Bloodied Ivy (7 page)

“I feel so lost now that he’s gone,” she continued woefully. “Not that Professor Cortland and a few others haven’t been good to work with too, but I’d just like to quit and get away from here. But I know Hale would have wanted me to go on.”

I sipped my coffee and looked at her. “I seem to remember reading that he accidentally fell down a ravine. Does that happen often here?”

She shook her blond head and gnawed her lower lip. “Never, that I know of. Every few years, or so I’ve heard, a student commits suicide by jumping into the Gash or one of the other ravines. But the school paper wrote that this was the first time anyone had fallen into one by accident and died. It seems ironic that it was Hale of all people.”

“Why?”

“He was so…physically fit. He walked a lot, took care of himself. He was seventy-three, but he looked and acted much younger.”

“Might it have been suicide, Miss Frazier?”

“Oh…I suppose that’s possible, of course. I hadn’t thought of that before you mentioned it, honestly. Nothing was ever said about a note, and I can’t imagine why Hale would have wanted to…you know. But I guess that’s a possible explanation.”

“How else do you explain what happened?”

Gretchen shook her head, and this time a tear spilled down her cheek. “I can’t, I can’t, except to go along with what the police think happened. He must have stumbled and fallen.” She looked down at her coffee cup and I reached across the table, squeezing her hand for solace. She had been close to Markham, no question about it. Was it simply a student’s admiration for a strong teacher, or had there been something more between them? Remembering what Lon had said about Markham’s proclivities—and using the uncanny perceptions about women that Wolfe claims I have—I put my money on the latter.

I
STAYED IN THE GRILL WITH
Gretchen Frazier until we’d both finished our coffee and she had dried her eyes. She was embarrassed and started to apologize, but I told her never to regret a genuine show of feelings. Then we shook hands and she scooted off to study while I walked back to Bailey Hall to meet Cortland. I got to two-sixteen, which was my idea of a typical classroom, at eleven-fifteen, and quietly slipped through a door at the rear. Cortland was standing next to a desk up front, facing about twenty students. I took a seat in the back.

“…and so,” he was saying, “with Theodore Roosevelt newly in his grave, the Republicans, supremely confident of victory in the nineteen-twenty election, turned to a virtual nonentity from Ohio named Warren Harding.”

“Thus proving they could win with
anybody
,” piped up a guy in a turtleneck sweater, drawing a scattering of laughs.

“The humorous aspects notwithstanding, you make a salient point, Mr. Andrews,” Cortland said with a thin smile. “The truth was, with World War I just ended and the country sated with sick old Wilson’s sanctimoniousness, not to mention Europe’s problems and the League of Nations, the party could indeed have picked almost anyone. Next time—” He was interrupted by the bell. “Next time, we’ll look at the dynamics within the Republican party that led to the nomination of Harding. Be ready to discuss it. And prepare to step into the Roaring Twenties.”

After the students had clomped out, I walked up to Cortland, who was stuffing papers into his briefcase. “Now, I grant that my history and political science knowledge is pretty skimpy,” I told him, “but along the way, I’ve learned a little about Harding—after all, I
do
come from his home state. What I want to know is, how are you, a faithful conservative, going to be able to make him look good to your students?”

Cortland let out one of his tinny chuckles. “I don’t even try. There are limits to historical revisionism, Mr. Goodwin—or I guess I should say
Arnold
, shouldn’t I?” He whinnied again. “I’m glad nobody’s here with us. Believe me, I won’t err during lunch, I promise.”

“What’s the lunch program?” I asked.

“The faculty dining room is in the Union Building. It’s a short walk.”

“I was just there,” I told him. “Having coffee with Gretchen Frazier.”

“Oh?” He shoved his glasses up his nose and eyed me with interest.

“I ran into her after sitting in for awhile on Greenbaum’s lecture. I thought I’d get her impressions on the school, and guess what?—we ended up talking about Markham.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said dryly as we walked out of Bailey Hall and into the sunlight. Two students dashed by, arguing about Madonna.

“Why?”

Cortland pushed his glasses up again. “Gretchen is a good student—indeed, a superb one, as I said when I introduced you to her—although perhaps somewhat shallow intellectually. But she’s also a coquette, and she flirted plenty with Hale—among others, I might add. But her frivolity backfired on her—to the point where I’m afraid she ended up quite infatuated with him.”

“How did Markham feel about her?”

“He was
fifty years
older than she!” he rasped indignantly. “Hale always has been…drawn to good-looking women, but they tended to be considerably older than Gretchen Frazier.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Miss Frazier before, when you came to New York?”

“I didn’t think it was very important; I still don’t,” Cortland sniffed.

“You also said she flirted with Markham
among others
. Who were the others?”

Cortland colored slightly. “I feel as though I’m trafficking in gossip.”

“Look, you can call it what you want to, but the fact is we’re trying to find a murderer, remember? This was your idea, and if you expect to get anything accomplished, you’re going to have to talk about things you may find distasteful.”

“All right,” he said, inhaling deeply and steeling himself. “There was talk at one time last school year that Gretchen might have been…er,
involved
…with Ted Greenbaum.” He took another big breath, like a kid who had just unburdened himself of a terrible secret.

“An unlikely combination,” I observed.

“Not much more unlikely than she and Hale,” Cortland said.

“Except that I gather Gretchen and Markham were philosophically
simpatico
.”

“Gretchen is a fine student—a scholar, make no mistake about that,” he said, “but I’ve yet to be convinced of her commitment to conservative philosophy. Her dalliance with Ted last year—if indeed it was that—would seem to indicate an intellectual instability on her part.”

“It would if you equate political views with libido,” I said. “Is Greenbaum married?”

“Yes.”

“Happily?”

“I don’t know!” Cortland wailed in exasperation. “I’m really uncomfortable talking about people like this.”

“Then I’ll probably make you more uncomfortable,” I said offhandedly. “You mentioned that Markham was drawn to women. If not to Gretchen Frazier, to anyone in particular?”

“Yes.” Cortland nodded grimly. “Elena Moreau is her name. She’s a tenured professor in the History Department.”

“Am I right to assume
she’s
single?”

“Widowed,” he said. “Her husband was killed in Vietnam.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“You very likely will. Elena usually has lunch in the faculty dining room, sometimes at our table. And here we are.”

We took an elevator to the third floor of the Union, and entered a Colonial-style room with brass chandeliers and polished wood tables and chairs, and waitresses in starched white costumes scurrying around. You had to admit that on the whole the Prescott faculty had it pretty nice.

“There’s a table for six over in that corner,” Cortland said. “A group of us from Political Science and History usually sit together—the cast varies from day to day. But we occasionally have guests, so you shouldn’t feel at all uncomfortable.”

“I never do,” I assured him as we got to the circular table, where one man, stocky, ruddy, white-haired, and with a high forehead, was already seated. “Orville, I’d like to have you meet an old friend, Arnold Goodman. He’s in from Indiana, looking the place over. His nephew is thinking about coming here. Arnold, this is Orville Schmidt, chairman of our Political Science Department.”

“Mr. Goodman.” Schmidt smiled and rose halfway out of his chair and leaned across to pump my hand with his fat paw. “We’ll try to be on our best behavior for you. After all, a prospective tuition may hang in the balance.” He chuckled at his little joke and I grinned to show that I appreciated his insidiously witty humor. That appeared to cement our friendship. “Did you come east just to see Prescott?” he asked after I’d scanned the three-entrée menu and selected roast leg of lamb.

“No, I was in New York on business and tacked on an extra day,” I told him.

“What business are you in, Mr. Goodman?” Schmidt asked as he lavishly buttered a roll.

“I’m an insurance investigator, with a company based in Indianapolis.”

“Must be interesting work,” he said. I was getting an answer ready, but fortunately the conversation was interrupted by Ted Greenbaum’s arrival. Cortland went through the introduction routine again, and as we stood shaking hands, I realized Greenbaum was easily six-five, or would have been if he stood straight. I told him I’d been in his lecture that morning.

“I know,” he said with a crooked smile. “I noticed you, of course. And I’m afraid I must have bored you, judging by the length of your stay.”

“Not at all. It’s just that I wanted to see as much of the campus as—”

Greenbaum laughed. “You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Goodman. The Whigs are not one of my favorite topics, either.” In this setting, he didn’t seem quite so dry and humorless.

“Oh, I don’t know, Ted, I think you’d make a pretty good Whig,” Schmidt said with a wheezing chuckle. “Personally, I’ve always been struck by your resemblance to William Henry Harrison.”

“Our one-month president,” Cortland chimed in with relish. “He caught his death of pneumonia because he insisted on delivering a three-hour inaugural speech in the rain. Maybe you’d better shorten your lectures, Ted.”

Greenbaum was about to defend himself when we were joined by an attractive, exotic-looking brunette with her hair parted down the center and pulled back to show off large gold hoop earrings. She could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. “Mind if I crash this stag party?” she asked in a slightly husky voice.

“Of course not, Elena,” Schmidt said, polishing off his third roll. “We never do mind. And would it make any difference if we did?”

“None at all,” she replied, winking and sliding into a chair.

“Elena, we have a guest today, so try to behave yourself,” Greenbaum said. “This is Arnold Goodman, a friend of Walter’s; he’s looking the place over for a nephew who feels, oddly enough, that he might like to tread these sacred halls. Mr. Goodman, meet Elena Moreau, who’s in the History Department, but we let her sit with us occasionally anyway. We feel it’ll do her good—a little of our erudition might actually rub off on her someday.”

“The only thing from any of you that’s likely to rub off on me is cobwebs,” she fired back with a wicked smile. “Mr. Goodman, I’m glad to meet you, and I apologize for these Philistines. Lord knows, I’ve tried to work with them, but…” She shrugged expressively. “Your nephew—what is he thinking of majoring in?”

“I hadn’t mentioned this to Walter before, but…well, history,” I said, inspired.

“Voilà!” Elena looked around the table triumphantly. “Sounds like a young man who’s done his homework.
He
knows where the strength of this university lies.”

The three men groaned, but it was good-natured, and soon all four professors were involved in a lively skirmish about the latest presidential polls. Despite what Cortland had told me about both Schmidt and Greenbaum, I noticed that he seemed to get along with them well, although maybe he was on his best behavior with an outsider present. I was glad to be out of the spotlight as they talked—that way I was able to observe all of them, particularly Elena Moreau, who was definitely worth observing. I now put her at somewhere in her early forties, but that didn’t bother me—quite the contrary. Her dark eyes danced when she talked, and her oval face was full of expression. If Markham had indeed been playing games with her, as Cortland suggested, I gave him good marks for his taste. May I be thus blessed at age seventy-three.

Their banter went on for several minutes, until I noticed Cortland look over his shoulder. “Ah, our noble leader is present,” he said. He gestured toward a figure who was standing just inside the entrance to the dining room.

The newcomer was maybe six-one, slender, dark-haired, moderately handsome, and wearing a brown suit that probably set him back at least five bills. He looked around, then waved and headed for a table on the far side of the room.

“That, Mr. Goodman, is our president, the right honorable Keith Alan Potter, B.A., Dartmouth; M.A., Harvard; Ph.D., Oxford, and don’t you forget it,” Elena said. “We would have been happy to introduce you, but for some reason, he never condescends to join our little salon.”

“Now, be fair, Elena,” Schmidt admonished seriously. “You know he has a lot of commitments, even at lunch.”

“Such as sharing a table with his provost and dean of students—the same people he eats with every day?”

Schmidt shrugged and reached for the last roll. “The business of running the university never ends.”

“Business, my Aunt Matilda,” Elena snorted. “Look at the three of them huddled together laughing over there. I’ve got five dollars that says they’re either telling the latest sleazy ethnic joke or figuring out which teams to take Sunday in that pro football pool Charley runs—Charley’s the men’s dean, Mr. Goodman. He majored in odds making at Colgate.”

“As you can see, Mr. Goodman, Elena is our caustic wit,” Schmidt said. His face smiled but his voice distinctly lacked humor. Clearly Elena’s criticisms of Potter were hitting a sore spot. Before I could respond, Greenbaum, who was on my right, turned and asked about my business. I got away with a few generalities on insurance investigation that seemed to satisfy him; meanwhile, the others started in on whether Prescott should make a concentrated effort to increase its enrollment. Schmidt voted yes, claiming that it was essential the school grow by at least one thousand students over the next few years, which apparently was the party line as espoused by Potter.