The Perfect Coed (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1) (12 page)

Dinner was delicious, and Aunt Jenny was profuse in her compliments to Jake, until Susan wanted to say, “Wait a minute. I did the salad and the artichokes.” She wouldn’t have added that Jake had to do the hollandaise sauce because she didn’t know how, even when it was that quick kind made in the blender.

After dinner, the three of them sat on the deck with coffee—decaffeinated for Jake and Aunt Jenny, the real thing for Susan. Aunt Jenny had protested that they must do the dishes, but Susan had been equally insistent that they would wait until tomorrow. Finally, Aunt Jenny gave in, and they sat in the cool but pleasant October night air.

Murders and dead cats and wilted plants seemed far away until, out of the blue, Aunt Jenny said, “All right. Tell me everything about this murdered coed.”

Jake spilled coffee down his shirt front, and Susan choked on the hot swallow in her mouth. Finally, she muttered, “Now, Aunt Jenny, you don’t want to hear about that gossip.”

“Of course, I do, dear. It involves you, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes and no. I mean, it was my car, but beyond that, I’m not involved.”
Okay, another white lie told, and this one a biggie by now.

“But other people think you are,” Aunt Jenny said.

It was not a question, though that’s how Susan answered it. “Well, yes, some do—the police lieutenant in charge of the investigation for one, and my department chair for another.”

“That awful Dr. Scott who doesn’t want to give you tenure?” Aunt Jenny was indignant.

Jake hid a smile. He had no idea Aunt Jenny knew that much about either Susan’s life or academic procedure. Then he wondered how much this aunt knew—or guessed—about his relationship with her niece.

“Then you best tell me every detail,” Aunt Jenny said. “Start at the beginning.”

So Susan told her, beginning with the body in the car. She told her about the memorial service and Missy’s parents and about Eric Lindler and Brandy and Dr. Scott’s accusations. Jake noticed, however, she did not tell her about nearly being run down by a car nor about the red-haired man, dinner at The City Restaurant, her suspicions about a coed call-girl ring, the dead kitten or the plants.

She may have told the biggest thing, he thought, but she’s left out more than she’s told.

“It was the boyfriend,” Aunt Jenny said decisively.

“Oh, now, Aunt Jenny, you can’t say that. He seems from what I’ve heard to be a nice enough young man.” Jake answered this time.

“Have the police questioned him?”

“Sure. But they don’t see him as a suspect at this time.”

“Did they question Susan?” The old lady’s voice became sharp.

“Well, yes, but they don’t see her as a suspect either.”

“At this time?” Aunt Jenny asked, and Jake shrugged.

“It was the boyfriend,” she repeated.

“Well,” Jake said heartily, “we’ll have to leave that to the police to work out. And it’s getting late enough I guess I better get along. Susan, can I help with the dishes?” What he really wanted was two minutes alone with Susan to ask if he couldn’t sleep on the couch.

Susan, unfortunately, seemed oblivious of the meaningful looks he was throwing her way. “No, thanks. I’ll do them in the morning. I don’t have class until ten.”

“Okay.” Then he took Aunt Jenny’s hand in his, bent to kiss it, and said, “It’s been a real delight, Aunt Jenny. I’m looking forward to many more evenings together.”

Aunt Jenny beamed. “So am I,” she said, “so am I.”

“Now I don’t want you cooking a lot,” Jake said. “We’ll take you out to eat.” He seemed to think a minute. “Susan, let’s take her to Subie’s Cafe.”

Susan made a face. “I don’t want to go there. Margie thinks she knows everything about Missy Jackson’s murder, and I bet by now she thinks I did it.”

“Subie’s Cafe?” Aunt Jenny asked. “Where’s that? And why would this Margie person be so convinced?”

Susan said, “It’s on the square,” just as Jake said, “Margie knows all the latest gossip in town.”

Aunt Jenny made a mental note to find the café and talk to Margie.

“Susan? Walk me to the truck?”

Aunt Jenny got the hint even if Susan didn’t. “I’ll just go on inside,” she said.

Once they alone, Jake said, “I’m not sure about leaving you two here alone.”

Susan kicked at a pebble in the driveway. “I’m not going to assure you we’ll be fine—that’d be tempting fate just like telling you this morning nothing had happened for forty-eight hours. But I don’t think you should stay. Aunt Jenny would be alarmed that you thought the situation was that serious.”

“But I do,” he said. Reaching into the truck, he pulled out a small handgun. “Here. Take this.”

She shook her head. “I’d just shoot myself in the foot. I’ll keep the phone right by the bed.”

He was reluctant, but he kissed her lightly and left.

Jake was barely out of the driveway, when Aunt Jenny turned on her niece and said, “Why don’t you marry that wonderful man?”

“He hasn’t asked me,” Susan said. Then, “I think I’ll do the dishes tonight.” She turned and went into the kitchen.

Aunt Jenny followed her. “Dear,” she said softly, “you mustn’t be impatient with an old woman who just wants to see you happy. And who right now is terribly upset about this mess you’re in.”

Oh, if only you knew,
Susan thought. She bit her lip to stop the tears and then went and put her arms around her aunt. “I know that, Aunt Jenny, and I’m sorry I’m so prickly. I just… well, I just always seem to be the worst with people that care about me. Like you and Jake.”

“We know that, dear,” her aunt said, “and we love you anyway.”

Susan attacked the dishes with vigor, but Aunt Jenny said, “Run the sink full of soapy water and let them soak overnight. I’ll do them tomorrow before I cook the chicken and dumplings. And you be sure Jake comes for supper tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Susan said. In spite of her vow to Jake to be alert and watchful, Susan slept better that night than she had since the murder of Missy Jackson.

Chapter Seven

The first thing Susan did at school on Monday was to go in search of Ellen. Not unexpectedly, she found her in her office with her morning cup of coffee. Ellen, too, avoided the English department lounge these days. Whatever camaraderie might once have existed in the department had vanished.

“We’ve got to talk,” Susan said tersely.

“Fine. Sit down.” Ellen yawned up at her, missing the seriousness in Susan’s tone. She was astounded to watch Susan close the door. “Remember,” Susan asked, “when Scott came by just at the wrong time when you were describing that red-haired young man in the student center? I don’t want that to happen again.”

“What’s this all about?” Ellen asked, curiosity making her more alert and awake.

“The red-haired young man. I saw him at The City Restaurant Saturday night. Jake took me there for dinner.”

Ellen failed to grasp the significance of this. “You’ve never even seen him. How do you know it’s the same red-haired man? They’re not that common, but there’s bound to be more than one around.” She was almost smiling, which made Susan angry.

“He met Brandy, Missy Jackson’s roommate,” she said, as though that explained everything.

Now Ellen did really smile. “So? If it was the man I met in the Main, it wouldn’t be impossible for him to know her. What’s wrong with her meeting him for dinner?”

The whole story tumbled out of Susan, about the older man who’d actually had dinner with Brandy and how she was convinced it was a call-girl ring of college students.

“Susan, that’s preposterous! Did you tell Jake this theory?”

“He didn’t think it was preposterous,” Susan said righteously. Then she added, “In fact, he was so intrigued by my theory he drank too much and I had to drive home.”

“And when he was sober again, what did he say?”

“Never mind. I just thought you should know, and you should watch out for that man.”

“Yeah, Susan, thanks. I’ll watch. But I think this whole business is making you paranoid. Leave the detective work to the police.”

“You wouldn’t say that if everyone thought you’d committed a murder,” Susan said angrily.

Ellen shrugged as Susan left her office.

Susan realized she hadn’t even told Ellen about the plants or the kitten, but she doubted if that would have convinced her.

* * *

In spite of the registrar’s office strict compliance to privacy laws, it wasn’t hard for Susan to find Eric Lindler by asking first here, then there. When she found him in the library where he had a work-study job, he was shelving books in the stacks.

She watched silently for a few moments from the end of the row of shelves. Absorbed in his work, he didn’t see her. He was taller than he’d seemed at the memorial service and lankier—maybe it was the jeans instead of a suit and tie. A shock of brown hair kept falling onto his forehead, and he’d swing his head to get it out of the way. She liked the way he handled the books, sometimes tracing his finger along the title on the spine. He was careful with each book, moving others to make room, easing it into place.

Finally she spoke softly, aware that they were in the quiet section of the library. “Eric?”

He gave a little startled jump and turned toward her voice. His voice was louder than he expected because of the suddenness of her appearance. “Yes, ma’am?”

Looking straight at him, Susan knew she’d never seen him except that once from a distance at the service. She also knew he didn’t look like a killer. His politeness was instinctive. Now he stood attentively, waiting for her to speak. Too many young men would have lounged against the shelves, their body language offering a defiant challenge. Not this one.

“I’m Susan Hogan. May I talk to you?”

“Susan Hogan,” he repeated slowly. “Missy was in your car.”

“That’s right.” She walked slowly toward him and was relieved that he showed no inclination to bolt and run. Neither did he look angry at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been hard for you.”

“Do you think I know anything about it?” Susan stared straight at him.

He ducked his head but there was a certain charm about his gesture, as though he did it from shyness. “Why would you harm Missy? You didn’t even know her, did you?”

“Yes,” Susan said, “she was in one of my classes last spring. Women’s lit.”

“She’s gone from my life,” he said mournfully, as though he hadn’t heard what Susan had said. “She was more than part of my life. She was everything… except school.”

“I’m sure these days are difficult for you.” She felt a rush of sympathy for this young man whom she’d expected to suspect of murder.

“Yes, ma’am,” he lowered his eyes and looked at the floor. “I’m having a pretty hard time getting used to, well, to Missy not being around, and I guess most of all to how it happened. It’s been a week today… tonight.”

Susan took a deep breath. One week! Her life had been turned upside-down in one short week.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Hogan?” He turned back to the books and began peering at the numbers on the spine of one he now held in his hand.

“Tell me about Missy.”

“Oh, you don’t have all day. It would take me that long. Missy… she was the most unusual person I ever met. She and I… we were just perfect together. She was growing every day, finding herself, becoming more sure of herself and, well, of her faith.” He had put the book back on the cart.

Did Missy start from behind in matters of faith?
No one had ever said that Missy Jackson was not sure of herself—just the opposite. But “finding her faith”? What did he mean by that?

“She was religious, wasn’t she?” she asked carefully.

“Yes, ma’am, we both were. But I was able to teach her, to help her grow in faith, because mine is so strong.” He said it without self-consciousness or boasting. He was simply stating a fact, but she knew it was a rare college student who would talk openly about something called faith. And yet, he didn’t look like what the kids called a “nerd.” He was wholesome, clean cut, all-American but with a boyishness about him that was charming.

“How long did you know Missy?”

He looked at her and screwed his face up a little bit, as though in pain. “We dated since my, ah, our second year. We met in comparative religion class. We were going to get married. Missy would have made a wonderful minister’s wife. You see, I intend to minister to a great big city church someday, and she, well, she had the manners and all that the wife of such a man would need.”

“Sophistication,” Susan supplied, remembering that she’d heard that word applied to Missy before.

“Oh, not too much sophistication. Churches want their leaders to be plain folk and yet… well, sophisticated in a way. Missy would have been just right.” A tear slid down his cheek, and he turned his head. “I’ll probably never marry now.”

He was so naive and so straightforward in his answers, so open in his grief that Susan’s heart went out to him. She liked this boy.

“Eric, it’s important to me to solve this, to find out what happened to Missy. I haven’t suffered as you and her parents have, but I’m a suspect according to the police. Somehow Missy’s death has become attached to me.”
And I’m a victim
. But she didn’t say that aloud. No need to tell this unhappy young man that someone was trying to kill her too—or that his girlfriend might have been a hooker.

He looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment. “But that’s ridiculous, Dr. Hogan. You didn’t have anything to do with it.” He paused and then said quickly, “I mean, it wouldn’t seem likely that you would. I can’t imagine people thinking you are a suspect.”

Susan caught his hesitation. Even he was not putting her completely beyond suspicion. “Eric, you need to help me. You need to tell me everything you think is important.”

“I think it was—how do they say it? A random act of violence?” he said softly. “I’m sure nobody deliberately set out to kill Missy.” He turned quickly back to his books. “And that means we may never know who did it.”

“I hope not,” Susan said fervently, “I hope not.” Then, after a minute, “Do you know Brandy?”

His face clouded. “Brandy was no good for Missy. I think Missy was moving away from Brandy. She and I didn’t get along, and Missy knew I thought she was a bad influence.” His face darkened when he spoke of Missy’s roommate, and he concentrated on his books, moving the cart a space down the shelf, examining the call numbers carefully.