A Rare Murder In Princeton (13 page)

“I always say a tasteless joke is better than no joke,” said McLeod.

“Perhaps,” said Natty.

She got busy with a grocery list.

 

THAT NIGHT, WHEN she was coming down the stairs, she had a sense of déjà vu as she heard Natty saying to George in the hall below, “Dear fellow, so good of you to have me to dinner again in the murder house . . .”

She followed the two men into the living room and sat down with them before the fire for a while, and then went into the kitchen to see about dinner. She was cooking this time, and it seemed to make George nervous—he kept coming into the kitchen to check on things.

“It’s okay, George. It’s fine,” she reassured him. The minute he left the kitchen, her own qualms began. Was it really going to be fine? She did have failures in the kitchen now and then, and it would be just her luck to mess things up when she was cooking dinner in George’s house for George’s old mentor. She wished George were cooking; she would much rather be talking to Natty; she had a million questions for him. But she persevered in the kitchen. Please God, she prayed, let it be all right. It was a heavy meal, but it was the dead of winter in frozen New Jersey, she told herself. A heavy meal was what was called for.

And it was fine. The scallop soup was better than chowder, the men said. The Irish stew was superb, and the dressing for the endive salad was perfect. McLeod sighed with relief, and George insisted on serving the dessert, McLeod’s own chocolate mousse, and making coffee.

“Natty, did you know we had a burglary?” George said while they were drinking coffee.

“No, I didn’t know. When was it?”

“Thursday,” said George. “Two days ago. The burglar must have thought McLeod was an heiress. He really only seemed to be after something in her room.”

“Dear girl, he didn’t find the Dulaney family jewels, did he?” asked Natty.

“He found them and wasn’t interested in my bracelet,” said McLeod.

“That’s good,” said Natty. “But now it’s the burgled house as well as the murder house. How did he get in?”

George gave Natty the details, and Natty said that burglaries were disturbing. “I have an alarm system. Do you have one, dear boy? No, I thought not. You should if you have anything remotely valuable—”

“I don’t,” interjected George, “but I’m getting one. The man was here yesterday.”

“I’ve had one for years. I have some very nice pictures, you know, some choice books of my own, and some prints that I treasure.”

“I’d love to see them,” said McLeod.

“Natty doesn’t show off his treasures,” George said.

“No, I hug them to myself, dear lady,” said Natty.

McLeod ate her mousse and drank her coffee and then turned to Natty. “Is it true that Philip Sheridan was not as nice as he seemed?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “How nice did he seem?”

“He seemed very nice to me,” she said. “You know that. But in talking to other people since then, I gather he had feet of clay.”

“What do you mean?” Natty repeated. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“Well, to be frank, Dodo Westcott told me that she thought Chester and Philip Sheridan had problems, and Fanny Mobley told me how Sheridan felt—and talked—about Buster Keaton.”

“You know, everybody in Rare Books is temperamental to some extent,” Natty said. “That’s why the university brought me in from the English Department to take charge. Everybody used to have his own little fiefdom. Nobody could stand anybody else and they were always feuding. Fanny Mobley was fine one minute and a beast the next. Buster Keaton lost his temper continually and every day he yelled at somebody until she—and sometimes, he—was in tears. It was impossible to set up an exhibition anymore because no two people could agree about the contents.”

Natty stopped talking long enough to finish off his glass of wine. George got up and brought out a bottle of brandy, offering it to Natty, who accepted gratefully. McLeod declined ; she wanted to listen with a clear head.

“McLeod, you realize all this is confidential,” said George.

“George, I wasn’t about to put it in the paper,” she protested. Turning to Natty, she asked, “But you straightened out the situation, didn’t you, when you came in?”

“Oh, yes, certainly. Sure I did. I fixed it so that now everybody has his own little fiefdom. Nobody can stand anybody else and they are always feuding. Fanny Mobley is fine one minute and a beast the next. Buster Keaton loses his temper once a day and yells at somebody every day until she—and sometimes, he—is in tears.” He took a huge swallow of brandy, and grinned at his own wit.

“But they do put up exhibitions,” said McLeod.

“Only because I listen to everybody’s arguments and then I simply issue a fiat: We will do this and include that, and so on.”

“I suppose that’s all fixed, then,” said McLeod, smiling.

Everybody was quiet for a minute or two, until George suggested they go back to the living room and he would poke up the fire. Carrying the brandy bottle, he led the way.

The men settled down, and McLeod went upstairs to get her knitting. “Natty, did Philip Sheridan take part in all these battles and feuds? I would have thought he’d stay aloof,” she asked when she came back.

“He tried,” said Natty. “He really wanted just to work with his own collection and keep everything shipshape. His collection was to be his immortality and he wanted it to be as perfect as he could get it. He and Chester were as happy as clowns puttering around in there in their lair. I don’t believe that Philip was involved in serious altercations with anybody on the staff. For one thing, as I said, he didn’t pay that much attention to anything but his own collection, and all of us were understandably respectful of him. He was already our benefactor, but besides that, everybody saw him as a source of potential power and a source—of course—of funding for future pet projects. And they were always swarming over him—I guess we were all always swarming over him.”

“But did he really get mad at Chester?”

“Chester was deferential to a fault,” said Natty. “Sometimes Philip may have been impatient with him, but I think at heart he was very fond of Chester. He should have been. Trust Dodo to bad-mouth Chester.”

“And did Philip Sheridan really dislike Buster Keaton? Fanny said he did.”

Natty reached for the brandy bottle and refilled his glass. “I don’t know how Philip really felt about Buster,” he said. “He brought his collection to Princeton when Old Clement Odell was in charge of Rare Books. He was a classmate of Philip’s and a gentleman collector himself. Philip loved Princeton and it was natural for him to bring his collection here, but Old Clement Odell was certainly a factor. Buster became curator of Rare Books when Old Clement died.”

“How old was Old Clement Odell?” asked McLeod.

“He was Philip’s age, but he died several years ago, when he wasn’t all that old. He just acted old and everybody always called him ‘Old Clement.’ People who knew him still refer to him that way.”

“Are you saying that Philip Sheridan would not have brought his collection to Princeton if Buster Keaton had been curator?”

“Who knows? I know Old Clement was a factor in Philip’s choice at the time, but that’s not the only reason he did what he did. Buster is a reputable rare books person. He is widely respected. On the other hand, anybody might lose patience with him occasionally. He blusters, and Philip Sheridan didn’t like bluster.”

“I see,” said McLeod. She was silent. While George and Natty chatted about some university matter that she’d never heard of, she knitted industriously on George’s sweater and thought about all that everyone had told her about Rare Books and Special Collections.

Without thinking, she interrupted the ongoing discussion between Natty and George. “Natty, I understand there are always rivalries and tensions in any office—although I would have thought a place like Rare Books might possibly be an exception—it’s so quiet and isolated from the crass world. But I can understand it’s like any other place where people work together. Feelings can run high. You said you didn’t believe Philip was ‘involved in serious altercations with anybody’—but can you really rule out the possibility that anybody could have hated Philip Sheridan enough to kill him? There’s been a murder, and we have to be so careful.”

“I realize that,” said Natty. “And if I knew of anybody who felt that way about Philip—in or out of my department —I would certainly say so—and say it to the police.” He sounded quite cross.

“Of course you would,” said McLeod. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of hiding something. I guess I’m just trying to think out loud.” She knitted furiously, speaking again after a minute. “I can’t think myself why anybody would want to kill him. He was kind of the goose that laid golden eggs, wasn’t he?”

“I can’t bear to hear Philip Sheridan referred to as a goose,” said Natty.

“Oh, Natty, you know what I mean,” cried McLeod. “Of course he wasn’t a goose. I’ve said over and over again that he was one of the nicest men I ever met—remember he ordered me that first edition of the
The Vicar of Bullhampton
—”

“And a pretty penny he paid for that, dear lady,” interrupted Natty, glowering.

“—I’m sure he did. And I meant that he was the source of many good things. Dodo wanted money for the Friends. I guess Buster wanted more rare books and Fanny more manuscripts . . .”

“You two had better talk about something else,” said George. “How about something calming like politics or religion ? Or better yet, the weather?”

“The weather’s cold,” said McLeod, frowning at her knitting.

“Indeed it is,” said Natty agreeably. “Don’t worry, George. McLeod and I won’t come to blows. I guess I’m more worried than I realized about this murder. I do hope the police get it cleaned up before long.”

“Have another brandy,” said George, pouring.

As she placidly knitted, McLeod marveled at their capacity for alcohol. “Are they through going over your space?” she asked. “Will you be able to open up to the public Monday?”

“I think so,” said Natty. “I’m pretty sure we will. They’ve been over the premises with a fine-tooth comb, with three or four fine-tooth combs, I guess you could say. They will continue to shut everybody, even the staff, out of Philip’s space and the Belcher display, of course. They’ve been closed to everybody but the police the whole time. We were allowed to be in and out of our own offices in a limited way on Thursday and Friday, vacating while they used those fine-tooth combs, but I think they’ve done all the searching they can do. As I understand it, we can open up Monday. I must call a couple of researchers first thing Monday—maybe I should call Barry Porter tomorrow. He wants to get back to the O’Neill stuff immediately.”

“The police were looking for the murder weapon, weren’t they?” asked McLeod.

“I guess so,” said Natty. “They never said.”

“Chester said he was sure it was Philip Sheridan’s paper knife,” said McLeod.

“Really? I didn’t know that,” said Natty.

McLeod wondered why there wasn’t more communication among the people in Rare Books and Special Collections, but decided not to say this out loud.

Natty was relaxing, definitely relaxing. Waving his brandy glass, he said, “You know, McLeod, speaking of people getting mad enough to kill dear Philip, we have to consider Miss Dodo.”

“Dodo? Dorothy Westcott?” said McLeod.

“Yes, the would-be social queen,” said Natty. “You know she has a consuming ambition to be the doyenne of Princeton society. That lust for social prominence is a great gift to me. That’s why she has labored so hard as a volunteer for the Friends of the Library and why the Friends have brought in so much money for Rare Books and Special Collections. We’ve been able to make some really splendid acquisitions with that money. Dodo, from whatever base motives, has worked really hard and it’s paid off handsomely. I, for one, appreciate it.”

McLeod did not quite see what Natty meant. “But why did that make her mad at Philip Sheridan?” she asked.

“Am I not making myself clear? Oh, dear, it’s late and I’ve had
gallons
of alcohol. My ex-student has plied me so generously . . . But back to Dodo. Yes, she has social ambitions, which, alas, are not shared by her husband. That provides no obstacle to dear Dodo, though. She saw Philip, the
ne plus ultra
of Princeton eligibility, as the means to achieve her ends. Oh, how she went after him. She invited him to little dinners at her house, to big dinners, to cocktail parties, and he wouldn’t come. Sure, he would turn up for Friends’ events. He was a good soldier about all that, although I believe darling Dodo was sometimes too zealous in milking him for financial support for Friends’ events. But he would not turn up for a strictly social occasion at the Westcott MacMansion. He just wouldn’t.”

“And that made Dodo mad enough to kill him?”

“Dearest McLeod, I jest. Forgive an old man’s feeble attempts at humor. But when you ask about people angry enough to kill dear Philip, I couldn’t help but think about our capable, but climbing, Dodo.” He paused. “That does sound like the name of a great vine, doesn’t it? Climbing Dodo, or maybe Creeping Dodo.”

“But Dodo couldn’t have done the murder. She told me she left the library while Philip was still alive.”

“Of course she would tell you that. Who knows when Dodo left? She was often hanging around after we closed. I didn’t see her leave, so I can’t say, of course. But remember her vinelike characteristics.”

McLeod, chilled, could think of nothing to say for a minute, then forced herself to come up with something ordinary to get the conversation back on track. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the Friends’ annual dinner. Dodo says I ought to go. Should I?”

“Indeed you should,” said Natty. “And you’re coming, aren’t you, dear boy?”

“I guess I’d better. I’m not a member, though. I should be.”