The Kingdom of Dog (3 page)

 

I left the bar and walked back out to the lobby of Fields Hall, looking for that lost reporter. I saw Juan and Jose, Mike's pet fullbacks, standing at the front door pretending to be security and I smiled to myself. Then I heard the sound of someone singing scales, and followed it down the hall to the admissions office. Outside the door, I ran into Sally Marston.

“Have you seen Joe?” she asked, pushing the door open. “I want him to talk to Bob Moran.”

“Did somebody say Bob Moran?”

The voice belonged to Ike Arumba, the leader of the college's a cappella singing group, The Rising Sons of Eastern. He burst into song, singing, “Bob-bob-bob, bob-bob Moran, Oh, Bob Moran, please take my hand.”

Then the rest of the group, a half-dozen pimply-faced teens, joined him, and I recognized it as a parody of the Beach Boys' song “Barbara Ann.” The Rising Sons specialized in that kind of mash-up, putting new words to old melodies. They wore Eastern College sweatshirts, embellished with the college's rising sun logo, khaki slacks, and straw boaters that were supposed to remind people of old-fashioned a cappella groups.

Ike was a tall, skinny senior from Wyoming who volunteered in the admissions office, helping Eastern recruit in the Western and Mountain regions. When they finished singing, he said, “Hope you don't mind us using your office to rehearse, Miss Marston. We'll clear out now, though.”

“It's all right with me, Ike. Have you seen Mr. Dagorian?”

He shook his head. “We're just going to go outside for a quick smoke. If I see him on the way I'll tell him you're looking for him.”

The guys filed out and I looked at Sally. I was surprised that a bunch of college singers would be smoking cigarettes, especially right before a performance. Behind their backs, she mimed putting a joint to her mouth and inhaling deeply.

“The last time I saw Joe he was at the bar,” I said, so Sally and I went back to the ballroom together, but Joe wasn't there. We stopped at the front door, watching Babson operate on the room. His wife Henrietta was next to him, along with their daughters, Penelope, Lenore and Denise—or Henny, Penny, Lenny and Denny, as he called them.

“The man's a megalomaniac,” Sally said with wonderment. “I'm continually amazed at him. To hear him talk, you'd think the holy trinity was Harvard, Yale and Eastern. No, make that Eastern, Harvard and Yale.”

I laughed. “This party's his big show. Look around you-- all these tuxedos, diamonds, the Eastern Strings over there, even down to the name tags and the ice buckets. They're all here because of him. He's the force that got this campaign going, and if we do raise this $500 million it'll be all because of him.”

“A half a billion dollars. I still marvel at that. They say it's the largest sum a small college has ever tried to raise.”

Across from us, Babson spotted me and motioned. I made my apologies to Sally and crossed the crowded parquet floor to him. He was a commanding figure in his tuxedo and spit-polished Italian dress shoes, a dignified small carnation crowning his lapel. “Are you ready to get started?” I asked.

“It's about time, don't you think?”

“After you speak, f you don't mind, I'd like you to talk to a couple of reporters. The Leighville
Gazette
is here, as well as a couple of papers from Allentown and Bethlehem. Pascal Montrouge from the
Courier-Times
is around somewhere, and I hope the Philadelphia
Inquirer
will send their education reporter, too.”

“Mind? Of course I don't mind. That's what I'm here for. You just gather them up for me. Say, why don't you have the Strings play that fast version of “Mother Eastern, how we love thee” as the first dance? It comes out sort of like a cha-cha.”

“Good idea, sir.”

Babson and I walked over to the small dais set up along the wall of French doors that faced out to the valley. Lights glimmered along the hillsides and spotlights illuminated the back lawn. In warmer weather, the volleyball team practiced there, and sun-seeking undergrads spread their blankets there at the first breath of spring.

President Babson mounted the dais. He motioned to the band, which played a little drum flourish, and then he began speaking. “Since her founding 150 years ago,” he boomed, “Eastern has ranked among the most outstanding and selective institutions of higher education in this country. We have enjoyed the reputation of being a member of the Little Ivy League.” His words echoed around the large, high-ceilinged room.

Babson was tall and rawboned, but instead of being taciturn he bubbled over with enthusiasm, no matter what the subject or his knowledge of it. He had deep green eyes and dark curly hair that he styled with the kind of greasy kid stuff I had abandoned when I reached puberty. When I recall talking to him as a student, it's the eyes I remember, and how I wanted to avoid them. But the tables were turned tonight and Babson wasn't glaring at me for some college prank but talking from notes I'd written. And his eyes were trained on those rich folks in the audience who could make his dream of Eastern come true.

He paused strategically. The room was completely still. Wind whistled softly at the windows behind Babson, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Joe slip out the ballroom door to the hallway. Not surprising that he'd lose patience with Babson's fund-raising speech.

“The aim of this campaign is to enable Eastern to take her true place among the great colleges and universities of the world,” Babson said. “Throughout the next five years of the campaign, and for years to come, we will continue to provide the stellar education that makes us proud to call Eastern Alma Mater.”

The audience erupted with applause. I turned to Sally, who had appeared beside me. “Isn't he amazing? He makes me think we might just pull this off.”

“As long as Joe doesn't cause more problems. I overheard him complaining to an alum about the wastefulness of this campaign and telling the man that if he wanted to make a contribution he should be sure to direct it to scholarships, not the campaign.”

I groaned. “He needs to keep his mouth shut. Or retire.”

Sally brushed a crumb from her party dress, a taffeta number that looked a bridesmaid's dress with the flounces cut off. “You know he'll never leave Eastern as long as he's breathing. This college means everything to him.”

“His vision of it, that is.”

Babson introduced the Eastern Strings, and they played the first dance, that fast, cha-cha version of “Mother Eastern.” Sally said, “I'd better keep looking for Joe. I don't want him to run up against Bob Moran without an escort. Who knows what he'll say.”

“I saw him walk out halfway through Babson's speech. But I had a talk with him the other day. He might be mellowing toward Marty Moran.”

“And the polar icecaps might melt tomorrow.” She looked around. “I don't see Bob Moran anywhere either. I hope they aren't off somewhere arguing.”

Sally went in one direction and I went in the other, toward a pair of glass doors that led to the garden. It was too cold to let the party spill outside, but we had lit up the garden to show off its beauty. As I stood there, the Rising Sons stampeded inside past me, leave the faint smell of marijuana in their wake. Ike Arumba wasn't with them, though.

I saw the reporter I'd been looking for, Pascal Mountrouge of the Bucks County
Courier-Times
, a tall, handsome Frenchman who was a bit too oily for my taste. We had a quick conversation about Eastern and the campaign, and he promised to come up to the campus in the next couple of weeks for a more in-depth profile.

Just as I said goodbye to him, Ike came hurrying past me. He looked agitated. I guess the marijuana didn't mellow him out.

“We're going to sing in a couple of minutes,” he said to me. “You see where the guys went?”

“Toward the ballroom.” I watched him go, then turned toward a display of flowers on a side table. Someone had knocked the table and half the blooms had tumbled out. By the time I had the flowers together, I heard the Rising Sons begin singing and went back to the ballroom.

After three a cappella harmonies they led the crowd in a stirring rendition of “Hail, alma mater, we are thy sons and true. ” I heard its words, composed by a couple of drunken grads at a maudlin reunion, and felt proud to be back at Eastern. I owed the school something. They had given me an excellent education for almost nothing, had nurtured my mind, body and spirit.

And that reminded me that I had promised to help Sally find Joe, so I went back on the prowl. As I passed the glass doors to the garden, Norah Leedom came inside, rubbing her hands together. She was Joe's ex-wife, a poet in the English department who also ran the visiting writers' series. She defied my expectations of a woman poet-- she was short, wiry and athletic, and ran half-marathons as a hobby.

“You must have a strong constitution,” I said. “Going out in this cold without a coat.” At least her dress was more practical than Sally's, an ankle-length in maroon velvet with long sleeves. It was as simple and spare as her usual jeans and cotton shirts.

“I'm from Vermont, Steve. We don't wear coats until the weather drops into single digits.”

I wondered if she'd been smoking with the Rising Sons, but that really wasn't my business. “Enjoying the party?” I asked.

“You never know where you're going to get inspiration. I've been turning the idea for a poem over in my head, and something that happened outside just might be the key to figuring out what I want to say.” She smiled. “Sorry I can't be more concrete than that right now. I have to let the images stew around in my brain for a while.”

She looked at me. “We miss you over in the English department, Steve. Any chance of you coming back to teach?”

“Maybe in the fall. I really do like teaching, but right now I think I can make my best contribution to Eastern on the staff.”

“I have a couple of students this semester who had Freshman Comp with you. They speak very highly of you. And they write pretty well, too.”

“Thanks. I'm flattered.” Just then I looked beyond her and saw a streak of gold rush past. “Uh-oh, my dog must have gotten out of my office. I have to go after him.”

I left Norah behind as I ran out the door calling “Rochester! Where are you? Get back here!”

I ran toward the sound of his barking, but there was a prickly hedge in the way and I had to detour around it. I stumbled on a rock and lost my balance, nearly falling, then slid in a mucky place, cursing the damned dog the whole time.

“Rochester! I'm going to kill you when I find you!” I called.

He just kept barking. Finally I came around a stand of pine trees to see him standing next to a pile of something on the ground. I rushed across the ground toward him. “Bad dog!” I said. “How did you get out of my office?”

He barked again, shaking his head, and I stepped sideways, letting the light from the ballroom illuminate what he was looking at.

Joe Dagorian lay sprawled on the lawn. Rich red blood oozed from a wound at his neck, staining the dark green grass.

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called 911, my hands shaking from a combination of the cold, fear, and being out of breath. I managed to tell the operator who I was, where I was, and why I needed the police as soon as possible. All the while I had to restrain Rochester, who kept trying to sniff Joe's body.

His tuxedo jacket had come open, and the blood dripped down his white shirt, disappearing below his black cummerbund. His face was pale and his eyes gazed sightlessly up. He didn't appear to be breathing, and from the massive amount of blood I could see I knew there was nothing I could do to help him.

When I finished with the cops, I called campus security as well. I felt helpless, and flashed back to when I had discovered Caroline Kelly's body a year before. She had been beyond anything I could do, too.

I knelt down and wrapped my arm around Rochester's neck, and he rubbed his cold nose against my hands. In the distance I heard the sound of the the party going on in the ballroom. The contrast was striking—here was Joe, who had devoted his life to Eastern, dead just as we had assembled hundreds of people to celebrate the college. I felt a profound sense of grief at seeing a man I admired whose life had just been snuffed out.

I was still huddled against Rochester for warmth when a security guard came up in his little golf cart. “What's going on?” he said, not getting out of the cart.

I pointed at Joe, my teeth chattering.

He shone his flashlight toward Joe, and said, “Jesus. That's Mr. Dagorian, isn't it? Did you call the police?”

I nodded. “You'd better get inside,” the guard said. “You're going to freeze out here. I'll wait for the cops.” He shook his head, then began playing his flashlight around the grounds, as if Joe's killer was still lurking behind the shrubbery.

I grabbed Rochester's collar and dragged him across the lawn to the French doors to my office. He'd knocked open the handle, and I closed and locked it again. Fortunately the door hadn't been open long so the office was still pretty warm. Looking down at my hands, I saw red dots on my fingers. I realized they had to be Joe's blood.

But how had I gotten blood on my hands? I hadn't touched him at all.

Then I looked at Rochester. He had a red smudge on his nose. “Oh, yuck,” I said. “Rochester, you were sniffing blood? That's just gross.” I rummaged in my desk drawer for some moistened wipes, and cleaned up my hands and Rochester's nose. Then I pulled a couple of tiny T-bones from the treat jar. Rochester gulped them greedily.

I rubbed my arms, trying to warm up. “I guess I should go back out to the party, huh?”

Rochester just sat there on his haunches staring expectantly at me. Wearily, I stood up. “Don't go anywhere,” I said to him. I checked the lock on the French doors, then locked my office door behind me.

Back in the ballroom, I looked for Babson, but he was nowhere in sight. The Rising Sons were just finishing another song, the audience clustered around appreciatively.

I was still in shock and operating on automatic pilot, but I managed to climb a few steps up the dais next to the Rising Sons. Ike looked at me in surprise, and I motioned a quick slice against my throat, only too late realizing that I had probably mimed the method of Joe's death as well as a message to stop singing.

The audience erupted in applause for the Rising Sons. I waited a couple of beats before I said, “Ladies and gentlemen.” I had to repeat it three times before there was quiet in the room. “I'm afraid that there has been an unfortunate occurrence this evening. We would appreciate it if you would all remain here for a few minutes, until the police and the ambulance arrive.”

The audience started buzzing as a siren sounded in the distance, a low whine that grew in intensity. “If you'd all please be patient,” I said, though it didn't have much effect on the crowd. I looked around For Babson again but still couldn't see him.

The ambulance ground to a halt outside, the flashing red lights strobing the ballroom, and the tension level in the ballroom escalated another couple of notches. Women were clutching their evening bags, men talking to each other and pulling out cell phones. Everyone wanted to know what was going on.

A pair of uniformed police stepped in door of the ballroom, followed by Tony Rinaldi. He was a detective in the Leighville police department, a chunky guy of about my age with a baby face and a head of thick black hair. I'd had some dealings with him in the past.

The crowd began clustering around the door to the ballroom, and Tony had to fight his way through them, repeating his excuses as he tried to calm people down. By the time he made it to the dais, the crowd's attention had shifted from the door to him.

“Quiet, please.” He clapped his hands together hard and people looked up in surprise. “No one is in danger, but none of you will be allowed to leave the building until you have been interviewed by the police. Form an orderly line and we'll get you out of here as soon as possible.”

“What happened?” a man called from the side of the room. I recognized him as Richard Seville, Barbara's father. He had his camel hair coat over his arm. I figured he'd been on his way out of the party when the cops stopped him.

“Yes, tell us,” a woman said.

From the side of the room, Bob Moran called out, “You can't keep us all in the dark,” an ironic comment from a guy who sold electric cars. His wife and his son were at his side.

Babson appeared at the foot of the dais. “What's going on?” he demanded. “Why are there police here?”

“I'm not at liberty to provide any details right now,” Tony announced to the crowd. “The quickest way to get out of here tonight is going to be to cooperate. All troublemakers will be isolated to be dealt with after the rest of the crowd is allowed to depart.”

There was more grumbling, but at least no one challenged him. I stepped down from the dais and spoke to President Babson as the officers began forming an interview line. I explained what I had found, and that I had called the police.

“You should have tried to find me first,” he said. “I need to know what's going on. And Joe. Why, he was one of my oldest friends.” He looked pale and shaken.

“I thought my first priority had to be to call the police,” I said. “I did look around for you before I spoke to the crowd, but I couldn't find you. I had to make sure that no one left before the police got here.”

“This changes everything,” he said, shaking his head. “My god. Joe.”

Mike MacCormac approached us from the side of the ballroom, and Babson turned to him. “I need to speak to you, Mike. In my office, now. Steve, you stay here and try to keep the damage to a minimum.”

He turned and stalked out, followed by Mike.

I stood there, still in shock, thinking of Joe and trying to ignore the fact that this murder had happened at Eastern, where I was responsible for creating a good public image. At the door, several officers took names and addresses, and asked questions about what they had seen. All the reporters were clustered around Tony, badgering him for a statement, and I asked them to meet me in a corner of the ballroom. There were a half dozen of them, including Pascal Montrouge and a stringer for the
Inquirer
who lived in Leighville and occasionally sold a story to national magazines as well.

“You sure know how to throw a party, Steve,” Montrouge said. “This'll make page one for sure. I'd like to speed up my timetable to come back up here with a photographer to take some pictures, get some background on the college. How's tomorrow? Will you be available?” His eyes gleamed. “Everything related to the campaign, of course. Excellence for Eastern and all that.”

“I doubt if I'll be leaving on vacation, although I might want to.”

“You have a statement for us?” the stringer asked.

“Not yet. I'm going to meet with President Babson in a few minutes. You all have Blackberries or smart phones, right?” Everyone nodded. “I'll email a statement to you.”

As a group, they turned to go back to Tony, and as they did, he caught my eye and said, “I want to talk to you. Don't leave the campus without telling me.”

I nodded, then slumped against a wall for a few minutes, trying to regroup. After a while, I took a couple of deep breaths and returned to my office.

Rochester was waiting just inside the door for me, and he jumped up and put his paws on my thighs. As always, being with him made me feel better. I scratched behind his ears, and he lay down on the carpet. I got down next to him and rubbed his belly.

Barbara and Jeremy appeared at the door of my office. “We cleaned up the registration table and brought you the name tags and lists, Mr. Levitan,” she said. “Are you OK?”

“Just spending some quality time with Rochester,” I said, standing up. “Thanks for your help tonight.”

“It was fun,” she said. “That is, until Mr. Dagorian got killed. This is the first time I was ever someplace where somebody got murdered. It was creepy.”

“Don't think too much about it. But you should get security to run you back to the dorm.”

Barbara smiled and put her arm through Jeremy's. “It's OK. Jeremy will walk with me.”

I shook my head. “Barbara, a man was killed here tonight. We don't know who did it, or if that person is still hanging around on the campus. Have security drive you both.”

She looked at Jeremy and he nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Levitan. We'll do that,” he said.

I turned on my computer and tried to compose a statement for the press about Joe's murder. My hands were still shaking a bit, and it was hard to focus, but after a half hour I had something drafted. I printed it, then left Rochester with his rawhide bone and went down the hall to Mike's office, where he and Babson were still talking about the potential damage to the campaign.

I handed Babson the statement. He barely looked at it. “It looks fine, Steve. I can't focus on anything more tonight. We'll meet tomorrow morning to go over things.” He stood up and stretched. “You both should go home. Tomorrow's going to be a tough day.”

I wanted nothing more than to leave, but I had promised Tony I would wait around to talk to him. It took the better part of an hour before he was ready for me. By the time he came into my office, I was sitting back behind my desk. Rochester jumped up and rushed toward him, nosing him right in the crotch.

“So I understand this dog is getting into trouble again,” he said, sitting down in the spindly chair across from my desk. Rochester sprawled at his feet.

Back when Tony was investigating a couple of deaths in Leighville that were related to Caroline's death, I had tried to convince him that Rochester had special abilities when it came to solving crimes. But he didn't buy it.

“Rochester led me to Joe's body,” I said. “He broke out of here and went running toward Joe, and I saw him and followed him.”

I walked through what I had done with him. How I'd been in the hallway and seen Rochester streak past, then gone to chase him. “Your office wasn't locked?” Tony asked.

“It was, but I think Rochester forced the handle on the French door.” I stood up and walked over to it. “He figured out that he can push the handle down with his paws if he's scratching.” I demonstrated. The door was locked, but when I pushed really hard, the latch popped. So much for college security.

Rochester lay on his side, with one paw over his face, as if he wasn't watching what was going on.

“So he just decided to break out?” Tony asked.

“I guess. You'd have to ask him if he saw or heard anything.”

“Right. You see anyone coming or going as you ran after him?”

I shook my head.

“Any idea why the dog would be out there? Or Dagorian?”

“No on both counts.”

“I probably could get better answers from the dog,” he said. “Listen, I've got a lot to cover tonight. I'll come back tomorrow and we'll talk some more.”

As he was leaving, Sally came in, carrying a big shopping bag full of plastic containers, looking pale and drawn. “I can't believe Joe is dead. I feel so terrible.”

Tony nodded to her, and said, “Tomorrow,” then walked out.

“Well, at least the kickoff is sure to make the papers now,” I said drily. “Isn't it lucky we invited all those reporters, and wined and dined them, too.”

“The Strings want to know if they'll get paid for the whole evening. The violinist said it was probably some disgruntled parent whose kid didn't get in.” She rubbed her upper arms. “Could you imagine? Killing someone for something like that?”

“The Strings will get all we promised them. Anybody who can play “Mother Eastern” as a cha-cha has my admiration.”

“You know, I feel like this is all part of some gruesome college theater production,” Sally said. Rochester came over to sniff her shopping bag, and she opened up a container and gave him a filet mignon tidbit. That made her his friend for life. “I keep hoping Joe will stand up sometime, take a bow, and give us Puck's speech from the end of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
.”

Absently, she handed Rochester another tidbit, which he wolfed greedily. Honestly. You'd think I never fed him.

“If we mortals have offended, think but this, and all is mended,” I quoted. “That you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear.”

“Wow. You know that by heart?”

“I taught the play last semester.” I stood up and found Rochester's leash. “Time to go home, puppy.”

He did his manic kangaroo routine, jumping and turning around and doing his best to keep me from hooking the leash. I pulled on my coat, and Sally zipped up hers and picked up her bag.

As the three of us were leaving Fields Hall, a security guard confronted us and asked Sally and me for identification.