Murder Misread Page 8

  She bobbed her head politely to Walensky as she went out.

  7

  Anne stood at the window of her living room, gazing at the back lawn, bright green streaked with long shadows in the late sun. Tal had mowed it a few days ago and it looked neat enough, although it was already spangled with a few yellow dandelions. Dent de lion, lion’s tooth, from their jagged leaves. But they were not lionlike, not regal. They were sneaky little weeds with long strong roots. No matter how often you decapitated them some sprang back, eager as students in September.

  “So this is a pretty generous policy,” observed Sergeant Hines from the sofa. Anne glanced over her shoulder at him. His long legs were angled wide to fit behind the coffee table, knees far apart as he leaned forward to inspect the papers he had fanned out before him. Porter, standing at the end of the table, gazed down at the papers too.

  “TIAA-CREF is supposed to be a good program,” said Anne.

  “So would you say you’ll be pretty well set now?”

  Well set! If she weren’t so tired she’d be angry. She said, “Sergeant Hines, I was already pretty well set, as you put it. I’m covered by exactly the same program as Tal when I retire. The house has been in my name for several years. I’ve got a good job, with tenure. Whatever comes to me now is not going to make a hell of a lot of difference.”

  “What are your plans for the money?”

  “No plans.” She looked back out the window. Some prewar designer’s idea of Tudor. Pseudor-Tudor, Tal called it. Dark oak woodwork around the diamond panes framed the late-afternoon lawn, the evergreens at the back property line, the metal swing set left over from when Paul and Rocky were small. “Probably save it for my children,” she told Hines. “I haven’t thought much about it.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Chandler.” She heard him rustle the papers behind her. Out on the lawn, a flock of starlings landed and marched across the grass, glossy black in the sun, searching for grubs or whatever unpleasant thing it was that appealed to starlings.

  When Hines spoke right at her elbow, she jumped. “Nice yard. Did your husband take care of it?”

  “Most of the time. I’d do it if he was busy or feeling sick. And of course if there was a major project like planting a tree, then we’d get someone with the right equipment to come in.” She looked sideways at Hines. He was inspecting the yard with his flat intelligent eyes, his chocolate skin picking up a sheen from the reflected sunlight. “Not a very complicated yard,” she added. “Mow the lawn every week or two and hack down the bushiest bushes a couple of times a year. We never had time for flowers.”

  “Vegetables?”

  “No. We go to the farmers’ market.”

  “Still, it’s fun to do it yourself. Nothing like a tomato still warm from the garden.” Hines turned back into the room. “Well, are we done?” he asked Porter.

  “For now.”

  “Mrs. Chandler, I appreciate your help very much. We may have to come back to you if new questions develop.”

  “Please do. I want to help,” said Anne. Not that she thought they’d find anything now. If they were asking her about insurance it showed how far they were from a solution. And she hadn’t heard for hours from Walensky. Maybe he was following up an idea somewhere. He knew more about the campus, after all. But she suspected he was off somewhere tut-tutting. She led the way to the other end of the living room and into the little hall. “Do you have everything?”

  “Yes, we’re all packed up. Will you be all right, now, Mrs. Chandler?”

  “I can call Laura Brand next door if I need anything.” Laura had already been over twice, first to ask what she could do and to invite Anne to dinner. Anne had refused. But soon Laura had come back with a casserole from her own freezer.

  “Good,” said Hines. “Be sure to do that. And call me if you remember anything at all that you haven’t told me.”

  “I will. Thank you, Sergeant Hines.”

  She closed the dark oak door behind him and leaned her forehead against the varnished wood, her hand still on the knob. God, the house seemed empty. She was exhausted and at the same time numb, distant, as though it were someone else’s eyes that felt sandy, someone else’s legs about to buckle, someone else’s grief trying to storm its way in.

  Maybe Laura Brand was right, maybe she should eat something.

  Or drink something.

  She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was the white burgundy she and Tal had started last night. A new label, not great but okay. She poured herself a glass and took it in to sit on the sofa, with a vague plan of organizing the facts she knew. There were the insurance papers spread all over the coffee table. Dollars and cents, the prize money for reaching this age or that age, for having a partner who reached this age or that age. She’d have to go through the motions, she supposed, file for benefits. Benefits! Cindy would help. Cindy understood all that trash, or at least could send her to the right administrator.

  The house seemed so empty.

  At Van Brunt Hall, she hadn’t had time to talk to Cindy. When Hines had gone haring off after Charlie Fielding, both Walensky and Bernie Reinalter had descended on her, full of useless solicitude. She’d taken a cup of coffee for politeness’ sake while she waited for Hines to finish with Charlie, then left it behind, undrunk, in her eagerness to join Hines when he finally reappeared. Hines and Porter had taken her to Tal’s office. Not the big corner one he used to have. The new Meredith professor had moved into it. But Tal had shrugged. “So now I’ve only got one window for looking at the parking lot,” he’d said. “That’s more than enough. The important thing is bookcases.”

  And he did have plenty of bookcases. She’d looked them over carefully, searching for something that would jog her memory, or for something unusual, something that didn’t fit with the projects he’d shared with her. But nothing stood out. It was his familiar collection of books, classic volumes on perception, language, testing, education, reading. Ranks of journals on the same topics lining the lower shelves. She went to the shelf nearest his chair. “These are new,” she said, looking at the crisp bindings, the unfamiliar titles. But the names were all reasonable additions: Eye Movements and Psychological Processes, Cognitive Development, The Psychology of Reading.

  Determined to find something that would point to his killer, she’d flipped through his notes, his mail, even the stack of mimeographed bulletins. All the usual. Announcements of lectures, of new textbooks, of conferences. Requests for letters of recommendation, for reprints of his articles, for his assistance on committees. Nothing odd. She’d shaken her head, suddenly weary. “Nothing,” she said. “Exactly what I would have expected yesterday, before anything happened.”

  “Well, thank you for looking it over, Mrs. Chandler. Now, I’d like to speak to the others here, and see you at home later. Would about five o’clock be all right?”

  It was more command than request. Anne said, “Of course.”

  “Do you have a car here?”

  “Yes, at my building. Harper Hall.”

  “Did you drive your husband to campus this morning?”

  “Oh, I see what you’re asking. No, we took both cars today. He stopped off for that checkup first, and I drove straight to my office. His is probably in the parking lot here. Black Volks bug.”

  Hines wrote it down. Walensky said, “I’ll be happy to drive you home, Mrs. Chandler.”

  She wasn’t about to be carried home like some invalid, but she’d allowed Walensky to trundle her off as far as the Harper parking lot because she thought Hines would be more efficient with him out of the way. She’d driven home numbly, occasionally aware that she’d just done something reckless, such as making a turn without really checking the traffic. But there were few cars on the road at intersession and she was lucky.

  Once home, she’d made some calls. She’d called her secretary, only to find that Cindy had already spread the news. She’d called Rocky in Chicago and Paul in Houston. Shocked and disbeliev
ing, Rocky weeping, they’d promised to come. She’d called a funeral director. Then Laura Brand next door had appeared with her casserole. Finally, Hines and Porter. They’d stayed a long time, asking about Tal’s life, touring the house with her and looking over his den with special care. As they checked through the rooms she realized that Hines was inserting other questions, finding out where she’d been all day, what she’d been doing. And he’d been interested in every detail of those bankbooks and insurance policies. It was his job; she shouldn’t be angry. But how the hell could he be challenging her? She, who had lost…. And besides, it was wasting time. Pointless. Frittering away hours they needed to catch a killer.

  But at last they were gone.

  And the house was very empty.

  She knocked back the rest of her wine and went out to pour herself another glass.

  Couldn’t face that damn casserole, she decided as she returned the bottle to the refrigerator. But maybe some cheese. She hadn’t bought any bread today, but there was a half box of crackers left over from an end-of-term party they’d given two weeks ago. Better eat them; they were already going stale. She sat at the kitchen table and made herself cut a few slices of cheese. What she ought to do was organize the facts she knew. Maybe in black and white something would leap out at her. Maybe she’d notice something that a stranger like Hines wouldn’t. She got a pad of paper and placed it by her chair. Then she crossed the kitchen to turn on the radio. The cheery young voice that couldn’t quite pronounce Mussorgsky was annoying, but the well-worn music, Pictures at an Exhibition, filled the empty air. Helped keep feelings at bay.

  Okay. What were the facts? Time: just before noon. Place: lower gorge trail. People in the area at the time: could be anyone, really, unless they could prove they were elsewhere. But she knew some. Nora, Charlie, Bart, Maggie. That student, Dorrie.

  She stared at the list. Now what?

  Mussorgsky marched on through the exhibition.

  It was a relief when the doorbell sounded. Maybe Laura Brand back with dessert.

  But, astonishingly, it was Maggie Ryan. She stood on the porch, each hand holding a child’s. Little girl about four, toddler not much over a year. All three with black curly hair and blue jeans.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she apologized. “But I thought it might be better to catch you now than later, when more people will be here. I just had a question.”

  “Come on in. Maggie, right?”

  “That’s right. This is Sarah, and this is Will.”

  “Hi.” Anne grinned foolishly down at the bright-eyed youngsters. Cute. She opened the door wider. Sarah stepped in to look inquisitively around the oak-beamed hall. Little Will spied something and beelined for the living room with Maggie in hot pursuit.

  “Come on, Will!” She scooped him up as he passed the coffee table and asked Anne, “Where do you want us?”

  The little boy was pouting, making grasping movements toward the brass fireplace poker with his pudgy hand. Anne said, “How about the kitchen? I’m trying to finish up a box of crackers.”

  “Great.” Maggie put Will down and herded the children after Anne into the kitchen. She sat on one of the chairs and plopped Will into her lap. All three accepted the crackers.

  “Yum!” said Will, cramming one into his small mouth, the delights of brass pokers forgotten.

  “Yum,” Maggie agreed.

  Anne sat down at the other side of the table. “Well. You had a question?”

  “Yeah, about my new boss. I’m sorry to barge in like this, Professor Chandler, but—”

  “Oh, God, call me Anne. You have as many degrees as I have. As many children, too.”

  “Anne it is. You have children?”

  “A boy and a girl, like you. Paul and Rocky. A man and a woman, I should say.”

  “Your daughter is named Rocky?”

  “Roxane.”

  “Oh, of course!”

  “She decided at age ten that Rocky was more suitable. Tal complained, of course. He’s—he was such a romantic at heart, wanted his gorgeous daughter to have a gorgeous name. But she played first base for the Laconia Lions and he had to agree that Rocky was a better name for striking fear into the hearts of the opponents.”

  “A good dad.” Maggie’s smile was warm. “Will Paul and Rocky be joining you soon?”

  “Yes. Rocky should be here by Saturday night. Paul thinks he can get here Sunday.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes. Now,” Anne pursed her lips sternly, “you’re avoiding the question you came to ask. What is it?”

  “Well, I was talking to Charlie Fielding. And I wondered if someone might be trying to frame him. Look, please tell me if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Frame him? What do you mean?” There was no question of not talking about it. Ancient habits of mind persisted. For most of the problems of her life, the most productive reaction had always been to discuss them, inspect their logical structure, think through the solution. Now, even though part of her knew that there was no solution, no satisfactory solution, the process of discussing it was comforting, familiar. Better even than making lists. And she was determined to find out what had happened.

  “Did Sergeant Hines show you the items they found there in the gorge?” asked Maggie.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the little Chaplin memo book belongs to Charlie Fielding. But I’m pretty certain he didn’t drop it there today because I was with him from about nine-fifteen on. He says he looked at it before he left his house this morning. So sometime between then and the time I arrived at the scene in the gorge, somebody dropped his book there.”

  “Bart,” said Anne.

  “Bart? Why do you say that?” With the schizophrenic skill Anne remembered from her own days of young-motherhood, Maggie was expertly doling out crackers, wiping crumbs from little mouths, and following the conversation with eager attention.

  “The pipe.” Anne shook her head. “But why would he?”

  “That was Bart’s pipe? Charlie said it was similar, but lighter—oh, of course! He didn’t have his! You gave him that cigarette because he needed a smoke! He was practically sick.”

  “I sympathize with withdrawal symptoms,” said Anne. “Speaking of which… you don’t smoke?” She held the pack toward Maggie.

  “Thanks, no. But Gauloise smoke brings back some good memories.”

  “You’ve been in France, then.” Anne lit her cigarette.

  “Paris, my junior year of high school. Learned a lot.”

  “A city full of lessons.”

  “Yeah.” Maggie fumbled in her bag, handed a book to Sarah, and at Will’s squeal pulled out one for him too. Then her blue eyes locked on Anne’s again. “When I met your husband this morning we discussed French for a minute, and he said he especially wanted me to meet you. That’s the other reason I came tonight.”

  “Because of your French? How did he know that?”

  “Well, he heard my daughter swearing in French, and—”

  “Mine does that too.” Anne smiled approvingly at Sarah.

  “And because my husband acted Cyrano a few years ago at the Farm Theatre. Nick O’Connor.”

  “Cyrano? That was your husband? God, we enjoyed that!” She remembered Tal bouncing around the parking lot afterward, replaying his favorite parts as they walked to the car. Anne herself had still been wrapped in the romantic pathos of Cyrano’s beautiful death scene, a catch in her throat as she tried to smile at Tal’s antics.

  There was a catch in her throat now. Anne blew her nose into a paper napkin.

  Maggie said, “I’m glad you liked it. Nick will be working at the Farm Theatre again this summer. Marc Antony and Big Daddy. He’s going to join us next week after he finishes shooting a TV episode.”

  “Oh? Which one?”

  “Kojak. They needed someone who could look similar to Telly Savalas.” But Maggie had picked up the waning of interest in Anne’s tone and returned to her first question. “Can
you think why Bart, or anyone else, might want to frame Charlie Fielding?”

  “Frame Charlie? No.” Gratefully, Anne turned to the prob-lem. “Can’t imagine Charlie with serious enemies. He’s a shy young man, always pleasant, eager to please. Very smart, good insight into scientific problems. Works too hard. Sometimes I think it’s unhealthy, the way young professors have to put in such long hours for tenure. I imagine that’s why things didn’t work out with Lorraine.”

  “Lorraine?”

  “His ex-wife. She’d been a student here. Very hard-working herself, ambitious. Stayed on after she earned her Ph.D. Tal was chairman then and he found a half-time instructor job for her, but of course it was pointless in terms of getting on with a career. So she finished up her research, got some articles accepted, and went off to a position at Queens College. Commuted back and forth on weekends for a while but apparently they couldn’t make it work.”

  “Yeah, Nick and I have had to do that occasionally. Hell of a way to run a marriage. The divorce was amicable, though?”

  “Far as I know. Though Charlie seemed very withdrawn for a while.” Anne peered suspiciously at Maggie. “You’re not suggesting that Lorraine Fisher engineered this whole thing from afar to get back at Charlie, are you?”

  “Sounds ridiculous,” Maggie admitted. “But you never know, some ex-wives are pretty bitter. And since I’m working for the guy, I just wondered if there was anyone who was angry at him, or would benefit somehow if he got into trouble. What about his academic situation? Any rivals?”

  “Chiefly Tal.”

  “Tal? They seemed the best of friends this morning.”

  “Sure. The rivalry was strictly intellectual. The big point of contention is what guides the eye to the next fixation point.”

  “Oh, I remember them joking about that. Charlie emphasizes the meaning, the hypothesis a reader has about what meaning will come next on the page. Tal emphasizes the physical stimulus on the page. Letters and spaces.”