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

Shit, Ellen muttered under her breath. When they left the library no reporters were in sight among the swarm of students on their way to the cafeteria. A light rain was falling. It was the kind of rain that locals paid no attention to; if they carried umbrellas, they usually didn’t bother to unfurl them for this kind of mist, but Winona began to run with her purse over her head. Maybe her dye would wash out, Ellen thought sourly. Suddenly Beverly Kirchner fell into step beside her.

“Slow down, Ellen. A couple of us want to talk to you. Tonight. About nine or a little after, your place.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Ellen said. “I told you, I’m not talking. Not to anyone. You think I’m crazy?”

“Why are you spending so much time with the cops? Are they putting pressure on you?”

“I’m an acting file clerk, for God’s sake! Leave me alone, Bev. You, all of you. Just leave me alone!”

Beverly clutched her arm. “You realize that some of them are desperate? If they thought you’d wreck their lives... They’re really desperate, Ellen. Believe me!”

Ellen stopped walking, pulling Beverly to a halt with her. Students moved around them on both sides. “Do you think I’m not desperate?” she demanded. “I’m not crazy, and I’m not stupid. Now bug off.”

She began to walk again, swiftly this time. Bev did not keep up. And no nine o’clock rendezvous, she should have said.

Winona was waiting for her at the administration building entrance. “They’re in the president’s office,” she said. “And I’m off. See you tomorrow.” She had found an umbrella somewhere. It was the only one in sight when she left.

Ellen knocked on Hilde’s door. Rita was already gone from the outer office, her computer covered. The door opened and Janice Ayers stepped aside to admit her.

Hilde was standing behind her desk, both hands palm down on it. She was speaking in a low, vehement voice. “Lieutenant, this is lunacy. What difference will a few days make now? You have to take your people off this campus, at least until next week when the students will be gone for spring break. Everyone knows what must have happened to Philip Seymour, and it has nothing to do with this school. Mary Grayling was in tears this afternoon. She had to cancel her classes. The students are in a turmoil. Parents are threatening to remove them entirely. And for what? A senseless disruption that is utterly fruitless.”

Haliday had glanced at Ellen when she arrived, then turned his attention back to Hilde. Now he said in a respectful tone, “I understand, Dr. Melton. Believe me, I do. We’ll be as discreet and fast as we can, I assure you.”

Hilde slapped the desk hard and turned to Ellen. “Is that what you’ve been pulling from the files?”

“Yes,” Ellen said. She crossed the room and handed Hilde a file folder. “If that’s all, I’d better be going.”

Hilde waved her away and started to scan the notes Ellen had prepared. “For God’s sake! His entire student roster from fifteen years ago!” She closed the folder and sat down.

“Is this the student newspaper?” Haliday asked suddenly. He picked up the newspaper from a table. “How often does it come out?”

Hilde glared at him. “Biweekly.”

Haliday said to Ellen, “When you finish in the archives, think you could round up copies of the paper for the time Seymour was teaching here?”

This time Ellen glared. “I don’t know.”

“Try,” he said placatingly. “That’s all we can do, isn’t it? Try.”

“They’ll be on microfiche,” Janice said then. “In the journalism department. They keep everything.”

Ellen could feel rebellion rising — microfiche ! — but before she could voice it, Haliday said, “You ready to leave? I’ll walk you to your car. You did drive, didn’t you?”

She darted a glance at Hilde, who was pale with fury. It was very clear who was in charge, who was deciding when to call a halt to the meeting, when to dismiss Ellen. She had never seen Hilde so angry, and was relieved to escape before she gave voice to her anger. Janice could take it, she thought, but at that moment she didn’t think she could. It was all just too much, she decided, hurrying to the door. Too damn much.

At the entrance to the building they paused. It was raining harder. “What were you so hot about when you came in?” he asked.

“A reporter,” she snapped, and zipped up her jacket.

“Ah. Well, let’s do it.”

He intended to go to the car with her, she realized, and began to run across the parking lot. When they reached the Mazda, he said, “You have time to do me a little favor?” He had stopped at the passenger side; she ran on to the driver’s side and opened the door.

“What?”

“A little spin around the campus, that’s all.” He pulled the other door open and got inside before she could respond. She slid in behind the wheel. “See, I’ve been all over it in daylight, but not at night. I thought it might be a good idea to do it with someone who knows what the different buildings are. Okay?”

Silently she started the car. She drove slowly on the narrow road that wound through the campus; many students were walking here and there, many with umbrellas now. Each building was screened by trees and bushes; paths with yellow lamplights led up and down from the road. There were many terraces, many stairs. She pointed out the buildings they passed; the science building, the library, gym. The math building showed many lights. “Computer freaks,” she said. She drove past the dorms, the highest buildings on campus, and on to College Road.

“Left,” he said.

With resignation she made the turn, and almost instantly there were deep woods on both sides of the blacktop road. When they came to the juncture with Staley Road that led to Jordan’s property, he told her to turn left again, and she realized he wanted to make a circuit of the perimeter of the college grounds. The deep woods continued on the left; there were fields on the right now. At Washington Street she turned again without waiting for his instructions, but she came to a stop when they reached Crystal River Road. Town was to the right, the campus to the left. He said left, but then he had her turn again at the first road, which curved around the faculty housing.

“Who actually lives there?” he asked.

“Temporaries, visiting lecturers; some of the instructors stay on even though they’re permanent. They’re cheap and they’re convenient.”

The houses, like the other buildings, were well separated, surrounded by mature trees and shrubs; the school brochure described them as “modest,” but in fact they were tiny with tiny garages, but very private and quiet. There were nine of them.

“I understand Philip Seymour turned them down,” Haliday said. “He opted for privacy, an apartment in town, just a few blocks from your dad’s place, I understand. Ayers lived here a while; Melton lived here with her husband for nine years.”

“They had a house on the coast,” Ellen said. “Since he was gone so much, I guess this was a good deal for her.”

“Okay,” he said then. “Good job, Blair. Let’s go to town. You can drop me at your place and I’ll walk.”

What was he after? she asked herself later. She had taken a shower, put on a warm robe, and was scrounging in her refrigerator. Just what was he after? Why was he focusing on the college and not the town? There must have been a dozen women in town then who were still around, and who might have been involved with Philip. Only those between twenty-one and forty, she recalled Patty’s saying years before. Those between the age of consent and the age of desperation. Plenty of women in town would have fallen in between, she thought bitterly, remembering his chaste kiss on her forehead. She scowled and slammed the refrigerator door. Such arrogance! Such egotistical arrogance! She had loved him at seventeen, and two weeks later she had hated him at eighteen. How many other women had done the same kind of abrupt about-face?