She walked down the hall. No one else was waiting in the foyer. As soon as Sarah turned the corner, I crouched in front of her desk to read the name plate. Sara Freyman, it said. Assistant. I wasn’t sure if Sarah Freyman the trustee spelled her first name with or without an H. No one had spelled it for me except Islanda Purvis, and I hadn’t asked my screen reader for the exact spelling. It seemed odd that a wealthy trustee would take a job answering phones, but Islanda might only have assumed she was wealthy. I had only assumed she was in her nineties. I stood up, frowning the way a man does when things make less sense than they did minutes earlier.
“Right this way, Mr. Musgrove.”
I followed Sara Freyman into a two-room office larger than my residence at the Gray Knight. The first room held a round, wooden table and bookshelves stretching to the ceiling of two walls. On the third wall was a pair of portrait paintings and what I guessed to be Ms. Randallman’s diploma. The fourth wall was only windows looking out at the Grayford skyline. As far up as we were, there was only sky.
Marianne Randallman had the firm handshake of a woman who regularly competes against men and regularly wins. “You’re much younger than I pictured,” she said warily.
“You’re too kind,” I said. “And dare I say those ads don’t do
you justice.”
My compliment went unacknowledged, unless you counted her implacable stare. Marianne Randallman had a narrow waist and the kind of curves they don’t teach in law school. Her hair and voice, mannish and severe, weren’t as enticing.
Sara Freyman, lingering in the hall, offered me coffee or tea. I declined, not sure who else she was assisting. She closed the door quietly, unconvincingly.
“I’m going to miss that girl when she’s gone,” Marianne Randallman said.
I had a seat at the round table in the center of the room. “You won’t have to tell her.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s right outside the door.”
Marianne Randallman furrowed her brow, or so I assumed.
“Sara, are you out there?”
The jangle of a charm bracelet faded into the foyer.
Marianne Randallman apologized with what seemed sincere contrition. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”
“Perhaps she’s nervous about leaving. You did say she was leaving, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Headed to Nashville to follow her country music dreams.” The derision underlining her words suggested she knew with whom Sara was heading to Nashville. Randallman cleared away the bitterness from her throat. “Speaking of cold feet, I was afraid you had gotten them when you missed your appointment.”
I wondered if Duncan’s cigarettes had finally caught up with him, but didn’t think he would be retroactively eligible for the old tobacco class action. I went with my second guess. “I do confess to some doubts about whether or not I can prove wrongful termination.”
“Termination? What happened to the wrongful death?”
“They’re not the same thing?”
Her mouth was the black dot at the base of a question mark. Whatever resemblance my mouth had to a dollar sign was rapidly fading.
She slid a sheet of paper across the table. I gave it the perfunctory once-over and accompanying nod. It’s the latter in which people are most interested when they hand you something to read.
“Is this not the man you said was murdered?”
“Yes, of course. My short-term memory isn’t what it once was.”
“Jesus Christ, Mr. Musgrove. They pay you to teach college students?”
“Dr. Musgrove,” I said.
“Sara, would you come in here please?”
Seven seconds preceded the opening of the door. The sound of shoes and jewelry did not.
“Sara, could you cue up my conversation with Dr. Musgrove from Wednesday morning?”
The assistant of questionable means opened a cabinet that comprised the lower half of the bookcase. A hum came and went in the upper corners of the room. She set a plastic object on the table the shape and weight of a remote control. Years ago, I had read about a blind attorney and thought briefly about going to law school. That it meant another series of buttons to memorize seemed a good reason not to have gone. The original reason, I believe, had been the lack of law schools within walking distance of downtown Grayford.
Sara Freyman exited the office. Her boss sat down again, crossing her muscular arms on the table. The door remained open.
“I hope this jogs your memory, Dr. Musgrove.” Randallman pointed the remote control at the bottom half of the bookcase.
“Let’s just say we both know someone,” said the real Duncan Musgrove.
“Someone referred you?”
“Not exactly.” Duncan’s voice sounded worn and raw. It also sounded nothing like mine.
“What was the nature of your relationship to the deceased?” The chirp of a bird was followed by feet on an aluminum ladder.
“Is it your spouse, Mr. Musgrove?”
His breathless words sounded like, “Not yet.”
“I don’t like guessing, Mr. Musgrove.”
“Give me a goddamn chance. I’m trying to get somewhere I can talk.”
Randallman reached for the remote control on the table. I reached first. “It’s coming back to me,” I said.
Randallman stepped slowly into the adjoining room. She opened a desk drawer. There was the cold sound of metal scraping its way to the front of the drawer.
Duncan’s breathing was steadier. “Murder is considered wrongful death, isn’t it?”
“Are you related to the deceased, or are you the executor of his will? Otherwise, you cannot initiate a lawsuit, no matter how the individual died.”
The Marianne Randallman I could see, if not very well, pointed her gun with both arms extended, like she knew how to use it. “Who are you?”
I showed her my hands, dropping the remote on the table.
“You used to be married to one of them,” Duncan said.
“Excuse me? One of who?”
“The people who killed him. Randall Simkins.” Duncan breathed into the phone, listening for her reaction. I did the same.
“Who are you?” she asked me a second time.
I told her my name, as if it meant something to her.
“Have we met?” her prerecorded counterpart asked Duncan Musgrove.
“I saw it in the paper. I knew your name from the commercials. I like to read the divorce filings. It’s my favorite part of the paper next to the crossword. I get a warm feeling when one of my exes gets divorced from whatever fool took her off my hands.”
“Give me one reason why I should continue this conversation,
Mr. Musgrove.”
“Listen, woman, I don’t know where else to go. I think I was about to catch them in the act of cleaning the office where he died. That’s when your ex showed up. He said he would kill my wife if I didn’t . . .” His voice got light and flew away. It took him a moment to find it. “They made me dress up like a goddamn woman to get a signature from the school’s trustee. They wanted me to kill two of my colleagues. I’m just a science teacher, goddammit. I’m just a science teacher.”
Randallman grabbed the remote control. There was a click and a brief hum in the speakers. There was a second click in the hand not holding the remote.
“You have five seconds to tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I’m one of the colleagues Duncan didn’t kill.”
“Where is he? Who told you he was coming here?”
I spoke in a low voice that might disappoint Sara, who had not returned to her desk. “Duncan’s dead. According to his phone, you were the last person he called. The last person to call him was your ex-husband. That call came a few minutes after I, as Duncan, rescheduled his appointment with your secretary. You probably prefer personal assistant, don’t you, Sara?”
“Sara, call the police.”
“Preferably not your boyfriend. You d
id know she’s dating your ex-husband, didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about? Sara dates a red-headed boy with tortoise-shell glasses. He brings her lunch on his bicycle.”
“Poor kid.”
“Sara, come in here.”
When no footsteps followed the request, Marianne Randallman stepped into the hall. Dim voices were audible behind the doors of other offices. She made a sound that confirmed her secretary’s departure and came back in, closing the door behind her.
“I don’t believe you. Sara would never . . .”
“You don’t seem to have trouble believing the parts about your ex-husband.”
For a long moment, she stood beside her chair. “Do I need this?” she asked, holding up the gun in a non-pointing fashion.
I wondered what Sara kept in her desk drawers. “One of us should probably have one. Might as well be you.”
Randallman ended up by the windows. She peered outside, as people do before talking about unpleasant things. I turned one ear to the door, listening for the return of Marianne’s assistant. There was only the wall-muted tap of a keyboard and what might have been a banjo on computer speakers.
“Rick and I were married for two years, one if you don’t count the separation. I had just broken up with another man, one I had actually loved. In my defense, Rick was very charming while we were dating. He can be a sensitive man.”
“I’ve heard that about him.”
“Rick didn’t get less romantic exactly. More like his romance grew more specific to his personality. That gun, for example, was a Valentine’s present.” Her huge sigh would have dismantled cobwebs. “He said it was me. That my strong personality overshadowed his gentler qualities. I certainly wasn’t going to pat him on the head for his little dragon and wizard stories. Forgive me, Rick, if I have a low tolerance for bullshit. You know who hates bullshit? Judges. Juries. I’m not your fucking ‘follow your bliss, go for it, what lovely imagery in your descriptions of a forest of metal trees’ favorite college teacher whom you talk about twenty-four-seven.”
“Favorite college teacher?”
“Where I went to college, we took tests and wrote research papers. We didn’t sit in a circle and share our feelings like a bunch of mealy-mouthed mama’s boys at a Montessori summer camp.”
“The academy seems to be moving away from content-based learning,” I said. “Do you remember the name of this teacher?”
“Perhaps you know her. I understand she teaches at Parshall.” Randallman pronounced the school with a faux patrician accent.
“What a brain trust that must be at faculty meetings. No offense.”
“None taken. Would you remember her name if you heard it?”
“I never knew her name. I never wanted to. According to you, he’s moved on to my secretary, which I still don’t believe, by the way.”
I let her not believe me. “What years was your ex-husband a student at Parshall?”
“He didn’t go to Parshall. I always assumed he had her as an undergrad at Coastal State.”
If Stashauer was in his forties, he would have been an undergraduate more than twenty years ago. Only the CVs of Duncan, Delilah, and Simkins would have gone back that far. Of those three, Delilah was the only woman, not counting Duncan’s cameo in drag at the nursing home. I stood up slowly from the table, showing Marianne Randallman both my hands.
“I’ve put the gun down, Mr. Cowlishaw.”
Marianne Randallman walked me to the waiting room. The desk of her assistant remained unoccupied. Randallman sent me on my way with a firm handshake. When we let go, I was holding a business card.
“If you do know of any relatives of your late dean, whatever the circumstances of his death, tell them to give me a call.”
Chapter 29
MARIANNE RANDALLMAN GREETED another client in the waiting area and walked him to her office. I gave the glass door a little push and let it close in front of me. Marianne Randallman closed her office door. I went around Ms. Freyman’s desk, relatively free of bric-a-brac. Given the purse beside the wastebasket and sweater on the back of her chair, her exit a few minutes ago appeared temporary.
I said her name in the stairwell. The word returned in shrinking ripples, unaccompanied by the name’s owner. The white paint of the hallway made it easy to see people, but no one was there. An unmarked door was locked. I placed my ear against it and heard nothing. Further down the hall, I followed the powerful flush of a public restroom to a pair of recessed doors. I leaned over the fountain until someone emerged from one of the restrooms. The harsh fumes of Aramis told me which one.
The fountain quieted. The women’s room started talking. The accent was Southern, the tone anxious. I placed my ear against the door, carefully so as not to push my way inside.
“How much longer?” Sara asked. I pushed the door a few inches.
“I know. I just—You promised my fellowship would start—”
The elevator opened and beeped. Footsteps came my way. I bent over the fountain and lapped up water until a door around the corner finished closing.
“I don’t want to get in trouble with Ms. Randallman.”
The conversation dipped to a volume I couldn’t discern. Her heels clicked toward the door at a volume I understood. They stopped when I entered the restroom. Sara didn’t scream. Some women do when I walk into the wrong restroom. Those little white pictograms are the same from the waist up.
“Don’t tell me you’re not going to wash your hands, Sara.” She backed up to the sinks.
“Your name isn’t Duncan Musgrove,” she said.
“Did you figure that out on your own, or did your boyfriend
help you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I wouldn’t expect Rick to go with you to Nashville. He’s got a thing for an old teacher.”
“Who’s Rick?” She was a good actress. I would have recommended her to Thayer for the new Parshall theater venture if she weren’t going to Nashville, if she weren’t covering up a murder, and if the new theater really existed.
“Perhaps he only shows you his sensitive side, but he isn’t a nice person like you and me. Ask your boss.”
Sara Freyman stepped sideways toward the door. I mirrored her. She tried the other direction. I knew how to go that way, too.
“Tell me about this fellowship, Sara. Has this been approved by the other trustees?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you don’t like what I’m saying, do you? I don’t imagine the other trustees appreciate being left out of all these decisions you’re making.”
“Leave me alone!”
She went left, right, and left again. She barreled toward the door and I wrapped my arms around her. She had a haircut like a mushroom and a body to match. Her sad mouth looked as though the smiling muscles had atrophied from years of disuse. Prison would give her the chance to work out, but probably not those particular muscles.
“You might not go to jail, Sara. You’re young, impressionable. Judges like that.”
Her arms relaxed. I loosened my grip. Her elbow shifted. She looked me in the eyes. She got tired of looking and gave them a good feel with her thumbs.
Sara made it to the door. “Leave the school alone! You’re going to ruin everything.”
Chapter 30
IT TOOK A MINUTE FOR THE temporary blind spots to give way to the permanent ones. I made it back to campus in time for the office hours I never kept past the third week of any semester. Outside the library, a pair of voices overlapped one another, the way voices do in the middle of a good time or an argument. One of the voices shouting, “Ouch! Let go!” seemed more consistent with the latter.
“Dr. Cowlishaw, tell him to let go of me.”
“He’s not going to help you, Mr. Biggins.” This calmer voice belonged to Benjamin Tweel.
Two empty steps were between them. I stood on the top one, closer to Tweel. Wade Biggins
’s head was cocked, nearly flat against
his shoulder. He seemed to have little choice in the matter. Tweel’s hand was on the student’s neck in a grip he might have learned from Star Trek.
“I don’t know if this is the best way to motivate our students, Dr. Tweel.”
“He was stealing from the library.” Tweel gestured with his foot to a stack of books.
I grabbed the hardcover from the top. Turning pages, I said, “Wade and I were just conversing about this topic last week. I recommended he check this out.”
“See? I told you I was checking them out.”
“Don’t start with me, Cowlishaw.” Tweel spoke with an odd serenity. “Mr. Biggins did not sign his name in the ledger.”
“I forgot. Let go and I’ll go back and sign it.”
“Mr. Biggins has not checked out a book from the library,” said Tweel, “in all his years at this school. Ask him how many times he has failed my class because he refused to support his claims with
valid research.”
I couldn’t help feeling responsible for Tweel’s hostility, although in fairness to myself, he had punched me several hours before his singing wife belted out a few numbers in my bed.
“Maybe we could call this a warning, Ben. He didn’t mean
any harm.”
“I can’t feel my arm, Dr. Tweel.”
Tweel gave solemn instructions before he let go. They were to pick up the books and return each one to its place in the stacks. “I’ll supervise,” Tweel said.
I handed Wade the stack of books and the three of us went inside.
“I don’t know where they go exactly,” said Wade.
Dewey Decimal had been another casualty of the library layoffs. The faculty voted to revert to alphabetical order, but Christine Katzen, the temp in charge of reorganizing the stacks, was promoted to registrar. We took another vote and settled on an eclectic approach.
“Do the best you can,” Tweel said.
Mollie’s husband turned to me in the darkness. His face seemed to brighten. He gave my shoulder blade a weak little pat.
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