A Little Class on Murder (29 page)

Annie admitted to Max that this piece of information was intriguing, in part because it indicated an awesome ability for information retrieval on Miss Dora’s part. It provoked them into constructing a timetable of events. (Max would gladly have opted for other, more intimate activities, but a timetable could withstand the assault of the telephone. As for the possibility of unplugging the phone or stuffing it under a pillow, Annie apparently found this a psychic impossibility which all women would understand immediately.)

Annie insisted on beginning at the beginning:

Tuesday, November 1
: R.T. Burke comes to Death on Demand, persuades Annie to teach a class on the mystery.

Thursday, November 3:
early morning clandestine meeting between Kelly and informant at Scarrett Pond.

Thursday, November 3:
Annie attends her first faculty meeting.

Saturday, November 5:
Charlotte Porter visits Death on Demand, bringing the first issue of
The Crier
with its nice picture of Annie.

Tuesday, November 8:
Annie teaches her first class;
The Crier
is published with the article revealing Charlotte Porter’s misuse of funds.

Wednesday, November 9:
Max is hired to discover who leaked the confidential files to Kelly; Annie attends emergency faculty meeting on the exposé; Charlotte Porter’s suicide discovered. Late that night, Kelly goes to Scarrett Pond but his informant doesn’t show up; the
Crier
offices vandalized, Laurel arrested.

Thursday, November 10:
Annie and Max spring Laurel
from the city jail; Annie and Max talk to Burke about the leaked information; Kelly schedules news conference; Annie’s class picks outside research project (later canceled); explosion wrecks
Crier
offices, kills Emily Everett; Annie discovers Burke’s body; Georgia Finney arrested; Annie and Max in conference with three eager students at the Palmetto Inn.

Friday, November 11:
Annie and Max (awakened by the telephone, of course) make an early morning survey of Burke’s offices, discover open door to file closet; Emily Everett’s landlady describes Emily’s last hours; President Charles August Markham ponders the effects of his choosing R.T. Burke to head the journalism department; Kelly reveals what little he knows about his informant at a jammed press conference; Annie and Max try to flesh out their picture of R.T. Burke.

Was or was not Burke Deep Throat? Annie tapped her pencil on the card table they’d put up in the middle of the living room to hold all of their materials about the crimes. “Max, why didn’t Deep Throat show up Wednesday night? Had he already decided to kill Burke the next day?”

“That’s assuming someone other than Burke is the informant,” he cautioned.

Annie wildly ran her hands through her hair. “Dammit, there it is again. Who is Deep Throat?”

“Or was,” Max augmented.

Their construction of the timetable and discussion of questions it raised occurred, of course, with intermittent interruptions.

7:15
P.M
. Saturday
: “Oh, the human heart, and the dark and tortuous impulses generated when love is so desperately sought.” Laurel’s husky voice trailed off for a moment. “The tragedy. The heartbreak.”

“Yes, Laurel?” If Annie wanted aphorisms, she could read Kahlil Gibran.

“And the young are so ruthless, are they not? It scarcely seems possible that it should have happened. Although, of course, you would think a woman the age of Sue Tarrant would know better.” From the intonation, an unknowing listener
would have assumed Sue Tarrant to be
much
older than Laurel.

A lengthy pause.

Annie couldn’t resist. “What happened?”

“A student of Professor Tarrant’s discovered, somehow, that she belonged to one of those long-distance conversation clubs. You know, for lonely people. And the student put it on a bulletin board.”

Funny. Annie wasn’t struck so much by the student’s cruelty as by Tarrant’s desperation.

9:03
P.M
. Saturday
: “The quest continues.” Henny gave no evidence of fatigue. In fact, she sounded absolutely chipper and, of course, very British. Dame Beatrice Bradley? “When Victor Garrison was an undergraduate, he lost an election to the presidency of the Student Council. A few weeks later, an anonymous informant accused the newly elected president of plagiarism on a term paper. The charge was substantiated and the student expelled. A new election was held and Garrison won. Interesting psychological parallel, don’t you think?”

10:15
P.M
. Saturday
: “I’ve met the loveliest young man. His name is Peter Strawn,” Laurel caroled. Annie tensed. Surely—“He works part-time for the student police and he claims there were three figures fleeing the journalism building the evening that I was there. I do believe Peter—he plays football and is
so
attractive—will be very suitable for Georgia when we succeed in clearing her.”

11:06
P.M
. Saturday
: “Want a thing done and done well, do it yourself!” And wasn’t the old devil pleased with herself, Annie thought. Miss Dora’s crackly voice was plump with satisfaction. “President Markham escorted me. Kept looking nervously at the ceilings. By God, if the building hadn’t fallen by then, why should it? And he turned absolutely beet red at the urinals. But I grew up with chamber pots. The urinals held no interest for me. It was the trash cans. The trash cans!”

“The trash cans,” Annie parroted obediently.

“Of course. Do you think maintenance engineers—and
what a silly damn fool name for a trashman, used to be just custodians, now it’s building maintenance engineers—do you think they
look
in trash barrels? Not likely. So I did and there they were.”

Annie didn’t have to ask. So, the missing personnel files had been found. By Miss Dora. In the first floor men’s room, stuffed in the bottom of the trash sack in the waste barrel.

6:03
A.M.
Sunday
: “Newspaper people are so difficult to track down. But, of course, it’s seven hours later in London. Nice young woman. Used to think the world of R.T. Burke, but upset when a good friend of hers, who had been a financial writer, found it impossible to get a job because of Burke. Seems the young man, Somebody Smith, profited financially from a story, delayed turning it in so he could buy some stock. Well, he made restitution and all that and even served a couple of years in the Peace Corps, but Burke said, ‘You can’t make a crooked stick straight,’ and kept him from getting another job in journalism.” Henny chirped, “I guess the moral is, watch out if you bat a sticky wicket.” The British accent fled. “Annie, what the hell
is
a sticky wicket?”

That call awakened them, of course. They made the early church service for the first time. Max thought being up early on a Sunday kind of fun. Annie was grumpy.

11:20
A.M.
Sunday
: “This is in total confidence, of course. My sources are impeccable but must remain unnamed.” A trill of laughter. “Oh, don’t you think I might do well as a journalist? I’ve always thought it would be so exciting to know an unimpeachable source or a highly placed executive or an administration spokesman. Do you think I should consider a new career?”

“Heavens no, Laurel.” Fearing she’d lacked in tact, Annie added swiftly, “You’re so busy as you are. So involved.” She forbore to say that the nation’s news-gathering infrastructure would never survive an onslaught by Laurel.

“That’s true, my dear. Oh, Annie, you are such an inspiration to me. I believe I have found my niche in life. Understanding the Mystery.” Her tone elevated it to a high calling.
“We can encompass all experience within the purview of the Mystery, which serves as the morality play of our time.”

Annie gripped the receiver. Oh God, what was she going to do about Laurel?

“But I am
drawn
to the excitement, the drama, the behind-the-scenes delving of journalism.” That husky voice dropped even lower. “And I do have previously unreleased information. From a source I cannot reveal, I have learned that Georgia Finney has broken her silence. She denies emphatically that she had anything at all to do with the splashing of blood on the door of the
Crier
office on Wednesday night. Rather, she insists that she went to the building late in the evening because she hoped to enter when it was untenanted and search the electronic files of the paper to determine if Mr. Kelly had written a story on Professor Crandall. However, she was unable to make that search. She said that after she entered the building, she realized there was another figure near the door. Abruptly, there was a crashing sound, as of glass breaking. Frightened, she broke into a run. She skidded on some sticky substance. Fleeing from the building, she hid in a line of pines to avoid detection by the campus police. She returned to her sorority house and discovered at that time that the soles of her shoes were stained with blood. She was frightened and hid the shoes on the roof behind a chimney. Poor, dear child. Such a traumatic week, but I’ve sent her flowers. With a picture of that handsome Mr. Strawn tucked into the bouquet.”

Over a leisurely lunch at the Island Hills Country Club, Annie and Max began work on a definitive motive summary. They made every effort to complete this task during the afternoon. When not engaged on the telephone.

2:17
P.M
. Sunday
: “The Sunnymeade Home for Children is eighteen miles from Chastain. My pleasure to serve on the board of trustees there. The superintendent was only too happy to give me particulars about Emily Everett. Child came to the home when seven. Never knew her father. Abandoned by mother. Obese upon arrival. Hated sports. Always reading.
In trouble often for hiding novels in her schoolwork in class.” A portentous pause. “Favorite holiday: Fourth of July.”

Annie was tempted to ask if Miss Dora had also uncovered Emily’s favorite color, favorite food, and favorite pastime. But, as a native-born Texan, she had learned early on never to rile a rattlesnake, so she kept quiet.

“Next door to the orphanage,” and Miss Dora’s voice bristled with import, “is one of the largest fireworks factories and outlets in the South.”

That, Annie knew, meant fireworks on a magnitude of which non-southerners would never believe. Thousands of pounds of fireworks. Big ones. Little ones. Fireworks for every taste and every pocketbook. Fireworks that were sold every day of the year. In the South, fireworks are not relegated to the Fourth. Having a party? Why, dazzle the night sky.

“A fireworks factory,” Annie said thoughtfully.

Then, in the evenhanded tradition of Lord Peter, Miss Dora added grudgingly, “Of course any real southerner knows all about fireworks.”

Real or, perhaps, adopted. Even outlanders could learn.

Fireworks. Made of gunpowder. And easily, so easily, obtained in the sovereign state of South Carolina.

Annie and Max enjoyed their outing to the forest preserve. Of course, they were soaked by the time they got back and quite cold. A hot shower did wonders for their morale. (The ringing of the phone couldn’t be heard in the shower. Max would gladly have remained in there, cramped as it was, until their skin turned to crepe paper, but Annie did think enough was enough.)

6:11
P.M
. Sunday
: “Never would read those
Fletch
books after I started the first one and he’d thrown a cat out of a seventh-floor window.”

“Humor, Henny,” Annie replied.

“Black. Anyway, Josh Norden would’ve fixed his wagon. Three years ago he was arrested for going after his next-door neighbor with a bullwhip.”

“Professor Norden?” Annie’s voice rose in shock.

“He heard dogs screaming. That’s what he told the police, screaming. Norden went over there. His neighbor was whipping the dogs with coat hangers.”

Annie shuddered.

9:02
P.M
. Sunday
: “Sometimes I think Emmett hasn’t the intelligence God gave a sea cucumber and less spine. Acts like one, too. Tries to roll up into a ball and refuse to talk. Well, I can tell you, I won’t put up with that.” Emmett. Emmett. Oh, of course. Miss Dora’s unwilling accomplice in Chief Wells’s office. “I gave him what for when he told me about the fingerprints. For pity’s sake, it should have been among the first information he provided!”

“Fingerprints?” Annie wondered if a Greek chorus ever got bored.

“There weren’t any! Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

“Weren’t any. Where?” Annie asked wildly.

“On the cabinet holding those confidential files. Been wiped shinier than a presidential limousine.”

They did get to bed fairly early, but, in one sense, to no avail. It’s difficult to sleep well or enjoy any of the other joys of bedtime when the inner ear is ever-cocked for the telephone—whether it rings or not.

Monday morning dawned clear and bright, and the day held promise of warmth. They wouldn’t need sweaters today. They fled the tree house early, enjoying breakfast at the grill at the Island Hills Country Club. Max even indulged in an egg. Boiled, of course. They lingered over coffee, but had time to spare to catch the nine o’clock ferry. They arrived in Chastain a good twenty minutes before R.T. Burke’s funeral was scheduled to begin. Parking in the shade of a live oak, they watched people arrive: Moss in a somber black suit, accompanied by a slender woman with melancholy eyes; Garrison politely shepherding his wife, his face suitably grave; Tarrant clutching
Crandall’s elbow; Norden alone, his shaggy white eyebrows drawn in a tight frown; Kelly, clutching a notepad, and the girl with the long braids, almost unrecognizable in a denim skirt; Diggs in a blue blazer, his concession to formality. Annie spotted President Markham, escorting Miss Dora. She was willing to bet that frosted Laurel. But Laurel was walking with a very handsome young man in a letter jacket. Annie only hoped this was the romantic interest Laurel had selected for Georgia Finney, and not … But it was better not to borrow trouble. She decided to make no comment to Max. His mother and such a young man might very well be a coupling Max would find unpalatable.