“Family influence,” Hilde murmured when Ellen finished. “That explains why Roy is cooling his heels.”
“He botched it,” Janice said flatly. “The sheriff didn’t want to make waves. I told him Philip wouldn’t have gone off and left the stuff he did. Expensive clothes, a thousand-dollar typewriter, television. Philip had money, but he wasn’t irresponsible about it. There weren’t any personal letters, and his manuscript was missing. Just the wrong mix of what was there and what was missing.”
“How do you know that?” Hilde asked.
“I saw the inventory the sheriff made. Seems I’m the only one who’d admit to having been in Philip’s apartment.” She set her glass down on a table. “We arrived here a week apart fifteen years ago, had our little fling early on, and went our own ways, but I knew he was writing a book, and I knew there should have been letters. I told the sheriff. Pryor was riding him harder than I was, it’s that simple.”
Warren Pryor had been the president until his retirement eight years earlier, when Hilde was appointed to replace him. Ellen had never met Pryor. She said slowly, “I don’t see how anything can come of an investigation now, after so many years. Too many people have left, or died.”
“Exactly,” Hilde said. “It’s obvious that he picked up a woman somewhere, parked with her, and they fought. She killed him, panicked probably, and just drove away in his van after she dumped his body. A hitchhiker, someone here for the commencement, a transient... We’ll never know.”
Patty’s version of what happened, Ellen thought. She had hardly touched her wine. Now she drank it all, wanting to be gone, wanting to be at home.
“And she just left all that gold behind,” Janice said. “Not terribly likely, is it? I hear it’s worth thousands as jewelry, and if it’s authentic antiquity, it’s priceless.” She stood up. “Well, we have things to think about. Hilde, go with the flow. Okay? The school can weather a little scandal. The sky won’t fall. You ready, Ellen? I’ll walk to your car with you.”
They walked in silence through the gardens now lighted with warm yellow lanterns; as they were drawing near the Mazda in the parking lot Janice put her hand on Ellen’s arm. “If this really bugs you, bow out. You don’t have to work for the police, you realize. Not in your job description.”
Ellen’s mouth was dry. “What do you mean?”
“Look how you’re shaking. Your hands were shaking back in the house. Something’s under your skin, and if it’s Philip Seymour, call in sick. Or, you know how it goes, just say no.” She withdrew her hand. “See you.” Her hair gleamed like gold under the brilliant lights in the parking lot as she walked away.
In her car Ellen sat watching her hands, which had become quite steady. But they had noticed. She bit her lip and turned the key. She could handle it, she told herself. Overactive imagination, she would say; this was her first murder, after all. She would laugh. Her hands were too tight on the steering wheel; she forced them to relax.
Her apartment was a mile from the school, usually a pleasant walk, but today she had driven in order to go to the Safeway to shop for dinner. Instead, she drove straight home; she knew everyone in the market, knew the people who would be shopping there, and they would all be full of questions. Parked in front of her apartment house was Jordan’s car; he was leaning against it, talking to a woman. He waved when Ellen pulled into her driveway. The woman turned and now Ellen could see her: Beverly Kirchner. She gritted her teeth.
They came forward as she got out of her car. “Hi, Ellen,” Beverly said. “I’m covering this story for my paper. Ask you a few questions?”
“Sorry,” Ellen said. “Comments will come from the president’s office only. Or the police.” She started to walk.
“Hey, Ellen, come on.” Beverly caught Ellen’s arm. “It’s me. Tomorrow there’s going to be a million outsiders asking questions. Give me a break, okay? What’s the lieutenant after at the school? Are they trying to link the death to someone there? Why are you working for the police? Is it true that Seymour was naked?”
“Can’t comment,” Ellen said, shrugging away from her hand.
For a moment Beverly dug in, her eyes narrowed; then she grinned and moved back a step. “Did you volunteer to help, or were you drafted?” Ellen moved toward her door. “Well, if you aren’t talking, I guess that’s my story. Who gagged you, Melton or the police?”
Beverly had always been insistent, Ellen remembered; being a reporter had not given her that trait, merely sharpened it. Beverly was watching her with an intense look. Slowly Ellen said, “I’m not talking, Bev.” For an instant Ellen saw her as she had been that night, knees drawn up with her chin on them, her arms wrapped around her legs, a blanket over her shoulders, rocking back and forth, humming tunelessly.
Beverly nodded. “I’ll be around town for a while. Be seeing you, I guess. Nice meeting you, Jordan. So long.” She strode away down the street.
“Just a second,” Jordan said then and hurried to his car, brought out a grocery bag, and joined her at the door. “Thought I’d make us some dinner,” he said. “Okay?”
Inside, he went to the kitchen with his groceries, and she went to the living room, where it appeared that her answering machine was stuck on blink. She knew who had made six of the calls, she thought, and her parents would have called, and then many more people. She sat on her sofa and called her mother.
It was an unsatisfactory call in every way. Her mother put her on conference call, but her father never had any small talk, and all her mother wanted to talk about was “the case.” After Ellen said she couldn’t discuss it, her mother was silent for a moment, but recovered with a rush of inconsequentials about weather, the store, her new glasses...
“Mom, Jordan’s cooking, and I’d better go help,” Ellen said finally. “I’ll be over Friday. Don’t worry. I’ll just be looking up old files. Dirty work, that’s all.”
After they hung up, she sat without moving, thinking what her father would have done if he had caught her with an older, naked man. He would not have hit him over the head and dumped his body in a thicket of blackberries. He would have beat the crap out of him on the spot. But who else would believe that?
Dinner was steaks and potatoes and salad, all very good. And Jordan was almost aggressively cheerful, to the point where Ellen wanted to yell at him to stop smiling, stop chattering. Neither mentioned Beverly Kirchner until the table was cleared and they had coffee.
“Old friend, she said,” Jordan commented. “But if you two are friends, I don’t ever want to see you with an enemy.”
“Old acquaintance is more like it,” she muttered. “Did she get a story from you?”
“Just what’s been in the news for a month now. That’s all I know.” He hesitated and then said, “Ellen, you can’t talk about it. Understood. But something’s bugging the bejesus out of you. Maybe you need to talk to someone about it.”
She felt herself grow tense with his words. How transparent she must be to everyone — Janice Ayers, Jordan... who else? “Thanks,” she said. “I’m just jumpy. Not used to seeing bones dug up. My first murder, after all.” It sounded as faked as it was. She couldn’t manage the laugh.
Although he did not move, she knew he recoiled as if she had rejected him physically. Where he had been excessively cheerful a few minutes earlier, he now became excessively polite, and she felt powerless to remove the barrier she had erected. They stood up and finished clearing the table, washed the few dishes, and then faced each other awkwardly.
“You’d better go,” she said. “Someone probably will make a note of how long you stay. You know, if there’s no real story, create one.”