Majoring In Murder (10 page)

“What are you suggesting, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just wondering what exactly hit him.”

“Why is that important?”

“Don’t you think it’s important to know what killed him?”

“I think your imagination is getting the better of you, Mrs. Fletcher. Wes Newmark’s head was cracked open like an egg, and half a house was sitting on top of him. There were plenty of objects that could have killed him. The bottom line is that if he’d taken shelter, he’d be alive today.”

“I agree,” I said.

“You do?”

“Yes. Why do you think he didn’t take shelter?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he was a stubborn son of a gun. Maybe he thought he was infallible. Maybe he was one of those people who likes to tempt fate. Maybe he did it on a dare. Maybe there’s no logical explanation. Why do
you
think he didn’t take shelter?”

“I think he may already have been dead.”

Lorraine Newmark looked lost. She wore a faded blue parka, brown corduroy pants, a matching turtleneck, and an expression of bewilderment.

“Is this where he lived?”

“Yes,” I said. “The college provides housing for its department heads. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“This is nicer than anyplace we ever lived, anyplace I ever lived, anyway.”

She stood in the center of the spacious, old-fashioned parlor. Leaded-glass windows looked out over a garden pond and, beyond that, the green expanse of the athletic fields where the lacrosse team was practicing. Inside, a brocade sofa, small, square pillows perched on either end, faced the elegant fireplace with its beautifully carved mantel and surround. One side table held a neat stack of hardcover books, the titles on their dustcovers all facing the same direction. Matching Chippendale side chairs flanked the sofa, facing each other across a low mahogany table. Nineteenth-century oil paintings hung on the walls.

“Would you like to sit down?” I said. “Harriet Schoolman Bennett will be here any minute. She sent her apologies for being late. Let me take your coat.”

She pulled a paper from her pocket and shrugged off the ski jacket, which I carried into the front hall and hung in the closet. Her worn backpack leaned against the wall. When I returned, she was still standing where I’d left her.

“Please sit down,” I said, deliberately taking the sofa to be the first to dent its perfectly smooth cushion, which Letitia Tingwell had plumped up not an hour before. She’d been cleaning the house when I arrived and had greeted me with the news of Harriet’s delay. I was disappointed. I had wanted an opportunity to poke around before Harriet got there, but Mrs. Tingwell’s presence prohibited any snooping. She’d left only moments before Wes Newmark’s sister had knocked on the door. I thought they might have passed each other on the front walk, but if they did, they hadn’t stopped to exchange greetings. I’d introduced myself, expressed my condolences, and ushered her into the only room I was familiar with, having been the guest of honor there at an afternoon tea at the start of the semester.

“Was it a difficult trip for you?” I asked. “I know you’ve come all the way from Alaska.”

She sat gingerly on one of the side chairs and looked down at her dirty sneakers. “Not really. Mrs. Bennett arranged for the flights and the car from Chicago.”

“Have you lived in Alaska a long time?”

“About twenty-two years.”

“When was the last time you saw your brother?”

“I don’t know. Probably just before I moved up to Juneau. We weren’t close, you know. We kept in touch—Christmas cards and all—but we really didn’t have a lot in common. I never got to go to college. My father said it wasn’t important for a woman.” She looked embarrassed. “Not that it isn’t nice for a woman. I would have loved to go, but there wasn’t enough money for both of us. Besides, Wes was the brain in the family....” She trailed off.

“What do you do in Alaska? I’ve always thought it must be a beautiful place to live. The scenery is spectacular.”

“It’s nice if you don’t mind the cold. I don’t. I work in one of the logging offices, keeping books for the manager. It’s not exciting, but it’s steady work, and they give you benefits. Not too many places up there do.”

“Have you thought at all about funeral plans for your brother?”

“Not really. I figured I’d see about it once I got here.” She hesitated and squirmed in her seat. “I don’t have a lot put by for a big funeral. Maybe Wes has some savings I can dip into. I’m his only relative, so I guess I’m his only heir.”

“Did he give you a copy of his will?”

She looked shocked. “No! I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“I’ll be happy to help you with the arrangements, and I’m sure Harriet will make sure everything goes smoothly until his will is probated. Are you staying in this house while you’re here?”

“Mrs. Bennett said I could, but I didn’t know it was so fancy.”

“It’s just a house,” I said.

“Hello. I’m so sorry I’m late,” Harriet called out from the hall. I heard the door close and she rushed into the room.

Lorraine stood and wiped her palms on the sides of her pants, her right hand pausing at her pocket.

“Hi. You must be Lorraine. We’ve spoken on the phone. I’m Harriet. Please sit down. I see Jessica has made you comfortable. I apologize I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived. It’s a madhouse over in administration.”

“That’s okay,” Lorraine said, sitting on the edge of the chair.

“Would you both like some tea or coffee?” Harriet asked. “I know I would. There must be some in the kitchen.” She left the room as quickly as she’d entered.

“Miss Newmark, would you like some coffee?” I asked.

“Please, it’s Lorraine.” She smiled. “Nobody calls me Miss Newmark. I wouldn’t know to answer to it.”

“Lorraine then. You must call me Jessica. Why don’t we go into the kitchen and help Harriet find the cups? It’ll give you a chance to see where everything is.”

We followed the sound of Harriet opening and shutting cabinet doors, and Lorraine seemed to relax at the sight of the homey room. The kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been remodeled over the past forty years. Yellow cabinets with green Formica countertops gave it a cheery, if old-fashioned, appearance. The room was immaculate, and I thought either Wes Newmark was a very neat man, or he never cooked for himself. My suspicion was confirmed when I opened the refrigerator to look for milk and saw several take-out cartons on the shelves. I pulled out the bottle of milk, and noted the sell-by date. Letitia Tingwell must have purchased it recently.

“There’s regular tea and herbal,” Harriet said, pointing to the boxes, “but I can’t find any coffee.” She opened the freezer and poked around. I saw her glance at a piece of paper.

“Did Wes leave his shopping list in the freezer?” I asked with a chuckle as I took a kettle from the stove and filled it at the sink.

“What? Oh, you’re being silly. A label must have come off a package.” Harriet stuffed it in her pocket and closed the freezer door.

“Don’t worry about the coffee,” I said. “Regular tea is fine with me.”

“Me, too,” said Lorraine. “Well, that’s a blessing,” Harriet said. “This herbal tea box has only one tea bag in it.”

“Where are the cups, Harriet?” I asked.

“Try the last cabinet on the left.”

Lorraine went to the cabinet and took down cups and saucers, comfortable with the familiar task. I opened three drawers before I found the one with the silverware, tossed in next to three decks of cards. After a futile search for napkins, Harriet pulled off three paper towels, and the little table at the window was set for tea.

“I knew Wes wasn’t much of an entertainer, so I brought some cake,” Harriet said. “Lorraine, if you wouldn’t mind, it’s in the tote bag I left in the hall.”

Lorraine trotted back to the hall to retrieve Harriet’s bag. As soon as she was out of the room, Harriet whispered to me, “Have you discussed the funeral arrangements?”

I shook my head. “She hasn’t made any yet, and may not have the funds to cover it. And she doesn’t have a copy of his will. Do you know where it is?”

“No, but Letitia might. We’ll ask her.”

Lorraine returned with the tote bag. Harriet pulled out a marble pound cake and cut it into slices, overlapping them in a circle on a round plate. When the kettle had boiled and the tea had been made, we took our seats at the table, the companionable atmosphere encouraging conversation. Lorraine and I talked about favorite cake recipes—I make a mean pecan coffee roll; Lorraine said her banana cream pie was popular up north; and Harriet, who didn’t bake, praised her favorite ready-made brand, Pepperidge Farm apple turnovers. The conversation eventually got around to Wes, who never cooked at all, according to his sister. “Cooking was women’s work,” she said. “My father’s influence again. I’ll bet that freezer’s full of frozen dinners.”

“It is,” Harriet said. “He was obviously a big fan of macaroni and cheese.”

“I imagine there must have been times over the years when he was sorry he’d never learned to make himself supper,” I said. “Knowing how to cook is part of what makes you an independent person, not to mention a healthier one.”

“Except that here, he always had the college meal plan available,” Harriet put in. “He was a regular in the cafeteria.”

“When we were young, I used to tease him that he’d better marry a good cook or he’d starve to death,” Lorraine said. The smile left her face. “But he didn’t do either, did he?” She put down the cake she’d been nibbling. I put my hand on top of hers and gave her a little squeeze.

Harriet jumped in to keep the conversation going. “The college is planning a memorial service for Wes,” she said. “If it would make it easier for you, we could combine the memorial service with the funeral. That would relieve you of the burden of making arrangements, unless, of course, you’d prefer to do it yourself. Or perhaps you were planning to take his body back to Alaska.”

“Oh, no! He wouldn’t know anyone there,” Lorraine said. “I mean, no one would know him. No one would come to his funeral up there. No. It has to be here.”

“If you want to have the funeral and the memorial service together,” I said, “the college has a chaplain who can lead the prayers.” I avoided looking at Harriet when I mentioned Pastor Getler.

“And I’m sure I can arrange to have Schoolman advance you any costs of the funeral until Wes’s estate is settled,” Harriet added. “Do you have a lawyer?”

Lorraine shook her head and stared at her plate, her right hand hovering over her lap.

“Our legal counsel can help you make those arrangements,” Harriet said. “I don’t know what he charges, but I’m sure he won’t take advantage of you.”

“You’re both being so nice to me,” Lorraine said.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Harriet asked.

“Because I have something to tell you, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Harriet sat back sharply and glanced at me, her eyebrows raised.

Lorraine stood and extracted a wrinkled letter from her pants pocket. She sat and unfolded it on the table, smoothing it out with both hands.

“Wes sent this to me a month ago,” she said. “As I mentioned, we didn’t correspond much, only at the holidays. So I was pretty surprised to receive it.”

“What does it say?” Harriet asked.

“Would you like to read it?” Lorraine replied, handing it to Harriet.

Harriet frowned over the paper for a few minutes before tossing it back on the table. “It’s totally ludicrous,” she said. “He was a big mystery fan, you know. This is just his imagination working overtime. You should tear this up. It’ll just end up being embarrassing for you.”

“May I?” I asked.

Lorraine passed it to me.

Harriet tapped her foot impatiently while I read Wes’s letter.

“Well, that certainly is distressing, isn’t it?” I said, folding the letter and returning it to Lorraine. “You’re going to look into this, I assume.”

“What are you talking about, Jessica?” Harriet said, her voice rising in anger.

“I have to confess that I had some questions myself about Wes’s death,” I said to her, “but the autopsy hasn’t been done yet. I thought I’d wait to see the report.”

“Questions? What questions? You never mentioned anything to me. Why all of a sudden do you have questions?”

“I know I didn’t say anything, Harriet,” I said, “and I regret it. But you were so overwhelmed with responsibilities that I didn’t want to add to your worries.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harriet said. “I can’t believe you’re taking that letter seriously. It’s nothing but paranoia talking. I knew Wes was acting strange lately, but I didn’t realize he’d gone off the deep end. How can you give this any credence? He’s a college professor, for heaven’s sake, not a titan of industry. Power over people’s professional lives, my foot. The department head doesn’t hold a lot of power. It’s an administrative position. That’s all. This is a tempest in a teapot.”