Murder Had a Little Lamb (30 page)

“On the surface, it looked as if he was doing just fine,” he continued. “Teaching art at a fancy school and all that. But I was hoping there was more to it, that deep down he was miserable. A lifelong disease he had to live with, a history of difficult relationships, something along those lines.”

He paused to let out a deep sigh. “But in the end I decided to let it go. I never even followed up with my plan to find the music teacher. There didn’t seem to be any point. What’s done is done, and every day I try to learn to live with it.”

A look of shock suddenly crossed his face. “But you thought I might have murdered him, didn’t you? You thought the terrible thing he did to me almost twenty-five years ago had finally caught up with him!”

I couldn’t bring myself to lie. “It did cross my mind.”

“I suppose I don’t blame you,” he said, the creases in his forehead deepening. “But from what I know of Nathaniel’s character, he undoubtedly angered a lot of other people over the past two and a half decades. If you’re trying to find out which one of them finally became furious enough to kill him, it sounds as if you’ve really got your work cut out for you.”

I guess that’s what happens with the black sheep of the family, I thought grimly. It’s not only his relatives
who figure out that he’s someone they’d rather not have around.

“Which brings me to the question of how you even found out about me,” he added. He picked up his mug once again, keeping his eyes fixed on me as he took another sip.

“A distant relative of Nathaniel’s told me about what happened at Schottsburg,” I told him. “She remembered your name.”

Frowning, Willard asked, “But why was this distant relative even talking to you about Nathaniel in the first place?”

I hesitated before answering. Maybe I haven’t always been correct in my judgments of people’s character, but Willard Faber struck me as somebody who was exactly who he appeared to be. Which led me to conclude that I could be as honest with him as I believed he was being with me.

“She’s my future mother-in-law,” I told him. “She asked me to try to find out who killed him.”

“Because she was so upset?” he asked dryly.

I cast him a sardonic smile. “Actually, it was because she was afraid having a murder in the family would look bad. She wanted me to make it all go away before too many people found out about something so shameful.”

“I see. And how did you locate my address? Or even find out I lived around here?”

With a little shrug, I replied, “Just like you, I have a great appreciation for the magic of the Internet.”

“I see,” he said with a little smile. “So tell me more about Stibbins getting murdered. I hadn’t heard about
it, since I try to insulate myself by avoiding newspapers and the news on TV. Who finally gave that son of a—sorry. Who finally gave him what he deserved?”

“That’s a question I can’t answer,” I told him honestly. “But it’s precisely what I’m trying to find out.”

A heavy silence fell over us both. I filled the lull in the conversation by taking another sip of tea.

As I did, another question occurred to me. “Willard,” I asked abruptly, “do you have any idea why Nathaniel stole that van in the first place?”

He looked surprised by my question. “You mean you never heard that part of the story?”

I shook my head.

“To impress a girl,” he said. “Not just any girl, either. Daphne Lindner was the prettiest and most popular girl in our class. She was also someone who normally wouldn’t have given Stibbins the time of day. Which was all the more reason he was dying to come up with a way of impressing her.” With a little shrug, he added, “Taking her on a joy ride was the idea he came up with.”

“So she was in the van, too?”

“That’s right. Everyone knew about that. Schottsburg was like a small town. No secrets. But after Stibbins wrecked it and was caught red-handed, Daphne’s name was never brought into it.” The bitterness was back in his voice as, almost as an afterthought, he muttered, “Not that that was any surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Daphne Lindner’s father was one of the school’s primary benefactors,” he said coldly. “The man had
money beyond belief. Powerful connections, too. In fact, even though Daphne was beautiful, her social status was the real reason Stibbins was interested in her.”

“You mean he was a social climber?” I asked.

“It’s more like he was always determined to make himself more important than he was. He loved hobnobbing with the rich and famous and socially connected. That’s why he was trying to impress Daphne in the first place. It’s also why there was no way he was going to let himself get in trouble for stealing that van. Being at a place like Schottsburg simply meant too much to him. So he looked for the most obvious stool pigeon, which meant somebody who didn’t have a rich father who’d go to bat for him.”

“And that turned out to be you,” I concluded.

With a sad smile, Willard held up his mug of tea as if he were making a toast. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

•   •   •

As I drove away from Willard Faber’s house, the tragedy of his life filled me with sadness. It was hard to say how things would have turned out for him if that incident with Nathaniel had never occurred and he’d been able to finish his education at a prestigious prep school like Schottsburg.

And while I’d instinctively trusted the man and everything he’d told me, I knew I had to at least consider the possibility that he may have been lying. I still didn’t believe he would have been capable of murdering Nathaniel, given where the stabbing had taken
place. Not when he was bound to a wheelchair. But his story about his relationship with Claude Molter could have contained inaccuracies. It was something I hoped to check out.

At the moment, I was much more interested in what I’d learned about Nathaniel.

So the man yearned for recognition, especially from the rich and powerful, I thought as I eased onto the Long Island Expressway. And he was willing to go to any lengths to achieve that end—no matter who he hurt or even destroyed in the process.

Now that I knew the details of the incident at Schottsburg, my mind kept drifting back to what Dr. Goodfellow had told me about Nathaniel’s recent promotion. From what I could tell, he had taken advantage of her obvious affection for him to snatch the position of Director of Creativity away from his onetime friend, Claude Molter.

I wondered if Claude might be willing to tell me anything more about it.

And so right after Thursday morning’s class, I headed straight for the Center for Creative Self-Expression. Just like the last time I’d come looking for him, Claude was making magic with his violin in one of the practice rooms.

Which meant the door was closed—and that once again I was going to have to disturb his practice session.

Still, the alleged musical genius wasn’t nearly as intimidating this time around. As I rapped on the door, all I had to do was remind myself that I wasn’t interrupting a Belgian count who’d performed with
the Prague Symphony Orchestra practically before he’d begun sprouting facial hair. I was simply trying to initiate a conversation with Carl Dougherty of Delaware, Ohio.

He jerked the door open, looking just as cross this time as he had the last time I’d come a-knocking.

“Mr. Molter,” I said politely, “I know you’re busy, but there’s something important I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Ye-e-es?” he asked, sounding skeptical about the possibility that I could possibly have anything that was even remotely important to say.

“It’s information I need for the memorial service,” I continued.

Even though the expression on his face made it clear he wasn’t buying that, either, I took advantage of the small gap between him and the doorway to step into the practice room.

“Mind if I come in?” I asked boldly.

Since I was already in, there was nothing he could do but make that sweeping arm gesture that means “please enter.”

“I won’t take up much of your time,” I went on, aware that I was babbling. “I’m trying to find out more about this upcoming art exhibition of Nathaniel’s. The one that was scheduled to open at the Mildred Judsen Gallery soon.”

When his expression didn’t soften, I added, “The one you told me about, remember?” I hoped reminding him that he’d been the one who’d brought it up in the first place would give him a reason to be forthright with me this time around.

“Oh, I remember,” he assured me with a cold smile. “How could I forget, when it’s something I’ve been obsessing over ever since I heard about it?”

The word
obsessing
grabbed my interest.

“Why?” I asked, hoping he couldn’t hear the thumping of my heart.

“Because Nathaniel didn’t deserve it,” Claude replied with a sniff. “He was good, but he wasn’t
that
good, if you catch my meaning.”

“But the people at the Mildred Judsen Gallery must have thought so,” I insisted. “After all, they’re the ones who make the decisions about which artists to showcase.” Then, wondering if perhaps some subtlety of the operations of the art world eluded me, I added, “Aren’t they?”

He responded with another condescending smile. Only this one was accompanied by a hard look in his eyes. “Let’s just say the people at the Mildred Judsen Gallery know what sells,” he said archly, “as well as what’s likely to garner them the most publicity.”

I frowned. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you mean.” Maybe it’s because you insist on talking in riddles, I thought impatiently.

“How could you understand?” he replied in a lofty tone. “As someone who’s not familiar with the intricate workings of the art world, you would have no way of knowing that a gallery like the Mildred Judsen thrives on sensationalism. Or, to use a word that’s even more accurate, exploitation.”

I just stared at him for a few seconds before asking, “Are you saying there was something exploitative about the paintings Nathaniel planned on showing?”

“To be honest, I’ve never actually seen them,” Claude replied icily. “Nathaniel always made such a big deal about his privacy, especially where his paintings were concerned. He kept them under lock and key, right here in his studio in the arts building. And frankly, that’s probably where they’ll stay, now that the Mildred Judsen Gallery has sent them back. That is, at least until someone finds his will and figures out what he intended to do with them after he died.”

Before I had a chance to ask him about what he’d meant when he’d used words like sensationalism and exploitation, Claude suddenly said in an icy tone, “Dr. Popper, I’ve noticed that you seem to be unusually interested in Nathaniel Stibbins.” He hesitated a few seconds before adding, “I’ve heard a few other people remark about it, as well.”

“Really?” My voice sounded less certain than I would have liked. “I guess I’m just curious. I mean, I’d barely started working here at Worth when I found out that one of the teachers was recently—”

“But you’re not working here,” he interrupted me. “You volunteered.”

I raised my chin higher in the air. “Yes, that’s right. I wanted to share what I know about animal care.”

His lips twisted into a sneer. “I’ve heard of do-gooders wanting to work with the underprivileged,” he said, “but I must say that I’ve never heard of anyone going out of her way to work with the
privileged.”

I could feel my cheeks burning, a sign that by this point they were undoubtedly bright red.

I was trying to think up an excuse, some way of justifying
my sudden appearance on the Worth School faculty, when he leaned closer. As his nose approached mine, I instinctively leaned back. But I quickly found out that my head was a lot closer to the wall than I’d realized.

“You know, Dr. Popper,” he said, his steel-gray eyes boring into mine, “you might be better off leaving all this alone. When you go snooping around somewhere you don’t belong, you don’t know what you’re going to find out—or who you’re going to upset once you do.”

A chill ran through me as I realized that Claude Molter had just threatened me. At least I thought he had.

Or maybe he was just giving me some advice. Some
good
advice.

After all, it’s possible that he knows who killed Nathaniel, I thought, still wriggling under his gaze. And he’s trying to help me protect my skin.

Either that—or he’s trying to protect his own.

•   •   •

After such an intense day, I expected to have a hard time falling asleep. Instead, as soon as I slipped between the sheets, comfortably cool in my usual oversize T-shirt and underpants, I sank deep into oblivion.

Yet at some point afterward—it could have been minutes or hours later—I felt myself being dragged out of a deep, satisfying state of unconsciousness.

While at first I drifted slowly to the surface, I suddenly snapped awake.

Something felt wrong.

My eyes flew open, but for a second or two, I remained totally disoriented. Although my bedroom was still dark, through the window I could see that the sky had begun to lighten.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary, yet something was making me afraid.

And then, in a flash, I knew why.

Dark curls of smoke filled the room, stinging my eyes and burning my nose.

Which could only mean one thing: The cottage was on fire.

I
nstantly a deluge of adrenaline began surging through my entire body.

“Nick?” I instinctively cried, fighting feelings of panic as I threw back the covers.

It only took me a split second to remember that he wasn’t in the house with me. But my animals were.

As I leaped out of bed and my feet hit the floor, I brushed against something furry. Max, hovering next to the bed, no doubt frightened himself.

I was already in survival mode as I scooped my trembling doggie into my arms.

“It’s okay, Max,” I told him in a hoarse voice. “I’ll get you out of here. I’ll get us all out of here.”