Majoring In Murder (6 page)

There was an awkward pause while I tried to formulate my next question. Finally I asked, “President Needler, have you heard about Professor Newmark?” I hoped I wouldn’t have to be the one to break the news to him.

“Poor bugger. Yes, I heard. Is that what you wanted to tell me? You looked so worried there. That was very kind of you. But you needn’t have been concerned.”

“Since you haven’t been here, I couldn’t be sure you knew.” I paused, drew a breath, and asked, “Where were you?”

If my question annoyed him, he didn’t show it. He said absently, “Had to go off campus for a bit,” and leaned back in his leather chair. “But bad news travels fast. Isn’t that the saying? Hard to avoid news of that nature.”

“There’s something else you should know.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a press conference taking place right now. Dean Bennett is downstairs in the cafeteria talking to reporters. They were asking for you.”

He sat up. “What did she tell them?”

I gave him a summary of Harriet’s comments, including her response to the inquiry on his whereabouts.

“Clever girl,” he said, leaning back again.

“I thought you’d want to know,” I said.

“I appreciate your sensitivity,” he said, smiling at me. “Sounds like Harriet’s handling everything in her usual efficient manner. She certainly doesn’t need me downstairs to muck it up.” He stood up. “And as she correctly surmised, I must tackle the new difficulties we face occasioned by this storm.” He came around the desk and put a hand on the back of my chair. “As you can see, I have a lot of calls to return. I hope you’ll excuse me now.” He appeared to have snapped out of the fog he’d been in. His voice was stronger now, his posture decidedly more erect. He thanked me profusely, escorted me to the door, and all but pushed me into the hall. I heard the snick of the lock when he closed the door behind me.

What a strange duck,
I thought.
I wonder where he’s been all this time. I asked him outright, but he obviously wasn’t about to tell me.

Harriet was still outlining the college’s insurance coverage and assuring the press of the soundness of Schoolman’s remaining structures when I returned to the cafeteria.

“While we have been fiscally stable, this kind of unexpected expense will definitely put a strain on our resources,” she said. “Nevertheless, we fully expect to meet our obligations. Please make sure to include that in your story if you plan to cover the impact of the storm on the college’s finances. I’m afraid that’s all the time I have, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming.”

Harriet hurried out of the building by a side door and I followed, quickly filling her in about the return of the college president.

She stopped short. “You talked to him?”

“Yes. He’s upstairs in his office. Do you want to go back?”

“I don’t have time now, but I’ll kill that man when I see him,” she said as we crossed the quad on our way back to Kammerer House. “Where the heck has he been? Did he say?”

“No.”

“He left me high and dry with so many decisions pending and no support from him.”

Waving to the security detail that was keeping the curious off the premises, Harriet and I slid under the yellow tape and trudged around to where the center of activity was concentrated. The street behind Kammerer House was closed to traffic and filled with emergency and police vehicles, their red, yellow, and blue flashing lights imparting a strange illumination to the scene.

Lieutenant Parish greeted us. “We’re just about ready to pull him out,” he said.

“Has the college chaplain arrived?” Harriet asked. “I sent for him.”

“Yes. He’s over there with the fire chief,” Parish said, pointing to Pastor Getler, a small, round man with a neatly trimmed beard, standing next to a strapping fellow in a blue uniform, and another tall man in a white jacket holding a clipboard.

Getler saw us, excused himself to the men, and came up to Harriet, gathering up both her hands and startling her with a light kiss on the cheek. “It’s a sad day, Dean Bennett, a sad day indeed. My heart is full for the poor soul, taken in his prime. I wept when I heard the news. And how are you?” He peered into her eyes. “Did you weep for Wesley Newmark? It’s all right to cry, you know.”

“I’m very distressed about Wes’s death,” she said. “Look, I know it’s a bit early to discuss this, but we’re planning a memorial service for him next week. Vernon Foner wants to give the eulogy. You’ll be available to offer a prayer, of course.”

“Naturally. Be happy to put together the whole program.”

“That’s not really necessary,” she said. “The English department has asked to plan the memorial, and I told them to go ahead. Wes wasn’t observant, but I think he would have liked a prayer to be included in any service for him.”

“Well, if my expertise is not needed...” He released her hands.

“Nevertheless, we would welcome your prayers. I’ll call you as soon as we’ve arranged a time.”

“It will be in the chapel, I assume.”

“Yes, in the chapel.”

“Well, that’s appropriate. But the chapel by its very nature is a place for religious ceremonies, you know.” He took a deep breath, and looked as if he were about to launch into a lecture.

I stepped forward and thrust out my hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

Harriet flashed me a grateful look, and added, “Yes, Pastor Getler, Jessica is a visiting professor, one of our celebrity authors.”

“Ah, the famous mystery writer. Heard a great deal about you,” he said, taking up both my hands, “and I’ve read one of your books, too.”

“I’m flattered,” I said.

“Of course.” He squeezed my hands and smiled weakly. “Can’t remember the exact title right now, something about murder.”

“Yes, that’s usually the case.”

“Silly me,” he said. “It’ll come to me, I’m sure. Anyway, I look forward to talking to you sometime when we can sit down and get to know each other better.”

“It will be my pleasure,” I said.

“We must talk more.” He gave my hands a final squeeze before letting go and turning back to Harriet, his expression sober. “I’ll expect to hear from you. Unfortunately, right now I have a sad duty to perform.”

He strolled back to where his two companions still stood.

“Heaven help me,” Harriet said in a low voice. “Now I’ll have to persuade Vernon Foner to write a eulogy.”

“But I just heard you say he
wants
to give a eulogy,” I said.

“I had to say something or Getler would have taken over the whole service and no one else would have had a chance to speak. Verne was the first name that came to mind. I’d better talk to him tomorrow. It’ll be awkward if Getler sees him before I do.”

“Now, don’t go borrowing trouble, Harriet.”

“Can you believe the ego of that man?” Harriet muttered. “He’s insufferable. I have to deal with him, but I’d avoid him at all costs if I were you.”

“But he’s read one of my books,” I said with a straight face, “ ‘something about murder.’ I didn’t know I had a book with that title.”

Harriet snorted and covered her mouth with both hands. “Don’t make me laugh, not here. If I laugh, I might start crying, and I don’t want to give Getler an excuse to comfort me.”

We turned to watch while one of the firemen tested the stability of a jack, the scene instantly sobering. “We’re good to go,” he yelled.

EMTs from the local area wheeled over a pallet on which a dark green body bag lay unzipped.

Two other men crawled through an opening in the wall that had been enlarged from the original window. Once inside, they carefully dislodged the upended office chair that was blocking the way. It fell on its side with a loud clang, one wheel rapidly spinning. The men pushed the chair toward the opening, where others outside quickly grabbed it. Reaching the body, they checked to be sure nothing would further hinder its removal. They drew Wes’s briefcase from beneath his body and flung it out of the way. It landed next to a bush outside. Then, inch by inch, they backed out, dragging the lifeless form of Wes Newmark with them, pausing only when a fragment of wallboard snagged the cuff of his trousers and threatened to topple the whole mare’s nest. Once free of the passage, they stopped again to turn Wes over, fold his broken eyeglasses, which had been caught under his body, and lay them on his chest. They placed a sheet on the ground, onto which they laid his body, cradling his head as if to protect him from further injury. They wrapped the sheet around him and gently lifted him into the green plastic body bag.

The man in the white jacket, who’d been talking to the fire chief, walked over to the pallet. He pulled a stethoscope from his pocket and listened for any signs of life.

“Is that the medical examiner?” I whispered to Harriet.

“That’s Brad Zelinsky,” she replied softly. “He’s the county coroner.”

“Is he a doctor?”

“Yes. He works at the county hospital.”

“Do you need to identify the body for him?”

“No, Brad can do it. He’s one of Wes’s poker buddies.”

I don’t know why it should have surprised me. Small communities like Schoolman, and Cabot Cove, my hometown in Maine, share similar traits, among them a certain intimacy. In a small town, everyone knows each other, even if it’s only by sight, enough for a smile and a wave. That knowledge sets us apart from the larger communities beyond our borders. What we sacrifice in privacy, we gain in comfort and security. People who move to a small town from a big city sometimes find that off-putting, preferring to keep their lives private and to choose friends from a small segment of the population. Wes Newmark had struck me as a private sort of person, not the kind to socialize much with anyone. But then Schoolman College as a whole wasn’t very large. If he’d lived here a long time—Harriet had said she’d known Wes for many years—I suppose it would be foolish to think an English professor wouldn’t have friends off campus as well as on.

I studied Dr. Zelinsky as he finished his examination and ticked off several boxes on his clipboard. He must have been over six feet tall, but his stooped posture made him appear shorter. I gauged him to be in his late fifties. His brown hair was tousled, and as I watched him, he ran his left hand through thinning locks, leaving a clump standing on end. He scribbled his signature on the bottom of the form, touched Newmark’s shoulder, shook his head, and walked away.

Pastor Getler leaned over the body. I could see his lips moving but couldn’t hear his words. Only the crackle of the police radio broke the respectful silence that accompanied his prayer.

The quiet continued during the rapid breakdown of the recovery site. The ambulance sped away with the deceased, its siren and lights extinguished. The fire trucks backed down the street, onto the main road, and drove off into the night. The police in their patrol cars followed shortly afterward. The lights from the drama department and fire department were dismantled, and the crowd that had waited to witness the liberation of Professor Wesley Newmark’s body dispersed.

I walked over to the building and picked up Professor Newmark’s briefcase. It was empty except for several pencils rolling around in the bottom, along with a few paper clips, rubber bands, and a plastic calculator. I handed the briefcase to Harriet. “His sister might like to have this,” I said.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Jessica. Are you sure it’s his?”

“Yes,” I said. “He was carrying this when I saw him last, but it was bulging, presumably with papers. Now it’s not.”

“Just look at the quad,” Harriet said as we walked around to the front of the building. “It’s covered with papers. Whatever he had in this briefcase is probably somewhere out here.”

“I hope not,” I said.

“I’m going to hunt up a cup of tea before I go home,” she said. “Will you join me?”

“That does sound good.”

“Do you think the Red Cross left us any of their doughnuts?”

“If we’re lucky.”

“It’s ironic,” she said as we headed for the Student Union. “Because of Wes, we got a big boost in the cleanup from the fire and police departments. They filled three Dumpsters tonight. Tomorrow that job is ours.”

“And you can’t just hire a crane and cart all the debris away,” I said. “You have the files and records from three departments to salvage.”

She moaned. “That’s right. Which means it will take twice as long to clear everything away. Plus we used the basement in Kammerer House for storage. There must be dozens of file cabinets down there.”

“That’s strange,” I said.

“What’s strange?”

“If Kammerer House had a basement, why didn’t Wesley Newmark take shelter down there? Was it kept locked?”

“No. There was no need to lock up old records.”

“Phil Adler, your bursar, said he was expecting a visit from Wes.”

“And Phil got hurt waiting for him,” Harriet said. “Foolish man. When I see him at the hospital, I’m going to ask about the nature of that appointment.”

“I’d like to join you when you go, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. You’re more than welcome.”

I didn’t want to alarm Harriet, but all evening I’d had a feeling that something wasn’t right. Two men had braved a tornado, and one of them had died. What kept them in their places? What worry was greater than the need to take cover from the storm? And when it was upon them, why didn’t they run? I’d heard the roar of the wind and felt its breath on my neck. Yet I’d made it to shelter in time. Why hadn’t they?

And that briefcase. Where were its contents? Briefcases usually contain papers of one sort or another. I hadn’t seen any papers inside Kammerer House. Surely if the tornado had emptied the briefcase, wouldn’t there be at least a few papers left inside it?

No, something was wrong. And I wanted to know what it was.