Murder in the English Department (8 page)

How obvious was her silence? She had so much to tell Matt. Still, she hesitated. Common sense? It wasn't safe to talk about life and death matters on the telephone.

‘Say, what's wrong, sweet?' asked Matt, now truly concerned. ‘Just what
did
you do last night?'

Besides, Nan was thinking, it might still be a nightmare. It hadn't made the news yet. Maybe she had imagined it all.

‘Speak up, lady,' said Matt.

Nan chose a light tone. ‘Oh, with my family. Shirl and Joe had a horrible party.'

‘That explains the mood. The only cure for family is two sleeping pills and a good night's rest.'

‘Three sleeping pills,' said Nan, trying to imitate his good humour. ‘Will I see you at student enrolment day tomorrow?'

‘Wouldn't miss it for my life,' laughed Matt. ‘See you then.'

Nan pulled down the sofa bed, parted the sea green sheets and climbed in. This was all a nightmare, she repeated to herself, a nightmare. And now it was time to rest.

It took an hour of meditation, seven glasses of water and four sleeping pills before she fell asleep. She must have dreamed deeply, because she was startled awake by the plop of the morning newspaper against her screen door. Usually she had finished jogging by the time the paper arrived. The day was splendidly sunny. Nan managed to stave off the shadow of terror as she listened to Saint-Saëns, brewed some Viennese coffee, boiled her egg. She opened the window wide, to give herself the effect of sitting on a balcony.

When she unrolled
The Chronicle
, Nan was confronted with the flaccid face of Angus Murchie and the headline,
MURDER IN THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT.

Chapter Seven

THE FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR
of Wheeler Hall reminded Nan of Pacheco High School where she was teaching when JFK was assassinated. Now, as on that terrible day sixteen years before, her colleagues moved like malignant shadows, their voices hushed with dark gossip.

‘Terrible.'

‘Shocking.'

‘Tragic.'

‘Incredible.'

The faculty greeted each other with single words and sober nods. Tucked discreetly in their own offices, friends speculated with friends on motive and method. Several people recalled the time when a student, raging from a bad grade, tried to stab a history professor.

Nan did not join any of these knots of people. Exchanging a few condolences, she headed straight for her office. She rang Matt, but he was not in.

Ten minutes after she had settled down to her desk, there was a quick rap on the door.

‘Yes,' she said, hoping it would be Matt, ‘Come in.'

And in ambled a spectacled, muscular young man carrying a load of books. His frowning face was glued to an IBM class card.

‘They say this needs to be signed to get into your Mod Lit course,' he said, almost sticking the card in her eye. ‘I don't have the pre-req.'

‘“Mod Lit”, “pre-req”, are you sure it isn't shorthand you want to take?'

‘Pardon me, Professor?' he said.

Professor. Honoured teacher, he reminded her. Not wisecracking broad, she reminded herself. Nan took a deep breath. This was going to be a difficult day.

‘Excuse me,' she spoke in her most professorial voice, ‘but we're all rather affected by Professor Murchie's death.'

‘Yes,' said the student. ‘Terrible, shocking, tragic. He was my favourite professor in the department.'

Nan stared at him incredulously.

‘Of course,' he hastened, ‘I haven't had the pleasure of taking your class.' He fidgeted, clearing his thumbnail with the edge of his IBM card.

‘No, quite,' said Nan.

A loud knock sounded on the door. Nan knew that this had to be Matt. ‘Yes,' she sighed, ‘come on in.'

The door was opened by a young policeman in a beige uniform. Behind him stood another cop, a full foot taller. Nan noted that they travelled in pairs, like on New Year's Eve.

‘Professor Weaver?' asked the shorter man.

‘Yes,' said Nan. ‘May I help you?'

The tall man also stepped into the room. ‘I'm Officer Ross, and this is Officer Rodriguez. We'd like to talk to you about the recent events, Professor.'

‘Yes, of course,' she said. ‘Please come in.'

The two dark men stood by uneasily, their eyes on the student who was still fidgeting with his IBM card.

‘Shall we continue our discussion later?' she said with cool authority. This authority would belong to the policemen once the door was closed.

The student stood, stammering between fear and irritation. ‘But,' he whined, ‘we have to have the study list filed by the end of the week.'

Nan's face was impassive.

The two policemen shuffled nervously. Nan desperately wanted them to sit down, at eye level with her.

‘And if I don't know about your class,' he persisted, ‘then how can I find another one to fill the slot?'

Patiently, Nan considered his anxiety. She remembered there were more student suicides during pre-enrolment than at any other time of year. Kindness, she cautioned herself, was at a premium in the mega-university.

‘Listen,' she said, ‘if you need to file the list late, I'll sign the waiver. Now, I do think you should leave and allow these gentlemen to ask their questions.'

Actually, she felt grateful to the student for distracting her.

Otherwise how could she have remained so calm?

When the policemen sat down, finally at eye level, Nan noticed that they were almost as young as the student. They both assumed that detached, professional tone which Nan recognized as one of her own voices.

No, she answered, she didn't know anyone with a grudge against Professor Murchie. She hadn't seen any students hanging around his office lately. She did not know very much about his personal life. Frankly, she hadn't had a substantial conversation with him for some time. One or two exchanges over the holiday break, that was all.

Did she sound sincere and detached? Could they hear the thickness in her voice, the same thickness she felt when she used to withhold sins in confession? These young policemen were less canny than the priest. And they seemed as uncomfortable with the interview as she was.

‘We understand,' began Officer Ross, who looked just as tall sitting down, ‘that you and Professor Murchie had a certain amount of disagreement about the administration of the English Department.'

‘Of course that's true,' said Nan, wondering which of her scrupulous colleagues had provided that information.

‘Perhaps before I speak further with you,' she said, ‘I should call my Amy, I mean my lawyer.'

‘I doubt that will be necessary,' said Rodriguez, ‘This is only routine questioning. Of course, if you like …'

‘No,' said Nan. She didn't want to be too defensive. ‘It's just that I've never known anything like this before. I want to help.'

‘Then how would you characterize your disagreement?' asked Ross.

‘Well, to be simple,' said Nan, ‘you might say I took the more progressive view.'

‘On what issues, ma'am?' asked Officer Rodriguez.

‘Oh, for instance, on student representation in committees.'

‘And,' Officer Ross gave his steno pad a cursory glance, ‘And on sexual harassment?'

‘Yes,' Nan said heavily, ‘and on sexual harassment. Just what are you trying to get at?' Too defensive, she warned herself, calm down.

‘We're not trying to get at anything,' answered Rodriguez, ‘except, of course, the truth.'

‘Yes,' said Nan. ‘Of course.'

‘And apparently you had some differences about scholarly criteria?' asked Ross.

‘Who told you all this,' Nan asked, no longer able to hide her anger or fear.

‘This morning,' said Ross. ‘We talked to a Ms Ad …'

Rodriguez interrupted him with a critical glance. ‘Afraid that we can't divulge our sources, ma'am.'

Nan was trying to convince herself that Marjorie hadn't set her up, that this ‘information' about Nan was Marjorie's naive attempt to be truthful.

‘Ma'am,' Rodriguez said again, ‘could you just answer the question?'

‘Professor Murchie and I did have our professional differences,' said Nan, ‘as do a number of faculty in this department. Does that surprise you?'

‘Nothing surprises us, ma'am,' said Rodriguez. ‘We're just after all the pieces.'

‘And the truth,' added Nan helpfully.

‘Yes, ma'am.'

The interview continued for an interminable half-hour. The only thing that sustained Nan was the prospect of talking with Matt afterwards. She phoned her friend immediately.

‘Matt Weitz here.' He always answered with just an edge of British inflection. When things got really bad, Matt talked about returning to Cambridge. He had done post-graduate studies in England and, in some ways, had never really left. Odd, thought Nan, to him Berkeley was like her Hayward, the backwater.

‘Hi, Matt, this is Nan. How about a cup of strong coffee?'

‘Sorry, friend,' he said. ‘I have the honourable men of law with me, and then I must dash over to the city for an appointment. How about we ring each other tonight?'

‘Sure,' said Nan, trying to sound sure. She didn't want to worry Matt, especially not in front of the boys in beige. ‘Talk with you later, sweetie.' She hung up.

Would they ask him the same questions? Would they inquire about Angus Murchie's enemies? Would Matt remember all the nasty things she had said about the old bastard over late night drinks? No, of course he wouldn't. But he might worry. And an edge of doubt might creep into his voice as he talked to the police or other faculty. No. No. She was getting out of control. Paranoia had always been one of her sharpest senses.

Nan heard someone calling her name. She looked up from her badly bitten cuticles to see a grey head peeking around the door.

‘Professor Weaver,' Millie, the department clerk, said. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Professor Weaver.'

‘Not at all,' said Nan. ‘Come in.'

How different Millie was from that kid of an hour ago, roosting in her office until his academic career was settled. Millie was so much more deferential than any student. Too deferential. But Nan understood her. Millie's youngest sister had attended Hayward Union High School with Nan, a coincidence that Millie had once boldly volunteered.

‘Sorry Professor,' said Millie. ‘But I forgot that this urgent note was left for you earlier today.'

‘Thanks so much,' said Nan, taking the blue vellum envelope, her heart pounding audibly.

She waited to open the note until she heard Millie's footsteps safely around the corner. Of course there
was
someone besides Matt with whom Nan could discuss all this. And now she wondered whether Marjorie Adams knew that she knew.

Frantically, she ripped open the letter, tearing a corner of the page with the lined envelope. As she read, Nan turned cold with angry admiration.

Dear Professor Weaver,

Just to inform you that I am still slightly indisposed today from all the holiday activities. I am so sorry I shall not be able to keep our appointment this afternoon and hope that you will forgive this very late notice.

Sincerely,

Marjorie Adams

Rather precious, thought Nan.
Because
of Marjorie's nervousness or her ego? And why was Marjorie sticking around here? No, on second thought, she was too smart to run off to Kabul. Perhaps the visit to Matt's party was an attempt to establish an alibi? Nan would never have had the nerve to show up so late and so visible. But then who would ever suspect Marjorie Adams? As far as anyone in the department knew, she had the most peripheral relationship with Angus Murchie, as a graduate reader. No, Marjorie was hardly a suspect. She was doing a competent job of remaining inconspicuous by staying right on the scene. There was no way for Marjorie to know that Nan saw or heard anything that night. And perhaps it would be wisest to keep it that way.

‘Nan,' a voice called. Someone knocked. ‘Nan, are you there?'

‘Yes, come in,' she said, wondering who …

‘Hi, Nan,' said Lisa.

Nan stared at her niece. (The sick child. No, Nan reflected. No, Lisa was just fine.) Something was different about her. In the last couple of years there were so many changes. Lisa had become a different person. Her shyness had turned to passion in these public speaking events. She grew more active in campus politics, particularly the Feminist Caucus.

‘Well, what do you think?' asked Lisa expectantly.

She stared ahead as Lisa waited for a reply. She had to pull herself together. There was something different, physically different, about her niece.

‘Don't you like it?' Lisa patted her hair.

‘A permanent,' exclaimed Nan stupidly. She grinned, admiring these curls which had turned Lisa from a teenager into a young woman.

‘Well, we call it a friz,' laughed Lisa. ‘I'm surprised your fancy student, what's-her-face, Marjorie, hasn't done it.'

‘Who?' asked Nan. ‘Oh. Well, it does suit you.'

‘I'm glad you like it,' said Lisa, her face lighting up. ‘Daddy is still crying in his beer over my long, lost locks.'

‘I can imagine,' laughed Nan, realizing what pleasure it was just to smile. ‘So sit yourself down and tell me what brought you to this drastic decision, honey.'

‘Oh, just the classic post-adolescent need for independence from
la famille
,'
said Lisa.

‘They're giving you a hard time again? Listen, we have nine more months to work on them about your moving to Berkeley.'

‘Afraid that's not it,' said Lisa. ‘It's
this
quarter. They don't want me to come to school this quarter.'

‘What?' Nan was genuinely shocked.

‘They're worried about the doctor's reports … Even though Doctor Bonelli said the best thing was to continue my life as normal, as if …'

‘Hold on,' Nan demanded. ‘You don't believe you have Lupus, do you? You mustn't. I have a friend at John Hopkins and another at Albert Einstein School of Medicine. We'll go from one doctor to the next until we find out that you're going to be, um, until the diagnosis is clean.'

Lisa looked at her aunt kindly, reassuringly. ‘I don't care about the diagnosis,' said Lisa, ‘but I do care about school. I have a big debating meeting next week. Do you think we could forge a diagnosis and save the plane fare to all those eastern doctors?'

‘Lisa,' said Nan, reaching across her desk and taking the young woman's hand, ‘you're just wonderful, do you know that?' She squeezed the hand with as much strength, as much life, as she had. ‘Would you like me to have a talk with your mother?'

‘Oh, Nan, yes. Maybe you could remind her how important it was for
you
to go to college. She just doesn't understand, does she?'

‘No, honey, not completely.'

Nan thought of all the old tensions this issue would raise between herself and Shirley. But Lisa was a woman now, and Shirley would have to let her make her own decisions.

‘Everyone is talking about Professor Murchie,' said Lisa hurriedly, as if the death had provided a welcome distraction from her own worries. ‘Even in Hayward.' She told Nan that Joe was using the murder as another argument against her going to ‘that crazy school.' Nan didn't want to discuss it. And Lisa, sensing her aunt's unusual reluctance to talk, said she'd have to hurry if she were going to be back in Hayward for dinner.