Majoring In Murder (20 page)

Marvella Washington was a big-boned woman in a white uniform, a starched cap bobby-pinned to her black curls, who wasted not a moment on small talk and got directly down to business.

“You’re going to need help getting him up those stairs,” she said, pointing to the two steps leading up to the front door, and making a note on her clipboard.

“Yes, I see that.”

“He’ll probably be released with crutches, but it would be better if he has a wheelchair to get around.”

“Are there places nearby to rent one?” I asked.

“There’s one in New Salem. The hospital will direct you.”

She pulled out a tape measure and measured the width of the hall, the door to the kitchen, and the front and back doors, while I trailed after her.

“Might have to move some of the furniture around temporarily,” she said, pushing a kitchen chair aside. In the dining room, she paused. “No chairs. That’s good.”

“Actually, I won’t be the one taking care of him,” I said. “I think Harriet Bennett was the one who called you.”

“Doesn’t matter to me. I just do the assessment. The social work department is responsible for the rest.” She eyed the stairs to the second floor. “He won’t be going up there for a while. You’ll need a bed on this floor. Don’t let him use the couch. Bad for his back. Order up one of those hospital beds. It’s a little difficult to get into, but he’ll sleep much better.”

“Will you leave a copy of your suggestions?”

“I’ll send you a full report. You just have to tell me where.”

I gave her Harriet’s name and address and she gave me her business card.

“I need to finish my measurements, and if you don’t mind, I’ll move some furniture so it’ll be out of his way.”

“I don’t mind at all. Will you need my help?”

“No. You’ll only get in my way. Why don’t you go upstairs and bring down some clothing for him. We can lay it out on the dining room table so he can get to it easily.”

“I’ll be happy to do that,” I said. She had given me the perfect excuse to look around upstairs. It was what I’d been intending to do when she left, but now I could snoop without guilt.

“Use the laundry basket or you’ll be making a million trips. Don’t pick anything fancy. We may have to cut one leg off his pants to get the cast through.”

I collected the laundry basket from the dining room and started up the stairs.

“And don’t forget to bring down his shaver and toothbrush,” she called after me.

The large master bedroom was simple and neat. A white chenille bedspread was bunched at the end of the bed; a gold blanket had been straightened but not folded back. The pillows had been flattened, Phil’s attempt at a made bed. In one comer of the room was a pile of pillows on the floor, which had probably been in that spot since Kate walked out.

The heavy oak dresser with the oval mirror had eight drawers, four on each side. I opened the top one on the right. It contained a profusion of colorful bras and panties, matching sets on one side, unmatched pieces on the other, together with tights and folded panty hose, and balled socks in white and colors. Had Kate left without packing? Had Phil refused to send her clothing? Why, a year later, did he still keep her lingerie in the dresser drawer?

The three remaining drawers on the right were empty, but all the ones on the left were bulging with Phil’s clothes, underwear, sweaters, shirts, and T-shirts stuffed in. Why wouldn’t he use the empty drawers?

I looked in the closets. One was empty except for some belts that had fallen to the floor. A wire hanger dangled from the bar. The other was tightly packed with his suits, jackets, slacks, robe, heavy sweaters, and jeans. Belts and ties hung from the door.

My mind churning, I laid out a selection of clothes on the bed and went to the bathroom in the hall to gather up toilet articles. It was no surprise to see two toothbrushes in the holder, but it was startling to open the medicine cabinet and face two bare shelves. Perhaps his obsession with her convinced him she would return at any moment, and he wanted to be sure she would know that he had expected her to come back, even leaving her drawers empty so she could replace her belongings where they had originally been.

I carried the laundry basket out of the room and left it on the landing. The second floor contained two small bedrooms in addition to the master bedroom. One was set up as a home office, with a tall file cabinet and an ugly metal desk that looked as if it had been salvaged from a garbage heap. Someone had painted it orange, but dents and scratches showed its original color had been gray. I tiptoed into the office and slid open the top drawer. Under a slew of papers, I found a small address book written in a female hand. I tucked it in my pocket with the tapes, and returned to the hall.

The second bedroom was used for storage. Old furniture—chairs, a bureau, nightstands—was lined up against the walls in no particular arrangement. On the far wall I could see a half door that led to what I assumed was crawl space. I pressed the door back, peeked inside, then ducked into the low room, which was littered with piles of open boxes overflowing with papers, books, handbags, shoes, crockery, linens, and photographs.
It looks as if they’d never finished unpacking,
I told myself. In addition, a rolled-up rug, a lady’s dressing table with a cracked mirror, several pieces of luggage, and old stereo equipment had been shoved in willy-nilly. A pair of high heels lay against the dressing table, as if they’d been flung in there and left where they landed.

“What’s taking you so long? The man is only going to wear a sweat suit for the next couple of weeks.”

“I’m coming now,” I called back. I closed the door to the storage room and carried the laundry basket downstairs. Together we laid Phil’s clothing along the perimeter of the dining room table within easy reach of a man in a wheelchair. After the nurse left, I locked up and biked back to my apartment. The first order of business was to duplicate the tape and return the original to the answering machine. The second would be to scan the address book and, if my luck held, to find a phone number for Kate’s sister. Perhaps she could help answer some questions that were starting to bother me. Why had Kate left so much behind? Why take her outerwear and leave her underwear? Why empty her closet but abandon her shoes and handbags? Had she wanted to start afresh, with no reminders of her life with Phil? Had she planned to send for her belongings, but found her new living quarters too small to accommodate them? And had Phil returned Linda’s call to let her know that the marriage had broken up, and that her sister was no longer living at Schoolman?

I hate unanswered questions. And the more I looked into Wes Newmark’s death, the more they were piling up.

“What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”

“Shhh. Someone will hear.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Not yet! But I will be if you don’t let me in.”

“This can’t wait till tomorrow?”

“No, ma’am. I gotta see you tonight. It’s important.”

“Well, then you’d best come in.” I stepped back from the open door to my apartment.

Eli loped in, his book bag slung across his shoulders, a florist’s box under his arm, and a sheepish grin on his face.

Fortunately, I hadn’t dressed for bed yet. I didn’t fancy the idea of entertaining a student in the faculty quarters at ten o’clock at night in my pajamas.

“You’ve got a nice place here,” Eli said, turning in a circle and nodding his approval of the furnishings. “Way cool.”

“You didn’t come to admire my apartment, Eli. Why are you here?”

“I brought you this,” Eli said, sobering at my tone. He handed me the long white box, and wiped his palms on the sides of his jeans.

I carried the box to the oak table in the comer that doubled as my desk when I wasn’t taking meals at it, and closed the lid on my laptop computer. I’d been reviewing the photographs I’d taken inside Kammerer House, and I didn’t want Eli to see them. “This box is a little heavy for roses,” I said.

“Yeah. I think you’re going to like it, though.”

He hung back while I lifted the lid and parted the green tissue paper inside. There, covered in clear plastic and nestled in bubble wrap, was the fireplace poker from Kammerer House.

“I didn’t get any fingerprints on it,” he said. “Just like the TV shows, I used rubber gloves. I only touched it long enough to put it in the box.”

I frowned at him. “You eavesdropped on my telephone call, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t help it. You were talking loud, and I was right outside the door.”

“I was not talking loudly, and why didn’t you come into the classroom?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“Who else was there with you?”

“No one, I swear. As soon as everyone else started coming in for class, I made a lot of noise in the hall so you’d hear me and know.”

“This is terrible,” I said. “You never should have done it.”

“I thought you’d be thrilled. This is an important piece of evidence, isn’t it? Now we can prove that Professor Newmark was murdered.”

“Don’t ‘we’ me, young man. This doesn’t concern you. And furthermore, how could you think I’d be thrilled when you had to cross a police line to get this?”

“I didn’t.”

“A patrol car has been sitting there all day. You could have been arrested. I would not have been thrilled with that.”

“But I wasn’t—arrested.”

“You broke the law, and I feel responsible.”

“I didn’t.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t?”

“I didn’t cross any lines. That’s the best part.”

“How could you get into Kammerer House without going past the yellow tape?”

“There’s another way in.”

“How?”

“From the basement.”

“The basement?”

“It’s connected to the library.”

“A tunnel!”

“Yeah. From the library basement.”

Of course, I thought. Professor Constantine had said there were tunnels connecting the bomb shelters, and that he had a map of them. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Where were the other tunnels? What buildings did they connect?

“Want me to show you the tunnel?”

“Not tonight.” I drew the paper back over the poker and replaced the lid on the box. Eli had packed it very well, and the box might only need wrapping in heavy paper to get it ready for shipping. “I’ll call Zelinsky tomorrow,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Anything I can help with?”

“No.”

“There’s a mailbox place in New Salem. I can borrow Tyler’s brother’s car. I’ll be very discreet. I won’t tell them what we need it for.”

“No. I’m not letting you get more involved in this.”

“Look. You wouldn’t have the poker if I didn’t get it. Tomorrow I’ll show you where the tunnel is. See how helpful I can be? I’ll be the perfect assistant. I’ll do whatever you tell me. I won’t question anything you ask me to do. I won’t say a word to anyone. Please don’t shake your head no. There’s got to be some way I can help.”

“There isn’t,” I said. “Wait a minute. Yes, there is something you can do.”

Eli’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Anything. You won’t regret it. I’m a great investigator. I’ll be Dr. Watson to your Sherlock Holmes.”

“Do you have your tape recorder with you, Dr. Watson?” I asked. “The one you use in class?”

“Sure, but what do you need that for?”

“I need to copy a tape. Or rather, I need you to copy a tape for me. Can you do it?”

“Well, sure, but copying a tape is nothing. What do you need it for?”

“You said you’d never question what I ask you to do. Are you reneging already?”

“No! I’ll copy a million tapes for you. I won’t ask why. Only trouble is I don’t have a second recorder with me.”

“You can use mine if you have the wire that connects them.”

“Yeah, a patch cord. I have that.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. The recorder came with it. Earphones and a remote control, too.

I picked up the florist’s box with the poker and put it on the floor in a comer, where I wouldn’t trip on it, and went to find my recorder and the tapes I’d taken from Phil Adler’s house. Eli shrugged off his backpack and emptied half its contents onto the table before pulling out his minicassette recorder and a patch cord.

“One is blank,” I said, slipping a tape into my recorder. “Let’s make sure you copy the right one.” I pressed the rewind button, and then play after the tape was back to the beginning. I kept the volume low and held the recorder to my ear so Eli wouldn’t hear Wes Newmark’s voice. “This is it,” I said, rewinding the tape.

He put the blank tape in his recorder and used the patch cord to connect the two. Moments later I had my copy.

“Okay, what else?” he asked.

“Nothing else. You’re leaving now.”

“I am?”

“You are. You’ve been very helpful and you’ve given me a lot to think about. Now I want you safely back in the dorm. Call me when you get there. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. So I guess now that you have the poker and I helped you with the tapes and all, you’re not mad at me anymore, right?”

“Wrong! I appreciate that you were trying to help, Eli, but I’m still upset with you. More than that, I’m worried about you. What you did tonight is not the way to investigate a crime.”

“A good investigator has to be courageous if he’s going to be successful. You said that in class.”

“I also said a good investigator always weighs whether the risk is worth the reward. You didn’t do that. Instead you took on a tremendous responsibility and didn’t even think about the risks.”

“What risks? I walked through a tunnel, climbed some stairs, snatched the poker, and ran out again.”

“If the unstable mound of debris in Kammerer House had shifted or collapsed, you could have been hurt, or worse. Did you think of that?”