A Rare Murder In Princeton (11 page)

McLeod sipped coffee and looked at George. He must be tired of Chester, who seemed settled in for a long night. She could always ask Chester more questions, but that would just make him stay longer. Nevertheless, she plunged ahead. “Chester, you were there a long time today. While all this questioning was going on, did you gather any idea about who was the last to see Philip Sheridan alive?”

McLeod saw George glaring at her, and felt a pang of guilt, but brushed it away.

“Well, as you might expect, Molly and the other support staff left first, pretty much right at five. I remembered that much. I think when I left at six that Mr. Ledbetter and Mr. Keaton and Mrs. Mobley and Mrs. Westcott were still there. And one of the conservators was working away at something he didn’t want to stop and leave. And oh, yes, Mary Woodward—she’s a curator, a jack-of-all-trades curator, and she was still there—and then . . .” He named another curator, whom McLeod had not met.

“Do so many people stay after five, when Rare Books is closed to researchers?”

“Oh, yes, they all say that’s when they can get some work done,” said Chester.

George pushed his chair back and stood up. “Listen, you two, I’ve got to go upstairs and do some work. You’ll excuse me, I know, Chester. I’m glad you could come tonight. Let me know if there’s anything at all I can do. This is a terrible business.” He shook hands with Chester, who had stood up, too.

“I certainly will, Mr. Bridges, and I’m so grateful to you and McLeod. Thank you so much. It was a delicious meal.”

“See you soon,” said George. “Good night, McLeod.”

“I guess I’d better be going home,” said Chester. He brushed his hair out of his eyes.

McLeod opened the coat closet and handed him his jacket. “I’m so glad you came. You must let us know if there’s anything at all we can do. Good luck with Mrs. Hamilton. I’m sure you’ll charm her into submission.”

“Thanks,” said Chester, “I certainly hope somebody charms her into something.” And he left.

MCLEOD CLOSED AND locked the front door, turned out the lights, and climbed the stairs. George came out of his office to apologize for deserting her. “I feel sorry for Chester Holmes, but I was getting tired of him, and he was drinking so much I was afraid he would pass out and stay forever.”

“What did you think of him?” asked McLeod.

“I guess he’s a nice chap. He seems to have been devoted to Sheridan. I hope Sheridan left him something in his will.”

“I didn’t even think about that,” said McLeod. “I like him. He’s always so
nice.
I forgot to ask him something—”

“You asked him every question it is possible to ask,” interrupted George.

“No, I forgot to ask him about Dodo Westcott.”

“What about Dodo Westcott?”

“You know—how she thinks he’s the most likely suspect. I just wonder what he thinks of her.”

“Another day, another question,” said George.

“That’s right. Well, I’m going to bed. I’m tired. See you in the morning—maybe.”

“I’m going to turn in, too. I’m going to the office very early,” said George. “I have a breakfast meeting with Chuck Hammersmith. You know this is going to be very hard on the university, public relations-wise. A big donor killed, and if Chester’s right, the murderer will probably turn out to be a member of the staff. It could be a disaster. So I called him just now and set up the breakfast meeting.”

“If anybody can handle it, you can,” said McLeod cheerily. “Okay, see you sometime. I have class tomorrow afternoon.”

“Right. Good night, McLeod. Inviting you to stay here was the smartest thing I ever did. It’s one way to be always in the thick of things.”

“Now you’re being sarcastic—or is it ironic? I can’t keep them straight.”

“I’m being perfectly sincere. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks, George. I’m glad I’m here, too. Good night.”

 

MCLEOD TOSSED AND turned for a long time before she went to sleep. She was trying to decide how to find out what time people had left Rare Books on Tuesday and thus find out who had been the last to see Philip Sheridan. Would Nick Perry tell her what he knew? She was sure he would not. Then could she possibly go around and ask the same people the same questions that the police had asked them? Not likely, she thought. Oh, well, a way would open up—she was always able to find out things the police couldn’t or didn’t find interesting.

Then she remembered that she had never told George about the things that had been in that box of dresses. It had been a long day. She finally slept.

She woke up late on Thursday and looked at the newspapers while she ate her breakfast at the kitchen table.
The New York Times
had more news about the murder than the Trenton
Times
did, and she read Philip Sheridan’s long obituary with interest. He had certainly lived a life of privilege —son and grandson of extremely rich railroad tycoons, schooling at Exeter, Princeton, and Oxford. He had never married and was survived by a sister, Lucia Hamilton of New York City, and several cousins.

As for the murder itself, there was very little in either paper. Police were investigating; a stab wound had apparently been the means of murder; no suspects had been named by the police. And that was about it—nothing new.

McLeod folded the papers and went upstairs to get dressed. She wrapped up warmly and walked to her office and settled down to get ready for her class that afternoon. This work required her full attention for several hours; she was planning to discuss the students’ essays on faculty members, turned in last week. She was rather disappointed in them; it seemed to her that too many students had made what they thought were “safe” choices among the faculty, interviewing distinguished but not controversial professors. Two students had showed originality—one young woman had written about how hard it was to get an appointment with the world-famous writers who taught creative writing, and a young man had written a sympathetic interview with a professor who had been suspended for a year for misuse of a departmental fund. She e-mailed each of the students to make sure it was all right to photocopy these papers and distribute them in class for discussion. Frieda’s assistant did the copying for her, thank heavens.

She was interrupted by one phone call—from Dodo, who wanted to know if she and George could come to dinner next Wednesday.

“Good heavens,” said McLeod. “That’s lovely of you. But I can’t speak for George. He’s working terribly hard at his new job and he almost never gets home before dinner. I’m sure I can come, but you’d better call George yourself.”

Dodo promised to do so and get back to McLeod. “And don’t forget the Friends’ dinner next Saturday,” she said.

At twelve, McLeod went next door to the café in Chancellor Green and had a bowl of soup and some crackers.

At one-thirty, class members began trailing into the big seminar room on the first floor of Joseph Henry House and took seats around the wide table. The class was lively as she led the discussion on their choice of subjects. They talked about the murder—most of them had never heard of Philip Sheridan and did not understand the position he had occupied in Rare Books and Special Collections.

“It’s weird. A rich alumnus gets bumped off in the library,” said Clark Powell. “It’s not as though it was a faculty member or a student or something.”

“It would make a wonderful mystery story, wouldn’t it? I wish Princeton offered a course in mystery writing,” said Olivia, one of the two who had written good papers.

“Maybe they will,” said McLeod. “But right now we have to talk about your papers on professors. I have to say I was disappointed in them,” and she went on to talk about how boring a profile could be if it was just a puff piece.

One of the students who had written a “soft” paper on an exemplary faculty member spoke up and said, “I see what you’re trying to do. You want us to go beyond the mouthpiece position and get more controversial and offbeat subjects, don’t you?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said McLeod.

 

SHE WAS WELL pleased as she walked home to Edgehill. As she climbed the three steps to the little front porch, she noticed that one of the stained glass panes in the front door was missing. The door was not locked, she discovered, and opening it, she saw the colored pane lying in shards on the hall floor. She closed the front door behind her and felt cold air still coming in from the hole where the pane had been.

It dawned on her that someone had broken in. Was the burglar still here? Did she hear steps upstairs? Fear weakened her knees and made her feel faint. I’m such a coward, she thought, stepping quickly back out the front door. She walked down to the sidewalk by the street and called 911 on her cell phone. A police car was there in seconds. At least the whole Borough force isn’t tied up with the murder, she thought.

The police car pulled into the driveway and the policemen got out. McLeod explained what had happened. They told her to stay outside while they searched the house.

She stood on the walk and stomped her feet to keep warm until the police came out and told her she could come in. “Looks like somebody did break in,” one of them said. “One of the bedrooms upstairs is a real mess.”

“I’m afraid I am messy,” McLeod said.

“No, you didn’t do this, I don’t think. This guy was looking for something. Come see.”

Upstairs, her room had been ransacked. There was no doubt about it. Drawers had been pulled out and emptied, clothes ripped off the hangers in the closet, her suitcases pulled out from under her bed and opened. “It’s awful,” she said.

“It’s kind of scary when somebody breaks in your house,” agreed one of the officers. “Can you tell us what’s missing?”

“I can’t see anything that’s missing right now,” said McLeod. She looked in the little wooden box that held her tiny collection of jewelry, a gold bracelet her mother had given her, a string of pearls that Holland Dulaney had given her before he died, a couple of pairs of good earrings —it was all there, and the rest was costume jewelry. “The only remotely valuable thing I had was my laptop computer and it’s still here. I can’t think of a thing that’s missing.”

“What about the rest of the house?”

“You know, it’s not my house,” said McLeod. “I’m just sort of a tenant, staying here for the semester. This is the only room where I own anything. I don’t suppose I’d know if anything was missing anywhere else.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“George Bridges. He’s at the university. When he comes home, he can tell if anything is missing.”

“No television set?”

“There’s a small one in the dining room,” said McLeod. “It’s kind of a family room. We can see if it’s still there.”

The three of them looked in George’s bedroom, which seemed to be in order, and in his study, which also looked undisturbed—the computer, printer, and fax were all still there—and went downstairs. The television and DVD player were still in the dining room, and the microwave was in the kitchen.

McLeod could see nothing missing from the basement, which looked relatively undisturbed.

“Can George call you when he gets home?” asked McLeod. “And tell you if other things are missing?”

“Tell him to call this number,” said one of the officers, handing her a card as they walked toward the front door. “And see if you can’t get this pane replaced. The cold air is getting in.”

“I feel it,” said McLeod. She thanked them for their prompt appearance and thorough examination of the premises. With many assurances of goodwill, the police departed.

When George got home, he was angry and bewildered that someone had broken into his newly bought home.

McLeod understood. “I’ve always read how people said they felt ‘violated’ after their house had been burglarized,” she said. “Now I see what they meant. But is anything missing? The police want to know.”

“I can’t think of anything,” said George. “Oh, wait a minute, I do have the ancestral flat silver.” He checked the drawer in the dining room and decided every fork and knife and spoon was there.

“This is weird,” McLeod said. “What were they after?”

“Something of yours,” said George. “Yours is the only room that they tore apart.”

“I know,” said McLeod. “And I don’t have a thing worth stealing.” She thought fleetingly of the objects she had found in the box of old dresses. But who on earth would have known they were there? And then George distracted her.

“McLeod, do you know what I’m going to do?” he was asking. “I’m going to get an alarm system. I’ve always hated them, but one burglary is one too many.”

“I think you’re right,” said McLeod. “I’m all for an alarm system—in theory. I’ve heard all these stories about how the people that live in the houses with alarms can’t open their own doors without setting them off and all that kind of thing. But surely you could learn to cope with it.”