A Little Class on Murder Page 2

  She blinked in surprise. “In the journalism department?”

  “Sure. Why not? That’s what I told Charles August. News gives the reader information, fiction gives him emotion. And the mystery provides moral judgments. Damn near the only place in the world we find ’em anymore. Be damn refreshing. What about it?”

  Annie felt a quiver of excitement. What fun! But, of course, she wasn’t really qualified. “I’ve never taught—”

  “Doesn’t matter. You speak right up. Saw you in Arsenic and Old Lace last summer. Anybody who can do summer theater can handle a class. How about it? You could start with Poe, of course. And there’s Hammett, Chandler—”

  Annie held up both hands. “Not that same tired track,” she objected. “Mr. Burke—”

  “R.T.,” he interrupted.

  “R.T.,” she repeated. “If I teach a class, it’s going to be from a different slant. I’m sick of the same old incantation: Poe, Doyle, Hammett, Chandler, and all their derivative brethren. Not that lots of them aren’t wonderful. But many of the greatest mystery writers of all time are women and no one ever talks about them!” Her voice rose excitedly. If Max were there, he’d no doubt point out that she’d climbed up on her favorite soapbox. “Do you realize that Agatha Christie outsold almost every writer in the world except the Bible and Shakespeare? Oh, they give lip service to her at mystery writers’ meetings today, then make snide remarks about her paper-thin characterizations, her inadequate settings, her reliance on the puzzle. Well, I’m here to tell you—”

  That thin wiry hand grabbed hers and began to pump. “You’ll do it! Faculty meeting at four Thursday afternoon. Like to make adjunct faculty feel part of the team.” He rolled his eyes. “Shit team, but it’s all I’ve got. See you then.” He wheeled around and charged up the central aisle.

  Annie stared after him. “Mr. Burke. R.T.—Hey, wait—”

  The bell jangled as he yanked open the door. “Be a challenge. Counting on you. Do any damn thing you like. Any writers. Women. Men. Pygmies. Academic freedom. All I demand is good work. Have at it.”

  As the door banged after him, Annie felt like Donald Lam contemplating a Bertha Cool disaster. What had she let herself in for? Teaching. Next week. Next week! Authors and titles swam in her mind. Christie, of course. And three of her best titles, Murder for Christmas, Murder in Retrospect, and A Murder Is Announced.

  But who else?

  She turned, her eyes darting from shelf to shelf, then an answer burgeoned in her mind. Humming, she moved down the aisle, looking for titles. Oh, yes, indeed. The three grande dames of the mystery: Mary Roberts Rinehart, Agatha Christie, and Dorothy Sayers. As her arms filled with books, the tuneless hum rivaled Agatha’s throatiest purr.

  Henny Brawley’s eyes narrowed in a steely gaze. “I know that book. I know that book.” Annie’s best customer (Henny devoured mysteries the way Agatha Christie had lapped up Devonshire cream) drummed beringed fingers against the counter top and glared at the fourth watercolor. Henny was a fashion plate this afternoon in a black-and-white silk jacquard print with a V-neck and back kick pleat. Her graying brown hair was upswept and gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears. She looked like a clubwoman en route to a board meeting, but Annie knew this deceptively conventional exterior masked an original and formidable personality. (Henny was also quite at home in sweats and sneakers or camouflage fatigues, and she had a sharp, bony nose that wriggled at moments of high stress.) And Annie was getting darned tired of handing out free books and coffee to Henny, who’d won three contests so far this year. Enough was enough. It was someone else’s turn. But Henny was preternaturally adept at finagling tidbits of information, especially out of Annie.

  Without removing her determined gaze from the figure in painting four, the indolent young man with insolent eyes, Henny remarked conversationally, “That fellow behind the desk has on a coat and tie. But the young guy—a PI?—looks so casual. Almost beachy.”

  Annie’s lips tightened into a thin straight line. Not a word was she going to say. Not a word.

  From the front of the store, she heard Ingrid mask a giggle with a very phony cough. So Ingrid thought this was funny! Just wait til Henny left.

  Henny’s light brown eyes flickered toward her. Annie concentrated on straightening the Phyllis Whitney titles. Annie preferred to arrange an author’s work in order of publication date and she noticed in passing that she lacked this mistress of mysteries’ first title, Red Is for Murder. Of course, it was reissued in 1968 as Red Carnelian—

  “That style of shirt was popular in the seventies, wasn’t it?” Henny mused.

  “No comment,” Annie replied pleasantly.

  Henny’s nose twitched, but she too managed a pleasant tone. “How about a little wager, Annie?”

  “Wager?” Annie knew full well that a weak repetition shifted the conversational balance of power, but she was determined not to engage in a substantive discourse with Henny. It could be injurious to her mental health.

  The champion mystery reader of Broward’s Rock smiled with the bloodcurdling enthusiasm of the marine protagonist in Jaws upon sighting a swimmer. “Sure.” She sauntered past the coffee bar to the shelving filled with classic collectibles. “If I win the contest again this month, you put up a bonus.” Her eyes glistened as they fastened on the first editions. “How about Nicholas Blake’s The Beast Must Die.” She snatched it up and opened it to the title page. “I thought so! This is one he signed with his real name, Cecil Day Lewis.” Her voice was reverent.

  “Why on earth should I—”

  “But if someone beats me to it and wins the contest,” Henny swept on majestically, “I’ll give you my first edition autographed copy of The Mysterious Affair at Styles.”

  Annie’s heart thumped. There hadn’t been a first edition vf (very fine) copy of that book offered in the past forty years! It could be worth ten thousand dollars. Fifteen thousand!

  “In the original dust jacket.” Henny’s tone was dulcet; the devil couldn’t have offered the world more seductively. “Perfect condition.”

  “Perfect condition! Oh my God. Sure. Yes. What a deal!”

  Beaming, Henny gave a touchdown wriggle as classy as any in the National Football League and sashayed up the center aisle. “You’re on!” She paused at the front door. “I love a challenge. You’re a sport, Annie.”

  After the door closed behind her, there was a long silence.

  Annie stalked up the aisle and glared at her suspiciously mute clerk. “So you think I shouldn’t have done it?”

  “I didn’t say a word,” Ingrid replied innocently, but the corners of her mouth twitched. Hastily, she scooped up the latest issue of Publishers Weekly.

  “Don’t try and hide,” Annie snarled. Then, plaintively, “I didn’t give her any hints, did I?”

  “Oh no, no. Not one.” Behind PW there was a sound suspiciously like a giggle. “No hints. But you sure made her the odds-on favorite to win again. You know how Henny is with a challenge.”

  Annie knew.

  Ingrid took pity. She reached down and grabbed her purse from the second drawer of her desk. “Look, I’ve got an idea. I’ll go catch her. I’ll tell her all about your class—the one on the three great ladies of the mystery—that’ll distract her, for sure.”

  Annie grabbed Ingrid’s slim arm with fingers of steel. “God, no. I’ll give her three Nicholas Blakes. I’ll give her that John Dickson Carr title we just got in.” (The Man Who Could Not Shudder. Scarce. Priced at $45.) “But I don’t want Henny in my class. Why, she knows more about mysteries than Carol Brener. Or Bruce Taylor. Or Dilys Winn. Or Kate Mattes. In my class! Ingrid, what a lousy idea!”

  “A class on the greatest ladies of the mystery? On Mary Roberts Rinehart?” The rising note of excitement in Laurel’s husky voice was the first indication to Max Darling that his idle chatter, his well-meant, innocuous report on his and Annie’s doings, was of altogether too much interest to his mother. When Laurel got that particular ton
e in her voice, that vibrato—

  Max stiffened. Which wasn’t easy when lying almost horizontal in the soft leathery embrace of his reclining desk chair. Not even the soothing warmth of the heater assuaged the sudden chill enveloping his mind.

  “I’ll write you all about it, Laurel. I’ll keep you informed. I’ll send you the books on the reading list. Of course, Annie’s hoping that no one she knows enrolls. Her first time to teach, you know.”

  “My dear child, Annie must be confident. Maxwell, we must encourage Annie.”

  “That’s just it,” he said heartily. “We’ll be behind the scenes. Behind the scenes, Mother.”

  “A noble thought, Maxwell dear. You do phrase things so beautifully. Just like Rasheesh.”

  Max pursed his lips and frowned.

  Light laughter, reminiscent of leprechauns in the twilight. “My newest link to the Other Side, my dear.”

  “Of course, Mother. So glad you’re all linked up. And I know you’re very busy with—with—with linking, and all that.”

  “Not too busy. In fact, I was just thinking how much I missed Broward’s Rock. And I’ve quite despaired of finding another mystery bookstore as wonderful as Death on Demand. And dear Ingrid. I had a note from her just the other day with a new shipment of books.”

  “You’re reading mysteries?”

  “Of course, my dear. I feel that it is incumbent upon a mother-in-law to create a rapport with her children’s spouses. And you know how hard I’ve tried with the girls’ husbands.”

  Max winced at the memories. Laurel taking up skydiving (Diedre’s husband Ed’s hobby—until an outing with Laurel), moose hunting (the former passion of Gail’s husband Kenneth), and crapshooting (of course, Harry, Jen’s husband, was better off not gambling. Still—).

  “Mother, we all—the girls and I—enormously appreciate the efforts you’ve made, but you must give time to yourself.” He scrambled for a diversion. “After all, there must be so much for you and Rasheesh to discuss.”

  A thoughtful pause. “Rasheesh,” Laurel murmured. “Maxwell, what an excellent suggestion. I shall speak to Rasheesh about it.”

  After he hung up, Max refused to admit to himself that his failure to inquire as to the subject of her talk with Rasheesh was evidence of moral cowardice.

  And there was no point in worrying Annie.

  Was there?

  * * *

  The little tickle of warm breath in her left ear was distracting. And the light but lingering kiss on her cheek—

  “Max, go away. I can’t think when—”

  Somehow—Annie was unclear just how—Max insinuated himself beside her on the couch, despite the uneven mound of books with paper markers extruding like lake wind warning flags. And where was that particular passage? The one about the death of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s canary Dickie and the indelible mark it had made upon her? More than breath now and the lingering touch of lips—

  “Max, I can’t think—”

  “You don’t need to think.”

  “But the faculty meeting’s tomorrow and—”

  His lips got in the way.

  The books toppled to the floor.

  5

  Annie was too excited to spend the ferry ride sitting calmly in her aging Volvo. (She’d resisted Max’s attempt to substitute a Porsche. Her car worked.) She rested her elbows against the white metal railing, breathed deeply, relishing the salty sea scent, and gazed across the softly green water of Port Royal Sound at the mainland. A ragged V formation of stiff-tailed glossy cormorants skimmed low, seeking their prey, menhaden and minnows. The expert divers were a sure sign of fall, coming south to follow the migrating fish schools. And there, to port, was a bobbing band of lesser scaup, wintering tidewater ducks. Their glossy black heads glistened in the November sunlight.

  Fall. To a plains Texan, it evoked memories of cool mornings, wind out of the north, and geese overhead on their way to the Gulf.

  And school.

  The shrill sound of bells, the scrape of shoes on wooden floors, the clang of lockers between classes. The screech of chalk against a blackboard, the smell of cafeteria food, the pleasure of learning.

  She was, of course, en route to Chastain to take her place, if only briefly, as part of a college, not a high school, faculty. But all educational institutions had the same elements. And she’d never surveyed a classroom from the vantage point of that godlike creature, the professor. It should be a new experience.

  The ferry horn beeped three times, signaling the approach to the dock. Annie ducked back into her car and impatiently waited her turn to debark. As her Volvo bumped off the ferry, she wheeled to the right onto the blacktop. Seventy-five-foot loblolly pines topped by silvery umbrella crowns towered on both sides of the narrow road. Annie, of course, was soon trapped behind a lopsided pickup proceeding with great dignity at exactly twenty-eight miles per hour. This was SOP on a southern back road. Annie knew it, but still her hands clenched on the steering wheel and her shoulders hunched. An unending series of chicken trucks in the opposite lane kept her from passing. She did have one opportunity and was just about to make her move when a horn blared behind her and a canary-colored Corvette hogged onto the lane to sweep triumphantly past her and the pickup. Annie glimpsed sleek black hair, aviator sunglasses, and a tanned arm negligently draped on the red leather seat. She seethed the rest of the way into Chastain, continuing to inhale the pickup’s acrid exhaust fumes through the stop-and-start of town and down Ephraim Street past the elegant old mansions where she had staged a very murderous mystery program during last spring’s annual house-and-garden tours. She flicked on her left turn signal as she neared Prince Street. Thank heavens, the pickup chugged on, and she made her turn. The entrance to the campus of Chastain College was just past two more historic homes quite familiar to Annie. The Volvo jumped forward as she pressed the accelerator. She didn’t want to meet the owners of either of those homes ever again. She’d read recently in an area newspaper that one of them, Sybil Giacomo, was spending the autumn in Italy. But the other—Annie suppressed a shudder. She sped by Miss Dora’s brown brick home with its tabby-covered pillars. With relief, she turned onto the boulevard leading to the campus. Annie looked with admiring eyes at the cool, shadowy grounds. Woolly festoons of gray Spanish moss hung with gossamer grace from the low spreading limbs of the glossy-leaved live oak trees that lined either side of the wide drive. She loved the dangling tendrils of the much-maligned plant, which, contrary to popular belief, does not devour its host, instead receiving its nutrients from the air and rainwater.

  As she glimpsed the red brick Georgian buildings, she felt a thrill. Annie Laurance Darling, Professor. Well, adjunct instructor, actually, but as Shakespeare observed, a rose by any other name—

  She glanced at the seat beside her. No doubt professors had a grander title than lesson plan for their projected classwork, but, whatever they called it, Annie was prepared. And it would be interesting to meet the faculty members of the journalism department.

  According to Burke, journalism was quartered in Brevard Hall (named for Miss Dora’s family?) which was the third building on the right. Most of the parking spaces along the drive were empty and the graveled lots behind the buildings sparsely tenanted except for the lot behind Brevard Hall, which held a clump of cars, several battered coupes, a vintage VW with bright pink paint, and one sleek red Camaro. Annie noted the red-lettered sign that designated student parking. So some students were there even though the new session didn’t start until next week. The slots in front of the building, reserved for faculty at all times, held one car, a canary-colored Corvette. Annie coasted to a stop behind it and eyed the car thoughtfully. The road hog? Probably not, although she doubted Chastain teemed with yellow Corvettes. Shrugging, she grabbed her green folder, stepped out of the car, and hurried toward the oyster shell walk. Midway up the walk, she paused to admire the elegant entablature supported by four glistening Ionic columns. The classic frieze depicted a chariot race
in ancient Rome. Which was apropos of what? The race goes to the swiftest? As she recalled her Roman history, the chariot races quite soon became the province of professional drivers, hard-bitten, tough men not above filing an adversary’s wheel or slipping a mickey to a competing horse. Whatever else under the sun might be new, man’s tricky, twisting nature was not.

  Whatever symbolism might be intended, and perhaps the architect had intended none, the campus stretched out in placid, late afternoon loveliness. The vivid warm rose of fall flowering camellia japonica shrubs studded the dusty grounds with enchantment. Knobby black cypress brooded over the dark waters of a central pond.