Murder as a Second Language (8 page)

Keiko offered to make copies of the pages, then remembered what had happened and burst into tears. I handed her the box of tissues and took the pages to Peter. He'd moved to the doorway of the classroom, where the tension in the room had escalated. I peeked over his shoulder at students wailing, gabbing wildly on their cell phones, and exchanging hostile remarks in their native languages. I tried to recall what I knew from Sunday school about the Tower of Babel. What came to mind was a fragment of a quote about how the Lord had confounded the language of all the earth. He'd done a fine job.

I squirmed past Peter and said, “Hey, everybody, I'm Claire Malloy. Please listen to me. If you want to leave anytime soon, you're going to have to be quiet.” I clapped my hands. “Really. Just sit down and look at me.” To my surprise, the majority of them did. I shot a stern look at the cluster of Asian girls until they complied. I found a notebook on the podium and began to rip out pages. “I want you to write down your name and telephone number. After you've done that, write down the specific times you were here yesterday. Okay?”

There were a lot of blank stares as I passed out pieces of paper. It was possible that I'd overestimated their competency in English. I repeated my instructions more slowly and rephrased them in simple sentences. Eventually everyone began to write, although I wasn't confident that whatever they wrote would be of much help. At least I'd calmed them down, I assured myself—something Deputy Chief Rosen had been unable to do. “Thank you so much,” I said. “Be sure to write down what time you left if you were here last night. Okay?” When they were done, I collected the papers.

“When can we leave?” asked Yelena, the Russian actress, her back arched and one hand lifted in a graceful pose. I hoped she was not about to launch into a melodramatic monologue by Pushkin or Chekhov.

“I don't know. The police have to sort this out before any of us can leave.” This wasn't true, since I could leave whenever I wished. I was not inclined to share this. The students were still distressed and capable of another uprising. “Go ahead and use your cell phones,” I said cheerfully. “Would anyone like to make coffee and tea?”

Inez's Mexican student and two women clad in headscarves volunteered and left for the other classroom. Several of the others asked me questions, but I smiled vaguely and took refuge in a chair behind the podium. Miss Marple never babysat while the police investigated, I thought irritably, but I knew that questioning the potential suspects would not sit well with a certain cop. I realized that I was clutching papers that might be vital to the investigation. I looked through them, noting that about twenty of those present had been here the night before. Although I had doubts, I wondered if any of them might have been on a friendly basis with Ludmila.

Peter was no longer in the doorway. A pimply uniformed officer was standing by the water fountain, doing his best to look stern. I gave the papers to him and asked him to take them to the deputy chief, then went back inside the classroom and sat down next to Yelena. “We won't have to stay much longer,” I said. “The police are more concerned with the people who were here last night.”

“I was here. Am I suspected of crime? I did not like Ludmila, but I did not hurt her. She had big mouth, all the time talking loudly.”

“I noticed that when I was here yesterday. Did she have any friends?”

Yelena shook her head. “She call me stinking Communist. She says Muslims are devils, Mexicans are dirty; Asians are yellow spies. All the time she yells
dupek
at people. I do not know meaning, but I think not very nice.”

“I agree with you,” I said. “So you didn't ever talk to her?”

“I tried. We have potluck lunches on first Friday of month. Ludmila brought pastries called
paczki,
like what you call jelly doughnuts. I told her they were delicious. She said she learned to make them when she was little girl. It was not so easy to imagine her as ever being little. Then I ask her when she came to this country. She says her grandson, who is very important professor, brought her to live with him one year ago. She did not like this. He wanted her to cook and clean his fancy house, but she told him she was too old. She was not too old to make strudel and poppy-seed cake and eat it all before he came home. She laughed when she tells me this.”

At least Ludmila had a few happy moments, I thought. “Did you see her talk to anyone else?”

“I see her yell at everyone else,” Yelena said with a smile. “Whistler was frightened of her, I think. Maybe not frightened—that is wrong word. When he saw her, he would rush into office like it was urinal and he needed to piss. He would peek out door to see if coast was clean.”

Peter came into the room and cleared his throat. I shrank down and tried to look like a student. “May I have your attention, please?” he asked. “If you were not here last night, you are free to leave. We may have some questions for you later, but we'll let you know. The Farberville Literacy Council will be closed for now, but it might be open in a day or two. If not, I apologize for the inconvenience.” He tried to appear avuncular as half of the students streaked out the door as though the prison gates had burst open. “I'm very sorry to keep the rest of you here. We'll question you as quickly as possible. Please try to remember the details of any interactions you had with the victim.”

As soon as he'd left, Yelena said, “What is ‘interactions'?”

She was not the only one with a mystified expression. “If you talked to Ludmila, or noticed anything about her that seemed different,” I explained to my international charges. “I'd like to know your first names.”

“Graciela. My English not good,” said a Latina woman.

“My English no good, very bad,” chimed in an Asian girl, not the least bit giggly. “I named Sammie.”

“Where is Miss Leslie?” asked a man with dark chocolate skin. I suspected he was Miss Parchester's student. He was exceedingly tall and certainly large enough to pick her up with one hand.

“She hasn't come in this morning,” I said. “Was she here last night?”

A scowling young Asian man flipped his hand. “I am Jiang. No, Miss Leslie has night classes on Tuesday and Thursday. Last night a woman talked about first aid and a man talked about bank accounts. Waste of time.” I remembered that he was one of Caron's students.

Not everyone agreed with Jiang, and they voiced their opinions. As the volume rose, I considered slipping away to find out what Peter was doing. I was on the verge of attempting my great escape when Yelena stood up and said, “This is not time for fighting. Ludmila is dead. She was one of us, even if we did not like her. Do you want police to find out who killed her? Sit down and be quiet!”

They all resumed whispering, punching buttons on their cell phones, or brooding. I patted Yelena on the back. “Good job. Did Leslie say anything yesterday that might explain why she hasn't shown up this morning?”

Yelena chewed on her lip. “I do not think so. She gave us homework to bring to class today. Would you like to see?”

“Maybe later,” I said. “Why don't you get everyone to talk about some sort of memorial service?”

Yelena did not look excited, but she promised to do her best. I hastily left the room and was heading for Keiko's office when a man came into the building. He had pale blond hair, a trimmed mustache, and a minimal beard. Even from across the room I could see the tweediness of his coat, replete with leather patches on the elbows. Clearly, a professional professor. He stopped and looked around, as if expecting a multitude of uniformed police officers to swarm in on him.

“Professor Grabowski?” I approached him and held out my hand. “I'm Claire Malloy, the person who left the message for you. I'm sorry to tell you that your grandmother died sometime last night.”

“Babcia had a heart condition.” Any trace of an accent came from the Midwest. “Why wasn't I notified when it happened? I've been worried out of my mind about her. I was supposed to pick her up at eight o'clock last night, but I was delayed by some colleagues. When I arrived here, the building was lit but locked, and no one appeared when I rapped my keys on the glass. Sometimes when I'm late, she takes the bus. I expected to find her at home, but she wasn't there.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I thought about it, yes. Then I decided she must have gone to stay with a friend, and was too angry at me to call. Babcia had a temper…” He was doing his best to sound upset, but I wasn't fooled. He pretended to blink back tears, then took out a perfectly ironed handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Where is she? I need to talk to someone. I saw police cars outside. Why are the police involved?”

“I'm sure they'll want to talk to you,” I said. “Let me find Deputy Chief Rosen and let him know you're here.” I gave myself bonus points for not interrogating Bartek while I had the chance, but I was never one to interfere with official police investigations.

Peter and Jorgeson had taken refuge in the back classroom. I told them about Grabowski's arrival. After Peter left, I said to Jorgeson, “How's it going? Any updates from the medical examiner?”

Jorgeson squirmed. “Well, Ms. Malloy, it's kind of early to establish the time of death. There are some recent bruises on her upper arms, like she was grabbed.”

“So there was a struggle,” I said. “Ludmila didn't lose her balance and fall against the copy machine. She was shoved.”

“We don't know that, Ms. Malloy. That's why we investigate.”

“Oh, Jorgeson, you're such a nice man. Of course there was a struggle. Ludmila was old. I probably could have done it—or anybody else in the building at the time. I don't know why anyone would have a motive, though. Her fellow students didn't like her, but I didn't get the sense that any of them hated her. They're planning a memorial service as we speak.” My cell phone rang before I could expound on the sharing of grief in the front classroom. I dug out the blasted thing and said, “Hello?”

“What is going on, Mother? The parking lot is full and there are cops at the front door. Did you Do Something?”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly eleven o'clock, time for Caron and Inez to report for tutoring. “There's been a possible homicide. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Peter asked me to help with the students.”

“Peter asked you to help? Did you spike your orange juice this morning?” Caron said. “That's a sign of alcoholism, you know. I wish you'd wait until I go off to college before you turn into a lush.”

My gaze flitted to the wastebasket. I was relieved to see only wadded paper towels and disposable cups. Austin had kept his word and taken away the gin, vodka, and vermouth bottles. “I am not going to turn into a lush anytime soon,” I said haughtily, aware of Jorgeson's raised eyebrows. “You will not be tutoring today, so I suggest you trot on to the lake or the mall or wherever. Maybe you can find an Al-Anon meeting in a church basement.”

“Who got killed?”

“Ludmila. Her body was discovered this morning.”

Caron was silent for a moment. “She was one of my students. She was a real pain in the butt, but I'm sorry she's dead.”

“I know you are, dear,” I said. “Peter will want to ask you some questions about your sessions with her, but he's too busy now. We can talk over dinner.”

“What are we having?”

I recognize a trick question when I hear it. If I so much as mentioned
boeuf,
she would claim to have plans to eat at Inez's house, the pizzeria, or possibly the White House. “I'll pick up some fried chicken and biscuits on my way home.”

We settled on seven o'clock and ended the call. Jorgeson, who has a vague resemblance to a bulldog, was watching me with an innocent smile. I took the high road and ignored it. “How many suspects do you have? There were at least thirty students here, as well as the board members and staff.”

“I could not say, Ms. Malloy. No one has been ruled out.”

“I trust that I have,” I said.

Once again he gave me that damn smile.

 

5

Peter was talking to Bartek Grabowski in the back of the lounge. I kept my head down as I went into Keiko's office. Her cheeks were flushed, but she appeared to be over the bouts of emotional outbursts. “Do you know if the police located Gregory?” I asked her.

“I gave them telephone number and address. I also call all the board members. I spoke with Austin, Rick, and Sonya and left messages for the others. What will happen now, Ms. Marroy? Will the police make us closed? What do I tell the students and tutors who will come today?” She began to shred a tissue to add to the pile on her desk.

“The officers outside will explain, and I don't know how long the Literacy Council will be closed. Several days, most likely. One of the students told me that Gregory was afraid of Ludmila. Did you see anything happen between them?”

Keiko's eyes widened as she looked over my shoulder. I reluctantly turned around. Peter was in the doorway, his expression a trifle annoyed. I smiled brightly and said, “Do you need more folders? There might be a sign-in sheet from last night.”

“I came to thank you for your assistance, and to let you know that you can leave now. We've found translators. I don't know if I'll be home for dinner.” He gave me a little wave as he walked away.

“Home for dinner?” asked Keiko. “I thought he said his name Deputy Chief Losen.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I do not have right to ask you questions, Mrs. Marroy. Please excuse me.”

“We're married. I chose not to change my name at this stage of my life.” I did not add that at the moment he was Deputy Chief Loser, at least in my mind. “I guess I'll run along. Call me if you need me.”