Strangled Prose (11 page)

I found the file and slipped it out. With a nervous glance at the closed door, I sat down on the sofa and opened the file. My jaw fell against my chest. There were a dozen or so sheets of paper covered with handwriting, but the handwriting in no way resembled the spidery formations on the drawer labels. The words sprawled aggressively across the pages, bold and unmistakably masculine. Douglas's.

The words refused to come into focus as I goggled at them. Why had Douglas written notes for his wife? Or had he? I squinted until I could make out the writing. Possible titles, snippets of prose, a few similes that had caught his fancy. I shuffled through the pages to search for Carlton's name. Britton's name leaped off the page, followed by his academic background, his physical description, and a date from ten years ago. A doctor's name and an obscure medical phrase or two. A girl's first name—Jeanne—underlined by a heavy slash. A series of exclamation marks in the margin.

Stunned, I sat and stared at the information that had been compiled with the precision of a bureaucratic mind. Not Mildred's—or even Azalea's—mind, however; this was clearly Douglas's work. But why?

The doorknob rattled. I gulped back a shriek and shoved the file under a throw pillow as the door opened. I looked up to find Lieutenant Rosen's feral grin in all its glory.

“Oh,” I managed to choke out, “it's you.”

His eyes shifted to the pillow beside me. “It is I,” he agreed genially as he moved forward. Before I could sense his intentions, he snatched up the pillow.

We both stared at the file.

“What's that?” I said, trying to appear properly shocked.

He chuckled at my ingenuous expression. “Why, Mrs. Malloy, whatever could that be? I do believe it is a file, perhaps from that very cabinet. Do you think Mr. Twiller would mind if I glanced through it?”

I gave up the ingenue routine and grabbed the file. “Sit down and read,” I said briskly, “but you'll have to go second. I had it first, Lieutenant Rosen.”

He gave me a reproachful look. “Is that any way to talk to the head of the Farberville CID? I agree that it lacks the reputation of Scotland Yard, but we do our best.”

For the moment, I had almost forgotten the roles. I turned on what charm I could rally, batted my eyelashes, and cooed, “I don't quite know, Lieutenant. I've never been suspected of strangling anyone before.”

“First time for everything,” he said blandly as he sat down and pointed at the top page of the papers in the folder.

Unable to produce anything remotely adequate in response, I settled back and began to read.

SEVEN

When I finished the final page, I tossed the folder in Lieutenant Rosen's lap and propped my head on my hands. “Oh, my God,” I muttered to myself, struggling to accept what I had read—in Douglas's handwriting.

The lieutenant scanned the page, straightened the papers, and closed the folder. He returned it to the cabinet, then came back to the sofa and sat down.

“Fascinating stuff,” he said in a cheerful voice. “Nothing a detective likes better than names, dates, and verification. So neat and tidy, compared to the normal hodgepodge of information. It looks as if I might need to speak to a few people once more.”

“I presume I'm one of them,” I said flatly. I had just read all the details of Carlton's involvement with the coed, from the initial dalliance under the seminar table (dusty but creative) to the standing reservation at the Motel D'Amore (pure sleaze) on the highway. Times, dates, and even the course (Italian Renaissance Prose) the girl was taking from Carlton. Everything but her name, rank, and shoe size.

Lieutenant Rosen shrugged and said, “I knew most of the information about your husband. The police officers did a bit of background before they closed the file.”

“Did you know all of that before you questioned me last night?”

“Jorgeson filled me in,” he admitted, grinning. “However, I haven't received anything on Blake and Holland yet. I suspected that the oblique references carried some truth, but your snooping has saved me quite a bit of time, Mrs. Malloy.”

“You're welcome. Anything to crucify a friend.”

He leaned back and crossed his legs, as if we were settling in front of the television set to watch “Masterpiece Theater.” “Now, you may be jumping to conclusions. Twiller does seem to have the information confirmed, but he might have made it up, for all we know. I'd prefer outside confirmation before I plug in the electric chair and test the switch.”

It was not the moment for levity. Glaring, I said, “You may be right. Britton swore that the whole insinuation was pure fantasy and that he simply resented his name appearing in such a book. I told him that I believed him.”

“Did you?”

“Of course, I did! I've known him since he came to Farber over ten years ago. He's not the sort to—” I couldn't get the damning words out in a controlled voice.

“Pressure a fifteen-year-old into having an abortion to save himself from a statutory rap?”

“Exactly. Britton is a kind, gentle man. The undergraduates wrestle each other during registration to get into his classes. He's not the sort to be involved with some Lolita with a punk-rock haircut.”

“The names and dates are in the file. I'll know in a day or so if the charges were actually filed or if it is, as you believe, pure fantasy.”

“He's nice, charming, erudite, sincere,” I insisted obstinately.

“And single.”

“And single.” I curled my lip at the insufferable man. “I don't fool around with married men. Like policemen, they're excruciatingly egotistical.”

“Admirable, Mrs. Malloy. You may be the only one within the Farber English department with any scruples. When do these people find time to teach?”

“Carlton hardly ever missed a class,” I began hotly. The heat evaporated, however, and I added, “Office hours seem to present a lot of opportunities for intimacy with the students, I suppose. From what we read, the dean would be a bit startled to find out what goes on in his ivy towers.”

“Or in Miss Holland's living room,” he said with a distracted expression. Suddenly he grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet, ignoring my astonished yelp. The door flew open. I gazed into Douglas Twiller's narrowed eyes.

“Claire? Lieutenant? I was wondering where the two of you slipped away, but I certainly did not expect to find you here.” Douglas came into the den. Although he was making a pretense of genteel bewilderment, his eyes flickered to the filing cabinet.

Lieutenant Rosen jabbed me with his elbow. Swallowing a second yelp in less than half a minute, I said, “Oh, Douglas, I know it's silly, but I was overcome with emotion and came in here to compose myself. The lieutenant came in only a minute ago to—er, see if I needed a glass of water.”

“Water, Claire?” Douglas's right eyebrow rose, a nifty trick I had yet to master. “I thought you preferred scotch in a crisis.”

“It's a minor crisis. I'll help you to the water,” Lieutenant Rosen said. He caught my elbow and tugged me past Douglas. We wiggled through the crowd until we reached the kitchen.

Camille stared at him as he hunted through cabinets for a glass. “Can I be of assistance?” she said.

He shook his head and kept up the clatter. After he had found a glass, he filled it at the tap and offered it to me. “Drink this, Mrs. Malloy.”

“Thank you,” I said between sips, hoping the urge to giggle would drown if I didn't choke.

Camille snorted and waltzed out of the kitchen with a newly stocked platter of canapés, clearly unimpressed with our childish antics. I put down the glass before the water sloshed onto the floor. “I feel like my hand was found in the cookie jar. Why didn't you tell him what we discovered, instead of meekly scuttling away?”

“I intend to discuss the file with Twiller, but I think we ought to wait until his guests are gone. He seems to be enjoying the solicitude—and it is his hour of glory.”

“Those research notes were in his handwriting. We deserve an explanation,” I said. I suspected that I knew what he would say—but I wanted to hear it from him. Poor Mildred, I thought with a sigh.

The lieutenant and I eventually rejoined the wake. Douglas gave us a few peculiar looks, but managed to stay on the opposite side of the room. Lieutenant Rosen was briskly absorbed by a circle of faculty wives, so I left him and wormed my way to the bar. Scotch is indeed better in a crisis; I don't even like the taste of water.

While the last guests were escorted to the door, Lieutenant Rosen and I moved to the center of the living room. Douglas came back in, stopped as he saw us, and let out a groan. “I don't suppose you're here for a nightcap?” he said wearily.

The lieutenant pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Twiller. It's time for a discussion—and it's apt to take a while. You look exhausted.”

Douglas did as suggested, and he did look tired. Deflated, gray, perhaps even ill, I realized in surprise. I almost felt a twinge of sympathy, until I remembered the folder. Vicious, nasty stuff about people he supposedly cared for. I began to simmer, but quietly so that I would not be banished to the nursery in disgrace.

“We found the research file for
Professor of Passion,
” said Lieutenant Rosen. He looked down at the slumped figure in the armchair. “Mrs. Malloy and I had no problem identifying the handwriting. Yours, Mr. Twiller. Any comments?”

When Douglas shook his head, he continued, “The contents of the file were of great interest, too. According to those present at the reception, you averred several times that your wife could explain the insinuations about the Farber English faculty, past and present. How could she, Mr. Twiller—when she hadn't even read the book?”

Douglas seemed to toy with several responses, but at last discarded them. In a dull voice, he said, “She was shocked and went home to read the book. No migraine; nary a bout of sobs. Those were excuses. She was—ah, upset with the revelations.”

“And you're Azalea Twilight.”

“Mildred was Azalea Twilight,” he protested. “She adored the opportunity to swoop around the country, being eccentric and wickedly romantic. Mobbed at the airport, awarded all sorts of nonsense. It was her life. But she couldn't write her name with a crayon, much less crank out two or three manuscripts every year.”

“You could, and, in fact, did.” Lieutenant Rosen sat down on the arm of a chair and studied Douglas as if he were a newly discovered species of carnivorous flora. Curious, but potentially dangerous.

“I seem to have a flair for it,” Douglas said, flinching under the scrutiny. “I could finish a manuscript in under three weeks, which averages out to quite a bit of money per hour. Thousands, actually.”

“But you passed it off as your wife's work.”

Douglas glanced at me for sympathy. Finding none, he grimaced and said, “I have a reputation in academic circles, Lieutenant. Although you may be unaware of the backstabbing that goes on among such people, I can assure you that it is more than common. If it were ever to be discovered that I wrote that—that genre of literature, then I would never again be published in any respectable journal. I would be a source of amusement for my colleagues, the object of crude remarks. My opinions would be dismissed as those of a crackpot. The chairmanship of the department would be out of the question.”

“So Mrs. Twiller enjoyed the fame, and you enjoyed the money?”

“It was more than that. I rather savored the little deception, too. Knowing that all the world thought Mildred could write such lurid scenes, that she could even begin to produce the necessarily convoluted plots and forays into graphic ecstasy! It provided a great deal of secret amusement.”

“I'm sure it did, Mr. Twiller. Regrettably, your wife was the one who was strangled because of your literary efforts.”

“A terrible thing,” Douglas said. “I'd prefer to rest now, if you're quite finished?”

“No, I'm not quite finished. About the contents of the folder? You seem to have done your homework on your colleagues, Mr. Twiller. It was enlightening.”

“Was it? I'm delighted to have been of service.”

“I was hoping you might explain why you spent such a tremendous amount of time and money on your research. A private detective agency, bribes to the registrar's office, all that tedious legwork.”

Douglas licked his lips. “I simply decided to use more realistic characters, Lieutenant. Thus I studied those around me for inspiration, and later delved a bit into their histories to give myself a more rounded picture of them. My interest was purely from a technical standpoint; I had no personal interest.”

“No, I don't think I can accept that,” the lieutenant said. “Try again, Mr. Twiller—and do remember this is a homicide investigation, rather than a course in creative explanation. For instance, how did you find out about Carlton Malloy's female companion the night he was killed?”

“It was a wild guess.”

“Come now, Mr. Twiller, no one is quite that astute when making a wild guess. Your account was a dazzling display of accuracy. You didn't miss a detail, from the bloodstained feathers to the car catching on fire after the companion had been moved to safety.”

“I have a vivid imagination.”

“And you're using it now.”

“That is the truth, Lieutenant Rosen.” Douglas stood up and started for the door. “I'm going upstairs to lie down. This inquisition has been a dreadful strain.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to insist,” Lieutenant Rosen said. When he realized that Douglas had no intention of stopping, he added, “Here, or at the station, Mr. Twiller; it's up to you.”

Douglas snorted, but he did not stop. He went up the stairs, and shortly thereafter a door above closed with a quiet sound.

“You didn't strike much fear in his heart,” I commented sweetly as I picked up my purse. “You ought to watch more cop shows on television. No one ever walks out on those guys.”