Murder as a Second Language (21 page)

“Earth to Claire,” Bartek said, interrupting my mental rambling. “Are you there? Your eyes are glazed, and you're beginning to drool. How about something more potent to drink?”

I definitely was not beginning to drool. “No, thank you. It's not five o'clock in my fantasy land. Can you think of anything else that happened while you were at the Literacy Council?”

“I didn't notice anyone lurking in the shadows or breaking a window, if that's what you mean. If you won't have a drink, how about a plate of green-bean casserole? A slice of lemon bundt cake? A ham and cheese sandwich?”

It crossed my mind that green-bean casserole was the quintessential American covered dish, but I had not yet lost all my dignity. I ignored the plea from my stomach. “My daughter and I went out to lunch earlier. Oh, I tracked down Ludmila's friend from the senior citizens center. His name is Duke Kovac. I thought I'd invite him to the potluck.”

“The more the merrier. We can reminisce about my grandmother, beloved member of the Farberville Literacy Council international family. I must ask him how he avoided her slings and arrows of outrage.”

I needed to think, so I put all thoughts of lemon bundt cake aside and told him that I needed to go home. He followed me to the front door and gave me a hug. “It was lovely, Claire, and I look forward to the festivities tomorrow.”

I wiggled free and escaped to my car. Bartek was behaving like a child who'd been set free in a carnival with a pocketful of money. When he came home, he could revel in the solitude. The only lectures he had to endure were his own. His motive was blaring more loudly than his music, but I couldn't see how he'd done the deed. The Literacy Council was locked, and Toby was in a back room with the vacuum cleaner. If Bartek had told me the truth, that is. I came up with a scenario. Ludmila was sitting inside the building, working herself into a vile snit. Toby had not yet arrived. She admitted Bartek and tore into him with the fury of Euryale, daughter of the Gorgons and blessed with the art of bellowing death screams. They'd ended up in the copy room. What happened there could have been an accident. Once he concealed the body, he went out the front door and made sure it was locked. Toby arrived later and had no reason to look in the room.

I braked for a squirrel as I embellished my scenario, adding dialogue and choreographing the dance that ended in the copy room. It was plausible. Bartek seemed pleasant enough, but he could have been building resentment for a year. Hell hath no fury like a repressed linguist with a harridan for a houseguest. She wasn't a paragon of health, but she could have survived another decade. I doubt any assisted living facility would take her.

It was premature to take this to Peter, since he was obsessed with evidence and other petty annoyances, and I didn't know what he knew. Since I was near the campus, I decided to find out what Drake Whitbream knew about his son's arrival at the Literacy Council Monday night. We were on the board of directors. Surely that made us comrades. I found a parking space designated for visitors and walked to the building that housed the business school. Only a few students were visible. I surmised that most of them preferred morning classes in summer school so they could loll about their apartment complexes in the afternoon. No one needed to study at the library; everything was on the Internet and only a click away. The business majors were nowhere to be seen outside the building. I went inside and gazed at an empty hallway that was poorly lit and smelled like ammonia. The office was on my right, but the door was locked. A sign announced that summer hours were in effect and the office closed at four o'clock. I checked my watch and realized I'd missed the mass exodus by five minutes.

Footsteps echoed on an unseen staircase, and a woman with a briefcase appeared midway down the hall. She started toward a door at the far end of the hall. “Hello,” I called. She obligingly stopped and looked back at me, assessing the possibility that I was a deranged grad student. “Can you please tell me where Dean Whitbream's office is?”

“Second floor, next to the elevator.” She hurried away in the opposite direction, unconvinced by my pleasant voice and air of civility.

The sign taped on the elevator made it clear that the only way to the second floor was via a staircase. Even as I went upstairs to ask Drake if his son might be a murderer, I couldn't stop thinking about the potluck. Guacamole was more fitting at a Cinco de Mayo festival in Guadalajara, when margaritas might be on the menu. Peanut butter and jelly crepes? I realized I had reached the second floor without considering how to approach Drake. It was likely that he had left for the day, but I knocked on his door and then went inside. “Drake? It's Claire Malloy.”

The first room was his secretary's domain. After a moment, an inner door opened and Drake stuck out his head. “Ah, Claire. What are you doing here?”

His face was flushed, and his shirt was partially unbuttoned. I turned as red as he had. “Please forgive me if I'm interrupting you,” I said. “I just dropped by to talk about this dreadful mess at the Literacy Council. Nothing important, really. Why don't I come by at another time when you're not … occupied.”

“Please sit down. I'll be out in a minute. I would like to know what's going on with the investigation. Help yourself to bottled water in the minifridge.” The door closed.

I did my best to pretend I couldn't hear the hushed exchange of words in his inner sanctum. I took a bottle of water as suggested and then sat down on a hard bench. The only magazines on the end table were of a financial sort. I ordered myself to forget about the blasted potluck and formulate a plan to squeeze out all the information Drake had about Toby's arrival at the FLC. I couldn't respond if I were asked about Caron's whereabouts on any given evening. She and Inez were always off to the mall, their favorite pizza place, the bowling alley, a movie theater, or someone's house. They might hit two or three of these destinations. We'd agreed on a midnight curfew unless she called. I doubted Toby had a curfew.

Drake's shirt was buttoned when he joined me, closing the door behind him. “My secretary is on vacation.” He sat down behind her desk. “Have the police located the party responsible for Ludmila's death? What a terrible thing for the Literacy Council. We're already scrabbling for donations. If people associate the council with violence, they'll give their money elsewhere.”

“Have the police questioned you?”

“A few perfunctory questions about what I did after the meeting was adjourned. Did Deputy Chief Rosen question you, too?” He smiled, but he was visibly nervous.

“I told him what I'd seen. I had the impression all of the board members were in the building when I left. Weren't you in Keiko's office?”

“She had someone in there, so I waited to talk to her. I just wanted to know if Toby was doing a satisfactory job. His bedroom looks like a vandalized thrift shop in a war zone. His bathroom should be tested for bacterial diseases. Even his car is a disgrace. I told the housekeeper not to venture into his room, but my wife overruled me. I hate to imagine what his dorm room will look like.”

“Did he clean on Monday night?” Having failed to formulate a clever approach, I went for the jugular.

“Yes, but he didn't get there until ten o'clock. He had car trouble.”

That stopped me. The lights had been on when Bartek showed up at eight thirty. I needed to find out who was the last person to leave. Had he or she left the lights on for Ludmila? It was difficult to imagine that person leaving her to sit in the dark. “The police have talked to him, I suppose,” I said. “Were the lights on when he finally arrived?”

Drake shrugged. “I didn't ask him, but surely the police did. Is that important?”

“Maybe. Do you remember who was hanging around when you left?”

“There were a lot of students, but I don't know any of their names. Gregory was in his office. I didn't see Rick, Austin, or Sonya. Willie went into the classroom where some volunteer was lecturing. Frances's car was parked next to mine, so she was still inside somewhere.”

“You recognized her car?”

“It's a new black Lexus, and she always takes up two parking spaces so no one can park too closely. She's very particular about it. After the May meeting, we walked outside together and she had a fit because a bird had … left its mark on it.”

That stopped me, but only for a few seconds. The idea of Frances following me from the bakery to my house was ludicrous. Elementary school principals do not slash tires. If she wanted to know where I lived—and I couldn't imagine why she would—all she had to do was look in the telephone directory. Except my new address wasn't there, I realized. I hadn't filled out a form at the Literacy Council or had reason to mention my new house. Peter did not allow his address to be listed anywhere. Even so, it made no sense for Frances to be driving around during school hours.

“Is Toby going to clean tonight?” I asked.

“Yes, but not until ten or so. He's going to his brother's baseball game.” Drake stood up. “If that's all, Claire, I need to finish up some paperwork and get out of this mausoleum into the sunshine.”

“Thanks for seeing me.” I left the office and trudged downstairs, mentally replaying the conversation. Drake might have been repeating what Toby had told him, or he might have been watching Toby change a flat tire. This reminded me that I was supposed to go by the garage and have my tires replaced or balanced or whatever needed to be done to them. While I sat in the waiting room, I could resume fretting about the potluck.

*   *   *

Peter was already home when I finally pulled into the driveway at six o'clock. My new tires had behaved impeccably during Farberville's version of rush hour. I could smell lasagna baking in the oven. I greeted my husband in a leisurely, immodest fashion, then went into the master bathroom for a long, hot shower. When I stepped out, I discovered a glass of wine and a rose on the dressing table. He had his flaws, one of them being his reticence to share confidential information with me, but he had many admirable qualities. I changed into clean clothes, towel-dried my hair, and applied a modest touch of perfume before I joined him on the terrace.

“Have you heard from Caron?” I asked him.

“She came home a few minutes ago and is in her room pouting. Now what's making her utterly miserable?”

He'd given me an excellent opening. “Inez has a date with Toby Whitbream. You know, the quarterback on janitorial duty at the Literacy Council. Have you interviewed him?”

“Of course. He's got boyish charm, but he's not the brightest kid I've met. Why would Inez want to go on a date with him? The last book he read probably featured superheroes.”

“Did he mention what time he got to the Literacy Council Monday night?”

“Isn't there some kind of potluck there tomorrow? Have you decided what to take?”

I gritted my teeth and willed myself not to go there. “Please tell me what Toby told you. Did he really get there at ten o'clock because he had car trouble? Were the lights on?”

Peter sighed. “Is there any chance I can change the subject?”

“I can't think of one.” I leaned over and nuzzled his neck. “Just get it out and then we can talk about putting in a greenhouse.”

“Toby said he was skateboarding on the campus with some friends and lost track of time. When he tried to start his car, the battery was dead. His friends were gone, so he had to wait until someone stopped and offered to help him. Whoever it was had jumper cables, but it took them a long time to get the cables attached and start his car. Toby was positive that it was dark by the time he made it to the Literacy Council. When he went inside and saw that it was ten o'clock, he was worried that his father might be pissed at him.”

“Were the lights on?”

“He didn't say. Why is this so important, Claire? Are you withholding information?”

I told him what Bartek had said, then added, “It is important. Who closed the building?”

“Whistler, at eight o'clock or so. He had to shoo out the last few students. He went home and had a couple of stiff drinks. Before you ask, he claims he's never embezzled a dollar and has no idea why he's been accused, nor does he know why Ludmila was giving him grief. Have you heard anything about that?”

“Nobody seems to know. I can't see him pinching her butt or whispering indecent proposals in her ear. He was, by the way, chasing Miao, the Chinese student. Her boyfriend was angry about it.”

He took a sip of wine. “I don't remember her. Was she at the Literacy Council Monday night? Wait … didn't she fly home the next day for a funeral or something?”

“That's her story. Can you check with the airlines?” I wasn't ready to throw Miao and Miss Parchester under the red and white campus bus quite yet. If I was correct, which I needed to determine first. Miss Parchester would come to the potluck. “Oh no,” I wailed suddenly. “The blasted potluck! I put it out of my mind and forgot to stop by the store to look for inspiration. I'm going to feel like a fool tomorrow when I show up empty-handed. I'm on the board of directors, for pity's sake. I'm a supporter, not a moocher. Can I take the lasagna?”

“Go look in the refrigerator.”

I took our empty glasses inside and set them on the counter. I held my breath as I opened the refrigerator door, then let out a whoop when I saw a large platter of deviled eggs, garnished with fresh parsley. They were total Americana. I forgot about wine as I dashed back out to the terrace and threw myself in Peter's lap. “My darling, adorable, fantastic husband!” I smothered him with kisses until he eased me away.

“Calm down,” he said soothingly. “I'm flattered, but I didn't make them. Caron did. She said she didn't want you to rip out your hair and embarrass her in front of her friends. She bought the eggs herself.”