Strangled Prose (14 page)

“The girl agrees that he was there from three-thirty until almost seven o'clock helping her with her paper. He went home to find the police cars in front of the house. A busy day, but all of his time has been accounted for.”

The chair squeaked, but I couldn't tell what he was doing. Loading his gun, I thought with a twinge of nervousness. At least he had no idea about Caron and Inez. I was still one step ahead.

“Is there any estimate of the time when poor Mildred died?” I asked.

“Between three o'clock, when she was last seen, and four-thirty, when her body was discovered,” Lieutenant Rosen answered in his cheerful voice, not sounding the least bit daunted by the vagueness. “Miss Belinski was quite firm about the time she arrived at the Twiller house. She said she stared at the kitchen clock the entire time she talked to you, and it etched itself on her mind.”

“So you've made almost no progress on the case. I should have called Scotland Yard, even with the transatlantic rates so high.”

“Not true—” He broke off, and even in the darkness I could sense his body tensing as he rose to his feet.

“What?” I whispered, staring about with no success. “Did something crawl up your leg?”

“Shhh. I heard a noise.”

“I didn't hear anything,” I protested in a hiss. I was beginning to feel like a teapot, but I was alarmed by his actions.

“Shhh. Sit there and don't move, no matter what happens. Someone is outside the back door.” He tiptoed across the floor and crouched in the corner behind the door.

I did as ordered, but after several minutes the routine grew tedious. I hadn't heard anything, and I was not about to sit and hold my breath indefinitely. Although, I admitted to myself, it seemed that Lieutenant Rosen had no need of oxygen.

When I was about to suggest he take a tiny breath, the door opened. A flashlight flooded into my eyes, dazzling me as if it were a hundred-carat diamond. I put my hands on my eyebrows and tried to blink away the glare. “Who is it?” I snapped.

The light whipped across the room as the lieutenant came from his corner with the determination of a rejuvenated boxer. Contact was made. The two bodies, entwined like amorous octopi, began to stagger around the room, thudding and stomping, grunting and growling, careening into furniture. I could see arms, legs, shoulders, and a few jabbing elbows, but no faces. The beam of light darted across the ceiling and back in a frenzy of indecision.

As amusing as the scene was, it too began to pale. I reached over my shoulder and switched on the light. Then, bright with curiosity, I sat back to watch the rest of the show.

Lieutenant Rosen and Douglas Twiller slowed down as they noticed the light. Finally, with a few parting snarls, they pushed away from each other and retreated to their respective corners. Their faces were both scarlet, their mouths both twisted and wet, their eyes glazed by the sudden light. They panted in unison.

“Douglas, what are you doing here?” I asked, when he seemed to have begun a recovery. The lieutenant made a rude noise at me, but I ignored him and kept my eyes on Douglas.

“Claire, Lieutenant Rosen,” Douglas murmured, nodding to each of us. “I must say I didn't expect to find you sitting here in the dark. Very peculiar of you.”

It was eerie, this repetition of the conversation we had had previously in his den. Lieutenant Rosen raised his eyebrows at me, then came out of his corner. “Were you looking for something, Mr. Twiller? A stray copy of
Professor of Passion,
perhaps?”

“How perceptive, Lieutenant. I came by to pick up the carton of unsold books,” Douglas said with dignity. Despite the tone, it was almost a question.

“And let yourself in the back door with a key you had accidentally pocketed the day of the reception?”

Douglas slapped his forehead in mock dismay. “So that's how it happened to find its way into my pocket! I've been worried about that since Sunday afternoon, although I did find it fortunate. Here, Claire, you must need this more than I.” A key clattered onto the desk.

I admired the effort. No admission of anything more damning than a bout of absentmindedness. “Thank you, Douglas,” I said softly. “You might have called so that I could have opened the store for you, if you truly needed the extra copies of
Professor of Passion.
Or asked me at the funeral.”

The reference to the funeral deflated him. His hand fell to his side and he had the grace to look ashamed, though by no means guilty. “I didn't have a chance to speak to you at the funeral, Claire, since I had to deal with Mildred's great-aunt. She did so dodder. Later, I didn't want to disturb you with my petty mission.”

“That won't work, Douglas,” I said. “We're all here for the same reason: to find the copy of the book that Maggie discovered in her mailbox Sunday. About noon, she told me. The cartons at the Book Depot were not yet opened at that time, and those were the only copies of
Professor of Passion
in Farberville. It couldn't have come with the shipment, yet she had it before the reception. I should have realized it had to be one of the advance copies and, therefore, a gift from the author.”

The author began a protest, but I frowned him into silence. “The copy can be traced, Douglas; no doubt it's marked ‘Advance.' You left it in the office by mistake and came today to look for it. But why sneak a copy to Maggie?”

Lieutenant Rosen cleared his throat. “I think I can answer that, Mrs. Malloy. It was necessary so that the actors would play their roles with precision. The entire script was written by Mr. Twiller some time ago, and the scenes unfolded exactly as he had hoped.”

“Actors?” I said, my frown deepening.

“Actors,” the lieutenant said firmly. “But of course they had no idea of the existence of the script—Mr. Twiller's little drama in three acts. First, he set up his wife as the victim by making tacit accusations in the book. Then, aware that Maggie Holland was preparing to lead the FWO, he slipped the advance copy into her mailbox before the reception. She discovered the libelous material and provoked the ensuing scene at the reception. Mildred went home to weep, everyone else stormed away with murderous expressions and lovely motives, and Mr. Twiller went home to strangle his wife.”

Douglas gurgled and had to grab the edge of the desk to keep his balance. “Not bad, Lieutenant. But what about my alibi? I went from the Book Depot to the—the, er, tutorial session.”

“Your wife was already dead by that time,” he countered. He took a pair of professional-looking handcuffs out of his coat pocket and moved toward Douglas with a guarded expression.

Douglas's eyes widened and turned a metallic color that matched the handcuffs. “I stayed at the Book Depot until three-thirty. Claire will tell you that I was in her office on the telephone. I came out a minute or so after she returned.”

They both looked at me. “I saw him go toward the office, but I can't swear that he stayed there. Maybe he went out the back door?” I said, oddly defensive.

Lieutenant Rosen paused to consider my suggestion, then shook his head and said, “But you didn't see him on the railroad tracks. Miss Belinski was above you on Arbor, with a clear view of the street all the way to the end of the block. Even if he did slip out the back door, how could he have gotten to the house and back without being seen?”

“I don't know,” I admitted darkly.

“Well,” the lieutenant said, “Mr. Twiller does have a point. Unless you can figure out how he could have slipped past you and Miss Belinski, my theory won't hold up.”

“Aren't you supposed to be the detective?” I sputtered. “Figure it out yourself, Sherlock—that's what you get paid for!”

The scene was unraveling at an alarming speed. I swung back and glared at Douglas Twiller, whose pallor had improved to a mottled cerise. “What about the book you left in Maggie's mailbox?”

“I left it there by mistake. I meant to put it in your mailbox; Mildred thought you might like to read it before the reception. I couldn't explain that I—I rather doubted that. But I didn't kill Mildred, Claire. She was my wife!”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” the lieutenant cut in. We were all beginning to foam about the mouth, and I'm sure an observer would have called for the psycho squad to bring their nets. I would have welcomed them.

“Then why did you put that filth in the book?” I snarled at Douglas.

“I told you that I wanted more depth!”

“That's nonsense!” I shrieked.

“I can't help that!” he shrieked back.

“Then why did you steal the key so you could sneak into my bookstore? That seems pretty suspicious!”

“I came by to pick up the unsold books to take to the bookstore at the mall. They've sold out and wanted all the copies they could get!”

“Oh, yeah?” I was running out of accusations. I glared at Lieutenant Rosen, who had the nerve to shrug in response. “Do something!”

“What?” he asked mildly. “I'm open for suggestions, but I'm afraid Mr. Twiller does have a legitimate argument.”

“Just do something!” I turned my back on him to attack Douglas Twiller. But he was occupied with straightening his tie and checking to see that his jacket was buttoned. I swore to never, ever be involved with the male species again, no matter how persistent the hormonal pleas.

“I must run along,” Douglas said, when the tie met his approval. “I'll pick up the unsold copies in a day or two, Claire—whenever you're open for business.” He gave me the famous Twiller wink and strolled out the back door. Humming, for God's sake.

I heard a muffled sound behind me. I took a deep breath and turned around. “What's so damned funny?”

The lieutenant's chin trembled, but he shook his head and started for the front of the store. I dearly hoped he would trip over a display shelf and chip every one of his pearly white teeth. Every one of them. And I hoped his dentist was trained by the Marquis de Sade.

NINE

I went home again, motivated by a fanciful dream that I might find Caron there and eager to discuss whatever she and Inez had seen. She wasn't there. I heard no noises from downstairs, so I presumed Maggie wasn't there, either. People did seem to have an unnerving habit of not being handy when I wanted them—with the exception of Sherlock, who managed to be wherever I didn't want him to be.

I considered trying to finish
Professor of Passion
but couldn't find the necessary discipline for that distasteful a chore. Adverb-laden lust was unpalatable. It was time for action, if I could concoct something more strenuous than flipping pages or drinking tea.

Finally, I put on jeans and a turtleneck sweater, ruffled my hair into disrepute, and walked across the campus to the fine arts building to see if Sheila might be there. Nancy Drew, undercover agent, was on the prowl again—if no one noticed the crow's feet around my eyes or the sprinkling of gray hairs. After the events of the last few days, it was more of a deluge.

The classes were over for the day, but the studios were occupied by would-be Picassos and Rodins, slapping paint on canvases or chipping away at blocks of marble. Aside from their sporadic invectives, the building was peaceful.

I poked my head into all the studios and at last found Sheila in the pottery lab on the third floor. Her clothes were coated with clay; her hair was prematurely gray from the dust. She perched on a stool in front of a pottery wheel, intent on the pot that rose with mystical symmetry from the lumpish mass of clay. Her face glowed with satisfaction, and she looked surprisingly pretty.

I waited at the door until she noticed me. She sat back and took her foot off the treadle. Without her encouragement, the wheel whirled a few more times, then gradually stopped.

“Mrs. Malloy?” she said with a cautious inflection.

“Hello, Sheila. I came by to speak to you, but I'll wait if you need to finish the piece.”

She rubbed her forehead, leaving a thick slather of clay. “No, I was about ready to quit for the day. If you don't mind, we can talk while I clean the wheel.”

“It's about Mildred Twiller's death,” I said. I came in and sat down on the corner of a scarred workbench. “The lieutenant doesn't seem to be making any progress on the case, and in the interim several of us are suffering. Do you know that Maggie has resigned?”

Sheila scraped up a handful of clay and threw it into a plastic garbage can. It disappeared with a glutinous, sucking sound. “Yes, she told me that it was inevitable once the board of regents heard about the book. She's not some kind of pervert, Mrs. Malloy; she has an unconventional sexual preference, but that doesn't make her an incompetent teacher—or a cold-blooded murderer.”

“No one has accused her of that,” I said, surprised. “She was at her lawyer's office during the time in question.”

“It's just awful,” Sheila said, avoiding my eyes. She scraped up the last of the clay, put it in the can, and found the lid. Then, subdued and clearly miserable, she leaned against the sink and stared at the straw-littered floor. “I wish I had never gone over there to look for Maggie. It's all my fault.”

“Not precisely. Mildred's body would have been discovered in due time, and I suppose it would have given Douglas a heart attack if he had been the one. Luckily, he was involved all afternoon. He has an alibi of sorts.”

“I heard he was just driving around.”

“He was with a woman. It took him a while to admit it, but it seems he's in the clear. Between three and three-thirty, I was walking down the railroad tracks and didn't see him; you were above me on Arbor Street and didn't see him either.” I gave her a chance to contradict me, but she merely picked a scrap of dried clay off her sleeve and flicked it to the floor. “You didn't see anyone else, did you?”

“I saw your daughter and her friend.” She gave me an entreating look, as though in apology for the damning words.