The doorbell rang and a man burst through the door. Apollo in white jeans, white cotton shirt, and blue blazer. No socks. No little tiny wings on his ankles. He hugged Mrs. Freeman, who smiled and said, “Daniel!” Daniel Markham focused a dazzling smile on me and gave the tail end of it to Allison, who started to perk up, then wilted back into her chair.
“Great to be here. Great whiskey, Al. How about on the rocks, with just a splash. Great.”
Just as Daniel, gleaming from tip to toe, settled into one of the armchairs, the doorbell rang again as our last guest arrived. Mrs. Freeman yelled, “It’s open!” and a dull mouse of a man came in.
“Hey, Jimbo,” Daniel said.
Poor man with thinning brown hair worn long and floppy, a pronounced overbite, little pink mouth, small, sharp nose, and an unfortunate tendency to wear gray. But his eyes were not unfortunate. They were shiny brown and bottomless, seeing everything and thinking, clicking on all cylinders, about all he saw. At the moment, he was fastened on Allison, whose gaze was locked onto Daniel’s perfect profile. Things happen in New Haven, don’t think they don’t.
Mrs. Freeman made the introductions in her abrupt way: “Jim, this is... Jesus, who? Wait, Allison told me. Dell Chandler. She didn’t make it in psych at Wesleyan, now she’s like a junior lawman or something. This is Jim Fiske, he was visiting this year. Rising star but not here. Don’t get attached. He’ll be gone in another week or two. The rest of the department? I guess all those fuckers are out of the country.”
She certainly didn’t make you squirm with her desperate efforts to please.
We sat around, passing the inedible cashews back and forth, and they talked about the kinds of things academics talk about: Albert’s latest bird-watching venture, the faulty transmission in Daniel’s old Honda, Jim’s love of all things Apple. Mrs. Freeman’s eyes closed, Allison couldn’t take her eyes off Daniel, and I was bored out of my mind, hoping that at any moment someone might leap up with that bloodstained bronze bust and head for the library, Colonel Mustard in tow. I thought about whiskey. I needed to focus.
Suddenly, Mrs. Freeman lurched out of her seat and headed toward the kitchen. She quickly emerged again, shouting, “Dinner!” I still didn’t smell anything.
We shuffled along to the dining room and stared at the table. The Freemans didn’t give us any indication of where to sit and, in any case, we were all mesmerized by the table laid with a huge platter of cold sliced corned beef, another of salami — both garnished with clumps of potato salad, with each clump topped by a big sprig of parsley (Mrs. Freeman, asserting something) — a third platter covered with slices of bologna, laid out like a mosaic, a tiny bowl of macaroni salad, a bigger bowl of coleslaw, and a breadbasket filled with sliced white bread. All in dusty Waterford glasses and Belleek plates.
“What lovely crystal,” I said, and maneuvered to sit next to Mrs. Freeman, who seemed a likely informant if I could get to her before the next six ounces of vodka. Allison slouched toward Daniel while looking elsewhere. Very I’m-not-really-doing-this. I understood.
“Do you get your corned beef from Katz’s? Or do you make your own?”
I wasn’t sure how far gone she was. Mrs. Freeman stared at me flatly and smiled a slow, shaky, genuinely amused smile. “Right,” she replied drily. “I don’t make my own anything anymore. I did beef Wellington with two screaming babies, I made salmon en papillote when that was the thing, until it was coming out of my fucking ears. I did baklava from scratch while carpooling my brats to violin and swimming lessons, so they could become swimming violinists or some goddamn thing. Now, one’s a what? — a hedge manager — and the other one, I think she is a swimming violinist. I don’t cook a goddamn thing.”
I smiled pleasantly. “That’s why God made takeout. I live for Royal Palace. So what do you do now that you’re no longer chained to the stove?”
“I drink, detective girl. My chains are right here.”
She waved her glass around, not spilling a drop. At the other end, Albert regarded me questioningly. I smiled back. He turned to Allison.
“Albert drinks a little too much and he paws the girls. Harmless, harmless, harmless. On the other...” She stared at her glass.
“On the other hand...” I prompted.
She paused, the way they do, as though they’re gathering their thoughts when all they’re really doing is trying not to drool or spill the drink. If I could knock over the glass, maybe we could get somewhere. If I could have met her before whatever it was that had shriveled her, maybe we could have gotten somewhere. Mrs. Freeman took a big gulp of her drink and glared at Allison, who felt it and turned toward our end. Mrs. Freeman opened her mouth, shut her eyes, and slumped back in the chair. Her night was over. For the first time since we arrived, Allison smiled. We ignored Mrs. Freeman’s little faux pas.
Albert got up to make coffee and, since the dinner partner on my right was no longer available, I turned to Jim Fiske. I have manners.
“So how do you find Yale after a year?”
The bright-penny eyes took me in with appreciation but absent the passion he had been casting at Allison. Takes all kinds. I needed to encourage the Jim-and-Allison thing.
“I find it interesting. Love Mamoun’s. And squirrel fish at Taste of China. I’ll miss that when I go to Iowa. I’ll miss the people here: some new friends, some of my colleagues. And you, how do you find it, from your novel perspective?”
“Well, this is my hometown. Elm City. I wish I’d known Professor Bullfinch before his death. His habits, his likes and dislikes, his congeniality or lack thereof. I’m sure he was a complex person and, honestly, I just find myself wondering, why would anyone, you know...”
“Murder him,” Jim said.
“What’d you think of him, just from faculty meetings and things like that? Did you hang out?”
Fiske snorted. I’d asked the right question. He told me about Bullfinch going all out to see that Allison was denied tenure, even undermining a summer grant to get her to Paris. That’s all she wanted, he said. She admired Sandrine Boulanger, the Omni’s director. He almost wept when talking about this vicious, doddering old man, vain about his reputation and indifferent to those of his junior colleagues while punishing Allison, cast in the part of Shirley Temple in The Little Princess — hard-done-by and plucky, brave and pure despite her shameful treatment. I looked at Allison, leaning toward Daniel, who never took his cerulean eyes off Jim and me.
“Did the police question you?”
He smiled. “Of course. Happily, I’m dull and predictable. Tuesday, I was eating a late lunch at Calhoun and meeting with students. I’m a fellow, so it’s free. Then I was in the Apple store from four until about six. It was a nightmare — but a great alibi. Afterward, I had dinner at the Belgian place. The tall black girl with the dreads served me. Melisandre. She’s waited on me before, and I left there before eight. Also, you probably know this but the man had no kids, no surviving relatives, and not a lot of money. If I was a PI like you, I’d be wondering about motive.”
I agreed and took us back to Daniel. Fiske said, after the usual disclaimers (“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it...”), that Daniel was the administration’s golden boy but not so well thought of in academic circles. He said administration the way my father says Internet, with a sort of envious loathing.
Daniel and Allison were talking softly across the big mahogany table and Allison looked moist. She choked on her coffee. Daniel didn’t seem worried. He put a hand on her shoulder, his long, thick fingers tucking away her bra strap. She froze, like a mouse tickled by a snake.