A Little Class on Murder (7 page)

The pudgy blonde jerked around and grabbed the handle to the closed door of the
Crier
office. She rattled it angrily, then pounded on the wood panel.

The tiny, dark girl tapped her foot impatiently. “Nobody’s there, Lizzie. Listen, we’re wasting time.” Brilliant black eyes crackled. “And I’ve
got
to go to class. Let’s call an emergency meeting, then we’ll march on the
Crier
offices this afternoon, when the staff is there.”

“I could kill him. I could just
kill
him.” Lizzie’s voice rose in a furious screech.

“The thing to do is go to Mr. Burke,” Blue Suit suggested. She turned toward the photographer. “Don’t you think so, Georgia?”

The pale redhead didn’t respond.

“Georgia?”

Slowly, troubled green eyes focused on the speaker’s face. “It’s so sickening. He has to be stopped, Ruth, before he does any more. He has to be stopped.”

“Let’s talk to Mr. Burke,” Ruth said decisively.

Annie followed the four into the departmental office.

Ruth, whether by status of age or force of personality (was it the blue suit?), took charge. Leading the way to the counter, she surveyed the empty office behind it. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her voice to a piercing level. “Emily! Emily, where are you?”

The creaking of the floor in an interior office sounded first, then labored breathing.

Slowly, an enormous creature, bulbous with fat, wedged sideways through the doorway. She—it was a woman, perhaps even a young woman—was a mass of flesh almost lacking in definition, a bloated moon face atop a swollen body, chest and girth and hips merging into a mountainous whole that moved and swayed beneath a huge yellow caftan. She clutched a handful of tissues in bratwurst-size fingers. Angry red splotches mottled her face. She snuffled into the tissues as she waddled toward the counter.

Ruth’s placid face reflected no repugnance, no recognition of the grotesque. But she did hesitate for an instant, then asked gently, “Emily, are you okay? Are you feeling all right?”

Tears welled in eyes so deeply mired in fat that they stared out at the world through slits. Emily swabbed her huge face with the tissues, then glowered at her inquisitor.

“What’s wrong, Emily?” the red-haired photographer asked quickly.

“Nothing,” she said harshly. “Got allergies. That’s all.” The fat woman’s voice was high and thin, and her answer was so patently false there was a moment’s silence, then Ruth shrugged her blue-suited shoulders and said crisply, “A delegation from the Women’s Press Association. To see Mr. Burke. About today’s issue of
The Crier.
”

“Can’t.”

Lizzie bristled and the green Mexican dress quivered with outrage. “Of course we can.”

Emily blew her nose. “Not unless you go to Charleston. He’s gone to a meeting of the state newspaper editors. Won’t be back till tomorrow.”

The small dark girl tossed her head angrily. “Tell him—tell him—oh well, never mind. We’ll see him in the morning.”

And the group swept out.

Annie darted into the faculty women’s restroom on the second floor with a sense of reaching sanctuary, even though she knew a restroom could scarcely qualify as such. The Reverend Julian Harmon defines sanctuary quite precisely in the Christie short story of the same name. Annie stared anxiously at the minor. Actually, she looked fine, even though she felt she’d been through an emotional wringer from the assorted angry vibes ricocheting around the ground floor of Brevard Hall. And that poor, poor secretary. God, how awful to be that fat. But she mustn’t let herself be distracted from her own responsibilities. She glanced at her watch. Lordy, just a few more minutes and she would face her first class. Her first
class
. She glanced again at the mirror, then glared at her own image. Darn her hair. She’d pulled it back in a no-nonsense bun, but strands kept straggling loose. A stern application of water temporarily defeated the rebellious sprigs. Satisfied, she applied a fresh coating of pale pink lipstick, straightened her skirt, and headed toward the door.

Almost time now. And she was prepared. That’s all it took in life. Preparation. She patted her bulging folders which included a printout of her trio’s publications, including plays and films. Interesting that all three were successful playwrights, not a given with novelists. Plain white index cards contained a neat outline of her lecture topics. She began to feel a modest glow of well-being. No need to be tense or worried. Why, this was going to be duck soup. As the restroom door sighed shut behind her, she considered the phrase. What could possibly be its origin? Duck soup sounded complicated to her.

A bell rang and people poured from doorways. The hall filled. Lots of jeans and knit shirts, cotton skirts and pullover blouses, friendly, smiling, cheerful faces, mostly young, but all ages and races represented, a gaggle of hearty, middle-aged
women with brown faces, muscular golf arms, and intense expressions, a pretty coed with her head tilted to look up admiringly at the bulky young man beside her, a stylish young black woman reading a TV script as she walked. Annie wormed her way up the hall, relishing the sense of bustle and purpose. She didn’t see any of the angry women who had gathered in front of the
Crier
office earlier. What had that been about? Obviously, this morning’s edition had ignited some angry responses. She felt a moment’s curiosity. But probably nothing quite as momentous had occurred as their behavior had implied. It was fascinating how situations could get blown out of proportion, especially in the closed environment of an institution. Perhaps that was why so many mysteries had academic settings. She thought fondly of three of her favorites, Gwendoline Butler’s
Coffin in Oxford
, V. C. Clinton-Baddeley’s
Death’s Bright Dart
, and Robert Barnard’s
Death of an Old Goat
.

But whatever passions embroiled Chastain College, they were of no moment to her, just a curious blip on an otherwise cheerful morning, which had been quite productive. It had been smart of her to arrive early. After the militant quartet departed, the immense departmental secretary had morosely, still sniffling, found Annie a set of keys, directed her to the supply room (what a sense of power to be entrusted with a green-backed grade book), and pointed down the hall to the faculty lounge. Annie had rather shyly stepped in, been relieved to find it empty, and delightedly spotted a hot plate. A motley collection of chairs served two worn tables. Mail slots of old-fashioned varnished brown wood filled one wall. Her name was taped to a slot in the last row. In the remaining time, she had located her classroom (currently in use) and nosed around the second floor. Now, she swung confidently ahead, aiming for room 206.

Smiling timidly and holding open the door for her was a stocky young man with faintly pink hair that poked straight up from his forehead and dangled limply on his neck.

She smiled in return. “Thank you.”

Striding briskly to the front of the room, she put her box
and her folders down on the desk and studied the lectern. Good, it had just enough tilt for good reading and not enough to dump her index cards on the floor. People (her students!) began to file in. The secretary had sullenly informed her that faculty enrollment cards hadn’t been sorted yet. Annie could make up her own roll (send around a sheet of paper for signup) for the first few class meetings. To gain admittance, each student must give her a yellow card with her course number and the student’s name on it. They would match the purple cards the faculty would receive.

She was skimming her lecture notes when she stiffened, her senses assaulted.

Scent.

Sound.

Sight.

The scent came first. The unmistakable fragrance of lilac, clear and sharp and sweet.

Annie’s hands tightened in a death grip on the sides of the lectern. It couldn’t be. Surely it couldn’t—

It could.

Laurel swept through the doorway, beaming, of course. She was a vision of ethereal loveliness, her golden hair shining like a cap of spun moonlight, her patrician features Grecian in their perfection, her deep blue eyes brimming with good cheer and happiness and a kind of childlike delight that no one (in Annie’s experience) had ever been able to resist. She moved, as always, so lightly that she might have been a ballerina in flight. Her costume was fetching in its simplicity, an oversize pink shirt, white cotton trousers, and pink canvas sneakers. A pink-and-green-striped cotton carryall hung from one shoulder. Obviously, this was Laurel’s vision of coed stylishness. She could have passed for fourteen.

“Annie, my sweet, it’s so
marvelous
to be with you again. My dear, I’ve
missed
you. Ingrid is a dear, of course, keeping me supplied and offering so many
tips
. But it isn’t the same thing as being here at your feet.” An impish smile. “Metaphorically speaking. To follow your mind in its dogged path—no, no, that isn’t quite what I mean. But you are
so
orderly.
First things first; a place for everything, everything in its place; the early bird gets the worm. Though I’ve always thought a
hurried
breakfast so often causes indigestion. But your passion for order is wonderful, admirable. It will make you such a good instructor.”

A waft of lilac and the touch of Laurel’s lips on her cheek, swift as a hummingbird.

“Now, I’ll just take my place to one side. I won’t be in your way. Dear Maxwell thought behind-the-scenes support the very best approach. But I say family is family and where is one’s place but beside the family in the midst of new and challenging endeavors.” An ecstatic sigh, a gentle wave of pink-tipped fingernails, and Laurel drifted to a seat at the far end of the front row. With a final cheery,
encouraging
smile, she slipped gracefully into the chair, dropping the woven carryall at her feet. It gaped open and was revealed as a book bag, chock-full of crisp new paperbacks:
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, The Man in Lower Ten
, and
Whose Body?

Laurel here. Laurel here! Annie stared after her. Then the back of her neck prickled. That sound. That thump behind her!

It took every vestige of will to turn her head to face the door to the hallway.

Thump. Thump. Thump
.

Quick, purposeful, decisive thumps.

The ebony cane with its black rubber tip poked around the comer, followed by its mistress.

The tiny old lady stood motionless in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the room, the other occupants, and then at Annie. She had raisin-dark eyes luminous with intelligence. They were deeply set in a yellowed, crinkled face that looked like parchment. A tall red velvet hat with a yellow feather perched atop her shaggy silver hair. Her heavy silk dress was red, too, so dark a red it rivaled blood. Tiny feet shod in high-top leather shoes peeked from beneath the full skirt.

“Miss Dora,” Annie gasped.

A cold, formal nod and the silver hair shimmered like cirrus clouds across a winter sky. The cane thumped on the wooden
floor. Miss Dora Brevard settled, as if to a birthright, in the chair directly in front of the speaker’s lectern, sitting straight as a ramrod, feet firmly planted on the floor, wrinkled hands tight on the silver knob of her cane.

“Received the course announcement. It said—” Miss Dora fumbled in a crocheted receptacle, drew out an old-fashioned pair of pince-nez, clipped them to her bony nose, then rustled further to haul out a yellow mimeographed sheet. “ ‘Mrs. Annie Laurance Darling, proprietor of the Broward’s Rock mystery bookstore, Death on Demand, will present at ten
A.M
. on Tuesdays and Thursdays a course on The Three
Grande Dames
of the Mystery.’ ” She shoved the sheet into her bag, removed the pince-nez, and demanded, “Who?”

“Who? Who what?” Annie asked faintly.

“The Three
Grande Dames
. Who are they?” Those obsidian eyes glittered with irritation.

Laurel’s husky voice, ever-so-slightly chiding, flowed across the room like golden syrup. “Now, now, now. We must all be patient. Dear Annie will share in her own good time. It doesn’t do to hurry young people. And emanations of an irritable nature do have
such
a damping effect upon nervous, high-strung creatures.”

“Perfectly reasonable question,” Miss Dora snapped, eyeing Laurel with the enthusiasm of Chief Inspector Wilfred Dover for his long-suffering assistant, Sergeant MacGregor. “Don’t believe in pussyfooting around.”

Annie was just ready to intervene (after all, she didn’t need Laurel defending her—she was
not
a nervous, high-strung creature—and Miss Dora’s question
was
perfectly reasonable) when her glance froze.

Oh God.

The sight framed in the doorway was almost too much for her to accept. Laurel was bad enough. Miss Dora would cast a pall on an Addams Family tea party.

But this—

It wasn’t as though she didn’t recognize the costume: a large gray flannel skirt with a droopy hem, a full blouse with a lacy panel down the front, a shapeless rust-colored cardigan,
lisle stockings, extremely sensible brown shoes, and hair bobbing in springy sausage-roll curls.

“Henny,” she moaned.

Henny Brawley gave her a reproachful look and pulled an apple from her skirt pocket. “Dear girl, here!” and tossed it. “Full of nutrition. Just the thing for a woman’s intuition.”

The latter hint, of course, was to prevent Annie from the embarrassment of not recognizing Christie’s irrepressible sleuth and alter ego, Ariadne Oliver.

Annie was too dispirited to reply. She caught the apple, and stared from Henny, dropping happily into the far left front seat, to Miss Dora, just opening her mouth, to Laurel, who gave a
reassuring
nod.

The bell rang.

The boy with the faintly pink hair scooted inside, kicked the wooden chock free, and headed for the back of the room as the door slowly eased shut.

Her class had assembled: Pink Hair, a massive hulk who had to be a football player, three middle-aged women, an elderly man in an orange jogger’s warm-up, a woman in her forties.