The Grim Steeper: A Teapot Collector Mystery (22 page)

Sophie leaned across the counter and murmured to Vienna, “What offices are back there? Not Dean Asquith’s.”

“No, back there is secretarial, engineering and the mainframe.”

“Engineering . . . you mean, like, systems engineering? Paul Wechsler’s office?”

Just then they heard a screech and two voices engaged in an argument. The voices rose in volume as the two women emerged from the back room, with the exquisitely controlled (usually) Jeanette Asquith following Brenda Fletcher.

“What were you doing in his desk? I want to know,” Mrs. Asquith asked.

Brenda, red-faced, turned to her. “Mrs. Asquith, I’m sorry, but you don’t work here, and you don’t have any right to . . . and anyway, that’s my own business.”

“Do you know where Paul is?” Jeanette shrieked, following. “Do you? Does anyone?” She looked around the office and Vienna shrugged. “He’s not answering my calls,” she continued, her gaze landing once again on Brenda, who appeared alarmed. “He’s not in his apartment,” the dean’s widow said, on a sob. “Please, do any of you know where he is?”

“I certainly don’t, Mrs. Asquith,” Brenda said, walking past the counter. “If I knew, I’d tell you.” As she strode past Sophie, she grabbed her arm and muttered, “Come on, I need to talk to you.”

Sophie let herself be pulled outside to the bracing autumn air. Both of them stood on the front steps of the administrative building for a moment, adjusting to the brilliant hard sunshine of October. Then Brenda started down the few steps, with Sophie tagging along. “Brenda, what’s going on? Were you going through Paul Wechsler’s desk?”

“Yeah, and Mrs. Asquith caught me at it. I was trying to find his daily planner; we all have one issued by Cruickshank, and we’re supposed to keep both our computer planner and our hard copy updated with where we are at all times. His is gone.
He’s
gone.”

“What does that mean?” Sophie said, trotting to keep up.

“I wish I knew,” she said, slowing as she pondered the question. “I’m trying to figure out why Mrs. Asquith is so upset, and what she was doing there. It changes everything. Or . . . maybe not.” She stopped and turned to Sophie halfway to the parking lot. “Do you have any clue who killed Dean Asquith? It’s driving me crazy, and now the theory I had was just blown out of the water.”

“What theory was that?”

“You first,” she said.

But Sophie was not about to break first. “No way. You work with all of these people; you must have an idea.”

She looked undecided, but started across the parking lot and settled on a bench under a tree that had shed a blanket of golden leaves. Sophie followed and sat down next to her.

“I’ve been torn apart,” Brenda said. “I mean, on the one hand . . . I don’t know. But now I want to know, where
is
Paul?”

“Brenda, you’re going to have to be clearer than that. What are you talking about?”

“Okay, all right, but I don’t want the police involved yet. I want to ask him myself.”

“Him who? What are you
talking
about?” Sophie turned on the bench and put her knee up, staring at Brenda and waiting.

“Did you notice, when you were talking to Vince, his collections?”

“The pottery? Sure.”

“He has expensive tastes. I think . . . I’m pretty sure he’s the one who altered the grades.”

Sophie thought back to what Brenda had said to Josh about the murder being committed to cover up another crime. Maybe she knew or surmised more than she had initially been willing to admit. “Why do you say that?”

There were tears in her eyes as she shook her head. “I don’t want it to be true. I’ve always gotten along with Vince. But he keeps buying expensive stuff, and taking trips, and doing renovations. I mean, one of those things, sure, but
all
of them? And with a family, kids near college age? I began to wonder where he was getting the money. I think . . .” She paused and shook her head. Her voice clogged in her throat as she said, “I think he’s been taking money to change grades for some time.”

“Are you saying that you think he killed the dean?”

“No, no of course not! In fact, he couldn’t have. He just
couldn’t
have!”

“But?”

“What?”

“I thought I heard a ‘but’ at the end of your denial.”

Brenda squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay, yeah.
But
 . . . Paul Wechsler, who was looking into the grading thing and may have figured out from keystrokes or passwords or whatever who did it, is missing. And the last time I saw him was yesterday, in Vince’s car.”

Chapter 21

I
t all fell into place; Tara had told Thelma that she had seen two people together who didn’t belong. And Nana said that Thelma swore one sounded like an appliance. Wechsler; could that sound, in Thelma’s mind, like
waxer
? She explained to Brenda what she had heard, though not who she had heard it from. “Is that what my informant meant, then, about seeing two people together who didn’t fit? Were they friends? Did they hang out together usually?”

“Well, no, never. I mean, Vince and Paul were about as different as you can get, and I don’t think they spoke to each other unless it was work related.” The woman looked stunned. “I don’t want it to be Vince. I don’t. He’s been decent to me, and always given me time when I needed it to study for my dissertation defense. He’s even fed my cat when I had to go out of town suddenly! He’s a decent egg.” She shook her head suddenly. “Look, there is no proof—
none
—that it’s Vince.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say there is
no
proof,” Sophie demurred. “I can think of a bunch.” Her eyes widened as she thought of one more, one that tied together a bunch of little threads, but she wasn’t about to share that idea right then until she’d had time to process it.

“I won’t believe it.”

“Brenda, let’s be clear . . . you’re worried that Paul’s disappearance has to do with the dean’s murder. Does that mean you’re worried that Paul said something to Vince that tipped him off, and that Vince has done something to him?”

Brenda’s expression cleared. “No, hearing it out loud like that . . . it’s ridiculous. You’ve met Vince; he’s the cool, calm, collected type. There must be an explanation. I have one surefire way of figuring this out, and then I can tell you everything.”

“What do you mean? What way?”

But Brenda shook her head. “Look, I don’t know anything, and I’m certainly not going to throw Vince under the bus until I know for sure. There has to be another explanation.”

Sophie nodded. That’s exactly what she would say and do in Brenda’s shoes.

“So what if Paul and Vince were together; they’re colleagues, for heaven’s sake, right?” Brenda said. “They don’t have to be best of friends to be in a car together. They could have been just talking or . . .” Her eyes widened. “Maybe
Paul
is the culprit and has taken off now for good.”

Sophie considered; it was possible. “Paul crashed the car he was driving yesterday, so maybe he needed a lift somewhere. I could go back and ask Vince.”

Brenda shook her head. “Look, if I’m wrong and Vince
did
kill Dean Asquith . . .” She paused and shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m even entertaining that notion, but okay . . . if that’s the case and you confront Vince, that’ll
show your hand. It could ruin things. Right? If there is a case against him?”

Sophie nodded. “You’re right. But do you think Paul’s in any danger?”

Brenda shook her head. “No way. I don’t really think Vince is the guilty one. I’ve worked with the guy for two years, and he’s not the type. But all I’m saying is, Vince will be here all day—he never leaves early—so we know where he is.”

“You aren’t going to do anything foolish, are you?” Sophie asked, watching the other woman’s eyes, the calculating expression, the intense stare. “Please say you won’t take any risks.”

“No, no way. I like living too much.” She shivered and fingered her lapel pin, the Sagittarius, maybe a lucky talisman. “Just promise
me
you won’t tell anyone what I’m thinking about Vince, and you won’t turn him in. If he didn’t do anything . . . look, I don’t want him to go through . . .” She shook her head. “He’s a good guy. Unless I’m completely wrong. But . . . no, I’ll tell you later. Can I call you?”

They exchanged cell phone numbers, and Brenda made her promise not to do anything until she got back to her later. She then strode off across the grass, back to the administrative building.

So that was that, for now. Sophie’s cell phone chimed; it was a text from Jason, who was waiting for a student in his office. He said,
Never leave my door unlocked and computer logged on; one of the things I told Dean A and Paul W. Gotta go; talk later?

So that answered that. She tapped in
See u later
,
and just then the phone rang. She answered.

It was Dana. “So, I have a million things to tell you. I talked to Wally.”

“Nothing about the investigation? I thought you were going to—”

“Humor me, Sophie. Let me tell things my way.”

Sophie sighed and sat back on the bench. There was nothing to do when Dana had something in her mind. She’d do it her way, or no way at all.

“I talked to Wally, and told him what’s up with Cissy. The dufus is so freaking relieved! He was afraid Cissy had feelings for my man. Can you believe that?”

“What’s he going to do?”

“What I told him to. If you can hurry up and wrap up this case, he can get some time off and take Cissy for a weekend in the Poconos. I have a friend—an old boyfriend—who has a cabin he’ll lend me, and I’m sending those two kids on a weekend alone so he can propose properly without Thelma calling her every half hour.”

“If I can hurry up and wrap up this investigation?”

“That’s what I said. And by the way? He was so relieved, I got Wally to spill some details. There
was
poison in the dean’s system, but not enough to kill him, just to make him woozy. Something called aconite? I guess it can come from a local plant, the monkshood?”

Sophie immediately thought of Vince Nomuro’s Man of the Year plaque for preserving local plant species. She
really
hoped Brenda didn’t do anything that tipped him off to their suspicions.

“By the way, ‘woozy’ is not the official word; that’s mine,” Dana added. “Anyway, the cause of death ultimately was a stab wound to a major artery feeding the heart. He bled out quickly and died, possibly within a few minutes of being hit. A lucky strike, Wally called it.”

“No weapon?”

“The killer must have taken the weapon with him. Or her. If whatever he was stabbed with had stayed in, he may have had a better chance, from what I understand. It looks like, according the doctor, he was ripped up inside as the weapon was pulled out. Wally says the doctor was kind of puzzled and wouldn’t commit himself as to what kind of weapon it was, but maybe a barbed knife. I looked it up online; there’s this knife called a zombie killer, a throwing knife, and it is wicked!”

“That’s awful.”

“I’ll send you a pic of one I found.”

Sophie received the message and examined the knife. It was odd looking, like three arrow points on a shaft.

“Yikes, that looks lethal!” Something like that sure would do damage as it was pulled out of a wound.

“I know. I went to the dress shop to talk to Sherri Shaw. Nice place, by the way. You should go there, get some decent clothes. I found the cutest sundress for next year, half off! I’ll wear it when Eli and I go on our honeymoon to Madrid.”

Sophie shook her head, trying to get rid of the cotton between her ears. Dana was occasionally scattered and her thoughts were rapid fire, like a machine gun, rat-a-tat-tat, a barrage of words and half thoughts. “So did you find out anything from Sherri at the dress shop?”

“She’s mad and sad, all at once,” Dana said, her tone more sober. “That’ll be forty-three fifty-seven; cash, credit or debit?”

“What? Oh, you’re at work.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you. Have a nice day!”

Sophie was about to ask what again, when Dana said, “Now, where was I? Sherri . . . poor girl. This has hit her hard. She said the dean told her she was the love of his life, that he’d do anything for her, and that they were going to run away to New York together.”

“And she bought it?’

“She’s one of
those
women,” Dana said. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. Just that she buys it. She believes it. He says things, she takes them in, embellishes them and spins them into a fairy dream castle with her as the pretty pink Barbie at the center. Can I help you?”

“What? Oh . . . Dana, I’ve got another call coming in and you’ve got a customer. Can I call you back? Or, you call me when the store is deserted.”

“’Kay. We have a sale on textbooks for this season. What are you looking for?”

The other call was Josh. He had sneaked out during a study period. “Sophie, I wondered about something. We were trying to figure out how the poison got into the dean’s system, if there was any.”

“There was; I just got the confirmation. Aconite, maybe from a local plant called monkshood.”

He told her his idea, and it meshed exactly with what she had been thinking. It all worked together, eyewitness accounts, her own observations, even the physical evidence. Every little bit of information she had jibed. However, one thing worried her deeply; where was Paul Wechsler? Jeanette Asquith said she had been to his home, and he wasn’t there. Brenda was clearly worried about him, too. Sophie looked up at the college administration building. Jeanette had not emerged. Maybe she was still there and Sophie could catch her.

“I have to go, Josh. Thanks for the chat.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I’ll give everything I have to the police and let them sort it out.”

“Good. I was worried you were thinking of tackling the killer yourself.”

“No. I have no plan to do that.”

Dana called moments after she finished with Josh, but she didn’t have much information, though it all confirmed what she already thought. Sherri knew that Jeanette and Paul were together, and she had even spoken to him. Both paramours were hopeful that their dalliance would turn into a permanent relationship. Sherri had left the tea stroll after Dale Asquith promised her he would come to her that night, to
talk things over
, but he never showed up.

He was concerned mostly about how he came out of the scandal, and not so much who actually did it, according to Sherri. Trouble was, his intent to go into full damage control by announcing he’d reveal who made the grade change, or changes, may have given his killer a reason to not wait another minute and kill him that very night. At the very least, in Sophie’s estimation, it tied his murder to the grading scandal.

“It’s odd that Paul Wechsler is not to be found today,” Sophie mused, but another customer came in that moment and Dana had to go.

Jeanette Asquith emerged from the administration building and headed down the walk to the parking lot. Sophie skipped across the green and caught up with her.

“Mrs. Asquith, I’m so sorry about everything you’re going through.”

The woman, her eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, her face lined with worry, stared at her. “I beg your pardon? Who are you?”

“I’m Sophie Taylor, you remember? Rosalind Taylor’s daughter? We’ve spoken a couple of times, the last was at the tea stroll. I work for my grandmother at Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House?”

“Yes, of course. You must forgive me. My brain is . . .
with everything that’s happened I just . . .” She reached a champagne-colored Mercedes sedan and stood, her whole body wavering. She clutched the door handle but looked like she was holding on to keep from falling rather than about to get in the car.

“Mrs. Asquith, why don’t you come and sit down for a moment. You look like you’re about to faint.” Sophie felt terrible for her, but was also hopeful she could learn more and get the woman’s story. She led her across the grass to sit on a bench that was along the walk up to the building.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“How is your mother?” the woman asked, straightening her spine, her exquisite manners taking over even in the midst of her breakdown.

“She’s well, in Tahiti right now. Or Bora-Bora. I can’t remember. I talked to her yesterday.” Sophie hesitated a moment, glancing over at the late dean’s wife, who sat stiffly, rigidly upright. “I told her about your husband and she sent her condolences.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been getting lots of those . . . condolences. What does that even mean? Condolences; from the root word ‘condole’; to express sympathy for a person who is suffering grief, or loss.” She glanced at Sophie. “I’m a fallen woman, according to my late unlamented mother-in-law. She knew I had my . . . outside interests, and she knew Dale did, too. But she blamed
me
for both of them. Said if I was any kind of woman, I’d be able to keep him faithful. How about that? I not only strayed, but I was also to blame for my husband straying.”

She snorted an ungenteel laugh that ended on a sob. “No one could keep Dale faithful because his whole ego was tied up in being that kind of man, the one all women wanted. I
know because for a long while I actually tried. But especially lately. He was worried about losing his appeal as he aged, so he had accelerated his pace of late. Poor Sherri, she thought she could change him.”

“Why didn’t you leave?” Sophie asked, genuinely curious.

“I knew what I signed up for. We weren’t in love; we were well matched. I didn’t think I’d get to care, you know?” She sighed. “I did care. I didn’t love him, not in that way, but we spent a lot of years together and we made a compatible couple for much of it.”