Murder as a Second Language (23 page)

Austin and Rick came in together and stopped at my desk. Austin wore trousers and a white shirt, but his bow tie was bright green. Rick was in standard banker garb. “Glad you two could make it,” I said. Austin had a large paper sack in his arms. “We're not having frozen daiquiris or Long Island iced tea for lunch. The Muslim students are here, and they won't appreciate it.”

“Hey, don't overestimate me,” he said, laughing. “I brought my Crock-Pot, little beef cocktail wienies, and barbecue sauce. It won't offend anyone.”

“What about the Hindus?” Rick asked. “They don't eat beef. That's why I brought all-American doughnuts, freshly made and nicely glazed.”

Austin waggled his finger. “What about the diabetics? Have you no compassion for the insulin-disabled?”

I smiled, but a quick glance at my notes reminded me that Rick was on my list. “Austin, why don't you plug in your Crock-Pot in the back room. Rick, I'd like to talk to you for a minute.”

Austin gave me a crisp salute and left. Rick looked as though he wished he could do the same. “Claire,” he began, “I need to apologize about the other afternoon in the beer garden. I can't claim I was distraught over that woman's death, since I barely knew who she was. I was worried about other things. I am sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“You didn't embarrass me. I spent many an afternoon in a beer garden when I was in grad school. That's not what I want to talk about. On Monday night after the board meeting, someone saw you and Sonya go into Leslie's office and close the door. Was there something you two needed to discuss?”

“It had nothing to do with the meeting.”

“I had the impression that you didn't like her.” I took a deep breath and searched for a tactful way to continue. “If there's something going on between you two, it's none of my business.”

“Between us? She's not my type, I can assure you. She thinks I'm brash, and I think she's trash. Why else would she be shacking up with Gregory?”

“With Gregory?” I stared numbly at him. “Are you serious?”

“I wish I wasn't. This isn't the best place to talk about it. Shall we meet at Mucha Mocha after this requiem potluck, say about one thirty?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, still reeling. Luckily, the front door opened and Willie, Frances, Drake, and Sonya herself came inside, all laden with dishes or boxes, and continued toward the back room. Gregory was older than Sonya, but the age difference wasn't incongruous. They were both single. I'd failed to see any intimate glances between them. On the first day I'd gone to the Literacy Council to volunteer, she'd been displeased with him, almost snappish. If they were having an affair, I didn't want to entertain any visions of what occurred in the bedroom. They were consenting adults.

Before I could assimilate this new information into my grand overview, Bartek arrived. I was glad to see he was in his tweedish outfit rather than shorts and sandals. He came over and said, “What am I supposed to do? I'm sure as hell not going to give a eulogy. I know almost nothing about her life in Poland, but she must have made everybody miserable there, too.”

“All you have to do is look solemn and shake people's hands. This is nothing more than a pretense on everyone's behalf. The students will acknowledge her death, the board members will offer condolences, and we'll be out of here in less than an hour. If you want a drink to brace yourself, try Gregory's office. Let me know if you need glasses and ice.”

I pointed him in the right direction, and he took my advice. I felt like a perky funeral director when Frances came to my desk.

“Shouldn't Gregory be out here?” she asked me.

I held up my hands. “I'm just the unpaid subordinate. He's in his office. Bartek Grabowski is in there, too. Feel free to join them.”

“Perhaps I should talk to Keiko. I doubt Gregory has any idea what's going on here. He rarely does. I'm beginning to regret that we hired him. There were other suitable candidates. I followed up on his references, but I had doubts.” When I raised my eyebrows, she shrugged. “He was the director of a similar nonprofit in one of those little New England states like Connecticut or Rhode Island. The woman I spoke to was vague about the reason he left. I had the impression she wanted to say more.”

“Why did he say he left?”

“He didn't like the winters. We'd listed the opening on a Web site, and he e-mailed a cover letter and his résumé. I verified that he'd done quite well raising money and getting grants. That's the basic job description. Keiko's the one who runs the program, deals with the students' problems, coordinates with the tutors, orders supplies, and unlocks the door every morning. She puts in a lot more hours than Gregory for half his salary. I promised her a raise this fall—if we can afford it. I do want to tell you how much we appreciate your involvement, Claire.”

“Thank you, Frances. I seem to have stepped in at an awkward time.”

“One could say that,” she said. She beckoned to Drake, who was hovering. “I was telling Claire how lucky we are to have her on the board.”

“Very lucky,” he said in a flat voice. “How's your investigation going?”

Clearly I hadn't fooled him by my visit the previous day. “The police are still looking into it,” I said. “So many people to interview, and some of them in their native tongue. They've never had to deal with such a polyglot group. Did you ever meet Ludmila?”

Frances shook her head. “No, but I heard her squawking after several of our board meetings. I avoided her.”

“So did I,” Drake said. “She was obnoxious. Gregory should have found a way to get rid of her.” He stiffened. “That's not to imply that he did. I wish we could blame this unfortunate event on a burglar or a random psychopath. I don't suppose the detectives found signs that a window had been tampered with. There are more than a dozen computers and some expensive audiovisual equipment. It would have been a lucrative heist.”

“You've been watching those TV cop shows, haven't you?” Austin said as he joined us. “I prefer
Sesame Street
.”

“I'm sure you do,” Drake said.

Austin laughed. “You must be Oscar the Grouch. Rick and I are Bert and Ernie. What about you, Frances? Big Bird?”

“This is not the time for frivolity,” she said coldly. “In case you've forgotten, this is a memorial gathering for one of our students.”

“Well, tickle me, Elmo.”

I will admit I snorted, but I managed not to smile.

Students came out of the classroom, and more came in from outside. Gregory and Bartek emerged, both looking mellow. Leslie looked far from mellow, but she greeted the board members and accompanied them toward the back classroom. The reception area and lounge were uninhabited—as was Leslie's office. Feeling remarkably guilty, I hurried inside it and closed the door. My note from Waterford had been crumpled and discarded on the floor. I resisted an impulse to pick it up and opened a folder on her desk. Like the ones I'd found at her home, it contained a résumé and a photograph of a man, this one with a beard. I flipped over the page to expose a photograph of an earnest young blond woman. A second folder contained the résumé of an Asian man and a sticky note with “Jennifer?” written on it. The next folder was for a slightly older woman who, according to her résumé, was a graduate student at the University of Arizona. Her name was not Jennifer.

I was beginning to worry that my absence might be noticed. I replaced the folders as best I could and left Leslie's office. I almost yelped when Yelena materialized and grabbed my arm.

“You must taste my
soleniye ogurscy
, Claire.”

The back classroom was crowded, and people were balancing plates in the hall and seated at cubicles. The cacophony of voices was louder than a college bar on Saturday night. Caron and Inez were in a corner, eating pizza and texting. As Yelena deftly elbowed people aside, I saw Duke in the doorway. I accepted a plate with a bright green pickle and squirmed my way out of the throng.

“I'm glad you could make it,” I said to Duke. “Have you met Ludmila's grandson, Bartek?”

“Once when he came to pick her up at the senior center. He was impatient with her. One should respect one's grandparents. Without them, one would not be born, right?”

“I cannot argue with that. Would you like a pickle?”

“I would always like a pickle, Claire Malloy. Have the police found out who killed Ludmila?” He bit into the pickle, which crunched in response.

“I don't think they've made much progress. Can you remember anything she might have said about someone having a dirty secret?”

“I've been trying to think back. She detested the director and called him
swistak
.” He spelled it for me. “I looked it up in a Polish dictionary. It means ‘whistler.'”

“That's his name,” I said. “Did you look up any other words?”

“They are not fit for your delicate ears. When I asked her why she used such words when speaking of him, she muttered and I could not understand her. To be honest, I didn't want to know. I tried to get her to talk about the weather, the flower gardens, the farmers' market, the news, anything. She did like to talk about how Bartek was an important professor at Farber College. I encouraged her.”

I sent him into the fray to fight for food. It was curious that Ludmila's most vituperative curse was merely Gregory's last name. I couldn't envision anyone cringing if I were to throw his last name at him. A twenty-watt bulb lit up above my head. I hurried back to my desk and wrote down the word before I muddled it. It suggested a new line of inquiry that I'd totally missed.

The sudden silence caught my attention, so I returned to the back room. Yelena stood on a chair, dressed in a long black raincoat. “Passing away of life must be honored,” she announced in trembling voice. “I will now tell you sad story about passing away of beautiful peasant girl.” She reverted to Russian and leapt into her narrative. Her voice rose and fell, and her arms flapped like the wings of a convulsive condor. At the height of her recitation, she became so agitated that she would have fallen off the chair if Austin hadn't steadied her. She shrieked a few more words, took a quick glance at Austin, and collapsed into his arms with a shuddery sigh.

We all clapped with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Yelena bowed, reveling in her ten seconds of fame. Since I was not the emcee, I stayed by the door and let Frances take the spotlight. While she droned on about the terrible loss and the importance of carrying on in the face of tragedy, I eyed the remaining food. The platters, plates, and casserole dishes contained only scraps and smears. Even Yelena's pickles had been devoured. Austin's Crock-Pot was soaking in the sink. Chocolate cake crumbs looked like well-fed ants. I'd given my pickle to Duke.

Keiko sidled up to me. “Did you like my sashimi, Claire-san?”

I sadly admitted I hadn't had a chance to eat anything. I shot a dirty look at Gregory, who was still grazing on a laden plate. I hoped someone had brought pickled pigs' eyes and fried newts to the party and he had gulped them down, despite his snooty remarks made earlier. Frances introduced Bartek. He thanked everyone for the lovely memorial, shook hands as he made his way to the door, and gave me a harried smile.

“Survival of the fittest,” he said. “I hope I'll see you soon, Claire. I'd love to drink wine with you and discuss anything else but Babcia. Anything else.” Before I could retreat, he gave me yet another hug that made me uncomfortable. “Come by later,” he whispered in my ear.

I freed myself. “I have plans for the afternoon—and I also have a husband whom I adore. If I have any more questions, I'll call.” I caught Austin's arm as he came out and let him escort me to my desk.

“You and Bartek got a thing?” He smirked, but I wasn't offended. If I were a cougar, I'd be pursuing him. His smile faded. “What's going on with the investigation? Are they getting close?”

“My husband won't tell me anything. I have a long list of unanswered questions, but I'm floundering.”

“I hope you don't suspect Rick.”

“Should I?” I countered. “I can come up with a possible narration in which he stayed in Leslie's office until he thought everyone had gone. He went into Gregory's office to resume prowling through the paperwork. Ludmila surprised him. They scuffled and she fell. If you'll wait a minute, I'll come up with a more elaborate story.”

“Rick and I left together and went across the street to the bar. He's a decent dude, maybe a tiny bit obsessive, but he wouldn't harm anyone. You know what they say about bankers' blood.”

“No, I don't.”

“They don't have any.”

Austin waited for me to laugh, but I was considering this new scenario. Austin would give Rick an alibi in any circumstances. “How long did you stay at the bar?” I asked him.

“Maybe a couple of hours. He was pissed about what happened at the meeting. I was home before midnight. Take care of yourself, Claire. Somebody out there is not a nice person.”

“True.” He left, and I sat down at my desk, more confused than ever. Ludmila had been in the middle of a spiderweb, which she built herself, but there were lines radiating in all directions. It was a very complex web. I was fine-tuning the analogy when Caron and Inez came over.

Inez failed to make eye contact. It was preferable to Caron's glare. “You do remember that you have to go to the store on your way home,” she said. “Expect at least twenty people. I Cannot Believe you made me do this. What's Joel going to think when he gets home and hears I've been having wild parties?”

“Then don't have a wild party, dear.” I saw Miss Parchester slip out the door, but it would be unseemly to tackle her in the parking lot and drag her back inside. “I'll get enough food for forty, and we can freeze what we don't use.”