A Rare Murder In Princeton

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

“Succeeds in every facet of good storytelling it seeks to conquer . . . A solid read, satisfying and well-written, and highly recommendable to any who seek the pages of an intriguing yarn.”

—
Roundtable Reviews

 

“McLeod is a very interesting character . . . entertaining.”

—
The Romance Reader’s Connection

 

“Waldron creates suspense, both romantic and mysterious . . . Meticulously plotted.”

—
Romantic Times BOOKclub

 

 

“Believable characters. Deftly positioned clues . . . in the very best tradition of the whodunit.”

—
The Trenton (NJ) Times

 

“McLeod and her students are very likable and interesting characters . . . the mystery itself is well-designed and the perpetrator will come as a shock.”

—
Midwest Book Review

 

“A must-read. The premise and voice are fresh and entertaining. Waldron combines a superb mystery, divine characters, and suspenseful storytelling.”

—
Romantic Times BOOKclub

 

A RARE MURDER IN PRINCETON
UNHOLY DEATH IN PRINCETON
DEATH OF A PRINCETON PRESIDENT
THE PRINCETON MURDERS
THE PRINCETON IMPOSTOR

 

 

 

EUDORA: A WRITER’SLIFE
CLOSE CONNECTIONS: CAROLINE
GORDON AND THE SOUTHERN RENAISSANCE
HODDING CARTER: THE RECONSTRUCTION OF A RACIST

 

 

GOYA
MONET
TRUE OR FALSE? THE DETECTION OF ART FORGERIES
THE BLUEBERRY COLLECTION
THE FRENCH DETECTION
SCAREDY CAT
THE LUCKIE STAR
THE INTEGRATION OF MARY-LARKIN THORNHILL
THE HOUSE ON PENDLETON BLOCK

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

A RARE MURDER IN PRINCETON

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2006

Copyright © 2006 by Ann Waldron.

 

All rights reserved.

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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-49554-4

 

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PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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I should like to thank the people who work in the real-life Department of Rare Books and Special Collections at Princeton University. They are much nicer and more interesting than the characters I made up for my wholly fictional, geographically inaccurate Department of Rare Books and Special Collections. Most helpful were Alfred Bush, Steve Ferguson, Charles Greene, Gretchen Oberfranc, Linda Olivera, Ben Primer, Meg Sherry, and Jane Snedeker.

Kim Otis, Ted Cashel, and Mary Cason answered questions about other matters.

Heartfelt thanks for manuscript reading to Lolly O’Brien and Amanda Matetsky.

“SO GOOD OF you to have me for dinner, but, dear boy, you didn’t tell me you had bought the murder house . . .”

Coming down the stairs, McLeod Dulaney heard the old-fashioned phrasing of the man talking to George Bridges at the front door. The voice obviously belonged to the dinner guest George had told her to expect, Nathaniel Ledbetter. She stopped and looked down at the pair of them.

George was her old friend from an earlier stay in Princeton—tall, about her own age, with a head of thick curly black hair turning gray. Ledbetter was a portly man who looked rather like a glossy gray tomcat with his thick mane of gray hair and bristling gray eyebrows. He took off his galoshes and his gray overcoat, and pulled down the gray cardigan he wore as a vest beneath the jacket of his gray tweed suit.

Ledbetter followed George through the door at the bottom of the stairs, and McLeod continued down the stairs and joined them in the small front parlor of George’s house.

“The murder house?” she asked Nathaniel Ledbetter, who was just sitting down on George’s new sofa.

He stood up when McLeod came in. “Oh, yes, this is the murder house,” he said with an air of authority.

“What do you mean, ‘murder house,’ Natty?” George asked.

“Surely you remember when Jill Murray was murdered ?” said Ledbetter.

“Vaguely,” said George.

“I don’t,” said McLeod, who could not abide not knowing what people were talking about. “Who was Jill Murray and where was she murdered?”

“She was murdered right here in this house,” said Ledbetter, staring, puzzled, at McLeod. He held out his hand. “I’m Nathaniel Ledbetter,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said George. “You shocked me, Natty, and I forgot my manners—”

“I have often said you didn’t have any, dear boy,” interrupted Natty.

George went on as though Ledbetter had not spoken. “McLeod, this is a former professor of mine, Nathaniel Ledbetter. He always was a terrible know-it-all. Nat, this is my good friend, McLeod Dulaney, who’s going to stay here while she’s teaching a writing seminar at Princeton this semester. She’s my first houseguest.”

“I’m glad to know you, Ms. Dulaney. I’ve heard about you. You’re from Florida, aren’t you? What do you think about our winter weather?”

“It’s cold,” said McLeod. “The camellias were in bloom when I left Tallahassee three days ago.” It had been beautiful, in fact, the pink and red and white camellias amid glossy green leaves all over town under live oaks festooned with Spanish moss, and McLeod felt a moment’s pang for the camellias and azaleas she would miss, but only a moment’s. She concentrated on Natty Ledbetter. “Tell me about the murder,” she said.

“You two sit down and I’ll get drinks,” said George. “You’ll have a martini, I assume, Nat, and what about you, McLeod?”

“I’ll have a martini, too,” said McLeod.

“Good girl,” said George and left for the kitchen.

McLeod sat down on the sofa in front of the tiny fireplace and looked at the fire while Ledbetter sat down in a small wing chair. She turned to him. “Now, this murder,” she said. “Who was Jill Murray?”

“She was a lovely woman. A widow, who lived here alone. It was in the autumn—beautiful weather, I remember —and Jill disappeared. Nobody knew what happened to her; she just vanished. Finally, her son came over and searched the house thoroughly and found her body down in the basement. She had been beaten severely. And the police never found out who did it.”

“Good heavens!” said McLeod. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Oh, let’s see. Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty years ago, I would say.”

“And it was never solved?”

“No, I think the police finally decided that she had been working in her garden—her hands were still crusted with dirt—and a tramp, somebody from Trenton, had come up here and tried to rob her and then killed her.”

“And the house? Has it been vacant since then?”

“It was for a long time. Her son kept it for years because nobody wanted to buy it, and then came this man from Texas who bought it, but he didn’t stay long. I guess George bought it from him.”