Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 633 & 634, October 1994

“Why are you telling me this?” Ellen asked. “I can’t repeat anything like that.”

“You don’t have to. But there will be rumors, and they’ll be nasty before this is all over. If you’re going to help out, it will be easier if you know my position. You didn’t go to school here, did you?” He waited for her to shake her head. “See, no old loyalties to get in the way. Next thing, the forensic lab guys say Seymour was naked when he was killed. That’s going to be all over town, too.”

She swallowed hard and felt her stomach spasm. “He was killed? How?”

“His head was bashed in.” He regarded her for a moment, then said, “Stretch out your hand, Blair, this way.”

He was mad, she thought then. They had put a madman in charge. He nodded at her and reluctantly she stretched her arm out across the table; she could not reach the other side.

“My point,” he said softly. “Out of reach. Someone was close enough to a naked Philip Seymour to hit him over the head.” He touched his own temple. “Right about here. I’m afraid the rumor mill will run overtime with this one.” He stood up. “Let’s take a walk. The psychology building, dorms, faculty housing, archives storage... I’ll think of the rest while we’re walking.”

It was after five when he walked with her through the terraced gardens to the president’s mansion. At the top of a flight of brick steps he paused to look back over the campus. “Don’t they get younger every year.”

All afternoon more and more students had appeared on the grounds until now it seemed that most of the student body was visible, moving without too much obvious purpose toward the student union building and the cafeteria in the basement. A few months ago she would have been more comfortable down there with them than up here. Today they looked like children.

He started to walk again. The campus was terraced throughout; up here the terraces were gardens, a rose garden, spring bulbs in full bloom, rhododendrons, azaleas...

At the entrance to the house, he stopped and said, “Thanks for the tour, Blair. Bright and early tomorrow. Go on in for your grilling now.” He grinned.

Hilde opened the door. “Come in, Ellen.” She nodded coolly to the lieutenant. He turned and walked away.

“Ellen, I can’t tell you how sorry I am to saddle you with his work,” Hilde said as she led her through the wide entrance foyer, past the formal rooms to a small sitting room in the rear of the house.

The parts of the house that Ellen had seen before were all formal interior-decorator rooms; this was personal. Shelves were cluttered with artifacts from around the world, Indonesian dolls, African masks, pottery... Walter Melton had been an archaeologist, had traveled extensively, and had collected whatever took his fancy. One wall was covered with diplomas, certificates, plaques. Tables were laden with books; wall hangings from Brazil, silk prayer rugs... It was like walking into an eclectic museum.

Janice Ayers was seated in a leather-covered chair holding a drink. She smiled at Ellen and mouthed, “Sit down,” pointing to another chair.

Janice Ayers was in her forties, tall and graceful, with long pale hair that she wore in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. She lived with Michael Wyland when he was in town and rumor had it that when the former president of the college had suggested that she either marry the man or give him up, she had laughed. Most of the time Wyland was in Seattle, where he had a computer business.

“That lieutenant,” Hilde was saying, “said he would bring in people to go through the files, and he would interview all of us down in City Hall. The idea of going to town one by one to be questioned! To have strangers pawing through files...” She went to a table with liquor, wine, glasses. “What would you like, Ellen? Wine? Something stronger?”

Ellen said wine.

“We’re mapping our strategy,” Hilde said, pouring white wine. “No statements to the press, first of all. I already posted that. All statements come from the president’s office.” She handed the glass to Ellen. “I’ll want a record of everything he copies. I already told him copies only; he can’t have originals of our files.”

Janice laughed. “Hilde, forget it. You’re not in charge. I think the police will take what they want.”

Hilde’s mouth tightened. “We’ll see. He intends to drag the college into whatever mess he stirs up; I intend to limit the damage.” Janice laughed again.

Ellen felt as if she had intruded on an ongoing argument between two old friends. Janice was mocking and sardonic, Hilde was angry, but there was a deep understanding between them. Ellen avoided looking at either of them, looked instead at the commemorative wall ahead.

Janice took a sip of her drink. “What we really want, Ellen,” she said, “is a blow-by-blow account. Tell.”

Ellen glanced at Hilde, who nodded, and she repeated everything the lieutenant had said to her, and described the tour. “Stuff is in boxes, as well as the files, it’s a mess in archives. He said someone will be there to help me. I suppose he really means to keep an eye on me, make sure I don’t hide anything.”

“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.