Passport to Murder

by Mary Angela

  “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. Besides, if this suspicion follows him back to Copper Bluff, there won’t be a French Department to worry about.”

  As I shut the car door, I realized that Lenny was genuinely concerned about my future. He had been teasing me for almost two years about my French literature degree, claiming that I was as ill-suited to it as the Beatles to America. But when I was faced with the possibility of losing André and consequently his much-argued-for French major, he changed his attitude altogether. Lenny was right about one thing: I did need to be careful of insulting André. I didn’t want him to think I suspected him, and I didn’t—not really. I simply wanted to hear a little bit about his family, and that was how the conversation would need to come off.

  The hotel was a menagerie of sights, smells, and people, and I walked through the lobby to the elevator with my head down, ignoring the clumps of guests coming, going, and standing. Instead, I counted the mud spots on the carpet and decided it must have been an unusually wet spring; I lost count before I got to the elevator.

  A chubby toddler with muddy shoes was shouting “No!” and arching his back as his bedraggled mother held him tightly. Despite her death clutch, he managed to slide all the way down the length of her body. She tried to wrangle him back into her arms, but the task proved impossible. He fell onto his diapered rear and began to cry just as the elevator door opened.

  I waited for people to exit and then stepped through the steel doors, holding one open for the mother. Her bangs stuck to her perspiring forehead as she pulled her son through the door. She had him in her arms now, but he was still wailing, taking huge gasps of air in between screams.

  “How would you like to press the button, little guy?” I asked, feeling confident after Lenny’s comments about my being good with children.

  He stopped crying and stared at me. I smiled my kindest smile and gestured toward the buttons.

  “No!” he shouted.

  I blinked. “Look at all the numbers! One, two, three—”

  “No!” he shouted again.

  The mom reached over and pressed button number 2. I didn’t know whom she disliked more at that moment: me or her toddler.

  When the elevator opened again, I walked down the hallway with my bulky tote, taking the time alone to think. The investigation wouldn’t go away until the police knew for certain what transpired. One side of me wanted to blame the airlines for passing out peanuts in the first place. Perhaps the police would see it that way, too. But the other side of me, the side that grew up in Detroit, knew there was more to the story. The only plausible explanation was that the truth was hidden beneath the surface, and I was going to dig until I found it. If there was one thing my education had taught me, it was how to find the right answer. It was time to put those skills to work.

  I swiped my keycard and entered the room. Kat was absent, but Amanda was lying on the unmade bed, her knees bent against her chest. Scrolling through her phone, she looked up as I entered the room. She looked as depressed as I had ever seen her, and that was saying something, considering she had been crying on and off ever since Molly’s death. Out of anyone in the group, with the exception of Bennett, the death had affected her the most.

  “Hey, Amanda. Where’s Kat?”

  “Shopping. She found a music store with vinyl records. She’s such a hippie that way.”

  I laughed. “You didn’t feel like going?”

  She shook her head but said nothing.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She put down her phone. “Professor Duman talked to the airline. They didn’t have enough seats, so we’re going back to Copper Bluff in the morning.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, my tote landing on the floor with a thump. “Yeah, he told me that might be the case, but we have confirmation now. Maybe it’s for the best, though. It will feel good to get home.”

  Amanda tucked a long piece of hair behind her ear; her eyes were puffy from crying. “I know. It wouldn’t have been that great anyway, not with Dr. Jaspers gone. I was kind of close to her. I mean, for a professor.”

  “I’m sorry. That makes her death even more difficult for you.” I scooted back on the bed, my feet dangling off the edge. “Did you have a lot of classes with her?”

  She nodded. “Three. I’m a junior.”

  “I wish there was something I could say or do to make you feel better. We are all grieving for Dr. Jaspers, each in our own way. It’s a cliché, but it will take some time before things get easier. I lost a student last semester, and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t walk into class and think of him. But it isn’t as hard as it once was. I can say his name aloud now.”

  She was silent for a moment, thinking about what I had just told her. “I know what you say is true. It was like that after my grandpa passed away. I just wish there was something I could do.”

  This was the perfect time to ask for clarification about Jean Erickson. “There is one thing we can do. We can help the police figure out what happened on the plane. Which reminds me, that red-haired woman…. You said that she asked about me in the airport. Do you remember what she said?”

  “The police asked me that too. I don’t remember what she said word for word.”

  “But she thought I was Molly Jaspers, right?”

  She nodded. “She asked if you were Professor Jaspers. I thought she was from the university. She sort of nodded in your direction, and I said, ‘That’s not Professor Jaspers. That’s Professor Prather.’ I knew who you were from Kat.”

  I sat for a few minutes while she answered an incoming text message. When she finished, I said, “The lady’s name… I found out it’s Jean Erickson. Does that sound familiar at all? She isn’t associated with the university.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t recognize it.” She didn’t look up from her phone. “I knew a Skylar Erickson. He was in my Western civ class last spring.”

  I leaned forward. “Molly Jaspers taught that class?”

  She put down her phone. “Yeah. She did.”

  “Well, that’s interesting,” I said.

  She crinkled her nose. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” I tapped my fingertips together. “Where is Skylar now? Do you know?”

  “He doesn’t go to Copper Bluff anymore. I haven’t seen him this year. I think he transferred or dropped out.”

  I let out an audible breath. Here was another dead end.

  She returned to her phone, pulling her sleek hair over one shoulder. It acted as a partition between her screen and me, and I worried our conversation would be over with the push of a button. My mind searched for another question. I needed to know if Skylar Erickson was connected to Jean Erickson.

  “Was Skylar a decent student? Do you remember?”

  “No. Well, yeah.” She stretched out her legs. “I mean, he was really smart. You could tell by the stuff he said in class. But he always bombed the tests. I don’t think he studied. Plus, he hung out with the guys in the back of the class, and they didn’t really seem too interested in the material.”

  The guys in the back row could do a number on someone’s academic standing. “And how did you fare in the class?”

  She was surprised by this question. “I got an A.”

  “You must be a pretty good student,” I said. “It sounds like a hard class.”

  She was confident and keenly aware of the confidence that intelligence brings. “I’m here on an academic scholarship.”

  I nodded, beginning to better understand Amanda and her academic devotion. She had come to Copper Bluff with the weight of high expectations on her shoulders, but she hadn’t faltered. I had a feeling she steeled herself against each challenge, proving over and over again that she could handle anything. Her fortitude was what made her stand out; her professors loved her for it. And their approval reassured her.

  “What is your major?” I asked.

  “Anthropology.”

  “Ah. I see. So you’re taki
ng French to fulfill your foreign language requirement for the Bachelor of Arts degree,” I said.

  “Yep. This is my last semester.”

  A loud knock on the door interrupted our conversation. “Cleaning!”

  I stood and began walking toward the door. “Come in.”

  A maid entered, propping open the door with a garbage can. I looked back at Amanda. She was not quite so sad now. “Are you staying here? I need to find André.”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’m going to try to take a nap when she’s done.”

  “Okay. I won’t wake you.” It was probably the grief making her tired—plus the late-night meeting with Nick Dramsdor. I hoped she’d be able to rest.

  No one answered when I knocked on André’s door, so I took the elevator downstairs to check out the hotel facilities. I didn’t have to walk far before I came across a wall of windows and a bustling swimming pool inside. As I peered past the streaky droplets, I saw all the activity associated with a pool: lots of small children, high-pitched screeches, and sudden splashes of water. A blow-up ball hit the window, and a half-drenched girl crawled out of the water to retrieve it. I waved and kept walking.

  I passed an ice machine and laundry room before finding the business room. Since André wasn’t answering his phone, I thought he could be in here. It had everything he might need, such as a printer/fax/copy machine and desktop computers. But he wasn’t here. I thought I heard his voice farther down the hall.

  I walked until I came out on the other side of the front desk. André was stapling a packet of papers and thanking the attendant for the office supplies.

  “Hi, André,” I said.

  He jumped. “Em! Were you looking for me?”

  I nodded.

  “They had no stapler in the copy room. I needed to make copies of our receipts for Dean Richardson, the Global Learning Department, and the grant committee.”

  I could tell André was frustrated by the way his hair was parted. It looked this way when he had been raking the long top with his fingers. “Let’s talk,” I said, pointing to the lobby chairs.

  “This has been the worst experience, ever,” he said as we headed toward the chairs. “Never again will they let me lead a group of students. I could hear it in the dean’s voice. He is going to hold me accountable for… all this.” He threw up his hands and fell into one of the chairs.

  I sat down. “How can that be true? You had nothing to do with Molly Jaspers’ death.”

  “He has been on the phone with Jack Wood. He says for insurance purposes, but I don’t believe it. I hear the suspicion in his voice. I’m sure Mr. Wood has told Dean Richardson all about my squabble with Molly. Jack and his partner asked me about our relationship for thirty minutes. I said, ‘What relationship?’ Someone has them believing I am a great opponent of Molly Jaspers.”

  Someone, indeed. Someone who was trying to deflect suspicion from him or herself, but who? We were all associated with the university in one respect or another. None of us wanted our names linked to an unfortunate incident. On a small campus such as ours, it didn’t always matter if a rumor was true or not. What mattered was how many times it was repeated.

  “Don’t worry, André. When we get back, I will go straight to Dean Richardson and tell him exactly what happened. Let’s hope he will understand you had nothing to do with Molly’s death.”

  He patted my hand. “That’s very kind of you, Em, but you have not been on campus as long as I have. He won’t put much faith in your testimony.”

  I started to object, but I knew what he said was true. It was only my second year on campus. I would need to be pretty convincing if I were to prove André’s innocence.

  “But it doesn’t matter. I have other fish to boil. Dean Richardson is upset. Parents are calling him with reports of our dire situation.” He flung up his hands in the air. “It could be worse. We could be stranded at the airport.”

  “That’s very true. We’re lucky we were able to reserve this hotel for one night, let alone two.”

  “They want to get home for their little spring breaks.” He pinched his fingers together as he spoke. “They have missed the greatest experience of their lives, and they don’t even know it. The Avenue des Champs-Élysées, Montmartre, macarons at Pierre Hermé.”

  “I’m sorry, André. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  He shook his head but didn’t reply.

  I cleared my throat. Maybe this would be a good time to ask about his family. “I suppose you were planning on seeing your parents when we got to Paris.”

  “No,” he said. “They live too far outside the city.”

  I was encouraged. “Do they live on a farm?”

  He smiled. “Not the sort you imagine, Em. You’ve been in the Midwest too long. My parents grow grapes—for wine!” He laughed.

  It couldn’t get any better, could it? No wonder he knew so much about wine. “Your family owns a winery?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t know,” he said. “I thought I mentioned it.”

  Although I admitted to being somewhat distracted by André’s good looks—every woman was—I was certain he hadn’t mentioned a winery. I would have remembered. “No. Never.”

  “My brothers operate it now, for the most part. My parents are old. My dad, though, he still has a mind for business.” He tapped his forehead.

  “Didn’t you want to stay in France? To help them with the winery? It seems like a pleasant way to live, immersed in grapes and the French countryside.”

  “No. No. Not for me. My brothers, they are lazy.”

  A mom and dad with a passel of kids in tow entered the lobby. Between the ages of five and ten, the children made as much noise as a small parade. Two of them began chasing each other around our seats as the parents approached the front desk.

  “Come on,” said André. “Let’s get some air.”

  I buttoned my blazer and followed André, pausing a few times as the children ran in front of me.

  It was late afternoon, and the sun was warm but the wind was not. We went around the corner of the building for shelter, and the air felt ten degrees warmer.

  “My brothers,” he explained, “they have no ambition. They just live off my dad’s hard work. I couldn’t live like that and not become bitter.”

  I was perplexed. “Surely they must help in some way.”

  He unzipped his sweater. “Oh, they do. But my dad has had to bring in more help than he should need to. It’s a five thousand-case winery. There is no reason my brothers cannot be out in the fields during harvest. But they like to stay in the tasting room, where they can be playboys.”

  I was interested in wine enough to know that organic wineries were becoming fairly popular in the United States and Europe. After Italy, France was the top wine producer. All I had to do was look for the label in the corner of the bottle to know if a European wine was organic. I wanted to find out if his family’s winery was but needed to be subtle. He was aware that I knew Molly was speaking to the Sorbonne on land conservation. I didn’t want him to think I suspected him. How could I get an answer to my question without arousing suspicion? I tried the roundabout approach.

  “You mean to tell me that your father has to supervise all the work in the fields? Your brothers don’t help with, say, pesticides?”

  André’s dark eyebrows came together. “What? What are you saying?”

  I sniffed. Unfortunately Lenny was right; I wasn’t as smooth as I thought I was. “I just meant your brothers must help with… with irrigation and fertilization and pesticides, like farmers do in the Midwest.”

  “No. My dad still does things the old-fashioned way.” He leaned against the building, putting one black boot on the white stucco. “Now my brothers, they would do anything if it meant less work.”

  I tried another approach. I would easily be able to find out more about the winery if I knew the name of the wine. “What is the name of the wine, may I ask? I would like to order a bottle.”


  He smiled. “I will get you one myself. It will be my pleasure. It is called Trois Frères.”

  Three brothers. Of course.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There is one constant among families: they are all different. I used to think that every family was like mine until I went to college and had roommates with brothers and sisters and stepfamilies. It was a second education. But every time I went home, I remembered exactly why I had immersed myself in the blithe world of Copper Bluff. Detroit presented real problems; the university presented theoretical ones. It made a huge difference in the way I lived my life. Most of the troubles I tangled with were found between pages, not people. And I had grown accustomed to that. Perhaps André could relate to my experience. Although owning a winery in France sounded like a fairytale to me, it meant real problems for André. There was the business side of it, which was as foreign to me as the German language, and there was also the family side of it. How could a family run a business without tearing one another apart with their differences? I chuckled to myself. My mother’s sisters couldn’t even agree on what food to serve for Christmas dinner or who would host. I couldn’t imagine them coming together to bottle five thousand cases of wine.

  From our conversation, I gathered his family’s winery could be organic. That meant it was possible that André might not have wanted Molly Jaspers’ study to be shared because of the damning information it contained. Though that offered a possible motive for his murdering Molly Jaspers, it also proved that he probably didn’t do it. The fact that the winery was named “Three Brothers” and one of the brothers was noticeably absent gave me enough reason to assume the rift in the family was real. His father had expected his three sons to take over the winery and run it as one unit, together, but André had split up the family when he decided to come to the United States after graduating from the Sorbonne. He obviously didn’t have a vested interest in the winery or his brothers, whom he described as lazy; in fact, the only interest he showed was in his father. But I knew how strong ties could be between parents and children. My parents grew more special to me every year. Perhaps André’s concern for his father’s traditional methods was motive enough.