Formula for Murder (22 page)

“Oh, Katharine. How are you?”

Kat presented a dazzling smile and wondered what she could say. “I’m fine. The more important question is how are you?”

Fortunately, Maria didn’t take offense. She opened the door wider, invited her in and they settled in the immaculately pristine living room. The mantel sported what looked like antiques from a variety of countries. Kat’s appreciative eye viewed each with delight. Maria indicated the carved coconut with a nod from her position on the sofa. “It’s a beauty isn’t it? So many nuances to other cultures yet to explore.”

She settled her hands carefully in her lap and asked, “What can I do for you, Katharine?”

“Nothing, Maria. I just wanted to see how you were and if there was anything I could do. The interns miss you. Louise said the students are asking about you. I came to pass on their good wishes.”

“How thoughtful.” The slender woman, sleek and well-groomed at all times, was in a worn bathrobe with wisps of hair reaching out hither and yon. She fidgeted only slightly and met Kat’s glance squarely. “I am doing well. I let myself get run down. I was careless with my health, let my causes run my life rather than my brain. I let pigheaded, stubborn people like Charlie boil my blood when I should have just felt sorry for them and moved on.”

Maria shifted her position a little to look out the window as if she needed it for orientation. But her eyes returned to her visitor quickly, as did her train of thought. The move was too quick for Kat. At the mention of Charlie, she realized she had no idea if Maria was aware of his murder. She certainly didn’t want to be the one to tell her if others had held back. She blinked and nodded.

But she also noticed. She noticed Maria’s eyes, shadowed from exhaustion. She noticed the hands so carefully placed in her lap were twitching slightly. She wondered as to the cause.

She felt humbled. That woman had done so much for the university, at such a cost to herself. And all Kat had been interested in was prying. They conversed politely for a while, then Kat took her leave.

She pushed her sunglasses onto her face, reversed out of the driveway, and left, fleeing the bad taste in her mind. She didn’t notice Carlos walking rapidly up the street, following her car with hostile eyes, or the dark blue sedan that pulled away from the curb a minute later and followed discreetly behind. She was busy speculating whether she’d learned anything useful from the embarrassing situation.

Chapter 20

Graphoanalysis is not a science to use in finding either good or bad but the truth.

“Handwriting Analysis” by M. N. Bunker,

founder of the International
Graphoanalysis Society

Carlos tended to Maria that day with loving care and patience. She rewarded him with a jaunty smile. For an instant she had the flashing eyes and spark of the bewitching girl from years ago. Her slender figure and sculpted nails remained the same, but the fire had grown months ago into a conflagration that scorched her from the inside out, leaving a shell.

The fleeting memory of what had been, disturbed him more than the constant attention she required now. Should he have done something different? As the husband of a minority faculty member who had been belittled by Charlie numerous times in the past, should he have taken a stand, relieving the burden from Maria, who had tackled so much for so many she had no strength left to support herself in this final conflict?

She was a tiny, tight woman, always dressed like a lady. Carlos pondered how she must now feel ungroomed and less than elegant. When she had more time than ever she no longer took the time to look her best. He didn’t know how to help her. She lay at rest in her bedroom-turned-sickroom, where few came to visit though she’d helped dozens. She’d been a self-appointed educator of minority and women’s rights with an education that began in
Puerto Rico
and looked to never end. Her trips out of the country and constant quest for funding for minorities in general and women in particular had ignited Charlie on occasion. He was from the little-woman-in-the-apron regime. Carlos was sure her nervous breakdown followed just one more denial of her latest project—definitely Charlie’s doing.

His wife’s constant jaunting off to Puerto Rico and the
Caribbean
to study obscure aspects of minority suffering had begun to pale for him some time ago, and it was his own shame and guilt, and fears which may have made him overreact to Charlie’s slights on her behalf. They were merely a mirror of his own mind in many ways. But she was his wife; he’d held the guilt in, until her breakdown confused his guilt-ridden mind and he’d reached his own breaking point.

He smiled at her as he straightened her room, chatting with her absentmindedly as he dusted each article and put it precisely back in the same location. She hated anyone else touching her things. That’s why they didn’t have a housekeeper. He wondered if she’d care now, or would even realize. She mentally swung widely from total coherency to confused surrender. He pondered it for a moment and then decided it didn’t matter. He liked the way she relied on him. And he didn’t want anyone around right now.

She’d been so fiercely independent over the years, and a staunch advocate of all minorities. Her latest passion had been the fight against aversive racism—something she felt was more insidious than overt racism and even more difficult to counteract. When someone felt only discomfort and not hostility it became difficult to prove racism. Though Carlos could understand her thinking on the subject, he didn’t fully comprehend the insistent drive behind her cause.

He wondered if she’d ever have that zeal again. She was a slight woman, but one who walked and stood tall, with black hair and eyes and the aristocratic nose of an Indian princess. Now she sat with her hands folded in her lap. Broken.

Carlos heard the words but didn’t see the passion of the person whom earlier had combated racism actively. She had provided the opportunity for daily interaction with the hope that close association with highly articulate minority students would dissolve the unconscious prejudice.

Now, her eyes were clouded, a mental fatigue he knew was apparently triggered by despair. Anger had vitalized her for years, now there was none and she was drained of energy. The doctors had prescribed bed rest and isolation from any possible contributing factors. Carlos had tried that. Maybe now it was time to trigger some of that passion. The first step would be to return her to campus on a casual basis. He’d plan something pleasant for her.

He tucked her in for her nap. In the weeks before the breakdown her nerves were close to the surface, and little things scraped them raw. She panicked a lot, cried in her sleep, paced. She questioned everything. Analyzed everything she did, speculated on everything others did. Doubt and fear became daily companions.

Head bowed, Carlos stumbled his way to the living room. He picked up the egg basket off the mantel and moved it next to the carved alligator, then lifted the alligator, absently smoothing his hands over it like it was a worry stone. Carlos had seen what was happening to her, but didn’t understand it and had been helpless to stop it. He had difficulty picking up the pieces of her life as she exploded from the pressure.

She’d been a control freak. He’d lived with that. But now, even more was at stake. What could he do to stop their lives from steamrolling out of control?

“
You’re on dangerous ground
!”

The neatly typewritten note was precisely centered in the standard 8 ½ by 11 sheet. Kat sat hunched over the missive in a daze. It had arrived inconspicuously in the intercampus mail that afternoon. She swiveled the chair a little and leaned back, stretching her neck in circles, but when she looked again at the note the words remained the same.

She was spooked. Angry. Confused. Why her? What had she done now? She twisted the envelope around in her hands, wishing she hadn’t been so careless in opening and handling it. She must have moved the intercampus mail around five times before she settled down to opening what was often more work—usually urgent last minute requests. Staving off the inevitable for a short while gave her the illusion of control. But this note shattered that illusion.

Kat knew she should tell Nick, and call Burrows. But after what had become dubbed the “car chase day” she wasn’t really ready for more interrogation. Too bad she’d sliced the envelope open. It somehow made it impossible for her to hide it back on her desk and “discover” it tomorrow or the next day. She was so sick of feeling in the middle of this. She hadn’t seen the killer. Had no clue who the killer was. Had no idea why Charlie would have been killed. So why did everything seem to lead to her?

Well, whining to herself would get her nowhere. She sensed Nick was eyeing her again. When she glanced up she saw him looking through his open door. Behind him the office décor reflected the personality of the last director. The green shaded desk lamp was the last vestige of an old newspaper editor, and the Starbucks coffee mug in the corner reflected his one leap to modern conveniences. Kat had wondered when Nick would make the room his own. Now she just wondered why he was staring.

She’d positioned her desk precisely so she could see out her door into the workroom and keep abreast of the traffic, not aware that put her in view of anyone in Nick’s office. Until he’d come to work there it hadn’t mattered. Now she was torn. On most days she enjoyed his appreciative glances, but today it caused guilt, as if he could see her ignoring the note.

She realized she might as well tell Nick about the threat. He was scowling. Maybe he figured she wasn’t a very productive writer. She liked her job; didn’t want to give him a bad impression. The truth was probably the best solution.

She gave herself a few minutes to analyze the possibilities. No denying it was for her. With her full name typed clearly across the envelope. But what had she done? Or rather, which of the things that she’d done had triggered the note?

Before she’d found any answers Nick headed her way. She pulled forward the article she’d been editing earlier. It neatly covered the letter.

“Tough time with that article, Kat? You seem to be frowning. Not your normal expression.”

“I want my words to punch and kick, to force association, and right now they just limp from one sentence to the next.”

“You’ll find the words in the end. You always do. Time for a break.”

“Sorry Nick, this isn’t really a good time for a break.”

“Why not? You need a few hours to blow the cobwebs away and then we can return here this evening and finish off our writing if it can’t wait till tomorrow.”

“Well, I’d love to get away for awhile, but . . .” She left her sentence hanging as she battled the urge to hold off telling him. She finally moved her article off to the side, exposing the note and envelope centered on her desk.

“What’s that?” he asked as he reached to pick up the letter.

“It’s a lousy threat. And on top of that, it’s a cliché!” she said grabbing his hand as he reached for the letter and held it for comfort as she explained. “I think the fewer people who touch it the better. Just in case Richard can find any prints on it. Of course there’s nothing that hooks it to the murder, but I’m not really into anything else that might generate a hate campaign at the moment. I’m not even sure why I got this.”

Restraining his fears for her, Nick grabbed the phone. “You’re right. Burrows needs to look at this. Why didn’t you say something as soon as you got it?” He quickly explained the situation to the detective who said he was on his way.

Nick moved the guest chair forward, sat down, and gently massaged her hands, as if to convey a soothing calm he didn’t feel himself. “Kat, what’s going on?”

“Nick, you know everything that I do, I swear.” Katharine shuddered.

“OK, Kat. We will solve this. But meanwhile we should call Robin St. Clair, just to see if he received anything. I don’t like that the killer knows who he is. Or maybe the car was following you after all.” He called Robin but found no one in.

“I know. It’s a mess. And I didn’t help any sending out those personal invitations to the lecture. For all we know, that had nothing to do with this threat; it just makes it more difficult to pin down. I spooked the killer somehow. The question is how? Or am I jumping to conclusions here? The note says nothing about the murder.

“I don’t know, but you probably shouldn’t travel alone until this is over. Keep alert, keep around people, and keep your doors locked. Robin should take the same precaution. At least he lives in the dorm with hundreds of students around him most of the time. And the campus already has increased security till this is over. I wish we had reached him.”