Medieval Murders (7 page)

Elkins sat and watched her go down the hall. He had always loved red hair. His first love, a girl in his third grade class, had red hair. And he had always liked white shorts on a shapely woman.

12

Elkins sat on the deck and looked out at the fields behind his house. The shadows from the trees in the yard were growing longer as the sun slowly slipped away. He sipped on a glass of ginger ale as he read an article from last week’s
New Yorker
.

He took another sip, set the glass down, and looked at it. He worried about drinking, not that it had ever caused any problems in his life. He was aware of the fact that in the last year he had been drinking more, and he had moved from wine to Scotch, but usually never more than a drink or two. His father had died from the long-term effects of alcoholism in his fifties.

Since Ellen’s death he had developed a pattern of working late and then coming home, preparing dinner, usually frozen dinners warmed in the microwave, having a few drinks, and reading in bed until he fell asleep. The two of them had shared an active social life, attending concerts and plays and going to dinner with friends. Since her death he had become much more isolated.

Elkins looked around at the deck. Ellen had loved it. She had designed it, and he had built it for her—that was a number of years ago, soon after they bought the house. From early spring to late fall she had insisted on having dinner there if the temperature was even close to tolerable
.
He used to joke about having dinner in a down jacket. Those were happy times. They would cook together, eat, and tell each other about their day.

Evenings were now lonely. The house didn’t feel like his anymore, it was more like a motel room. There wasn’t the personal connection. The dwelling was still filled with the furnishings that they had collected together, but somehow that connection was gone.

He returned to the kitchen and opened another can of soda, then walked into the living room, turned on the stereo, switched on the deck speakers, and put in a disc. The opening movement of the Tchaikovsky piano trio in A minor was under way by the time he got back to the deck. He set the can on the table and looked at his hands, spreading his fingers like a pianist. He wished he had studied music as a child or teenager. The ability to play an instrument would be a comfort now, but he had come to it too late and with too little talent.

“Drinking alone, that’s a bad sign.”

Elkins jumped at the sound of the voice.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” said Stephanie Chesterton as she climbed onto the deck.

“I was lost in thought, didn’t hear you coming.”

“Are you going to get me a drink, or do I have to get my own?”

“What would you like?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Ginger ale.”

“Taking the cure, huh? You both had a bit too much to drink the other night.”

“Well, if I had stopped with the Scotch, but the wine with dinner….”

“Two bottles of a good Bordeaux.”

“I wasn’t counting, probably didn’t want to know, and then the cognac. That was the coups de grâce. How did Clifford do?”

“He was scheduled to meet with the provost at 9:00 A.M. I played the role of the good wife and called the provost’s secretary about 8:45 to say that poor Clifford picked up some horrible intestinal bug and had been up all night. I didn’t get too graphic, just enough to suggest that you didn’t want to get near him while he was contagious.”

“So did he go in to the office?”

“He took a sick day, worked from home, and spent most of the afternoon napping. Any more ginger ale?” asked Stephanie, pushing open the screen door.

“There’s a twelve pack in the refrigerator.”

A few minutes later Stephanie settled across the table from Ray. She popped the top of the can and slowly poured the soda into a glass.

“So where is Clifford?” asked Ray as he looked across at her. She was wearing a chambray shirt that she had buttoned and tied in a way that covered her while still showing a lot of cleavage. He was attracted to her, had always been, but his commitment to Ellen had always helped him keep his interest in check. Now there was a new reality. It was one more thing he was struggling with, being attracted to women and not knowing how to deal with the attendant emotions. And in the case of Stephanie, the wife of a neighbor and a friend, his feelings were even more uncertain.

“He went over to the pool to swim lengths, and then he planned to sit in the sauna. He has a theory that it takes a couple of days to boil the poison out of your system.” She paused and looked closely at Ray, then shifted her gaze away, toward the tall corn stalks in the field beyond the subdivision. “I’m worried about Clifford. He’s quite devastated by Bensen’s suicide.”

“How so?”

“I don’t quite know, but he wonders if he should have tried to mentor Bensen during her early years in the department. He said by the time she was on his radar her future in the department was sealed.”

“That’s sort of silly. She was a professional, his plate is more than full.”

“I know,” she said looking back at Ray. “Clifford is so damn noble, he thinks he can fix everything, and he’s burning out. The Bensen suicide may be the proverbial last straw.”

Ray held her gaze.

“Sheila made his life miserable for the last several years. She was constantly creating chaos. Last year he was deposed several times by her lawyers. They intimated in their questioning that he had….”

“I went through a wrongful dismissal suit a few years ago. I know the dance.”

“Yes, you don’t end up liking lawyers much. And then there are the other problems. The new chancellor is doing his best to defund the humanities, the department has more than it’s share of loonies, and Clifford is getting older. He’s still struggling with some health issues. I think he’s just had it with this job, the university, the town….”

“Are you two….”

“I don’t know. We had ten good years. It was a rich time. We travelled to interesting places, were passionate lovers, and wonderful companions. The difference in our ages didn’t seem to matter. Then Clifford got cancer. They didn’t give us much hope at first. We went up to Rochester. I think they cured him, but at a cost.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, then Ray asked, “Where would you go, what would you do?”

“I don’t know. I think we’re both afraid that we’ll just take our emotional baggage with us. Things are just so damn complex.” Stephanie paused, then asked, “Will the Bensen investigation take a lot of time?”

“I don’t think so. It’s still early, but everything says suicide. I can see how Bensen might have felt that life wasn’t worth living.” He stopped and looked over at Stephanie. “You have an insider’s view of the English department. Are there people who might...?”

“Have a motive, no. Sheila was impossible. She was full of anger, full of hate, a master at extracting guilt and often extremely unpleasant. But you don’t kill someone for that. Besides, in the English department they are all talk and no action.”

Elkins pressed, “You can’t think of anyone?”

“No, especially now. Sheila was no longer a threat. Once you’re out of the tenure race, you’re a non-person, a leper. People just wanted her to go away.”

“You’re talking about professional things. How about personal relationships?”

“I don’t know everything that happens in the department, but I don’t think so. She had no love interest there. She wasn’t stealing a husband—or wife—as far as I know. No, I don’t think there was enough passion on anyone’s part to do her in.”

“Tuesday night, I don’t know if I thanked you. Dinner was wonderful. Hard to be vegetarian when I’m tempted with roast lamb.”

She stood up as if she was going to leave and then approached him, bent over and gave him a wet kiss. She knew he had to be looking at her breasts.

“You’re more of a carnivore than you realize,” she said playfully. “Remember the party Saturday night.”

“I thought you probably cancelled it.”

“We had the caterer, the food was ordered, and no one was saying we shouldn’t have the party. Quite the opposite. Like I said, in her colleagues’ eyes, Sheila was a non-person long before she jumped from the carillon.”

13

Friday afternoon a few minutes before 2:00 P.M., Ray and Char Pascoe were standing outside of the Campus Interfaith Chapel. “Strange, I walked by this building hundreds of times during my years here and didn’t ever quite notice what this place was.”

“So you were never inside?” asked Ray.

“Not once. Why are they doing this?”

“Chesterton told me it’s something one of Pearson’s PR people dreamed up. Having Bensen kill herself, especially in such a public way, doesn’t look good for the university. From the beginning of her tenure fight, some of the campus women’s groups contended that the administration was trying to unload her because of her political activities. So this is the school’s attempt to say that the university really cared.”

She laughed, “Would I be too cynical to suggest that if this isn’t pure hypocrisy, it is, at least, bad taste?”

“No cynicism on your part. You’ve demonstrated the rare ability to perceive the obvious with great clarity. But even when you were an undergraduate, I saw that.”

“You’re almost funny, and I used to think you were just one more boring middle-aged....”

“Careful.”

“But, why am I here?” Pascoe asked. “I hate funerals, I’m not much of a church person and....”

“And now you’re an adult, an employee, a member of the university community. As part of your initiation, you have to learn about the way we bury our dead. And seriously, we’re here gathering data. I want to see who’s here, what they say, how they act. Look at it as just part of the job.”

Elkins and Pascoe slipped into a side door of the chapel—a splendid example of 60s ugliness—bad design and a strange mix of materials: thin blond bricks, field stone, redwood, copper, brushed aluminum, and weathered shake shingles. The stained glass windows were abstract representations with religious motifs. A small sign under each window contained the artist’s interpretation of the work.

The lobby was jammed; Elkins and Pascoe skirted the crowd and got seats in the back, just off the side aisle. A large electric organ in the front, three steps up and on the far right of the nave, flooded the church with Bach. The woman at the keyboard—amply filling a large robe, her bleached blond hair in a beehive—played in a style that was more athletic than aesthetic.

“What’s the deal with the music?” asked Pascoe. “Where did they get the organist, a roller-rink?”

“Times are tough in Branson.”

Promptly at 3:00, the ushers urged the crowd in, the chapel filled from back to front. The organist launched into the
Kyrie
and
Dies Irae
from Mozart’s Requiem, played in swing time.

Elkins pointed to the crucifix above the altar. A pained looking Christ in bleached wood sagged from a large, hammered, copper cross. “Look to the left,” he whispered and motioned toward a Star of David and a small Crescent Moon and Star in a dull aluminum, hanging low on the wall. “Who says the university’s administration doesn’t recognize diversity?”

The organist moved into the opening of the Brahms Academic Overture. Chesterton and Dean Bertram Bateson, in full academic regalia, led the procession up the center aisle. They were closely followed by Father Bob, Chancellor Pearson, and several dozen more faculty members in robes and academic hoods.

Pascoe asked, “What the hell’s going on?”

“The dress or the music?”

“Both, either.”

“Well, they usually only get to wear that stuff twice a year at graduation. I’m sure they’re delighted to have another chance. The choice of music, that’s academic.” He gestured, turning his hand over and opening his palm with a “what the hell did you expect?” look on his face.

“Who are all these people?”

“Deans, regents, faculty members, anyone who likes to dress up and strut, especially those who enjoy mourning in public. I’m sure we have our share of death followers here, also.”

After the procession was seated in the front, a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties, mounted the pulpit. Her glued-on smile gave her a slightly crazed looked. She stood and peered at the congregation for more than a minute holding the painful smile.

“Who’s that?” Pascoe asked.

“That’s our official chaplain, Patsy Lynn Jolly. Pretty liberal of the administration to have a woman represent the university in celestial affairs.”

She began, “I bring you greetings from Jesus Christ and the Kingdom of God. And I have great news, wonderful news, terrific news. Sheila Bensen is with him. Our dear friend and colleague is now beyond the pain and suffering of this world. Sheila is now in eternal joy.”

Patsy Lynn rambled on for quite some time. The congregation became increasingly restless. Finally, she asked the congregation to stand and join her in reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Elkins looked around to see who was participating.

Chesterton spoke next. Standing high over the congregation, he began, his rich voice booming out at the audience.

“From medieval times, the university has been a community of scholars, an order committed to the pursuit of truth and the preservation of knowledge. We share the joys of discovery, and the pleasures of scholarly accomplishment, and we take pride in passing our collected knowledge from generation to generation. But like all communities, we also share sadness and loss, so it is that today we gather to mourn the passing of our esteemed colleague, Professor Sheila Bensen, a remarkable woman and a dedicated teacher. She understood a scholar’s obligation to the needs of....”

“Fucking hypocrite,” came a loud whisper.

Elkins looked in vain for the source.

“....and her many contributions will be remembered and honored. Her work will remain part of the rich legacy of this university. We celebrate her life. We mourn her passing.”

Father Bob followed Chesterton. “We are gathered here today to remember Sheila Bensen. She was a remarkable woman and committed and caring teacher, and in her own unique way, a devoted Catholic....”

Father Bob’s comments were very brief. Then he invited members of the congregation to come forward and say a few words about Benson. At least a dozen did; all but one were female. The one male, a tall gangly kid with orange hair, told the congregation how Bensen changed his life by taking him out of this century and connecting him with the past. The others, serious looking women, talked about Bensen’s commitment to the women’s movement and to social justice. Elkins noted that their sincerity and passion was more compelling than the earlier remarks.

The service concluded with a young woman, backed by guitars, singing “Amazing Grace,” slightly off key and with a Nashville twang. The organist pounded some up-tempo Bach for the recessional. Elkins and Pascoe slipped out a side door.

“What now?” asked Pascoe.

“There will be a reception at the University Club. Sherry, small sandwiches, cheese and crackers, a silver tray with chocolates, and polite conversation.”

“Are we going to take this in, too?”

“I’ve got some other things I’ve got to get done. You can go if you want to.”

“No thanks. Let me ask you this. What did you learn or see there, anything significant?”

Elkins smiled at her. “You don’t usually have an ‘aha’ experience when you’re confronted with new knowledge, the ‘aha’ comes later when you’ve had an opportunity to integrate it with everything else you know. That’s when you make the cognitive leap.”

“And when is that going to happen?”

“You can never tell. Sometimes it’s at 3:00 A.M. Some times when you’re in the shower, or walking, or driving. You’ve just got to let things percolate.”

“Aha,” said Pascoe.