Crime is Murder (5 page)

“… and so, with the expenditure of just a few thousand dollars, we can seat half again as many people at the athletic field and make this year’s festival the greatest in the history of the Cornish Award!”

Tod drove home a point with vigor. It was impossible for the mind to escape.

“A
few
thousand?” Stanley Watts protested. “Just how many constitute a
few
thousand, Mr. Chairman?”

“There’s a young man outside who can give us the complete story,” Tod replied.

“Well, I’m against it! What if it rains? What if we go to all this extra expense and have to hold the affair in the auditorium after all?”

The banker looked about the table for reassurance. It seemed to Lisa that he had a point, but Tod didn’t allow time for a response.

“Rain the entire week, Stanley?” he asked. “You must be expecting a deluge.”

Miss Pratt tittered; Miss Oberon almost smiled. Tod really didn’t need the encouragement.

“And we have to take chances, Stanley. Think of the
sunny
side. What if it
doesn’t
rain? Accommodations for an extra five thousand spectators will return our investment ten times over, not to mention what it will do for local business. And we’ll have those extras, too. We turned them away last year. What I’m saying is reasonable, isn’t it, Mrs. Cornish? You can see my point, can’t you?”

Handling Nydia. Lisa enjoyed seeing the man in action. She enjoyed seeing the way every eye turned toward the head of the table, her own included, like so many pilgrims come to consult the oracle. And the oracle sat like a dark-robed queen, her thin, gloved hands stroking the catch of a voluminous handbag. It was an old bag, old and very expensive; but the gloves, Lisa noted, quite apropos of nothing, had a rent seam on one finger.

Then the oracle answered.

“Let the young man come in.”

“But, Nydia,” Watts protested.

“Let him come in, Tod!”

Ruth Graham was right. There was nothing honorary about Nydia Cornish’s position on the committee. Tod went to the door and came back a moment later with a tall, good-looking young man whose ruddy face was familiar with the sun and whose brown hands, although they held a roll of blueprints at the moment, looked as if they might be familiar with a hammer and saw.

“Mr. Joel Warren, of the Cushing Construction Company,” Tod explained. “Mr. Warren, suppose you take over from here.”

Lisa looked at Curran Dawes. He nodded. “My nephew,” he whispered.

“A fine-looking boy,” Lisa murmured.

“I think so.”

“Does
she
know?”

Joel Warren was already into his explanation of the blueprints and accompanying cost sheets. The question could mean only one thing. Lisa, oblivious of Joel, was staring at the head of the table.

“About Joel and Marta?” the professor asked. “Really, Miss Bancroft, I can’t imagine anything happening in or around Bellville that Nydia Cornish doesn’t know.”

“And she approves?”

“Is there any reason why she shouldn’t?”

It was the wrong question asked in the wrong way. The professor was still the doting “parent,” and Lisa couldn’t answer him at all. It had something to do with the contrast between those workman’s hands and the prestige of that old mansion high on the top of The Bluffs. But Nydia seemed cordial enough to young Warren. She leaned forward, listening intently to his words. Occasionally she asked a question, brief and pertinent. Lisa abandoned her whispered conversation with the professor.

“I still say it’s too much of a gamble,” Watts persisted. “All of those extra bleachers out at the athletic field may just go empty.”

“With Sir Anthony Sutton conducting the orchestra?” Tod asked.

“Sir Anthony! That’s another thing I don’t like. Why did we have to send all the way to London for a conductor this year? What’s the matter with the way we’ve been doing things for the past eight years? The memorial fund isn’t a bottomless pit, you know.”

“Hear, hear,” the professor murmured in Lisa’s ear. “Good old Stanley. He must be in charge of pay schedules for the high-school staff.”

“Well, now I think—”

Miss Oberon began to speak, then stopped as if too surprised by the sound of her own voice to remember what came next. It wasn’t important anyway. Nydia Cornish had made up her mind.

“Young man,” she said, “is there time enough to complete the construction of these additional facilities before the festival begins?”

Joel Warren smiled. It was a very nice smile, Lisa thought.

“Plenty of time, Mrs. Cornish. I’ve been over the athletic grounds myself, and I’ll supervise this job personally if my company gets the contract.”

The assurance seemed to please Nydia. She didn’t return the smile, but she gave no evidence of any doubt or lack of confidence in Joel Warren. If she disapproved his courtship of Marta her attitude was a masterpiece of deception. She nodded and then fell silent for a few seconds. When she spoke again her head rose high enough so that everyone at the table could see all of the face beneath the wide-brimmed hat.

“As you all know,” she said, looking at no one in particular, “I founded this award as a memorial to my husband who perished so tragically seventeen years ago. I wanted to perpetuate his name in a manner fitting his genius by affording encouragement and reward to young musical talent. To you, Mr. Graham, this may be a commercial boon to Bellville, but to me it is still a solemn tribute to my late husband.”

Tod flushed. “But, of course, Mrs. Cornish. That’s why—”

“That is why,” Nydia continued, deliberately taking the words away from him, “I have always cooperated with every effort to make the festival a greater and richer experience for everybody concerned. I feel that Martin would approve. He was not a man to shut out any appreciative ear.”

“Exactly—” Tod began.

“And so I suggest we put this matter to a vote, Mr. Graham.”

“But the fund—” Stanley Watts protested.

“Immediately,” Nydia added. “It’s frightfully stuffy in this room.”

This was no request; it was a command. A momentary silence, and then Tod Graham, obviously much relieved at this unexpected turn of events, placed a motion before the board to authorize the required expenditure. Lisa declined to vote, protesting too little familiarity with the situation; but she did observe with interest the votes of the other members. Miss Oberon’s barely audible “aye”; Stanley Watts’ reluctant “Oh, all right, if Nydia insists”; Dr. Hazlitt’s hesitation.

“Dr. Hazlitt.”

Miss Pratt, now cast as roll caller, had to repeat the name twice before the doctor’s bowed head rose to attention.

“Your vote, Dr. Hazlitt?”

For a moment Lisa expected him to ask what the vote was about; then he glanced at Nydia like a forgetful actor seeking the prompter’s box.

“Aye,” he whispered, and lowered his eyes again.

“Aye,” the professor said carelessly, as if the entire procedure bored him.

“Aye,” said Nydia Cornish, and it was done.

Joel Warren looked enormously pleased, almost as pleased as Tod Graham. He rolled up the blueprints and shook hands with Tod. The meeting was breaking up. As Nydia Cornish made her stately way from the head of the table back to the door, Joel addressed her, too.

“And thank you, Mrs. Cornish,” he said. “I’ll get the job started immediately.”

The woman paused quite close to Lisa. There was a fragrance about her, something spicy and expensive. And old. Strong with age. She’s only fifty-five, Lisa thought. She seems much older.

“I’m counting on you, Joel,” she said.

Joel. They were friends, then. You’re a snob, Lisa Bancroft.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Joel answered. “I’m going to be out there on the job every day pushing things along. After all, this is a very special festival.”

He smiled again, that very nice smile, and Nydia Cornish nodded. “Quite special,” she agreed.

“I can understand your feelings,” Lisa cut in. “I’ve taken Masterson House, you know. I walked out one night and heard Marta working on her concerto. It’s lovely.”

Perhaps it was rude to enter a conversation uninvited, but not
that
rude! The stare with which Nydia Cornish now fixed Lisa did much to lower the temperature of a stuffy room.

“You heard—?” she echoed.

“Why, yes. I walked down to the old studio ruins. It was quite still, and I could hear the piano distinctly. An inspired theme, Mrs. Cornish. You must be quite proud of your daughter.”

This time Lisa returned the stare. It was Nydia who looked away first.

“You must be mistaken, Miss Bancroft. Marta hasn’t worked at her music for a week. She’s having one of her stubborn spells. Perhaps now—” and here the impossible happened: Nydia smiled, briefly, at Joel Warren—”she may resume work. Speak to her, Joel.”

“I sure will!” Joel said.

“Splendid. Now, I’m sure you can all manage without me. Tod, will you see me to my car?”

They were all so happy now. Tod was at Nydia’s side in an instant, grinning like a schoolboy who’s just scored for dear old alma mater. “Don’t go away, Stanley,” he called over his shoulder. “I want to go over some other figures with you. We want to get this year’s affair off with a bang!”

All so very happy until Professor Dawes, with a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth, pushed back his chair and said,

“By all means, Tod. But not, let us hope, with the same kind of ‘bang’ that concluded last year’s affair.”

There was nothing quite so frustrating as being a stranger in Bellville. Unfinished conversations seemed to be a civic pastime. To everyone else in the room, Professor Dawes’s words had meaning, unpleasant meaning if one judged by the stricken expressions on seven faces; but nobody bothered to explain to the uninitiated, and it certainly wasn’t the moment to ask. As a conversation stopper, the professor was even more adept than Nydia Cornish. Lisa tried to catch his eye. They might at least meet outside where he could make some kind of explanation. But the professor hadn’t lost his sense of timing. He was still smiling faintly as he brushed past Mrs. Cornish and took his leave—but not before Joel Warren, his face flushed with anger, had given his uncle a most eloquent view of his back.

And then the awkward moment broke. Tod said something insignificant, which Lisa failed to catch; Miss Pratt tittered appreciatively, and Nydia Cornish, who of the entire group had not quite lost her poise, followed through with her announced departure. It was a signal for general dismissal, but now the questions piled up in Lisa’s mind. What
had
concluded last year’s festival? Where could she get the answer? The professor had already left the building by the time she reached the stairway. An infuriating man with his half-told tales! Slowly, Lisa began the descent. This was the only action that really troubled her, getting downstairs. It was tedious and unsightly. People who never noticed her limp were made aware of it on staircases. At the bottom of the stairs she paused to catch her breath and collect her wits. It had been a bewildering morning.

And what was that other thing nagging at her mind, a thing momentarily forgotten in the aftereffect of the professor’s parting remark?
“You must be mistaken, Miss Bancroft. Marta hasn’t worked at her music for a week.”
But how could she be mistaken? The haunting theme she’d heard down by the old studio ruins couldn’t have been imagination. Carrie had heard it, too. Mistaken?

“May I drop you somewhere, Miss Bancroft?”

Lisa turned about, annoyance on her face. Dr. Hazlitt had followed her down the stairs. Dr. Hazlitt with his professional mind and diagnostic eyes. He couldn’t have helped but notice her limp on the stairway. There would be questions to answer, and Lisa was in no mood for questions.

“Thank you,” she said, “but my secretary will be here for me shortly.”

He didn’t seem to hear. He stood there staring at her with those sleepy eyes that, now that she noticed, didn’t seem so sleepy after all. He still waited. She might have to repeat—

And then the head that hung so wearily between his shoulders shook thoughtfully.

“Bancroft,” he murmured, half to himself. “You do remind me of someone, but I just can’t place the name. I guess my memory isn’t all it used to be.”

Lisa didn’t answer. If she said nothing, he would just go away. She waited and he went, a tired old man still fingering his watch chain. She watched him pass through the hall and out of the front door. Only then did she follow.

Outside, the collection of cars that had gathered since her arrival was dispersing. The doctor was climbing into an old sedan, Miss Oberon into a small coupe, and she caught a glimpse of an old but expensive limousine pulling off down the drive that could only be transportation for the reigning monarch of the board room. There was no sign of the professor or his nephew, and no sign of Johnny.

But Lisa wasn’t alone. The little girl with the pony tail hadn’t forgotten. Little girls with pony tails never forgot.

“May we talk now, Miss Bancroft?”

There didn’t seem to be any way to avoid talking. The gravel drive was deserted now. Lisa had no choice but to wait.

“I suppose everybody’s been asking you the same questions,” the girl began, “about why you’ve come to live in Bellville and all that?”

“I’ve come for rest and relaxation,” Lisa answered absently.

Why did the professor have to run off so quickly? Why couldn’t the man ever finish what he started to say?

“And research, I suppose.”

Research? Lisa looked at the girl, really looked at her for the first time. She was awfully young, but she looked bright.

“For your book on Martin Cornish,” the girl added.

“Oh,” Lisa said. “You’ve heard about that.”

Agree with thine adversary quickly. Lisa was beginning to get the hang of this thing now. The story came in pieces—a piece from the professor, a piece from Tod’s wife. Why not a piece from the girl with the pony tail?

“As a matter of fact—” she smiled at the girl. She beamed at the girl—”perhaps you can help me.”

“Me?”

“Why not? I’ll bet you’re a native of Bellville. I’ll bet you’ve lived here all of your life.”

“Well, just about.” The girl was smiling back now, briefly. “But I really don’t see how I could help you, Miss Bancroft. I only graduated from high school last year. I just don’t remember things. I’m not old enough.”

“But that’s just what I mean,” Lisa persisted. “Don’t you see, dear? The real story of Martin Cornish is what he left to the world: his music, the heritage of this festival, and now even his own child carrying on with his work. I understand that Marta Cornish is entering a piano concerto in the competition this year. To me that’s very exciting.”

The girl had followed Lisa’s words carefully, but now that wan smile she’d mustered up acquired a cynical twist.

“I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you,” she said. “Nothing will come of it. Nothing ever does.”

Nothing.
“She just never finishes anything.”
There must be twenty years between this girl and Ruth Graham, but for a moment they’d spoken with the same voice. But it was difficult to accept the verdict that nothing would come of Marta Cornish. Lisa couldn’t forget that girl in the tearoom. She was too vital to be written off so abruptly.

“Why do you say that?” she asked. “Don’t you think she has talent?”

The girl with the pony tail shrugged.

“I suppose so. I’m no musician. I only know that every year we hear the same story. Marta Cornish has a big deal simmering that’s going to win the award, only when award time comes she hasn’t even submitted an entry. My father calls her ‘Nydia’s dark horse.’ But then, he says, she never even gets to the wire. But don’t ask me why, Miss Bancroft. I don’t know Marta Cornish. Hardly anybody does. In school we always thought she was a snob.”

Or very lonely, Lisa thought. Or am I already prejudiced? It doesn’t necessarily follow that a gifted father has a gifted child. Bellville may be right. She may be only a spoiled brat.

But conjecture didn’t answer questions. Irritating questions tossed out at random by an irritating man.

“Even so,” she said quickly, before the girl with the pony tail caught on to who was interviewing whom, “the festival must be a thrilling affair. You’re very fortunate to live in Bellville and see it happen every year.”

“I suppose so,” the girl admitted grudgingly.

“I should think you’d have a fount of material to write about.”

“Me?”

“Well, don’t you?”

Now she’d struck a responsive chord. The young face told her that.

“I do try sometimes.”

“Of course you do, and that’s why you can help me. You understand my problem. Now suppose I were planning a novel based on Martin Cornish’s life, but instead of starting with his birth I wanted to start with the festival itself. Some great, dramatic highlight. Something—” She hesitated. She couldn’t afford to be too subtle with this child. “Something to get the book off with a bang!”

The professor couldn’t have done better. She watched the seed of thought take root and grow. With it grew a brightness in the eyes.

“Oh, you mean like last year.”

And then the brightness faded and became a scowl.

“But you wouldn’t get very far with that. Nydia Cornish wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Why not?”

“Are you kidding?” Lisa’s stupidity netted her one long, incredulous stare. “Nydia Cornish just about runs this town, Miss Bancroft. She wouldn’t let anybody tell you anything about her darling daughter. After all, Marta was engaged to be married to Howard Gleason.”

When in doubt, full speed ahead. “She was?” Lisa asked.

“Of course she was. Didn’t you know? That’s why he stayed on in Bellville and took a teaching job at the high school. He was in love with Marta from the very beginning. Naturally, Mrs. Cornish denied it afterwards. She said Marta and Howard Gleason had just been good friends, but the whole town knew better. But you don’t fight Nydia Cornish in this town, Miss Bancroft. Not in this town!”

After the session in the board room, Lisa could almost believe that. But fight her over what? She’d done everything short of asking point-blank what had happened at the festival last year. It sounded drastic. She took a chance.

“It must have been terrible,” she said.

“I’ll say it was. And to think, I had to miss it!” The girl shook her head sadly, and Lisa held her breath. “The one year I’m off to summer school and miss the festival, Howard Gleason gets up just as they’re about to announce the award winner and puts a bullet through his head!”

Once upon a rainy day, Lisa had sought shelter in a little tearoom. Shelter was a good word. It could mean a covering for the head, or a place to put the heart. It could be a fortress, or it could be a purpose. She wasn’t sure why these thoughts came to her as she stood there on the wide porch of an elegant old house that belonged to yesterday and exchanged words with a bright young girl who belonged to tomorrow. The blossoms were dead on the lilac tree. All of the blossoms were dead. She could see that now.

And now the words were dead, too. Foolish questions, foolish answers, until the foolish child was finished with her foolish interview and was racing off down the gravel drive with a notebook full of copy. Lisa was relieved. Johnny might return for her at any moment, and there was something she must do first. Something she must verify.

It was noonday now. The interior of the white tile hall was refreshingly cool, and empty. Miss Pratt was nowhere in sight. She must have gone to lunch. Lisa moved slowly past the stairway on her way back to the museum, but then she stopped to listen. Voices came to her from the stairwell, loud, angry voices that couldn’t be ignored.

“Tod, what are you trying to do with Nydia? What have you already done?”

Demanding voices. The first she didn’t recognize immediately, but there was no disguising Tod’s.

“What am I trying to do? I’ll tell you what I’m trying to do! I’m trying to do a damned thankless job for a damned thankless town! And I’m trying to get along with a tyrannical woman as well!”

“Tyrannical! You’ve got her eating out of your hand. You’ve flattered her until—”

“And you haven’t, I suppose?”

Now the silence answered. The guilty silence. And then, “But Nydia’s my friend, Tod. I’ve known her all my life. I knew her father—”

“—and her grandfather, who founded your father’s bank. Oh, I know all the historical facts of this town, Stanley. I know a few of the skeletons in the closet, too. I may be just a newcomer in your eyes. I may be just an interloper—”

“I never said that, Tod!”

“But you’ve thought it, haven’t you? Don’t think I don’t know that you’ve been gunning for me ever since I took over management of the Cornish estate! It’s a wonder you haven’t told Nydia that I wanted old Hubbard to die. It’s a wonder you haven’t suggested that I made off with his damned medicine.”

It was such an interesting conversation, and so careless of Lisa to become so engrossed in it that she failed to notice where she was putting her walking stick. At the worst possible instant—in the little silence after Tod’s outburst—the cat screamed. Cats had a way of doing that, when sticks were pressed on their tails, but not for no reason at all. Lisa restrained her own cry of surprise and leaned back into the shadows under the stair. Already footsteps had sounded in the upper hall.

“Miss Pratt?”

Tod called, but no one answered. No one but the offended cat nursing her wounds at the bottom of the stairs.

“That damned cat! Let’s get done with this business, Stanley. I want those checks signed so I can get out of here.”

Tod’s voice faded and then was gone. He must have closed the board room door after him. It was just as well. Lisa had heard more than she could assimilate anyway. But she didn’t turn back. This was a public museum, after all. Even if Tod found her she would have good reason to be here.

Good reason. How many suitors had Marta Cornish lost? Two? One down and one to go. Puzzled and shaken, Lisa returned to the mantel in the museum room. Martin Cornish looked down on her with brooding eyes; Nydia watched with a marble face. But in between the portraits was a bronze plaque inscribed with names. Lisa counted … seven, eight. This year would be the ninth, then. The ninth festival and the ninth winner of the Cornish Award. But the unknown name of the ninth winner wasn’t what she’d come to ponder. It was the seventh: the year before last year’s drama.

She was right. A half-remembered inscription had meaning now. The winner of the seventh annual Cornish Award was Howard Gleason.