Rogues Gallery (4 page)

“I'm sorry we had to do this, Mrs. Peacock,” Oscar said. “I hope we won't have to trouble you again.”

V

“How was dinner?” I asked Popcorn when I got to work the next morning.

“Oh, fine. I love meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”

So that's how we're going to play it. All right, Popcorn. If you don't want to talk about your date with Oscar, I'm not going to pry. Just how long has this been going on?

Popcorn followed me into my office with a cup of decaf coffee. She put the coffee on my desk and sat in the chair in front of me. Her blond hair looked freshly dyed and I hadn't seen the white pantsuit before.
Primping for Oscar?
“Want to hear some gossip?” she said.

“Am I allowed to say no?”

“No. Thurston Calder wrote an extremely nasty review of Dr. O'Neill's book,
Walt in Dalíland: How Walt Disney and Salvador Dalí Changed Each Other
. He called it, quote, ‘simplistic, naïve, and uncritical to the point of fawning over his two right-wing subjects,' unquote.”
Well, that was clear.
“The review appeared in
The Atlantic
and got a lot of attention.”

I lifted my eyebrows as I sipped the java. “You surprise me, Popcorn. I didn't know you read
The Atlantic
.”

“Not on a bet, Boss. Shirley Diebold told me. Dr. O'Neill's admin. She likes him and she's hoping he gets to strike the ‘interim' off his job title. After Shirley found that review in an online search, she was worried that Calder would get the job. She thought he'd make Dr. O'Neill's life hell. So she's glad that Calder's - ” Popcorn stopped dead. “I mean, she's glad he's no longer in competition.”

Well, that was interesting. “Since you're so connected with Shirley, why don't you see if she can set up an appointment for me with O'Neill as soon as possible?”

“Sure. What shall I say it's about?”

“Let him use his imagination on that.”

Later that morning, Lynda sent me a text saying that the
Observer
was desperate for new angles on the murder to keep the story on life support.
Good luck,
I texted back. Today's
Observer
piece, hastily written on Sunday by news editor Bernard J. Silverstein, was mostly a “Who Was Thurston Calder?” kind of story, with a few unmemorable quotes from the chief and Dante Peter O'Neill. The investigation of the crime was ongoing, and ditto the search for a new art department head.

Popcorn managed to get me an appointment with O'Neill at eleven o'clock. I was outside his office about five minutes early and he motioned me in. Defying every stereotype of the messy artist, the place was about as chaotic as O'Neill's pinstriped suit, rep tie, and button-down collar.

“I know why you're here,” he said as I sat down.
You do?
“I realize I shouldn't have talked to the newspaper without clearing it through you, Jeff. But it seemed harmless to acknowledge to the paper that Calder was a candidate for department head and that the search process continues despite this tragedy.”

I dismissed his concern with a gracious wave. “Your comments were fine. But what
didn't
you say?”

O'Neill allowed himself a half-smile, a wordless admission that he hadn't volunteered anything to Ben Silverstein in their weekend phone conversation. “Calder was one of three finalists. It's within the discretion of the search committee to reconsider one of the formerly rejected applicants if they aren't happy with the remaining two.”

“Do you think they will?”

Hands up. “That would be pure speculation on my part.”

“Okay, then, purely speculate.”

“Well, my sources tell me that the committee will probably stick with the final two candidates.”

“And you're one of them.”

He nodded. “I have that honor. My interest in keeping this position has been no secret on campus from the day I was appointed as interim head. I'm sure you know that.”

He was buttering me up, but I didn't deduct any points for that.

“Tell me about the other hopeful.” Although I'd known about the search for a new art department head from day one, I hadn't focused on the details until now.

“She's a very strong candidate - Dr. Sheila Dunfrey. Dr. Dunfrey works at a very small college in Maine, even smaller than St. Benignus, but she's published a lot and is very well known in the field both as an artist and as an academician. She's teaching in Italy this semester.”

“Are you sure she's there right now?” I said. “I mean, she's not off for some Italian holiday or something?”

“I spoke to her this morning to inform her about the situation here and she mentioned having a class tomorrow.” He frowned. “Of course, I was talking to her on a cell phone. In theory, she could have been down the street for all I know. You don't think - ”

“No, I don't.” I smiled. “That would be a bit far-fetched. But I read a lot of mysteries, and I've written a few, too. That sometimes makes my mind go in devious directions that probably don't mean anything. For instance, I can't help remembering that you seemed awfully sure on Saturday night that you would never work for Thurston Calder. Those were pretty much your exact words.”

O'Neill regarded me through his horn-rimmed glasses. Somehow it felt like he was getting taller than ever even though he didn't move from his chair. I'm going to avoid the temptation to say he assumed an air of injured dignity, because he wasn't assuming anything; it was the genuine article.

“I wasn't posturing,” he said. “I meant it. Confidentially, Jeff, I've had an offer from my alma mater to assume an endowed professorship at DAAP. I'd rather stay here at St. Benignus if I can remain department head and move the program forward, but if not...” He shrugged. “Well, the offer was a very generous one. Even without it, though, I wouldn't have stayed if Calder had become department head. I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but I simply had no respect for the man.”

“Was that because of his charming personality or because of his poison-pen reviews - including the one he wrote about your Disney-Dalí book?”

O'Neill was either puzzled or a very good actor. His eyebrows wrinkled behind the horn-rims. “What?”

“I was referring to Calder's scathing review of
Walt in Dalíland
that was published in
The Atlantic
.”

The young academic shook his head. “If I read it, I don't remember. I pay very little attention to negative reviews. Frankly, I find negativity a drain on creativity
.” Hey, that's good
-
even though it sounds like a line in a rap song.
“No, it had nothing to do with that. Calder was thoroughly unsuited for any college campus, but especially a faith-based institution.”

I stared at him blankly, trying to read between the lines when I couldn't even find the lines.

“Let's not be coy, Jeff. I refer to the reason for his hasty exit from the Warhol Art Institute.”

“His book on Andy Warhol?”

“Hardly.” O'Neill emitted a grim chuckle. “I assumed you knew. Calder was forced to leave the Institute because of a tawdry affair with one of his students, a nineteen-year-old female. Apparently the Institute only avoided a sexual harassment lawsuit by reaching an out-of-court settlement. The business cost Calder his marriage as well as his job.”

This sounded like one of those romance novels by Rosamund DeLacey that Popcorn is always reading. It could even have some bearing on the case, I thought. “How much of this is guesswork or gossip?”

“None of it. Check
The Chronicle of Higher Education
around the time Calder departed the Institute. It's all there. The story even mentioned the financial settlement, albeit without naming a dollar amount.” O'Neill turned his chair slightly to look out the window at the trees instead of at me. “Gossip, on the other hand, would be if I told you that this wasn't an isolated incident and that Calder had a reputation for dalliances with young women.”

“Well, I'm sure you wouldn't want to spread gossip, and I certainly wouldn't want to hear it. If all this was so public, how did Calder ever wind up as a finalist for head of our art department?”

“That's an excellent question, but you'll have to ask the provost.”

“Ralph?” I'm sure the name came out as an incredulous gasp.

O'Neill nodded. “I understand from someone who would know that Dr. Pendergast insisted to the search committee that Calder be among the final three.”

VI

Ralph Pendergast, provost and academic vice president of St. Benignus College, has been the bane of my existence - and Mac's - since his arrival on campus two years ago with a mandate to tighten up the ship. He hates bad publicity and my brother-in-law's high-profile antics, especially when said shenanigans involve murder. Ralph seems to find homicide, however remotely connected to the college, just plain unseemly. Not surprisingly, he has closer ties to the board of trustees and to the business community than to the faculty or staff of St. Benignus.

So I was turning over in my mind the news that Ralph had essentially forced Thurston Calder on the search committee, wondering if this mess contained a silver lining, when I got back to my office and found a surprising visitor waiting for me.

Lesley Saylor-Mackie was sitting in the stuffed chair in front of Popcorn's desk, chatting away with my administrative assistant as if they were old friends. Maybe they were, but Saylor-Mackie had never been in my office before. She was professionally dressed in a blue pinstriped suit set off by a simple red pin and an equally red Bakelite bracelet like the one that I'd seen in an antique store recently priced at three hundred bucks.

She rose from her chair and we exchanged banal greetings.

“Who are you this morning,” I said when that was out of the way, “Mayor Saylor-Mackie or Professor Saylor-Mackie, head of the history department?” Town and gown get along well in Erin, so the two titles aren't usually in conflict. Still, I thought it would be good to get straight at the beginning whether this was a professional visit or a political one.

“I wanted to talk to you about a press release.”

Professional, then.

“You've come to the right place, Professor.”

We moved into my office. Instead of sitting behind my desk, I sat in a chair facing her. In about sixty seconds flat I figured out that the press release she wanted - about an upcoming lecture on James Rankin and the Underground Railroad - was all smoke and mirrors. This was the kind of thing I handled routinely without a personal visit from the head of the history department. I nodded politely, made reassuring comments about my ability to get the job done, and waited for her to come to the real reason she'd dropped by.

“Thanks very much for your help,” she said finally. Now I was watching her hazel eyes and they told me she was about to spring it. “Well, I guess you've been very involved with the murder.”

“I'm afraid so,” I acknowledged. “There was a St. Benignus connection.” Talking without saying anything is a real art, and I'm pretty good at it. I watch
Meet the Press
for pointers.

She cleared her throat. You'd think that a politician would be better at what she was about to pull. “Yes, and that's so unfortunate. How lamentable that Dr. Pendergast chose to bring Thurston Calder to campus.”

It was coming into focus now. Apparently the rumors that Professor Saylor-Mackie would like to add another title in front of her name - Provost - were on the money. She was trying to undercut the current occupant of that post by tying him to the Calder murder.

“You mean unfortunate because he got himself killed? That's hardly Ralph's fault.”
Wait a minute! Is that really me I hear defending Ralph?

“Of course not,” Her Honor said dismissively. “But he should have known about the scandal following Calder. It seems that young women were not safe around that man. Due diligence would have turned that up.”

“How did you happen to know about Ralph's involvement and Calder's amorous adventures, if you don't mind my asking? Art isn't your department.” It hadn't bothered me quite so much that O'Neill knew this and I didn't, but I was put out that the stately Lesley Saylor-Mackie was up on the gossip that had eluded me.

She smiled. “Let's just say I have friends.”

The way she said it made me want to be sure that I was one of them. This was not a woman I wanted to be on the outs with.

VII

It was time to compare notes with Mac. On the way over to his crowded office at Herbert Hall, I mentally prepared myself for the possibility that he already knew that Ralph had pushed for Calder and that Calder had been a cad with young ladies.
Why
shouldn't
I be the last to know everything? I'm only the public relations director.

The dragon at the gate - that would be Mac's officious administrative assistant, Heidi Guildenstern - was nowhere in sight, so I just walked in on him.

He was sitting behind his desk, which was piled high with papers as usual, smoking a cigar and reading a book called
How to Read Lips for Fun and Profit
. The air was thick with illegal smoke from his Fuente Fuente Opus X. Without wasting my precious (and threatened) breath on a health lecture, I opened a window.

“I've been hard at work on this case, talking to witnesses all morning, and you're sitting on your rear end cozied up with a book on lip reading?” I suppose Mac might have called my tone accusatory.

He looked up. “I am increasing my skill set. When I found this book in an antiques store in New Albany, Indiana, I was immediately persuaded by the back cover that reading lips could come in handy for eavesdropping at a distance.”