by Mary Angela
Ernest leaned across the table. His round shoulders curled into an upside-down U. “So you’re saying Jean Erickson might have killed Molly Jaspers to avenge her son’s suicide?”
Our curly heads met in the middle of the table. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“I like that theory. I like it a lot.” After a long moment, he leaned back in his chair. “The only trouble is, her story checks out. She does have a sister who lives outside of Paris, and she was meeting her for a little R&R time. She disclosed her son’s suicide to us upfront; she said it had been a hard time for her and her husband and that she needed to get away. They’re considering a divorce.”
Although a surprise, the news didn’t completely dissuade me. “But don’t you think it’s quite a coincidence that she was on the exact same plane as we were and asked about Molly Jaspers?”
He nodded. “It’s more than coincidental. It’s suspicious.”
Lenny let out a breath. “It sounds like the woman’s been through enough. Maybe you guys should hold off on charging her until you rule out other possibilities.”
“Oh I don’t have enough evidence to charge her—or anyone else for that matter.” He tossed his candy wrapper in the garbage. “The truth is I have a little evidence on a lot of people who could be responsible for Mrs. Jaspers’ death. Honestly, the entire world of academia is a little baffling to me. Assistant… associate… emeritus? What do all those titles mean?”
“That’s why you need me,” I said. “I know the ins and outs of university life. I could be your eyes and ears when I get back to campus.”
Lenny shook his head, but I persisted.
“Besides, academic research is just another form of investigation. You and I are really not that different. We both read between the lines to get to the truth.”
He nodded. “Believe me, Ms. Prather, anything you could do to help our case load would be appreciated. My partner’s wife is about to leave him over all the hours we’ve been putting in. And I’m afraid his schedule’s not going to get lighter any time soon. Especially with the FBI involved, we have to stay on our toes. Keep me informed, will you, if you hear anything else?”
“I will.” I was glad Ernest considered me an ally. “We’re returning to Copper Bluff at eleven o’clock. Did André tell you?”
Ernest patted his pockets for his cellphone. “He probably did, or maybe he told Jack. My morning has been one crisis after another.”
“Don’t worry. It doesn’t show,” Lenny said, smirking.
I pointed to my lip. “You have a little chocolate right there, Ernest.” He grabbed a tissue and wiped it off.
We stood up and shook hands with Ernest. I told him I would be in touch if I found out any new information and asked him to do the same. He assured me he would. Just as I had promised Lenny, we were in and out of the police station with time to spare.
Chapter Seventeen
As Lenny drove back to the hotel, the sky turned metallic and it began to snow. The flakes were large and white and hit the windshield with wet splats. It was the kind of snow that made terrific snowballs and snowmen, that piled up heavily and quickly, that could delay airplanes and buses. It was different than the snowflakes that fell in December, which were tiny and fluffy and magical. This snow held a different kind of power, the kind that changed plans.
Lenny and I exchanged a look.
“Don’t even say it, Lenny. I am not staying in Minneapolis one more night. It’s only a little after ten now. If we leave right away, we’ll be fine.”
“If you get out ahead of it, you’ll make it,” he said.
I was grateful for his assurance, however halfhearted. He was a pretty good judge of most situations, even the weather.
We drove for a few minutes in silence, listening to the sound of the windshield wipers moving rhythmically back and forth. “What are your plans for the rest of the week?” I asked.
“I gotta see my parents. My mom will probably drag me up to the synagogue before I leave. I have a couple friends in St. Paul I’m meeting up with.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing’s going to be as exciting as your murder mystery, Prather. I’m going to miss you.”
I glanced at him to see if he was serious; I couldn’t tell. “If you really feel that way, I’m sure we could stow you away on our school bus. Tons of room in there.”
Now he quirked an eyebrow. “Even your charms have their limits.”
I gave him a little shove. We were in front of the hotel, and I gathered my purse and unbuckled my seatbelt. “I will see you when you get back, then.”
He nodded. “Be careful, Em. These people have been cooped up for a couple days; there’s no telling what they’ll do when they get on that bus in the middle of a snowstorm.”
“It’s not a storm. It’s a few flakes.” But as the wind took the car door, my voice lost all conviction. “I’ll be careful. Call me when you get back.”
I dashed into the hotel, glancing at the parking lot. No yellow bus yet.
André was in the lobby, talking to the front-desk person and presumably paying the bill.
“André,” I called out, “everything on schedule?”
“Em, you’re back. Good. Yes, everything is on time.” He looked at my hair as if counting the snowflakes. “We are going to drive out of this. I checked the weather app on my phone.”
I nodded and kept walking toward the elevator, but in my mind, I was recalling our bad luck so far. It had started with the number thirteen and had ended with the number twelve. If snow had to fall, it was going to be on us.
I swiped the room key. Amanda’s suitcase was already sitting by the door, but Kat was still shoving clothes into her luggage on the bed.
“Is it time?” asked Kat. Frantic, she pulled on the zipper, which promptly stuck.
“Don’t worry. The bus isn’t here yet,” I said, giving Kat a hand. I gently pushed down on her luggage, overstuffed with records and clothes, as she zipped it shut. Amanda, who had been flat-ironing her hair, stuck her iron in the front pocket of her luggage. I gathered my books and magazines and placed them in my tote bag. All my other belongings were packed.
Amanda walked to the window. “What about the weather?”
I rolled my suitcase to the door.
“We’re going to get ahead of it,” said Kat, pulling her hoodie over her head. Even the students knew how to talk weather.
I nearly bumped into Arnold and Aaron as I opened our door.
“Finally,” Arnold said. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“No kidding,” said Aaron.
In the lobby, everyone was assembled a full thirty minutes ahead of schedule. No one wanted to miss the departure, especially with the snow, which was certain to worsen as the day progressed. André, talking to the bus driver outside, motioned to us with a frenzied gesture of his hand. It was as if he was worried our transportation might disappear in a piling mound of snow before we reached it. Just that quickly, we were on the interstate back to Copper Bluff, wondering if the last two days had been a bad dream.
For the first hour, the bus chugged along heavily and without incident. Despite a stop at a fast-food joint, we were making good time. We ate our food quietly as if doing so would prevent any delays in our progress. Our heads bobbed along with the ruts in the road. Then we began to converse in louder tones, maybe because of the road noise, or the speed of the bus, or because with some distance behind us and Minneapolis, we actually believed we were going home. I was sitting next to Arnold Frasier. In fact, everyone had taken their original seats, except for Nick and Bennett. Since Molly was no longer with us, they sat together. Only André sat alone. I stood up and excused myself as I made my way up to his seat.
He was surprised when I sat down beside him.
“Em!”
“You looked as if you were in another world just now,” I said.
“I would give anything if I could redo this trip.” He glanced around at the faces on the bus. “
Had I been more vigilant about Molly’s allergy, maybe her death could have been prevented. I could have reminded the airline. I could have—”
“Bennett contacted the airlines. It was their mistake. You did nothing wrong,” I assured him. “You were the person who spearheaded this trip to Paris. And despite the tragedy, you’ve kept everyone together and the mood positive. No one could have handled it better. I mean that.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think Dean Richardson will see it that way. He talked to officer Jack Wood, who blames me because of the fight I had with Molly.” He leaned in so close that I could smell his expensive cologne. “I think they suspect me of poisoning Molly.”
He said it so quietly I barely heard him, yet I looked behind us to make sure no one was listening. “I got that feeling, too,” I whispered. He started to respond, but in a louder tone, and I shushed him with my hands. “Of course I don’t believe them, but until we find out what really happened, I would stay as mum as possible on the topic. You know me, André. I won’t be satisfied until I discover the truth. I know you didn’t commit a crime, and I’m not going to let you take the blame for anything that happened on this trip.”
His bushy brows came to a perfect point. “And the dean?”
“I’d be happy to talk to him on your behalf.” We both knew my efforts might come to naught, but it was worth trying anyway. I had been at the university almost two years and was four years away from tenure—or exerting any influence.
“Thanks, Em. It is very kind of you to offer,” he said.
He returned to the window, where the flakes outside were falling less and less. Watching him gaze though the glass, I knew he was not responsible for Molly’s death. André wore his emotions on his sleeve, and he was devastated by the situation. He had put up a strong front in Minneapolis, but now that the trip was almost over, his sadness was evident. He’d admitted he felt responsible because he had set up the travel arrangements. Although I didn’t have proof, I knew he had done nothing to prevent Molly from speaking at the Sorbonne, family winery or not. When I got back to Copper Bluff, I would work doubly hard finding out what really happened aboard that airplane.
I was about to return to my seat when I heard a bit of conversation behind me. Nick and Bennett had been revering Molly and her work since I’d sat down. I had caught several snippets of their discussion as André and I talked, but now their voices grew hushed, and I strained to listen. It wasn’t easy with the windshield wipers slapping back and forth on the front window of the bus, but from what I could hear, Nick was telling Bennett that Molly would have wanted something. It had to do with money. I listened as closely I could, hoping to learn more.
“What do you know?” Bennett said. “You’re just a kid. Did you live with Molly? Did you support Molly? Did you love Molly?”
I wanted to know the answer to his last question, too, for I had wondered it many times myself.
But Nick’s answer was noncommittal. “Of course I loved Molly. Everyone did.”
“Oh, I know about you, Dramsdor. I know about your little infatuation with Molly. So did she. She found it amusing. She had a lot of hangers-on. Did you think you were the only one?”
Nick didn’t speak for a long moment, and I felt embarrassed for his sake. I hated the way Bennett spoke down to Nick. Just because Bennett was a few years older and few dollars richer didn’t give him the right to humiliate.
“I was not infatuated with Molly,” Nick said finally.
Bennett snorted. “That’s not what she said. She said you followed her around like a lost puppy on your trip to New Mexico.”
“She knew very well I was involved with…” he stopped. “Ask anybody who was there. Ask Amanda Walters. She’ll tell you. I didn’t have a crush on Molly.”
“It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” said Bennett. All feeling had left his voice.
“I suppose not,” Nick said.
A conversation I thought would end in blows was over just that quietly. I looked over at André. If he had overheard the testier parts, he didn’t let on. I knew Amanda had been on expeditions with Molly and Nick, so Molly might have known about Amanda and Nick’s relationship. That was probably what Nick meant when he told Bennett to ask Amanda. Still, I was surprised that Molly had told her husband that Nick was infatuated with her. Maybe she truly did find it amusing. Or maybe she was jealous of Nick and Amanda’s tender relationship and wanted to thwart it by flaunting Nick’s high regard for her.
I stood to return to my seat. Only then did André glance over.
“I’m sorry I have not been better company,” he said.
“Not at all,” I said. “I have to get back to my seat. I can’t have Arnold thinking I’m avoiding him.”
He nodded, and I walked down the rubber-lined floor of the aisle, still pondering Nick and Bennett’s conversation.
Chapter Eighteen
If spring break came in like a lion, it went out like a lamb. Before the week was over, I’d finished my grading, updated my students’ scores online, and even washed my hardwood floors. It was good to be home and busy. When I had something on my mind, it was easy to immerse myself in the daily tasks I usually avoided. Now I welcomed the prospect of dusting the bookshelves and shaking out the rugs. It gave me time to think about Molly Jaspers.
I had heard nothing from Ernest Jones or Jack Wood, and if not for the evidence of my unstamped passport, I could have believed the entire trip was a bad dream. But it wasn’t a dream. Not even close. A person had died, and even though I didn’t know Molly well, I was sure her absence would be felt all over the state. The Great Plains had lost a fierce champion and Copper Bluff a spirited professor.
Despite the loss, life marched on to its steady drumbeat. Classes resumed Monday morning and so did my schedule. But before meeting with my first class, I met Jim Giles, our department chair, who’d appeared with a sober face at our office doors. He was concerned for my wellbeing and the students’ and asked if I was okay. I said I was, and he gestured toward his office so we could continue our talk in private.
Giles’s office was right next to mine, and Lenny often teased me that my room was actually Giles’s storage closet. Our spaces were connected by an interior door that we rarely used, but our proximity had made us good friends. Although he never said it, I had a feeling he liked my impetuousness, or at least was entertained by it. A quiet thinker, he did not act rashly.
“I heard the news about Molly from Dean Richardson. You were there. Tell me what happened. I want to hear it firsthand,” he said, unlocking his door. I noticed how much lighter his office was than mine. It had two windows, and his bookshelves were bright white. They were also meticulously organized.
He sat in his desk chair, and I took the folding chair next to his desk.
“It was the oddest thing,” I began. “One moment we were on the flight to Paris, the next, Molly’s husband was jabbing an EpiPen into her leg. She died right there on the plane.”
“I heard she had a peanut allergy,” Giles said, crossing his legs. “Didn’t she have another… what… EpiPen?”
I shook my head. “Obviously not. With the prescription prices of those things going through the roof, nobody can afford more than one.”
“How did she get ahold of a peanut anyway? You would think she’d have taken extra precautions.” He began tying his worn leather shoe.
“She did. Bennett informed the airlines of her allergy months ago and threw a hissy fit when the stewardess passed them out. But the police confirmed she died of anaphylactic shock.”
“Well, I suppose she did, if she was allergic.”
I leaned in closer. Giles didn’t seem to understand what I was telling him. “The police don’t know how she came into contact with the peanuts. When they figure it out, someone will be charged. The FBI is involved.”
Giles finished with his shoe and leaned back in his chair. “The FBI? Whatever for?”
“When a crime is committed in the sky
, it falls under the FBI’s jurisdiction.”
“I don’t even want to know how you know that, Emmeline. What I do want to know is how André took it. I can’t imagine he’ll ever receive a grant again after this fiasco. And the students? How are they faring? Student Counseling just made an announcement.”
I nodded. “The students are doing well, considering, but André is devastated. What’s more, he feels responsible for the whole mess. He had a fight with Molly at the airport, and now everybody’s pointing invisible fingers at him.”
Giles was about to retie his other shoe but stopped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” He pulled his foot to his leg. “It’s just something Richardson said.”
“What’d he say?”
“He implied André might be in some sort of trouble.”
I clapped my hands. “I knew it!”
Giles’s foot fell to the floor. “Emmeline, leave this to the police. A jail cell is no place for an English professor.”
“Or French,” I added.
“I’m serious. You have your whole life and career ahead of you.” The deep grooves in his forehead relaxed, and he looked more like a father than a colleague. Conversations such as this one reminded me that a twenty-eight-year-old was a youngster in his eyes.
“That’s what people keep telling me.”
“Because it’s true,” he said. “You don’t want to get snookered into this. People will start to think you have a strange affinity for crime. And lord knows we have enough strange affinities around here.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Anyway, Dean Richardson also told me that Molly’s visitation is tonight at Sanderson’s Funeral Home at six o’clock. I didn’t know if you had heard.”
“It’s been nine days since she died,” I said.
“I know. I guess Bennett had a heck of a time getting her remains transported from Minneapolis.”
“Poor Bennett,” I said. “I bet he’ll be glad when tonight is behind him. This ordeal has gone on longer than it needed to.”