Strangled Prose Page 8

  “With that woman, anything was possible—including coitus on a trapeze. But let’s not worry about it, Claire. Do you still want to go to the gallery opening tonight at the Fine Arts Center? We can go back to my flat afterward to work on erasing the unpleasant memories.”

  “No, Douglas invited me over for what I suppose will be a martini-soaked wake. Your presence would be in order, I imagine.”

  Britton tightened his grip on my wrist and began to nuzzle my ear. I freed myself and gave him a sweet smile. “Later—maybe. But you never did tell me where you went yesterday after the impromptu reading of Professor of Passion. You rather vanished.”

  “I made a grand tour of the bars. As a matter of record, I hit every one of them and lingered at more than a few. I was thrown out of the last one well after midnight and blearily wended my way home to pass out on my bathroom floor. ‘Not drunk is he who from the floor can arise alone and still drink more; but drunk is he, who prostrate lies, without the power to drink or rise.’ Thomas Love Peacock, 1785–1866. There, love of my life, you know the worst about me. Why don’t you let me demonstrate the best?”

  “You went on a drunk because your name was parodied in a romance novel?” I said incredulously. “Maggie’s response made a bit more sense; she went to call her lawyer.”

  “Did she?” Britton mocked my tone.

  “I don’t know that she actually did, but she certainly was intending to when she left the Book Depot with steam curling out of her ears. Do you have a reason to believe otherwise?”

  Britton gave me a boy scout salute. “Heavens, no. Now, what about tonight after this tasteless faculty version of a wake? Shall I lay in a bottle of burgundy and a piece of brie? We can build a fire in the fireplace and watch the cheese melt.”

  It brought back a scratchy little memory of a comment from the previous evening. Busying myself with an invoice, I said, “I doubt I’ll be in the mood, Britton. Let’s save it for another time, shall we?”

  He gave me an obligatory leer and left. I dropped the pencil to stare at the empty doorway, thinking about Britton’s explanation of his movements the day before. It was not easy to picture him bumping elbows with the local cowboys or even drinking a beer. Britton’s taste ran to dusty, obscure bottles of imported wine. It did run to drafts of beer or raucous music. I was surprised that he was even aware of the vast number of bars lining Thurber Street.

  The day drifted on. I rather expected to see Lieutenant Rosen, but he did not come to the store. Caron and Inez breezed in toward the middle of the afternoon, more subdued than I had ever seen them. I raised an eyebrow at the black ribbons pinned on their blouses. “New fad?”

  “It’s for Azalea,” Inez explained with a stricken look. “I just cannot accept that she’s really … gone.”

  Caron homed in on the Professor of Passion on the fiction rack. She picked up a copy and stared at the cover, then spun around to flutter her eyelashes at me. “Why are these here, Mother? I thought you refused to sell them—on principle.”

  “They were left over from the reception. It seemed like the thing to do,” I sighed. Although I had broken the news about poor Mildred to Caron the previous night, we hadn’t had the energy to discuss that which needed to be discussed. I could almost see the electrons zipping through Caron’s brain as she scanned the back cover of Professor of Passion. A bad omen.

  Inez sniffled into a tissue. “Can we attend the funeral, Mrs. Malloy? I’d like to pay final tribute to Azalea.”

  “That is between you and your parents.” I spotted Caron’s lip inching out and added, “I suppose that I’ll permit Caron to go, if she wishes. But it will be a dreary affair, girls. No soliloquies or readings from her work. Organ music, sermons.”

  “I’ve been to a funeral,” Caron said abruptly. She jammed the book back in the rack and looked at Inez. “Let’s go over to the Piggie Pizzeria and see if they have any new video games.”

  Inez cowered, her expression as bewildered as my own. “I thought we were going to write a eulogy about Azalea for the school newspaper? How she was so thoroughly romantic, so willing to explore the essence of true love…”

  “Well, we’re not. We’re going over to the Piggie Pizzeria to see if they have any new video games,” Caron said in a tight voice. Then, as if ashamed of her tone, she tried to smile. “I heard some of the kids planning to hang out there this afternoon. It might be fun, Inez.”

  Inez shot me a look of desperation but meekly followed Caron out the door. I picked up my pencil, then let it drop again. Caron and Inez were not noted for their social skills and had never, to my knowledge, admitted enjoying the company of any of their peers. A strange day, indeed. I made a solemn promise to myself to talk to Caron before the day was over.

  An hour later, I closed the store and went home to change for the cocktail wake. As I considered the proper attire, I heard a door slam below. Maggie, I deduced with customary brilliance. I hastily pulled on a wool skirt and beige blouse, ran a comb through my hair, and scurried down the stairs to catch her before she disappeared.

  She yanked open the door and scowled. “What do you want?”

  “I’m on my way to the Twiller house,” I extemporized, perplexed by the show of hostility. “Do you want to walk together?”

  Maggie stared at me. “I can’t; I’m waiting for someone. Besides, I wouldn’t enter that libelous, foulmouthed bitch’s house if it guaranteed tenure. Not that anything will guarantee tenure now.”

  “Oh.” I took a second to think, then said, “Did you talk to a lawyer about suing?”

  “Yes. I’m just sorry Mildred Twiller can’t be here to suffer.” Maggie’s eyes began to glitter, and drops of spittle foamed in the corners of her mouth. “I’m going to sue her estate for defamation of character. I’ll take every penny of that bitch’s royalties for Professor of Passion!”

  I retreated from the acid rain that splattered across my face. “Then you did consult your lawyer yesterday afternoon?”

  “Are you playing Tuppence Beresford, Claire? Would you prefer me to type up a statement of my whereabouts and slip it under your door?”

  I certainly did, but I doubted it would happen. The situation called for humbleness tinged with remorse. “Oh, Maggie, I didn’t mean to imply that you had anything to do with poor Mildred’s death. The detective has been hounding me for an alibi, too. He acted as if I were his prime suspect, simply because I took a peaceful stroll down the railroad tracks to let off some steam.”

  I paused in case she wanted to offer her alibi in response to mine. After a moment of glacial silence, I added, “Britton said he was questioned this morning. We’re all suspects, Maggie.”

  She mellowed a bit at my confession or at the idea of others suffering along with her. “That Rosen man was here at eight o’clock this morning, all smiles and apologies for disturbing me. He took my statement without saying much and let me leave for my first class. He seemed satisfied.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him where I was. Out.”

  “Did he say anything about further questions?”

  “No, I told him that I had no idea about the murder. I wasn’t anywhere near the Twiller house and couldn’t have seen anything. I didn’t threaten to murder Mildred; I threatened to sue her. The detective appreciated the fine difference.”

  “So you were at your lawyer’s office at the time in question?” I crossed my toes, hoping the confidence would not halt until I heard the whole story. Or the lawyer’s name.

  “Well, I wasn’t flouncing down the railroad tracks,” Maggie snorted, as she stepped back to close her door.

  Clearly my hopes were not to be realized. I flipped a wave and went out the front door, depressed at my failure to learn anything at all. In whodunit novels, the suspects fall all over themselves trying to blurt out information to the amateur detective. Fiction!

  I arrived at the Twiller house and was admitted by Camille. The living room was swollen with faculty peopl
e, administrators, and neighbors. The gardener had been pressed into service as a bartender in one corner. I squirmed through the crowd, murmuring polite noises, and waited for a drink. I had to pinch myself in order to avoid staring at the boy’s hands for signs of soil under his fingernails. A whimsical theory, at best. Poor Mildred would not have had a tea party with the gardener.

  Clutching my drink, I worked my way to a distant corner and studied the crowd for familiar faces. Britton hadn’t mentioned whether he would succumb to duty and come, but he wasn’t there yet. Maggie was home; that much I knew. I remembered that she had said she was expecting a visitor, and I wasted a few idle brain cells thinking about that. The scotch would do in another chunk. A few more went to wondering at what age I was apt to become a vegetable.

  Douglas drifted past with the department chairman, engrossed in conversation. He gave me a quick nod, but steered his captive toward a sofa. Business before pleasure.

  I wandered a few feet from my post to engage in appropriately subdued dialogue about poor Mildred, but I realized that I was again garnering smirks from those who had read the damnable book. Apparently everyone in the room, I concluded as I edged out of the living room. I considered standing in the foyer, dismissed the idea, and retreated to the den to practice disdainful looks.

  I shut the door. As I turned around, I noticed a two-drawer filing cabinet. No tacky metal furniture for the Twillers; it was of a rich mahogany with antique brass pulls. I bent down to run my hand over the wood. A little square of paper was taped on each drawer, the handwriting spidery and timid. Mildred’s.

  The first drawer was devoted to contracts and royalty statements. The second drawer purported to contain current notes and research. My nose twitching, I opened the drawer to see if I might find any notes about Professor of Passion, specifically ones mentioning the Carlton character. Mildred had wanted to explain, I told myself in a self-righteous voice as I dug through the files. I would give her the opportunity to do so, albeit posthumously.

  I found the file and slipped it out. With a nervous glance at the closed door, I sat down on the sofa and opened the file. My jaw fell against my chest. There were a dozen or so sheets of paper covered with handwriting, but the handwriting in no way resembled the spidery formations on the drawer labels. The words sprawled aggressively across the pages, bold and unmistakably masculine. Douglas’s.

  The words refused to come into focus as I goggled at them. Why had Douglas written notes for his wife? Or had he? I squinted until I could make out the writing. Possible titles, snippets of prose, a few similes that had caught his fancy. I shuffled through the pages to search for Carlton’s name. Britton’s name leaped off the page, followed by his academic background, his physical description, and a date from ten years ago. A doctor’s name and an obscure medical phrase or two. A girl’s first name—Jeanne—underlined by a heavy slash. A series of exclamation marks in the margin.

  Stunned, I sat and stared at the information that had been compiled with the precision of a bureaucratic mind. Not Mildred’s—or even Azalea’s—mind, however; this was clearly Douglas’s work. But why?

  The doorknob rattled. I gulped back a shriek and shoved the file under a throw pillow as the door opened. I looked up to find Lieutenant Rosen’s feral grin in all its glory.

  “Oh,” I managed to choke out, “it’s you.”

  His eyes shifted to the pillow beside me. “It is I,” he agreed genially as he moved forward. Before I could sense his intentions, he snatched up the pillow.

  We both stared at the file.

  “What’s that?” I said, trying to appear properly shocked.

  He chuckled at my ingenuous expression. “Why, Mrs. Malloy, whatever could that be? I do believe it is a file, perhaps from that very cabinet. Do you think Mr. Twiller would mind if I glanced through it?”

  I gave up the ingenue routine and grabbed the file. “Sit down and read,” I said briskly, “but you’ll have to go second. I had it first, Lieutenant Rosen.”

  He gave me a reproachful look. “Is that any way to talk to the head of the Farberville CID? I agree that it lacks the reputation of Scotland Yard, but we do our best.”

  For the moment, I had almost forgotten the roles. I turned on what charm I could rally, batted my eyelashes, and cooed, “I don’t quite know, Lieutenant. I’ve never been suspected of strangling anyone before.”

  “First time for everything,” he said blandly as he sat down and pointed at the top page of the papers in the folder.

  Unable to produce anything remotely adequate in response, I settled back and began to read.

  SEVEN

  When I finished the final page, I tossed the folder in Lieutenant Rosen’s lap and propped my head on my hands. “Oh, my God,” I muttered to myself, struggling to accept what I had read—in Douglas’s handwriting.

  The lieutenant scanned the page, straightened the papers, and closed the folder. He returned it to the cabinet, then came back to the sofa and sat down.

  “Fascinating stuff,” he said in a cheerful voice. “Nothing a detective likes better than names, dates, and verification. So neat and tidy, compared to the normal hodgepodge of information. It looks as if I might need to speak to a few people once more.”

  “I presume I’m one of them,” I said flatly. I had just read all the details of Carlton’s involvement with the coed, from the initial dalliance under the seminar table (dusty but creative) to the standing reservation at the Motel D’Amore (pure sleaze) on the highway. Times, dates, and even the course (Italian Renaissance Prose) the girl was taking from Carlton. Everything but her name, rank, and shoe size.

  Lieutenant Rosen shrugged and said, “I knew most of the information about your husband. The police officers did a bit of background before they closed the file.”

  “Did you know all of that before you questioned me last night?”

  “Jorgeson filled me in,” he admitted, grinning. “However, I haven’t received anything on Blake and Holland yet. I suspected that the oblique references carried some truth, but your snooping has saved me quite a bit of time, Mrs. Malloy.”

  “You’re welcome. Anything to crucify a friend.”

  He leaned back and crossed his legs, as if we were settling in front of the television set to watch “Masterpiece Theater.” “Now, you may be jumping to conclusions. Twiller does seem to have the information confirmed, but he might have made it up, for all we know. I’d prefer outside confirmation before I plug in the electric chair and test the switch.”

  It was not the moment for levity. Glaring, I said, “You may be right. Britton swore that the whole insinuation was pure fantasy and that he simply resented his name appearing in such a book. I told him that I believed him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course, I did! I’ve known him since he came to Farber over ten years ago. He’s not the sort to—” I couldn’t get the damning words out in a controlled voice.

  “Pressure a fifteen-year-old into having an abortion to save himself from a statutory rap?”

  “Exactly. Britton is a kind, gentle man. The undergraduates wrestle each other during registration to get into his classes. He’s not the sort to be involved with some Lolita with a punk-rock haircut.”

  “The names and dates are in the file. I’ll know in a day or so if the charges were actually filed or if it is, as you believe, pure fantasy.”

  “He’s nice, charming, erudite, sincere,” I insisted obstinately.

  “And single.”

  “And single.” I curled my lip at the insufferable man. “I don’t fool around with married men. Like policemen, they’re excruciatingly egotistical.”

  “Admirable, Mrs. Malloy. You may be the only one within the Farber English department with any scruples. When do these people find time to teach?”

  “Carlton hardly ever missed a class,” I began hotly. The heat evaporated, however, and I added, “Office hours seem to present a lot of opportunities for intimacy with the students, I suppose.
From what we read, the dean would be a bit startled to find out what goes on in his ivy towers.”

  “Or in Miss Holland’s living room,” he said with a distracted expression. Suddenly he grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet, ignoring my astonished yelp. The door flew open. I gazed into Douglas Twiller’s narrowed eyes.

  “Claire? Lieutenant? I was wondering where the two of you slipped away, but I certainly did not expect to find you here.” Douglas came into the den. Although he was making a pretense of genteel bewilderment, his eyes flickered to the filing cabinet.

  Lieutenant Rosen jabbed me with his elbow. Swallowing a second yelp in less than half a minute, I said, “Oh, Douglas, I know it’s silly, but I was overcome with emotion and came in here to compose myself. The lieutenant came in only a minute ago to—er, see if I needed a glass of water.”

  “Water, Claire?” Douglas’s right eyebrow rose, a nifty trick I had yet to master. “I thought you preferred scotch in a crisis.”

  “It’s a minor crisis. I’ll help you to the water,” Lieutenant Rosen said. He caught my elbow and tugged me past Douglas. We wiggled through the crowd until we reached the kitchen.

  Camille stared at him as he hunted through cabinets for a glass. “Can I be of assistance?” she said.

  He shook his head and kept up the clatter. After he had found a glass, he filled it at the tap and offered it to me. “Drink this, Mrs. Malloy.”

  “Thank you,” I said between sips, hoping the urge to giggle would drown if I didn’t choke.

  Camille snorted and waltzed out of the kitchen with a newly stocked platter of canapés, clearly unimpressed with our childish antics. I put down the glass before the water sloshed onto the floor. “I feel like my hand was found in the cookie jar. Why didn’t you tell him what we discovered, instead of meekly scuttling away?”

  “I intend to discuss the file with Twiller, but I think we ought to wait until his guests are gone. He seems to be enjoying the solicitude—and it is his hour of glory.”