A Little Class on Murder (16 page)

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. Thompson. 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.

Max wondered how his mother would describe Garrison’s karma. Creamy. A hot tub with the Jacuzzi on low. Satin sheets. Silk jockey shorts. Melted caramel on French vanilla.

Garrison gestured benignly to the window on his right which looked out on glossy-leaved live oaks and a portion of a cypress-rimmed pond. “A small community, but dear to those of us who have devoted our lives to its nurture.” Pale blue eyes studied Max dispassionately.

To see how it was playing in Poughkeepsie?

“A community apparently suffering some strains,” Max observed.

The professor puffed pensively on his pipe. “I’m not sure just how to explain us to an outsider.” This time the grin was engaging.

“One word at a time,” Max suggested gently. A sharp glance, but Max too could maintain a bland expression.

“I’m sure you’ve already talked to our chairman.” The pale eyes glittered coldly, but the voice remained suave.

“Yes, I had an interesting session with Mr. Burke.”

“An old-time newsman.” The faintest hint of derision. “Brusque. Combative. Aggressive. Well suited to chasing down stories on the police beat. Up front about his convictions.” Pipe smoke spiraled lazily up. “Very open. As he makes clear at every opportunity, he has no patience with the use of personal information that is not germane to a story. Strong sense of the importance of the right to privacy. So, of course, I
am sure, Mr. Darling, that you are convinced that Mr. Burke could have had nothing to do with those unfortunate revelations in
The Crier
. And further, true to his principles, Mr. Burke hasn’t provided you with any personal, truly personal, information about his colleagues.” A slightly raised eyebrow underlined his skepticism.

Max frowned uncomfortably. Actually, he had dismissed the possibility that Burke might have engineered the leaks. The chairman’s fury at Brad Kelly and his reiteration that he would never play games with people’s lives had rung true. And Burke had initially resisted talking about the members of his department.

Satisfaction flickered in Garrison’s eyes. “Yes, our chairman is very open with his feelings. Almost,” he added silkily, “amazingly so. But I wonder, Mr. Darling, just as a point of information, did you inquire as to reasons the faculty might have for being unhappy with Mr. Burke?”

“Yes.”

“And, being an able investigator, I imagine you inquired further about the kinds of personnel problems that might soon be appearing on page one of
The Crier.
”

Max nodded reluctantly. “Burke told me in confidence on the understanding that the information would go no further than Miss Dora.”

“Of course, of course.” A pitying smile.

Max felt a vein begin to throb in his neck. “He didn’t unload all the faculty dirt. In fact, he refused to go into the reasons for Mrs. Porter’s misusing those monies.”

“Oh, really. Noble fellow. Determined to protect her memory at all costs, no doubt.”

Max frowned. “But he hates having people think she was venal.”

“So?” Garrison prodded.

“There’s a press conference this afternoon. Kelly’s called it to announce that nothing will stop his exposé. He dared Burke to show up.”

“Our stalwart chair will be there, I feel confident,” the professor observed with a dry smile.

Max said thoughtfully, “Burke intends to decide by then whether to reveal Porter’s reasons.”

Garrison laughed wholeheartedly, a man who’d heard a really marvelous joke. “Sounds as though you had a very informative session with our chair. Do you know what, Mr. Darling? If I were a betting man, I’d wager the world will learn the truth about Charlotte Porter this afternoon.”

Annie could feel the beads of sweat above her mouth. A 10K road race would have been easier, but she felt confident she was now back in control.

Of course, she had found it necessary to agree to a few changes in the reading list.

It never paid to be stiff-necked.

Henny made a final addition to her mimeographed sheet with a flourish. “Perhaps it would be well, if you don’t mind, Annie, to review it. Let’s see, for Mary Roberts Rinehart—”

Annie interrupted. “I’ll put it on the board.”

She turned, grabbed up chalk, and began to write:

“So very pleased,” Laurel murmured, “at the substitution of
The Red Lamp
for
The Door
. Although it does seem to me that we can scarcely do justice to her light touch if we don’t read any of the Tish stories.”

The chalk in Annie’s fingers broke in half. “The Tish stories were not mysteries,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Might as well spend the semester reading Sayers’s Dante translations. Have as much application,” Miss Dora snapped.

Annie hated to be in her debt, but she flashed an appreciative glance.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” Henny countered. “Sayers’s nonmystery works are terribly important in understanding her.
Mind of the Maker
brilliantly examines the fundamentals of Christianity, and I feel it’s fair to say that we can never claim
to have any insight into Sayers if we’ve not read any of her religious writings.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mitzi cried, looking from one to another in dismay, her braids beginning to slip sideways. “Look, I got scratches all over my reading list. Mind of the what? What’re we ’spose’ to read, for Pete’s sake?”

Annie pointed at the board. “These three Rinehart titles and—” She wrote decisively, because it was over the Christie titles that the bloodiest battles had erupted.

The big jock next to Kelly gave a howl of distress. “Six books? Six? Plus three for Rinehart and three for Sayers?” His tone put the imposition of a twelve-book reading list right on a level with the kind of mayhem so routinely meted out in Mike Hammer novels.

Miss Dora thumped her cane resoundingly. Jessup flinched. “Young man, reading is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Try it.”

Swenson’s mouth opened, then closed soundlessly.

Annie ignored them all and listed the Sayers titles:

She swung around, lips compressed, and snatched up her notes before anyone else could interrupt. “Now, everyone has the correct reading list.” The substitution of
The Nine Tailors
for
The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club
infuriated her, but Miss Dora obviously would have thrown up a barricade and mounted it had Annie resisted, despite Annie’s bone-deep conviction that
The Nine Tailors
was one of the most boring books ever written. She swept the room with her gaze. Only Max Carrados would not have seen that she had reached her
limit of endurance. (But the blind detective’s other senses were so well developed he likely wouldn’t have missed it.) “This morning, we shall discuss briefly the original and enduring contributions each author has made to the mystery field, beginning with Mary Roberts Rinehart. As everyone knows, Rinehart is credited with creating the Had-I-But-Known school of the mystery.” Affirmative headshakes from everyone but Morrison, who looked bewildered, then at her watch. “In these, the protagonist is recounting for the reader’s pleasure and mystification the occurrence of murders which have been solved but the reader receives the story as it happened with occasional comments by the protagonist on the order of ‘Then Maud appeared, and I remember waving them off and going back to my office, totally unaware that the first happy phase of my life at the Cloisters was over.’ ”