Strangled Prose Read online

  “Those research notes were in his handwriting. We deserve an explanation,” I said. I suspected that I knew what he would say—but I wanted to hear it from him. Poor Mildred, I thought with a sigh.

  The lieutenant and I eventually rejoined the wake. Douglas gave us a few peculiar looks, but managed to stay on the opposite side of the room. Lieutenant Rosen was briskly absorbed by a circle of faculty wives, so I left him and wormed my way to the bar. Scotch is indeed better in a crisis; I don’t even like the taste of water.

  While the last guests were escorted to the door, Lieutenant Rosen and I moved to the center of the living room. Douglas came back in, stopped as he saw us, and let out a groan. “I don’t suppose you’re here for a nightcap?” he said wearily.

  The lieutenant pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Twiller. It’s time for a discussion—and it’s apt to take a while. You look exhausted.”

  Douglas did as suggested, and he did look tired. Deflated, gray, perhaps even ill, I realized in surprise. I almost felt a twinge of sympathy, until I remembered the folder. Vicious, nasty stuff about people he supposedly cared for. I began to simmer, but quietly so that I would not be banished to the nursery in disgrace.

  “We found the research file for Professor of Passion,” said Lieutenant Rosen. He looked down at the slumped figure in the armchair. “Mrs. Malloy and I had no problem identifying the handwriting. Yours, Mr. Twiller. Any comments?”

  When Douglas shook his head, he continued, “The contents of the file were of great interest, too. According to those present at the reception, you averred several times that your wife could explain the insinuations about the Farber English faculty, past and present. How could she, Mr. Twiller—when she hadn’t even read the book?”

  Douglas seemed to toy with several responses, but at last discarded them. In a dull voice, he said, “She was shocked and went home to read the book. No migraine; nary a bout of sobs. Those were excuses. She was—ah, upset with the revelations.”

  “And you’re Azalea Twilight.”

  “Mildred was Azalea Twilight,” he protested. “She adored the opportunity to swoop around the country, being eccentric and wickedly romantic. Mobbed at the airport, awarded all sorts of nonsense. It was her life. But she couldn’t write her name with a crayon, much less crank out two or three manuscripts every year.”

  “You could, and, in fact, did.” Lieutenant Rosen sat down on the arm of a chair and studied Douglas as if he were a newly discovered species of carnivorous flora. Curious, but potentially dangerous.

  “I seem to have a flair for it,” Douglas said, flinching under the scrutiny. “I could finish a manuscript in under three weeks, which averages out to quite a bit of money per hour. Thousands, actually.”

  “But you passed it off as your wife’s work.”

  Douglas glanced at me for sympathy. Finding none, he grimaced and said, “I have a reputation in academic circles, Lieutenant. Although you may be unaware of the backstabbing that goes on among such people, I can assure you that it is more than common. If it were ever to be discovered that I wrote that—that genre of literature, then I would never again be published in any respectable journal. I would be a source of amusement for my colleagues, the object of crude remarks. My opinions would be dismissed as those of a crackpot. The chairmanship of the department would be out of the question.”

  “So Mrs. Twiller enjoyed the fame, and you enjoyed the money?”

  “It was more than that. I rather savored the little deception, too. Knowing that all the world thought Mildred could write such lurid scenes, that she could even begin to produce the necessarily convoluted plots and forays into graphic ecstasy! It provided a great deal of secret amusement.”

  “I’m sure it did, Mr. Twiller. Regrettably, your wife was the one who was strangled because of your literary efforts.”

  “A terrible thing,” Douglas said. “I’d prefer to rest now, if you’re quite finished?”

  “No, I’m not quite finished. About the contents of the folder? You seem to have done your homework on your colleagues, Mr. Twiller. It was enlightening.”

  “Was it? I’m delighted to have been of service.”

  “I was hoping you might explain why you spent such a tremendous amount of time and money on your research. A private detective agency, bribes to the registrar’s office, all that tedious legwork.”

  Douglas licked his lips. “I simply decided to use more realistic characters, Lieutenant. Thus I studied those around me for inspiration, and later delved a bit into their histories to give myself a more rounded picture of them. My interest was purely from a technical standpoint; I had no personal interest.”

  “No, I don’t think I can accept that,” the lieutenant said. “Try again, Mr. Twiller—and do remember this is a homicide investigation, rather than a course in creative explanation. For instance, how did you find out about Carlton Malloy’s female companion the night he was killed?”

  “It was a wild guess.”

  “Come now, Mr. Twiller, no one is quite that astute when making a wild guess. Your account was a dazzling display of accuracy. You didn’t miss a detail, from the bloodstained feathers to the car catching on fire after the companion had been moved to safety.”

  “I have a vivid imagination.”

  “And you’re using it now.”

  “That is the truth, Lieutenant Rosen.” Douglas stood up and started for the door. “I’m going upstairs to lie down. This inquisition has been a dreadful strain.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” Lieutenant Rosen said. When he realized that Douglas had no intention of stopping, he added, “Here, or at the station, Mr. Twiller; it’s up to you.”

  Douglas snorted, but he did not stop. He went up the stairs, and shortly thereafter a door above closed with a quiet sound.

  “You didn’t strike much fear in his heart,” I commented sweetly as I picked up my purse. “You ought to watch more cop shows on television. No one ever walks out on those guys.”

  “You watch too many of them. Witnesses are forever walking out on me, usually in the middle of a question,” Lieutenant Rosen sighed. We let ourselves out and walked down the sidewalk to his car.

  “Any theories?” he asked me.

  “About the reasons for the libelous material in Professor of Passion or about the identity of poor Mildred’s murderer?”

  “Take your choice.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Well, Douglas had very little reason to strangle Mildred. Now he won’t be able to peddle his books under her name and stage presence. Azalea has died, too, and his career as an undercover pornographer is finished.”

  “So he had no motive to strangle his wife. On the contrary, he needed her alive and well.”

  “Mildred did mention that she might retire,” I countered, shaking my head. “She confided to me at length over lunch last week. Shrimp salad and croissants. Coffee with cream. However, she might have changed her mind after she had experienced anonymity for a few months. She certainly can’t now.”

  The lieutenant opened his mouth but then snapped it closed, climbed into his car, and drove away. I stared at the brakelights as they flashed around the corner, feeling like Dorothy Gale from Kansas. A flock of munchkins would have been easier to handle than Lieutenant Rosen, I told myself as I walked toward my apartment.

  It was after six, and darkness had settled in. Dry leaves blew across the sidewalk like arched spiders; a faint glow from behind the clouds promised the existence of a moon. Houses along the street looked warm and safe behind closed curtains. Murder was not a topic of conversation.

  I enjoyed the solitude as I tried to sift through the information that had been thrust upon me—with a bit of my own help. Douglas Twiller, author of thirteen semipornographic novels, employing a private detective to provide fodder for his folder. And he wouldn’t explain why, although he must have known a backlash was inevitable. And likely to prove expensive.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” I muttered,
squashing an errant leaf to hear the crunch under my foot. I wished Douglas could be dealt with as easily.

  Mildred told me that she had intended to retire from the literary world. Douglas had avowed nothing but sympathy, but inwardly he must have panicked. But murdering her would not help; it rather tended to destroy whatever chance he might have in the future to persuade her to resume the Azalea role. He had suggested a vacation, a more civilized solution to bring her around.

  The motive had to have arisen from the book. Someone too enraged to accept that the damage was already done had strangled the wrong person—an ironic twist of the silk scarf. Poor Mildred. We had all maligned her, and she hadn’t even read the book. Poor, poor Mildred. No wonder she dashed out of the Book Depot like a terrified rabbit …

  She deserved to be vindicated, but I had no idea where to seek a sacrificial goat. Douglas? Maggie? Britton? Or even Carlton, up from the grave to avenge his reputation? The whole thing was absurd; I did not drink cocktails with people who went around strangling people.

  Caron was sitting on the couch when I arrived at the apartment. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her lip extended to its utmost degree of displeasure.

  “Where’s Inez?” I asked, trusting it to be a logical question.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you have a nice time at the pizza place?”

  “Yeah. Just super.”

  “Did you have dinner?”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “Neither do I, so we’ll save the Lean Cuisines for another night. Do you have any homework?”

  “No.”

  I abandoned the maternal efforts to elicit meaningful dialogue. I left her to brood and went into my bedroom to change into my robe. The scotch had not yet worked its way out of my veins, and my head was beginning to throb. I tried to find enough energy to investigate my daughter’s latest pique, but instead went to the kitchen for a cup of tea. I heard a sniffle from the living room.

  Caron came to the doorway, her arms wrapped around her shoulders. She looked younger than she had in years, and very vulnerable. “I think I know why you didn’t want me to read the last Azalea book,” she said. “It was about my father.”

  I fiddled with the teapot while I tried to decide how best to handle the subject. At last, feeling grossly incompetent, I settled Caron at the table and told her the whole story. We began with disbelief, moved through indignation, and finished with tears. She seemed to relax; perhaps the truth was more palatable than her doubts—or maybe she suspected that her father had never been as close to sainthood as his colleagues insisted.

  “Why did Mildred Twiller put that in the book?” Caron asked. “That was cruel. I thought she was supposed to be a friend of yours. She must have known you’d figure it out.”

  Another sticky problem. I took a long drink of the tepid tea while I ran through my options. “We may never know,” I said at last. I had no idea why Douglas had put the libelous material in the book; I suppose I thought that was close enough to the truth.

  “She was your friend,” Caron insisted. “She must have known that she would hurt you if she wrote about Dad and that—that girl.”

  “Mildred did say she had an explanation, but we’ll never hear it. In the meantime, we’ll just have to ride out the storm. There will be gossip at school, but I’d prefer that you not refute it with the same tactics you pulled on Rhonda Maguire. Smile contemptuously and walk away, Caron.”

  “Rhonda Maguire happens to be my dearest friend. She knew I was only kidding. It was all Inez’s fault.”

  I choked on a mouthful of tea. “I thought you were defending your dearest friend, who is Inez.”

  “I hate Inez. She probably is a lesbian, and I have no intention of being stared at just because she doesn’t date.” Caron daintily wiped her nose on her sleeve and stood up. “I think I’ll call Rhonda and see if she wants to go to the library tomorrow after school. Good night, Mother.”

  I watched her leave, unable to think of a worthy reply. Caron and Inez were a team and, I had assumed, an unassailable one. What on earth could have happened? Five hours earlier they had been in the Book Depot, squabbling as usual but still the best of friends. Now Inez was out, and the unseen Rhonda Maguire in.

  It was too intricate for me. I finished the tea and took a solid, dull, sexless biography to bed.

  The following morning I dressed in drab, drank several cups of coffee, and prepared myself mentally for the funeral. Contrary to all the movie versions, the day was crisp and clear. After the customary and tedious ceremony at the church, a lengthy line of cars crept to the cemetery in the oldest part of town. We stood in a respectful circle as the minister intoned a few final words of comfort. The widower was gray about the face, but composed. An elderly relative bobbled beside him. Ashes to ashes, a handful of dirt, and we were free to go.

  Lieutenant Rosen must have been lurking from a distance; he appeared by me as I walked to the curb. My car was wedged in; it would be several minutes before I could escape. He and I exchanged polite smiles as we leaned against the side of my car.

  “Enjoy the show?” he asked mildly.

  “Nothing more fun than interring a friend.” I studied the bare branches of the trees. “Have you made any progress?”

  “In a way. I received confirmation about Blake’s unadmirable activities in Missouri. The story was still smoldering in a few back drawers, and the people there were willing to talk. It was true, Mrs. Malloy. The authorities were unable to make a case against him, but they had little doubt about his guilt.”

  “Oh.” Brilliant. Since I had read the file, I had suspected as much. It still stung. For almost three years I had painted my toenails for the man. Pretended to appreciate the nuances of Hungarian wine. Put up with his beard. And slept with him.

  Britton had not appeared at the funeral, despite protocol, and I wondered if he was busy submitting a resignation and packing up his wine collection. Maggie was likely to be similarly engaged. Abruptly I wished I were huddled under an umbrella to escape a cold drizzle; it would have been more suitable than the bright sunshine and cloudless sky.

  “I guess I’ll go back to the station,” the lieutenant said, unperturbed by my lack of response. He shot me a broad grin. “A policeman’s lot, and so on.”

  “Expecting more smut about the Farber faculty to come in on the teletype?” I snapped. “Are you checking to see if I left my grandparents buried in the basement?”

  “Did you?”

  “Dig it up and see, Sherlock.” I fumbled through my purse for a tissue, standard equipment for any funeral. When I looked up, he was gone. The car parked in front of mine was not, however, and I could only seethe impatiently as I searched the dwindling crowd for someone who might be able to afford the shiny red Mercedes. Farber faculty people drove Japanese imports or used station wagons.

  At last I perched on the hood to wait stoically, if not graciously. In the middle of composing a wisecrack to the Mercedes owner, I saw a figure slink behind an elm on the far side of the cemetery. Although I hadn’t seen the face, I recognized the slumped posture.

  I hopped down and jogged across the grass. When Inez saw me, she broke into a jerky lope among the tombstones and memorial statues, leaping over a few with surprising agility.

  “Inez!” I called, flabbergasted by her actions. “Come back here, or I’ll—” I couldn’t think of a suitable threat in my gaspy condition, so I settled for a glower potent enough to bring one of the cemetary residents to his feet. The only response was an increase in velocity.

  Inez reached the gate and headed down the sidewalk toward a row of shops. I knew that I looked like a rabid child molester as I raced after her; my eyes were still glowering and my mouth distorted from the effort. I shouldn’t have dropped my aerobics class, I told myself in a tortured tirade.

  Finally Inez yielded to what she must have thought the inevitable, since she couldn’t hear my death rattle. Clutching her purse to her chest, she stoppe
d and waited for me to catch up with her. Her face was carved of the same marble as the stones she had leaped over, cold and impenetrable.

  “Why on earth did you run away from me?” I managed to gasp.

  “I didn’t run away, Mrs. Malloy. I didn’t want to be late for fourth period, that’s all. I have office duty third period, and I just sort of slipped out of school for the funeral.” She tried to sound earnest, but we both knew she was lying. I wondered why.

  “I’ll drive you back to the school, Inez,” I said firmly, grabbing her arm in case she decided to try another sprint. The child was a damn gazelle, I thought as I pulled her back toward my car. One more effort like that and I could have checked right into the cemetery for a plot of my own.

  “So you’re AWOL from school?” I said, with the voice of a sympathetic confidante rather than of a parent, I hoped.

  “Only office duty and lunch. It doesn’t matter.”

  “And you were determined to attend Mildred’s funeral?”

  Inez slithered out of my grasp and stuffed her hands in her pockets. Her purse thudded against her thigh as she hurried up the hill. A flush crept up her neck. Breathless but determined, I willed myself not to beg for a rest and caught up with her. I repeated my question.

  “I had to, Mrs. Malloy,” she answered solemnly. Behind her thick lenses, her eyes glistened. “It was for Azalea. I asked Caron to come with me, but she said she couldn’t miss algebra without getting caught. She could have, though. I would have paged her from the office and said there was an emergency at home.”

  “Caron wouldn’t come to the funeral with you?” That was not a surprise. Azalea had slipped in Caron’s popularity poll.

  “No,” Inez sniffled. “She doesn’t want to talk about poor, departed Azalea, and she said she didn’t even want to read her books anymore. I wrote the eulogy for the school newspaper all by myself. I’m the only one who cares about Azalea Twilight.”

  “Caron does change her mind,” I said. “Did she tell you about it?”

  “No. She just said that stuff about missing algebra.”