Divas and Dead Rebels (13 page)

“Yes, yes, of course. I’m so sorry. It’s just that everything has been so . . . so hazy since we found out about . . . Spencer.”

Tears welled into her eyes. She managed a faint smile as she looked at Bitty, then at Hartford. I felt very bad for her. Maybe I hadn’t liked her that much when I first met her, but no woman should ever have to suffer the loss of her husband to a violent death. It made me feel even worse that I knew something about how he died, and that I’d known it even when she didn’t. I had to fight the sudden urge to tell her everything.

Maybe Bitty sensed what I was feeling, or maybe she felt it herself, because she locked on to my arm with a Vulcan death grip and said, “Emily, if ever there’s anything I or Trinket can do for you, please feel free to call.”

I would have added my assurances, but since Bitty had her claws sunk into the flesh of my forearm so deeply that any sound I made would be a shriek, I clamped my jaws tightly together and just nodded. Chen Ling, safely tucked under Bitty’s other arm and far enough away from me that there was no danger of her biting, added her own doggy utterance as I peeled Bitty’s hand off my arm. I swear I saw part of my sweater and maybe a little bit of my skin stick to her fingernails.

Breck Hartford apparently had his chivalric impulses stirred, for he went at once to Emily’s side and slid an arm around her shoulders. “My dear, you know Victoria and I will be here for you as well. She’s so sorry she couldn’t come with me today.”

Emily Sturgis leaned into him a little and brought up a delicate lace handkerchief to dab at her tears. It was artfully done. “You and Vic have been my rock since this awful thing happened,” she murmured, and turned her face against his chest.

Hartford, tall and lean, wore a gray tweed jacket, button-down shirt with a sweater vest, and dark slacks. He was good-looking in that way men are when they have flecks of silver at their temples. On women, those same flecks would be considered a sign of age. On men, they’re considered distinguished. Go figure.

Anyway, he patted her rather awkwardly on the back, seeming embarrassed and at the same time, a bit flattered. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I refrained. Conversation in the room was subdued, and just to keep my eyes busy and unrolled, I glanced around to see if I knew anyone there. Candy Lynn Stovall stood across the room, and I managed to detach myself from our small group and head her way.

“Trinket,” she said warmly, and we leaned toward each other to do one of those half-hugs and air-kisses. “I’m so glad to see you again. Of course, the circumstances aren’t very nice.”

“No, it’s a shame about the professor. Have any suspects been arrested?”

One of the women standing next to Candy said, “As far as I know, the police don’t have any idea where to look. I mean, they thought he was abducted at first, and then when that moving company found his body—well, it’s just anybody’s guess who might have killed him.”

“So he was found by a moving company?” I asked as innocently as possible. “How odd.”

“Apparently he was killed here . . . right in this very room,” said Candy in almost a whisper. Of course, we all looked at each other and shivered. I tried not to look around for signs of blood or violence. That would be so tacky.

Candy, however, glanced toward the stone fireplace and took a step away from it. “Then the murderer stuck him in a moving van for God only knows what reason. It’s crazy. Police are interviewing everyone on campus, especially students in the boys’ dormitories. Do you suppose they think a student killed him?”

“Whose moving van was it?” said the other woman who’d spoken earlier. I tried to think of her name since I had met her at Proud Larry’s, but it eluded me. Really, I should never have let Bitty buy me a drink unless I watched what went in it. The woman lowered her voice. “I heard it was rented by one of the students Spencer flunked out of his history class. And I heard he’s probably the one who killed him, too. You know. Revenge.”

“For a failing grade?” I couldn’t help saying.

“Oh, but grades are everything, Trinket,” said Candy Lynn. “Things have changed a lot since you were here. Now grades determine a lot more than just what college will take you after high school. They can affect the job you get after graduating from college.”

“Okay, grades are important. But important enough to kill for? That doesn’t make a bit of sense to me.”

“Or to me either. But
we’re
not killers. Someone on this campus
is
a killer.”

Candy Lynn’s response was louder than she realized. It had the effect of halting all conversations around us. The sudden silence felt heavy and awkward.

Trust Bitty to find a way to make it worse.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said, sounding faintly annoyed, “of course there’s a killer on the campus. How else would Professor Sturgis have been murdered in his own home? He wouldn’t let just any random stranger inside.”

Deep silence got deeper. People exchanged embarrassed glances, and no one dared look at Emily Sturgis. Except, of course, Bitty.

“Well?” she said. “
Would
he let in a total stranger?”

This last was directed at Emily, and she sucked in a sharp breath and shook her head. “No. No, Spencer wouldn’t do that. Especially when he was working. He always wanted complete quiet and total privacy when he worked on his thesis or graded papers.”

“But it’s so safe on campus,” protested Candy Lynn.

“Technically,” said Gaynelle Bishop, “this home isn’t on the campus. It borders it. Would there have been any security available, Emily?”

“Well, we have our own security system, and all the doors and windows are hooked up to it, but it has to be activated to send a signal to the monitoring company. If Spencer . . . if he was able to get to the keypad, he could have set off the alarm.”

“So you don’t usually keep it on?” Gaynelle asked.

“Not until we go to bed at night. Oxford is such a safe, quiet place to live. There’s been no need for it. This isn’t New York.”

Gaynelle nodded understanding. “Yes, you’re right about feeling safer in a small town. The reality, however, may be otherwise.”

“Apparently so,” Candy Lynn said wryly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Emily. That may have sounded insensitive. Have the police given you any indication of who is responsible?”

Emily shook her head. “No. They just say that it’s under investigation.”

“Police are usually as close-mouthed as clams,” said Bitty, and she nodded her head wisely. “We’ve had to deal with them a great deal lately.”

Emily looked at Bitty. “You have? Why?”

It was a simple question, but I was sure Bitty would give a complicated answer, so I said quickly, “Her former husband was murdered several months ago.”

“Oh yes. I think we heard about that. He was a senator, wasn’t he?” Emily asked.

Affecting a sorrowful expression, Bitty nodded and sighed. “Yes. It was terrible. One never expects their husband to be murdered, you know.”

It was Candy Lynn who said, “Oh my no. I mean, it’s expected that you’ll just be together forever. Or at least until your lawyer gets you a nice alimony settlement.”

Candy Lynn and Bitty exchanged a smile of understanding. I made a mental note to ask Bitty later about Candy Lynn’s matrimonial status.

Gaynelle immediately diverted my attention by saying to Emily, “Do you know anyone who might have been angry with Spencer? Angry enough to do him harm?”

Emily hesitated, then said gently, “Spencer did not always worry about how he said things to people. He could be quite abrasive at times. In the past he’s been the brunt of several students’ anger at receiving failing grades.”

“Not to mention his on-going association with a faculty member’s wife,” said a brunette woman whose name I couldn’t recall. Everyone turned to look at her, and she lifted a martini glass in acknowledgement. “Well? You all are dancing around it, but you know someone’s bound to talk about them sooner or later. Love turned to hate? Could that be a reason for his murder?”

Still standing close to Emily Sturgis, Breck Hartford cleared his throat. “Victoria may not be present to defend herself, so I’ll say for her that’s a preposterous suggestion. It has no merit at all, and you must know that, Catherine.”

“So why isn’t she here tonight? Wait. I know the answer. She’s off on another one of her triathlon jaunts. Or so she said. That leaves you and your son alone, right?”

“If you’re insinuating that—”

“Please. Spare me, of all people, the melodramatic denials. Maybe your family’s extracurricular activities need closer inspection.”

“You make it sound as if you suspect Victoria of murdering Spencer.”

Catherine merely smiled. “Did I? Maybe I didn’t mean your
wife
, Breck dearest. But don’t underestimate the police. They’ll get around to you soon enough.”

Breck glared at her. “Are you suggesting that I had anything to do with Spencer’s death?”

“Now, why would I do that?”

Breck sucked in a harsh breath, took a step forward, then seemed to recall that he was surrounded by other people. “I cannot imagine why you do any of the things you do, Catherine,” he responded evenly. “This is hardly the time or place for your venom. Do try to contain it for once.”

“Breck darling,” she purred, “I find it most amusing that you dare to talk to
me
about restraint.”

A deep silence fell. I stared at Catherine in fascination. She behaved so coolly and indifferently to Breck’s anger. No one else moved or spoke in defense of either Catherine or Hartford.
My, my,
I said to myself,
there are definite undercurrents here
.

It was Chen Ling who broke the tension that gripped everyone. She barked into the silence, startling several people who either hadn’t noticed or had ignored the velvet-clad gnome clutched tightly in Bitty’s arms.

Somehow the pug managed to wiggle free of Bitty’s tight grasp and leap to the floor, providing a definite distraction when she went straight for a plate of
hors d’oeuvres
set upon a low table near the fireplace. The sight and smell of cocktail weenies speared with toothpicks had apparently overtaken her. Bitty barely managed to catch her before she could gobble down half the plate, toothpicks and all. The brief skirmish that followed did the job of easing the tension and turning the tide of conversation to laughter mixed with horror.

While people tidied up the overturned platter and its aftermath, I decided to follow Gaynelle. She’d moved toward the hallway and disappeared from sight. Nosy creature that I am, I wanted to see what she was doing. I caught up with her a few doors down a wide corridor that had several rooms opening off it, with a staircase tucked above an ell.

“What are you doing?” I asked her as softly as I could, and she turned to look at me.

“Snooping. What else?”

I put a hand over my mouth to stifle my laughter. Sometimes when I get tickled I snort. It’s always a dead giveaway.

Gaynelle put up a hand to point. “Look.”

I turned to look at what had caught her attention. For a moment nothing struck me as particularly noticeable. “What?” I asked.

Rather impatiently, Gaynelle took a few steps toward a partially open closet door. “Don’t you see?” She rustled the plastic laundry bags protecting what looked like shirts hanging from a small hook on the door. “Freshly washed, starched and ironed.”

“So?”

“Look at the hangers, Trinket.”

Still not quite comprehending where she was going with her observations, I looked at the wire coat hangers that held the clean shirts. Then it came to me.

“Oh! Do you think the professor was stra—” I stopped and looked behind me. No point in letting any eavesdroppers hear that I knew details that would only be known to the killer and to police.

“Yes,” said Gaynelle softly. “Not only that, but probably with one from one of his own shirts.”

Possibilities skipped quickly through my brain. I leaned close to say, “Maybe the professor was killed by someone posing as a laundry man.”

“Spencer would have allowed him into the house,” Gaynelle agreed. “Most of the time he probably didn’t even look at who delivered his cleaned clothes. It would be an excellent method of gaining entry.”

“But maybe these were just delivered,” I said, and Gaynelle rustled through the thin plastic coverings until she found a ticket.

“Ah. Just as I thought. This tag is dated the same day he was killed.”

For a moment I stood there in the gloomy shadows of the hallway with its dark wood wainscoting and trim and considered several options. There were a few things that came to mind, but it seemed to me that the most important evidence pointed to some kind of planned murder instead of just an overwrought student losing control enough to kill the professor. I looked back at Gaynelle.

“So who wants to ask his widow if they had laundry delivered, and if so, did it arrive before or after the professor went missing?”

“I will,” Gaynelle said firmly. “Just leave it to me.”