulaney, don’t go,” said Chester. “I want to talk to you. You’re a journalist. You know something about how the police work. Tell me, how long do you think it will take before they find out who killed Mr. Sheridan?”

  “I have no idea, Chester,” said McLeod. “I do know that Nick Perry, who’s in charge of the investigation, is very good—slow, sometimes, but thorough. It hasn’t been very long, you know, since the murder. Mr. Sheridan”—she switched to the passive voice—“was found on Wednesday, and today is only Sunday. I expect they’re making real progress. There are a limited number of suspects. But the police tend to keep what they know to themselves, while they look for solid evidence. And you’re the one who told me they’re looking for the weapon—presumably Mr. Sheridan’s paper knife.”

  “I’m not sure that they’ll ever find it,” said Chester. “But do you think they’ll find the person who did it, the right person? Do you really?”

  “I don’t see how they can help finding the person,” said McLeod. “It couldn’t have been an outsider. It was somebody in the Department of Rare Books and Special Collections. It had to be.”

  “I just hope they find out soon.”

  “Everybody is helping the police all they can, aren’t they?” said McLeod carefully. “Nobody’s holding out information, are they?”

  “I don’t know,” said Chester. His voice sounded wobbly. “I wouldn’t think anybody would hold anything out. Except that they might hate to say anything that would get somebody else in trouble, somebody that they knew . . .”

  “Chester, do you know something that you haven’t told the police?” asked McLeod. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Chester. “But it’s not much.”

  “But it’s something you think the police ought to know?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “You do want the police to find out who killed Mr. Sheridan, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.” Chester turned his piteous eyes toward her. “It’s not much really.”

  “What is it?” asked McLeod.

  “It’s something about Mr. Ledbetter.”

  “Natty Ledbetter didn’t have any reason to kill Mr. Sheridan, did he? I mean, you don’t know of any reason, do you?”

  “Of course not. Nobody had a good reason to kill him. He was an angel who helped them all in every way he could. But Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Ledbetter got mad at each other on Tuesday.”

  “They did? What about?” asked McLeod.

  “I don’t know what it was about. I had to go down to the vault for Mr. Sheridan, and when I came back, I could hear loud voices, and when I opened the door, he and Mr. Ledbetter were standing up glaring at each other. And Mr. Sheridan was saying, ‘Natty, I have nothing more to say on the subject at this time.’ But he told him not to forget what he had said. Mr. Ledbetter left without saying anything.”

  “And you don’t have any idea what they had been talking about?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You know, Chester, I think you ought to tell the police about it,” said McLeod. “I don’t think for a minute that Natty killed Philip Sheridan, but the police can use crumbs of information in ways that we don’t realize. Tell them.” She stood up.

  “Don’t go,” said Chester, also rising. “Have another glass of sherry.”

  “Oh, Chester, I can’t, thanks. I must get home. Thank you for the glass I had. It was very good. And tell the police about Natty.”

  “Thank you for listening and thank you for bringing me that delicious meal.”

  “Wait until you eat it before you call it delicious,” McLeod said insincerely—she knew it was delicious, because she had tasted every bit of it.

  “Don’t need to,” said Chester gallantly.

  MCLEOD DROVE HOME and settled down with her own supper before the fire in the living room. She still had not read the important parts of The New York Times, the Book Review, or the Times Magazine, much less the Week in Review, and of course had not touched the Sunday crossword puzzle, but then George had probably worked the whole thing while she was at the chapel. Yes, he had, she discovered when she looked in the Magazine. Good, she thought, one less thing for her to worry about. Having polished off her meat loaf and the rest of the meal, she loaded the dishwasher and went upstairs to get a notebook and pencil.

  Back downstairs, she enriched the fire with two juicy-looking logs and, armed with notebook and pencil, her tools for thinking, sat down on the sofa with her feet tucked under her.

  “Dodo-Chester,” she wrote and tried to remember as much as possible about Dodo’s diatribe on Chester Holmes. The trouble was she couldn’t remember one specific thing Dodo had said. She had just seemed rather ill natured in her anxiety to implicate Chester Holmes. Finally, after “Dodo-Chester,” she wrote, “Says Chester ‘like a spouse, prime suspect.’”

  Then she wrote: “Find out more.”

  After much thought, she could still not remember anything else about the Dodo-Chester charges and she flipped a page in her notebook and wrote, “Fanny-Buster.” Now what had Fanny said about Buster? She had said he had gotten tired of playing second fiddle to Philip Sheridan. Not second fiddle exactly, because Buster was clearly in charge of Rare Books at Princeton University, but playing second fiddle to Philip Sheridan’s superior knowledge. Was that a motive for murder? Who knew? She wrote down, “Buster resented PS’s superior expertise?” Was that right? Well, it was as right as she could get it.

  She flipped the page. Who was next? Natty Ledbetter. She wrote down “Natty-Dodo.” Now what had all that been about last night? Natty had seemed to imply that Dodo Westcott was mad enough to kill Philip Sheridan because he wouldn’t aid and abet her social-climbing schemes. Was that a motive for murder? What were the classic motives for murder: love, money, revenge? Was this one? Well, if you were angry enough about a social snub—and kind of nutty—I suppose you could seek revenge, McLeod thought.

  Dodo Westcott wasn’t the world’s biggest brain or the world’s most integrated personality, whatever that was, but she was a woman who seemed too happy with her husband and children, her life in Princeton, and her unpaid career running the Friends of the Princeton Library to murder a man who wouldn’t come to her parties. But you never knew. After “Natty-Dodo,” McLeod wrote, “Mad about ‘snubs’ ?”

  This was taking time. And those logs were burning fast. With some difficulty, McLeod got up—I’m getting old, she thought, and I’m stiff—and put another log on.

  On a new page she wrote “Buster-Fanny,” and looked at the words a long time. Buster’s theory was that Fanny had killed Philip Sheridan because Philip Sheridan had disapproved of the way she handled manuscripts and they had had shouting matches. She jotted down notes to this effect, shaking her head all the while, then quickly flipped the page.

  “Chester-Natty,” she wrote. This was another vague accusation, she thought. There had been cross words. Had Philip Sheridan exchanged cross words with all of them lately, or did he always snap at people? Was it possible that Natty had become enraged at his principal donor and stolen his paper knife and stabbed him with it later? It seemed so uncharacteristic that McLeod flipped the notebook shut. Good heavens! she thought. It made no sense.

  SHE LOOKED OUTSIDE, and was relieved to see that it had not snowed after all.

  Seventeen

  WHEN MCLEOD LOOKED out of her window on Monday morning, she was relieved once more to see it still wasn’t snowing. She walked to her office and checked her e-mail. Among the messages was one from Clark Powell, thanking her profusely for the dresses. They were awesome, he said.

  What good manners he had, McLeod thought. Then the mention of the dresses reminded her of the things she had found packed in the carton with them. How could she have forgotten them? Well, a murder did tend to distract one from ever
ything else. “It concentrates the mind wonderfully,” someone, possibly Samuel Johnson, had said. He seemed to have said everything familiar.

  She unlocked the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and looked at the book, the crucifix, and the box again. They still looked old and rare and beautiful. They also reeked of monetary value. How could she have forgotten them? At least she could take the book over to Rare Books; Natty Ledbetter or Buster Keaton would be able to tell her something about it.

  She called to make sure Rare Books had reopened. Molly said yes, they were open and Mr. Ledbetter and Mr. Keaton were both in. McLeod took the book downstairs to the Humanities Council Office to see if she could find something to wrap it in, and was delighted when Frieda offered her a huge padded envelope.

  “Just the thing,” she said. “Frieda, you never fail us.”

  “ ‘Failure’s no success at all,’” said Frieda. “That’s from a Bob Dylan song.”

  “Very good,” said McLeod, who found the quotation puzzling. Of course failure was no success. Oh, well.

  Carrying her padded envelope as well as her check for the Friends’ dues and the dinner, she walked across the court to the library. Pausing in the exhibition gallery, she looked at the window of the Belcher display and saw that a shade had been discreetly pulled across it.

  In Rare Books, Molly greeted her. “Mr. Ledbetter is expecting you,” she said.

  McLeod went straight to Natty’s office. Natty, courtly as usual, rose from behind his desk and invited her to sit down. She laid the check and the padded envelope before him on his desk and sat down.

  He looked at the check and thanked her.

  “Open the big envelope,” she said.

  Natty sat down and reached inside the envelope and pulled out the manuscript. He laid it before him on his desk, and opened it, turning the pages gently. As McLeod watched him, he seemed to be gasping for air. When he turned to her, he looked almost frantic.