Majoring In Murder (29 page)

“Yeah? I kind of think I’d rather write about solving mysteries instead.”

“You have time to make up your mind. You need to finish college first.”

“Edgar says he’s applying to Princeton’s graduate program.”

“Good for him.”

“He’s a really sharp guy. I bet he gets in.”

“I hope he does.”

“Are you teaching here next semester?”

“No. Dean Bennett asked me to come back, but I miss my friends in Cabot Cove, and I have another book under contract.”

“Would you mind if I wrote to you every so often?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Cool.”

We parted after lunch, and I took a long, leisurely walk around the perimeter of the campus. The murder of Wes Newmark had been solved, as had the disappearance of Kate Adler. There was a certain satisfaction to that. At the same time, the idyllic atmosphere of Schoolman College that I’d taken to immediately upon arrival had been replaced by something decidedly less sanguine. Of course, a tornado had the ability to change happiness to terror in the blink of an eye.

But there was an insular quality to life on this campus—probably in most college settings—that seemed to foster excessive introspection, men and women focusing so intently on their own academic passions and need for recognition that larger issues could be lost in the process.

The scandal created by two murders had certainly placed Harriet and the school in the public eye. Whether that would hurt the college’s future was conjecture. Chances were it would enhance interest in Schoolman and perhaps even boost enrollment. As the old public relations adage goes, “Say what you want about me, but spell my name right.” Such is the state of our society.

The experience of helping solve the murders had taken the edge off my initial pleasure at being there. But that was balanced by the satisfaction I took from my students, bright and ambitious young men and women seeking to carve out their paths into adult life and beyond. I had no doubt that Eli would keep in touch, and that one day I’d receive from him a manuscript, his first murder mystery novel, and that it would be pretty good. At least I hoped it would be. I hate having to respond negatively to young people’s early attempts at writing.

I also knew that my relationship with Harriet would never be the same. Oh, yes, we would remain friends while I continued to teach there, and after I’d left, too. But it would be different because we were different people, with different agendas and dreams. Of one thing I was certain: She would accomplish at Schoolman what she intended, to turn it into a financially solvent institution of higher learning of which she, and her staff and the students, could be proud.

I ended my walk back at my small but comfortable apartment, where I made tea and settled in to prepare for the next day’s class, which I looked forward to. At the same time, I knew I would not be sad when the semester was over and I would leave Schoolman College. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it there, even with the complication of two murders. But the contemplation of being back where I truly belonged, Cabot Cove, Maine, made me smile. It always does, no matter where I happen to be in the world.

 

 

Al Blevin reared back his head. His shoulder twitched as if he were trying to snap out a punch, but his arms stayed fixed, crossed on his chest. Another spasm rocked his body and he fell backward. His head glanced off a table, knocking over a glass and spilling the remains of Hallie’s specialty across the lapels of his immaculately tailored tan jacket and the front of his pristine white shirt.

The club members gasped as their president went into convulsions. His eyes bulged open. His face turned crimson and then blue as his body denied him oxygen, and pink again as the throes of the spasms released their hold on him.

“Come on, everyone, get out of here and make some room for him,” Lloyd Bums said, herding people from the train’s club car.

They moved cautiously past the prone Blevin.

“Geez, he must have had a snootful.”

“I think he’s having a heart attack.”

“No, it looks like a stroke.”

“My cousin had epilepsy. Maybe that’s it.”

“Did anyone take first aid?”

“Hallie, call for help.”

“I did.”

“I hope there’s a hospital in Whistler.”

“How far out are we now?”

“Don’t just stand there. Someone help him.” Theodora’s face was ashen, but she backed away from her husband’s prone figure. “Samantha, you’re a nurse,” she said. “Please do something or he’ll die.”

“What do you want me to do?” Samantha shouted.

Blevin’s body began to tremble again. He arched his back till his body was curved like a bow, only his head and feet touching the floor. His face was drained.

“Give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” someone said.

Samantha took a step forward, frowning down at Blevin.

“Don’t do it,” I said, gripping her arm. “He may have been poisoned.”

“I had no intention of putting my mouth anywhere near his,” Samantha said, shaking me off and stalking out of the car.

“Poison,” Maeve Pinkney gasped and slid down into a faint.

The word triggered a stampede among those who hadn’t left yet. They rushed out of the car. Junior leaned over his wife, fanning her face with a railroad map.

Blevin’s body shuddered, and he lay limp on the floor. He drew in air through his teeth and color flooded back into his face. Theodora gingerly knelt by his side. She tapped softly on her husband’s shoulder and his eyes met hers. “Look what they did to you. Your nicest shirt,” she said, wiping the sweat off his brow and then blotting the red stain on his shirt with a napkin. “You’re going to be just fine,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “You’ll see. You just drank too much. Three Bloody Marys, Al. We’re going to laugh about this next week.” Her son, Benjamin, sat at a table near the bar, staring silently at his mother and stepfather, his arms and legs crossed, his body hunched forward.

“Jessica, what do we do?” my friend Reggie whispered.

“The only thing we can do till medical help arrives,” I whispered back, “is keep him warm and quiet. And close the drapes near him. He may be sensitive to light.”

“Sensitive to light? How do you ... ?”

I walked over to where Hallie stood behind the counter, wringing a bar towel. “You said you called for help?” I asked softly.

“I did, I did,” she stammered, “but he can’t have been poisoned, Mrs. Fletcher. I made his drink myself. No one’s ever gotten sick before. Maybe it’s just an allergic reaction. I put in a lot of horseradish this time. Do you think that did it?”

“Shh. It’s not your fault.”

Reggie shrugged out of his jacket and laid it across Blevin’s chest.

The waiter who’d been serving hors d’oeuvres only thirty minutes ago rushed into the club car, followed by Jenna, another of the staff, holding a first-aid kit.

“We called for an ambulance,” he told Theodora. “There’ll be one waiting in Whistler.”

“How long will it be?” she asked, adjusting Reggie’s jacket over Blevin.

“We’re almost there.” Jenna propped the first-aid kit on a chair and snapped open the latch.

A long whistle sounded as the train rounded a curve; the shrill squeal of the wheels rent the air. Blevin’s body lifted off the floor as another convulsion gripped him. Theodora scrambled away from him and climbed into a chair. The screech of metal on metal reverberated in the car, now emptied of all but a few of the club’s delegation.

Jenna and the waiter stared, transfixed, as Blevin’s lips curled back in a grotesque grin. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his arms twitched. His skin took on an odd pallor under his tanned complexion, and a blue tinge crept into face.

The train straightened and the wheels ceased their strident sound. But it was too late.

Junior, who’d pulled Maeve up onto a chair and was patting her hand, looked at Blevin and nodded at the two young people. “I don’t think that kit’s going to do you any good anymore,” he said and took a few fast photos of the scene.

Reggie walked to where Blevin lay and gazed into his sightless eyes. He leaned down and pulled his jacket up over Blevin’s face. Theodora wailed.

“My God,” Hallie cried hoarsely from behind the bar. “He’s dead!”