Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel (31 page)

"I have another question. This is rather sensitive." Mrs.
Hargrove took off her glasses and leaned forward. "One of
the campus police told me that Gloria Rankin was coming
to see me when she was struck by the bus. I didn't know her
nor why she was coming. Do you have any idea?"

"Poor, poor Gloria. She was a nice girl, a nice girl."
Mrs. Hargrove shook her head slowly back and forth. "I
don't know, but she wouldn't have told me anyway. Her
office mate, Theodora Ricarda, may know. She's down the
hall in 210."

"Thank you."

Lindsay walked down the hallway of white marble,
looking at the numbers on the wooden doors. She passed a
glass case of statuary replicas of Hercules: Hercules throwing a discus, Hercules tearing off his tunic, Hercules leaning against a tree, Hercules fighting the Hydra. Among the
statues were several journal articles and books about Herculean mythology written by faculty members. She looked
to see if any of the articles were by anyone she knew. One
was by Gloria Rankin, a review of Trachiniae by Sophocles.

Lindsay knocked on the door to room 210, and a husky
female voice told her to come in.

"Theodora Ricarda?" A plump woman of about twenty five with black hair, dark lashes, and beautiful blue eyes sat
at a desk situated perpendicular to the door. Another similar
desk faced hers. Bookcases teeming with volumes lined the
walls. "My name is Dr. Lindsay Chamberlain. I'm from the
Archaeology Department in Baldwin." The woman raised
her eyebrows in what looked, to Lindsay, like disdain. "I
was informed that Gloria Rankin was coming to see me the
day she died, and I was wondering if she might have told
you why."

"I don't feel comfortable talking about Gloria to a
stranger." She looked back at the article she had been reading.

"I can understand that. The police asked me about it. I'm
sure they will come and ask you. They are tying up loose
ends." Lindsay turned to go.

"I don't know why. We didn't talk much."

I'll bet, thought Lindsay. "Was she working on anything
to do with archaeology?"

"Not likely. She was interested in Greek and Roman
mythology. That's her master's thesis on the shelf."
Theodora pointed to the bookcase behind Lindsay.

Lindsay picked up a thin black volume. The gold lettering stamped into the cover read: Medea: The Source of Her
Sorcery, by Gloria Louise Rankin. Catchy title, thought
Lindsay. The book was dated 1993.

"What was her dissertation topic?"

"Nothing to do with Indians."

Lindsay smiled. "We study a lot of things. For instance,
I'm an expert in bones. We have experts in lithics, underwater archaeology, pollen analysis-we also have Old
World archaeologists."

Theodora shrugged. "She was doing something with
glazes and fifth-century Greek vases, I think."

"What are your interests?" asked Lindsay.

Theodora brightened. "Ancient Greek poetry and linguistics. I love translating from ancient Greek."

"I think ancient Greek poetry is very beautiful." Lindsay
hoped she wouldn't be struck down by lightning for lying.
She actually had no idea what ancient Greek poetry was like.

"It is, isn't it? The form is like nothing else, and the imagery
gives you such insights into the ancient Greek psyche."

Lindsay wondered if that were a pun and decided it
wasn't. "You've been very kind to let me take up your
time. If you think of anything, here's my card." She laid
her University of Georgia business card on the vacant
desk. "Thanks again." Lindsay was out the door before
Theodora could ask her who her favorite Greek poet was.

The visit to the Classics Department had yielded nothing
useful, Lindsay realized, and she had probably compromised her already shaky position by simply being there.
Depressed, she drove back to Baldwin.

She sat at her desk and put her hands to her temples,
trying to ease the tension from her muscles. Too many mysteries. She had the strangest feeling she was missing something important. She could almost feel the clues swimming
around in her brain, waiting for the one piece that would
make all of them make sense.

The phone rang, and Lindsay let it ring a couple of times
before she picked it up. She was starting to dread answering the telephone.

"Miss Chamberlain? Jake Gilroy here. Think I have you
an Explorer. Can you come by and look at it?"

"Yes, after work today, or maybe tomorrow?"

"Sure. It's a '95 program car. I think you'll like it and
the price, too. We can probably give you a real good deal
on your Rover."

"Thanks, Jake. I appreciate it."

Lindsay put down the phone with a sense of relief. If she
could at least lower her car payments to make up for the
property payment, that would be a big help, especially since she was about to lose her job. Her job. It made her sick. Just
don't think about it, she told herself, you've got enough to
occupy your mind. Her gaze rested on the box of old newspapers that was still sitting in the corner of her office. She
had completely forgotten about them. She carefully took a
brittle page and flattened it on her desk. It was a Macon Telegraph from 1935. There was nothing in it but bad economic
news, advertisements, and an article about Babe Ruth quitting
the Boston Braves. Boston Braves? Interesting, she thought.

She picked up another paper. It was much the same. The
third was from Kentucky, dated two years earlier than the
rest. She scanned the yellowed and stained pages for anything related to archaeology or Hank Roy Creasey. She
read the obituaries. The fourth entry caught her eye. A
Henry Ray Creasey had died in a mine explosion. His body
had not been recovered. The obituary gave no other information, not even the next of kin.

Lindsay carefully examined the rest of the paper. On
the back page was part of an article about the mine explosion. It had killed several men: Henry Ray Creasey, Homer
Timmons, Lonnie Cross, and Ruddy Stillman. Lindsay
turned back and looked again at the obituaries. None of the
men except for Creasey were there. Henry Ray, Hank
Roy-Lindsay bet they were the same person. The last
paragraph in the article said that a plaque had been placed
at the mine to mark their grave. Lindsay looked over the
list of names again. Lonnie Cross, she thought. That name
sounded familiar.

Lindsay took a stack of index cards and began labeling
them with headings on the upper left corner for the three
main mysteries: Artifact Theft, Shirley Foster, Creasey. She
mentally crossed off Gloria Rankin. There was probably no
way of knowing why Gloria had been coming to see her.
But what was her umbrella doing in the tree? That was
easy: When she was hit, it was knocked into the street and someone came by later, picked it up, and hung it in the tree.
Why? Who knows why students do what they do? Not a
good answer. They didn't want it. A guy found it and it was
a girl's umbrella. He didn't want people to stumble over it,
so he hung it in the tree. Okay, he walked into the bushes
and hung it in the tree instead of just laying it on the wall.
Lindsay picked up the telephone and called Eddie Peck, the
medical examiner.

"Eddie," she said when he answered the phone, "that
bruise on Gloria Rankin's back. Could it have been made
by the tip of an umbrella?"

"Well, yes. Why?" Lindsay told him about the stray
umbrella belonging to Gloria. "Hmm, interesting. Are you
thinking that someone hid in the bushes and pushed her in
front of the bus?"

"I don't know."

"A bold move," said Eddie. "But she was on the sidewalk. Wouldn't she be too far away?"

"Not in that particular place," said Lindsay. "The wall is
low and there's a profusion of bushes and trees. It would be
risky, but someone could have stepped forward out of the
shelter of the trees, pushed her in the back with the point of
the umbrella, and stepped back into the cover of the shrubbery. Didn't someone say it looked like she just jumped out
in front of the bus?"

"Do you have any idea why someone would do that?"
asked Eddie.

"I have no idea. It's just something nagging me. Like,
why was she coming to see me?"

"I'll discuss the umbrella with the detective in charge,"
he said.

"Have you gotten any reports back on the tissue and
clothing samples from Shirley Foster yet?"

"Yeah. One, and it's kind of strange. Arsenic."

"Arsenic? Was she poisoned?" asked Lindsay.

"I don't think so. It doesn't seem to be that much," Eddie
said. "She could be one of those people who eat it. You
know how strange you university people are."

"Yeah, I do. Have you heard about the woman who witnessed Shirley Foster's death?"

"I didn't know there was a witness. Tell me about it,"
Eddie said, and Lindsay told him the entire story. He whistled into the phone. "I take it back. It's not just you university people who are crazy. It's everybody."

"You don't think her story is true?" asked Lindsay.

"That Foster just burst into flames? No. People don't do
that."

"That's what my brother says."

"Smart guy."

"What about napalm, or some substance like it?"

"It would account for part of what the witness saw. Another
thing, if she was standing when she was burned, it would
account for the burns being on her back as well as her front."

"Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" said Lindsay.

"There are several ways to make napalm," he said. "I'll
have the lab check the samples for residue. That still looks
bad for Luke Ferris."

"I know, but the witness was sure she didn't see him
throw anything."

Lindsay hung up the phone and went back to her index
cards. She made a set for Gloria Rankin. On the upper right
side of the cards, she put subheadings: forensic evidence,
interviews, rumors. She began filling out all the cards, listing everything she knew about each case, every mention
anyone made about any of the cases. She then organized
them according to their headings and subheadings. There
was really quite a lot of information, but there also was
quite a lot of information missing. And there were those
things in her brain just out of reach of her conscious mind.
Those annoyed her the most.

Lindsay shuffled through the cards. The only person she
hadn't talked to about Shirley Foster was Will Patterson,
and he probably knew her best. Lindsay put the index cards
in her purse and looked up his address in the phone book.

Will Patterson had an office downtown in one of those
buildings with a very narrow entrance and flight of stairs
that led to the upper floors. If she were doing a film noir,
Lindsay couldn't have picked a better place for a detective
to have an office. He even had a glass window in his door
with his name printed in black paint. Lindsay wondered if
she ought to go home and change into a dress with shoulder
pads and a hat with a small net veil and a single slender
feather. She knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately. P.I. Patterson smiled and motioned her into the room.

Will Patterson had probably been a heartstopper when
he was in his twenties, and even though the years had taken
their toll-creases around his eyes, mouth, and forehead,
graying of his hair, a slight roll around his waist-he was
still an attractive man. He moved with ease. Lindsay
thought she had seen him jogging on campus. He had a scar
that creased his forehead and disappeared into his hairline.
She wondered if he had been shot. If he had, it had certainly
been a close call.

"Dr. Chamberlain. I was just thinking about you." Will
stood back to let her enter. "I was wondering when you
would get around to visiting me."

His office wasn't a disappointment. Unpolished hardwood floors, an old desk with a green blotter, cluttered with
file folders, a spindle skewering several receipts and a
letter, and a brass ashtray. One old oak filing cabinet stood
in the corner beside a closed door. Along the wall past the
door sat a beautiful antique cabinet with a washbowl. A
moustache comb and scissors sat behind the basin. Will
didn't have a moustache and Lindsay found herself won dering what he would look like with one. Against one wall
was a green fake-leather sofa. The bookcase next to it was
filled with various reference books.

On top of the bookcase was a violin under glass, which
caused Lindsay to raise her eyebrows. Will was full of surprises. He did not look like a man who played the violin.
On the wall hung a finely woven tapestry of Sherlock
Holmes at Richenbach Falls. The falls, gray in all the drawings she had ever seen before, were a brilliant combination
of blues and greens. Lindsay had no doubt that Shirley
Foster had woven it.

Will sat behind his desk and Lindsay sat down in a red
leather chair. She paused a moment before speaking. She
had the strangest feeling, an odd familiarity. She looked at
Will. He smiled at her. She looked around the room and
then back at him. He was still smiling.

"Do you read mysteries?" she asked.

His smile turned into a grin, then a laugh. "No. Shirl did
this. She had the most wicked sense of humor." His eyes took
on a moist brightness. "How many detectives do you see?"

Lindsay looked around the room again. "Sam Spade,
Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Phillip Marlow." She
rubbed the arms of the red leather chair. "Nero Wolfe, Lew
Archer." Her eyes fell on the spindle with the single letter.
.. and August Dupin."

"I believe that's most of them," he said.

Lindsay shook her head and smiled. "It gives an odd
sensation, like the ghosts of past detectives hanging about
your office."

"I think that was the effect she was after."

"What did you mean when you said you wondered when
I'd come to see you?"

"I've been waiting for you to interview me," he said,
leaning back in his chair.

"You're the detective," said Lindsay. "I've been trying to avoid looking into this case. People just keep coming to me."