by Ann Waldron
When George left, McLeod called Dante. He said that sure he’d come around as soon as it stopped snowing. He had planned to do that anyway, it seemed.
“Dante,” she said, “do you remember those boxes we took out of the garage, the ones from the rafters? You said Mrs. Murray had asked you to put them up there.”
“Yes,” said Dante.
“Do you remember when you put them up there?”
“When I put them up there?” Dante said after a pause.
“That’s right. When did you put them up there?”
“Oh. It was before Mrs. Murray died.”
Duh, thought McLeod. She hadn’t thought Mrs. Murray had asked him to put the boxes up there after she died. “Can you remember how long before she died?” she asked.
“It wasn’t long,” said Dante. “It was the last thing I did for her.”
“Thanks, Dante,” said McLeod. “See you soon, I guess.”
“I WANT TO talk to Little Big Murray about all this and I want to talk to Chester about a couple of things,” McLeod told George when he got home from the grocery store.
“Be careful with Bigelow Murray,” said George. “After all, his mother was murdered. And let me make it clear, I don’t want to have either one of those people to dinner—a dinner invitation seems to be a key factor in your investigations.”
“That was not my intention,” said McLeod coldly. “It’s just that, you know, my mind is like a rat in a cage. It goes from the treasure-slash-burglary to the murder in the library and back and forth.”
“Think about food,” said George. “It’s more practical.”
“I think about food all the time. I think I’ll make that stew with chicken thighs for tomorrow night. It’s a sort of poor man’s coq au vin. And the recipe says to make it a day ahead and let it sit in the refrigerator. You got the thighs and the mushrooms and everything, didn’t you?”
“I did, but you don’t have to cook. I can do it.”
“No, I want to do it. I’ll take some to Chester when it’s done. I want to ask him some questions, and he’ll have the stew if he’s snowed in tomorrow,” said McLeod.
“You and Chester,” said George. “You two are practically an item.”
“Poor Chester. I feel sorry for him. But I’d better call him and see if he can use some food.”
When McLeod phoned Chester, he said he certainly could use some food, and she set to work in the kitchen. When the stew was ready, she told George she’d just walk over to Hibben Road with it.
“McLeod, it’s bitter cold outside,” said George.
“I need the exercise,” said McLeod. “I haven’t been out all day.”
“I never knew anybody whose curiosity was so great they’d walk a mile in the freezing cold to ask somebody some questions—and take them dinner besides.”
“Now you do,” said McLeod. “And it’s not a mile, even round trip. It’s not even a quarter of a mile to Hibben Road.” She put on her boots, heavy coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. She settled dishes in a big basket and set out.
Chester thanked her profusely for the food and emptied the basket so she could take it back. “Won’t you sit down a minute?” he said. “Rest up before you walk back.”
“How are things going?” she asked him as he brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked at her hopefully.
“About the same,” he said. “The police still suspect me of killing the man who was my benefactor and my boss and my friend.” He was clearly morose.
“Chester, help me find the real murderer and then nobody will suspect you anymore.”
Chester looked puzzled. “How can I help you? I’ll do anything I can to help find out who killed Mr. Sheridan, you know that.” He was more endearing than ever in his earnestness. “I really will. But how do you think you can find the murderer?”
“By talking to people. Asking questions.”
“You want me to talk to somebody? I wouldn’t know how to do that.”
“No, I want you to talk to me. You knew Philip Sheridan better than anyone else did. You must know some reason that someone had for killing him.”
“I don’t, not really,” said Chester. “I’ve told you that before.”
“Let me ask you about something then,” said McLeod. “It’s about Fanny Mobley.”
“Yes.” Chester grinned at her. “What about Miss Mobley?”
“There’s something about her that I wonder if Mr. Sheridan knew. First, somebody told me that Philip Sheridan disapproved of Fanny’s handling of certain manuscripts. Is that true?”
“In a way. You have to understand that Mr. Sheridan was a perfectionist, and he thought that everybody should be held to high standards. I think it may be putting it too strongly to say he disapproved of her methods for caring for manuscripts, but he did mention ways that she could improve. But he thought everybody could do better.”
“But he wasn’t critical of her to the extent that he was a threat to her? I mean, she wouldn’t have reason to kill him?” McLeod asked.
“McLeod, I don’t think anybody had a reason—a valid reason—to kill Mr. Sheridan.”
“I see your point. But the question is, would a person, a neurotic person, maybe think Philip Sheridan was a threat to him or her?”
“I guess the people in Rare Books are funny, aren’t they?” said Chester. “I know that. Not funny—neurotic. And Mr. Sheridan had his little quirks, too.”
“Speaking of quirks, did Philip Sheridan change his mind a lot?”
“As a matter of fact, he did.”
“Did it annoy anybody in Rare Books?”
“Not really. Not enough to murder him,” said Chester. “I just can’t see murder in the picture.”
“Chester, murder is in the picture, whether you can see it or not. You told me about some strain between Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Ledbetter. Have you thought what that was about?”
“I have, actually,” said Chester. “Because of some things that happened yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?”
“I’d rather not say,” said Chester.
“Oh, come on,” said McLeod. “Tell me.”
“Well, Mr. Ledbetter was breaking some rules. I’m afraid you’ll hear about it next week.”
McLeod sighed. “Okay, but about Buster Keaton. Did Mr. Sheridan disapprove of him, too?”
“I’ve thought about this a lot since you asked me about all these people. By and large Mr. Sheridan thought Mr. Keaton was really good at his job. He admired his single-minded devotion to rare books. I think—I don’t know for sure—I couldn’t swear in court—but I think he had doubts about his—I don’t know—his personal life.”
“What about his personal life?”
“McLeod, I’d rather not say. Once you say something, it’s out there, like a solid substance.”
This was tough going; Chester was being downright obstructive. “One more question,” she said.
Chester waited.
“Back to Fanny Mobley. There’s one thing about her. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. Would it have annoyed Philip Sheridan so that he would be a threat to her?”
“What?” asked Chester.
“Alcohol.”
“Oh, that.” Chester actually laughed out loud. “Oh, yes, Mr. Sheridan knew about the way she drank. He thought it was amusing. Once in a while he’d have a little tipple with her in the afternoon. She doesn’t drink much, you know. Never in the morning and a bit for lunch and little bits along toward the end of the day.”
“Well, there goes my great motive for murder,” said McLeod. And she laughed along with Chester. “You see, I thought perhaps he had found her out and threatened to report her, or something. And she had killed him.”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t report it. And anyway there isn’t anybody he could have reported it to. Mr. Ledbetter knows about it.”
“You’ve just eliminated Fanny as a suspect—at least in my mind,” said McLeod with a sigh of regret. “B
ut can’t you think of somebody else who might have killed him?”
“No, I can’t,” Chester said. “I told you about the cross words between Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Ledbetter—I guess they were cross words. I can’t even remember anything anymore.”
“But you did tell the police about that little—little whatever it was?”
“Yes, I did. Nobody seemed to think it was important.”
McLeod had to leave it at that. She was, she thought as she walked home in the snow, more mystified than ever about the murder.
Twenty-six
MCLEOD CAME DOWN the stairs as dressed up as it was possible for her to be when she was without her full wardrobe, which was 1,100 miles away. She wore her long black skirt and a new glittery pink sweater that she had bought at Talbot’s, hoping Dodo would think it was from some place much more exotic.
George was waiting in the hall, resplendent in black tie and dinner jacket. “Let’s get going,” he said. “The Friends’ dinner starts early—drinks at six o’clock, dinner at seven, and it’s after six now. You look very nice,” he added almost as an afterthought.
“So do you,” said McLeod. “I’ll hurry, but it takes me forever to put on all my wraps.” She began with her heavy coat, added gloves, muffler, and woolly hat. “Is it a cash bar?”
“Oh, no, drinks come with it. The Friends pride themselves on that.”
“Oh, is this what Dodo wanted Philip Sheridan to buy champagne for? I’m ready.”
“I guess this is the occasion.” George had slung on his black overcoat and the big wide-brimmed black hat that had enchanted her when they first met. “We’re off,” he said, offering his arm.
“To see the blizzard,” said McLeod.
“Hope we get home before it starts. Careful on the steps.”
“I CAN’T HELP but think there is a connection between the murder and the treasure,” McLeod said as they drove toward the Graduate College, where the Friends’ dinner was to be held. “I wish we knew why the treasure was in your garage. And who came after it?”
“Your friend the policeman pointed out the connection between the burglaries and the treasure,” said George. “But I don’t see a connection between the treasure, as we call it, and the murder of a big Princeton benefactor in the Rare Book Department of the library.”
“Rare books in both cases?” said McLeod.
“That’s true—rare books are involved in both cases. Hmmm. Well, here we are.”
They arrived at the Graduate College parking lot and hurried to Procter Hall. The dining hall was modeled on the medieval halls in the colleges at Cambridge, complete with high table, vaulted, timbered ceiling, and tall Gothic windows.
Natty, looking gray as usual, in spite of his black tuxedo, golden cummerbund, and glistening white shirt, greeted them—“dear boy” and “dear lady”—but without his usual effusion. He seemed, to McLeod, to be rather subdued. “Do have a martini,” he said almost absently, waving toward the bar.
McLeod had never seen so many stout, gray-headed men in tuxedos. But then there were even more white-haired ladies in long dresses. She decided there was an undeniable overlap between the membership of the Friends of the Library and the geriatric citizens of Princeton. Dodo Westcott, who looked positively juvenile in this company, came over to greet them.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” she said. “Such a good turnout. But I do miss poor Philip. Natty said this would be a kind of memorial to him. Actually, I hope he doesn’t make it too gloomy. Gloom turns donors off, you know.”
“I’m sure he won’t be too gloomy,” George said, “but surely it’s appropriate to remember Philip Sheridan at the Friends’ dinner.”
Dodo, as usual, hadn’t really listened to this. “Oh, there’s our featured speaker. I must go see if he needs anything,” she said, and rushed off to intercept a dapper little man who had just arrived.
“So that’s August Martin,” McLeod said to George. “I thought he’d be bigger.”
“He’s big enough. He’s a world figure,” said George.
McLeod wished that sometime, just once, George would not be so defensive about everything concerning Princeton University. Of course, August Martin was a world figure: A professor in the Near Eastern Studies Department, his every word on the touchiest part of the world was listened to with respect by governments, journalists, and academics; his books, scholarly to the core yet accessible to the lay reader, sold in the millions. He was a jewel in the crown of the Princeton faculty. Still, he was physically an awfully small man. McLeod wondered if it was Dodo or Natty who had secured him to speak at the Friends’ dinner. Whoever did it, it was a coup, she thought.
George then startled her by introducing her to Polly Griffin. McLeod, prepared to dislike any girlfriend of George’s, stared at her. She was sorry to see that Polly was very nice looking—and not white haired. In fact, her hair was glorious, long, shiny, straight, and parted in the middle and shaped into a French twist at the back of her head. “I’m so glad to know you,” Polly said. “George has said wonderful things about you.”
“Oh, good,” said McLeod inanely, admiring Polly’s straight black sheath that fell gracefully to the floor.
“Polly is at the art museum,” said George.
“Yes, I just came to spy out the competition,” said Polly.
“Competition?” said McLeod, feeling stupid.
“I work with the Friends of the Art Museum, and I suppose in a sense we’re competitors.”
“Oh,” said McLeod. Was she ever going to think of anything remotely interesting to say? She didn’t have to—Polly and George were in animated conversation together. She wandered off and, to her surprise, ran into Bigelow Murray, looking as huge as he had when she met him at Dodo’s.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” she said. George had warned her to be careful with Bigelow, but he couldn’t kill her in front of all these rich, elderly Friends, and she was dying to ask him some questions.
“Oh?” he said.
She didn’t want to bring up the treasure, but maybe she could work the conversation around to it. “You know Dante Immordino, don’t you? Isn’t he wonderful? He worked for your mother and now he works for George sometimes. He uses a snow shovel that was in the garage. Dante said it belonged to your mother and he says it’s better than George’s. Did you mean to leave it in the garage?”
“I don’t know what I meant to do,” said Bigelow. “I have to tell you that I hated that house after my mother died.” He paused and then began to talk rapidly. “It was a crime scene for a long time. I’m sure you know my mother was murdered there and they never found out who did it. They even suspected me for a while. And then when I finally decided to sell the house—Mary didn’t want to live there and neither did I—it was hard enough to clean out the house. I just gave up before I got to the garage. The real estate agent gave me hell about it, but I don’t know—I just let it go. And the house finally sold.”
“Oh, I ran across some letters,” said McLeod. “Written during World War II from a Lieutenant Vincent Lawrence to his mother. Is he your uncle?”
“He was. Can I get you another drink?” He was not interested in the letters, and appeared to want to turn away from her.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I wondered if you wanted the letters?”
He looked faintly puzzled. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said. “Toss ’em out.”
He left, a pained expression on his face.
She noticed that Dodo and Natty were urging people to find their places at the long tables. They had already swept the big shots to the head table—August Martin, the president of the Friends and his wife, the director of university libraries and his wife, the president of the university and his wife.
“Here you are,” said George, who came up with Polly Griffin. “Let’s find seats. Polly’s going to sit with us.”
“Good,” said McLeod, gritting her teeth. George sat between her and Polly, and although Polly kept leaning over
to try to engage McLeod in conversation, it was hard. McLeod talked to the man on her other side—an editor at the Princeton University Press—but for once did not ask him any questions. Her mind wandered during Natty’s graceful remarks about Philip Sheridan, “who cannot be with us tonight,” but she tried valiantly to listen to August Martin as he spoke with what she was sure was great learning and wit about the situation in the Middle East. She remembered nothing of what he said.
When she and George came out of Procter Hall after the dinner, it was snowing hard and the short drive home took a long time.
IT SNOWED ALL night and all of Sunday morning. When the snow finally stopped Sunday afternoon, there was a thirteen-inch “accumulation,” as the weatherman on the Philadelphia television station put it.
“No newspapers today,” mourned McLeod. “I miss the Sunday papers.”
“Too much snow,” said George. “But I do believe it’s stopped.”
George had already started trying to shovel—and wasn’t getting very far—when Dante appeared. The two of them worked together until the driveway and the sidewalk were cleared.
“I’m going to buy a snow blower,” George announced when he and Dante came in, stomping their feet on the mat in the hall and peeling off their gloves.
“That’s a good idea,” said Dante.
“Have some hot chocolate,” said McLeod.
Dante and George looked pleased and took off their coats and followed her into the kitchen. They held the mugs in both hands for warmth. McLeod wondered how to begin asking Dante questions—she wished George would leave—but they were all three standing uncomfortably in the kitchen. “Let’s sit down,” she said, leading the way to the dining room table. “I’ll get some cookies.”
“I’m glad you two cleaned out that garage,” George said when she came back with the cookies. “At least, we didn’t have to dig out the cars. I saw the people across the street hard at it—it’s awful when you have this much snow. When I lived in that apartment, I always had to dig out my car when it snowed. They plowed the parking lot, but the plow would throw up big drifts behind the cars that we had to shovel out of the way. Homeownership has a lot to offer. But then if you hadn’t cleaned out the garage, we would have had to shovel out the cars here.”