The Grim Steeper: A Teapot Collector Mystery (21 page)

Sophie was a pragmatist; if the college’s biggest problem was that athletics brought money in, they were doing all right. She was probably vastly oversimplifying the problem and she was sure Jason would have an argument against it, but it wasn’t much of a problem, in her mind. Now that she knew a little more about the coach, she proceeded, altering her methods slightly. She sank down on a hard plastic chair by the door, jamming her hands in her jacket pockets.

“It’s so awful that this is all going on. I don’t know what to make of it. But Jason didn’t do the grade altering; I’ve known him for years, and I’d bet on that! And now with Dean Asquith being murdered right outside my grandmother’s tearoom . . . I don’t know what to think.” She looked up at him as he swigged his root beer. “Coach, who would do such a terrible thing? You were with the group that evening; who do you think did it?”

“I was there, but me and Penny took off early. Not my scene. I only went because Dale made such a big deal out of it and he was good to the athletics department. But I headed home as soon as I could scoot. Needed a beer to wipe out the taste of tea.”

Okay, if that was true he was in the clear. “Who do you really think did the grade altering?” she asked, persisting. Another thing her father had said was, if you didn’t get an answer, keep asking the question in different forms. “Some people are saying the dean was going to make an announcement yesterday morning. Who would he have said?”

He looked conflicted and slumped down in his chair
behind his desk. “I shouldn’t even be saying. Whoever did it didn’t do me any favors. I thought that maybe Lilith Klein had a hand in it.”

Sophie squinted, wrinkling her nose. “The dean of students? You just said she didn’t care about athletes. She surely wouldn’t want to help Mac by upping his grade.”

He leaned forward and shoved some papers aside, agitated. “Don’t you get it? She could alter his grade, then expose it, get Mac put off the team and make it a major scandal for the athletics department. Like we’re all cheaters or something.” He glanced toward the door and whispered, “I think Dale Asquith was onto her, and that’s why she had him killed.”

It was so far out of left field she truly didn’t know what to say. “But you don’t have any proof of that, right?”

“I know what I think,” he said. He shrugged. “Nah. Not really. Truth to tell, I’d bet Jeanette had him killed. That bitch is as cold as ice.”

And that was it for the coach’s information, such as it was. Every path led to a deceiving and manipulative woman, with no information to back it up but his own supposition. It was a miracle he was married, given his gloomy view of womankind.

Confused and baffled, she left the athletic arena and walked across the campus, hands buried in her pockets, enjoying the breeze and the flutter of golden leaves that drifted along the walkways. Students crisscrossed around her, using the paths or the grass, as they wanted. Most stared down at phones, or were lost in the music streaming through earbuds in their ears, but a few pairs and trios conversed as they walked, heads together, texts in backpacks or bookbags.

From a distance she saw a girl with a shiny sheet of blond hair, wearing a plaid short kilt and knee socks on plump legs. She called out Tara’s name and the girl looked up from
her phone. She spotted Sophie and seemed conflicted. Sophie loped across the grass up a hill, reaching the girl near the dorm block.

“Hey, Tara,” Sophie said, by way of greeting. She gasped, catching her breath. “I heard you had a senior run-in last evening.” When the girl looked blank, she said, “Mrs. Earnshaw; you met her when she invaded MacAlister’s dorm room?”

Tara broke into giggles. “She was a hoot! I wish my great-grandmother was half as interesting instead of moaning at me all the time about how all I do is text and that I should do something with my hair, and that no man will ever want me if I don’t lose ten pounds and wipe the smirk off my face.”

“Sounds like my mother,” Sophie said sympathetically. “Mrs. Earnshaw said you mentioned something about seeing two people together who didn’t fit. What did you mean?”

“Oh, that. Right. Nothing important,” she said, her gaze slipping away off to the distance.

She’d come back to that, Sophie thought. “I’ve been trying to find out what’s going on with the investigation into the grade-altering scandal. Have you heard anything?”

She looked troubled. “I don’t know. People are assuming it was Professor Murphy now. I’m so
ticked
about that. I took the easy way out when I mentioned him, and now I can’t convince people he didn’t do it. It’s like the whole thing has taken on a life of its own.”

“That’s the problem with gossip and innuendo; it does tend to get stuck in people’s head. I get peeved when people say stuff like ‘
no smoke without fire.’
Sometimes that’s all it is, smoke puffed into your eyes by someone else with something to hide. Anyway, Tara, you can make it right by helping find out who actually did it.”

“I’ve been trying. But what more can I do? Who do you think I should go after?”

Sophie eyed her. Could the girl be trusted? “Do you plan on nailing someone else to the wall without checking your sources, or retailing gossip and innuendo in the paper?”

“Look, I already apologized. My stupid editor is cranky mad, right. Normally he doesn’t care about anything, but before he died, the dean threatened to shut the paper down if anything like that happened again. I have to come up with something solid, and he’s going to be vetting every article I write for a while.”

So it seemed that Dean Asquith wasn’t behind the story, and perhaps then was not trying to railroad Jason. Sophie shared what the coach had said about Dean Klein, and asked what Tara knew about her.

Tara rolled her eyes. “What an idiot. Dean Klein never did anything, and if he’s implying she killed Dean Asquith, he’s barking up the wrong tree for sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There’s no way she could have done anything. Dean Klein is in a wheelchair.”

Chapter 20

“O
h, okay.” It seemed the coach only brought up Dean Klein’s name as a distraction. “Tara, why don’t you tell me who it was you saw together who didn’t fit?”

“Because it doesn’t matter; I don’t think it’s related.”

“Let me be the judge of that; just
tell
me!”

But her blue eyes were clouded with doubt and she shook her head. “I don’t want to get the wrong person in trouble this time.”

Great time to grow some caution. “Tara, you can trust me not to blab. Finding a murderer is serious business!”

“I know.
You’ve
done that twice,” the girl said.

Her reputation came back to haunt her. “Just tell me who it was.”

“Later,” she said, whirling on her heel and striding away. “I’ve got to get to class right now; I’m late.”

Sophie sighed. “Just don’t get in any trouble!”

“I won’t,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it; it’s nothing!”

Sophie sat down on a bench and texted Jason, telling him she was on campus, and that she had a question. Had he ever walked away from his office and left the door unlocked and was still logged in to the program he used to enter student grades? It was the kind of thing anyone might do, and it could be the easy answer as to who had altered the grade; anyone
could
have who walked past his office.

However . . . even as she still explored that possibility, she had a sense that this went beyond someone simply sneaking into an office and changing one grade. If she was right, there was a systematic raising of grades among key athletes. Paul Wechsler said that there was a pattern (to the raised grades, it was implied) except for an anomaly. She wondered if that anomaly would tell them anything.

She headed back to the administrative building and entered. The place had quieted down some, and she wandered the halls, which smelled of floor wax and oddly, tuna-fish sandwiches, thinking about her next move. She found the registrar’s office. The main door accessed an outer room with a desk, chairs lined up against the wall, and a coatrack. A couple of jackets hung on it, including one that she recognized as Vince Nomuro’s from Sunday evening. But no tweed duffer cap. Not that that told her anything; hats were the kind of thing you changed for different purposes. The desk had Brenda Fletcher’s name on it, with the
ASS. REG.
designation that amused Dana so. But Brenda was absent. Sophie tapped on the inner oak door with the gold plate that said
REGISTRAR—VINCE
NOMURO—MACC
. She heard a peremptory “Come in,” and eased it open.

Vince looked up from a stack of paperwork, adjusting his glasses. “Oh, it’s you again.”

It was said in a neutral tone, which seemed to be his only tone. He was very low key, especially given this was her second time interrupting his day. She sat down across the desk from him in a comfortable black-and-chrome chair that had the scent of real leather. His office was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows filled with lush tropical plants, and a view beyond of the parking lot. Shelves of pottery lined the wall behind his desk. Above the shelves was an impressive collection of samurai swords, lethal-looking knives with elaborate hilts, and some reproduction art of Japanese swordsmen and archers.

He was a collector. Her attention was especially attracted to a lovely Japanese Satsuma tea set, golden glazed porcelain, with dragons writhing around the teapot and depicted on the tea bowls surrounding it. He also appeared to collect urns and jars; some were Japanese vases and ginger jars, with ornate enameled designs of dragons and tea ceremonies. One looked like an old Grecian urn, with archers in a chariot chasing a stag on it, but there were a few that looked Egyptian, with processions of stiff figures carrying goodies to a dog-headed god seated on a throne.

It never failed to amaze her the stuff people collected, she thought, as she tried to frame what she was going to say. He watched her, waiting, glancing over at his computer screen from time to time and moving his mouse. “That’s a lovely tea set,” she said to break the ice. “I have a friend who comes from a Japanese family; she gave a talk to my grandmother’s teapot collector group on the tea ceremony of her family’s people. It was fascinating!”

“That is what Julia should be doing at SereniTea,” he said, tapping a pen and turning his computer monitor away from her line of vision. “I think people would enjoy it.”

“You must tell Julia that! My friend SuLinn could help her with it.”

“SuLinn Miller?” he said. “I know her. Her husband is an architect and did some design work for my home. I’m trying to return it to its midcentury-modern floor plan.” He appeared friendlier at the connection.

Interesting. The dean had referenced his renovations, but surely a man of the registrar’s pay level could afford that?

“Is Cruickshank College a good place to work?”

“What an odd question,” he said, frowning across the desk at her.

“I’m trying to get a feel for the place. If Jason is going to be working here awhile, I’ll be at more functions, you know.”

He gave her a slight smile. “It’s a bit like a dysfunctional family, with some infighting and cliques. We’re a normal workplace, I suppose, with all that implies. We have a picnic every summer with our families, and we even do Secret Santa at Christmas, though it’s never much of a secret. I’ve had the same person get my name two years in a row, and she always gets me something
she’d
like, instead of something I’d like.”

Sophie smiled. “My mother does that. She gets me French perfume and jewelry when I’d rather have the latest kitchen gadget.” Okay, so they’d made friends and shared stories; it was time to be blunt. “Mr. Nomuro, what would you say if someone said they had seen you late the night the dean was killed, right outside our establishment where he was murdered?”

Without hesitation he replied, “I’d say I was not there, so someone is trying to frame me.”

“And why would anyone do that?”

He steepled his long, boney fingers in front of his mouth. After a lengthy pause, he said, “I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess.”

“But you have suspicions?”

He shook his head, staying silent. Everyone was stonewalling her, it seemed. She’d try another approach. “Did you and the dean get along?”

“For the most part,” he said, flattening his hands on the desk surface. “Miss Taylor, why are you asking me all these particular questions?”

“So if someone said you were arguing with him that night, they’d be lying?” she persisted.

He hesitated a moment, but then said, his tone firm, “I would not occasion a guess as to what people may or may not assume from my demeanor.”

That was a deflection, not an answer. Sophie recalled the conversation she had overheard between him and his assistant the night of the basketball game. He was tense, keeping his eye on Dean Asquith. What had he said, that he didn’t trust the dean? That Asquith was desperate for the scandal to go away before it hurt fund-raising or his job. That he was intent on keeping his eye on Asquith implied that he was afraid the dean would try to pawn blame off on someone handy, someone dispensable, maybe even the registrar. But did Vince have a reason to be afraid of what a thorough investigation would uncover?

She eyed a photo among the pottery pieces on the shelf behind. The registrar had a wife and two teenagers. “I didn’t get a chance to meet your wife the night of the tea stroll. Was she there?”

“No, she travels a lot on business.” His tone betrayed a growing impatience. “She’s in Hong Kong right now.”

And teenage kids wouldn’t be likely to keep tabs on when dear old dad came home. He could easily have been the assailant. Just then the door swung open and Brenda Fletcher leaned
into the room. “I’m back, Vince, and I’ve . . . oh, you’ve got company. Sorry.”

Sophie turned in her chair, and the assistant registered her recognition.

“You!” Brenda said. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Brenda, don’t be rude. However, it’s a timely interruption; I’m sorry, Miss Taylor, but I do have a lot of work to do,” he said, waving his hand at the stack of paperwork and computer. “I’d appreciate it if you showed yourself out. I hope you’ll excuse me.”

She sat for a moment, wondering if she could get any more questions in, but it would look too pointed if she did, certainly, and he was already tired of her. She scanned his wall of certificates, including his MAcc, and various plaques from local nature conservancy groups. He was Man of the Year two years before for his work in preserving natural plant species.

Plant species. She glanced back toward him; he watched her with his dark brows knit, then he shoved some graying straight thick hair off his forehead and glanced pointedly at his computer monitor. “I’m keeping you,” she said. “I’ll go.”

She followed Brenda to the outer office and closed Vince’s door behind her, but paused while the assistant registrar took off her bomber jacket and hung it up on the coatrack, fussing with one of the pins that caught on the lining. Distracted by an idea she had no clue how to pursue, Sophie lingered, as Brenda sat down at the desk. “You told Josh Sinclair to ask me, did I think that whoever killed the dean did it to hide another crime. What made you ask him that?”

“I don’t know. I was just trying to figure it out.”

“But what in particular did you mean?” Sophie pressed.

“I was just wondering out loud, I guess.” She shrugged. “I didn’t have any tangible clue; I’m no investigator.”

Sophie was disappointed; it would have been nice to have someone else’s input. “Could you tell me where Paul Wechsler’s office is?”

“Paul Wechsler? Why do you want to see him?”

“I’m trying to figure things out, you know? I’m still worried about what this is all doing to Jason’s reputation.” Or at least that was her cover story for asking questions.

“You mean the grading scandal?” She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “All I know is, the dean had Paul going through the whole system, trying to figure out when the grade was changed. I think he asked him if he could tell what computer was used.”

That confirmed Sophie’s suspicion about the computer that was used being recognizable to the system, even though they were all likely on a mainframe. “Isn’t that a little irregular?” When Brenda looked puzzled, she went on, “I mean, isn’t it irregular to have someone doing that kind of forensic examination of the computers when he’s one of the possible suspects?”

The woman frowned down at her hands on the desk and scrunched up her mouth as she thought. “I guess I never considered Paul a suspect. You mean just the grade change, right? Not Dean Asquith’s murder?”

“If he was the one who changed the grade, couldn’t he also be the murderer, if Dean Asquith discovered he was behind the grade tampering and accused him of it?”

Brenda moved in her chair, looking agitated. She glanced toward the registrar’s closed office door. “Look, I’m worried about some stuff. Maybe . . . can we get out of here for a minute? I’ll glance into Paul’s office for you on our way out and see if he’s here.”

Sophie nodded, wondering what was up. Brenda grabbed her jacket and they left the office. She slunk down the hall,
then scooted into the main administrative office. Sophie followed. Vienna Hodge was at the desk, dealing with a student whose schedule was apparently messed up by some change in the curriculum. The fellow trudged out of the office as Brenda ducked past the desk and trotted through, weaving between desks as clerks glanced up from their computers.

“Where is
she
going?” Vienna asked Sophie.

“She’s checking to see if Paul Wechsler is in today.”

Her dark eyes sparkling with mischief, she said, “He is not,
and
he hasn’t called in sick, either. We were all wondering if he and Mrs. Asquith took off together.” She sobered, and the mischief dissipated like mist. “But she actually came in a while ago to talk to the police, who are going through files in the dean’s office.”

Why come
here
to talk to the police? Sophie wondered. Why not go to police headquarters? Though maybe she had already done that. “What’s your take on all of this?” Sophie asked, folding her arms on the counter and watching Vienna sift through a stack of papers. “There must be gossip. Usually support staff know a lot more about what’s going on than their bosses think they do.”

Vienna glanced over her shoulder, but the older woman who was usually at the desk behind the administrative counter was absent, and the other clerks were too far away to hear. “It may sound mean, but there is kind of a betting pool on who changed the grade, and also on who killed the dean!”

Sophie concealed her distaste. “And how are bets running?”

“Don’t you dare tell Auntie Laverne about the betting thing,” Vienna said, shaking her head slightly, her heavy earrings jangling. “But
my
money is on Mrs. Asquith. She’s as cold as ice, and . . . Mrs. Asquith!” Her gaze had shifted to over Sophie’s shoulder and her tone had changed. “How
nice to see you again!” she said, her eyes wide as she gave Sophie a look.

Sophie turned. The dean’s wife, appearing as neat and calm as ever, strode into the office. She glanced at Sophie without appearing to recognize her, then strode past the counter, her high heels making clipped tapping noises on the terrazzo floor. “I need to take a look at something,” she said, but didn’t explain further.