Murder as a Second Language (17 page)

“I learn English there. Is important to talk better to professors. In China we study hard. Students here like children. They drink beer and make much noise.”

“It's lucky that you met Miao,” I said. I was aware she'd avoided my question, but I thought I'd have a better chance if I circled around it until she relaxed.

“Miao is good friend.”

“I was sorry to hear that her grandfather died and she had to return home. Did she say how long she would be gone?”

Luo stared at me. “No, grandfather dead and must go to family. She cry when she tell me this. We burn incense and pray for him.”

“That was Monday night?”

Her eyes began to shift back and forth. “Yes, Monday night.”

“It must have been difficult for her to make airline reservations on the telephone,” I said, pouring on the sympathy.

“Yes.” Her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.

I considered my next move. Luo was a poor liar, which spoke well of her character. I needed to determine if her lies had significance. “I find it hard to believe Miao could deal with the airlines on the phone, since I always have to choose from the following options until I want to beat my head against the wall. Perhaps Miao got lucky.”

“Yes, she lucky,” Luo said. “She leave Tuesday morning for China. She take taxi to airport.”

I resumed my tactful attack. “Why did you go to the Literacy Council that same morning, Luo?”

She stared at her hands. “Miao afraid she left notebook. I go to find it. Not there, but not important.”

“If Keiko found it, she'll take care of it until Miao returns. I don't understand why you opened the door of the copy room.”

“Someone tell me I can make cup of tea. I open wrong door.”

Which was somewhat plausible, I supposed. The copy room was next to the classroom with the sink, counter, microwave, and coffeemaker. Luo's story was still flimsy. I couldn't imagine why Miao, while dealing with a family crisis, had even thought about a notebook she might have left at the Literacy Council. Unless it contained something of significance, I realized. Miao had no one with whom to chat between classes; she might have utilized the time to keep a journal of the interactions around her. Had she figured out why Ludmila despised Gregory, or noticed something that confirmed Rick's accusations of embezzlement?

Luo stood up. “I go to lab now. I not upset, so you not worry. Thank you for coming.”

Once I was in the hall, I heard the locks click. She'd lied to me, of that I was sure. I just wasn't sure what was true and what wasn't. Someone must have helped Miao make reservations. The obvious suspect was Miss Parchester, but she'd told me Miao had merely informed her of her imminent departure. Jiang was purportedly angry that Miao had left the country without telling him. Luo's English was not adequate for leaping through the required hoops in order to speak to a live person.

Miao had been at the Literacy Council Monday night. She'd been unruffled when I saw her, which meant she'd received the call from her family after she was home. I'd never booked a flight at the last minute, but I knew the fare could be astronomical. Taxi fare to the airport was semiastronomical.

I made my way through the labyrinth of the apartment complex and drove back to the Literacy Council. The parking lot was only half full (or half empty, depending on one's philosophy). Most of the students were aware classes and tutoring had begun, but it might take another day or so before they all returned. Sitting in my car to think was beginning to pale, so I walked across the street to the sports bar.

After I ordered iced tea, I took a pen out of my purse and pulled a napkin out of the shiny dispenser. I wrote down the names of the members of the board and contemplated them. None of them appeared to have had a motive to kill Ludmila. On the next napkin, I wrote down the staff—Gregory, Keiko, and Leslie—and then slowly drew a question mark next to Gregory's name. He claimed to have no idea why Ludmila had screeched at him, but I kept an open mind. As for Keiko and Leslie, I could come up with no reason to suspect either of them. Leslie had not been at the Literacy Council, and Keiko had left while plenty of people were there. Ludmila could not have been murdered while the students were still there; she was much too voluble to go down with a whimper. Someone had lingered.

A waitress came by and refilled my glass. When I glanced up to thank her, I spotted a familiar face. Leslie was seated in a booth. Her companion, a man with dark hair and an olive complexion, was speaking emphatically and using his hands to stress his remarks. Neither appeared amiable. I wondered if he was her soon-to-be ex-husband, pleading his case for reconciliation. From Leslie's expression, he was doing a poor job of it. The man pulled out a dark brown cigarette, eliciting a glare from her.

Sadly, there was no way I could slither across the floor and into the booth behind them without being seen by them, as well as by the bartender, the waitress, and the patrons at the bar and in booths. If I left, I'd have to walk by their booth. Even the restroom would require covert action. I'd failed to bring a wig, theatrical makeup, or even sunglasses. Muttering under my breath, I looked down at the napkins as if one of them contained notes from a successful alchemist. I was beginning to regret the second glass of tea. When I glanced up a second time, hoping the odd couple had left, I saw Leslie was walking toward me, a tight smile on her face.

“Hi,” I said inanely. “Would you like to join me?” I wadded up the napkins and pretended to wipe up a wet spot on the tabletop.

She sat down across from me. “I'm between classes, so I came over here for a sandwich. What about you?” She was trying not to sound accusatory, but her voice was tense.

“Keiko said that she didn't need me at the receptionist desk this afternoon. I left, but then I started feeling guilty and came back. I'm going to keep calling the names on the list until I've reached all of them. I came to get iced tea to go and ended up sitting here. It's so cool and quiet.” I could see skepticism written all over her face. It seemed wise to change the subject. “I noticed someone sitting with you.”

“One of my online students,” Leslie said. “Omario is from Saudi Arabia, in the country with a conditional green card. He needed my advice.”

“Oh, I thought it might be your husband, or ex-husband.”

“I won't be seeing him again, trust me.”

“Omario didn't look very happy about your advice,” I murmured.

“Because I wouldn't give him any. I told him he needed to speak to a lawyer, but he was insistent. I know a little about immigration law because I worked as a paralegal years ago. I also know that I could find myself in a lawsuit if I gave him the wrong advice. I referred him to a Web site with a list of lawyers who specialize in these things.” She looked at her watch. “I need to go, Claire. I have a three o'clock class.”

She slid out of the booth and hurried out the door. Seconds later she walked past the window, looking very purposeful, so I was surprised when she stopped next to a black car and bent down to converse with the driver. Because of the angle, I was unable to see the driver's face. After less than a minute, she straightened up. I drew back, but not before we made eye contact. She gave me a little wave before heading across the road. The car drove away.

For a moment, my curiosity was greater than my need to locate the restroom. I toyed with the theory that Omario was a hit man whom she'd hired to kill Ludmila, but even I couldn't buy it. It made more sense that Omario was her lover, the cause of the divorce, and they'd arranged for a secret rendezvous to discuss legal complications. My story would not impress Peter, who would point out that Leslie's private life had nothing to do with his investigation. It failed to impress me. As I wound through the tables I went so far as to consider the possibility that Leslie had told me the truth. Maybe not the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but close enough.

I decided to forget about the muddle and go home. Caron was probably sulking on the sofa, devouring whatever she could find in the cabinets, refrigerator, and freezer. I wasn't confident I could wrest her out of her self-imposed misery, but I could try. It was likely that Peter would make it home for dinner, since he'd had a couple of days to interview every last person who had ever set foot in the Literacy Council building. There were steaks in the freezer and salad in the refrigerator. I stopped at my pet bakery and bought an apple pie, his favorite. After a nice dinner, we could have pie and wine on the terrace, and perhaps talk about the investigation. If that ploy failed, I had other ways to lull him into a complacent mood.

When I pulled away from the bakery, I noticed a black car doing the same. I drove slowly, but the car kept far enough away for me to see it clearly. There'd been too much talk about paranoia over the last two days, I scolded myself. Some little old lady had gone to the bakery to pick up tartlets for her book club meeting, and she was driving home as fast as she dared. I turned onto the shady street where Miss Parchester lived. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The black car had turned, too, but stopped in front of one of the houses. Now I knew where my hypothetical little old lady lived.

On a whim, I parked in front of Miss Parchester's house and went to the porch. I rang the bell. I heard a yowl, accompanied by footsteps on the staircase. Miss Parchester seemed a little breathless as she opened the door. “Claire, what a delightful surprise. Do come in. You're just in time for tea.”

It was always time for tea at Miss Parchester's house. I stepped over a cat, scooted another aside to share the sofa, and said, “Please don't bother. I just wanted to ask you about something.”

“You are never a bother. I'll be right back.”

The cats watched me from various perches. The very large cat was still at the top of the stairs, waiting for an opportunity to attack. I tried to stare him down, but I blinked first. He stalked out of sight, having determined I was an unworthy adversary.

Miss Parchester returned with a tea tray. I declined her offer of a cookie dusted with mold and waited until she'd poured the tea.

I accepted the cup and saucer. “I've been puzzled about something, and I hope you can help me. It's about Miao.”

“Miao? I don't see how I can help you.”

“Her roommate, Luo Shiwen, told me that Miao made airline reservations on the telephone Monday night. Her English is pretty basic. I don't understand how she could have done that without help.”

Miss Parchester shook her head. “It is puzzling. The ESL students have a particularly difficult time on the telephone because they have no facial clues. I myself have a dreadful time when I'm required to choose options and push numbers. The last time I had to deal with my insurance company, I became so confused that I had to have a small glass of sherry before I made a second attempt. Despite what they said, my call was not important to them. If it had been, someone would have come on the line.”

“How do you think Miao handled it?”

She took a sip of tea while she thought. “Like all of you young people, she was adept with a computer. She could have booked her ticket online.”

I wished I'd thought of that. “You may be right, Miss Parchester.”

“Have the police found out who murdered poor Ludmila?”

“My husband goes to extremes to keep me uninformed,” I admitted, “but I would have heard something. You're aware the Literacy Council has reopened?”

“Oh, yes. I'm excited about seeing Mudada on Friday. Have I told you about him? He's a lovely man from Zimbabwe.”

“You mentioned him the last time I was here.” I had no desire for another lyrical essay about the great, gray-green, greasy Limpopo River. “I need to go home and prepare dinner for my husband. I've hardly seen him since Tuesday morning. Thank you for solving a minor mystery for me.”

My perfect house was twenty minutes away from the center of Farberville. The city limits sign was within sight as I drove under the arched entrance to Hollow Valley. The wholesale nursery had been a thriving business only a month earlier; now the greenhouses were empty and its owners preoccupied with legal problems. I was preparing to turn into the driveway when a flash of light in the side mirror caught my eye. I looked back at the gate. A black car had stopped under the arch. I twisted around and took a hard look at it. Tinted windows blocked my view of its occupant. I hadn't seen Omario get in the car, but it seemed logical that he had and then waited for Leslie to leave the sports bar. Or it was merely a customer who didn't know the Hollow Valley Nursery was no longer in business. Or a lost soul who was turning around after having missed his turnoff. The city coffers were not sufficient to provide adequate signage. Speed limit signs were pockmarked. A highway sign hung upside down by its lone screw. A mile back, a developer had named the streets into his subdivision after his children. Those signs rarely lasted a week.

The car backed onto the highway and drove toward town. Feeling relieved, I continued to the house and parked. Caron's car was gone. Either she and Inez had mended their friendship or she had fled to Annabelle's house to engage in mean-spirited gossip. I left my purse on the island in the kitchen and went out to the terrace to call Peter.

“Any chance you'll be home for dinner?” I asked when he answered. “No French cuisine, I promise. Steaks, baked potatoes, salad, and apple pie.”

“Shall I interpret this as a bribe?”

“If this is what it takes to have dinner with my husband, then it most certainly is a bribe. Why don't you pick up a bottle of wine on your way home?”

We engaged in a bit of silly talk about the efficacy of bribes and then hung up. I went inside and removed three steaks from the freezer, although I was hoping that Caron might call to say she was going out for pizza. I prepped the salad, tidied up the kitchen, and took a book out to the terrace. I tried to engross myself in the plot, but I couldn't stop my mind from leaping from one conversation to another. To characterize someone as a suspect, I needed motive and opportunity. Bartek regretted bringing his
babcia
over from Poland, a motive of sorts. Having intentionally arrived late to pick her up, he might have thought he'd find her waiting alone in front of a dark building. A locked building, I amended. It would be unlocked if Toby were there to clean, but the opportunity was less than perfect with a witness underfoot.