Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 05 - The Maltese Manuscript (15 page)

Chapter Thirteen

I called Charlie on his cell phone. He wasn’t at all surprised by my news about the real Bob Tooey. “We left a couple of messages at that number ourselves,” he said, “but he didn’t get back to us.”

“He was in class all morning,” I said. “Poor guy teaches three sections of Intro to Lit back to back.” I shuddered. “Can you imagine discussing ‘I heard a Fly buzz—when I died’ with three groups of eighteen-year-olds, then coming back to your office to be faced with the news of your own demise? And then,” I mused, “what if there were a fly in the room?”

“You’re babbling, babe.” Charlie was in a car: I could hear the motor, then there was the irritated blare of a tractor-trailer horn.

“I know. But, good Lord, Charlie, the man practically went into shock when I told him someone with his name was lying dead in the closed stacks at Enfield College.”

There was a long moment when all I could hear was the burr of cars passing at a high rate of speed. Then Charlie said, “Do me a favor, please?”

“Anything. I want to help all I can.”

More road hum. Then, “That’s what I was afraid of. But, look, babe, keep out of this. Okay? We were on to this Tooey—same way as you were, most likely. The Internet, right?”

“Right.”

“He would have called as soon as he got our message. Now you’ve given him time to think about what he’s gonna tell us. Not a good move.”

I winced at the reproach in Charlie’s voice. “Sorry.”

“So…” with infinite patience, “since you’ve talked to him already, what did Mr. Tooey say?”

“Two or three years ago he lost his faculty I.D. card. He thinks someone swiped it in the library. He had a new one made up, of course, but strange things started happening, mostly overdue notices from libraries he’d never been to for books he’d never heard of. He even got billed a hundred and fifty dollars by Bennington College for a copy of the
Encyclopedia of Mystery Fiction
.”

“Identity theft.”

“What?”

A voice spoke in the background. Schultz. Charlie listened for a few seconds, then said, “Hey, Karen, Tooey’s on the cell. Talk to you later—”

“But I wanted to tell you—” I wanted to tell him about the book thefts.

“Later—”

“Wait! Where are you?”

“Mass Pike. Gotta go.”

Mass Pike? That could be anywhere from Boston to the Berkshires. The Massachusetts Turnpike runs straight through the state like the backbone of a great whale.

As I sat in my office with the phone still in my hand and speculation about murder and book theft still on my mind, the college carillon rang two o’clock. Time for the first afternoon conference session. What were my choices? I leafed through the program. “Hard-boiled Dicks and Soft-boiled Janes.” “The Epistemology of the Pen: Writing about Prison Life.” “Yo’ Mamma: Ethnicity and Ageism in Blacksploitation Film.” I knew I had to show my face at one of these panels; literary study was my chosen profession, after all. But, perversely, what I really wanted was to be out on the road with the cops. Piotrowski, Schultz, and Pelletier: intrepid crime fighters on the move for justice in the Massachusetts Commonwealth.

***

I was surprised to find Sunnye Hardcastle in Emerson Hall, just outside the door to the panel on “Hard-boiled Dicks.” I thought she’d have been well on her way back to her Colorado aerie by now, but here she was, with a small notebook in her hand, gazing around. She was so intent on the scene in the lobby, I paused to see what interested her. Sally Chenille strolled by, in putrescent green today. Sunnye watched her, eyes narrowed, then scribbled on her pad. A white girl crossed the lobby on her way to class, dreadlocks poking out from under a Rastafarian wool hat. Sunnye scribbled. An impossibly thin girl with a shaved head and tattooed skull passed. Sunnye scribbled. Why did I get the feeling some future book would be set on the Enfield College campus?

Earlier that day at Bread & Roses, I’d come down on the side of discretion and had said nothing to Sunnye about her conversation with the murder victim. As far as I knew, she had not yet put the face together with the name. The death of the library researcher was to her an anonymous crime, simply a curious event to occur at such an unlikely place as an elite college, nothing to do with her. It had been about her own work that she’d wanted to speak to me. The writer needed a researcher to help with historical background for her next book, the one she planned to set in nineteenth-century New York City. She was willing to pay top dollar, she said, to someone who would delve into the slums and saloons of old Manhattan and bring back the details of the grime and squalor. Was I interested?

Was I interested! But, then, there was my own work to take into consideration, not to mention next year’s petition for tenure. And besides, in all good conscience, I couldn’t take on the job. Sunnye didn’t need a full-fledged scholar to do the actual research, just to supervise. I’d be more than happy to outline the work, and oversee the researcher. But what she needed for the hands-on research, I told her, was a young person with a good education, an agile brain, and an interest in the past—plus a cast-iron butt for all that sitting around in hard library chairs. A young person with a crying need for some of that “top-dollar” income.

Peggy Briggs.

Now, in Emerson, Sunnye was waiting for me; she figured, she said, I’d show up sooner or later. “Listen, I decided that as long as I’m out here on the East Coast, anyhow, I’d like to meet that student you recommended to do the research.” She stowed her notebook in a pocket of her bag. “Can you put me in touch with her?”

“Peggy? Sure. Come back to the office with me, and I’ll look up her number in the college directory.”

We sloshed across campus through the fast melting snow. In front of the library we paused and gawked with the other gawkers. State Police cars and vans were still parked on the sidewalk, but the ambulance was gone. “They’ll have taken the body to the M.E. by now,” my companion said with dispassionate professionalism. “But the SOC guys must still be here, and I’m sure they’ll have a truckload of investigators interviewing everyone in the building. When do they think the homicide occurred?”

“Sometime in the night.”

She stopped walking and slewed me an enigmatic glance. “During the evening, you mean?”

“No.”

“You mean
late
? The
night
night?”

I shrugged. “The library closes at midnight. He must have been hiding away somewhere.”

“Huh,” she said. “That’s odd. Why would someone want to spend a whole night in a library? I mean, no one likes books more than I do, but…” She let it trail off, and we completed the trek to my office in silence.

***

No one answered the phone at Peggy’s house, and no answering machine kicked in. The Dean of Students’ office had Peggy’s class schedule. Sunnye and I waited outside Sociology 411 in Loeb Hall.

“Maybe she was so traumatized by finding that body that she had to go home,” I suggested when Peggy failed to exit with the rest of the class.

“Maybe she’s still being interviewed by the police,” Sunnye said.

We followed two girls in maroon basketball jackets out the Loeb Hall door. Rachel Thompson came up behind us, said “hi,” and reached down casually to stroke Trouble on the head as she strolled past.

“No!” I warned. But Trouble made no move to snap Rachel’s hand off, just placidly allowed himself to be patted.

“Whew!” I said, as Rachel passed safely by.

“You afraid of Trouble?” Sunnye asked, squinting at me.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

She gave me a “you kidding?” look.

Okay, I’m a wimp where vicious-looking trained attack dogs are concerned. So, shoot me. “How long are you planning to hang around here?” I asked.

“I think I’ll stay in town for another day or two. This conference is strictly for the birds, but I hear there’s some terrific antiquarian bookstores around here. You know a place called Henshaw’s? Specializes in Americana.”

“Yeah, Paul Henshaw. You met him, remember? At the cocktail party in the library, tall guy, grey ponytail, good-looking. He had you backed in a corner—”

“Oh, yeah. Quite a talker, right? And for a man his age, he’s built.”

“That’s the guy.”

“Point me in his direction. And,” she paused, “Karen, when you get in touch with Peggy Briggs, I’ll talk to her.”

When I get in touch with her? Who’d made me Sunnye Hardcastle’s secretary?
But Sunnye’s query about bookstores had jogged something in my memory. “By the way, I’ve been looking all over for a book of yours I bought years ago.
Rough Cut
. I know I’ve got it somewhere. I wanted to ask you—”

“If I’d sign it? Sure. Is it a first edition, by any chance?”

“I don’t know. Could be, I suppose.” We strolled past a kid in a blue knit hat with ear flaps. He was listening to his cell phone right through one of the flaps.

“If it is, and it’s in good shape,” Sunnye said, “you’ve got something special there. Mint copies of
Rough Cut
are going for about three grand. More if they’re signed.”

“Three thousand dollars? Jeez! I hope I didn’t donate mine to the Salvation Army!”

“Ha! That puts me in my place.” The first glimmer of humor from Ms. Hardcastle, and it had an edge.

“No. I’m sure I would have kept it.” Damage control. “I just can’t put my hands on it right now.”

***

I pointed Sunnye in the direction of the P. R. office, where I was certain they would find a car for her, and went back to my office. It was well after three. From the window I could see conferees smoking cigarettes on the Emerson steps. Before the second afternoon session there would be coffee and muffins in the lobby. My stomach reminded me that I had forgone lunch. Pumpkin muffins, I hoped. And that nice Colombian brew Food Services did for special occasions.

In the English Department office, Monica was treating Dennis O’Hanlon to coffee, the special hazelnut blend, and a plateful of the little chocolate-covered wafers Miles doles out one apiece when distinguished visitors descend on the English department. Monica was behind her desk, and Dennis was seated in the upholstered side chair. They were laughing at something that could only be an off-color joke, that down-deep-in-the-belly guffaw that bonds us in our common smutty humanity.

“Dennis!” I stopped short in the doorway. They swiveled toward me.

He recovered before I did. “Professor Pelletier,” he said, “just the person I wanted to see. Monica here didn’t think you were in.”

“His name is Mark,” Monica informed me. “Not Dennis.” She leaned toward him, her hand a mere half-inch from his arm. “Isn’t that right, Mark?” It was finders keepers, and she wasn’t about to let me snatch him away.

“Monica was just telling me all about you,” Dennis said.

“She was?” I frowned at her.

“I was going to leave a note, but here you are. Hey, Monica, sweetheart, looks like I’m gonna have to go. A little idea I want to run by the good professor while I’m on campus. Thanks for the coffee.”

She scowled at me all the way out the door.

Dennis took my arm as we crossed the quad in the misty afternoon air. “Listen, Karen, I’m gonna make this quick. Looks like I have to suspend my investigation. Mitchell called me in. He thought we should nudge the book-theft case onto the back burner, given that it might possibly be connected to that homicide last night in the library.”

“Oh, too bad,” I said, stupidly. I’d had a couple of intriguing dreams about Dennis during my fitful night’s sleep. Oh, man. I could feel my face heat up just remembering them.

“Yeah, toooo bad.” He grinned, then winked at me. “But, he’s right. I mean, this dead guy’s a wild card nobody counted on. Who knows? Maybe the book thief killed him. Or, maybe he
is
the book thief. Anyhow, I don’t want to touch anything that’s got murder written all over it. Leave that to the cops. I’m going back to Lowell.” He squeezed my arm. “For now. I’ve got a feeling I’ll be back. And, Karen, Mitchell still wants this kept on the q.t. He asked me especially to tell you. Ya got that?”

“Got it.”

“See ya, Karen.”

“Yeah,” I said. “See ya.” Then, thank God, he turned toward the parking lot, before I could ask
when.

***

In the Emerson lobby a long table was set up with stainless-steel coffee urns against the marble wall. Between the doors to the main auditorium, another table held trays of muffins—no pumpkin—and platters of sliced melon and pineapple. I had my coffee halfway to my lips when Claudia homed in on me as if I were electronically programmed to attract crazies. Her eyes were fluttering up a storm. She seemed to have forgotten the snowball she’d lobbed at my head earlier.

“Karen, what am I going to do? They want to talk to everyone who was at the reception last night. This mean-looking S.O.B. of a cop yanked me out of the Hard-boiled panel. I almost lost my lunch, I was so terrified. Then he bullied me into giving him the conference registration and housing lists.”