Dead Letter (Digger) (8 page)

"Two people are dead," Digger said.

"Maybe both accidents," she said. "Strickland fell. Poor Professor Redwing got hit by a car. That’s all. Except for that stupid letter, none of this has anything to do with me."

"That’s exactly it," Digger said. "Except for that stupid letter. But there is that stupid letter, so this does have something to do with you."

"Tell me what," she said coolly.

Digger sighed. "I’ll be goddamned if I know," he said.

"And that’s why I’m not going to miss my finals."

"If I tell your father, you’ll be on your way home so fast your head will spin."

"When we first met, Digger, you told me you weren’t a fink. I don’t think you’ve changed since yesterday. Have you?" She smiled at him.

Digger shook his head disgustedly. "Do you agree with her?" he asked Gilligan.

"No."

"Then why don’t
you
talk to her?"

"I do, but she never listens to me. Allie never listens to anybody."

"You are your father’s daughter," Digger said.

"I know. Isn’t it grand?"

"Your father’s as big a pain in the butt as you are," Digger said.

"For asking you to make sure I was all right?"

"For spawning you," Digger said.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked Digger. They were interrupted by the waitress who slammed Digger’s coffee cup down in front of him and slid the toast across the table.

"Thanks, darling," he said. "You’re sweet."

She grunted as she left.

"I don’t know," he told Allie. "I’ve got some people to talk to. And like it or not, I’ve got to talk to the cops. They ought to know what’s going on. Besides, somebody else is sure to tell them."

"I suppose so," Allie said. "Will they keep things quiet? I’d hate to be on the six o’clock news back in Long Island and have my father see me smiling at him over the tube. That I can do without."

"They’ll probably keep it quiet until they’ve got something to make noise about. I’ll see what I can do."

"Please do," she said.

"All right. Now tell me about this last name on the list. Jayne Langston."

"She’s the college psychologist," Danny said.

"What kind? Does she teach or what?"

"No, she treats students. Counseling. You know," Allie said. "She’s the resident shrink."

"You know her? You ever go to her?"

"Digger, every student goes to her some time or other. Jeez, you’re not going to tell my father about this, are you?"

"Just keep talking. What do you mean, everybody goes to her?"

Allison shrugged. "Everybody does. College kids, all of them from out of town, away from home for the first time, we all get a little bit weird. Depression. So everybody goes. Isn’t that right, Danny?"

The young man nodded his earnest little face.

"It’s hard to imagine you depressed," Digger told her.

"But I was when I first came up here, and Doctor Langston straightened me out. Then I had some personal problems and I saw her again a year ago."

"Any idea why she might be on somebody’s hit list?" Digger asked.

The young woman winced. "You don’t really think it’s a hit list, do you?"

"I don’t know. Who wouldn’t like her?"

"Nobody that I know of," Allison said. "You, Danny?"

He shrugged. "She’s a nice lady." He thought and shrugged again. "Maybe her ex-husband."

"Who’s that?"

"Dean Hatcher," Allie said. "You met him yesterday."

Digger thought of the dean of students and the worried look he wore when he first gave Allison the chain letter.

"That explains it," Digger said. "I was wondering why he was so frantic looking when he got that letter. It was because his ex-wife’s name was on it."

"I guess so," Allie said.

"I guess I’d better talk to her, too," Digger said. "She have offices on campus?"

"Yeah," Danny said. "Just across the commons from our dorm."

Allie excused herself to use the ladies’ room. Digger tried the toast. It was cold. So was the coffee.

Digger pushed them both away and asked Danny, "What do you think about all this?"

"I don’t know," he said. "But I’m not going to let anything happen to her." He was staring toward the door of the ladies’ room, not looking at Digger while he spoke. Then he glanced back. "That’s all I want to do, Mister Burroughs, is take care of her. Forever." He glanced back and looked toward the door.

Digger felt sorry for him. He was a hopeless case of love in bloom. "What are you going to do after you graduate?" he asked.

"I don’t know. Maybe graduate school or the family business. Maybe Allison and I’ll get married. That’s what I hope."

"Hear anything about your car?"

The young man shook his head. "Nothing. I called the police this morning but they haven’t found it yet. What happens to stolen cars? Don’t people just leave them on the street and shouldn’t cops find them when they’re in the same place for a couple of days?"

"Yeah, if the cops are awake. Or if the cop in that district isn’t too lazy to look at the list of stolen cars. It may not be on the street. Some cars are stolen to fill orders. What was yours?"

"A ’79 Camaro," he said.

Digger shook his head. "A hot item. Some car thief gets an order for a ’79 Camaro. He looks around until he finds yours. Then an hour later, it’s in some garage fifty miles from here where they’re repainting it and giving it phony serial numbers and getting ready to turn it over to its new owner. Sorry, Danny, but you just may never see it again."

Danny was listening to Digger but he was watching the rest-room door. There was actual relief on his face when Allie came out, but it vanished when she stopped to talk to some man who was sitting at the counter drinking coffee, and reading a paper.

Gilligan got up from his seat opposite Digger and started toward the counter, but before he got there, Allie walked away from the man and back toward their booth.

"What’d he say to you?" Danny asked.

"He wanted to know what time it was," she answered.

"Why didn’t he look on the wall? There’s a clock on the wall."

"Danny, come on. Maybe he didn’t know there was a clock on the wall."

"Yeah, I bet," he said. He sat down next to her but kept glaring at the back of the man at the counter. Then
he
gazed up at the clock on the wall.

"Oh, oh," he said. "I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got a test."

He started to his feet and looked at Allie. "You coming?"

"You go ahead, Danny," she said. "I want to talk to Digger for a while. About the family and all."

He seemed to hesitate but then nodded. "Okay. I’ll see you later. So long, Mister Burroughs." He shook Digger’s hand formally before walking quickly to the door.

"You know, you’ve made a real conquest there," Digger said.

"I know," she said. "When you came in, he was asking me to marry him. For the hundredth time."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes, but not that way," she said. "We’re getting closer and closer to graduation and he’s getting antsier and antsier about us never seeing each other again. You know, we went for a drive about a month ago up toward Lexington and Danny drives up to East Sudbury. Well, just as you get out of the town, just past the big inn, he pulls off to the side of the road and points off into a field. There’s a deserted farmhouse there. Don’t ask me how he found it. Well, it turns out that he wants to buy that for us. So we can get married and fix it up and live there. Our honeymoon house, he called it."

"You ought to be flattered," Digger said.

"Sure. But he’s going to be hurt after graduation when we separate," she said. "I don’t want him hurt."

"No, I know," Digger said. "It hurts to hurt someone you kind of love and who loves you."

"You sound as if you’re speaking from experience," she said.

"I am. Everybody who loves me gets hurt," Digger said.

Dr. Jayne Langston’s office was one of a half-dozen college offices that shared space in another brownstone across the central green from Allie’s dorm. Digger was told that Doctor Langston was busy and he would have to wait.

"Unless it’s an emergency," the secretary told him, hopefully waiting for him to volunteer something. Her name was Mrs. McBride, according to the nameplate on her desk, and she had gray hair and friendly eyes.

"No, it’s not an emergency. I’ll wait," Digger said.

"Have a seat," she said. "The doctor will be with you soon."

Digger was happy to find an ashtray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He took it as an invitation to smoke. Mrs. McBride coughed and noisily turned on an air-conditioner built into the window behind her desk.

A half-dozen copies of
Psychology Today
were scattered on the coffee table. Digger read in one that light-eyed people were more susceptible to pain than dark-eyed people. It made him feel good. He hated pain, avoiding dentists and doctors until he could not go on for one more minute. It was nice to know that it wasn’t because he was a coward, but because his mother, bless her Jewish soul, had given him blue eyes. Of course, his father had blue eyes, too. It didn’t matter. The trait couldn’t have come from his father. His father had been married to his mother for forty years. That was a man who could handle pain.

A door behind Mrs. McBride opened and a young blond woman with a flawless complexion, but already wearing full evening makeup, stepped out. She was too young to be Doctor anybody and, Digger suspected, too beautiful to be Doctor Langston. Also, he rather suspected that Doctor Langston didn’t wear evening gowns in the office before noon. The blonde was dressed in a full-length blue chiffon gown with a silver belt cinched tightly around her narrow waist.

She glanced at Digger without apparent interest and then rapped her knuckles on Mrs. McBride’s desk. Digger saw that, oddly, the hands were too big for the body. She said, "So long, Mrs. McBride."

"Have a nice day, Dave," the secretary answered.

Dave? Digger looked at the blonde carefully, then said, "Yeah, Dave. Have a nice day."

The young woman stopped, looked at Digger, then stepped closer.

"Do I know you?" she asked in a throaty voice.

Digger shook his head. "I just heard your name. I wish everybody a nice day."

Even transvestites, he thought. This young woman was no lady. The heavy makeup, even in the daytime, was needed to hide the faint blond stubble on the chin. Dave was Dave, not Davida or Davina. It was Dave. For David.

"What do you teach?" Dave asked. "I don’t think I’ve seen you around."

"Abnormal psychology," Digger said. "The usual. I love your dress. But isn’t it a little early to be wearing your best?"

"I’m having this identity crisis," Dave said.

"I can understand why."

"No, there was a cast party last night after the senior show."

"You weren’t Uncle Vanya, were you?"

"No. Anyway, after the show we had a dinner and they gave out awards from the drama department. They were voted by the students."

"What’d you win?"

"Best-dressed woman," Dave said.

"That’s nice."

"
And
best-dressed man. I couldn’t really deal with it, so I had to come in and see Jayne."

"She help?" Digger asked.

"She always does."

"How?" asked Digger.

"Well, she showed me how to look at it. It wasn’t nasty. It was meant to be a compliment and, anyway, if I’m going to walk around wearing women’s clothes, I’ve got to be prepared for things like that. It’s a price I have to pay for freedom. It’s just that some people don’t understand. Can I have one of those cigarettes? I left my clutch bag in my room."

"Sure," Digger said, handing the young man a cigarette, watching his bony knuckles as he held it.

"What’s your name?" Dave asked. "I’m into psychology. Maybe I’ll take your course next year."

"Ebing," Digger said. "Krafft-Ebing. I’d love to have you."

"Well, one never knows, do one?" Dave said with a wink.

"This one do," Digger said.

"Dave," a voice called from the corner of the room. "I’m sorry, but Mr. Krafft-Ebing and I have a lot to discuss." Digger saw a tiny brown-haired woman standing in the doorway to the private office. Her hair was streaked with tinges of honest sun blond and her face was tanned and healthy looking. She wore enormous jade hoop earrings and a bulky sweater to which she did justice anyway. Her plaid skirt was short enough to show off nice legs.

"Okay, Jayne," Dave said. "See you soon. Thanks for the cigarette, Krafft."

"My pleasure," Digger said. He got up as Dave walked out of the office and strolled toward Dr. Langston, who looked at him with distaste.

"Come in," she said quietly, then stepped aside and let Digger precede her into the office.

She closed the door behind him, leaning on it a moment as if sealing out Mrs. McBride’s human scent, then said, "Just who the hell are you? You’ve got one helluva goddam nerve, screwing over my patients’ heads that way."

"And you’ve got a helluva temper," Digger said. "Since when is it bad to tell somebody you like its dress?"

"Not an it. David is a he. A very nice, decent young he. And just who the hell are you anyway to pass judgment on anybody?"

"Easy, Doctor," Digger said. "You really have to learn to deal with your anger. Can I sit down?"

"Go ahead. What do I care? I asked you, who are you?"

"You don’t believe Krafft-Ebing?"

"No, I don’t believe Krafft-Ebing and I don’t believe Sigmund Freud, either."

"How about Sigmund Romberg? I can yodel most of ‘The Desert Song.’"

He saw no answering glint of humor in her angry eyes, so he said, "My name is Julian Burroughs. I’m a friend of Allison Stevens."

"Why didn’t you say so?"

"I don’t know. I thought you might be ready for some comic relief after a rough morning."

"It didn’t work," she said. "What about Allie?"

"I know you’ve treated her in the past. She told me."

Doctor Langston walked around behind her desk and sat in her chair, without acknowledging that she had or had not treated Allie.