Cast a Blue Shadow (7 page)

14

Saturday, November 2 8:58 A.M.

“I THOUGHT you and Martha were seeing each other,” Branden said to Sonny.

When it was apparent that Sonny was not going to respond, Branden said, “Sit up, Sonny. I’m talking to you.”

Sonny pulled himself up to sit on the edge of his bed and leaned over with his elbows on his knees. After a minute on the edge of the bed, he straightened his back, looked up at his professor, and said, “Posture.”

Branden didn’t comment.

“My mother is always correcting my posture,” Sonny explained.

Branden nodded slowly. “Your mother called me several times this semester,” he said.

“It’s the way she said things, mostly,” Sonny said. “If just once she could have said she was proud of me.”

“Some people just don’t show it much, Sonny.”

“It makes me nervous being in the same house with her. Always has, even before this. Couldn’t really tell you why. Is that normal? I don’t think that’s normal, Dr. Branden. She wanted me to go to Harvard business school.”

“Let’s get you through college first, Sonny. Each semester has its own beginning and its own end. So that’s all you have to worry about. Do this semester now, and let the other ones come along, in their own time.”

“I’m getting a D in chemistry, Dr. Branden. I’ve got a test on Monday, and I haven’t cracked a book.”

“I think, under the circumstances, we’ll talk to your professor about that. You’re in the 11:00 class?”

“Right.”

“So that’s Professor Pomeroy.”

“He’s a stickler. Won’t give anybody a break.”

“We can try to postpone your exam.”

“Sally had him, too. Got an A in chemistry. She even worked in the lab for him one semester. She’s who ought to go to Harvard. Don’t know what I want to do. Never have.”

“You’re not necessarily supposed to know that yet, Sonny.”

“A lot of kids know exactly what they want to do.”

“That’s not you, Sonny. We both know that.”

“I’m supposed to run the family businesses.”

“Maybe you will. Surely you have plenty of money.”

“She’s got it set up so that if I don’t accomplish certain things, I’ll only get an allowance. Mr. DiSalvo had it all in his computer last night.”

“Do you want to do those things?”

“I don’t believe she ever thought I could.”

“That’s your mother talking, Sonny, not you.”

“She’s probably right, considering how many times she’s had to bail me out.”

“But you’re in college now, Sonny. Make something of that while you can.”

“She told me they had to admit me because she’s on the board.”

“The point is you are here now, and you can decide for yourself what to do with your life.”

“She’s got it all laid out. If I don’t ‘measure up,’ as she puts it, I’m down to an allowance of . . . She’s dead, Dr. Branden.”

“Yes.”

“It was going to be $4,000 a month, until I was thirty.”

“That should be enough for anyone.”

“But, eventually, I’ll get it all, if I do it her way.”

“Do you have any idea how much that will be?”

“It’s about $100 million that I know of. The same amount—the other half of a total of $200 million—goes for Sally, but she gets hers outright.”

“And what do you have to do for your half?”

“You know. Schools. Run the business. Businesses. And stay single until I’m twenty-seven.”

“You never did answer my question about Martha.”

“Mom doesn’t want me seeing her anymore.”

“But that’s the thing, now, Sonny. Your decisions have got to be your own, from now on.”

“You sound like my sister.”

“Martha’s very special to me and my wife, Sonny.”

“She’s told me you gave her one of your scholarships.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

Sonny shrugged.

“You know she’s a few years older than you,” Branden said

“Yeah, but she’s just a sophomore.”

“There’s still an age difference, Sonny.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother her.”

“Like I said, I expect you to treat her well.”

“Last night changes everything. You said that, right?”

“Was she out here with you, Sonny?”

“At first.”

“And then what?”

“She had to leave.”

“She borrowed your car?”

“Yeah, I told them that earlier.”

“Just so we all know that you let her take it.”

“Anybody will tell you that.”

“Good. Now, why did she have to leave early?”

“Mom didn’t get much of a chance to know her.”

“Are you making excuses for something your mother did, again?”

“She and Martha had words.”

“What about?”

“Me, I think.”

“You weren’t there?”

“Mom sent me out of the room.”

“Then how do you know that’s why Martha left early?”

“She told me it’d be no use for her to stay. No use for us to stay together.”

“After they talked?”

“Yes. Martha was crying.”

“So you let her drive home alone? What kind of a stunt was that?”

“I was expected to stay for dinner.”

“You should have done something for her. Sonny, if you’ve hurt that girl!”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

Branden drew in a long, calming breath. “Did you see her again, Sonny? Maybe sometime later?”

“No.”

“Did she come back out here with your car?”

“No. Like I said, Mother didn’t like her much. Mom can be pretty harsh sometimes.”

An understatement, Branden thought. He wondered about a boy of eighteen who still hadn’t seen his mother for who she was. A kid who a week ago had told his professor he might marry Martha Lehman. Then, the conversation had been about finishing school. Holding off. Caught up in love, Sonny had been very close to chucking it all for Martha.

Was it the $100 million that had turned that all around? Or was it the abiding tragedy, in Sonny Favor’s life, of a dead mother’s ill-considered and often-stated opinions? “What about Martha?” Branden asked.

“I don’t know, Dr. Branden. Maybe we’re no good for each other. I’ve got to think about Mom, now.”

Branden held his peace with difficulty.

“When do you think they’re going to clean Mom up?” Sonny asked. “They shouldn’t leave her looking like that.”

15

Saturday, November 2 9:15 A.M.

THE PROFESSOR found Robertson talking with Deputy Stan Armbruster in the pantry adjacent to the kitchen. Armbruster, in uniform, held open a notebook, and was reading from it as Branden walked up. “First officer on the scene was Sergeant Niell,” Armbruster told Robertson.

Robertson turned and asked Branden, “What’d you get from Junior, Mike?”

“Nothing, really. He’s been here all night, and he let his girlfriend take his car home early last night.”

“Don’t you think he’s a bit too cool, under the circumstances?” Robertson said.

“Sonny has emotional problems in relationships, Bruce. Trouble forming attachments,” Branden said. “He’s flown back to New York to see his psychologist a couple of times this semester.”

“I just think he should be sadder about his mother,” Robertson said.

“He wants her cleaned up, mostly. But that’s Sonny. He hasn’t dealt with the fact that she really is dead.”

“Pretty hard to miss,” Robertson said.

“Oh, he knows she’s dead. He just hasn’t let it register at an emotional level. Maybe never will, if his psychologist is right.”

“But you said he has a girlfriend.”

“He does. At least, I think he does. Sonny can seem normal to just about anyone, and even carry on a love affair, if I’m reading him right. But all the attachments in his life are weak, somehow. If something in a relationship turns sour, he’ll pull back from the whole thing. Kind of a ‘cut and run’ defense against betrayal.”

“You his shrink or something, Mike?”

“More like his confessor. But I’ve talked a lot with his psychologist,” Branden said. “His mother had the guy call me the first week of classes. It’s all about his childhood. I don’t think she knew the psychologist would tell me so much about Sonny’s relationship with her, but she’s the hub of a very complicated wheel, and Sonny is spinning somewhere out on the rim.”

“Go figure,” Robertson said.

“I think you may want to talk with his girlfriend,” Branden said, tentatively.

Robertson waited a beat, eyeing the professor.

“She’s my teaching assistant in Sonny’s Freshman Readings seminar.”

Robertson raised an eyebrow.

Branden pointed to Armbruster’s notebook and asked, “People in the dining room?”

Robertson looked at Branden pensively. “That’s all you’re going to give us on the girlfriend?”

“I’ll bring her down Monday, after classes.”

“What’s her name?”

Branden hesitated. “Martha Lehman.”

“Mike!”

“I know! I know. As far as I can tell, she’s just his girlfriend.”

“You should have told me this sooner, Mike.” To his deputy, Robertson said, “Write that name down, Stan. I’ll want to see her ASAP.”

“After classes, Monday, Bruce,” Branden held firm.

Robertson ran his palm back and forth over his short gray hair. “You’re not telling me everything, Mike.”

“She’s probably more unsettled by Favor’s murder than Sonny is right now,” Branden said.

“How would she know about Favor’s murder this early in the morning?”

“Everyone on campus must know by now,” Branden offered.

Robertson’s puffy cheeks reddened, and his neck bulged under his collar, signs Branden recognized that the ponderous sheriff didn’t like what he was hearing. Signs that, although Robertson might let the topic drop for now, he’d not likely have forgotten that, years ago, Branden hadn’t been altogether forthcoming on the troubles that a mute Amish child had overcome. Back then, the sheriff’s explosive personality had rankled enough hearts in Martha’s Old Order Amish sect to have nearly shut down Branden’s investigation for Evelyn Carson into what she thought must be a case of child molestation. Pastor Caleb Troyer, lifelong friend to both Branden and Robertson, had convinced the family of the need to move, and had guided the father to enough of an appreciation of the scriptures that they had converted to the Mennonite faith, at the cost of being shunned by their Amish brothers and sisters. But until he knew more, despite his long friendship with the sheriff, or even because he knew Robertson so well, Branden held back and said only, “After classes Monday, Bruce. That would be best.”

Robertson’s eyes searched Branden’s. Eventually he said, simply, “OK, Monday.”

“Right,” Branden said.

“I presume you’ll still help with our dining room guests?”

“Sure.”

“No small children to protect, there?”

“Give it a rest, Bruce.”

Smiling, Robertson said, “You’re a study, Doc,” and winked at Armbruster.

Branden noted the change in demeanor and wondered what traps Robertson had laid in his mind.

“OK. Let’s move on,” the sheriff ordered. “What do you say, Stan? Who all’s in there?”

Armbruster stalled, absorbed in the exchange he had just witnessed.

“The dining room, Stan. You’ve got a list for us?” Robertson prompted.

“Right,” Armbruster said and flipped pages in his notebook. “First, there’s the president, Mr. Arne Laughton.”

“How long has he been here?”

“He got here early, Sheriff. About 7:30 or 7:35.”

“He’s been here all morning?” Branden asked.

Robertson rubbed again at the top of his head, and Armbruster said, “Yes.”

“Others came out, and then left,” Armbruster said. “A William Blake Coffee, for instance.”

“Dean of the Faculty,” Branden said. “He didn’t stay long?”

“In and out at the front door, according to Sergeant Niell,” Armbruster said. “The same for a Phillips Royce. In and out about 7:45.”

“How about the ones who’ve stayed put?” Robertson asked.

“Niell sent them around to the back door, and I took them to the dining room.”

“Their names, Stan?”

“A Professor Dick Pomeroy, Coach Rebecca Willhite, and then Dr. Royce came back, about fifteen minutes ago.”

“When did Pomeroy and Willhite get here?” Robertson asked.

“Right at 8:00.”

“Did you take statements?”

“Names, positions at the college, and why they insisted on staying. President Laughton said it was ‘to protect the interests of the college.’”

“He’s nervous about the financial restructuring Favor had planned,” Branden said.

“No need to worry now,” Robertson said.

“That’s just Arne, Bruce.”

Robertson looked at Armbruster.

“Willhite said she was Sally Favor’s coach,” the deputy said.

“Women’s basketball,” Branden said.

“And Royce said he was a close friend of the family,” Armbruster finished.

Robertson looked at Branden for an explanation.

“He is, or was, Juliet Favor’s latest
friend
,” Branden said.

“Sounds to me like you’d enjoy interviewing him,” Robertson said.

“Give me Laughton, too,” Branden said.

“Then I’ve got Willhite and Pomeroy,” Robertson said. “What’s Pomeroy do?”

“Chairman of the chemistry department,” Armbruster said.

“The Mad Scientist!” Robertson joked.

“He’s pretty sharp,” Branden said. “We started together as assistant professors in the ’70s.”

“Anyone who likes chemistry is already half a flake job, as far as I’m concerned,” Robertson said. “Why’s he out here?”

Armbruster read from his notes. “He said he had a 9:00 appointment with Ms. Favor and Mr. DiSalvo.”

“That makes him an hour early, if he didn’t know she was dead,” Robertson observed.

“Says he didn’t know until he got out here,” Armbruster said.

Robertson turned his eyes on Branden.

Branden said, “That’s typical Pomeroy, angling to get in early. He probably brought a laptop in case Favor wouldn’t see him before 9:00.”

“He did,” Armbruster said.

Robertson turned for the door to the dining room and said, “You’re still on the back door, Stan.”

BRANDEN followed the sheriff into the dining room. Laughton, Willhite, and Royce were standing beside a silver coffee urn, near the bay window. Branden saw Royce doctor his coffee from a pocket flask. Professor Pomeroy was seated at the far end of the oval table, punching the keys on a laptop. He glanced briefly at Branden and Robertson, and continued typing.

Branden cut Laughton out of the group, whispering, “Arne, it’s horrible,” and led the president to the far side of the room. He put Laughton’s back to the others and saw Robertson sit at the table with Willhite and Royce. He heard Robertson speak affably, and knew both the coach and the art professor would underestimate the jovial lawman.

“Arne, where does the college stand now?” Branden asked, turning to face Laughton.

“Haven’t been able to talk with DiSalvo,” Laughton said.

“Do you think they’ve already executed some of the reorganizations we heard about last night?” Branden asked.

“Don’t know, Mike, although from what I heard, if they have gone ahead with it, we’re to be cut back about 30 percent overall.”

“The history department and the museum were penciled in for 30 percent,” Branden said. “Did you get a chance to speak with her after dinner last night?”

“I tried to, Mike, but no.”

“Do you know if anyone from dinner stayed late?”

“Maybe Royce. Do you know about them?”

“Everyone does.”

“He’s an embarrassment. A shameless philanderer.”

“But you didn’t actually talk to Royce?”

“Couldn’t find him, Mike.”

“Arne, look. I’ve got to know if you stayed later than the others. The financial considerations are pretty minor compared to the fact that one of us is likely a murderer. Did you see anyone else who might have stayed later than you?”

“No. There were still two cars left out back, though.”

“One of them was yours?”

“I parked in front.”

Branden thought and waited.

Laughton realized the problem. “I went to the back, Mike, to try to talk with Bliss.”

Branden held silence.

“I hunted him down, Mike, to ask if she’d see me. He was plowing again, in back. There were two cars there, snow covered. When I walked around front, that was plowed out, too, and my car was the only one left.”

“So you did stay rather late.”

“This place emptied out fast, Mike. I couldn’t have waited more than half an hour before I left, and then there were still two cars here. One was Royce’s. The other, I don’t know.”

“How much had Bliss plowed?”

“All of the front, I guess, plus some of the back, by the time I found him.”

“What did he say, Arne?”

“Said Favor had a headache.”

“You let it go at that?”

“Everyone knows she gets migraines.”

“Those bottles?” Branden asked.

“I guess. How’d you know about that?”

“Dick Pomeroy told me about it once,” Branden said. “It’s DMSO. Helps with chronic headaches, the way he explained it to me. You’d know about it if you had been a hippie, Arne.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“They used to put LSD in it and trip.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Of course not, Arne. But it’s good for headaches. You can still get it at some pharmacies.”

“And how did you learn this about Pomeroy?” Laughton asked. He looked over his shoulder at the typing chemist and turned back to Branden.

“Dick likes to talk about his research,” Branden said. “And I’ve been happy to listen. It’s really quite fascinating. The college doesn’t give him enough credit.”

“He gets plenty of money from outside sources,” Laughton said. “Favor owns a pharmaceutical company in Japan. He sends them samples for screening.”

“Did you know,” Branden asked, “that one of his discoveries shows promise as an anti-tumor agent?”

“So that’s the Peru angle?”

“He gets his samples there,” Branden said.

“I don’t think he’s spent a summer on campus for fifteen years,” Laughton said reproachfully. “Won’t serve on faculty committees, either.”

“I’d call the latter a sign of high intelligence,” Branden laughed. “But, he publishes, Arne. That’s good for the college and for the students.”

Laughton sighed. “He was just bragging about how many students he’s hired on grants over the years.”

“How did you get on that topic?” Branden asked.

“He started out saying that Sally Favor, no less, worked with him one summer in Peru, and then in his lab the next semester.”

“He took a co-ed to Peru?”

“One summer that I know of, Mike.”

Branden encouraged comment by hinting scandal with his eyebrows.

“Oh, no one has to worry about him and Sally Favor, Mike. She’s gay—president of the Lambda Society on campus. Becky Willhite is one of the advisers. Sally’s also one of her star basketball players.”

Branden looked past the president to Robertson, Willhite, and Royce at the far end of the oval dining room table. He said, “I’ll bet Willhite took a cutback last night, too.”

Coach Willhite, Director of Physical Education, women’s basketball coach, and co-adviser for the gay-lesbian Lambda Society, was married, with children, and straight. But her older brother had died of AIDS when she was nine, and she worked with the Lambda Society to honor his memory.

“Why don’t you wait around and talk to the sheriff, Arne?” Branden suggested.

“I’ll stay until I settle matters with DiSalvo.”

“Look, Arne, forget the money for once!” Branden said forcefully.

Laughton shook his head as if to clear his vision and said, “Right. I still can’t believe she’s dead.”

“No, I suppose not,” Branden said. “I need to talk with Royce. Can you tell me anything about his reaction to Juliet’s murder?”

“He’s been drinking already,” Laughton whispered.

Branden checked his watch—9:15 A.M.

Over Laughton’s shoulder, Branden saw Rebecca Willhite push away from the table where she and Royce had been sitting with Robertson. She looked angry and left quickly. For his part, Robertson looked over at Branden and shrugged. Phillips Royce sat back casually, apparently having enjoyed the exchange between the coach and the sheriff. Robertson got up and loudly said to Royce, “So nice to meet you, Professor,” and Branden watched the sheriff amble to the other end of the table to address the chemist Pomeroy, leaving Royce alone for the moment. Branden said goodbye to the president and moved quickly to sit with Royce.