A Little Class on Murder (12 page)

He was married to Joan Kimball, associate professor of economics at Chastain, June 8, 1983, and had two daughters. He was chair of six Chastain committees, a member of the Rotary Club, the Chamber of Commerce, the State Library Resources Commission, the State News Association, etc.

In a publicity photo taken in a paneled den with two walls of books, he sat behind a glossy mahogany desk, wearing a tweed sports coat, pipe in hand, and looked into the camera with a carefully calibrated mixture of serious inquiry and studious charm.

Annie turned to the next vitae with relief. Sue Tarrant might be volatile, but she seemed like a much more genuine person. Annie wasn’t surprised to learn Tarrant was from Little Rock, Arkansas. Born July 19, 1948. Graduate of the University of Arkansas. “No advanced degrees,” Annie remarked in surprise.

“No tenure either,” Max pointed out.

“But lots of experience. Print advertising for ten years, then videos and public relations for another six. Joined the faculty four years ago. Hmm. No mention of tenure track.”

Tarrant was active in the Red Cross, the Community Chest, Big Sisters, the YWCA, and the Allied Arts Foundation. Not married; no children.

Malcolm Moss’s vitae was by far the longest. His list of publications ran to six pages. He was a full professor, having been at Chastain since 1976. He was granted tenure in 1982. Previously he had taught at Emory and Louisiana State. His degrees were from the University of Missouri, Columbia, and Stanford. Born April 5, 1942 in Kansas City, Missouri. Married with one son. Active in both professional and social organizations. Golfer.

The man with the mocking smile, the bull-heavy shoulders, and blond hair that covered his head in tight curls.

As she read the next vitae, she kept seeing befuddled blue eyes swimming with tears.

Joshua Norden, professor of advertising, was born September 11, 1924 in Peoria, Illinois. He enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1941, and graduated from Officer Candidate School. He served in the Pacific and received honorable discharge as a captain in 1945. He got a B.A. from the University of Illinois, and an M.A. in communications from Northwestern. After fifteen years with a major advertising agency in New York, he taught at Boston University. He joined the faculty at Chastain in 1972, and was made full professor in 1976. Widower. No children. Artist. Watercolor exhibits throughout the South from 1978 to 1985.

Norden’s vitae wasn’t as long as Moss’s, but it was crammed with honors, most of the awards in recognition of his pioneering work in television advertising. Norden was a part of the revolution spearheaded by Bill Bernbach, when advertising agencies convinced clients that advertising didn’t need to be dull or boring and that the best ads involved readers, talking to them instead of at them.

Annie turned to the last vitae, then looked at Max in surprise.

Max inked a thick, black question mark after Charlotte Porter’s name on Annie’s list. “She may be the crux of the problem or she may be an accidental victim. Look at it this way: Why was Charlotte Porter the focus of the first article? Was that a deliberate choice by Brad Kelly? Or was he just using the information as it was supplied to him? Was the intent to embarrass Burke because he had covered up financial chicanery by a faculty member? Or was the informant trying to damage Charlotte Porter? Who was the intended victim?”

There was nothing in Charlotte Larrimore Porter’s vitae or College News Service record that would foretell the sad ending of her life.

Born November 11, 1923, in Chastain, she received her B.A. in 1944 from Sweet Briar. She was married on June 5,
1944 to Lieutenant Albert Porter, who was posted as missing in a bombing raid over Berlin in 1945, three weeks before his daughter, Alberta, was born. Porter received an M.A. from Clemson, and a Ph.D. from the University of Mississippi with intervening stints of work for several major corporations in their public relations departments. She returned to Chastain as an assistant professor in 1972. She had a lengthy list of publications and had three times been elected by the students as Professor of the Year. She had served as treasurer of a number of organizations, including University Women, the Rose Society, the Camellia Society, and the Daughters of the Confederacy.

Annie recalled Charlotte’s thin and tired, but very civilized and gentle face.

And faces do tell a story.

Kurt Diggs’s sensuous mouth and jaded eyes.

Josh Norden’s slack and puffy muscles.

Sue Tarrant’s middle-aged wrinkles masked by youthful makeup.

The pugnacious tilt to R.T. Burke’s chin.

Frank Crandall’s sensitive mouth.

Victor Garrison’s confident gaze.

The contemptuous twist to Malcolm Moss’s lips.

Annie plumped the curricula vitae with their supplemental information down on the side table. “Bare bones, Max, bare bones.”

“An excellent start,” he disagreed. Pointing at the Annual Report, he insisted, “There’s a lot to be deduced from that thing, boring as it is. For example, Moss was acting chair when Burke was hired. Maybe Moss wanted the job. He could have unleashed this stuff to sabotage Burke.”

Annie felt sure that Moss’s meaningless smile could mask every sort of base intention. “But Moss accused Burke of leaking the stuff to make it easier to dump some of the faculty.”

“Of course he did. Whoever leaked that information will try hard to get someone else blamed.” He tapped the cover of the report. “Or maybe Norden did it. He hasn’t had a new
publication in five years. Maybe he thought a general stink would disrupt the department so much that his lack of production would seem minor.”

“So he feeds stuff to the student newspaper that pillories a woman he obviously cares for?”

“Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be upset if it caused her suicide. Drunks don’t think very straight. Maybe he just looked at his own problem, didn’t foresee the consequences.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Annie objected.

“I know. But tomorrow we’ll get to work, find out everything we can about these people.” He grabbed her hand, and grinned. “Welcome aboard.” He pulled her close, then closer. A cool November evening, the hiss of rain against the tree house windows, what better way to end an evening— The phone rang.

Annie glanced at the clock. Almost eleven. Hmm. She un-looped her arm from Max’s neck, scooped up the receiver, and answered, not quite breathlessly, “Hello.”

“I wouldn’t have called this late except they only let you have one phone call. And I didn’t know if Edward—Edward Sattherlie, you know, my lawyer—would be at home. Plays bridge so often—and besides, he’s in Connecticut and that is rather a distance and I do think it would be nice if someone could come now.”

“Laurel?” Annie asked. It was her mother-in-law’s voice, but somehow it lacked its usual husky resonance and piquant lilt.

“A misunderstanding, of course. The blood has
nothing
to do with me. I was merely passing through. But they seem to think it a trifle odd I was there. Really, these men have
no
auras at all. They are void.”

A deep voice rumbled in the background.

“Blood? What blood?” Annie demanded.

Max leaned closer to the phone.

Obviously turning away from the receiver, Laurel said, “I have not used my three minutes!” An outraged sniff, then her voice came more strongly. “Annie, my dear child, so
sorry
to be a bother, but if you and Max could come and get me—and
bring some money, of course, I think they said something about bail—I would appreciate it.”

“Laurel, where
are
you?”

“Oh my dear, haven’t I told you? The Chastain City Jail.”

It wasn’t quite that simple. The magistrate wasn’t in session at eleven-thirty at night. But Max, who regularly challenged him to tennis matches, made a half dozen phone calls and, finally, at five minutes to one, Laurel was sprung. She stood in the dingy anteroom and smiled winsomely.

Max wasn’t having any.

“All right, Laurel, what happened?” He glanced down at the notes in his hand. “Stopped by the campus police at ten-forty tonight running from Brevard Hall. Refused to explain presence. Suspicious, campus police (Sergeant Merrifield) entered Brevard Hall where vandalism was discovered. Upon suspect’s repeated refusal to answer questions, an arrest was made for unauthorized entry and malicious destruction of property. Suspect’s bloody footprints found in hallway leading away from the door of the campus newspaper office, which had been splashed with blood.” He folded his arms. “What happened?”

His mother stared down at her dainty, stockinged feet. “They wouldn’t let me keep my shoes. Said they were evidence. And they were
new
. The prettiest pink leather. The most darling little shop in Perugia. I
always
go there when—”

“Bloody footprints, Mother. Your footprints. How? Why? Whose blood, for God’s sake?” he demanded irritably.

Her deep blue eyes widened in hurt surprise at his tone. “Maxwell, how should I know? I was merely passing by.”

“No, no,” he said firmly. “That’s not good enough. At that hour? Come on, Mother, give.”

Laurel smoothed her golden hair, lifted her chin, and stared past her son as if to a far horizon. “Sometimes in this life, to fulfill a noble commitment to the very
highest
principles, it is necessary to endure the calumny of the world.” Her mouth closed firmly.

And not another word would she say.

Max sighed and took her arm. “If not here, then elsewhere. If not now, then later.”

It was much later, of course, by the time he had arranged for a special run of the ferry (for a hundred and fifty dollars Annie suggested they spend the night in Chastain, but she was overruled).

When Max’s Maserati pulled up at the inn where Laurel was staying, he said grimly, “Here or in your room, Ma.”

Laurel sighed. “Such a
bristly
aura you have, Max dear. But I do appreciate your and Annie’s coming tonight, and I will share with you, though, of course, I expect you both to be absolutely mum, should anyone ask.”

“Laurel, those charges are not going to disappear. We must have a defense.”

Annie intervened. “Things always seem to work out for Laurel. Don’t discourage her, Max.” Annie patted her mother-in-law’s slim shoulder. “Now, what happened?”

Laurel pressed her fingers gently against her temples. “I have been concerned. Very concerned.”

They nodded dutifully.

“I sensed such despair. And you know, despair can spawn such irrevocable action. So I followed her.” Those graceful hands came together in a prayerful pose.

“Followed who?” Annie asked gently, pinching Max before he could bellow.

“Georgia Finney. That dear, dear child. In an invidious situation, of course. But I do understand about love. And, of course, he should never have married her.”

“Oh God,” Max moaned.

His mother looked at him in surprise. She reached out for the door handle. “My sweet, you must be very tired. I do understand. Thank you again for coming.” The door opened.

Annie gently barred the way. “Good of you, Laurel, but Max is all right.” She gave him another sharp pinch. “Now tell us all about Georgia and who she shouldn’t have married.” Remembering she was now a teacher, she added quickly, “
Whom.
”

A vexed shake of that golden head. “My dears, sometimes I
worry about your comprehension. Georgia isn’t married. Mr. Crandall is married. But he fell in love with Georgia. And she with him. Absolutely a love match, according to some of the students I talked to. That’s how I found out, of course. From the students. It took me no time at all.” She couldn’t quite suppress her dismay. “Max, I
did
think you were investigating. But I know it’s hard for men to be perceptive.” She beamed at Annie. “Don’t you think, dear?”

“Oh, yes, a real struggle. Now, about Georgia and Mr. Crandall?”

“In love.” A sigh. “But, of course, he is a married man. And that is frowned upon, a married professor and one of his students. She’s
very
outstanding and worked with him closely on a special project. Travel, you know, and that sort of thing. And, of course, his marriage is unhappy. An older woman. Took advantage of him. He’s that kind of man. I do understand about men.” A complacent nod. “She was widowed and a
very
strong personality. And he was being kind, but, first thing you know, she had him where she wanted him and he was too much of a gentleman to say no and then she expected marriage and he was lost. Quite lost. So easy to take advantage of some men.”

“Mother,” Max’s voice almost quivered, “what in God’s name does all of this have to do with your running out of that damn hall and bloody footprints?”

“Maxwell, you must understand the emanations. That dreadful article and its hint of revelations to come. Of course, Georgia feared the next story would be about her and Mr. Crandall. And he doesn’t have tenure. That is such a
precarious
state for a young professor. And if it all came out, that he, a married man, was in love with a student, why, how could he expect to be approved? Oh, a most desperate situation. And Georgia felt it so keenly and she was so disturbed with that stubborn young editor, Brad Kelly. I didn’t know what was going to happen—but I felt strongly, more strongly than I can say, that I mustn’t let her out of my sight.”

There were a number of side excursions: “Really, it was
such
a dark night, the sort that seethes with spirits, you know.” “So interesting, those young men with a telescope in the apartment house next door to the sorority. So quietly devoted to the pursuit of heavenly bodies at such a late hour.” “The attitude of the law enforcement gentlemen leaves a great deal to be desired. Such a stultifying atmosphere.” But Laurel did finally reveal a few facts: Georgia Finney slipped from a side door of her sorority house about ten-thirty, dressed in dark slacks and a navy sweater and carrying a flashlight. Laurel trailed her down dark alleys and through the shadows of the live oaks to Brevard Hall.

It was at this point that her recital became uncertain.

“You see,” she said plaintively, “it was so dark. I lost sight of Georgia. But I knew by then—felt sure—where she was going, so I crept around the side of the building to the back door. It was open. I tiptoed inside and I was perhaps halfway down the hall when several things happened at once. I heard a crash.” She clapped her hands. “It was just like the time I launched the USS
Connecticut
. Max, do you remember how the champagne flew in the most glorious pink spray?”