A Little Class on Murder Read online

  “So you’re cramping his style,” Annie observed with satisfaction.

  “Trying my damnedest.”

  “What’s your feeling about Frank Crandall?” Max asked.

  Burke sighed. “Jesus Christ, what a fool! I told Frank to cool it with Georgia, and I haven’t seen them together lately, out if The Crier carries a story indicating his involvement with a student, the trustees will go berserk, and I sure as hell won’t be able to recommend him for tenure. Frankly, I’m about to decide against it anyway. Anybody should have better sense than Frank. Look at his damn marriage!”

  “What’s wrong with his marriage?” Annie heard the stiffness in her voice. After all, she was really all for the institution of matrimony.

  Burke shook his head in disgust. “Wrong with it? It should never have happened. The man showed all the intelligence and spunk of a subnormal woodchuck.” He ran an impatient hand through thinning gray hair. “Okay, Frank joins the faculty. Adrianne is the chairman’s wife. She drives poor Kenneth to a breakdown from all accounts, then when Kenneth dies, she moves in on Frank, who’s twenty years younger, and fastens on tighter than a wood tick. Frank, the dumb jerk, is too much of a gentleman to tell her to shove off, so she keeps calling him up. And I’ll admit she’s pretty sexy, if your taste runs to the front line of a fifties chorus. Anyway, according to Sue, the hungry widow got him in bed, then started making plans for a wedding and the benighted fool let himself be bullied into it.” He gnawed at his lower lip. “But if that damn Kelly spills it all in The Crier, Frank is through.”

  “Why doesn’t he get a divorce?”

  “No guts. Adrianne will give him living hell and people like Frank hate scenes. Plus, he’s waited a little late insofar as his career is concerned. The trustees won’t have professors screwing coeds. If it comes out publicly, it will be a cold day in hell before Frank gets tenure here. And it could make it damn difficult for him to get a job somewhere else.”

  “So we can be absolutely certain Crandall didn’t supply the information to Kelly,” Annie concluded.

  “Not unless he’s really trying to self-destruct.” Burke glanced up at the wall clock. “And that pretty well wraps it up, as far as the faculty’s concerned.” He stood. “Check back with me this afternoon. Before that damn press conference. We’ll compare notes, see what we’ve found out.”

  They were almost to the door when Annie paused. “Charlotte Porter. You said Kelly never asked you why she took the money. Do you know?”

  “Yeah.” He reached out to the windowsill, picked up the twisted bar of steel and turned it in his hands, but automatically, without looking at it, and Annie knew this must be an habitual gesture when he was deep in thought. He gripped the angular bar at both ends. His hands clenched.

  The end-of-class bell rang. Ten minutes to ten.

  Burke glanced again at the wall clock. He thudded the bar back into place on the windowsill. “Yeah. I know. And that’s another decision I have to make before three o’clock. Charlotte died because half her secret was exposed. Do I keep my mouth shut, let people think she was some kind of venal thief, or do I tell why she did it?” A vein throbbed in his forehead. “Kelly’s a sorry little shit. I hate to see him getting away with his pose as a great investigative reporter uncovering malfeasance in office, braving the hostility of the department to unmask wrongdoing. Jesus, I’d like to have people understand about Charlotte.” He opened the door for them. “All right, you two find out what you can. I’ll do the same. We’ll huddle just before three.”

  The first bell for ten o’clock classes sounded as they stepped into the hall, into a swirl of hurrying students.

  Annie and Max parted company at the top of the stairs on the second floor, he turning toward the faculty wing, she heading for her classroom. She regretted a little that she couldn’t accompany Max on his rounds, but she didn’t really envy him, poking and prodding into strained relationships. She walked with a bounce, despite her fatigue (only three hours’ sleep after their late-night foray to rescue Laurel), because she was eager to get started with her class. Her surge of happiness was, of course, slightly tempered by the knowledge of the class’s composition. However, even Henny, Laurel, and Miss Dora couldn’t squelch her joy in holding forth about three of the greatest practitioners of all time. She began to review in her mind today’s topic, the contributions of Mary Roberts Rinehart to the genre in addition to her gift of the Had-I-But-Known technique, which had through overuse by less skillful writers fallen into bad repute.

  Mentally making a list of some of those offending less skillful writers, she rounded the corner and stopped short. It was a scene guaranteed to strike terror to her heart, those three unmistakable figures deep in earnest conversation.

  10

  Miss Dora’s shaggy white hair rippled as she nodded forcefully, thumping her rubber-tipped cane for added emphasis. Today she wore a green velveteen dress with puffed sleeves and surely, from the circumference of the paneled skirt, at least two crinoline petticoats. A matching green pillbox hat topped her flyaway hair. She looked like an ancient but decidedly determined frog.

  Henny gnawed on an apple. (Annie hoped to God she liked apples.) Gray hair spilled untidily to her shoulders from a lopsided, collapsing beehive hairdo. Somehow (was it the way she stood, the bulkiness of her sweater, the triple pleats of her gray wool skirt?) she gave the impression of bulk, because, of course, Sven Hjerson’s creator and Christie’s wry self-portrait, Ariadne Oliver, was a good-sized woman.

  Not a line of fatigue marred Laurel’s magnolia-smooth complexion. Her shining golden hair was drawn back in a ponytail tied with a saucy lavender bow (anyone else her age would have had a crepey neck). She smiled winningly at Miss Dora and Henny, who appeared to be utterly captivated.

  Dear God, what was Laurel putting them up to?

  Annie broke into a trot.

  Her mother-in-law spotted her and gave a coo of delight, as high, sweet, and endearing as doves calling on a Carolina morning.

  Annie steeled herself against the expected blandishments and was totally surprised and not a little unnerved when the trio exchanged brief, conspiratorial glances, proffered brisk good mornings as she approached, and, in tandem, turned to enter the classroom.

  In growing dismay, Annie stared at the receding backs, at Miss Dora’s sheen of green velvet, Henny’s thick woven brown sweater, and Laurel’s fetching pink blouse. She hadn’t imagined it. The three of them—her own version of the conniving three sisters—had clearly been conferring upon some matter of substance and, just as clearly, had reached an understanding.

  Annie paused in the doorway.

  Miss Dora had reclaimed her seat in the middle of the front row, directly opposite the lectern. She might have been a queen at a state funeral, her posture was so regal. High-buttoned black leather shoes, planted firmly together, peeked from beneath the full skirt. Tiny gloved hands clasped the silver knob of the upright ebony cane. Black currant eyes fastened unwinkingly on Annie.

  Henny didn’t take the seat she’d occupied during the first class. Instead, she dropped into the chair to Miss Dora’s immediate left and began to rummage in a capacious, dark purple knitted bag. Apparently, it served as a repository of aids for any and all roles Henny might play. In addition to a mound of apples and a paperback copy of The Body in the Library, a title Ariadne Oliver shared with Agatha Christie (Ariadne was the author of at least forty-six best-selling mysteries featuring her gangling, vegetarian Finnish detective), a perfect rainbow of pastel yarn and shiny ivory knitting needles poked out of one side. It seemed to Annie that the rearrangement was taking ordinarily nimble-fingered Henny quite a while. Could it be that Death on Demand’s most industrious fan was avoiding Annie’s glance?

  In further proof of the newfound and unsettling chumminess on the part of these three students, Laurel darted to the seat on Miss Dora’s right. But instead of sitting down, she dropped her canvas carryall, lavender-and-cream striped this morning, then swung
about to approach Annie, her dark blue eyes alight with pleasure and satisfaction.

  Annie braced herself.

  The delicate scent of lilac, the gentle brush of lips against her cheek.

  “My sweet, so pleased our little excursion last night wasn’t too tiring for you and dear Maxwell. Although, you do look just a tiny bit weary. That’s why I thought I would try to lift some of the burden.”

  “Oh, Laurel, how thoughtful of you,” Annie cried insincerely, and, dammit, she was tired. There was the beginning of a dull ache at her temples. How could Laurel keep right on looking like an ever-younger Grace Kelly? “But I do have a full morning planned for us.” She gripped Laurel’s elbow and tried to maneuver her toward her chair. “It’s a help just knowing you are in place.”

  With no effort at all, her mother-in-law slipped free of her grasp and wafted gracefully toward a large portfolio balanced against the lectern.

  Annie followed, trying to avoid the appearance of a frantic lunge.

  The other students were drifting into place. Class minimum was ten. Annie, as a last-minute replacement, had an enrollment of twelve: the young man with pink hair (Tim Wallis? Annie was still attempting to match names to faces); the Crier reporter with the long black braids, wound round her head today, and a Grateful Dead T-shirt (Mitzi Morrison?); the massive dark-haired fellow who had to play football (Mike Swenson?); the three middle-aged women with blue-white hair and patterned polyester dresses (Mrs. Goodrich, Mrs. Thompson, and Mrs. Fielding?); the stocky elderly gentleman with a scraggly white mustache and darting brown eyes (Fred Jones? Jessup?); and the slim woman in her forties with a tanned face, laugh lines, and a charm bracelet that jingled (Wilma Phillips?). The department’s least favorite student, Brad Kelly, hadn’t arrived. Annie devoutly hoped he wouldn’t.

  She reached Laurel as she opened the portfolio. Lifting out five familiar watercolors, Laurel displayed them proudly.

  “Ingrid helped, of course. Annie, they are so wonderful!”

  Annie rarely found herself speechless. She felt a sudden prick of tears behind her tired eyes. How thoughtful of Laurel. Perhaps not in the best of taste. It could be considered self-advertisement, but, really, what harm could it do to display this month’s mystery book contest paintings from Death on Demand?

  Not waiting for a response, Laurel was busy affixing them to the stippled plaster wall with masking tape. Fred—Jones? Jessup? smoothed his mustache and leapt to her aid. Annie felt sure that should Laurel be transported to the Sahara, to the middle of the Sahara, and left in lonely exile, a half dozen sheiks would undoubtedly charge up astride their camels within the hour.

  The class members watched with interest, including Miss Dora, whose reptilian eyes digested each painting with awesome thoroughness. Henny, of course, was concentrating on the fourth one, with the beachy young man so out of place in the luxurious library. She had that look of teetering on the brink of recognition. Annie held her breath (God, what had she wagered?) then tried to hide a sigh of relief at her customer’s vexed headshake.

  “Oh, thank you so much. How lovely that there are always strong handsome men to the rescue,” Laurel trilled as one of the watercolors almost slithered to the floor. Jones or Jessup, of course, caught it immediately and manfully slapped it against the wall, basking in the warmth of her approval.

  It wasn’t, Annie almost pointed out acerbically, quite on a level with a rim shot in the last two seconds. But she restrained herself. After all, Laurel was certainly doing her best to make her daughter-in-law happy and the least Annie could do was to be a gracious recipient.

  Laurel didn’t even hog the limelight as Annie made her thanks. In fact, with uncharacteristic demureness, she brushed aside Annie’s expressions of appreciation and focused class attention upon the instructor.

  “Oh, Annie dear, you know so much about mysteries. Now explain to everyone about the paintings,” she murmured as she slipped to her seat.

  A fascinated Jessup—Annie was sure his name was Jessup—followed right behind her and sat down on her other side.

  Miss Dora looked at Jessup sardonically. Henny was again rearranging the contents of her bag.

  Annie felt a rush of affection. The three of them had planned it, obviously. Really, she took back everything she’d ever thought (and wisely left unsaid, except, of course, to Max, and that was privileged) about Laurel, Miss Dora, and Henny.

  Annie cleared her throat. The class members obediently stopped rustling and whispering.

  “As I told all of you at our first meeting, I am a bookseller and a collector of mysteries and I enjoy posing mysteries for mystery lovers to solve.” She tried not to sound too full of herself. After all, just because the paintings were one of the best marketing ideas of the century, she had to remember that modest is as modest does. Or something like that. “At my mystery bookstore, Death on Demand on Broward’s Rock, I run a contest every month. Five paintings representing five famous mysteries are hung on the back wall near our coffee bar.” (It didn’t hurt to make clear all the attractions. She didn’t cite the kinds of coffee available. That would have been crass. Maybe someone would ask.) “The first person to correctly give me the titles and authors represented wins a free new mystery or non-fiction title and a month of free coffee.”

  Annie beamed at the class.

  Ten agreeable faces beamed back.

  All except Jessup. Managing at last to remove his soulful gaze from Laurel’s patrician profile, he looked toward the paintings. “Oh, hey, sure. Who doesn’t know? Especially that fourth one. It’s fuh—”

  That he didn’t strangle, but emitted not a syllable more, was due both to the speed and to the effectiveness of Laurel’s response. And maybe, too, he liked having her palm against his lips.

  “No, no, no, no,” she cried playfully. “That’s against the rules. Everyone must do his own searching. This is an individual quest.” Her hand moved, and she gave his pinkening cheek a gentle tweak. “But if you figure them out, we will all celebrate at your victory.”

  Annie didn’t like the way Henny was eyeing Jessup, something on the order of an anaconda spying a particularly plump swamp rat.

  “Absolutely,” Annie affirmed. “No consultations permitted.” She stared hard at Henny. “It’s up to each mystery lover to meet the challenge alone.”

  Laurel sighed in admiration, her blue eyes fervent with approval and respect. “Truly, Annie, you are an inspiration to generations of mystery readers. You epitomize the greatest virtues of the great detectives.”

  Although the praise seemed a little extreme, Annie gave a modest nod.

  “Devotion to the chase,” Laurel extolled in her husky voice. “Keeping one’s own counsel until all is revealed at the denouement. Refusal to be dissuaded or deflected from pursuing the truth.”

  Enough was enough. Laurel was perhaps ladling it on a bit too thick.

  “In any event,” Annie interrupted briskly, “it will be fun for class members to study the watercolors and to join this month’s competition at Death on Demand. Now,” she glanced down at the lectern, “let me call the roll.”

  The door opened and Brad Kelly slipped in. Giving her an apologetic nod, he took a seat in the second row beside the football player.

  “Brawley. Brevard.”

  Annie paused for just an instant. Henny, Miss Dora, and Laurel were all regarding Brad Kelly with an intensity that was staggering. Henny’s sharp nose twitched aggressively; Miss Dora’s dark eyes brooded. Even Laurel’s usually kindly demeanor was touched with disapproval.

  Oh, dear. But, after all, what could they do? Annie was in charge of this class.

  Briskly, she continued the roll call. “Fielding. Goodrich. Jessup. Kelly. Morrison. Phillips.” A withering glare from Mitzi Morrison, but a warm and eager smile from Wilma Phillips. Obviously, a woman impatient to learn more of the three great women mystery writers. “Roethke.” Laurel’s unblinking gaze never left Brad’s face. He moved restively and frowned. “Swenson. T
hompson. Wallis.”

  Tucking the roll back beneath her lecture notes, Annie took a deep breath.

  Laurel’s hand shot up.

  Annie’s warm feelings for her mother-in-law’s generous gesture began to erode. She gave an acknowledging nod.

  “Before we get started—and I know this morning will be full of surprises for all of us—” Despite the bonhomie oozing from Laurel’s husky voice, Annie abruptly tingled with foreboding. “But I do just have a few tiny questions about our class work.”

  Annie’s tense shoulders relaxed. “Of course, Laurel.”

  Her mother-in-law fished the reading list from her carryall.

  Miss Dora poked her pince-nez to her nose and snapped, “Not the best selections, by any means.”

  Henny pulled another apple from her pocket, gave it a queasy look, and replaced it. “Some additions wouldn’t do any harm.”

  Annie’s adrenaline began to flow.

  Wilma Phillips spoke up, a little apologetically. “I do wish we had a Tommy and Tuppence on the list.”

  Her comment opened the floodgates. Annie looked out at her class in dismay as the clamor rose. Could twelve people make this much noise?

  * * *

  Max felt cosy and warm, part of the in crowd, accepted, approved, damn near anointed. It was a curious sensation and one worthy of analyzing. It wasn’t that Victor Garrison was obsequious. Not at all. In fact, Garrison exuded self-confidence and aplomb as he sat at ease behind his blond wood desk. The professor was the picture of sartorial splendor in a rust-and-brown Donegal silk tweed sport coat and a paisley tie. His desk was orderly, with several opened books and a yellow legal pad filled with neat, precise handwriting.

  “I am, of course,” Garrison went on smoothly, “impressed with Miss Dora’s continuing and generous support of our college. And this department. Her brother once owned several newspapers in this area. This building is, in fact, named in his honor. A substantial family. I would like to do anything I can to help you in your inquiries.” He drew deeply on his pipe, and a woodsy, autumnal smoke encircled Max. “Perhaps I can be most helpful by giving you some background on our department.” He quirked an eyebrow and smiled genially.