A Little Class on Murder (3 page)

Annie knew.

Ingrid took pity. She reached down and grabbed her purse from the second drawer of her desk. “Look, I’ve got an idea. I’ll go catch her. I’ll tell her all about your class—the one on the three great ladies of the mystery—that’ll distract her, for sure.”

Annie grabbed Ingrid’s slim arm with fingers of steel. “God, no. I’ll give her
three
Nicholas Blakes. I’ll give her that John Dickson Carr title we just got in.”
(The Man Who Could Not Shudder
. Scarce. Priced at $45.) “But I don’t want Henny in my class. Why, she knows more about mysteries than Carol Brener. Or Bruce Taylor. Or Dilys Winn. Or Kate Mattes. In my class! Ingrid, what a lousy idea!”

“A class on the greatest ladies of the mystery? On Mary Roberts Rinehart?” The rising note of excitement in Laurel’s husky voice was the first indication to Max Darling that his idle chatter, his well-meant,
innocuous
report on his and Annie’s doings, was of altogether too much interest to his mother. When Laurel got that particular tone in her voice, that vibrato—

Max stiffened. Which wasn’t easy when lying almost horizontal in the soft leathery embrace of his reclining desk chair. Not even the soothing warmth of the heater assuaged the sudden chill enveloping his mind.

“I’ll write you all about it, Laurel. I’ll keep you informed. I’ll send you the books on the reading list. Of course, Annie’s hoping that no one she knows enrolls. Her first time to teach, you know.”

“My dear child, Annie must be
confident
. Maxwell, we must
encourage
Annie.”

“That’s just it,” he said heartily. “We’ll be behind the scenes.
Behind the scenes
, Mother.”

“A noble thought, Maxwell dear. You do phrase things so beautifully. Just like Rasheesh.”

Max pursed his lips and frowned.

Light laughter, reminiscent of leprechauns in the twilight. “My newest link to the Other Side, my dear.”

“Of course, Mother. So glad you’re all linked up. And I know you’re very busy with—with—with linking, and all that.”

“Not
too
busy. In fact, I was just thinking how
much
I missed Broward’s Rock. And I’ve quite despaired of finding another mystery bookstore as wonderful as Death on Demand. And dear Ingrid. I had a note from her just the other day with a new shipment of books.”

“You’re reading mysteries?”

“Of course, my dear. I feel that it is incumbent upon a mother-in-law to create a rapport with her children’s spouses. And you know how
hard
I’ve tried with the girls’ husbands.”

Max winced at the memories. Laurel taking up skydiving (Diedre’s husband Ed’s hobby—until an outing with Laurel), moose hunting (the former passion of Gail’s husband Kenneth), and crapshooting (of course, Harry, Jen’s husband, was better off not gambling. Still—).

“Mother, we all—the girls and I—enormously appreciate the efforts you’ve made, but you must give time to yourself.” He scrambled for a diversion. “After all, there must be so
much
for you and Rasheesh to discuss.”

A thoughtful pause. “Rasheesh,” Laurel murmured. “Maxwell, what an excellent suggestion. I shall speak to Rasheesh about it.”

After he hung up, Max refused to admit to himself that his failure to inquire as to the subject of her talk with Rasheesh was evidence of moral cowardice.

And there was no point in worrying Annie.

Was there?

* * *

The little tickle of warm breath in her left ear was distracting. And the light but lingering kiss on her cheek—

“Max, go away. I can’t think when—”

Somehow—Annie was unclear just how—Max insinuated himself beside her on the couch, despite the uneven mound of books with paper markers extruding like lake wind warning flags. And where was that particular passage? The one about the death of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s canary Dickie and the indelible mark it had made upon her? More than breath now and the lingering touch of lips—

“Max, I can’t think—”

“You don’t need to
think.
”

“But the faculty meeting’s tomorrow and—”

His lips got in the way.

The books toppled to the floor.

Annie was too excited to spend the ferry ride sitting calmly in her aging Volvo. (She’d resisted Max’s attempt to substitute a Porsche. Her car worked.) She rested her elbows against the white metal railing, breathed deeply, relishing the salty sea scent, and gazed across the softly green water of Port Royal Sound at the mainland. A ragged V formation of stiff-tailed glossy cormorants skimmed low, seeking their prey, menhaden and minnows. The expert divers were a sure sign of fall, coming south to follow the migrating fish schools. And there, to port, was a bobbing band of lesser scaup, wintering tidewater ducks. Their glossy black heads glistened in the November sunlight.

Fall. To a plains Texan, it evoked memories of cool mornings, wind out of the north, and geese overhead on their way to the Gulf.

And school.

The shrill sound of bells, the scrape of shoes on wooden floors, the clang of lockers between classes. The screech of chalk against a blackboard, the smell of cafeteria food, the pleasure of learning.

She was, of course, en route to Chastain to take her place, if only briefly, as part of a college, not a high school, faculty. But
all educational institutions had the same elements. And she’d never surveyed a classroom from the vantage point of that godlike creature, the professor. It should be a new experience.

The ferry horn beeped three times, signaling the approach to the dock. Annie ducked back into her car and impatiently waited her turn to debark. As her Volvo bumped off the ferry, she wheeled to the right onto the blacktop. Seventy-five-foot loblolly pines topped by silvery umbrella crowns towered on both sides of the narrow road. Annie, of course, was soon trapped behind a lopsided pickup proceeding with great dignity at exactly twenty-eight miles per hour. This was SOP on a southern back road. Annie knew it, but still her hands clenched on the steering wheel and her shoulders hunched. An unending series of chicken trucks in the opposite lane kept her from passing. She did have one opportunity and was just about to make her move when a horn blared behind her and a canary-colored Corvette hogged onto the lane to sweep triumphantly past her and the pickup. Annie glimpsed sleek black hair, aviator sunglasses, and a tanned arm negligently draped on the red leather seat. She seethed the rest of the way into Chastain, continuing to inhale the pickup’s acrid exhaust fumes through the stop-and-start of town and down Ephraim Street past the elegant old mansions where she had staged a very murderous mystery program during last spring’s annual house-and-garden tours. She flicked on her left turn signal as she neared Prince Street. Thank heavens, the pickup chugged on, and she made her turn. The entrance to the campus of Chastain College was just past two more historic homes quite familiar to Annie. The Volvo jumped forward as she pressed the accelerator. She didn’t want to meet the owners of either of those homes ever again. She’d read recently in an area newspaper that one of them, Sybil Giacomo, was spending the autumn in Italy. But the other—Annie suppressed a shudder. She sped by Miss Dora’s brown brick home with its tabby-covered pillars. With relief, she turned onto the boulevard leading to the campus. Annie looked with admiring eyes at the cool, shadowy grounds. Woolly festoons of gray Spanish moss hung with gossamer grace from the low spreading limbs of the
glossy-leaved live oak trees that lined either side of the wide drive. She loved the dangling tendrils of the much-maligned plant, which, contrary to popular belief, does not devour its host, instead receiving its nutrients from the air and rainwater.

As she glimpsed the red brick Georgian buildings, she felt a thrill. Annie Laurance Darling, Professor. Well, adjunct instructor, actually, but as Shakespeare observed, a rose by any other name—

She glanced at the seat beside her. No doubt professors had a grander title than lesson plan for their projected classwork, but, whatever they called it, Annie was prepared. And it would be interesting to meet the faculty members of the journalism department.

According to Burke, journalism was quartered in Brevard Hall (named for Miss Dora’s family?) which was the third building on the right. Most of the parking spaces along the drive were empty and the graveled lots behind the buildings sparsely tenanted except for the lot behind Brevard Hall, which held a clump of cars, several battered coupes, a vintage VW with bright pink paint, and one sleek red Camaro. Annie noted the red-lettered sign that designated student parking. So some students were there even though the new session didn’t start until next week. The slots in front of the building, reserved for faculty at all times, held one car, a canary-colored Corvette. Annie coasted to a stop behind it and eyed the car thoughtfully. The road hog? Probably not, although she doubted Chastain teemed with yellow Corvettes. Shrugging, she grabbed her green folder, stepped out of the car, and hurried toward the oyster shell walk. Midway up the walk, she paused to admire the elegant entablature supported by four glistening Ionic columns. The classic frieze depicted a chariot race in ancient Rome. Which was apropos of what? The race goes to the swiftest? As she recalled her Roman history, the chariot races quite soon became the province of professional drivers, hard-bitten, tough men not above filing an adversary’s wheel or slipping a mickey to a competing horse. Whatever else under the sun might be new, man’s tricky, twisting nature was not.

Whatever symbolism might be intended, and perhaps the architect had intended none, the campus stretched out in placid, late afternoon loveliness. The vivid warm rose of fall flowering camellia japonica shrubs studded the dusty grounds with enchantment. Knobby black cypress brooded over the dark waters of a central pond.

It was a scene of absolute peace and beauty. Idyllic. Smiling, Annie walked briskly on up the path, enjoying the sound of shells crunching underfoot. She pulled open one of the white double doors and stepped inside, then stopped short, her hearing assaulted by a blare of high-decibel synthesizer music. The noise, which sounded like a machine shop gone mad, emanated from the first door to her left, which was, unfortunately, propped wide open by a tattered orange backpack.

A sign above the door, with a few missing letters, identified the offices of
THE CHASTAIN COLLEGE CRIER
. Suddenly a stocky, broad-faced young woman with improbably long, black braids appeared in the doorway. She wore an Elton John T-shirt, baggy Levi’s, and work boots. She paused, looked back into the room, and bellowed (the only possible way to be heard over the din), “Hammermill’s a shit, but I’ll try to get the story. Listen, you owe me one for this.” Head poking forward, horn-rims slipping on her nose, she plunged into the hall and swept toward Annie, then jerked to a halt to stare at a hand-lettered poster on a table by the door to Annie’s right. Her long braids quivered like storm-whipped electrical lines as she shook her head irritably. “Oh hell. Double hell,” she groused loudly. Stamping one booted foot, she gave Annie a sharp glance and demanded, “So who gives a damn about mysteries? Crap, I’ve
got
to get two more hours of electives and that’s the only time that works for my schedule! Oh, shit,” and she swung toward the exit.

Mysteries?

Annie was turning toward the table to see what occasioned that outburst, when the entry door at the far end of the hall banged open. She gave the newcomer scant attention until he
began to charge down the hall. For a wild moment, she thought he was bearing down on her.

His appearance wasn’t threatening. He had short, curly brown hair, a snub nose, freckles, and a square chin. His dress would have passed muster at any preppie academy—front-pleated khaki slacks, button-down blue shirt, rep tie, and blue blazer. But the scowl on his face was enough to send Annie backpedaling.

When he careened past her to burst through the open door to
The Crier
, she took a deep breath of relief.

Her relief increased when the mind-numbing din of the synthesizer ended abruptly in midchord. Welcome, assuaging silence descended.

But she tensed again when a deep voice roared, “Hey, what the hell, jerk. What’re you doing with my tape?”

Stepping nearer the open doorway, she looked into a long room dominated by the glowing green screens of three rows of monitors. Oh, of course. The newsroom for
The Crier
.

But she was only peripherally aware of the variously dressed students behind some of the monitors or clustered near a desk. Because she expected all hell to break loose any minute.

The fellow who’d charged past her into the newsroom had a wiry, compact build but he wasn’t big or impressive, and he stared up, confronting an infuriated giant, who stood at least six foot six and had neck and chest muscles that would be the envy of a pro football player. Heavy cranial bones made him look like a Neanderthal survivor. The giant glowered down at his small tormentor. “That’s my tape player, Kelly.”

“Sure.” Kelly’s voice quavered just a fraction. “You can play it anywhere you want to—except here. This is a newspaper office. It’s going to be run like a newspaper office. Anybody who’s here is here to work. No music. No loud stuff. No crap, Bernie.”

“So who’s gonna make me,” the giant taunted, reflecting a lifetime of dependence upon size and meanness to get his way.

“I’m going to make you.” The voice was thin, but determined. “I’m the new editor of
The Crier
and what I say goes.
If you turn that music on one more time, I’ll kick you off the staff. And I mean it, Bernie.”

It hung in the balance. Bernie’s face reddened, his meaty fists bunched, but his smaller opponent met his angry gaze unbendingly. Finally, Bernie turned back toward his desk. “Sure gonna be fun to work here,” he complained, but he settled into his chair and yanked a notepad closer.

The editor waited a moment, then glanced around the room. “Okay, everybody, get busy. We’ve got a paper to put out.” He stepped to the doorway, yanked up the backpack, and looked directly at Annie.