This Little Piggy Went to Murder (26 page)

“Did you get some bad news?” Alice nodded to the note in her hand.

“It’s … an invitation. I’ll be fine. Really.”

“That’s good. You had me worried there for a moment. Anyway, I just brought Mr. Jorensen a pot of tea and some sandwiches. I mentioned that you and your husband had come back, and he wanted me to find you and ask if you’d mind coming back to his study for a few minutes.” She paused, tugging self-consciously on her chocolate-stained apron. “Do you think you feel up to that?”

Sophie stuffed the note into the pocket of her sweater.

“Sure. Of course. I’ll go right now.”

“Fine,” said Alice. “I think he could use the company tonight. He’s kind of down.”

Sophie nodded her thanks and crossed to the rear hallway. She was sure she could make the conversation brief. And anyway, Bram wasn’t going anywhere. As she approached Luther’s study, she was struck by the haunting melody coming from his open door. Moving closer, she peeked into the room. Luther sat quietly in front of the fire, reading. He seemed even thinner today than the day she’d arrived. He wasn’t eating well, that was more than apparent. How could he, with everything that had been happening? As she watched him, he looked up.

“Sophie! I called the hospital earlier today and they said you and Bram had already been released. Come in. Please.” He snapped the book shut and stood, turning down the volume on the stereo receiver. “I had hoped you’d be back this evening. How are you feeling?”

“We’re both fine,” said Sophie, sitting down in a comfortably overstuffed chair opposite him. “Just a little sore when we breathe.”

Luther noticed her looking at his record library. “Are you a fan of Mahler? This is his first symphony. Alice has been after me all evening to listen to Tosca on the radio, but for some reason, I’ve lost my taste for Puccini. I find him a bit, how shall I say, saccharine?”

Sophie nodded.

“Will you join me for some tea and sandwiches?” He glanced at the tray sitting on the table next to him. “Alice just brought this in. I’m afraid I wasn’t very hungry at dinner.”

In the firelight, Sophie couldn’t help but notice how terribly drawn his face looked. It worried her that he wouldn’t open up and talk more about his illness. He was too much of a stoic sometimes. Too much like her.

As if reading her mind he said, “Do I frighten you?”

“No!” She knew her response was too vehement and much too quick.

Luther lifted the tray down onto a low table between them. “Have you already had your supper?”

“Bram and I ate with friends in Duluth before driving back here.” She sighed. “We were hoping to relax a bit, have some fun, a few laughs. But all anyone wants to talk about are these awful murders. At least at dinner tonight, I would have preferred a different topic.”

Luther poured tea for both of them. “People seem to be doing little else. It’s a wonder we get our teeth brushed in the morning.”

“One of our friends said the police were about to make an arrest. I just talked to Detective Wardlaw a few minutes ago. He confirmed it.”

Luther nodded. “I see. Did you know I’m their prime suspect?”

Sophie’s head snapped up. “What? Are you serious? I can’t stand this anymore. You’ve got to tell me the truth, Luther! You didn’t have anything to do with any of this, did you?”

Luther tried to smile but his face wouldn’t cooperate. “No. But don’t worry. If I’m arrested, perhaps it’s for the best.”

Sophie was aghast. “How can you say that!” She couldn’t believe her ears.

He shrugged. “Let’s not kid each other. You and I realize the murderer is someone we both know, probably intimately. Bottom line is: he’s got to be one of my family or friends. If that’s true, better me than him.”

“But that’s ridiculous! You
want
to be a martyr?”

“Do you really care that much?”

Sophie could see tears forming in his eyes.

“Believe me, I’m not the stuff of martyrs. It’s just … I’m the logical scapegoat. Claire knew that when she hid the poison in my jacket. In case you’re wondering, she told me several days ago what she did. In many ways, I don’t even blame her because I’m a willing scapegoat.” He paused, clearly struggling with something. “I suppose my own pride has kept me from telling you this. I asked Amanda to keep it quiet. I didn’t figure it was anybody’s business but mine. The truth is, Sophie, I’m dying.”

Sophie felt a sharp pain in her lungs.

“I believe at this moment you look worse than I do.” He waited for her to recover before continuing. “I think of most things now with a kind of lethargic indifference.
Most things
,” he said, his jaw tightening. “Not everything.”

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Amanda just said you were on some kind of awful medication.”

“l am. She wasn’t lying.”

“It’s monstrous to think that you would willingly spend your last days in prison. How can the police even suspect you? I mean, for one thing, you have no motive.”

Luther laughed. “But my dear, I have an infinite assortment of motives. I made the mistake of telling the police the truth. One must never do that, if one wants to appear innocent.”

Sophie wrapped her arms around herself. “But, for instance, you hardly knew Lars Olson.”

“On the contrary. I knew him only too well. He was chancellor of UMD for many years before he left to go to work for Amanda’s father at Grendel Shipping. I saw him almost every day.” He looked into the fire. “He had eyes of immense emptiness.”

“You didn’t like him?”

He smiled. “l hated him. Perhaps as much as or more than any man I’ve ever known. He was one of those pathetic individuals who mistake the university for the universe.”

“And you told the police that?”

“I also happened to mention that I detested Herman Grendel and Sydney Sherwin. Nobody liked old man Grendel — except maybe his banker — so that didn’t set me apart from the crowd. As for Sid, we long ago realized how much we loathed one another. I felt that our continuing relationship was nothing more than an odious habit.”

“But none of that is necessarily a motive for murder.”

“You think not?” He bit into his sandwich. “I beg to differ. I’ll tell you something, Sophie. I may be wrong, but I think I know who the murderer is. And for what he’s doing, I don’t blame him. I wondered at first if I was going to be one of the victims myself, but I don’t think so anymore. I don’t really want to go into all of this, because I could be wrong. But if I’m right, I pray the real murderer is never discovered. Let them haul me away. I’ll go gladly.” He chewed his sandwich, thinking hard about something. “You know, our lives are made up of small events that wear us down. It’s not the great crisis, but the small details that mold us into what we eventually become.”

Sophie stared at him, blinking back her tears. “You seem so philosophical about everything. I don’t understand that.”

“Well, I
am
a professor of philosophy.” He could see she wasn’t amused. “No, that wasn’t funny. Perhaps it’s my illness — or the drugs.” Again he couldn’t help but laugh. “The eternal question still remains. Does one mellow or does one rot? I think, in my case, the rot’s won.”

Sophie wanted to cover her ears. Her old friend, dying! Yet something he’d said had rung false. What was it?
He’s got to be one of my family or friends. If that’s true, better me than him.
Luther had his strengths and weaknesses just like anyone else, but one thing Sophie knew for sure: he wasn’t a noble man. There were only two people on earth for whom he might willingly give up his last days of freedom. One was Amanda. The other was his daughter, Chelsea. Did that mean he thought one of them was responsible?

“I’m sorry, Sophie. This is all pretty heavy stuff. Try a sandwich.”

A door slammed somewhere down the hall and Nora steamed past Luther’s study shouting, “
You just do that!
See if I give a good goddamn!”

“Ah, domestic bliss,” said Luther, sipping his tea. “If the press were only around to record our typical evening festivities.”

“What are you reading?” asked Sophie, responding to what she felt was his desire to lighten the conversation. She glanced at the two books next to his chair.

“Well, this first volume here” — he held it up — “is that thing I published many years ago on ethics in everyday life. It’s entitled, interestingly enough
, Ethics in Everyday Life
. I used to lack imagination, but I’ve changed. Jenny borrowed it a few weeks ago and just returned it before dinner tonight. I hope she has gleaned the essence and will pass it on to her squirrel of a boyfriend. Ryan could use a little refresher course, if you ask me.”

“What’s the other volume?”

“Ah,” said Luther. “My solace. Shakespeare. It’s a pity he can’t offer me a heaven. At least not the heaven I was taught as a boy.” He opened the book and leafed through the first few pages. “Here’s something. It’s from
Richard II
.” Slipping on his glasses he read:

O, but they say the tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony.
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent
in vain;
For they breathe truth that breathe their words
in pain.

Looking up, he continued from memory:

More are men’s ends mark’d than their lives
before.
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long
past.