Strangled Prose (15 page)

“I saw them, too. They were on the bridge above the tracks,” I said coolly. “That would have been about three-fifteen.”

“No, I saw them earlier, just after you left the Book Depot. They were running down the street from the direction of the Twiller house, and they looked peculiar. I don't think they even noticed me, but not everyone does.”

I forced out a laugh. “You don't mean to imply that they were actually in the Twiller house, do you? Two fourteen-year-old girls, strangling their most cherished author? That's absurd!”

“I wasn't implying anything of the sort, Mrs. Malloy. I don't even know that they had been in the Twiller house. They just came from there.” Sheila blinked earnestly at me, and her throat rippled several times. She busied herself picking clay off the knee of her denim pants.

“Looking peculiar,” I repeated grimly.

“Not peculiar, exactly. They were giggling madly and looking at something the skinny one had in her hand. Maybe they found a dollar on the sidewalk or something.”

It was time to change the subject, I told myself in a thin, scared voice. Dr. Spock had never offered any advice on keeping one's child from being implicated in a felony. On the other hand, I hadn't read the most current edition. “If Maggie told you that she was going to her lawyer's office, why did you go to the Twiller house?”

“She was angrier than I've ever seen her. I went to her apartment to try to calm her down, but she wasn't there. Then the lawyer's service called to say that he would be on the golf course all afternoon and couldn't see her, so I … decided to stroll by the Twiller house.”

“Maggie didn't go to her lawyer's office?” I struggled not to squeak. Bad memories. “Where did she go?”

“I didn't see her at all after the reception, and she wouldn't tell me afterward.” Sheila dabbed at the corner of her eye with the tail of her shirt. A drop of moisture formed on the tip of her nose, and she blotted it before it could fall. “I went all over the campus trying to find her, but nobody had seen her. I wish I had gone home instead of going to the Twiller house. I really do, Mrs. Malloy. I've caused trouble for everybody.”

She certainly had. Now, her newest bit of observation had thrown Caron and Inez into the middle of things, which was the one thing I was trying to avoid. I wondered if she had mentioned it to Lieutenant Rosen, but I couldn't think of a prudent way to broach the matter. Maggie wasn't faring any better. If I hadn't sworn off murderous thoughts, I would have stuffed Sheila into her garbage can of clay. Less than charitable, but timely.

“Well, it's been enlightening.” I stood up.

“I'm glad to know Mr. Twiller has been cleared, anyway,” she snuffled. “He seems like such a kind man.”

It did not reflect my personal sentiments, but I nodded and murmured a good-bye. When I left, Sheila was still leaning against the sink; it would be convenient if she burst into tears. From the expression on her face, it seemed a matter of seconds.

I walked back toward my apartment, but on a whim turned and went into Farber Hall. I knew the route to the English department on the second floor, having spent many an hour waiting for Carlton to escape a faculty meeting or to finish a seminar. Or what I now knew to be a tryst under the seminar table. I hoped he had the decency not to demonstrate his sexual prowess during an actual seminar; graduate students are always looking for an erudite role model.

The building was deserted. I listened to my footsteps as I climbed the first flight, lost in memories of fonder days. The office door was closed but not locked. I went inside and crossed to the wall where the boxes sat in tiers. Most of them had a few odd memos and letters; some had been neglected for days.

I looked for Maggie's name and found it above a pointedly empty box. No memos for the scandalous Holland, I thought with a grimace. Britton's box was just above it, and it too had only a thin veneer of dust. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen him for a day or so. Knowing what I did about him, I felt no big loss, but a sense of guilt sent me to a secretary's desk to find a piece of paper.

After several minutes of effort, I tore up the paper and lobbed it into a wastebasket. There wasn't anything to say, I decided as I let myself out of the office and continued up the stairs to the third floor. The hallway was bleak, decorated with yellowed grade sheets from the previous semester and the flyers that promised overseas employment or assistant-ships at unfamiliar colleges.

The fourth floor was deserted as well. Carlton's office now housed a janitor, I noted without interest. If some poor, unsuspecting instructor was assigned that office, he would never comprehend the noises the ghosts might make. The moans would hardly be of the traditional sort.

I went back down and walked home. While I started the teapot, I tried to think of some way that Douglas Twiller might have murdered his wife, but I couldn't get past the fact that he would have been seen if he had gone home.

He had to be involved; the book was proof enough. He was acting as if he were guilty, damn it! He was my prime candidate, damn it! I wanted Britton and Maggie to be able to leave unobtrusively, to have the chance to find teaching positions somewhere else. Hardly anyone was hiring murder suspects these days. The interviews would be hedged with tactful questions about possible involvement: “Have you submitted any articles since you strangled your colleague's wife?”

I also wanted to get Caron and Inez out of the mess without any scars to their fragile, pubescent egos, if such a thing were possible. But I couldn't do anything until I knew what they had done. It looked grim. I looked grim.

Lieutenant Rosen looked grim when he knocked on the door in the midst of my second cup of tea. “I need to talk to you,” he said, walking in as if he were welcome.

“Please come in,” I said acidly to his back. “Did you drop by to raid the refrigerator?”

“Where's your daughter?”

“Studying with a friend.” I couldn't get out a
why?
with a properly light tone, so I settled for a slightly bewildered smile as I took refuge in the kitchen.

“I've never seen her. I was wondering if she has your red hair and freckles.” He wasn't.

“A fascinating topic for a police investigation, Lieutenant. I could find her yearbook and save you some time,” I retorted. It was increasingly difficult to maintain the smile; I felt as though it might slip off my chin and splatter on the floor.

“Do you know where she's studying?”

I assumed she and Rhonda were at the Farber library, but I wasn't about to offer idle speculation. He was Sherlock; he could deduce her whereabouts without my help. “No, I don't. Is that all?”

“Then what about the friend with the meek expression? Do you have her address?” He wasn't smiling in response to my valiant efforts. He came up behind me, close enough for me to feel his breath on the back of my neck. “You're going to have to tell me, Mrs. Malloy. This is important.”

“Why is it so important? They're a couple of typical teenage girls, for God's sake. They know absolutely nothing about any of this, and I won't permit them to be harassed because you can't find a killer!” I tried for an indignant tone, but I may have sounded a tad shrill.

“Douglas Twiller called the station a few minutes ago to report that his house had been burglarized, most probably Sunday afternoon. Your daughter and her friend were seen near the house. I need to speak to them.”

I really ought to have put Sheila in the clay can, I told myself with a mental snarl. And fired up a kiln. The tawny lioness, protecting the wayward cub—it would have been a great defense. I might have made jurisprudence history.

“That's nonsense,” I choked out, with a brittle noise that was supposed to be a laugh. “Caron and Inez are not burglars. Neither of them would dream of going into someone else's house, much less stealing something.” And running down the street, staring at it in Inez's hand, while looking peculiar.

“Inez who?” he snapped, unimpressed with my logic. When I glared in response, he added, “Come on, Mrs. Malloy. If they were in the house—for whatever reason—then they might have seen someone there.”

“They weren't there; they didn't see anything,” I insisted.

“I want to question them. I don't understand why you're being so pigheaded about this!”

“You always bring out the best in me,” I said, and stalked into the living room, leaving him to ponder that in private. By the time he came after me, I was on the sofa with a magazine in my lap. I looked up. “Are you still here? I thought I heard the door close.”

His eyes were literally snapping above his white lips and jutting beak. If he'd had wings, he would have made a fine eagle—presuming the existence of a species with black, curly head feathers. His clenched fingers resembled talons, and I suspected his toes were curled as well. Fascinating imagery, but a little dangerous.

“I need to call the station.” He wasn't asking permission, and I had no idea why he bothered to inform me of his intentions. He muttered into the receiver, his back turned. I visualized a knife cutting into the flat plane between his shoulder blades, which cheered me somewhat.

He made a surprised noise, glanced at me over his shoulder, and then began to whisper in an urgent voice. Although I strained, I could make out only a word or two of his conversation. It seemed to concern Douglas Twiller.

As he replaced the receiver, I snatched up the magazine and flipped through the pages with a pretense of interest in any of one hundred ways to redecorate a kitchen for under twenty dollars.

“Tell me where Caron is,” he said harshly.

“I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did,” I answered, frowning at a photograph of café curtains made from tea towels. “Do you think these might look nice in my kitchen? I can make them for three dollars.”

“I could arrest you for obstructing an investigation.”

“I think blue might go better with the linoleum.”

He balanced on the balls of his feet, looking as if he were on the verge of leaping at me. His mouth was twisted, his forehead creased with deep lines; it was an admirable display of fury tempered by self-control. I almost clapped to show my appreciation, but I didn't want to lose my place in the magazine.

“Is there something else?” I asked politely.

“Douglas Twiller is dead. He was found a few minutes ago, on the sofa in the den. He was strangled with a silk scarf. Now, will you tell me where your daughter is?”

“Douglas is dead? But that's absurd! He's a strong man—how could someone strangle him? That's impossible!” The magazine fell on the floor as I scrambled to my feet. My mouth continued to sputter at the same velocity, but I was barely aware of it. Douglas? Strangled? It was not a lovely picture.

Lieutenant Rosen gently pushed me back down on the sofa. “It doesn't take a great deal of strength to strangle someone from behind. Of course, you do have to be able to stand behind the victim and prepare a garrote. It would seem likely that Douglas Twiller trusted his murderer—or mistakenly underestimated the same.”

“Who discovered the…?”

“The maid, about ten minutes ago. Twiller called in the burglary about an hour ago, and Jorgeson was actually on his way there when the radio dispatcher contacted him. We'll know more when the coroner arrives.” He crossed the room to stare out the window at Farber Hall. “As usual, we're having trouble locating our circle of interested parties.”

“You don't think Caron—” I caught myself and took a deep breath. The idea was ludicrous, insane.

“Of course not! But I do think she saw something while she was in the Twiller house Sunday afternoon. Now, where is she?”

So much for the clever little game of evasion. I told him that she and Rhonda were at the Farber library, probably in one of the lounges where they could giggle without any dirty looks from the staff. I gave him Inez's full name and address. He made a quick call to the station, barked out instructions to have the girls collected, then tugged me to my feet and tossed me my coat.

“Where are we going?” I asked, stull stunned by the unexpected news of Douglas's death. A small voice from a corner of my brain was mentioning the fact that Douglas was no longer my best candidate for Mildred's murder. The voice was actually chortling, and I warned it to stop or risk a lobotomy.

“I need to go to the scene of the crime,” he said, pushing me out the door. “In the meantime, I'm going to keep an eye on you until we locate your daughter. I don't want you to change your mind and try to warn her.”

“I wouldn't do that,” I sniffed. When he merely smiled, I added, “How did you find out she was near the Twiller house?”

“Miss Belinski called to say she had just remembered. It seems that someone jarred her memory. Good citizens do try to assist the police.” Barbed, but cheerfully so.

“Then Miss Belinski ought to qualify for a gold medal,” I said sourly. “But she told me that she didn't see Caron and Inez at the house; they were only coming from that direction. You're not even giving them the benefit of the doubt, you know.”

He opened the car door for me, clearly uninterested in my thoughtful analysis. We drove the few blocks in silence. I tried to find an explanation for what had happened, but there didn't seem to be one that was at all credible. I had been so sure that Douglas was the murderer. He had, as Lieutenant Rosen suggested, choreographed the scene; he had to be the director. Now it seemed there was a second figure, whose identity was a total mystery.

The police cars were again parked in front of the gate, their blue lights reeling in the gloom of the late afternoon. My old friend, the supercilious teenager, watched me from his police car, looking not a bit surprised to see me in the lieutenant's custody—where he assumed I belonged.