“Very,” Susan said.
The conspiracy on the lamb stew had been Susan putting out the pots and the cutting board and the utensils, and me cooking it while she sat at her kitchen counter and watched appreciatively.
“She even alluded to ‘Musée des Beaux Arts,’ ”I said.
“The Auden poem?” Susan said. “How’d she do that?”
“She wanted to know if, in effect, the universe took note of the murder or if the boat ‘sailed calmly on.’ ”
“Wow,” Susan said. “Isn’t that the poem which says ‘the torturer’s horse scratches his innocent behind on a tree’? Or something like that.”
I leaned forward on the couch and took the champagne from the ice bucket and poured her a little more of it.
“It is,” I said.
“Perhaps Auden knew things that Rosalind doesn’t,” Susan said.
“ ‘About suffering, they were never wrong, the Old Masters, ’ ”I said.
“Can you recite the whole poem?” Susan said.
“I believe I can,” I said.
“Don’t,” she said.
“You know,” I said, “she never asked me why I hadn’t done a better job of protecting him. She never asked if I knew who did it or if I thought we could catch them. Just wanted to experience it secondhand so she could make something out of it.”
“Many people would have,” Susan said.
“Many people,” I said.
“How’d she feel to you?”
“I know her husband has recently been murdered. I know grief makes people odd sometimes,” I said. “But she seemed to be dramatizing herself. She didn’t cry or, as far as I could tell, come close to it.”
“One component of grief, as I know you know,” Susan said, “is ‘What will become of me?’ ”
I nodded.
“Perhaps that feeling has somewhat overshadowed her others,” Susan said.
“Thank you, Dr. Silverman,” I said. “Would that be narcissism?”
“Maybe,” Susan said. “To make a thing for her out of his tragedy.”
She drank some champagne.
“Or maybe it’s a way of coping bravely with unspeakable sorrow,” I said.
“Maybe,” Susan said.
“Are you shrinks ever certain of anything?”
“Possibly,” she said. “Have you talked to Prince’s colleagues?”
“Cops have. They say there’s nothing there.”
“How about students?” Susan said.
“Don’t think so.”
“Office staff?” she said.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Both offer insights often unavailable to colleagues,” Susan said.
“Maybe I’ll go over there,” I said. “Talk to the coeds. Coeds can’t resist me.”
“As long as you can resist them,” Susan said.
“I value maturity,” I said.
“You should,” she said. “Is that stew done?”
“With stew,” I said, “if you cook it right, you have a done window of about six hours.”
“That should allow time for sex,” she said.
“If we hurry,” I said.
“Good. I like lovemaking on an empty stomach.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Or a full one. Or one partly empty. Or—”
She turned against me on the couch.
“Stop talking,” she said.
And gave me a large kiss.
11
The Department of Art and Art History at Walford was located on the first floor of a brick building with Georgian pillars beside a pond. The pond looked to me as if it didn’t belong there and had recently been created. But maybe I was being picky. Ponds are nice. The main office was right inside the front doorway, to the right. There were three women there. The presiding woman was tall and gray-haired, with thin lips and grim eyes. On her desk was a nameplate that said Agnes Phelen. Her desk was beside a door that led to the office of the department chairman. I knew that at once, because I am a trained investigator and the sign on the pebbled-glass door said Office of the Department Chairman. The other two women were much younger and looked more optimistic. Agnes looked at me with what appeared to be scorn, though it could have been suspicion.
“May I help you?” she said.
She didn’t look as though she meant it.
“You may,” I said.
She looked annoyed.
“What would you like?” she said.
“My name is Spenser,” I said. “I’m a detective looking into the death of Ashton Prince.”
“Dr. Prince,” she said. “A terrible shame.”
“What can you tell me about him?” I said.
“A fine scholar and a fine gentleman,” she said.
“Anything unusual about him?” I said.
“No,” she said.
From the corner of my eye I saw the two other women look at each other.
“You ladies tell me anything about Dr. Prince?”
They both shook their heads, but there was a mutual smirk hidden somewhere in the head shakes.
“He get along with everyone?” I said.
One of the younger women said, “Uh-huh.”
But it didn’t sound as though she meant it.
“Never any trouble.”
“Of course not,” Agnes said. “This is an academic office.”
“Well,” I said. “He had trouble with someone.”
“You know who killed him?” one of the younger women said.
Agnes gave her the gimlet eye.
“You girls have work to do,” Agnes said.
They both turned back to their computers, sneaking sidelong looks at each other.
“And I have work to do, too, if you’ll excuse me.”
“You’re excused,” I said. “Is there a place around here to get lunch?”
“We all use the faculty café,” one of the young women said. “In the basement of Sarkassian.”
“Unless you are faculty or staff,” Agnes said, “I don’t believe you’re allowed.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The younger women looked at me. I winked at them and left the office.
12
I found Sarkassian Hall on a circular drive opposite the library. I went to the basement and walked into the faculty cafeteria, trying to bear myself like a man thinking deeply about John Milton. No one paid any attention to me. I could have been thinking about Sarah Palin, for all they cared. It was eleven-thirty. I got a cup of coffee and a large corn muffin and sat at an empty table where I could see the door, and waited.
I had finished my coffee and my corn muffin by the time the two young women from the art office arrived at twelve-ten. They each got a salad and carried it to a table at the other end of the cafeteria. I got up and walked over to them.
“Could I buy you lunch?” I said.
“We already paid,” one of them said. “But you can sit if you want.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I sat.
“My name’s Spenser,” I said. “As you probably gathered, I’m trying to find out who killed Ashton Prince.”
“We heard you in the office,” one of them said. “My name’s Tracy. This is Carla.”
Tracy had shoulder-length dark hair and was a little heavy. Nothing a modest workout schedule wouldn’t fix. Carla was slimmer, with brown hair in a ponytail. Neither one was a stunner. But neither one was beyond the pale, either.
“Agnes minding the store?” I said.
“We have lunch while she covers the office,” Tracy said. “And then we cover the office while she has lunch.”
“Doesn’t trust either of you to do it alone?” I said.
“Big job,” Carla said.
“She tries to make it a big job,” Tracy said. “You know, making sure nobody uses the copy machine unless authorized. Important stuff like that.”
“She hard to work for?” I said.
Tracy shrugged.
“We don’t really work for her. But she’s the chairman’s secretary and we’re just department pool workers, so it sort of works out that way.”
“Actually,” Carla said, “she’s pathetic. You know? I mean, me and Tracy working here is just, you know, a step along the way. Pay’s good, benefits are great. My husband’s a carpenter in town, on his own, no benefits. Tracy’s hub is working on a Ph.D. here. We got lives.”