A Skeleton in the Family (18 page)

A
ll in all, the date went very well. The dinner was good, the banter light and a touch suggestive without being vulgar, and in between bouts of banter had come some real conversation. Had I been asked to provide a score, I'd have given it an 8.5 out of 10. Whether or not I raised the rating would depend on the quality of the necking that took place once we got back to the house. That was assuming that necking was part of Fletcher's lesson plan. It was definitely part of mine.

Unfortunately my cell phone rang when we were halfway to the house.

“Sorry,” I said. “I'd better see who that is.”

“No problem—it might be your daughter.” That got him up to 9.0.

Only when I looked at the caller ID, it wasn't Madison—it was Charles Peyton. Since I couldn't imagine Charles calling at that time of night without it being important, I took the call. “Charles?”

“Georgia?” he said in a weak voice that didn't sound like him at all. “I find myself in need of assistance, and fear there is nobody else I can call.”

“What's wrong?”

“I've been injured. If you could come by my abode . . .” His voice faded away.

“Charles? Charles!” There was no response, though I thought I could hear him breathing.

“What's the matter?” Fletcher asked.

“That was Charles. He's been hurt. I've got to get out to McQuaid.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Yes, please,” I said. The last thing I wanted to do was roam around campus alone at night, plus I was afraid of what we'd find. I'd encountered one dead body in the recent past, and my stomach clenched at the thought of a repeat. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Always. Standard reporter training.”

Reporter training must also have included driving lessons—Fletcher got us to the main entrance of the campus in half the time I'd have taken.

The guard on duty spotted the faculty hang tag and waved us through, but Fletcher started to slow down.

“Don't stop!” I said.

“Shouldn't we tell him about Charles?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you think Charles was playing some sort of trick?”

“I'll explain later.”

“Which building?”

For a moment I was at a loss, but then remembered seeing Charles coming out of an office the day I'd taken Sid to be examined by Yo.

“Easton Hall.”

I had my ID card out before the car stopped, and hopped out to run for the front entrance. I swiped the card in the lock, opened the door, and waited impatiently while Fletcher found his first aid kit. As he caught up, I took off down the hall. The door to the office where I expected to find Charles was open, and I called out to my friend as I went. There was no reply.

When I finally got to the doorway, I saw Charles with his face down on the desk. There was a dark mat of blood on the back of his head. I froze for a moment, remembering the sight of Dr. Kirkland's body, and Fletcher pushed past me, clearly better than I was in a crisis

“Talk to me, Charles,” he said. “How bad are you hurt?”

The older man stirred, and I suddenly remembered that it had been too long since I'd taken a breath.

“Oh, it's all bad, I assure you,” Charles said. “I never consider any form of hurt to be good.”

A giggle slipped out of me, though it was definitely the wrong time for it.

Charles looked up, and while his face was much too pale, his voice sounded better than it had on the phone. “I see that I must humbly apologize for interrupting your tête-à-tête.”

I said, “What you must do is tell me what happened. Did you fall?”

“Assuredly, but only after I was struck.”

“What? By who?”

“By whom,” he corrected me. “I'm afraid I don't know. I was taking an evening constitutional when I saw someone moving around in the adjunct's office. My first thought was that some poor soul had an onerous assignment that had to be completed, so I intended to offer my assistance. The intruder undoubtedly heard me coming, because I was whistling so as not to startle anyone. As I went in the room, the light went out and I felt a blow to my head—he must have concealed himself behind the door to lie in wait.

“And you didn't see who it was?”

He shook his head, then winced, apparently regretting the motion. “I heard running footsteps, and that was all. When I could walk again, I made my way back here.”

“Why didn't you call security?” Fletcher wanted to know. “Or pull the alarm?”

Charles hesitated, then said, “Do you suppose I could trouble you for a drink of water? I have some in the refrigerator over there.”

“Of course.” I found a bottle, opened it, and handed it to him.

He drank thirstily.

“Georgia?” Fletcher said, looking mystified.

“Charles,” I said, “will you be all right for a moment? I need to talk to Fletcher.”

Charles looked anxious, but nodded.

I took Fletcher by the arm and pulled him out into the hall. “Okay, here's the situation. Charles didn't call security because he was afraid it would come out why he was on campus at this time of night.”

“So why was he here?”

“Because he lives here. In that office.”

“What?”

“Charles is a squatter. He doesn't make enough money to live on, at least not the way he wants to live, so he finds places he can stay on campus. That office belongs to a guy who's in the field for the semester—when he comes back, Charles will find another place to live.”

“What about the clothes and—”

“At some point he realized he had to make a choice between living in some dump, wearing clothing he'd be ashamed to be seen in, or squatting and dressing like a gentleman. He likes the clothes.”

“How long has he been doing this?”

“Ever since I've known him.”

“But—how does he—?”

“Fletcher, I don't know every detail, and it doesn't matter right now anyway. What matters is getting him medical attention.”

“I don't think that will be necessary,” said Charles, who'd managed to stagger to the doorway. “Fletcher, I must apologize again, this time for making you a party to my deception. I only hope you can find it in your heart to help me maintain my illusions.”

I would never have guessed that Charles would be capable of making puppy-dog eyes, but he did an excellent job of it right then. Fletcher didn't have a chance, especially not when I added my own look of entreaty.

“Hey, it's none of my business,” he said. “You're not hurting anybody as far as I can see.”

“Your discretion is a great gift,” Charles said, “as were your efforts in aiding me. I thank you both for your assistance, but I'm feeling quite well now.”

“Oh, no you don't. You're going to see a doctor,” I said.

“I have no physician I can trust, and certainly none I can afford.”

That was enough to stop me, too. I couldn't afford to pay for him to go to the emergency room.

“Let me take another look at that head,” Fletcher said. “I rode in an ambulance one summer and got pretty good at patching up minor injuries.”

“I would be in your debt,” Charles said with his customary bow.

Fletcher made Charles stand by the light while he looked at his eyes. Then he carefully examined the older man's scalp. “It's not too bad,” he finally said. “A doctor would probably put in a stitch or two, but I think you can get by with a butterfly bandage. It might leave a scar, but nobody's going to see a scar under all this hair anyway.”

“I have been blessed with generous locks,” Charles agreed.

I was no more a nurse than Fletcher was a doctor, but I'd managed to survive Madison's clumsier periods when I'd had to buy Band-Aids by the crate, so I was able to assist him as he trimmed Charles's hair around the wound, spread on antibiotic cream, and applied a bandage.

Once he was done, Fletcher said, “I bet you've got a hell of a headache, but I don't think you should take anything for it. You don't have any signs of concussion, but—”

“I can endure,” Charles said. “A good night's rest is all I need to make myself right, and the sofa in here is surprisingly comfortable.”

“The spare bed at my house is even more comfortable,” I said in what Madison calls my mother-knows-best voice. “Don't even try to argue with me. You either come home with me, where I can make sure you're okay, or I'm going to call 911. Your choice.”

He looked at me for a moment, but knew when he was beaten. “Fletcher, I confess I don't feel up to driving, so could I prevail on you for transportation to Georgia's home?”

Fletcher hesitated, and I flattered myself that it was because he'd been hoping to take advantage of Madison's absence for some physical affection. Or maybe it was just because he was worried about blood on his upholstery. No matter which it was, he said, “No problem.” He took one of Charles's arms and I took the other to help the older man along.

Despite his protests, Charles was pretty wobbly on the way to Fletcher's car, and we all breathed a sigh of relief when we got him into the back seat. Conversation was sparse during the drive to my house—Charles was in pain, Fletcher was concentrating on avoiding jostles, and I was all out of banter.

Charles did seem to be moving more easily when we got to my house, and only needed Fletcher to help him out of the car, into the house, and up the stairs to the spare bedroom. At pointed looks from the two men, I stepped out into the hall so Fletcher could help him into bed. I didn't know how fresh the sheets were, but I was sure that the bed would be worlds more comfortable than a sagging couch.

Only when Charles was tucked into bed, the comforter covering every part of him other than his head and a racy bit of shoulder, did Fletcher let me back into the room. While waiting, I'd brought up a glass of ice water to put on the nightstand next to the bed.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” I asked Charles.

“Dear lady, you have already done far more than I could ever have expected.”

“What are friends for? Call if you need me—I'm two doors down on the left.”

“Are you quite certain you don't mind my being here? I worry about your reputation if any of our colleagues find out I've spent the night at your home.”

“I'll risk it.” Besides, we had a chaperone. There'd been enough creaks from the attic to let me know that Sid was on the job. “You get some rest.”

Fletcher and I left him alone, and I suspected he was asleep by the time we got to the front hall. I said, “I'd ask you to stay for a nightcap, but under the circumstances—”

“Finding an assault victim tends to kill the mood.”

“Yeah, kind of. Thanks for helping me with him.”

“No problem. I'm just embarrassed that I'd never figured out his living arrangements. What with being in the observing-and-investigating business and all.”

“Charles has had a lot of practice hiding the truth.”

“How did you find out?”

“Purely by accident. When I was working at Tufts, an old friend of my parents was on sabbatical and said I could use her office, and I found Charles in residence. We compromised by sharing the office for the rest of the year. You won't tell anybody, will you?”

“Of course not. But don't you think that somebody in security should be told about the assault? What if somebody else is attacked?”

“I didn't even think of that.” I rubbed my forehead. “Maybe we can find signs tomorrow that somebody was in the adjunct office and report that?”

“How about an anonymous tip from a student who saw somebody in there?”

“Perfect!”

“I'll call it in on the way home.”

I thought that deserved a kiss, so I delivered it. Apparently Fletcher thought something I'd done deserved a kiss, too, and he took care of that. Then we both decided we needed yet another kiss, and attended to the situation. Before either of us could decide on paying bonuses, I stepped back from him and opened the front door. Okay, there was one last kiss, but it was quick.

Once Fletcher was gone, I peeked in on Charles to make sure he was solidly asleep. Then, hearing an insistent
tap-tap-tap
from the attic, I opened the door to find Sid on the other side, tapping his foot.

“What the phalanges is going on out there?”

“Shush!” I whispered an explanation, ending with, “I know it's awkward having a stranger in the house, but I couldn't very well leave Charles at the college alone after that.”

“It's just for the night, right?”

“That's the plan. Sorry I couldn't warn you ahead of time.”

“That's okay. I'm not crazy about your office being burgled, though.”

“It's not
my
office—there are twenty-something other people who use that office.”

“Still. Finding dead bodies—”

“One dead body.”

“Finding any dead bodies is alarming. Burglars, break-ins . . . Pennycross is getting to be a dangerous place for a woman and a child.”

“Fortunately I have you around to keep an eye on us.” I patted him on the clavicle. “I'm going to bed. I want to be awake before Charles.”

Like so many of my recent plans, that one went awry.

I
nstead of getting up at eight when my alarm went off, I apparently woke up just enough to slap my alarm off and then shove it off the nightstand and into my trash can. When I finally did wake up for real and pulled the power cord to retrieve the clock, I saw it was 10:30.

I told myself that Charles was probably still asleep and Madison wouldn't be returning from her sleepover until noon at the earliest. I continued to think that until I'd gotten out of bed, gone into the hall, and seen that the guest room door was wide open, showing that the bed was both empty and neatly made. From downstairs I heard voices—one was Charles's low rumble and the other was Madison.

I pulled on jeans and a sweater before taking a deep breath and heading for the kitchen.

Charles was wearing his regular suit except for the jacket, had one of my mother's aprons tied around his waist, and was scrambling eggs at my stove. Madison was putting hot bacon onto a platter. The table was set for three. One of them, most likely Charles, had even pulled out cloth napkins. It was a disturbingly domestic scene.

“Good morning all,” I said.

“A lovely morning to you, too,” Charles said cheerily. “I hope you don't mind my taking over the kitchen to prepare breakfast. I rarely have the opportunity to cook.”

“Knock yourself out. It smells wonderful.” I turned to my daughter. “How long have you been home?”

“Half an hour? Aunt Deb got an emergency call from McQuaid. Somebody broke into an office or something, so she's got to replace a lock.” I'd forgotten, but thanks to our parents' connections, Deborah had contracts for maintaining security systems at several local colleges, including McQuaid.

“Did you two have a good time last night?”

“Yeah, great. You?”

“Very nice.”

Madison gave me a look, but I suddenly remembered that I was the grown-up and didn't have to explain myself. “Is there any coffee?” I knew I'd pay for it later, but for the moment, I intended to enjoy the eggs that Charles had nearly finished cooking.

Despite the inauspicious beginning, it was a lovely meal. Charles was a good cook, and kept Madison and me thoroughly entertained with historical trivia about the British royal family of years past. Afterward, he wanted to wash the dishes, but I put my foot down and said that Madison would be delighted to take care of them. She made a face when he wasn't looking, but agreed.

After thanking me for my hospitality, Charles refused my offer of a ride, insisting that he felt perfectly able to walk home. “In fact,” he said, “it's past time that I take my leave and tackle an urgent task. My current quarters have proven to be less comfortable than I'd hoped, so I will be devoting my day to securing a new abode.”

Even when I walked him to the door, he said nothing more about the events of the previous night, so I didn't either, other than to say that he should feel free to call me anytime. Once he was gone, I went back to the kitchen to face my daughter.

She raised one eyebrow, which she loves doing because I can't. “I could have sworn you were going out with Fletcher last night.”

“I did.”

“You went out with Fletcher, and came home with Charles? Yay, Mom!”

“It wasn't . . . It isn't . . .” Then I bowed to the inevitable. “Yay, me!” I left her to finish cleaning the kitchen while I went upstairs to take a nice, long shower. It's good to be the mom.

The rest of the weekend was considerably quieter than the start. I called Deborah to find out about the break-in at McQuaid, though I neglected to mention that Charles had been a witness. She told me that the burglars had gotten into the building by breaking the lock on a door which was usually only used by kitchen staff and janitors. Otherwise, only the adjunct office had been interfered with. That door was undamaged because apparently it had been left unlocked.

Since Deborah believed in locking everything, she was appalled, but it was no surprise to me. Theoretically security was supposed to lock up each evening, but frequently an adjunct or two were still in there working after hours. Since administration didn't want to give the adjuncts keys, it was left open as often as not.

According to Deborah, campus security had three theories: either students had broken in to play a prank, students had broken in to get a peek at an upcoming test, or students had broken in to take revenge on an adjunct. Campus security at McQuaid has a love-hate relationship with students.

No matter which subset of students had been involved, security figured they'd been scared off before doing any major damage.

Sunday evening I got an e-mail from McQuaid's human resources office. Without actually laying blame, the tone was that it was the adjuncts' fault that our office had been broken into because we hadn't been observing basic safety precautions. Despite that, we were assured that we and our belongings were completely safe. I was not particularly comforted, and I intended to check on the contents of my desk as soon as possible.

As soon as my first Monday class was over, I went to the adjunct office where, unsurprisingly, there was a fair amount of hubbub. A copy of the e-mail from human resources was in every mailbox, even those currently unassigned, and another copy had been posted outside the office door. Inside, adjuncts were checking their desks and discussing the situation. As I came in, I heard a statistics teacher proclaim, “People, we all know that correlation does not prove causality.” I had no idea what that was in response to, but I nodded just the same, and went to my place.

Somebody had been in my desk.

Though nothing seemed to be missing, and I'm not the the most persnickety person, I could tell that there was something off about the way my folders were hanging in the file drawer and that my pens were scattered in my lap drawer more than they should have been.

I looked suspiciously at Sara, wondering if she'd been snooping again, but it didn't seem likely. Not that I trusted her integrity, but I didn't think she'd have risked being seen after our confrontation on Friday. That meant that the burglar who'd conked Charles over the head had been searching my desk. Of course, I told myself, the burglar had likely searched a number of desks.

I joined in the hubbub, asking who had been robbed, vandalized, or just snooped into. As it turned out, the only one who laid claim to signs of invasion was Sara, and from the eye-rolling I got from Charles, he thought she was just putting it on.

Since nothing was missing, I kept quiet about my own concerns. Still, I was uneasy. Maybe campus security was too eager to blame students. I hadn't had enough time to annoy any students enough to come after me. Of course, nobody knew about the attack on Charles, which would have put a different spin on the incident, but I couldn't tell anybody about that, and I didn't think he would.

It left me feeling unsettled all day, and the feeling hadn't improved when I went back to the office after my last class and found a pink message slip in my mail cubby:

Dr. Kirkland of JTU called—wants you to call back.