Margaret Maron: One Coffee With

Another uniformed officer was posted at the top of the hall by the elevator doors to keep back a crowd of blue-jeaned students who craned their necks and jostled for good sight-seeing positions. Sigrid heard a buzz of curious speculation as she again flashed her shield.

"What do you call a lady pig?" asked an adenoidal voice, but the gibe was good-natured and was even accompanied by a couple of embarrassed shushes. There had been no demonstrations at Vanderlyn in several years.

She entered the Art Department 's main office by way of the nursery door, and her glance brushed over the group of people seated on a motley collection of ill-matched chairs around a long table in the front corner. The office reminded her of those in old precinct stations throughout the city. There were the same unlovely tile floors, a battered bookcase, a large desk canted across a rear corner and under the high windows a bank of ugly green, black and brown file cabinets, some with sprung drawers that would never again close flush.

The resemblance to precinct houses ended there, however, for large bright paintings-mostly abstract-covered the cream-colored walls; baskets of Swedish ivy, asparagus ferns, spider plants and the like hung in front of the windows, and pots of geraniums stood on the file cabinets, softening the room's bureaucratic feel. Someone evidently had a kelly green thumb or amazing luck, thought Sigrid, who'd never managed to keep a plant alive for more than a month and no longer tried.

An assemblage of small white non-representational sculptures, none more than eight inches high, stood on the file cabinets in front of the plants. They had all been carved from blocks of plaster of Paris, and each was intricately detailed with a variety of surface textures. One ambitious piece looked like a random pile of barred cages with small cubes inside. Not very aesthetic perhaps but remarkable when one realized that it had been carved from a solid chunk of plaster. Later Sigrid would learn that these sculptures were not the handiwork of art majors but had come out of a workshop course that the Art Department gave to teach predental students dexterity in using small tools in a confined space.

At the moment, however, most of her attention was focused not on the plaster sculptures atop the file cabinets but on the cherubic-faced man who waited for her in front of them. He carried a folder, and past experience told her it must already hold the rough beginnings of timetables, character sketches, floor plans and anything else that had caught his attention.

"I've made a few notes, Lieutenant," he said anxiously.

Detective Tildon-inevitably rechristened Tillie the Toiler' by his colleagues-found it very difficult to make comparisons,d raw parallels, formulate theories or see beyond the obvious; but to compensate for his lack of imagination, he followed the book to the letter, and he was scrupulous about detail. Tillie's reports were sometimes officialdom's despair, sometimes its salvation. Legend had it that he once used three sheets of paper to describe one ordinary cocktail glass found at the scene of a murder-but the detective in charge wouldn't have thought twice about the triangular-shaped chip of glass embedded in the heel of the murderer's shoe if he hadn't remembered Tillie's sketch of the cocktail glass's missing chip.

Plowing through Detective Tildon's mountains of verbiage could be exasperating; yet, on the whole, Sigrid approved of his thoroughness. Occasionally he was too anxious to please, and his feelings were easily hurt, but Sigrid preferred him to the hotshot macho types who bordered on insubordination when required to take orders from her.

Now Tillie described the situation to her in low undertones. He explained his sketch of the department, filled her in on the people he'd talked to so far and told why he'd detained these particular seven to wait for her questions. He had listed them in order of seniority:

Prof. Oscar Nauman, Chairman, Color and Basic Design.

Assoc. Prof. Albert Simpson, History of Classical Art.

Assoc. Prof. Lemuel Vance, Advanced Printmaking.

Asst. Prof. Piers Leyden, Life Painting.

Asst. Prof. Andrea Ross, History of Medieval Art.

Asst. Prof. Jake Saxer, History of Modern Art/Slide Curator.

Miss Sandy Keppler, Secretary.

No one was better than Detective Tildon in preliminary interviews. Witnesses were so disarmed by his cheerful, bumbling manner that they often said more than they'd intended. And Tillie wrote it all down in a neat, precise script.

Sigrid seated herself at Sandy Keppler's desk and slowly reviewed his notes. She'd seen the raised eyebrows when Tillie called her by her title and decided the witnesses could use the extra time to get used to the idea that a female police officer would be conducting the investigation. Her height and her no-nonsense appearance helped. At five-ten, her dark hair braided into a knot at the nape of her neck and wearing a loose, rather poorly tailored pantsuit, she looked efficient and capable of command.

At last she lifted her head from Tillie's notes and spoke in the quiet voice that always warranted attention.

"My name is Lieutenant Harald, and I'll try not to keep you any longer than necessary. First, is access to the Chemistry Department very convenient from here?"

She sat erect behind the desk, her hands neatly folded, her gray eyes watchful; and all seven-with the possible exception of Oscar Nauman-were suddenly reminded of certain teachers they'd faced in elementary school. Piers Leyden cheekily raised his hand.

"If it's poisons you're looking for, why go all the way over to Chemistry? We've got a decent supply of our own right downstairs."

"State your choice," agreed Lemuel Vance. He had exchanged his ink-stained lab coat for a disreputable brown cardigan. "I've got nitric, acetic, sulfuric and hydrochloric acids, as well as potassiumn dichromate, trisodium phosphate and sodium hydroxide."

He had meant to be sensational; but Sigrid calmly referred to Tillie's list and said, "Oh, yes, you must be Professor Vance. Printmaking."

"Which includes lithography and etching," said Vance. "The acid and alkalies are to bite lines into metal plates."

Tillie had already discovered that no teacher could resist an opportunity to lecture, but he was stunned.

"You let kids mess around with that stuff?"

"Certainly!" Vance said blithely. "One learns by doing, Officer. An eye here, a hand there and the students get cautious."

"Stop being cute, Lem," said Oscar Nauman. "It's not as dangerous as it sounds, Detective Tildon. Our beginners work under close supervision. All chemicals are locked up except when Professor Vance or a graduate assistant is in the workshop."

"It's the same for photography," Sandy volunteered helpfully. "I guess some of those developer compounds must be poisonous because they're kept locked up, too."

"Who has the keys?" asked Sigrid.

"I do," said the girl. "There in the top right drawer."

Sigrid fished them out and handed them to Tillie, who signaled to one of the lab personnel and slipped out to check on the chemical supplies.

"Who knew where the keys were kept?" asked Sigrid.

"Why, practically everybody," Sandy replied. "Seniors and majors are supposed to work independently when classes aren't in session, so they just reach in and take the room key they need. Of course, they're supposed to sign for them; and as Professor Nauman said, they aren't supposed to use any chemicals without supervision."

Her tone implied that the rules weren't stringently enforced, and that was confirmed when Sigrid examined the clipboard in the same drawer. It hadn't been signed since the week before.

"I suppose you never lock your desk?"

"Only at night," Sandy admitted unhappily.