Killing Cassidy (2 page)

“Well, then, you'll want to comply with his last request, won't you?” Alan squeezed my hand and pretended not to notice the tear I had to wipe from my cheek.

“Well—I know it's ridiculously short notice, but—you would go with me, wouldn't you? You're not off on some international jaunt or other?”

For Alan, though he retired some time ago as chief constable of Belleshire, is still asked to contribute his expertise to police forces all over what used to be the British Empire, and I never knew for certain when he'd be hopping off to Africa or India or wherever.

“My dear, I am entirely at your disposal. Let's plan to stay on a bit after you've dealt with your business—at our own expense, of course—and make it a holiday. You write back to this solicitor or whatever she is, and tell her you're coming.”

I barely heard him. “Alan.” I stopped, groping after an elusive thought, and he looked at me quizzically. “Why do you suppose he wanted me to come back? I don't understand it. If he'd wanted to see me about something—though I can't imagine what—he'd have written, or phoned. But this way, making me come home after he's dead—it's odd. Bizarre. Almost—ghoulish.” I shivered.

“Calm down, darling. He probably just wanted to give you a little treat, and chose this way of doing it so that you weren't likely to refuse.”

“It's not like him,” I insisted. “He was always generous, but never manipulative. He was full of good advice when someone needed it, but he never tried to make anyone take it. This is out of character. I'm not really sure I like it, after all.”

“You're speculating ahead of your data, my dear. Sherlock Holmes warned us about that. Doubtless all will be made clear when we get there.”

I'd never before organized an international journey on a few days' notice, but between the two of us, we managed. Alan bought our tickets at the exorbitant rates charged last-minute fliers. I took a leave of absence from my volunteer job at the Cathedral Bookshop and arranged with our next-door neighbor to look after the cats. And a sunny Wednesday afternoon in late September found us standing, somewhat stiff and tired, in the international terminal at Chicago's O'Hare Airport.

Alan yawned and dragged a hand across his cheek. “I could do with a shave.”

“I could do with a nap.”

In the end, after Alan had picked up the rental car and driven cautiously to our hotel, he thought of a better way to spend an hour or two. Afterward, relaxed and rejuvenated, we had a leisurely dinner and fell into bed.

I woke well before dawn the next morning and lay quietly, trying not to wake Alan. Something about his breathing, though, seemed a little too quiet.

“Alan,” I whispered, “are you awake?”

“For the past hour, love. I didn't want to disturb you.”

I sat up on one elbow. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then let's go! The coffee shop here won't be open yet, but we can eat on the road. I know a place in South Bend—the food's wonderful, though you won't like the coffee.”

“Happy to be home, are you?” He swung his feet out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

“Oh, Alan, I hadn't realized how much I wanted to show you! You can have the shower first, but hurry up!”

I drove. We were early enough to escape Chicago's horrendous rush-hour traffic, and a little over two hours later we were digging into an enormous breakfast at a pancake house in South Bend.

“You're English, aren't you?” The waitress smiled as she poured us a second cup of the sort of coffee my family used to call “damaged water.” “I can tell by your accents.”

Accents, plural? I gave Alan a shocked look. He patted my hand. “I'm English. My wife is American.”

“Yeah? You sound just alike to me. Can I get you anything else?”

“Just the bill, please.”

“Here you go. You pay up front. Have a nice day.”

“Alan, I don't sound English!” I said indignantly, once we were back in the car.

“Not to me, love, but I expect you do to her. You can't expect to spend three years in a country and not absorb some of its influence. Careful!”

I swerved back to my side of the road and tried to ignore the angry shouts from the other driver. Clearly I had some adjustments to make.

Cincinnati is the closest major airport to my hometown in southern Indiana, but we'd chosen to fly into Chicago. The fare was a good deal cheaper, for one thing, and besides, I wanted to show Alan lots of my home state. So we meandered south from South Bend through lush farming country, acres of golden cornfields and green-yellow soybeans. Leaves were just beginning to turn in the northern part of the state. Here and there we saw a sumac hedge blazing with red and orange, a maple beginning to turn yellow. With the rising of the sun the day had turned almost hot. The cloudless sky was an intense shade of blue that I have seen only in the Midwest.

I fumbled for the air-conditioning controls and sighed with contentment. Alan looked out the window and smiled in agreement.

We stayed off the interstates. Superhighways are great for getting places in a hurry, but if you want to see anything, slower roads win hands down. So we went through Indianapolis, rather than around. The traffic gave us plenty of time to see the Circle and the Statehouse and the various monuments and, it must be admitted, the seamier aspects of town as well. We stopped in Columbus, just a little way south, to have some lunch and walk off too much driving, enjoying the famous, varied architecture of the town. Alan had to pull me back to the curb as I crossed one street; I'd looked the wrong direction for traffic and nearly gotten run over.

It was only a short drive then, along a narrow state highway, to Hillsburg.

We'd booked our hotel room from England and had been warned that we had to make other arrangements after a few days. “That next weekend's a home game,” the desk clerk had said. I'd had to explain to Alan.

“Football. Our kind, not soccer. The sine qua non of American college life in the fall.
And
we're playing Notre Dame. They haven't had a really good team for a couple of seasons, but they're still a legend in college football, and beating them would make the whole town happy all year. There won't be a hotel room for miles around that weekend, but we can either take off for a few days, or stay with one of my friends. I didn't like to impose on anyone for two or three weeks, but there are a lot of people who'd be glad to put us up for a weekend. Unless you'd rather just get away from all the crowds and hullabaloo.”

“I want to see the football game,” Alan had said firmly.

My mouth had gaped. Neither of us has much interest in sports.

“I like to learn,” he'd explained. “I've never seen American football, and I understand it's part of the culture.”

“I don't know that culture is exactly the word, but I'll see if I can get tickets.”

It had felt odd, dickering by international telephone with box office personnel who'd never heard of me or Frank, when Frank, as faculty, used to be offered season tickets automatically. And it felt odd now to be hunting for a hotel in the town where I'd lived all my life. The hotel was new and I had trouble finding it, peering at street signs, looking for landmarks that seemed to have moved.

“Alan, I must have gotten turned around somehow. There ought to be a beautiful old bank on this corner.”

The corner held an ugly new drugstore with a spacious parking lot. Alan looked at the old street map I'd found buried in a box back in England and said only, “No, this must be the place. Turn right.”

We checked in and unpacked, rather silently.

“Pleasant room,” Alan said.

“Yes.” I folded underwear into a drawer.

“Tired, darling?”

“A little. It was a long drive.” I bit my lip and turned away. Tears were trying to escape from the corners of my eyes.

Alan is a perceptive man. His natural powers of observation have been sharpened by years of training and experience as a policeman. He is also keenly sensitive. He said nothing more, but whistled as he hung up his clothes and arranged his shaving things to his liking in the bathroom.

I had planned to take him on a tour of the town and the university as soon as we arrived, but I
was
tired. Jet lag and a long drive and—well, that was enough, for goodness' sake. Undoubtedly weariness was responsible for the tears.

“I think I'll take a little nap.”

“Good idea.” Alan's tone was determinedly cheerful. “If you don't mind, I think I'll walk a little and orient myself.”

“Fine.”

I didn't want him to go, and he knew it, but after he'd left, I realized I was glad he was gone. I could cry if I wanted to, and I did.

I'd thought I was coming home. Why did everything seem so foreign?

My appointment with the lawyer was the next morning, Friday. For moral support, I put on one of my best-looking suits, a string of very nice pearls, and a soft velvet hat that packs well and flatters my gray hair.

“Do you want me to come with you, love?” Alan's hand paused over a selection of ties.

Even Alan was behaving oddly. “Of course I want you to come!”

“Sorry, darling. I seem to feel just a trifle out of place here. Slightly de trop.”

I smiled somewhat grimly. “Not half as much as I do, I'll bet. And I'm not moving a step away from this hotel without you.”

“Well, then.” He chose a sober navy blue tie, presumably suitable for a lawyer's office, knotted it, donned a blazer, and held out his arm. I clung to it all the way out the lobby door.

“Do you want me to drive, as well?”

“I'm not sure which of us is the worse driver in this country, to tell the truth. I used to be really good, too! Let's just walk. It's not far, and my head needs clearing.”

It was another lovely day. Our hotel was on one side of the Randolph University campus, the lawyer's office on the other, so it seemed natural to cut across. There were small changes that I, with heightened sensitivity, noted and resented. “That's a new wall. And what on earth have they done to the Bryant Building? Good grief, it's got a whole new wing! And double-ugly, too.”

We dodged hurrying students.

“They, at least, haven't changed a bit. Except they look a little scruffier.”

“That,” Alan pronounced gravely, “is an inexorable law of nature.”

The sun was warm. So was my suit. By the time we reached the office, I was grateful for the air-conditioning. I was, I told myself firmly, sweating only because of the heat.

“You're not nervous, are you, darling?” Alan spoke in an undertone.

“Of course not? Why should I be nervous?”

He smiled and clasped my hand.

Ms. Carmichael kept us waiting for only a moment or two before meeting us in a rather austere conference room.

“Sorry. I had a phone call at just the wrong moment.” She shook hands with us. She was an attractive woman in her early forties, dressed with a minimum of feminine touches and very much all business in manner. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Nesbitt. I've heard a lot about you and Professor Martin. I'm sorry for the occasion that brought you here, however. Dr. Cassidy was a fine man and a fine teacher.”

“You studied with him?”

“One class only, early in my undergraduate career. It was the last year he taught, I believe. He was in his seventies and made us all run to keep up with him. We would have done anything for him. And this must be your husband?”

“Alan Nesbitt, yes. And I don't actually use his name. I prefer Dorothy Martin.”

“I can understand that,” she said, and grimaced, suddenly looking more human. “I took back my own name after my divorce.”

Alan and I exchanged looks. My choice of name had nothing to do with feelings about my marriage. “Yes, well. I suppose you'll want to see some identification? I brought my passport.”

“That's fine.” She studied it, carefully comparing the photo with my face, and handed it back. “Well, that's that. Not that I was in any real doubt. You're exactly the way everybody described you.”

She was looking at my hat. I grinned. “I guess I'm pretty old-fashioned, but I
like
hats.”

“And they suit you. Now, I don't want to delay you, Mrs. Martin. I have your check prepared.” She opened a slim manila folder on the table. “If you'll just sign the receipt—that's fine. You won't forget to send me your expenses, will you? And, finally, here is something I was directed by Dr. Cassidy to give you.”

She handed me two envelopes, one with a check showing through the cellophane window. The other was a stiff, heavy envelope. The flap was not only gummed down but sealed with a blob of wax. I studied it, suddenly nervous again.

“I'm sure you'll want to read your letter, if it is a letter, in privacy, and I have another appointment. Here's a letter opener. If you'll excuse me? Please take all the time you like. Can you find your own way out?”

I muttered something, Alan stood politely, and the young woman left the room, closing the door behind us.

“Alan, I don't like it!” I whispered. “The letter from beyond the grave. It feels spooky.”

“My dear, I don't know why you're making so much of this.” His normal tone of voice lowered the emotional temperature. “There are no doubt some things the professor wanted you to know, and perhaps he didn't trust international mail. An opinion that I must say I share.”

“But why did he seal it so elaborately, then? Why did he seal it at all? I can't imagine anything he would have to say to me that would be as private as all that.”

“Hmmm. That is perhaps a trifle odd, though some people have an exaggerated sense of privacy.” Alan took the envelope from me and examined it carefully. “Well, it doesn't look as though the seals have been tampered with.”