Historically Dead Page 8

  I thought about what I had learned from the students at Oliphant University. Professor Burbridge was a tough teacher, who enjoyed pointing out to students that they had earned a D. But some students loved him—that was obvious from the way Noah spoke about missing him. No one but Noah knew details of the professor’s research, whether due to fear of being harmed (which I had a hard time believing) or because of some kind of paranoia about making sure no one else beat him to the publishing punch. One student had described him as a “conspiracy theorist” who was investigating cheating at the law school and corruption in the contractors’ union. I wondered if those investigations had anything to do with his death. If I was going on the assumption that someone involved with the household or the renovations of Compton Hall was responsible for the professor’s death, then disgruntled students were not suspects. But there was a lawyer associated with the household, and a contractor as well.

  I thought back to Randall’s time in law school at Oliphant University. He graduated with his JD degree two years ago at the age of twenty-seven. Not a stellar student, he had barely managed to graduate in three years, and it had taken him three tries to pass the bar exam. If a cheating scandal had taken place four years ago, he would have been a 2L student at the time.

  When I first met Randall I had been drawn to his charming wit, but over the course of our time together he revealed his ugly side, railing against demanding professors and bright students who had eclipsed him in class discussions. Cutthroat competition between students characterized the culture at Oliphant Law School at the time. If Randall had known about widespread cheating, I was sure he would have exposed the perpetrators to be sure that they were disciplined, thus moving himself up in the ranks. Yet he had never mentioned a cheating scandal at the law school. I briefly considered the possibility that he simply didn’t know, but that was unrealistic. Randall made it his business to know all about anything that could affect himself and his fortunes. If there were any cheating going on at Oliphant Law, Randall Flint would have been the first to know. I could only conclude that he had taken part in the cheating. In that case, his law degree, which conferred on him the honor of placing the title “Esquire” after his name, was a sham. If exposed, he could stand to lose his law license, and his partner-track position at his father’s law firm. Was that enough to kill a man for?

  I stabbed my forefinger with a needle that trembled, as I considered the possibility of my former fiancé being a murderer. It wasn’t a far-fetched idea. I laid down the curtain and popped my finger in my mouth. Before rushing to conclusions, I needed to learn more about Professor Burbridge’s involvement in exposing this cheating scandal. Plus, I needed to find out what Randall knew about the professor’s activities.

  I folded up the curtain and laid it aside for the day. I usually tried to take a break whenever I pricked my finger and drew blood. No client wanted to see a blood smear on their garment, especially if it was a wedding gown. Speaking of wedding gowns, I had a fitting scheduled with Fiona for Thursday. Maybe she could tell me about Randall’s law school days. But I knew I wouldn’t ask her. If I, who had lived with Randall at the time, didn’t know about any cheating, I was sure Fiona wouldn’t have anything to tell me. I had no interest in hurting this delightful young woman by disparaging her fiancé with baseless accusations. I would have to find another way to look into Randall’s questionable past.

  I was still friendly with one of Randall’s former classmates, whom I had met at a law student party in the early days. Marlena Hernandez, one of the bright students who so infuriated Randall, worked at the legal aid clinic in town. She might be able to spare some time to talk to me about her law school days. I sent her a quick text, and we arranged to meet for lunch on the following day.

  I packed up my sewing bag, leaving the curtains in a neat pile on the table. They could wait until tomorrow, at which point I could probably finish them with no trouble. As I turned to click off the light, something caused me to pause. The side table looked different. I walked closer to the little oak table sitting under the one window. An unremarkable candle sat atop the white lace doily covering the chipped surface of the table. I picked it up and breathed in its fresh piney scent. It was a new smell to the cozy old room. Void of the candle, the doily bore the faint outline of a larger item that no longer sat upon it—the tarnished bowl that I’d noticed the first time I had walked into the room. The silver bowl was missing.

  Chapter Seven

  I didn’t know whether to make a big deal about this or not. Was the bowl stolen, or simply moved? It obviously needed polishing—maybe Louise had come in and taken it to clean it up. It would make a nice touch in the background for the filming. I shrugged and switched off the light.

  I was passing the door to the kitchen on my way out when Carl Harper bolted out of the room and ran smack into me. I staggered backward, dropping my bag and scattering sewing implements on the floor. “Hey!”

  Carl swore and hollered at me, “Get out of my way!” His face was red and his eyebrows were screwed up to where I thought he’d have a stroke. I flattened myself against the wall and watched him rage on down the hall. The man had an unbelievable temper. Sheesh!

  I found Priscilla on the front porch, relaxing in her favorite rocking chair. I sat down next to her. “It’s a lovely afternoon.”

  Her vacant eyes sharpened at the sight of me. “It certainly is, my dear. The pixies will be out soon with their twinkling lights.”

  I leaned over and patted her hand. “We always called them fireflies.”

  “What’s in a name?” she quoted. “They say a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, which may in fact be true. But I’m not sure if the pixies appreciate being called flies or bugs. They can be formidable adversaries, you know, if you get on their bad side.” She leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “Some even say they hold the power of life and death in their tiny little hands.”

  I drew back involuntarily. “Whose life or death are we talking about?”

  “Why, no one’s died around here, my dear, except for the poor professor. Do you suppose he got on the bad side of the pixies?” Her wizened face screwed up in anxiety.

  I patted her hand again. “No, I don’t think that’s what happened to him. The pixies stay outdoors, right? The professor was inside when he died.”

  “Oh, yes, in the library. Not a bad way to go; surrounded by books, those old friends.” Her face clouded. “But dear Eric wasn’t ready, was he? He never got the chance to make things right with Ruth, after that unfortunate disagreement. They say you should never let the sun go down on your anger, my dear.” She waggled her finger at me. “You never know what might happen next.”

  I nodded so she would feel like I was heeding her sage advice. “What did Ruth and the professor disagree about?”

  “Well, I couldn’t really—” Priscilla’s words were interrupted by the imperious tapping of a gold-tipped cane. “Why, Ruth, were your ears burning? We were just talking about you.”

  “I trust you can come up with a more suitable topic of conversation,” Ruth snapped. She lowered herself into the chair on the other side of Priscilla and glared at me. “If you will excuse us...”

  “Of course.” I stood up with as much grace as I could manage. “Nice to chat with you, Priscilla. I’ll be back in the morning.” I slung my bag over my shoulder and left the sisters to their own “more suitable” conversation.

  I fumed all through my bus ride home. I had been on the brink of discovering the basis of Ruth’s argument with Professor Burbridge, when that human dragon prevented Priscilla from talking. What did she have to hide? Ruth’s interference only solidified my resolve to get Priscilla alone and find out the truth.

  A warm evening breeze blew softly as I got off the bus a block from my house. I breathed deeply, letting the frustration flow out of me. Maybe I could take a break from worrying about murder long enough to enjoy a l
ovely evening. After all, the pixies, also known as fireflies, would be coming out soon.

  My newfound serenity deepened at the sight of the twin Japanese maples framing the front porch. Their red leaves picked up the color of the red front door to present a lovely picture. I skipped up the steps leading to the porch, and almost stepped on the tiny body of a dead mouse. I stifled a scream. My cat Mohair didn’t often leave such offerings for me, thank goodness. I stepped gingerly around the mouse and up onto the porch. An appalling sight met my eyes.

  Dead mice lay scattered all across the porch. Everywhere I looked there were limp tails, tiny claws, or flies buzzing on a furry carcass.

  I did scream this time. I stood rooted on the edge of the porch, unable to get inside my own house, surrounded by at least a dozen dead rodents. There were far too many to think that they’d been left by Mohair—someone had unloaded a bag full of dead mice onto my porch!

  The front door flew open to reveal Aileen, dressed in a solid black spandex jumpsuit that made her look like a cat bandit. “What the?” She slammed the door behind her and advanced onto the porch. “Your cat never did this?”

  I shook my head wordlessly, afraid to speak for fear of my voice cracking.

  She pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures of the corpses. “You should call McCarthy to come and get some professional shots.”

  I stared at her. “What for? It’s not like I want to hang them on the wall or anything.”

  She snorted and held out her phone to me. “What, you don’t want this hanging in the kitchen? You could think of it as a diet aid.”

  The image of the limp mouse repulsed me. I pushed her phone away. “I’m not on a diet. Who could have done this?”

  She finished taking her ghoulish pictures and stashed her phone on the porch swing. “Same ones that did the eggs yesterday. You been making any enemies lately?”

  I folded my arms, hoping that her next move would be to clean up the loathsome mice. “I figured those eggs were from neighbors fed up with the noise of the Twisted Armpits.”

  Aileen’s head snapped up. “You think? That’s a pretty cowardly way to ask us to turn down the volume.”

  I pulled out my own phone and snapped a picture of Aileen: black jumpsuit, black spiky hair, and thick black makeup. I held it out to her. “Would you ask her to turn down the volume?”

  Aileen stared at the photo a minute and then met my eyes. “Hell, yeah. And you know what? If they asked me, I would turn it down. But I’m not gonna play nice after they make a total mess with raw eggs and then strew dead mice all over my porch. They better pull out their earplugs from now on, ’cause we’re gonna crank it up a notch!”

  I groaned as loud as I could. “So what is this, the battle over the band?”

  She flashed me a wicked grin. “Why not?”

  “Well, we could be wrong about the neighbors. They could be totally innocent. Maybe somebody else did this.”

  “Back to your enemies again. Got any ideas?”

  “There was a murder at Compton Hall. Maybe the murderer’s trying to intimidate us.”

  Aileen leaned against the door frame and contemplated the carnage. “Murderer, huh? Why would he be after us?”

  “Why did he kill Professor Burbridge?” That was the question. But there was an even more ominous one—was he likely to strike again? Were my household and I in danger?

  Aileen heaved herself up off the door frame and scooped up her phone. “Obviously you’re going to make it your business to find out.” She opened the door. “Just as obviously, you have no intention of cleaning up this mess.” She grinned at me. “See ya!”

  “Oh, come on Aileen,” I called after her as she slammed the door behind her, leaving me stranded on the porch with a dozen dead mice. I waited for a few minutes, but when she didn’t reappear I traipsed down the porch steps and around to the back of the house, only to find more dead mice on the back doorstep. I almost gagged at the sorry sight. I punched in Aileen’s number on my phone as I walked back to the front porch.

  “Help me out here. There’s mice all over the back step too. I don’t have anything to clean them up with.”

  She groaned and hung up. A minute later she burst out the front door once more, armed with broom and dustpan. “You owe me, big-time.” She swept the bodies into the dustpan and went to throw them over the porch rail into the bushes.

  “Wait, let me get a bag. They’ll stink there.” I ran inside and grabbed a couple of trash bags. I couldn’t watch while she tipped the horrible load into the bag. The only thing that made it at all bearable was the fact that Aileen didn’t laugh at me. She grunted, clearly grossed out by the whole episode just like I was. When the last carcass was double-bagged and safely in the garbage can, we both stood at the sink, taking turns washing our hands over and over.

  “I’d rather go with the murderer than the neighbors,” Aileen said finally. “It takes a pretty twisted person to collect dead mice like that. I hope it’s not the people we live next door to.”

  I couldn’t agree more. But the thought of a murderer leaving his calling card on my front porch sent shivers up my spine.

  I spent the next half hour standing by the front windows, peering out at every sound or movement I detected. I alternated between watching the front door and the kitchen door, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. If the murderer was trying to freak me out, he was doing a pretty good job of it. But I wasn’t going to let him win. I turned my back on the front door and went to the kitchen to make some tea. Armed with the steaming mug, I forced myself to go out and sit on the porch. I pushed the image of dead mice aside and focused on the fireflies flitting in the evening light. They seemed to like my new Japanese maples—their little lights twinkled energetically among the scarlet leaves.

  I sipped my tea and let the quiet evening calm my thoughts. Still, when McCarthy peeled up with a boisterous toot of the horn, I couldn’t believe how happy I was to see him. He jumped out of his car, waving vigorously. I almost ran down the steps and threw myself into his arms. In the midst of all this uncertainty and doubt, he was completely above suspicion.

  When I first met McCarthy he landed on my short list of murder suspects, and at one point I was convinced that he was the guilty party. Thankfully I had been wrong, and he was magnanimous enough to forgive me for calling him a murderer to his face. Not a great way to start a relationship, of whatever description! I was so glad to be able to trust him completely now.

  He bounded up the porch steps. “I hear your professor was murdered. The cops said they’re focusing on the people associated with Compton Hall. Do I have the pleasure of addressing the prime suspect?”

  His mock solicitude took my breath away. “Me? Of course not!” I sat back down. “There was no indication that I was a suspect, any more than anyone else in the house.”

  He sat down in the chair next to me with a pointed glance at my tea mug. “Good to know. What else did you learn from the cops?”

  I stood back up. “Let’s go for a walk.” I texted Aileen that I was out walking with McCarthy, so she wouldn’t discover me gone and freak out. Of course, the thought of Aileen freaking out over anything so inconsequential as a missing housemate was so ridiculous that I couldn’t help laughing out loud. McCarthy looked over at me, bemused.

  “Sorry, I’m a little punchy this evening.” I led him down the steps and along the walkway to the sidewalk. We turned toward the canal that wound its way through the artsy part of my neighborhood. We always called it a canal, but in reality it was merely a creek bed that had been reinforced with concrete where the water flowed past the historic houses. Not exactly Venice, but it was a peaceful place to walk in the evenings. We paused to watch a red-winged blackbird perch on a limb overhanging the water.

  “What’s making you punchy?” McCarthy finally asked. “The murder?”

  “That, plus
some jackass dumped a pile of dead mice on my porch for me to find when I got home. They were all over the back too—it was awful!” I was embarrassed to note that my voice was shaking.

  “Wow.” He picked up a small stone and lobbed it into the placid water. Ripples fanned out in ever-widening circles. “That’s nasty. Any idea who did it?”

  “Well, it was either the neighbors protesting the band, or a murderer deciding to harass me for some unknown reason.”

  “Your neighbors don’t like the band?”

  I laughed, and threw my own stone into the water. My ripples intersected with his to form a new pattern. “What do you think?”

  “You know I love the Twisted Armpits, but I suppose I might think differently if I were a senior citizen and had to listen to them day and night when I preferred Frank Sinatra.”

  “Exactly!”

  We resumed our walk past a property draped with lines of Buddhist prayer flags mingled with clotheslines full of tie-dyed T-shirts and shorts.

  “If it was the murderer, why would he target you?”

  I heaved a heavy sigh. “That’s what I can’t figure out.”

  “But you’re moving heaven and earth to find out, aren’t you. Nosy seamstress! What do you know that I don’t know?”

  “So much it would make your head spin.”

  He laughed and took my hand as we walked down the middle of the quiet street.

  “I talked with some of Professor Burbridge’s students today.”

  He nodded his approval. “Hot on the case, I see. I just found out the man was murdered a couple hours ago, and you’ve already interviewed his closest associates. It’s a constant wonder to me why you don’t just chuck the sewing and join the force.”