Strangled Prose (9 page)

“Poor Douglas. He really did love his wife, although he had an odd way of showing it,” I said, staring at the floor.

“As in sleeping with half of the campus population?”

“But,” I said, “I don't think he meant anything by it. Douglas is an amiable person; if the invitation was couched politely, he wouldn't dream of refusing. I doubt he ever stalked some virginal coed.”

“Like our villain Blane Brittom in the book? Of course, he was moving in teeny-bopper circles.”

“You have been a busy boy since I left the Twiller house. You timed the distance to the bridge, listened to Sheila's fairy tale—and read a trashy novel. I'm impressed.”

He gave me a modest smile. “Jorgeson did some of it.”

We both contemplated Jorgeson's activity in silence. At last I took a deep breath and said, “I have not been behaving well at all. I apologize for what I hope will be the last time. Now, may I ask a question?”

“You may ask.”

“Why are you so concerned about those of us who were at the reception? Why couldn't Mildred have been attacked by a burglar or one of the druggies?”

“Unless she was a particularly gracious hostess, I don't think she would have offered tea to a burglar—do you? And the coincidences are a bit too thick to be overlooked.” He began to tick them off on his fingers. “The woman has written a book that damages at least three reputations; she goes home with a convenient migraine; she ends up strangled on the patio after tea. In such a case, we do tend to have a look at those involved.”

I met his eyes. “Do you think I'm involved?”

“Of course. That doesn't mean I think you went to the woman's house to strangle her with a silk scarf, however.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, with as much grace as I could muster.

“But that doesn't rule out the possibility,” he said. “You're a wonderful suspect. You have motive and opportunity. You were spotted near the scene of the crime, apparently with clenched fists and a grim scowl. Mrs. Twiller would have welcomed you into the house, offered you tea, and escorted you to the patio for a chat.”

“And asked me to tighten her scarf, no doubt.” It sounded pretty good. Mildred would have done exactly what the lieutenant had described. I held up my wrists. “Put on the handcuffs and drag me to the interrogation room. Although I know I'm innocent, I see no reason why you ought to believe me.”

“I think we'll wait a few days before we dig out the rubber hoses and cattle prods, Mrs. Malloy. Scrabble is one of my favorite games. And there are a few loose ends to be tidied up.”

The steel bars receded a few centimeters. I looked at him and asked, “Such as?”

“We are a bit curious about Douglas Twiller's drive. We haven't been able to locate either Miss Holland or Mr. Blake, and we would like to talk to both of them about their actions.”

“Is Sheila Belinski in the clear?”

“She doesn't seem to be involved, beyond the discovery of the body. She has never met the victim, nor is she mentioned in the book.”

“But she is a member of the FWO,” I pointed out. I told him about the encounter with Sheila several nights ago on the sidewalk, and her sputtered warnings about violence. But I had to concede that Sheila had not implied that she felt especially strongly about the threat of sexist brainwashing and had only been concerned about Maggie. Lieutenant Rosen seemed mildly interested, at best.

We weren't getting anywhere. The lieutenant wasn't going to tell me anything, and it was possible I knew more than he. I reminded myself that he was trained to deal with recalcitrant witnesses and half-truths. He could figure it out himself.

I stood up. “Well, it's been a lovely evening, but I have to get up early in the morning. If there's nothing else…?”

He advanced like a pin-striped bulldozer. I could see the fine web of wrinkles around his eyes as he grinned, and the tattletale gray hairs mixed among the black curls. “One more thing, Mrs. Malloy, before I leave. I'm very curious about Mrs. Twiller's insinuations in her last book. We've already sent queries to certain people at other colleges, but we need to know if her information is true.”

My back hit the wall, in more ways than one. “I'm not available as a spy or a snitch. The people involved are my friends, and I will not gossip about them. You can ask Maggie if she's ever approached a female undergraduate with amorous intent. You can ask Britton if he financed a back-street abortion.”

“But they won't tell me.”

“What a coincidence—neither will I.”

“Won't you?” he murmured, as he went onto the landing to pick up his raincoat. I heard his low chuckles as he went down the stairs. The front door closed with a loud click.

I realized I was trembling. The man was evil, I told myself as I closed my door, went into the kitchen to get
Professor of Passion,
and retreated to my bedroom. I left my clothes on the floor, put on a comfortably shabby chenille robe, and crawled into bed. I turned to the page where I'd left off earlier.

Stephanie was in deep trouble, and her only hope lay in confiding in Derek. But the silly thing was determined to solve her problems without any help from her would-be lover and was floundering from one mess to another. I finally slammed the book shut and tossed it on the floor.

“What a goose,” I said, as I gazed at the ceiling. A few niggling parallels came to mind, but I refused to notice them. Poor little Stephanie was a bubblehead, whose age had surpassed her IQ a decade ago. She deserved everything she got—except for the inevitable sugary conclusion.

I, on the other hand, was an intelligent, autonomous woman with a daughter, a store, and a myriad of responsibilities. I didn't have the energy to flounder. But neither was I willing to be convicted of bumping off poor Mildred, or even Azalea. Not if I could help it, anyway.

SIX

The next day I dug a suitably mournful dress out of the back of my closet and walked the few blocks to the Twiller house. I rang the bell, resisting the urge to twist a handkerchief in my hands. Too Azalean, I lectured myself as I assumed a suitably mournful expression. Camille answered the door.

“Yes, Mrs. Malloy?” she said politely. Despite the tone, the challenge simmered just below the surface. Camille was a graduate student in the English department. She was in the wrong field; with a little training, she could have a brilliant career in theater.

“I came by to express my sympathy to Mr. Twiller. Is he up?”

“Yes, he's having coffee in the dining room.” Camille held her position, clearly determined to protect the fortress—and the door—on the chance that I was a scout for a marauding Indian war party.

I brushed past her into the foyer, then halted and turned back to study her. “Where were you yesterday afternoon, Camille?” I asked. “You missed all the excitement.”

“I have a midterm paper due this week,” she said in a sour voice. “Mr. Twiller gave me the afternoon off to go to the library. I didn't get back until about eight o'clock. I heard that you were here … with the police.”

Touché. I gave her a meaningless nod and went on to the dining room to make the necessary condolence call. Douglas was slouched in a chair, the morning newspaper scattered on the floor. A mass of bacon and eggs had congealed on the plate in front of him. He glanced up at the sound of my footsteps and tried to smile.

“Claire, how nice of you to come by.” His hand fluttered in the air, then dropped to his lap. He stared at it through dull eyes.

“Douglas, I'm so sorry about Mildred,” I began. “If there's anything I can do, please let me know.”

“It's been a nightmare. The police have taken over the house. They've hounded me with questions, but I just don't seem to know anything that might help identify the brutal person who—” His voice, usually so warm and rich, crackled to an abrupt stop. He dabbed his eyes with a napkin and looked away. “Who murdered Mildred,” he added in a whisper.

I could imagine Lieutenant Rosen dogging Douglas through the house, the spiral notebook at hand in case Douglas offered an indiscretion or contradiction. The husband is always the first suspect, I tried to remind myself, but Douglas looked incapable of squashing a zucchini.

“I'm sure it has been awful, Douglas,” I murmured sympathetically. “But the CID is doing everything it can.”

“The policeman seems inordinantly obsessed with my drive yesterday afternoon. I didn't pay any attention to where I went, Claire. I was just driving—and thinking. Poor Mildred was so stricken by the hostility at the reception. She didn't really have a migraine; she went home to cry.”

I took a deep breath. “I'm sure she did not mean to attack any of her friends.” Hypocrisy soared to a new height, but Douglas seemed pitifully grateful.

“She really didn't. You must realize that she didn't have a folder filled with dark secrets about her friends. She didn't know that Britton had—well, had an unsavory involvement with a child. She had no idea that Maggie might have perverted sexual preferences, or that Carlton was…”

“She certainly was feeling creative, then,” I said acidly. “How did she come up with that absurd story about her nasty Martin Carlow taking a coed to a motel? It's hardly something one would fantasize for the fun of it. It was too vicious for that.”

“Mildred may have made a mistake by using the names she chose,” Douglas admitted. He took a sip of coffee, shuddered, and put the cup back on the saucer. “Camille!”

Camille glided in immediately, undoubtedly having been listening through the kitchen door. “Yes, Mr. Twiller?”

“Mrs. Malloy and I would like fresh coffee. Are there any croissants in the freezer?”

I remembered the luncheon on the patio. “Not for me, thank you. I will have a cup of coffee—black, please.”

The corners of Camille's mouth curled slightly as she nodded. After she left, Douglas leaned back to study me. “I suppose we'll have to forgive Mildred's little prank, won't we? She won't have the opportunity to defend herself, or even explain.”

“Did she really have an explanation?”

“She said that she did, but I have no idea what it would have been. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding on everyone's part.” He seemed content with that, as though the issue were now laid to rest, along with the author. The telephone near the door rang.

“I've had numerous calls from the publishing world already,” he explained, with a trace of satisfaction. “The romance industry is quite panicked by the news. Editors, the agent, even hysterical fans … the telephone has been jangling since the eleven o'clock news last night. I'll just be a minute.”

I politely tuned out the telephone conversation and pondered Douglas's glib assurance that Mildred would have explained everything, had she not been so crudely silenced. How could there have been an explanation? For one thing, nobody knew about Carlton's passenger, except for the brief mention in the police report. The police reports were not open for public perusal—how could Mildred even have guessed that Carlton was not alone?

The second point was that even Azalea Twilight knew the intricacies of libel law; she could never have hoped to avoid a backlash of legal suits and ugliness. That brought me back to Maggie's departing threat. I decided to ease into it.

When Douglas returned to the table, I said, “Has anyone from the department been by yet?”

“Several have telephoned and promised to come by later. The funeral will be Tuesday morning at eleven, by the way. Now I must spend the day sorting through poor Mildred's papers and trying to prepare things for the lawyer.”

It sounded like an invitation to leave, but I ignored it. Camille came in with two cups of coffee. Mine was black. I acknowledged the petty triumph with a ghost of a smile. One to two, but at least I was on the scoreboard.

I looked at Douglas over the edge of the cup. “Are Mildred's affairs in order, then? Any novels to be published posthumously?”

Douglas brightened. “One, actually. It's already with the editors and ought to be ready for publication within a month or so. I think I'll retitle it
Bittersweet Farewell.
Mildred would have liked that, don't you think? A final tribute to Azalea Twilight's incredible success.”

“Mildred would have adored it,” I agreed. “Surely a bestseller.”

“Surely.” Douglas managed to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together gleefully, but only barely. He finished the last of his coffee, resumed a woeful expression, and said, “I fear I must hearken to my sad duty, Claire, as painful as it may prove to be. Why don't you come by late in the afternoon? A few people will be dropping by to offer their condolences.”

This time it was impossible to ignore the invitation to leave. I made a few more sympathetic comments and left. When I reached the curb, I gazed at the top of the path that led to the railroad tracks. On both sides there were brambles dotted with tiny white flowers to disguise the thorns. No scratches on my legs, Lieutenant Peter Rosen, I sniffed to myself as I turned to follow the sidewalk. I doubted that it would help, but one never knew.

By nine-thirty the Book Depot was open and ready for a customer. I immersed myself in invoices for an hour, then met the delivery truck in back to check a shipment of books from the distributor. The driver presented me with a new stack of invoices and rumbled away. It took several hours to unpack the boxes and rearrange shelf space, but I enjoyed the mindless labor.

Afterward I continued with the paperwork, but the third time I tripped over the box behind the counter, I slammed down my pencil in disgust. Abruptly I was swamped with remorse. The box contained the copies of
Professor of Passion
that Azalea had not sold. Would never autograph. I took the dozen or so copies out and stuck them on the fiction rack. So I refuse to sell romance novels. I could make the gesture for poor Mildred Twiller, a.k.a. Azalea Twilight.