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

“I am perfectly well,” she said, clipping the words.

“I thought so,” he said. “Was that awful woman reporter Beverly Kirchner? Is she the one who cornered you yesterday?”

“Yes,” she snapped.

“And she was Seymour’s student,” he commented. “Such a small town, everything keeps coming back to home plate, doesn’t it?”

When had he had time to learn Bev’s name? She bit her lip and made no comment. As if reading her thoughts, he said, “In police work you train yourself to make connections, to notice things and remember them, things that relate to the case in hand, at least. I saw her name on the list of people still around. Burt Craxton, the sheriff’s son, is another one. Interesting, isn’t it? Anyway, like I was saying, when you get in the right mode you notice things, like you noticing no blue tux was on that list, and dredging up a memory.”

“Where should I drop you?” she asked, stopped at the corner of Main and Adams. Her apartment was a block away.

“Your place, I’ll walk from there.”

“You’ll get soaked.” The hotel was five blocks away, city hall three, nothing farther than six blocks, but he would get soaked.

“Got an umbrella,” he said cheerfully, and opened his briefcase to pull out a collapsible umbrella.

She turned the comer and suddenly she thought, he wanted to make sure she went home; he was keeping her under observation, just as Winona Kelly had kept an eye on her, and the uniformed officer... She jerked to a stop at her driveway.

He got out and snapped his umbrella open. “See you tomorrow, Blair.” He started down the street toward town.

Inside her apartment she stared at the blinking answering machine and finally started to listen to the calls: Patty, an old friend or two, her mother, and then Bev’s voice: “Remember, Ellen, I get the story first. For old-time’s sake.” She hit the stop button and erased the tape.

They were using Bev to keep the pressure on her, she understood, because Bev had a legitimate excuse for hanging around. She tried to remember what the others were all doing now: John Le Croix had married money, had a dairy farm in Tillamook; Burt Craxton was in state government, a man with a future, they said; Sheila had married him, they had two children; Les had a car dealership in Salem, other businesses; Patty was a librarian. They all had a lot to lose.

Why didn’t Bev tell them that Ellen would not talk about that night? Why didn’t Patty? Then she thought of it from their viewpoint. She was working for the police, was closeted with the lieutenant for long stretches of time, went driving with him... If he had set out deliberately to make it look as if she would talk, he couldn’t have done a better job of it. She felt a rush of gratitude toward Hilde Melton for demanding an end to it, for demanding Ellen’s return to her own work. The word would get out. Bev would know, she would tell the others.

Philip would have had them hallucinating, doing crazy things maybe, and then if he told them the mushrooms were plain mushrooms, not hallucinogenic, what would they have done? She remembered what Janice Ayers had said: It’s dangerous to start a process you can’t control. How much did Janice know? What happened hack at the fire? How far would they go to make sure no one ever found out? Then she realized that they would never feel safe as long as she lived.

She should tell Haliday, she thought wildly. At least she would have police protection. She shook her head. He would believe them, not her; her protection would be a cell.

Suddenly she was weeping, and furiously she swiped at her cheeks and then went to shower. The tears kept flowing as she cursed, “Damn them all. Just damn them all!”

On Friday the sun was shining, the forecast was for a high in the low seventies. The mood of the students on campus was festive; this was the last day before spring break. Frisbees had come out, and Rollerblades, and skateboards. People were already packing up their cars, ready to leave as soon as the last class was finished. When Ellen parked at the administration building, she could almost believe the last few days had been an illusion; this was how life was supposed to be. The uniformed officer at the entrance of the building brought her down again.

Rita met her in the corridor. “She wants you.” She hurried away on her own errand.

Hilde was on the phone. She looked worn, and for the first time she looked her age. She motioned to Ellen to wait, finished her conversation in a low voice, and hung up.

“I have a trustee meeting for Monday,” she said tiredly. “They want a complete list of the classes Philip taught here, his file, including his application and recommendations, and his evaluation file. They also want every article we have about this affair.” She indicated a large stack of newspapers on the low round table across from her desk. “They want a scapegoat,” she said. “Thank God I was just an errand girl.”

The phone rang. She closed her eyes briefly and said, with her hand on the telephone, “Take the newspapers to your office. Two folders, one of clippings, one of Philip’s files.” She lifted the phone and waved Ellen out.

In her own office, Ellen glanced through the stack of newspapers. They were from Bellingham down to Los Angeles, from Denver, Chicago... The Seymour name and the bizarre jewelry, the bones, a naked man... She hadn’t realized it had become a national sensation.

She retrieved the Seymour files first and then started on the newspapers. After the first few articles she stopped reading and simply scanned to determine if they were about the school or Philip. There were several long articles about Walter Melton, the honors he had accumulated, the degrees, the books he had written, where he had found various treasures... She broke for lunch and went to the cafeteria, where no one paid any attention to her. So much for Haliday’s fears of her being mobbed by reporters, she thought derisively, and returned to her office and the newspapers.

The Seymour family had many articles; she hesitated, then clipped them all. If Hilde didn’t want them, she would take them out later. More about Melton’s travels, an article about his accident and fatal infection. A history of the school. Her eyes were burning, and newsprint was smeared on her hands. She left black prints on whatever she touched. An article about Jordan. She clipped that one and put it in her purse.

“Hi, Blair.”

She looked up to see Haliday at her door. He surveyed the tiny office, scraps of paper everywhere, the disorderly heap of mutilated papers, the telephone on the floor where she had moved it to make more room on her desk.

“Your face is dirty,” Haliday said.

“And I’m busy.”

“Drop in upstairs before you take off, okay?”

“It’s beautiful outside, you can walk to town.”

He grinned. “And maybe I will, but drop in anyway. See you, Blair.”

She kept working, article after article. Late in the day Hilde came in.

“How’s it coming?”

“Okay, I guess. Here’s Philip Seymour’s files, and the newspapers aren’t as bad as you thought they might be. The one I’m doing now could have been written by a publicist from the school. Honors of graduates, high positions, art exhibitions, that sort of thing. Pretty nice.”

Hilde took the Seymour file and then said, “That many left to do?” There were a lot of newspapers Ellen hadn’t touched yet.

“I’ll take them home,” Ellen said. “I told my parents I’d have dinner with them, but it will be an early evening. I’ll finish them afterward and get them sorted by category, and bring them to you tomorrow.”

Hilde nodded. “Just don’t work too late. You look tired.”