Murder is an Art (13 page)

Jack told himself that there wasn't anything really suspicious about Rodriguez and Vera quietly talking in a back booth in the Seahorse. There was certainly nothing wrong in having a bit of friendly conversation with a colleague.

But Jorge, having served time for murder, wasn't exactly an ordinary colleague. And besides, Jack couldn't help wondering if maybe Vera and Jorge were beginning a romance. Vera never stayed with anyone for very long, something that Jack knew from experience.

In fact, Jack hoped that the police didn't get around to questioning him about Val's death since it was generally well known around campus that he had been pretty upset when Vera had broken up with him.

He hadn't sought her company in the first place. He was much too reserved for that. She had come to his office one afternoon, seated herself in the chair by his desk, crossed her legs, smoothed her leather skirt, and said, “What's your problem, Jack?”

For a minute, he thought she'd discovered his addiction to Minesweeper, but it turned out that wasn't what she'd had in mind at all.

“You haven't said more than two words to me since you started to work here,” she said. “What's the matter? Don't you find me attractive?”

Jack hadn't known how to answer. He'd heard that Vera was a sexually liberated woman, but he would never in a million years have expected her to approach him. Maybe he represented a challenge.

At any rate, it hadn't taken Vera long to have her way with him—not that Jack had any complaints about that. He'd been more than willing to be seduced, and he'd enjoyed every minute of it.

Then, when she was through with him, she'd dropped him like a hot horseshoe.

He'd taken it hard, but it wasn't long before several of her other rejects had told him that whatever had happened wasn't his fault.

“That's just Vera,” was the common refrain. “She doesn't really like men very much, and she's getting her revenge on us, one at a time.”

The realization that he was just one of a large group of rejected lovers didn't make Jack feel any better. In some ways, it made him feel worse, and he'd made some intemperate remarks, which he hadn't meant at all, about what he'd like to do to some of Vera's recent conquests. He hoped the police didn't hear about those comments. If they did, he might find himself called in for questioning. He didn't like the idea of that at all.

Given Vera's track record, Jack had always wondered why Vera hadn't gotten around to Jorge long before now. If there was ever a guy she'd want to get revenge on, he should have been the one, if you believed some of the stories about him. On the other hand, if you believed some of the other stories, maybe he wasn't the kind of man she'd want revenge on at all.

It was too complicated for Jack, which is why he wanted to talk it over with someone, preferably Sally. What if Vera had gone to tell Val that she was through with him and things had turned ugly? She might have beaned him with the statue in the heat of the moment.

Or what if Jorge had been with her? Jorge had already beaned one guy, if you believed the stories. Maybe he had a terrible temper, or maybe things simply got out of control.

So Jack had gone looking for Sally to see what she thought, but she hadn't been in her office, and he hadn't known where else to look.

Then he'd bumped into A. B. D. Johnson and asked him if he'd seen her. A. B. D. told him that Dr. Good was most likely in a meeting with Dr. Fieldstone, so Jack had trekked across campus toward Fieldstone's office in time to see Sally going toward the parking lot.

When he told her that he needed to talk to her, she didn't seem eager to listen.

“I'm really in sort of a hurry,” she said. “Is there some problem?”

“I'm not sure,” Jack replied. “It's about Val Hurley. Well, it's not exactly about Val, but it might be. It's about someone else, but it could involve Val, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't,” Sally said.

Jack couldn't blame her. He knew he was babbling. But he couldn't stop.

“I mean, it's something that maybe we shouldn't talk about here in the parking lot,” he said. “It could be that it has something to do with Val's death. It probably doesn't, but it might. It's the kind of thing that, well, I'm not even sure I should be talking about it.”

“Do you know that you're not making any sense at all?” Sally asked.

Jack's shoulders slumped. “I know. I can't seem to organize my thoughts. If I were writing a freshman essay, I'd have flunked by now.”

Sally smiled. “Maybe you should have done some prewriting.” She paused and looked at him. “I'll tell you what. I have to run an errand right now, but maybe you could go along and keep me company. We could talk on the way.”

“Sure.” Jack tried not to sound overly eager. “Great. That would be fine.”

“My car's right over here,” Sally said, leading the way to the Acura. “There's not much room, but maybe you can squeeze in.”

“I'll manage,” Jack said.

When Sally unlocked the door, he folded himself into the front seat. Getting hold of the seat belt and buckling it would have been easier if he'd been a contortionist, though Sally seemed to manage quite easily.

After he'd settled himself, he glanced at the console between them and saw a CD jewel case: Bobby Vee, the “Legendary Masters” series.

“You like Bobby Vee?” he asked, finding it hard to believe that anyone these days even remembered Bobby Vee. Sally had hidden depths.

“Sure,” she said. “I think Bobby Vee's great. Play the CD if you want to.”

Jack found opening the CD case was almost as tricky as fastening the seat belt, but soon Bobby Vee was singing “Susie Baby.”

“Great song,” Jack said. “It wasn't a big hit, though.”

“What about ‘Rubber Ball'?”

“That one was. I like some of the double-tracked numbers, and that's one of the best. Vee's an underrated singer. Hardly anybody plays his hit songs on the radio these days, much less something like ‘Stayin' In.' Did you know that one was banned on some stations when it came out?”

Sally said that she didn't, and Jack told her the story. Then he got to the point and told her his suspicions about Vera and Jorge.

21

Sally didn't give Jack's idea much credence.

“You're making too much of nothing,” she said. “What did you really see? Two people talking? They were within walking distance of the Art and Music building, but what does that prove? Nothing. So were you. So were Troy Beauchamp and Samuel Winston. You don't think they killed Val, do you?”

Jack was scrunched down in the seat, which was about the only way he
could
sit in the Acura. He looked out the window. They were passing by one of the seventeen (by Jack's count) pizza places in town. If you liked pizza, Hughes was a great place to live.

“When you put it that way, it sounds pretty silly,” he said, turning back to look at Sally. “I guess I let my imagination run away with me.”

“I can see why. We're all more than a little upset by what's happened.”

“You can say that again. I still have trouble believing it. Where did you say we were going, by the way?”

“I didn't say. But we're going to Thompson's Crafts.”

For just a second or two, Jack considered asking a silly question, like, “Are you going to buy a garden gnome?” But he restrained himself. He knew that Sally wouldn't do a thing like that. Would she?

“I want to talk to the Thompsons,” Sally said, clarifying things. “I've been trying to get in touch with Tammi, but I haven't been able to reach her.”

“Do you think they had something to do with Val's murder?” Jack asked.

“I don't know what to think.” Sally told Jack about the forged purchase order. “I can't imagine why Val forged my name. And why would he buy all that material from the Thompsons, anyway?”

Jack could think of a reason immediately. “Blackmail. Val was messing around with Tammi Thompson, all right, and they were trying to profit from it.”

Sally didn't say anything for a moment. She turned left, drove for a block, and turned left again. She stopped the car under a huge oak tree that shaded a long, barnlike tin building that had a hand-carved wooden sign in front. The sign's rustic letters spelled out “Thompson's Crafts.”

She turned off the engine and said, “That doesn't make any sense. Tammi wouldn't turn Val in if she were trying to blackmail him.”

Jack admitted that she had a point. He looked at the front window of the building and saw a black-and-white sign hanging there. In plain block letters, it said “CLOSED.” Jack also saw a woman standing next to the window with her hand shading her eyes as she peered inside the building. She was surrounded by eight or nine concrete garden gnomes and birdbaths of various sizes.

“I can see why you couldn't get hold of the Thompsons,” Jack said. “They aren't here.”

“They aren't at home, either,” Sally said. “I wonder what that woman is doing?”

“Trying to see if there's anyone in the building. Why don't we ask if she knows what's going on?”

“All right,” Sally said, opening her door and stepping easily out of the car.

Jack's exit wasn't nearly so graceful. He had to unfold himself and then pull himself upright by holding onto the door. He was glad he had a sedan. It didn't look sporty, but it got him where he wanted to go. And he could get in and out without looking as if he were practicing for a yoga class.

The woman at the window turned to watch them as they approached her. She wasn't much taller than the largest of the concrete gnomes, and she was older than Jack had thought at first. In fact, she looked as if she might be somewhere in her eighties.

She was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. Her hair was dyed a light shade of orange, and she was wearing a yellow top and orange pants that didn't match the color of her hair at all.

“I don't understand why this place is closed,” she said. “I've been trying to call all morning, but no one answered the phone. It's Wednesday, isn't it?”

Jack said that it was.

“Then why isn't the store open? There's no reason that it should be closed on a Wednesday. I need some silk flowers.”

“We don't know why it's closed,” Sally said. “We were hoping to talk to Mr. Thompson ourselves.”

The woman pulled her glasses down on her nose and peered at Sally over the tops of the rims.

“I don't see why anyone would want to talk to him. I'd much rather deal with his wife. He's not a nice person at all.”

Jack blinked and looked at Sally, who said, “He's not?”

“Oh, no. He has a terrible temper. I'd much rather go somewhere else, but this is the only place in town that sells the things I want. And they took my car away from me last year, so I have to walk everywhere I go. It's a good thing I live near here.”

“Has Mr. Thompson ever done anything to you?” Sally asked.

“Oh, no, not to me. He wouldn't dare. But you should hear the way he talks to his wife sometimes. If she makes any kind of mistake at all, like with the change, he's just terrible to her. He yells and carries on something awful. Why, one day, he threatened to hit her.”

“You saw all that?”

The woman looked indignant. “Of course I did. I might not be able to drive, but I can see just fine. And I can hear, too, no matter what my daughter says.”

“I'm sure you can,” Sally said. “Did he actually hit her?”

“No, but he
threatened
to. He saw me and thought better of it. And I let him know what I thought of him, too, don't you think I didn't. I told him that in my day no decent man would dream of hitting a woman.” She peered at Sally suspiciously. “It's all this women's lib stuff, is what it is. Men don't think women are anything special any more, and it's too bad if you ask me. My late husband always treated me with respect, and I didn't mind one little bit.”

“I'm sure you didn't,” Sally said, looking around for Jack, who had begun walking down the side of the building, looking in each of the small four-paned windows as he passed.

“That young man is going to get in trouble,” the woman said. “Mr. Thompson has a real mean dog that he keeps in the back part of the store. If he's in there, he's liable to bite your friend.”

“Not unless he can get inside,” Sally said. “And I don't hear any barking.”

The woman cocked her head. “Neither do I, come to think of it. Maybe the dog's not here, either.”

There was a long sliding door near the back of the building, and Jack was shaking it. The shivering tin sounded vaguely like thunder.

“You'd better stop that,” the woman called out. “Mr. Thompson will be awfully upset with you.”

Jack wasn't worried about Mr. Thompson. He wanted to get inside and look around. He was getting a bad feeling about things. Maybe inside the building there would be some kind of clue as to the Thompsons' whereabouts.

Sally thought she knew what he was about to do, and she didn't think it was a good idea.

“Excuse me,” she said to the woman, and left her standing there with the gnomes and birdbaths.

Sally walked toward the back of the building, kicking up little puffs of white dust from the caliche drive that ran along the side. Jack was still rattling the door when she got to him.

“What are you up to?” she said.

“I thought the door might be unlocked.”

The door was held to the side of the building with a rusted iron hasp and secured by a fairly new padlock that Sally touched with her forefinger.

“Unlocked?” she said.

“Well, you never know about these things. That could be just for show.”

Jack walked to the other end of the door. There was no hasp on that end, and Jack started pulling the door out from the wall. Because the door was old and loose, and because the end where Jack was standing was a good ten feet from the hasp, he easily created a crack at least a foot wide at the bottom. The door was on a track, so the crack narrowed as it approached the top.