Majoring In Murder (5 page)

“I can see it,” I said, moving closer, being careful to avoid the shards of glass that littered the ground. A dented file cabinet was overturned, covered by several feet of rubble, the other end lying on an upended chair. Behind the chair, on a crumpled piece of carpet with a dark blotch, I made out the top of a head. Strands of sandy hair, stained red, dangled from the bare scalp on which a cleft an inch wide exposed the white bone of the skull. I didn’t need to see the gray tweed sleeve, nor the leather elbow patch, to know I was looking at the battered body of Professor Wesley Newmark.

It would take several hours to extricate the body of Professor Wesley Newmark from the collapsed portion of the building. By good fortune, his was the only fatality of the day. To ensure it stayed that way, the local fire and police departments cooperated in developing a plan to lift the wreckage of Kammerer House that had fallen through the ceiling to gain direct access to the end of the room where the body lay. Until then, the file cabinet could not be shifted or the office chair removed without possibly causing a further cave-in.

There was no doubt that Wes was dead, but the “rescuers” were intent on reclaiming his body as quickly as possible. No one argued their decision, and as afternoon moved into evening and the air took on a decided chill, the observers grew more numerous, keeping a quiet vigil that seemed to spur on the men who were setting up the rigging.

Spotlights commandeered from the drama department, along with emergency lighting from the fire department, had been hooked up to a generator to allow the work to continue after dark. The Red Cross brought in volunteers to serve coffee and doughnuts. An ambulance stood by to transport the body to the hospital morgue.

Earlier in the day, a news helicopter had hovered overhead. Later, a crew from an Indianapolis television station arrived to record the recovery effort, and became disgruntled when it became obvious it would be a while until the body was removed.

Wes had been a bachelor, and in the absence of President Needler, it was Harriet’s unhappy responsibility to call his closest relative, a sister in Alaska, to relate the news of his death. That call, made in the privacy of her office, had been one of only two times she’d been away from Kammerer House. The other time had been the forty minutes she’d spent helping relieve some of the pressure on Roberta Dougherty, who’d been juggling press calls and demands for interviews all day. To accommodate the small legion of reporters that had descended on campus, Harriet had agreed to an impromptu press conference in the Student Union cafeteria.

Roberta provided Harriet with the official college statistics, which she announced to the press: one dead, eleven seen by the college nurse, six transported to the emergency room, one hospitalized.

Roberta handed around a sheet with the statistics that had been compiled.

“We estimate there’s about two million dollars in damages,” Harriet said. “As you can see, three houses that served as offices were severely damaged, and several larger buildings will also need repairs. The cleanup has already begun. We will be resuming classes as soon as the students who were visiting Wabash return to their dorms. We’re very grateful for that community’s generosity in providing accommodations for the night for our basketball team and the fans who accompanied them to the game.”

Harriet deviated from her prepared remarks. “I want to add that while we are all relieved that Schoolman escaped the scores of casualties that could have accompanied a storm of this magnitude, even the loss of one affects us deeply. We are all distraught at Professor Newmark’s death. I knew Wes for many years. He was a lovely gentleman, a dedicated scholar, beloved by his students and admired by his colleagues. I speak for the entire faculty, staff, and student body when I say he will be greatly missed. And I know we all join in extending our heartfelt sympathies to his family. We plan to hold a memorial service. At that time, all Schoolman offices will be closed and classes canceled so everyone may join in paying their respects to our departed colleague and friend.”

“Where is President Needler?” a reporter asked. “Why isn’t he here?”

I saw Harriet’s hand tighten around the paper she was holding, but I don’t know if anyone else sensed her disquiet.

“Lowell Needler was a good friend of Professor Newmark and he was greatly distressed to learn of his death,” she said, laying the paper on the table in front of her and smoothing out the wrinkles as she spoke. “He asked me to express his regrets at not coming to speak with all of you. In addition to his personal grief, he is also grappling with the logistical burden of planning how Schoolman will address the damage from the tornado, meeting with various departments, and working to ensure that the college returns to normal as quickly as possible.”

I wondered why Harriet felt it necessary to cover up for President Needler. It was curious that he was not on campus, but there could be many practical reasons why he wasn’t on hand. I had the impression that it wasn’t so much his absence that embarrassed Harriet as the fact that she didn’t know where he’d gone. Still, why not let him take the consequences? Anytime I’d ever seen someone try to stonewall the press, it invariably backfired. If President Needler wasn’t where he was supposed to be, he would have to explain eventually.

“Dr. Bennett,” a reporter shouted before Harriet could make a graceful exit, “we heard the college’s emergency warning system was out of order. Do you think that contributed to the injuries and to Professor Newmark’s death?”

Harriet blanched, but quickly regained her equilibrium. “On the contrary,” she said, “Professor Newmark cautioned another of our professors to take cover because of the impending storm, so he was certainly aware of the potential danger. We did have difficulty with the alarm signal initially, but we don’t rely on one warning system alone. We have backup emergency systems in place. They were activated. Everyone was alerted well in advance of the storm. Plus, the primary alert system did come on before the tornado hit the campus. All in all, I’d say the college did an exemplary job of protecting its students and staff.”

“Dr. Bennett, what are the other warning systems?”

“Dr. Bennett, is the college still in financial trouble? Where will the money come from to make the repairs?”

“Dr. Bennett, is Schoolman making plans to upgrade its buildings in light of the damages?”

“Dr. Bennett, can the school stay open while repairs take place?”

The shouts came from around the room. I knew Harriet was impatient to get back to Kammerer House, but she admirably stayed to answer the questions.

While Harriet dealt with the press, I left the cafeteria and wandered down the hall to get a drink of water. As I leaned over the fountain, I saw movement in the nearby stairwell to my right. I looked up to see a figure disappear up the stairs. I’d glimpsed him for only a second, but I was certain I’d recognized the tall stature and distinctive mane of white hair of President Lowell Needler.

The stairwell was empty by the time I stepped inside. I climbed to the second floor and opened the doorway to the hall to see him rounding a comer. A moment later I heard a door slam. Was the college president just returning to his office now, for the first time since the tornado? Did he know a press conference was taking place? Harriet had been making excuses for him all afternoon, but was he even aware of what had occurred on campus? If he wasn’t, his appearance downstairs would be shocking for him and humiliating for her.

I’m not sure why I followed the president to his comer office, but I did. His whereabouts certainly weren’t any of my business. I barely knew the man, my only direct contact with him having occurred when Harriet introduced me to him in his office, at a welcoming ceremony, and a few chance encounters lasting seconds. His absence in the midst of a devastating storm was Harriet’s problem. I thought of my dear friend back in Cabot Cove, Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who was fond of telling me that I had more natural curiosity than a dozen Maine coon cats, and would probably get in trouble because of it one day.

I was poised to leave.

Instead, I knocked.

No answer. I knocked again. There was a pause and then the door swung open.

President Needler looked surprised. No, bewildered was more apt. He stared at me. His coat was draped over one shoulder. There was some kind of grime on the back. It looked like cobwebs. He ran a large hand over the stubble on his chin. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“I don’t mean to bother you, President Needler, but—”

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he said. “Is there a problem? I trust everything’s going smoothly with your classes.”

“Yes, quite smoothly.”

He turned and wandered back into his office, his gait that of a man not sure where he was or where he was supposed to go. I followed. He turned suddenly, saw that I was right behind him, and said, “Won’t you come in? I’ve only just gotten in myself.”

“I hope you don’t mind my intruding,” I said. “It’s just that—”

“No, no intrusion at all,” he said, taking a hanger off the coat tree behind his desk. “Been a bit of a rough day, eh?”

“Yes,” I said. “A tornado is a unique experience.”

“Of course. You’re from back east. You don’t have such things there, I take it.” He waved in the direction of a chair. “Please sit down.” He hung up his coat and took a seat behind his desk. The answering machine on the credenza behind him was blinking. He eyed it warily.

“Harriet Schoolman Bennett has been looking for you,” I said. “Have you seen her yet?”

“No. No. Just got here, as you can see.” He glanced down at his hands, then popped up from his chair. “Excuse me a moment, won’t you?” He went to a door that led to a washroom, closed it halfway, turned on the faucet, and washed his hands.

I looked around the room. The office was decorated in traditional academic style, with two walls lined in bookcases, a green leather sofa beneath a picture window, and a large mahogany desk and credenza against the fourth wall, on which were framed photos and certificates. Sets of leather-bound volumes filled most of the bookshelves. Some books with decaying bindings were laid on their sides. Here and there were mementos of trips or experiences: a pair of pewter tankards, a whittled wooden fisherman, a personalized gavel. Two green canisters, probably the ones Professor Constantine had found in the fallout shelter, stood side by side on a lower shelf.

“That’s better,” he said, smiling and retaking his seat.

I noticed that he had washed his face as well, and run a comb through his snowy hair.

“You have an impressive book collection,” I said. “Some of them look quite delicate. Are they very old?”

“First editions,” he said proudly, his face brightening, “just about every one of them. That tan book on its side, the one with the spine missing, is the first volume published of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetry. I bought that when I was in college myself. That’s when I started my collection. Made a lot of mistakes in the beginning but I learned.”

“What kind of mistakes did you make?”

“Oh, nothing irreversible. Letting friends borrow them. Big mistake. People are careless with books, even ones that aren’t theirs. I learned well. I don’t lend them out anymore. That’s what a library is for. Go borrow books from there, I tell them.”

“Did you lend someone the Browning book?”

He went to the shelf and picked up the book in question. “No, I bought it like that. That was another mistake. It’s not worth very much because the condition is so poor, but I keep it in hopes of replacing it with a better one. A good one will go for almost five hundred dollars.” He stroked the cover and gently replaced the book on the shelf. “I may keep it anyway. It has sentimental value to me now.” He selected a dark green leather slipcase and pulled out the book. “Now, this one is another story. This is a first edition of Mark Twain’s
The Prince and the Pauper.”
He opened the cover carefully. “I’m not sure it’s ever been read. It’s in pristine condition. You’d pay more than a thousand dollars for this in today’s market.”

“So much?”

“You can buy a lot of first editions for under a hundred, but the real thrill is in finding the rare ones. Charles Dickens goes for a lot. Chaucer, of course. I heard an edition of
The Canterbury Tales
went for over forty thousand in an auction last year.”

“Where do you buy your first editions?”

“There are antiquarian book dealers and specialized auctions. I use them sometimes, but there are no bargains there. I haunt antique shops and secondhand bookstores.”

I was surprised we’d ended up in a discussion of rare books, but was enjoying it, and he seemed to be, too. The tornado and the destructive path it had carved seemed only a memory, unworthy of being injected into the conversation.

“Have you ever tried the on-line auction sites?” I asked.

“Rarely. They make it easier to find what you’re looking for, but unfortunately, they also make collecting of any kind more popular. These days there are a lot of people buying up first editions. Makes it tougher for me to fill in the gaps in my collection.”

“How interesting.”

“It is to me,” he said, putting the Twain back in its place of honor on the shelf, “but I’m sure you didn’t stop by to admire my books. Why don’t you tell me what it is that I can help you with.”

“The, ah ... the tornado,” I said. “Everyone was looking for you, especially Harriet. Had you been over at Wabash with the basketball team?” I asked, not sure it was my place to pry but not terribly concerned about it.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Wabash. The basketball team had a scrimmage there today. A lot of people went to see them play and missed the storm. I thought perhaps that’s where you’d been.”

“Ah, that was certainly good fortune, their being away at a nasty time. No, no, I wasn’t there, but don’t let it out. I’m not much of basketball fan.” He lowered his voice and winked. “You could get in trouble for admitting that in Indiana.”