A Little Class on Murder Page 5

  In next Tuesday’s edition, The Crier will run the first in a series on the handling of personnel matters in the school that directly affect student welfare.

  Kelly, a senior from Columbia, has served as managing editor, sports editor, and news editor.

  He has been awarded a Fulbright to Oxford for the next academic year.

  Annie nodded admiringly. A spunky guy, that Kelly.

  Ah, shades of Helen Kirkpatrick, Ruth Cowan, and Marguerite Higgins. They rest secure in the history of women war correspondents, but Mary Roberts Rinehart beat them to it. An argument could be made for Nellie Bly (Elizabeth Cochrane Seaman) as the first woman foreign correspondent, but actually Nellie was making news, as well as reporting it. Of course, looking even farther back, Margaret Fuller wrote about Louis Napoleon’s siege of Paris in 1849 for the New York Tribune. But honors for being one of the first in the trenches should go to MRR, who reached the front in the early days of World War I despite a ban on correspondents, jouncing up a shell-pocked road in an unlit car to the flooded no-man’s-land between the German and Allied lines. Bodies bobbed grotesquely in the icy water, and the night smelled of death.

  MRR was no stranger to death in many guises. In the 1890s, she had trained as a nurse in a Pittsburgh hospital that served men injured in the great steel mills and on the railroads. One night she agonized over the slow death of a man who had been caught in a flywheel. She stood beside him in the Emergency Room. “I wanted him to die quickly, not to go on breathing. I can’t stand it. Die and stop suffering. I can’t stand it. I can’t.”

  “Challenges,” Annie announced aloud.

  Max looked up from his book (The Amateur Cracksman by E. W. Hornung). Diverted, Annie wondered what his choice indicated, then decided not to pursue that thought.

  “Challenges?”

  Annie paused to admire her husband. Really, he was a grown-up Joe Hardy, with his thick blond hair and eyes of such a dark blue they rivaled a mountaintop lake. And such a superbly muscled body. A tiny frown drew her brows together. Somehow she couldn’t picture the impetuous Joe Hardy quite so relaxed. Max sprawled full length on the sofa, three pillows bunched behind him, and he looked about as muscled as a jelly fish. Was Max getting soft? Was married life blunting his keen edge? Actually, had Max ever had a keen edge?

  He draped the book across his chest, put his hands behind his head. “Challenges?” he said again.

  “Mary Roberts Rinehart,” she replied absently. Then, more excitedly, “That’s the key to her life, a zest for challenges! Entering a hospital at sixteen in 1893 to train as a nurse (she lied, she lied, Max, and said she was seventeen) when only a few young women of her class were choosing such arduous and unprotected work, beginning to write in earnest some years later when she and her doctor husband owed money because of the market crash of 1904, daring as a novice to write for Broadway, finagling her way to the front lines in 1915, later seeking out the still-challenging American West and traveling the deserts of Egypt and Iran!”

  “Always living on the edge,” Max said affably, burrowing more comfortably into his pillows.

  Annie’s frown became more pronounced, then she sighed. She didn’t have time now to think about Max’s incredible relaxation since marriage. Not certainly that he had ever been uptight. But she must focus her energies on the task at hand, preparation for her first class.

  Her first class.

  Tomorrow morning.

  Annie clutched her Rinehart folder. Should she approach each writer one at a time or perhaps meld together a quick overview of all three?

  Rinehart knew the gritty realities of life and death but fashioned a romantic world in her fiction where love always triumphed.

  Christie believed in evil. She created puzzles and delighted in sleight of hand.

  Sayers was brilliant and erudite, with a boisterous sense of humor and no capacity for tolerating fools.

  The Three Grande Dames of the Mystery. Annie wondered for just an instant what the topic would be if the three of them came to tea.

  Rinehart had great social charm.

  Christie was very shy.

  Sayers loved to stay up all night, smoke incessantly, and talk voraciously.

  It would be quite a gathering.

  6

  Max held the front door.

  Annie balanced three folders and her purse atop a box crammed with paperbacks. “Do I look all right?” she asked anxiously.

  “Adorable,” her charming spouse responded with an insufferable grin.

  She stamped her foot. “No, no, no. Do I look all right?”

  Max tilted his head and stroked his chin contemplatively. “You don’t think a navy blue suit and plain white blouse with a Peter Pan collar is a little—well, perhaps, a little extreme?”

  “Frumpy?” she demanded, peering down at the smooth expanse of offending navy blue gabardine.

  “Of course not frumpy,” he said loyally. “Just a little … understated, perhaps.”

  “But Max, I don’t want to look young!”

  “Is there something in the faculty manual about age?” he asked innocently.

  “Max, you know what I mean,” she wailed.

  He bent, kissed her cheek. “Annie, my love, you are, as always, beautiful, desirable, and delectable. Don’t worry, your class is going to adore you.”

  “Not if they think I’m just a kid,” she mumbled, starting down the tree house steps. She paused and peered back at him worriedly. “Now, you’ll be all right—?”

  Lounging against the doorframe, he arched a quizzical blond brow. “Is there some unheralded danger abroad on Broward’s Rock of which I am unaware? Fire-snorting dragons? Martian tarantulas?” He paused, grinned. “Truant officers for adults?”

  “You are going to work?” she shot out sharply.

  “Of course. Cross my heart, et cetera. Wouldn’t miss a day in the office for the world.”

  Nodding, still worriedly chewing her lip, she started on down the steps, paused again. “You could go and check on the progress of the house.” She looked past him, at the weathered boards of her tree house. She did love it, but their stay had grown longer than anticipated. Not only had their new house not been ready upon their return from their honeymoon, it was still not completed.

  So much to think about. The house. The store. Of course, Ingrid was quite capable of handling everything at Death on Demand. Annie paused, balanced her carton atop the mailbox, pulled down the lid, and fished inside. Bills, of course. Only two real letters. One to Max from his sister Diedre. One to her with a Paris postmark. The handwriting, a bold clear script, was familiar. Who could it—She ripped it open, then smiled. How sweet. A note from Emma Clyde, the island’s most successful resident writer and creator of that famous fictional sleuth, Marigold Rembrandt.

  Annie was all the way to the car and had stowed the box in the trunk when she realized the morning’s mail lacked the weekly letter from her esteemed mother-in-law, Laurel. She paused, her hand on the car door, and looked back toward the tree house, but Max had already gone inside. Oh well, it would keep and surely the letter had only been delayed. Perhaps Laurel was busy with— Her mind quailed at the prospect of what might possibly be occupying Laurel’s time. But at least she was in Connecticut. Such a lovely, distant place, Connecticut.

  * * *

  Annie wheeled into the faculty lot. The Volvo windshield flaunted a newly applied crimson-and-white sticker, FACULTY AND STAFF. How many badges there were in the world, little emblems of belonging. Or not belonging. As she lifted her box of books and materials from the trunk, Annie sighed happily. To be a part of an academic institution, even if on a lowly level, was thrilling. And she’d already had so much fun preparing for the class and learned so many new facts about her favorite writers. Mary Roberts Rinehart used her own Bar Harbor mansion as the scene of the crime in The Yellow Room. Agatha Christie wrote the surname of her husband’s mistress when she signed the register of a hotel during her headlined disappearanc
e in 1926. Dorothy L. Sayers, in the opinion of critic Trevor H. Hall, indicated her debt to Arthur Conan Doyle by giving Wimsey the address 110A Piccadilly, which is half of 221B Baker Street plus one (A as the first letter in the alphabet representing one).

  Annie was grinning at the last as she stepped inside. It was wonderful what critics could suggest, that Christie developed into one of the world’s finest storytellers because her mother kept her home from school and so the lonely child populated her world with imaginary personalities. And the thesis of Rinehart’s biographer that the woman who became a national celebrity excused her career on the basis of family need and always pretended to herself that her family came first because her Victorian sense of propriety demanded it. And the suggestion that Sayers’s fruitless search for the true love of her life led her to create Lord Peter.

  What would those ladies say now, had they the opportunity?

  Annie paused just inside the back door. She had a clear view of the central hallway. It didn’t take Nurse Adams, Hercule Poirot, or Peter Wimsey to deduce that something was afoot—and that charming redhead who had snapped her photograph was right in the middle of it all.

  Body language can shout. Four women stood squarely in front of the student newspaper entrance. Arms tightly folded, faces grim, their heads snapped toward her, then she was dismissed. The front door creaked open, and they swung in unison to face it.

  Annie was glad she wasn’t the one they were waiting for. Somebody was going to catch hell. It wasn’t, of course, any business of hers. She could have gone up the back stairs, but the tableau of anger intrigued her. What was going on? And probably she should check in at the main office anyway, see if there was anything she needed to do before her first class.

  She paused at the main office door and gave a quick glance across the hall at the militant group, a pudgy blonde in a wrinkled bright green Mexican shift, a tiny dark girl with elfin features and brilliantly black eyes, a slightly older woman in a replica of Annie’s plain blue suit, and the red-haired photographer. Annie was startled by the change in her appearance. Gone was the elegant self-possession of last week. She looked as if she’d tossed on the nearest clothes at hand. The paisley skirt clashed with the plaid blouse, and her hair wasn’t sleek and controlled, but looked as though she’d jabbed at it hurriedly, scarcely combing it at all. She didn’t even have on any makeup and her face was gaunt and pale.

  The pudgy blonde jerked around and grabbed the handle to the closed door of the Crier office. She rattled it angrily, then pounded on the wood panel.

  The tiny, dark girl tapped her foot impatiently. “Nobody’s there, Lizzie. Listen, we’re wasting time.” Brilliant black eyes crackled. “And I’ve got to go to class. Let’s call an emergency meeting, then we’ll march on the Crier offices this afternoon, when the staff is there.”

  “I could kill him. I could just kill him.” Lizzie’s voice rose in a furious screech.

  “The thing to do is go to Mr. Burke,” Blue Suit suggested. She turned toward the photographer. “Don’t you think so, Georgia?”

  The pale redhead didn’t respond.

  “Georgia?”

  Slowly, troubled green eyes focused on the speaker’s face. “It’s so sickening. He has to be stopped, Ruth, before he does any more. He has to be stopped.”

  “Let’s talk to Mr. Burke,” Ruth said decisively.

  Annie followed the four into the departmental office.

  Ruth, whether by status of age or force of personality (was it the blue suit?), took charge. Leading the way to the counter, she surveyed the empty office behind it. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her voice to a piercing level. “Emily! Emily, where are you?”

  The creaking of the floor in an interior office sounded first, then labored breathing.

  Slowly, an enormous creature, bulbous with fat, wedged sideways through the doorway. She—it was a woman, perhaps even a young woman—was a mass of flesh almost lacking in definition, a bloated moon face atop a swollen body, chest and girth and hips merging into a mountainous whole that moved and swayed beneath a huge yellow caftan. She clutched a handful of tissues in bratwurst-size fingers. Angry red splotches mottled her face. She snuffled into the tissues as she waddled toward the counter.

  Ruth’s placid face reflected no repugnance, no recognition of the grotesque. But she did hesitate for an instant, then asked gently, “Emily, are you okay? Are you feeling all right?”

  Tears welled in eyes so deeply mired in fat that they stared out at the world through slits. Emily swabbed her huge face with the tissues, then glowered at her inquisitor.

  “What’s wrong, Emily?” the red-haired photographer asked quickly.

  “Nothing,” she said harshly. “Got allergies. That’s all.” The fat woman’s voice was high and thin, and her answer was so patently false there was a moment’s silence, then Ruth shrugged her blue-suited shoulders and said crisply, “A delegation from the Women’s Press Association. To see Mr. Burke. About today’s issue of The Crier.”

  “Can’t.”

  Lizzie bristled and the green Mexican dress quivered with outrage. “Of course we can.”

  Emily blew her nose. “Not unless you go to Charleston. He’s gone to a meeting of the state newspaper editors. Won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  The small dark girl tossed her head angrily. “Tell him—tell him—oh well, never mind. We’ll see him in the morning.”

  And the group swept out.

  Annie darted into the faculty women’s restroom on the second floor with a sense of reaching sanctuary, even though she knew a restroom could scarcely qualify as such. The Reverend Julian Harmon defines sanctuary quite precisely in the Christie short story of the same name. Annie stared anxiously at the minor. Actually, she looked fine, even though she felt she’d been through an emotional wringer from the assorted angry vibes ricocheting around the ground floor of Brevard Hall. And that poor, poor secretary. God, how awful to be that fat. But she mustn’t let herself be distracted from her own responsibilities. She glanced at her watch. Lordy, just a few more minutes and she would face her first class. Her first class. She glanced again at the mirror, then glared at her own image. Darn her hair. She’d pulled it back in a no-nonsense bun, but strands kept straggling loose. A stern application of water temporarily defeated the rebellious sprigs. Satisfied, she applied a fresh coating of pale pink lipstick, straightened her skirt, and headed toward the door.

  Almost time now. And she was prepared. That’s all it took in life. Preparation. She patted her bulging folders which included a printout of her trio’s publications, including plays and films. Interesting that all three were successful playwrights, not a given with novelists. Plain white index cards contained a neat outline of her lecture topics. She began to feel a modest glow of well-being. No need to be tense or worried. Why, this was going to be duck soup. As the restroom door sighed shut behind her, she considered the phrase. What could possibly be its origin? Duck soup sounded complicated to her.

  A bell rang and people poured from doorways. The hall filled. Lots of jeans and knit shirts, cotton skirts and pullover blouses, friendly, smiling, cheerful faces, mostly young, but all ages and races represented, a gaggle of hearty, middle-aged women with brown faces, muscular golf arms, and intense expressions, a pretty coed with her head tilted to look up admiringly at the bulky young man beside her, a stylish young black woman reading a TV script as she walked. Annie wormed her way up the hall, relishing the sense of bustle and purpose. She didn’t see any of the angry women who had gathered in front of the Crier office earlier. What had that been about? Obviously, this morning’s edition had ignited some angry responses. She felt a moment’s curiosity. But probably nothing quite as momentous had occurred as their behavior had implied. It was fascinating how situations could get blown out of proportion, especially in the closed environment of an institution. Perhaps that was why so many mysteries had academic settings. She thought fondly of three of her favorites, Gwendoline B
utler’s Coffin in Oxford, V. C. Clinton-Baddeley’s Death’s Bright Dart, and Robert Barnard’s Death of an Old Goat.

  But whatever passions embroiled Chastain College, they were of no moment to her, just a curious blip on an otherwise cheerful morning, which had been quite productive. It had been smart of her to arrive early. After the militant quartet departed, the immense departmental secretary had morosely, still sniffling, found Annie a set of keys, directed her to the supply room (what a sense of power to be entrusted with a green-backed grade book), and pointed down the hall to the faculty lounge. Annie had rather shyly stepped in, been relieved to find it empty, and delightedly spotted a hot plate. A motley collection of chairs served two worn tables. Mail slots of old-fashioned varnished brown wood filled one wall. Her name was taped to a slot in the last row. In the remaining time, she had located her classroom (currently in use) and nosed around the second floor. Now, she swung confidently ahead, aiming for room 206.

  Smiling timidly and holding open the door for her was a stocky young man with faintly pink hair that poked straight up from his forehead and dangled limply on his neck.

  She smiled in return. “Thank you.”

  Striding briskly to the front of the room, she put her box and her folders down on the desk and studied the lectern. Good, it had just enough tilt for good reading and not enough to dump her index cards on the floor. People (her students!) began to file in. The secretary had sullenly informed her that faculty enrollment cards hadn’t been sorted yet. Annie could make up her own roll (send around a sheet of paper for signup) for the first few class meetings. To gain admittance, each student must give her a yellow card with her course number and the student’s name on it. They would match the purple cards the faculty would receive.

  She was skimming her lecture notes when she stiffened, her senses assaulted.

  Scent.

  Sound.

  Sight.