Murder Had a Little Lamb (14 page)

I moved farther inside, glancing around at the
stacks of books, the rows of computers, and long tables framed by comfy-looking chairs. I was about to seek out a reference librarian in the name of saving time when the sight of a familiar face stopped me cold.

Beanie was sitting at a large table, her narrow shoulders tense as she hunched over something I couldn’t quite see. Her posture caused her lank black hair to hang down along the sides of her face, nearly hiding it from view. I could just see the tip of her pointed nose sticking out from behind her veil. In fact, I might not have even recognized her if it wasn’t for the same bright red T-shirt she’d worn in class earlier that day.

But what interested me as I grew closer was the book lying open in front of her, a thick volume with large, glossy pages. Even from a distance, I could see that they were printed in rich color. I could also see that she appeared to be totally absorbed by what she was looking at.

I wandered over, trying to look lost in thought. As I walked by her, I glanced in her direction casually, then put on a surprised expression.

“Beanie!” I cried. “I thought that was you!”

She glanced up, then stared at me for a few seconds, as if she was having trouble placing me.

“Oh!” she finally exclaimed. “Dr. Popper! Sorry. I was in a daze.”

“So I see.” I drifted over to her side. “Doing homework?”

“Not really,” she said with a shrug. “I was just looking at this art history book. Every time I come in here, I can’t resist.”

Peering over her shoulder, I commented, “I recognize that painting. It’s by Botticelli, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” she said, her brown eyes widening.

“Don’t tell me:
The Birth of Venus.”

“Wow, you know about art, too, Dr. Popper!” Beanie exclaimed, sounding impressed. “And here I would have thought that since you’re a veterinarian, all you knew about was science.”

Just don’t ask me anything about African drumming, I thought.

“It’s a pretty cool painting, don’t you think?” Beanie asked, still staring at the page.

“Very cool,” I agreed, not mentioning that she and I weren’t exactly the only ones who thought so.

“It’s supposed to show Venus, the goddess of love, emerging from the sea,” she added. “A lot of art historians believe that the model was a beautiful woman who was the mistress of a really important man. A member of the Medici family, the famous art patrons who lived in Florence in the fourteen hundreds. It seems Botticelli was in love with her, too.”

“You certainly know a lot about art,” I commented.

“Not really,” she said. “I took Mr. Stibbins’s class last semester, Introduction to Art History. That’s how I met Campbell, in fact, since she signed up for it when she got here. We took another class with him, too, a studio art class. We were both crazy about him. What a great teacher!”

“I see,” I said simply.

“But let me show you my favorite painting,” Beanie insisted, growing excited again as she flipped through
the pages of the book until she found the plate she was looking for. “Here it is!”

I glanced over the shoulder at two colorful plates placed side by side. Both pictured a woman reclining on white pillows in the exact same pose.

“As you can see, there are actually two paintings,” she noted. “They’re both by the famous Spanish painter Goya. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Yes, I know a little about him, too,” I told her. “I must confess that I took art history, too, back when I was in college.”

“Both paintings are of the same woman,” she explained. “They’re identical, except that in one she’s naked and in the other she’s clothed. They’re called
The Nude Maja
and
The Clothed Maja
. Nobody knows for sure who the woman in the painting was, but people think that she was the Duchess of Alba, a woman Goya was having an affair with.”

“I’ve heard of these paintings,” I said, studying them. “But I don’t remember the story behind them.”

Probably because I was too busy studying for my bio exams to spend as much time as I should have on my art history assignments, I thought grimly.

“Mr. Stibbins told us why this one,
The Nude Maja
, was so important,” Beanie continued, pointing. “He said it was the first painting of a naked lady in Western art that wasn’t supposed to be of some mythical character. Goya had a special way of hanging the two paintings so that he could display one of them to people who he wanted to see the nude and the other when he wanted to show the one of the woman with her clothes on.”

“Interesting,” I remarked. “It sounds as if Mr. Stibbins really knew his stuff.”

“He sure did,” Beanie said sadly. “I’m going to miss hearing his lectures.”

“And it seems like you really enjoy learning about art,” I added. I tried to hide my surprise that a young woman like Beanie, one who seemed more concerned with making sure she’d input all her friends’ cellphone numbers into her BlackBerry than with culture, would find classical paintings the least bit interesting. Nathaniel had clearly been an effective teacher.

“I wasn’t interested in art at all before I came to Worth,” Beanie said. “Whenever my family traveled, my mom was always dragging me to museums. The Louvre in Paris, the Prado in Madrid … and this past spring, she took me to Russia for my seventeenth birthday and we spent
hours
at the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. I was bored out of my skull, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Rolling her eyes, she added, “You know how moms can be.”

It was hard for me to feel sorry for someone who was being forced to stroll through the world’s great art museums. The best I could do was to let out a noncommittal grunt.

“But then I took Mr. Stibbins’s course,” she continued. “It totally changed the way I look at things. Especially paintings. Now I can see what makes certain ones great.”

“That’s wonderful.”

I had to admit that I was pretty impressed by the fine job Poor Cousin Nathaniel had done of getting someone like Beanie to appreciate art. That led
me to wonder about the other teachers at Worth. The music teacher, for example, especially given Reverend Evans’s comment about the friction between Beanie’s beloved art teacher and Claude Molter.

“It’s great that coming to Worth gave birth to what I’m sure will be a lifelong appreciation for art,” I commented. “What about music? I understand the music teacher here—Mr. Molter, I think his name is—is a really accomplished violinist.”

“I guess,” Beanie mumbled with a shrug.

Her lack of enthusiasm about the man prompted me to add, “I understand he was a child prodigy and that he performed all over the world.” When that didn’t get much of a reaction, I tried, “I also heard that he’s a real live count.”

More eye rolling. “That’s the rumor. Frankly, I’ve always wondered if he just made that up. You know, to advance his career or something.”

Interesting idea, I thought, resolving to talk to Claude again the first chance I got.

One more thing to add to my to-do list, I told myself, resisting the urge to do a little eye rolling of my own.

Thinking about how full my schedule was reminded me that today was no exception.

“I enjoyed talking to you,” I told Beanie, “but I’m afraid I have to run. I want to look for some books about nutrition to bring to class tomorrow—and then I have to go practice a little medicine.”

She brightened. “You’re so lucky! You have the best job in the world!”

“One of them anyway,” I agreed.

“I bet taking care of animals is a lot more fun than teaching.” Grimacing, she added, “Reading those essays you assigned yesterday, for example. It is summer school, you know, so you don’t really have to give us homework. A lot of the other teachers don’t.”

“I thought it would be kind of fun for you to write about your pets,” I explained.

Beanie made another face. “Homework is always a drag, no matter what it is.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I promised.

I moved to the section of the library in which I thought I’d find the books on animal care I was looking for. But once I was out of view, I couldn’t resist sitting down and peeking at the essays I’d collected at the end of class. I riffled through them until I found Beanie’s, then skimmed it.

It wasn’t half bad. She’d written that she loved the way her pug, Esmeralda, was always so happy to see her. Since she boarded at Worth, she only saw her beloved pooch on the weekends and vacations when she went home to New York City. She said that even though she missed a lot of things about home, including her own room and her own refrigerator, being reunited with her dog was always the best part.

Given Beanie’s antihomework sentiments, I thought with surprise, that was actually a pretty nice little essay.

Curious to see how some of the other girls had approached the assignment, I skimmed through a few more.

I stopped, puzzled, when I started reading the fifth or sixth essay in the pile. Something about it struck me
as familiar. The words that were used, the way the sentences were constructed, even the same word, “receive,” misspelled the same way. Puzzled, I looked back at the others I’d read, trying to put two and two together.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that this essay, which had Campbell Atwater’s name at the top, had been written by Beanie—or vice versa.

One of these two girls is doing the other’s homework, I realized with irritation. And I have a feeling I know who’s doing whose work.

Vondra was right, I thought angrily. Campbell really does have an exceptional sense of entitlement.

Still, given the real reason why I was at the Worth School, I didn’t plan to make an issue of it. In fact, I decided that I might follow Beanie’s advice and stop giving out homework assignments altogether.

But I was still irked by the fact that cheating was going on in my class. Once again, I thought back to Dorothy’s assessment of the students at Worth. I hated to admit that the woman was right about anything, but this was one more time that I had no choice but to agree with her.

•   •   •

I’d barely climbed into my van before my cellphone rang. When I glanced at the caller ID and saw who was calling, I debated whether to answer for about two seconds. That was how long it took me to remember that, my personal feelings aside, I was trying to investigate a murder.

“Forrester, I’m on my way to a house call,” I
greeted my caller. “Unless it’s important, I really don’t have time right now.”

“This is definitely in the ‘important’ category,” he assured me. “In fact, I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Forrester, will you give it up?” I said, exasperated. “I thought I made it clear that I’m not interested in any—”

“You’re not interested in Nathaniel Stibbins’s murder?” he interrupted, feigning surprise. “Sorry, I guess I misunderstood. I’ll just leave you to—”

“All right,” I said huffily. “You know perfectly well you just said the magic words. Tell me: What have you got?”

“How about a trip to the dearly departed’s place of residence?”

I gasped. “Nathaniel’s house?”

“I suppose that’s a simpler way of putting it,” he replied. “Much less intriguing, however. I always enjoy a well-turned phrase—”

“Are you going to the murder victim’s house or not?” I demanded.

“Not only
to
it, but also
inside
it.”

“And how do you intend to pull
that
off?”

“Hey, it’s just a question of knowing the right people,” he replied breezily.

“Falcone.” It was a statement, not a question. “When can we go?” I asked, my heart pounding so fast and so hard that I was afraid he could hear it through the phone. Poking around the Worth School, seeking out the people who had known Nathaniel and asking as many questions as I could—largely about
one another—was certainly valuable. But Dorothy had been right about the value of actually getting to see where he lived … Who knew what that might yield? “Should I meet you there, or do you want to drive over together?”

“Whoa. Not so fast,” Forrester insisted. “I never said this generous offer came without any strings attached.”

Of course, I thought irritably. I should have known.

“Okay, Forrester,” I said, not even trying to hide my exasperation. “What do you want from me?”

“You should know better than to ask any self-respecting male a question like that,” he replied. He sounded so amused that I wished I’d had the presence of mind to phrase my question differently. “But here’s what I’ll settle for: dinner.”

“That’s all?”

“At your place.”

I hesitated for a couple of seconds before saying, “I’m sure Nick would go along with that. In fact, we could invite some other people, too, so that you—”

“I’m not interested in a party,” Forrester insisted. “I want dinner at that cozy little cottage of yours with nobody home but you.”

“But—but that’s ridiculous!” I cried.

“Why? Or are you going to pull out that tired old line for the millionth time about how you’re engaged?”

“I
am
engaged!”

“Then what harm could it possibly be to entertain an old friend for the evening?”

Forrester Sloan certainly wasn’t an
old
friend. In
fact, I wouldn’t necessarily consider him a
friend
. But I wasn’t going to argue about semantics. Not when I was still trying to get him to include me in his expedition to the Stibbins residence.

“Let me ask you something, Forrester,” I said. “Given the fact that I’m engaged—and given the fact that you and I tried going on something that vaguely resembled a date once before—what on earth could you possibly hope to gain by having dinner with me at my house?”

“You may recall that that date of ours was kind of a disaster,” he pointed out.

“I won’t argue about that,” I agreed.

He took a deep breath before saying, “Actually, I believe the main reason it went so badly was that there was simply too much going on at that restaurant I brought you to. It turned out that half the people there knew me.”

“And ninety percent of them wanted you to do them a favor,” I added. I shuddered at the memory of the countless number of times we’d been interrupted by people who were lobbying for an article in the newspaper about themselves, their organization, or their cause.