Physics Can Be Fatal (18 page)

     And Donald Gaylord?  He got Detective Tenney’s hackles up.  Surely that was a barometer for something.  Donald Gaylord was too ambitious, too slick for his own good, and he had behaved in a guilty manner from the get-go, or at least, a nervous one.  Then there was the unfinished business of the ‘Tommy’ reference that had visibly upset Donald when Nedda Cake overheard Professor Sidebottom mention it to Donald that day in the library.

     And there was Nedda Cake, herself.  One scenario was that Professor Cake had decided her last meaningful contribution to society would be to avenge the wrongs Alan Sidebottom had done to her late husband, and to all the other people he had ever hurt.  Maybe she calculated the probability of getting away with his death was in her favor.  Would anybody really believe that an angelic-looking old lady, who happened to be a prominent theoretical physicist would murder a colleague?

     Then there was another possibility, this one involving Helen Mann.  Jealous of Alan Sidebottom’s celebrity status––angered by being snubbed by him at the party––her romantic aspirations toward Alan Sidebottom dashed . . . too many blows to Helen Mann’s estimable ego?  People had killed for less.

     And what of Sheila Dubin?  Lois Lieberman had voiced her suspicions of Seth Dubin’s wife loud and clear.  And several other people present at the party had sensed Sheila Dubin’s fury toward Professor Sidebottom.  So far all of Will’s visits and phone calls to Sheila Dubin had gone unanswered, unreturned.

      And what of the priggish librarian, Charlotte Cadell, who seemed like an implosion waiting to happen?  Perhaps it already had, with Alan Sidebottom as its target.  Motive?

     Will arrived at the Gaylord’s home just before two o’clock.  6509 High Drive was a charming and well-kept little two-story, stone and wood house, in a quiet Boston suburb.  Mature sycamore trees tinkled with chimes.  A flagstone walkway led to the front door, where a pair of black urns was planted with coleus, ivy and chrysanthemums.

     Will parked his car at the curb.  Sidewalks ran along both sides of the quiet, tree-lined street.  The sweet smell of the sycamores wafted through the air.

     A man in his thirties with an athletic build answered the door.  He wore a flour-dusted apron over jeans and a gray tee shirt.

     “Is this the home of Donald Gaylord?”

     “Yes, it is,” the man answered.  “Can I help you?”

     “I have an appointment to meet Mrs. Gaylord,” Will said, showing identification.  “I left a message yesterday.”

     “You’re looking at her,” the man laughed.  “Come on in.”

     “I apologize for the mistake.  I didn’t realize, sorry,” said a flustered Will.

     “No worries.  None of Don’s friends at the college know about me.  Don prefers it that way,” the man replied easily, shaking hands with Will.  “Jimmy Lopez.  Please, take a seat.”

     The décor was formal but welcoming.   A sofa and pair of club chairs were covered in chintz fabric bearing a classical motif of urns and swags.  Drapes made of the same material were pulled back and held in place by cherry wood rosettes at tall windows on either side of a marble fireplace.  An elegant mantle displayed a collection of English pottery.  The house smelled of baking. 

     “Don told me about the death at school.  I assume that’s why you’re here, detective?”

     “Yes, it is.  I wondered if you had ever met Alan Sidebottom?  It seems Professor Gaylord knew him years ago, when he was a student of Professor Sidebottom’s in England.”

     “No, I never met him.  Don has mentioned him once or twice, but that’s about it,” Jimmy said.  “By the way, can I offer you a cup of coffee or something?  Jimmy’s manner was relaxed and genial. 

     “No thanks,” Will replied. 

     “May I ask you why Professor Gaylord keeps your relationship and living arrangement a secret?”

     Jimmy laughed. 

     “Don’s kind of an old-fashioned guy.  He’s afraid it might hurt his career.  He’s got his eye on running the department up at Cushing some day, and he’s worried being outed would ruin his chances,” Jimmy said.

     “We have a nice, discreet circle of friends here in Boston,” Jimmy continued.  “Don is here just about every weekend.  It works out pretty well.”

     “We used to argue about it in the beginning.  Now I tease him about it.  I tell him when he gets to be Head of the Department I’ll throw a big, fabulous party in New Guilford and invite all our friends up from Boston,” Jimmy said.

     “How long have the two of you been together?”

     “We played football together in college.  We’ve been together ever since.”

     “Do you ever visit Professor Gaylord in New Guilford?”

     The question had hit a nerve.  Jimmy’s easy-going manner faltered for a moment.

     “Couple of times,” Jimmy said.  “When Don first got hired there, I went up on the weekends, but he just wasn’t comfortable with it.”

     Jimmy smiled broadly.  “C’est la guerre,” he shrugged.

     They continued chatting while Jimmy showed Will around the house and the garden.  They ended up in the kitchen, where the aromatic, yeasty smell of fresh bread swirled through the air.  Jimmy filled a brown lunch bag of warm scones and insisted Will take them, which he was only too happy to do.

         Will’s mind started to race when he got back to the car.  There was a new wrinkle in the case.  What if Jimmy Lopez weren’t as easy-going as he presented?  It’s possible that Jimmy suspected Donald Gaylord of having an intimate relationship with the famous Professor Sidebottom.  How could Jimmy
not
feel jealous, with Donald up at college all week?  Jimmy understood how ambitious Donald was.  Could Donald possibly have decided to advance his career by cozying up to Sidebottom?  What if the amiable Jimmy Lopez had traveled unnoticed to New Guilford and killed Alan Sidebottom in a jealous fit?  No one would recognize Jimmy Lopez.  No one would take special notice of him––he could have moved around the Cushing campus easily, without causing suspicion.  It occurred to Will that Donald Gaylord might even suspect Jimmy, and that’s why Donald had been behaving so nervously.

     Will wolfed down two scones as he drove to the next destination, and parked his car on a busy street in the heart of Cambridge. 

     The window in front of Salon Jean-Paul was draped with festoons of ivory-colored chiffon so passersby could not peer inside.  Will entered the salon and felt immediately out of his element from the cacophony and clamor, the loud music and bright, glaring lights.  Because it wasn’t practical for salons to have carpeting or curtains or upholstered seats because of easy staining from the chemical products, there was nothing to absorb the sound.  A din and clatter of hair dryers, blaring music and loud conversation ricocheted off the hard surfaces inside the salon.  Will could hardly wait to leave the punishing atmosphere of sensory overload.

     Helen Mann’s stylist was a pleasant young woman named Anne Marie Prestopino.  Will explained his reason for being there and showed Anne Marie his police identification.  She invited him into the back room where they could speak more privately.  Anne Marie pushed aside a curtain hanging in the doorway, and Will followed her.  Floor to ceiling metal shelving held products and supplies.  There was a small refrigerator in one corner, and a table next to it with a double coffee maker, and a hot water dispenser for tea.  The seating was a scattering of low wooden stools.  Will perched tentatively on one. 

     “How long have you been cutting Helen Mann’s hair?”

     “Cutting and coloring, actually.  Let me see.  I’ve been here for five years, and Helen was one of my first clients, so I’d say, maybe four and a half or five years.  She’s a nice lady.”

     Anne Marie, wore a crisp, black smock over jeans, and sat comfortably with her legs extended straight in front of her and crossed at the ankles.

     “Does Dr. Mann ever discuss her private life?”

     Anne Marie thought for a moment. 

     “A little bit, yeah.  You’d be amazed by the things people talk about sometimes when they’re in the chair or at the sink––really personal stuff––affairs, divorce, abortions, even.  It wasn’t anything like that with Helen, though.  You know, nothing all that personal.  But I get the feeling that she’s kind of lonely,” she said.

     “Anything in particular you can recall her talking about?  Any names?” Will asked, taking notes.

     “Mostly she talks about work.  About the pressure and the demands of her job – how hard it is dealing with so many big egos, stuff like that.  But the last time she was here she was talking about getting back together with an old flame.  She seemed excited about it, too.  She was talking about not letting the important things slip through her fingers.  And I knew exactly what she meant, because I was dating this guy for two years––Max––and I wish I’d never broken up with him.  My mother didn’t like him because he wasn’t Catholic, and I let her talk me into breaking up.  Nicest guy I ever met.  I can’t believe I did that.”

     They chatted for a few more minutes.  Anne Marie offered Will a trim on the house, and he politely declined.

     “Have you ever considered highlights?” she said.  “You would look fantastic with some blond highlights.  You know, not too much, just a little pop of color at the front.”

     Will wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not.

     “I’m probably not really a highlight kind of guy,” he said smiling, “but I’ll think about it.  Thanks.” 

Chapter 15

     Edwina awoke early, and looked out the window.  The mornings were getting colder, this one gray and overcast.  Dressing with warm layers, she recalled countless frosty childhood bike rides, bundled up against the bracing chill, armed against the cold with the delirious feeling of freedom.

     The trees were mostly bare now, and the nearly empty streets were covered in crunching leaves.  Edwina pedaled casually, soothed by the peace and quiet and fresh air.  She stopped at Dan’s Bridge Market to pick up a few groceries and sundry items, and stowed the provisions safely in the locking saddlebags on her bike. 

     Edwina rode home via Cushing, along the path that rambled through the hundreds of acres belonging to the college.  Each time she rode on campus she noticed something new or different in the landscape.

     She squinted her eyes to focus on two familiar figures some distance away.   Nedda Cake and Mitchell Fender were strolling together near the Medical School Clinic.  Edwina wondered if she should stop to say ‘hello’, but thought better of it.  She didn’t wish to intrude on a private moment, if that was what they were having. 

      Edwina circled around and headed back toward the clinic, curiosity getting the better of her.  Nedda and Mitchell were nowhere in sight.  Edwina locked her bike and walked into the clinic.

     She approached the Information desk.

     “Hello,” Edwina said.  “I was supposed to meet my uncle and my grandmother here after their appointment.  Do you know if they’ve come out, yet?”

     “What was the name?” asked the woman at Information.

     “Mitchell Fender and Nedda Cake.”

     The woman checked her computer.

     “Mr. Fender’s appointment with Dr. Swisher was for ten o’clock.  Let me check and see if they’re still in with the doctor.”

     “Thank-you very much,” Edwina said.

     “I’m sorry,” the woman said, returning a few moments later, “I’m afraid they left the clinic a short while ago.”

     “Oh, well, I’m sure I can catch up with them.  Thanks,” said Edwina.

     She jumped on her bike and rode home.   Edwina dashed inside the house, leaving all the shopping items in the saddlebags on her bike.  She immediately sat down at the computer, and went to the Cushing Medical School Clinic web site.  She typed in the name of Dr. Swisher.

     A Dr. Elizabeth Swisher came up.  Neurosurgeon.

     Edwina sat back in the chair. 

    
Neurosurgeon,
she thought. 
Poor Mitchell.  I wonder what’s going on?  I hope he’s okay.  What was Nedda doing with him?  Moral support? 

     She considered contacting Nedda to ask, but how would Edwina explain how she knew about Mitchell’s appointment with Dr. Swisher in the first place?

     She would just have to leave this piece of information alone for the time being.