Maid of Murder (23 page)

Lepcheck looked around, but refrained from comment. His thin-lipped expression spoke volumes, though. He walked around Lasha’s desk and sat on her desk chair. Lasha’s expression spoke volumes, too. She sat on one of the three armchairs facing the desk. I chose the chair closest to the door, but before I could sit down, I tripped over a stack of library catalogs, falling into Lasha’s desk and knocking a pile of magazines to the floor. Clumsily, I restacked the magazines. I bit my lip to stop myself from speaking. Furtively, I glanced at Lepcheck.

Lasha sighed, and I let out an exhale of relief when Lepcheck didn’t say anything.

Lepcheck tugged his academic goatee twice more and steepled his fingers, which were slender and long, his nails buffed to a shine. Lasha crossed her legs and her arms as if to shield herself from the arctic draft wafting off of Lepcheck’s person.

“Ms. Hayes,” he said. “You’ve startled the college this week with your behavior.”

During any moment in academic life that the college was subjected to personification, it’s time to duck and cover. Lasha winced, making me feel more at ease. She wasn’t on his side.

Lepcheck studied me over his manicured hands. “I fear that the unfortunate situation with your brother has skewed your focus.”

“Skewed my focus?” My tone was ironical.

“Martin College is an institution of great esteem and respect in this community.”

Esteem and respect. I hadn’t known.

“With that position, a level of prestige and honorability must be retained. In the last week, Martin College has fallen short of its expected level of . . .” he paused, “. . . respectability. Olivia Blocken’s misfortune was a sad circumstance for her family and for the town of Stripling. But, Ms. Hayes, it was also an unfortunate circumstance for Martin College, due primarily not to the location of the act, which is disheartening to say the least, but to the involvement of a Martin faculty member. The college has received innumerable phone calls and emails from parents concerned about their children. Martin College has fostered a reputation as a safe environment, but with the latest turn of events, that reputation is beginning to wane.”

I gripped the arms of my chair. I was going to be fired. I could feel it in my bones. Fired for failing to curtsey when Lepcheck entered the library, fired for being the offspring of crazies, fired for being the sister of Stripling’s most wanted. It would obviously be a wrongful dismissal. Lew would certainly litigate on my behalf, and my parents’ like-minded friends would take up arms, but would I be able to survive a long court case? And if I won, would I be able to return to Martin?

Lepcheck spoke a few more sentences that I missed. I tuned in when he was in mid-tirade. “However, the college understands that you are not responsible for your brother’s actions.”

“Alleged actions,” I said. They don’t think I’m responsible. Maybe I won’t be fired. Or at least not today, I thought.

Lepcheck affected a weak smile. “Nevertheless, we are concerned about your involvement on your brother’s behalf. Please understand that as long as Mark Hayes is a suspect in Olivia Blocken’s death, the college cannot in good faith reinstate him as a member of the faculty. The prime objective for Martin College is student safety.”

Followed closely by tuition revenue, I mentally added.

Lasha frowned. “Sam, is there a point to all of this?”

Lepcheck winced most likely at Lasha’s casual use of his moniker. He adjusted his position in her desk chair, maybe to remind her where he was. “The point of all this, Ms. Hayes, Dr. Lint, is simple. Martin College can no longer tolerate disturbance to the education and betterment of the young people on this campus. This goes for any planned or impromptu rallies established by your parents and/or friends on your brother’s behalf. If these disturbances continue, the college will be forced to take action.”

“What type of action?” Lasha asked.

“That will be determined when or if the time comes.” He tugged on his goatee one more time. The lord and master had spoken. I knew that he was expecting a bow or at the very least a brief round of applause, but Lasha and I are not obliging in these types of situations.

Lepcheck looked at his watch, nodded as if in satisfaction, and rose. Evisceration in less than twenty minutes—a new personal record.

After he’d run off to ruin someone else’s day, Lasha spoke. “Martin doesn’t have a leg to stand on if they fire you. You know that. Lepcheck’s a weak man with weaker threats. He’s threatened me half a dozen times, and I’m still here.”

“True,” I agreed, cheered a tad.

Lasha looked thoughtful. “The sooner this mess with your brother is cleared up, the better for your brother, for the town, and for you.”

“I know.” I shifted in my seat.

“Are you still taking the weekend off?” she asked.

“The weekend?”

Lasha walked behind her desk to the staff calendar. “You requested it off months ago for Olivia’s wedding. Take it off, and figure out who killed your friend while you’re at it.”

As if it were that easy, I thought.

I thought about going home and changing first, but I knew myself well enough and what a great big coward I was. If I didn’t go directly after work, I would never go at all. Instead of turning the prehistoric automobile toward my duplex, I drove in the opposite direction toward the town square.

The Cookery Inn came into view as I turned off the square onto Blossom Avenue, which snaked behind my mother’s church. The Cookery was an old Tudor-style mansion that had been revitalized into an inn in the late nineties under the threat of demolition. I remembered the event well, as my parents had chained themselves to the front door in order to block the city’s wrecking ball. By some miracle, they had found an investor who had the imagination and the means to transform the languishing building into the town pearl it is today.

The estate itself had once been very large, but was sold piecemeal to those businesses that couldn’t afford property directly on the square, leaving the inn on a postage stamp–sized property. All that was left of the grand estate was a large circular driveway and a garden in the back.

I parked in the circular drive behind a red compact car. A half dozen or so honeybees buzzed amidst the pink cosmos that flanked the door. The bees made me sad, because I knew how much they would have charmed Olivia.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door, which led directly into the reception hall. Dark wood chair rail ran the length of the room. Below the chair rail, the wainscoting was polished to a high sheen, and above the rail a floral wallpaper seemed to burst from the walls. The blossoms were so real they looked as if I could pluck them. On the right side of the room, a woman sat behind a desk reading a magazine. She looked up with a smile. When I approached her, her smile widened into a grin as we both recognized each other.

“Well, India Hayes, what are you doing here?” Maggie Riffle asked in her unmistakable raspy voice. During high school the sound of her approaching voice had made underclassmen throw themselves into their lockers just to avoid her. Shaped liked the little, squared-off robot that my brother played with as a child, Maggie had been my prime tormentor from kindergarten through the twelfth grade. Although I wasn’t her only victim, her favorite prey had always been artsy nerds, such as myself.

I swallowed hard and greeted her. “Wow, Maggie Riffle. How are you?”

“Not Riffle anymore. I got married. Last name’s Blankenship now.” She held out her hand to display an enormous diamond.

“That’s wonderful,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. The stone was at least an inch across and two inches high. It was a wonder she didn’t stab herself with it on a regular basis. “I thought you moved away after high school.”

“I did,” she said. “I lived out west for a few years. My husband and I moved back to buy this place. I had always loved it and when it came on the market, I just had to have it.”

“That’s great,” I said, surprised. Maggie had never struck me as a historic building buff, but, then again, we did not share our opinions about architecture when she was tripping me in the cafeteria lunch line. “Where’d you live out west?”

“Dayton.”

I mentally rolled my eyes. A three-hour drive west of Stripling to Dayton, Ohio, wasn’t exactly the Rocky Mountains.

“Coo-coo.” A pause. “Coo-coo.”

“What was that?” I asked, looking around.

“It’s those damn doves.”

Quickly, I stepped away from her, hoping to avoid any bolts of lightning that came shooting from the sky to strike Maggie dead. I was pretty sure it was a cardinal sin to use a curse word when referring to a dove. Instead of the bolt of lightning as expected, I locked eyes with a large white dove that was perched at the top of the crystal chandelier hanging from the hall’s ornately carved ceiling. The dove was as large as a hen. More coos echoed through the room, and I followed the sound around the high ceiling with my eyes. Two more doves roosted together in an unlit candle sconce near the French doors that led into the Cookery’s impressive English-style garden. A fourth dove watched me from the black walnut railing that led up to the second floor.

“Why . . .” I trailed off.

“You mean
who
. I have Regina Blocken to thank for those buzzards. They were supposed to take part in Olivia’s reception in our ballroom Saturday. That’s not going to happen now. I suppose you know why.” Maggie’s eyes narrowed and even though I hadn’t seen her in several years, I recognized her killer instinct look. I imagine that it was the same expression that a hungry cheetah wore when spotting his four-legged dinner. “I suspect you know all about that. I read about your brother in the paper. I’m surprised the little weakling had it in him. He was such a wimp in high school.”

I gave her a wan smile. “Well, Maggie, that’s why I’m here. I’m looking for her fiancé, Kirk Row. I was told he was staying here.”

“He is, but he won’t be much longer if he doesn’t make good on his bill. He better not pull a fast one like the Blockens are trying pull.”

“A fast one?” I asked, confused.

“The caterer, the cake decorator, the dove trainer, or whatever that guy is, and us are all getting stiffed. The Blockens claim since the wedding was canceled, they shouldn’t have to pay their bills. Luckily, I have non-refundable deposit to fall back on for the reception hall. I guess the dove guy wasn’t so lucky. Not that I won’t be taking a major loss. I had three other people who wanted to rent the ballroom for this week, and I had to turn them all down because of the Blocken wedding. I called them earlier today to see if any of them were still interested, but they’d made other arrangements months ago.”

“Wow, that’s too bad,” I said, barely containing my anger at her callousness. Had I not needed her to tell me where I could find Kirk, I would have hit her; I’ve wanted to hit her for years.

“You’re telling me.” She leaned on the reception desk, resting her arms on the guest book.

The doves cooed in tandem from above.

“If there won’t be a reception, why are the doves still here?”

Maggie grimaced and shot a nasty look at the bird clinging to the chandelier. If I were a dove, I would be up in a chandelier out of Maggie’s reach, too. She looked like she wanted to serve the bird up for dinner. “The trainer said he was leaving the doves here until he was paid. I told him it would be a cold night in hell before he gets his money out of Regina Blocken. If he doesn’t pick them up by the end of the day today, I’m calling animal control. If he wanted to make a statement to the Blockens about the birds, he should have left them on the Blockens’ doorstep, not on mine.”

I felt bad for the doves, but knew that I couldn’t add four large doves to the mix of warring felines back at my apartment. “I’m sure he’ll come. They must be very valuable to him.”

The doves cooed agreement.

“Why are you looking for Kirk, anyway?” Her dark brown eyes were trained on me.

“I wanted to see how he was doing. I’m worried about him.” This was technically true. I was worried about Kirk—worried about what he would do to Mark if he ever got his hands on him.

She shrugged. “I’m not supposed to do this, but since I’m going to kick him to the curb if he doesn’t pay up, why not?”

“Gee, thanks,” I said.

Either Maggie missed the sarcasm or didn’t care, because she said, “He’s in room twelve on the second floor.” She pointed to the staircase. “Just take that staircase up there.”

“Is he here?”

Maggie shrugged again. “I haven’t seen him, but I can call up to his room to check and let him know that you are here.”

“No,” I said quickly. “Don’t bother. I’ll just run up there and see for myself.”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “He has a temper on him, so don’t get him riled up. I don’t want any damage done to my Cookery. If there is any trouble, I will have to finish that swirly that we started in high school, understand?” The seriousness of her threat was carried all the way to her eyes.

I swallowed and headed up the stairs without a word. The doves watched me warily. Upstairs, a corridor lined with wallpaper patterned after peacock feathers led to my right. An oriental floor runner lined the passageway. The corridor was dark. The overhead light was off, and I had only the natural light from the large rosette window that loomed over the staircase to guide me. At the end of the hallway, I was grateful to see another small window. I hadn’t noticed it so much on the first floor, but the Cookery Inn had that particular smell that is common to many older buildings, a mixture of must, old wood, and something else I could never quite identify. Brass plate numbers marked each door. Number twelve was the very last room.

No light escaped through from under the door. I knocked lightly. There was no answer. Of course, I had knocked so gently that it wouldn’t have disturbed one of my mother’s church mice. I stood up straighter and gave the door a brisk rat-a-tat-tat. Still, no answer.

The door to number ten opened instead, and a slim figure stepped out. In the dimness, I couldn’t make out a face.