A Little Class on Murder (2 page)

“Not fair,” she objected. “He did write a lot, but—”

“How many?”

Annie looked at her inquisitor in surprise. One of the problems in serving the G.P. (as Ingrid, her good friend and helpful clerk, described the General Public) was the ever-present danger of confronting a nut. This man didn’t look like a nut, but what was the point of his barrage of questions? “Wallace wrote eighty-eight mysteries, six nonmystery novels, sixty-two books of short stories, four collections of verse, twenty-eight plays, and ten screenplays. Once he wrote a book over a weekend.
The Coat of Arms.
”

An approving smile fleetingly creased the tanned, bony face. The parrot-bright eyes moved back to the display. He reshelved the Wallace mug and grabbed another. “
The Glass-Sided Ant’s Nest
by Peter Dickinson. What’s this about?”

“Murder in a London attic where members of a primitive New Guinea tribe live. Dickinson’s one of the most original crime writers alive.”

He slapped the mug back in place with a thump that made Annie wince. “Who wrote, ‘But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid’?”

“Raymond Chandler, of course.”

He snapped his fingers. “Who’s Selwyn Jepson’s clever female series character?”

“Eve Gill.
Man Running, The Golden Dart, The Hungry Spider, The Black Italian, The Laughing Fish
, and
Fear in the Wind.
”

His green eyes shone. Annie had a feeling that she’d passed some kind of test. He stuck out his hand. “I’m R.T. Burke, new chair of the journalism department at CC.” A pause. “Chastain College,” he amplified.

She took his hand. “Annie Laurance Darling,” she offered. His handshake was firm, quick, and hurried.

Chastain was a lovely small town snuggled in a pleasant harbor on the mainland, about 13 miles from the ferry dock that served the island of Broward’s Rock and, of course, Death on Demand. Settled in 1730, Chastain had prospered in the heyday of cotton, missed destruction when Sherman passed by, and flowered in recent years as a mecca for tourists appreciative of antebellum homes. Annie vaguely recalled a live oak-rimmed campus and buildings of uniformly Georgian architecture. She had a little trouble picturing R.T. Burke in this milieu.

Either he was very perceptive or he had a keen self-awareness. “Believe it or not, I went to school there. Bright Georgia cracker back from Europe. CC was started in forty-four. Flooded with GI’s after the war.” He squinted speculatively at her. “World War Two.”

“I’ve heard of it,” she said dryly. Why did everyone over forty assume her generation was illiterate?

“You’re damn young.” He cleared his throat. “You free on Tuesday and Thursday mornings?”

Before she could answer, he barreled ahead. “Damn short notice, I know. Classes start next week, but everybody says you’re a whiz. Have you ever taught anything?”

“Taught?” She felt as disoriented as a first-time reader of a Craig Rice mystery. “Mr. Burke, I don’t—”

“Call me R.T. Don’t go with titles and all that crap. I’m a newsman, pure and simple. Never thought I’d be teaching anything. Worked for AP for twenty-five years. Bureau chief the last ten. Had a triple bypass. Doctor ordered me to take it easy.”

“And, of course, that’s what you’re doing,” she said mildly.

He gave her a piercing look, those brilliantly green eyes sparking, then laughed. It resembled a hyena’s bark. “Damn
sharp
, young miss. Right. Right. I spew. Sometimes I explode. Simmer the rest of the time. Just as soon go out with a bang as a whimper. Having a hell of a time, actually. Like to stir things up—and believe me, this department needs some fresh blood. Bunch of damn three-toed sloths with tunnel vision. Giving ’em hell. Furious at me, the governing board, and the president. You know Charles August Markham?”

Annie recognized the name of the college president. She’d glimpsed him once at a beach replenishment meeting here on the island. Broward’s Rock had taken the lead in working toward improvement of the beach replenishment bill recently passed by the legislature.

“I know him by sight.”

“I was in his platoon. Been pals ever since. Asked me to take on the department, see if I could get it up to snuff. Told him I’d be glad to.” His bushy black eyebrows bunched. “Thought it’d be easy. The more fool me. But I’ll get there. One way or another. Damn academics. Know more ways to obfuscate and delay than a politician in a filibuster.”

Annie was beginning to enjoy this truncated conversation. She leaned comfortably against the coffee bar and realized that, for once in her life, she was dealing with someone a good deal more uptight than she. It gave her a sense of cool well-being. Why, she could be as laid back as Max, her new and always relaxed spouse. What a pleasant feeling! She smiled at her visitor. “Do you know what Robert B. Parker said about academics?”

A hyena bark in anticipation.

Encouraged, Annie quoted from John C. Carr’s
The Craft of Crime: Conversations with Crime Writers:
“ ‘Somebody once said that one of the reasons academic infighting is so vicious is that the stakes are so small. There’s so little at stake and they are so nasty about it. More than any other group I’ve ever seen, academics don’t seem to know how to act, and there
is
a way to act.’ ”

R.T. Burke slammed a fist on top of the coffee counter. “Damn right. God, I’d like to set him—or Spenser—loose in my department.” There was no glint of humor in those vivid
green eyes. “Goddam, wouldn’t I like that! There
is
a way to act. First class, that’s what we need. First-class teachers. First-class writers. First-class reporters. I won’t stand for cheaters and liars.” He leaned across the wooden bar. “You know why I went into newspapering? Truth, that’s why. Men like Zenger and Pulitzer and White. Decent men trying to tell the truth. And the muckrakers, who went out there and found out how people worked like slaveys. Those writers told the world and got some laws to keep kids from grinding out twelve-hour days in the mills. That’s journalism. Not this poking into people’s bedrooms that passes for investigative reporting today. Cheap trash.” He was breathing heavily. “By God, there
is
a way to act.” He glared at her. Slowly, his breathing eased. “Bet you think I’m going to have a heart attack on the spot, huh? Not me. Tougher than a sob sister at a hanging. And I don’t put up with fools.” The red ebbed from his face, and there was what sounded like a snort of either laughter or embarrassment. “Puts me up a creek sometimes. Like now. Just fired the sorry jerk who was going to teach feature writing. Found out he’d been let go for making a story up.
Making a story up
, can you believe that?” The flush rose again from his neck to his hairline. “Thank God, you can
fire
adjunct faculty. Anyway, I’ve got a damn big hole in the schedule. Classes start next week for the winter quarter. Heard you put together a mystery program for the annual house-and-garden tours last spring. Occurred to me maybe we could use a course on the mystery.”

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.”