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

But what if he hadn’t gone back? What if Patty had told the truth, he never returned? She slowed her pace, no longer noticing the houses or gardens or the scant traffic until she reached Main and had to stop for several cars. She had told the truth, and maybe Patty had told the truth, too. And that meant that someone else had been there, and that person had seen Ellen, and that’s what the note to Haliday was about. She began to hurry, wanting to be home where she could think of what that meant, to think of Janice Ayers, who had known about Philip’s experiment. As a psychologist, would Janice have found that experiment irresistible?

She heard Jordan calling her name and looked around to see him trotting down Main. Not now, she thought, but she stopped and waved, and he crossed the street to catch up.

“I was watching for you to pass Papa’s,” he said. “Good ravioli tonight. Your mom said you’d left already, or I’d have gone by their house. Walk you home?”

“Sure. I had to leave early because I have homework. Hilde loaded me up for tonight and tomorrow.”

He caught her hand and held it as they walked. “Not even Hilde expects you to work twenty-four-hour days,” he said lightly, but his grasp of her hand was hard.

“Just this once. For a special meeting of the trustees on Monday. They’re driving her crazy.” They had reached her building.

“Can I come in?” he asked at the door. When she hesitated he released her hand “I really do have an awful lot of work,” she said, “This won’t go on much longer, and everything will get back to normal.”

“It’s been going on for more than a month,” he said evenly. “It just gets worse. Ellen, I don’t care what happened years ago, what you did, what anyone else did. I simply want you back.”

“Please, let’s talk about it later, next week, not now. I’m tired and I have work to do and I have to get some sleep...” Her voice faltered and she inserted her key in the lock.

“Right,” he said. He walked away.

She looked after him, started to call him back, then bit her lip and went inside Why not? she demanded at the mirror. There was no real answer until she had hung up her jacket and gone to the table to stand regarding the newspapers with loathing. Then she knew why not If he had come in, he would have pressured her to tell him what was wrong, and she probably would have done so, because she was desperate to talk to someone. She realized she had known from the start what he would say: don’t say anything, don’t get any more involved than you already are. It will blow over.

That wasn’t fair, she thought almost wildly, and anyway that was exactly what she had been doing, what she intended to keep doing. Even if that was the only sensible thing to do, she did not want to hear it from him. But what else was there to say?

Angry at the impasse, she sat at the table, ignored the papers, and thought about that night. Whoever painted Philip must have gone either with him or after him to the campsite, and must have been there when he put Ellen in the van and she drove away. And then what? There was no answer, but it no longer was a certainty that Philip had returned to the fire. Also, that person wanted Ellen to talk about it, implicate the others. And that observer, she added, feeling icy, could in apparent innocence mention to any of the six that Ellen was talking to the police, or intended to talk, or that she had hinted she knew something vital. How much of a nudge would it take to goad desperation into action?

If she told Patty or Bev what she suspected, then what? She shook her head. To them it would be the same problem: if Ellen talked, they would be dragged into a police investigation of a sensational murder case that included drugs, an orgy in the woods, a naked teacher and his students... Would they even believe her? As far as they were concerned, she had left with Philip.

“All right,” she said aloud and stood up, knocking some of the newspapers off the table. She had forgotten them. She put on coffee to get her through the next several hours of work, and she was glad that she would have a crack at the microfiches after all. If there were any gossipy items linking any of the current staff to Philip, she wanted to see them. She did not even question her assumption that a woman had painted Philip and later killed him. She didn’t believe it had been a student; it had been someone with a house or an apartment where he could hang out all day and his van not be seen by a passerby.

She assembled the clippings in the morning, sorting them by category, labeling them. By ten she was finished, but it was too early. Haliday had said after lunch. She didn’t need him, she decided; she would deliver this stuff to Hilde and start on the microfiches by herself.

She found Hilde in her office in the administration building and handed her the folder of clippings. The building was deserted. Hilde was dressed in jeans and a sweater, running shoes. The telephone was off the cradle.

“As soon as I wrap up a couple of things here,” Hilde said, “I’m taking off for the cottage. My God, the phone has driven me crazy this week.” She lifted the phone, grimaced, and put it down again on its side. “Thanks, Ellen. You get some rest this weekend. I won’t be in Monday. I’ll just go straight up to Portland, be back in the evening sometime. Maybe if things are settled down here, we can get some real work done.”

They talked briefly about what needed doing on Monday; then Ellen left and headed for the back door and the path to the journalism building.

The path led among shrubs to the Little Agate Creek footbridge, wound among more shrubs and trees to the journalism building, where she cursed under her breath. Locked. She hadn’t even thought of its being locked. She glared at the building, walked around it and up a dozen steps to try a different door, also locked. Haliday must have made arrangements to have it opened for him later. The building was ivied brick, as they all were, and very quiet. There would be some students on campus, she knew, but not up and around much before noon on a Saturday of spring break. From where she stood no other building was visible, no voices audible, just an eerie silence, and deep moist shadows. She shivered and started to retrace her steps, resigned to waiting until one to return and work under the watchful eye of Haliday or one of his flunkies. Then she heard the other door close. Someone had gone in.

Maybe he was early, she thought, heading back to the main entrance. Before she got there, she reconsidered. She had not heard him approach, had not heard voices. She stopped again, then turned and hurried back to the administration building by a different path. The parking lot was empty. She didn’t enter the building, just got in her car and drove away, thinking it could have been anyone, a maintenance person, the head of the department, an instructor, anyone. She realized her fear was becoming paranoia.

She had been avoiding everyone in her own town all week, and had no idea if reporters were still hanging around, but she drove to the outskirts of Salem to shop. At home again she put away the milk and eggs, fruit and bread, and it was still too early, not yet twelve-thirty. She began to gather up the cut-up newspapers, remembered the clipping about Jordan, and retrieved it from her purse. After regarding it for a moment she added it to the papers to be bundled up for recycling. The only emotion she felt was surprise at feeling so little, even though by the act she had decided it was over with Jordan. If she let him, he would forgive her lack of trust, she knew, but the fact remained that she had not trusted him enough to confide the most dangerous secret she ever had. She wondered if Hilde would discard the clippings that concerned her former husband. Probably Hilde would keep them, she thought, remembering the wall of plaques, citations, certificates.