Tonight Virgil and I skipped a high five, our usual greeting. Instead he gave me a hug that nearly brought me to tears, though I hadn’t been moved to cry before that moment.
“I’m sorry about your colleague,” he said, resulting in a full outpouring from my eyes.
It wasn’t only Keith Appleton’s death that I was weeping over. Every loss, big or small, for whatever reason, reminded me of so many other losses, other deaths.
Virgil patted my back then let me leave to collect myself. When I got back I was glad to see he’d helped himself to a beer.
“Technically, I’m off duty,” he said. His wink told me he knew it was an unnecessary explanation.
“You forget my in with Internal Affairs,” I said, coming back to normal now.
Virgil unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. He’d already flung his jacket on a kitchen chair. I sympathized. Who else other than priests had to wear a tight collar even in hot weather? And in New England, the summer months were hot twenty-four seven. Period. No cooling off at night. You could be up all night and not feel a breeze or relief from the humidity. I tried to keep from staring at the large dark circles around Virgil’s armpits.
“You must be exhausted,” I said. And unbearably hot.
He saluted me with his beer. “You got that right.”
I led Virgil to the den, the coolest room in the house, where we took seats across from each other. He reached over and picked up an L-shaped piece from the wood puzzle, which I’d emptied onto the table as soon as I’d solved it. He looked at the frame, frowned, then put the piece down and gave it a pat.
“This is me giving up,” he said.
I smiled, remembering what a little humor felt like.
Virgil’s hairline made a deep V on his forehead, much like Bruce’s widow’s peak. I’d often teased that there must have been something in the water at Camp Sturbridge where they’d met as teenagers. Bruce would then rattle off a list of famous people who shared their hairline, including Leonardo DiCaprio and Mikhail Baryshnikov. Only once did I throw in a mention of Hannibal Lecter’s V hairline.
All other physical resemblances between Virgil and Bruce ended at the hairline, however, as Bruce was shorter by three inches and lighter by about ninety pounds.
“Appreciate this,” Virgil said, between swigs of his beer.
I’d put out a bowl of pretzels. They were gone in a flash. I was sorry I’d dumped my cheese and fruit dinner down the disposal but that wasn’t the fare Virgil would have liked anyway. I couldn’t think of any more tasks or small talk to skirt the conversation I’d ostensibly been waiting up for and looking forward to.
It occurred to me that I didn’t know exactly what I wanted from Virgil. Why hadn’t I made notes? I’d had all evening and how had I used the time? Doing puzzles, making and taking calls, emailing. I’d actually thought of beading instead of drawing up a plan for this meeting. I was usually so prepared for an interview, a class, a seminar, even for the toast I’d made a month ago at a college friend’s wedding.
Now, tasked with assuming a role in a murder investigation, I had nothing. Did I think I’d just say “Please consider Rachel Wheeler not guilty?” Or raise my hand and recite, “I vouch for your number one suspect, Rachel Wheeler,” and that would be that?
Virgil sat back, crossed one leg over the other as far as it would go with the heft around his middle. Letting me take my time. I looked at the sole of his shoe and imagined I saw blood and brains. Never mind that Keith had been poisoned, not blown apart. Amazing what happened when a violent act entered the psyche.
My biggest conundrum, and one I should have thought through during the last four hours, was whether to mention Rachel at all. For all I knew the police had another suspect in tow, the real killer, and Virgil came to deliver the news in person.
I saw LOL in big text-messaging letters in the air in front of me.
“Virgil,” I began, the single word sending my lips into a desert of dryness.
Virgil uncrossed his legs and leaned his bulk forward. “You probably want to know what’s what with your assistant.”
I could have kissed him for rescuing me. “She’s my friend,” I said, as if that should make a difference.
Virgil shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands, palms out. “Your friend.”
“I didn’t mean to-”
“It’s okay. It’s a tense situation. Let me set the scene for you,” he said, taking a small notebook from his shirt pocket.
I took a deep breath and sat back. “Okay.”
“A call comes in at sixteen hundred and ten hours from a male with a report of a nonresponsive victim in Benjamin Franklin Hall, northwest corner of Henley College campus. Uniforms are dispatched. They get to the building where a janitor, later self-identified as the nine-one-one caller, greets them at the door and leads them to an office on the fourth floor.”
I nodded. “The chemistry floor,” I said, wanting to keep everything neat and correct.
“Chemistry. Thanks. Professor Keith Appleton, determined to be deceased, is ID’d by the janitor.”
“He’s not…” I stopped in time, holding myself back from another irrelevant correction-technically speaking, Keith was not a full professor yet, though most people used the term to mean simply college teacher. “Never mind.”
Virgil picked up his thread again. “The first officers on the scene report that the victim is on the floor behind his desk in a position that appears he fell or was pushed from his chair. His shirt collar appears to have been torn open, by himself or another. The victim’s face and neck exhibit a pink discoloration.” Virgil ran his finger down the page and turned the leaf before he continued. Trying to spare me unpleasant details? Or keeping some matters confidential? Both, probably. “Some things are knocked over. A clock-”
“That’s his distinguished alumnus clock from Harvard,” I said, swallowing a gulp. “He was extremely proud of that.”
Virgil nodded and appeared to appreciate the information. “A photograph-”
“Keith with Senator Kennedy, right? He loved that picture. The only one in his office. It was taken at a special fund-raiser only weeks before the senator died.”
“Thanks again,” Virgil said.
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Why were my nerves so rattled? I felt like clamping my hand across my mouth. I looked around the den to find something calming. I settled on a poster, rolled up in the corner, waiting for me to take it to a shop for mounting. I imagined it unfurled, revealing the sweet, smiling countenance of Emmy Noether, said to be the most important woman in the history of mathematics. Even a huge Sophie Germain fan like me would have to agree.
Virgil cleared his throat. “There was some other stuff. On the desk is a clear bottle of white powder, a crystally substance, the officer called it, labeled potassium chloride. The uniforms ask the janitor to come in and ID the bottle. Did he ever see it before, to his knowledge did it belong in this office, et cetera, et cetera. This is where I arrive with my partner, Archie-you’ve met him a couple of times, I think. We send the uniforms out…” Another pause to flip through pages. “The janitor says the bottle looks like it belongs down the hall in a chemistry laboratory, in a cabinet that’s always locked.”
“I know the cabinet you’re talking about. A lot of people have a key,” I said. Including Rachel.
“Your friend has a key,” Virgil said, echoing my thought.
“But she’s not the only one. Every chem and bio faculty member has a key, plus a couple of interns. You’d have to have a lot more than that before-”
My voice had risen again. Virgil put his hand out to stop me before I made a complete fool of myself. Perspiration that had formed on his forehead made its way down his face. Here was this very tired, very busy detective in my home, to accommodate me, as a courtesy to his best friend. He had no obligation whatsoever to be here or to share information.
“There is more,” he said, mopping his brow.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice back in control.
Virgil waved away the second apology I’d made in less than ten minutes. “An eyewitness saw Ms. Wheeler outside the door to Professor Appleton’s office in the afternoon between one thirty and one forty-five, which looks to be close to the time of death, though we don’t know that for sure yet. That was just a quickie guess by the ME. Could have been any time from about noon till the gentleman found him at four.”
An eyewitness saw her? Probably Woody. I could take care of that little nothing of a clue. “Rachel went upstairs to take Keith some food from a party we were having on the first floor.” I felt and heard a triumphant ring to my response. “We were celebrating Hal Bartholomew’s doctorate. He teaches physics.” That should clear things up.
Virgil scratched his head. “What kind of food was that?”
I described the paper plate with cake that Rachel had assembled. “White frosting, blue icing. And a can of soda. I don’t know which kind,” I added.
Virgil flipped through his notebook. “I don’t see a mention of food or a drink here anywhere in the office.”
“There has to be food there. I saw her leave the lounge with it. It was a very nice gesture on her part. While everyone else was ragging on him, I might add.”
“I’ll check the photos when I get back.”
“Wait. I remember Rachel said Keith didn’t answer her knock. I’ll bet she just left the plate outside his door. Would the photos show that?”
“If there was anything outside the door, yes, it would have been photographed.”
Virgil shot me a sad, tired look. I was amazed he showed no anger or frustration, which, given my performance, I’d have completely understood.
“I’m really grateful to you for coming, Virgil,” I said. “I’m getting concerned that you’ll get no sleep at all tonight if you don’t leave soon. I guess I lost track of the fact that you’re doing me this big favor.” I took a big breath. “I’m just worried about my friend.”
“I understand, Sophie. I didn’t come here for a party.” He held up his nearly empty beer bottle and smiled, barely. “This was a good start, though.”
“Can I get you another one? Or some coffee?” About time I showed my classy side.
“I’m good.”
“I just want you to know I’d like to help Rachel Wheeler. She seems to think you’re zeroing in on her. Maybe she’s wrong?” I checked Virgil’s face for signs of “Bingo, you’re right; she’s wrong.” Nothing. “Or if she is at the top of your list because of something I don’t know yet, maybe you could tell me and I could explain it for you.”
I was out of breath as often happened when I rambled.
Virgil drained his beer then sucked his lips in tight. “We’re withholding one thing. I’m going out on a limb here telling you. But what the heck, I don’t think this is what’s going to be the gotcha.” I moved forward on my seat. “There were papers scattered over and around the victim’s body and throughout the office. Pages and pages of yellow computer paper, eight and a half by eleven sheets, some with typed text, some with diagrams and pictures. They were crinkled up as if someone had thrown them around in anger.”
I thought immediately of Rachel’s thesis. The campus store sold reams of very inexpensive yellow paper that most students used for drafts of their reports that no teacher would see. Once they edited their papers and were ready to submit, they printed on a good white bond paper. I knew Rachel’s thesis was still in the yellow paper stage, though she’d had a series of oral presentations on her data.
“Don’t tell me,” I whispered. I leaned over, put my face in my hands and partly over my ears, and pressed my body farther into the couch, but I could still hear Virgil as plain as day.
“The name at the tops of the pages was R. Wheeler and the pages were bleeding with red pencil corrections and nasty comments.” Virgil shook his head slightly. “It doesn’t look good for your friend.”
I rubbed my eyes and breathed out loudly.
“Can I ask one more question, Virgil? If it’s out of line, just tell me, but doesn’t it look as though Rachel is being framed, that someone wants you to think Rachel killed her teacher? Everyone knows he’s given her a hard time for years, and especially right now, about her thesis.”
Virgil nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. And you have a point. Who leaves the murder weapon and evidence of anger at the scene, practically shouting out ‘me, me.’ But, with the janitor seeing her there, she’s the best we have right now. And sometimes a smart guy will frame himself, so the police will say what you’re saying. We’re looking at all of this, believe me, Sophie.”
He fell just short of saying, “We’re not that dumb,” and I admired his restraint.
I was out of ideas.
“Thanks again for coming by, Virgil. If there’s anything I can do. I mean, I can vouch for Rachel.” The offer sounded silly even to me but Virgil nodded politely.
“The best thing you can do is just sit back and let us do our job.”
“Easy for you to say.”
I was glad we could end with both of us smiling.
Almost.
“Archie will be in tomorrow,” he said, gathering up his jacket and tie. He handed me Archibald McConnell’s card. “Why don’t you give him a call and you guys pick a good time.”
I raised my eyebrows in a huge question mark.
“He needs to interview you. It wouldn’t look good on the report if I did it.”
I didn’t know whether to be devastated or deliriously happy that Rachel wasn’t the only suspect. I should have realized that sooner or later, the police would get to me on their list of people to interview.
“My, you’d think I was a suspect.”
Virgil smiled, broadly this time, enough for the dimple on his chin to show at last. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
We parted with a high five.
I’d just turned down my cool lavender sheets and placed a glass of iced herbal tea on my night table when the phone rang. I thought a new record had already been set for the greatest number of calls in one night.
I picked up and heard Rachel’s wispy voice.
“I’m home now, but it was awful, Dr. Knowles. You’d think I was some big-time criminal. Our neighbors were waiting for me in front of my house, and I even saw some people standing watching on the curbs all along the way.”
Probably an exaggeration on Rachel’s part, but, on the other hand, in a town as small as Henley, there wasn’t much to keep the citizenry entertained. A police drama was just what everyone needed on a hot Friday night.
I felt so bad for Rachel. I could barely understand her through her sobs.
“We need to talk,” I told her. It came out sounding not unlike the intro to a breakup.
I wanted desperately to talk to Rachel now that I had more facts-alleged facts-to work with. But not at this hour, not after this day.
“Yeah, for sure, Dr. Knowles. And without my mother and all my aunts and uncles around.”
Where could we go? I realized that meeting on campus was not a good idea. Certainly not Rachel’s home either. Here? Bruce would be by-too soon, I realized, looking at the clock. Ariana and her class would arrive at noon for at least a couple of hours. I’d have to call Ariana in the morning to let her know that I wouldn’t be here, but she could still use my house. I hated to change the venue on her on such short notice.
The ideal spot for a private meeting would be a place at the edge of town, sparsely populated, with no crowded Starbucks in sight.
“Can you meet me around noon?”
“Uh-huh.”
I had the feeling Rachel would have agreed to anything at that moment. “Can you get to the MAstar facility, out at the airfield?”
“Where Mr. Granville and Mrs. Bartholomew work? Sure.”
I was reminded how long Rachel had been part of the Henley family; she knew more than just our class schedules. “Are you okay right now?” I asked her.
“Yeah, everyone’s asleep, thank God. One of my aunts has this lawyer friend and he came by. He says it doesn’t look good for me.”
“He said that?”
“Not exactly, but I could tell that’s what he’s thinking.”
“Let’s start out positive about this, okay, Rachel?”
“I’ll try, Dr. Knowles.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Detective Virgil Mitchell, Henley PD, said exactly what her aunt’s lawyer friend had said.