A Little Class on Murder (25 page)

“Like an opening night,” Annie yelled in Max’s ear. “Everybody’s here—if you care about that sort of thing.”

Max twisted in his seat to look back over the auditorium. Every seat was taken.

“Hell of a deal,” he shouted back. “I never dreamed there would be this kind of turnout.”

Nor had Annie.

Almost fifty news correspondents perched restlessly in the first five or so rows. Television crews and print photographers jockeyed for better positions. Students craned to see past them. Annie spotted all the journalism faculty members except for Moss.

The best seat in the house was front row, center section, center seat. Miss Dora occupied it as to the manner born. She appeared oblivious to the restless audience, sitting ramrod straight, of course, black gloved hands atop her ebony cane. She was all in black this morning, even to the three feathers atop her hat. She had the wild and predatory air of a scavenging hawk.

The sight of Miss Dora always produced sensations of discomfort in Annie, an uneasiness akin to setting out to cross a fun house, knowing full well that any resemblance to normality was deceptive.

Max tugged on her arm. “Over there. By the fire exit. Is that Henny?”

Untidy dark hair. A middle-aged woman in a shabby
sweater, tweed skirt. A knitting bag with khaki, blue, and navy wool protruding. An air of insouciance.

“Tuppence, of course. When she was older. During the war. Finding spies and things. I’ll bet Henny’s about to burn up in that outfit.”

Their glances met.

Henny gave a sporting, thumbs-up wave.

So it came as no surprise when Annie spotted Laurel, except that Laurel could always be counted upon to provide distraction. She was entering the auditorium on the arm of Dr. Markham, who bent attentively to listen as she spoke.

Annie would have loved to overhear that conversation! She leaned close to her spouse. “Bet she’ll have a date with him before the session is over.”

Max looked at her reproachfully. But he didn’t say a word.

The auditorium doors closed. The hum of expectant conversation intensified.

A lectern stood at the center of the stage apron in front of the closed royal blue curtains. There was a ripple in the curtains and Malcolm Moss stepped out, followed by Brad Kelly. Camera shutters clicked.

Moss’s half-smile never wavered as he strode to the speaker’s stand. His curly blond hair glistened in the harsh light. The jacket of his blue suit pulled across his massive chest, emphasizing his bulk. Kelly wore a navy blue blazer, soft blue cotton shirt, red-and-blue rep tie, and khaki slacks. He might have been the year’s outstanding graduate stepping forth to receive kudos except for the paleness of his face, a spatter of freckles distinct across his snub nose, and the tight set to his mouth. His eyes blinked rapidly. He clutched several pages of typewritten copy in shaking hands.

Moss surveyed the auditorium. Gradually, the crowd quieted.

“Good morning.” His voice was deep, assured, confident. “Chastain College and the Department of Journalism have suffered grievous losses: our chair, R.T. Burke, our colleague, Charlotte Porter, and our student and staff member, Emily Everett. The college will be closed in their honor on Monday,
November fourteenth. Services will be held that day at ten
A.M
. in Emmanuel Baptist Church for Chairman Burke. A private memorial service for Professor Porter is scheduled at two
P.M
. Services will be at three
P.M
. at the Baptist Student Center for Miss Everett.”

The scratch of pens, the whirr of cameras.

“Chastain College has been shaken to its core by these tragedies. However, as interim chair of the journalism department, I wish to make clear the department’s goal and the goal of Chastain College. Both institutionally and on a personal level, we are committed to doing everything within our power to aid the authorities in their efforts to ascertain who murdered our chairman and who destroyed our newspaper offices, thereby causing the death of a student and staff member.

“It is with these goals in mind that we are cooperating this morning in the appearance of the student editor, who will provide further information about problems which had occurred within the department in recent days. However, I wish to make it clear that the department is not responsible for views of or acts committed by the editor of
The Crier
. The student newspaper is, in accordance with bylaws promulgated by the Board of Trustees, independent of the journalism department, although, of course, it serves as a training ground for many of our students. On that basis, I present to you the editor of
The Crier
, Mr. Brad Kelly.”

Moss stepped away from the lectern, nodding at Kelly.

The young editor walked stiffly to the lectern, carefully placed his notes on it, and gripped the sides of the lectern. Annie knew he was holding on tightly to hide the tremor of his hands, and she felt a pang of sympathy.

Kelly took a deep breath, lifted his head, and looked out into the flashing lights of the cameras and the sea of waving hands.

“Mr. Kelly, who’s behind this exposé?”

“Is somebody trying to kill you?”

“What was Emily Everett doing in your office?”

“Who made the bomb? Do you have any idea?”

Kelly swallowed jerkily and spoke in a rush in a high,
strained voice. “I wish to make a statement, then I will respond to questions.” He cleared his throat, and looked down at his sheets:

“I am Brad Kelly, editor of
The Crier
. I was elected to the editorship by the student body for the winter and spring terms in an election held in late October.” He paused, took another deep breath. “So at that time it became common knowledge that I would be the new editor, beginning with the issue of November fourth.” He licked his lips. “On Tuesday, November first, I received a letter. It had no signature. It contained a message made up of letters which had been clipped from magazines and newspapers. The letters were of varying type styles and sizes. There were approximately five lines. As well as I can recall, this was the message:
Come alone to Scarrett Pond gazebo two
A.M
. November three. Burke’s plans, faculty scandals revealed. Confidentiality essential. Go for the gold.
”

Pandemonium broke loose.

“Is Scarrett Pond the one here on the campus?”

“Who was there? What did you find out?”

“Where’s this letter now?”

“Is this for real? Sounds like a lousy spy novel.”

“What faculty scandals?”

Kelly swiped sweat away from his upper lip. He held up both hands. Slowly, the questions subsided.

“Scarrett Pond is here on the campus. And, unfortunately, I didn’t keep the letter. I should at this time explain that I was aware, as most students were, of tensions in the journalism department. It was common knowledge that Chairman Burke was unhappy with the direction of the school and hoped to make substantial changes. As I understand it, he had a great deal of authority and could add or drop courses with the approval of the academic dean and without approval of the faculty. But I wasn’t aware of any scandals concerning faculty members. My first instinct was to ask Mr. Burke—and I’d like to state that I now regret very much that I didn’t do so. But I was afraid he would refuse to comment at all on personnel matters and that I would not be able to learn anything from him about any serious personal problems faculty members
might have. And I thought I owed it to the readers to find out what was what. Personal matters affect the way people teach—and what they teach. So I decided to go to this meeting suggested in the unsigned letter.”

He straightened his papers. “That meeting was early on the morning of Thursday, November third. I left my apartment about one-thirty and walked onto the campus. I was hoping to be in place before the letter writer arrived and perhaps be able to catch a glimpse of him. Or her. But it was a cloudy night and dark.” He gripped the sides of the lectern. “God, it was dark.” For the first time, his voice lost its rote tone, sounding instead young and awed. A titter of laughter swept the auditorium. “Anyway, I got there. I couldn’t see a thing. I had a flashlight in my jacket but I didn’t want to use it. I thought maybe I could surprise this guy and find out who was pulling the strings. So I sort of felt my way out there. See, you can follow the gravel path and reach the bridge. I did that and hung onto the railing and kind of crept over there. Then it’s just a couple of feet more and I was at the gazebo. I sat on the steps and listened. I didn’t hear anything but the sound of the wind in the trees, kind of an eerie, creepy sound and the plop of things in the water. I don’t know what. Too late in the year for snakes and turtles. I sat there and sat there. I didn’t know what time it was but I began to think that somebody’d jerked me around, played a joke on me, then all of a sudden there was a bright light and it stabbed right into my eyes and this high whispery voice told me not to move, if I made a single move, tried to get close or anything, it was all off. See, I was outmaneuvered. He had the flash and had me pinned in the light like a bug. Then he started talking, fast and high, and—” another swipe at the sweat beading his forehead now “—told me all this stuff about Professor Porter and how she’d taken money and they’d covered it up and then a lot more stuff about Burke and how he was going to outsmart the faculty that wouldn’t play ball—Garrison and Moss—and make them teach courses on practical stuff, whether they liked it or not. They had tenure, but he could set the course work. And then some stuff about Professor Crandall and”—he lifted his head
and the skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones—“his girlfriend, a student. I couldn’t take notes but I was listening like crazy. Then, the voice said, ‘Get started on a series about the faculty. I’ll get back in touch with you with some more interesting information next week.’ When he said that, all of a sudden the light switched off and I could hear running footsteps. I yanked out my flashlight, but all I saw was some shrubbery kind of waving like it’d been brushed. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to try and catch him so—”

“You keep saying ‘him,’ ” the AP reporter broke in. “Was it a man? How could you tell?”

Kelly rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. It could have been a woman. Whoever it was kept whispering. I guess I thought it was a man because—because—”

“Because?” Miss Dora prompted in her dry, crackly voice.

Kelly looked defiantly around the auditorium. “All right. I’ll just come out and say it. The odds are it’s a man. There was only one other woman on the faculty besides Mrs. Porter and I didn’t think it was her. Ms. Tarrant wants the department to emphasize professionalism.”

The questions erupted like rifle fire, but Kelly stood his ground. No, he didn’t know it was a faculty member. But who else knew the kind of thing he’d been told? Who else would try and expose the problems in the department?

It was the CNN reporter who fastened on that. “You think this was part of the chairman’s campaign to restructure the department? Are you saying R.T. Burke spilled the beans?”

“I don’t know who did it,” Kelly insisted. “I’m just telling you what I know.”

UPI: “Did somebody stiff Burke because he set up this exposé?”

Kelly ignored that and continued doggedly, “Mr. Burke told me Thursday morning he was determined to discover the identity of Deep Throat. That’s what he called him, after—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” came an impatient chorus. There was no need for Kelly to inform this audience about Deep Throat, that famous and still-unidentified player during Watergate.

“So Burke was acting like he was furious over the whole
deal. And he was mad at me, too. Said I hadn’t handled this right, that I should have contacted Porter, Garrison, and Moss. And him, too, I guess. I did call Mrs. Porter, but she wouldn’t talk to me. But there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. I’m elected to be editor, not appointed by the department. That keeps me independent. And I intend to stay that way.”

“Do you think you’ll stay alive?” a local television correspondent shouted. “Pretty deadly around that place. The chair dead. A student killed in an explosion in your office. Do you figure somebody’s after you?”

Kelly hunched his thin shoulders and balled his fists. “I’m not going to be easy to take. Believe me. And I’m going to check any funny packages that show up.”

“Too late for Emily Everett. How come she was in your office? Where were you?”

Kelly yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, swabbed his face. “I think she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time Look, here’s what happened. Emily came lumbering into the newsroom and she was breathing hard and kind of crying, said she didn’t know what to do, but she thought maybe she knew who had leaked the stuff and she wanted to see if she was right. See, she thought I knew who I’d got the stuff from. But I told her real quick I didn’t know.” He gnawed at his lip. “I made a mistake. I should’ve tried my damnedest to get her to tell me. I mean, that was a hell of a story, too. But I thought I was in a bind. That letter said it had to be confidential and it seemed to me that by showing up and listening, then using that stuff in a story, I’d pretty well made a bargain. And just a couple of months ago an appeals court held a newspaper liable for a couple of hundred thousand dollars because they’d spilled the name of a source after they’d promised to keep it confidential. So I didn’t want Emily to tell me. And she was goosey. She wasn’t sure, see. So, she kept sniffling and she was so damn upset. I told her I’d go get her a Coke and a candy bar. Make her feel better. Then I was going to decide what to do. I started down the hall and I stopped at the john. I didn’t hurry. I thought she could use
the time to settle down. I was washing my hands when all hell broke loose. I mean, the goddamnedest explosion. I didn’t know it was my office, but I sure as hell knew it was close. I ran down the hall, then I met up with some people—a woman who’s teaching a mystery class—and there it was, the office blown to hell. We tried to get to Emily. But we couldn’t. Anyway, I think maybe it was just damn bad luck she was in there.” He took a deep breath. “And I don’t think anybody was out to get me. I don’t
think
so. I shouldn’t have been there either. I’d dropped in to do a little work after my eleven o’clock, but usually I don’t get to the office till around three.”