Murder is an Art (16 page)

What might have happened if either the administrator or the car dealer had gotten into an argument with Val? Would someone have lost his temper?

It seemed likely to Sally, but it was obvious that, other than she herself, no one cared.

Well, if Desmond wouldn't investigate, she'd just have to do something about it on her own. She wasn't afraid of Roy Don Talon, no matter how much money he paid in taxes, and she didn't want to see Ralph Thompson take the blame for the murders of Val and Tammi if he wasn't the killer. Everyone else seemed quite happy to do that, however.

Desmond looked at her as if he were reading her mind.

“You wouldn't be considering doing any more meddling, would you?” he said. “You've already caused enough trouble around here. Stumbling over dead bodies isn't exactly the way to get in good with the administration.”

“I'm not trying to get in good with anyone,” Sally said. “I'm just trying to get people to do their jobs.”

“I'll do my job,” Desmond said. He stood up. “Weems will do his. You do yours, and we'll all be happy.”

Sally didn't like being dismissed, but she didn't see any point in talking to Desmond any longer. He wasn't going to listen. She stood up and smiled at him.

“You don't have to worry about me,” she said. “I'll stay out of your way.”

Desmond didn't look as if he believed her, but he said, “That's good. I'm sure that's the way Dr. Fieldstone would want it.”

Sally saw that as an implied threat, but she didn't say anything. She just turned and left the office.

She could feel Desmond's eyes on her back all the way out.

26

Sally went to her office, sat down, and stared glumly at the student papers strewn over her desk. She really needed to grade them. Her students were beginning to wonder if they were ever going to get them back.

But Sally couldn't get her mind off the murders. She could understand the way Weems and Desmond were thinking; Ralph Thompson, enraged by what had happened, killed his wife and then went to the school and killed Val.

Or vice versa.

That was the simple answer. It tied everything up in a neat package and gave the investigation one person to concentrate on. But it bothered Sally that Weems and Desmond were ignoring all kinds of important things, of which the missing painting was only one.

Some of them she hadn't even mentioned to Desmond.

There was the forged purchase order, for example. She hadn't wanted to tell Weems about it, but she had.

Then there were those signatures showing that Ellen Baldree and Jorge Rodriguez had visited the art gallery. Either one of them could have gotten into an argument with Val, Ellen over past grievances or Jorge over current ones. And the argument could have gotten out of hand.

Coy Webster might know. Sally was almost sure he was hiding something, though she had no idea what it was.

Not that she blamed him for not wanting to talk about it. His position at HCC was far from secure, just like his position in the rest of his life. He was probably regretting ever having said anything to Troy Beauchamp, but he shouldn't blame himself for that. Troy was a master of worming information out of people, even those with more gumption than Coy.

Sally was about to reach for a Hershey bar when the telephone rang. She picked it up and answered.

“Please hold for Dr. Fieldstone,” said Eva Dillon.

“Shit,” Sally said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, Eva. I didn't mean anything personal.”

Eva laughed quietly. “I know. I'll put Dr. Fieldstone on.”

There was a short wait, and Dr. Fieldstone said, “Dr. Good?”

A bad sign, of course. Fieldstone wasn't in a good mood. Sally was having a strong feeling of déjà vu.

“Yes?” she said.

“Could you please come over to my office for a moment?”

The feeling of déjà vu got stronger. After the two meetings in Desmond's office, Sally was beginning to feel like the soldier in
Catch-22,
the one who saw everything twice.

“Of course,” she said. “I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Fieldstone said, and hung up.

“Shit,” Sally said again.

*   *   *

This time, there was no one else in Fieldstone's office. He stood up when Sally came in and asked her to take a seat.

“And then we can have a talk,” he said.

Sally didn't like the way he was avoiding her eyes, but she sat down and waited to see what he had to say.

Instead of sitting down himself, Fieldstone walked around to the front of his desk and sat on the edge of it. The casual approach. He didn't look comfortable, but Sally couldn't tell whether that was because of his position or because of what he wanted to talk to her about.

“I believe you have some idea that our police department isn't up to the job of investigating Val Hurley's murder,” he said finally.

Sally wasn't sure which police department he meant.

“Local or campus?” she asked.

“I'm referring to Eric Desmond.”

So now Sally knew who'd ratted her out.

She said, “As I understand it, they aren't part of the investigation. That's up to the local police.”

“But I also have reason to believe you suspect that Detective Weems is on the wrong track.”

Sally didn't know what to say, so she just kept her mouth shut.

Fieldstone tried to wait her out, but he didn't have a chance. Sally had waited out students for much longer periods of silence than Fieldstone could ever tolerate.

“Desmond and Weems know what they're doing,” Fieldstone finally said. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood in front of her. “They're accomplished professionals, and they have access to certain … facts that you don't know. So I hope you'll let them do their jobs and not interfere.”

Why was everyone so sure she would interfere? Sally wondered. Did they all think of her as some dangerously meddlesome woman?

“I know that some things seem hard to understand right now,” Fieldstone went on. “But I'm sure that later on they'll all become clear.”

Sally didn't get it. Was Fieldstone implying that there was some complicated plot that she didn't know about?

Fieldstone tried perching on the desk again, but the casual look didn't suit him at all.

“There are certain … matters that could have some effect on the school's reputation,” he said. “I'm sure you understand what I mean.”

Sally thought it was time to say something, so she told him that she didn't understand at all.

“I'm sure you don't,” Fieldstone said, contradicting what he'd said five seconds before. Maybe he'd been secretly reading Walt Whitman. “But whether you understand or not doesn't matter. You can be sure that everything is under control. Do you see what I'm getting at?”

This time Sally thought she did. “You're saying that I shouldn't be questioning things.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I wouldn't dream of interfering with your freedom of speech. I hope you don't think that.”

Sally certainly did think that, and she was determined not to make things easy on Fieldstone.

“It sounds that way to me,” she said.

“Well, it shouldn't. I wish I could say more, but at the moment I really can't. You do know that you can trust me, don't you?”

Sally smiled, knowing what someone like A. B. D. Johnson would think about trusting an administrator.

“Of course I trust you,” she lied.

Fieldstone looked relieved. “Fine. Fine. I knew you'd understand. I'm glad we had this little talk.”

Sally had lost count of how many times Fieldstone had reversed his field, but she knew it didn't matter. Their “little talk” had done the opposite of what Fieldstone had hoped. It had made her even more certain than ever that something funny was going on. She just wished she could figure out what it was.

She started to get up, but Fieldstone waved her back to her chair.

“We're not finished,” he said. “Someone else is going to join us.”

He picked up his phone, pressed a button, and said, “Ms. Dillon, could you send Ms. Willis and Dean Naylor in?”

Shit,
Sally thought.

27

Dean Naylor ushered Amy Willis into Fieldstone's office.

While Naylor looked as calm and suave as ever, Amy looked even worse than she had the last time Sally had seen her. She was a bundle of twitches, and her hair was wild. Her clothes looked as if she might have put them on after washing them and then giving them no more than a couple of minutes in the “air fluff” cycle.

Naylor got Amy into a chair, where she crossed and uncrossed her legs four times before Naylor even had time to greet Sally. Sally didn't blame Amy for her nervousness. She was about to get scorched, if she hadn't been already, for the five-thousand-dollar purchase order.

Fieldstone didn't go for the casual approach this time. He sat behind his desk, looking as serious as a federal judge, and took the P.O. from a desk drawer.

After staring at it for a second or two, he said, “What can you tell me about this, Ms. Willis?”

Amy patted her hair, shifted in the chair, and finally said, “I don't know what to tell you about it.”

Dean Naylor smiled. “Why don't you just tell us how it slipped by you?”

Amy looked at Sally, who wished that she could help. But there was nothing she could do. Amy was on her own.

“It was all in order,” Amy said, sounding as if she didn't believe it for a minute. Her right leg was crossed over her left, and her left foot was beating out a jazzy rhythm on the carpet.

“But five thousand dollars?” Naylor said.

Amy tried to smooth her hair. It didn't work. Sally could sympathize.

“I've already explained all this to Dr. Good,” Amy said. “And then I talked to Mr. Wistrom.”

Wistrom was the school's business manager. Sally wondered why he wasn't there.

“Mr. Wistrom says that he didn't know a thing about this,” Fieldstone said.

Ah-ha,
Sally thought.
Keep your distance. Maintain plausible deniability. Not a bad strategy.
Well, since Wistrom was out of it, she might as well give everyone a little surprise.

“The police know,” Sally announced, and Amy nearly jumped out of her chair. She turned startlingly pale, and Sally thought she might faint. Even Naylor looked stunned.

Fieldstone was the only one of them able to speak. “Who told them?” he asked, although it was clear from the way he looked at Sally that he already had a good idea of the answer.

So Sally confessed.

“I did, when they were questioning me about Tammi Thompson's murder. I thought there might be some connection, so it seemed like the right thing to do.”

At the mention of Tammi Thompson's death, Amy got even paler, though Sally wouldn't have thought it was possible.

Naylor was agitated. He obviously didn't agree that telling the police was the right thing to do.

“What did they think about it?” he asked.

“They seemed to think it explains a lot. To them, it means that Ralph Thompson was blackmailing Val.”

“Why would he kill someone who was providing him with money?” Naylor asked.

Sally smiled. “That's a very good question.”

“But I'm sure Weems had an answer,” Fieldstone said.

“Oh, yes. They think that Tammi didn't know about the blackmail when she complained to the school about Val.”

“Ah,” Naylor said. “So her husband killed her because she spoiled his little scheme.”

“That's close enough,” Sally said. “But why did he kill Val?”

“Because Val had offended his sense of honor,” Fieldstone replied.

Sally felt as if she had fallen down a rabbit hole or wandered through the looking glass. Blackmailers and killers were honorable? Well, it wasn't that far removed from what Weems thought, but it still didn't make sense to her.

Amy, however, was nodding vigorously as if it were a brilliant deduction. Sally wondered if everyone needed a short course in logic.

“Back to this purchase order,” Fieldstone said, rattling the paper to get everyone's attention. “Ms. Willis tells me that these signatures are forged.”

“I can only speak for mine,” Sally said, though she was certain the others were forged as well.

“That's not my signature,” Naylor said, not even glancing at the paper.

“Nor mine,” Fieldstone said. “Yet Ms. Willis didn't notice that. She simply had a check cut for Ralph Thompson's shop.”

“I didn't cut the check,” Amy said, sliding from one side of the chair to the other.

“But you sent the order through.”

Amy sniffled loudly and brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Naylor pulled a sparkling white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

Leave it to Naylor to carry a handkerchief,
Sally thought.

Amy took the handkerchief and dried her eyes. Then she started twisting it in her hands. Sally watched as it got smaller and smaller.

“Yes,” Amy said at last. “I sent it through. That's my job. All the required signatures were there, and I thought that was good enough.”

“How did Hurley ever think he could get away with it?” Fieldstone asked no one in particular. “He must have known we'd find out what he'd done.”

Amy said, “That's what I wanted … want to know. After I'd thought about it for a while, I knew there had to be a mistake. I just waited too long to figure that out.”

She started crying again, snuffling into the remains of Naylor's handkerchief.

“I think this has gone on long enough,” Sally said. “Amy made a mistake, and she realizes it. There's no need to humiliate her.”

“We weren't trying to humiliate her,” Naylor said, as if surprised that anyone would suggest such a thing. “We were just trying to find out what happened.”