Murder Had a Little Lamb (15 page)

Still, that had been only part of the problem. The real reason our date was such a fiasco was that I was too much in love with Nick to want to waste time with anyone else.

But Forrester seemed to have forgotten about that part. Either that or it had never really sunk in.

Besides, this wouldn’t even be close to a date. This was a deal. A
business
deal.

At least from my perspective. As for Forrester, I still didn’t understand what he expected to get out of it.

“You still haven’t told me why you want to have dinner with me—alone,” I pointed out.

“Simple,” he replied lightly. “I’m hoping that an evening with just the two of us will enable me to showcase my charms.”

I assumed he was joking. In fact, I was about to burst out laughing to demonstrate just how much I appreciated his quirky sense of humor. But the long silence that followed told me he meant exactly what he’d said.

Yet there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that I was fully capable of resisting Forrester Sloan’s self-proclaimed charms, be it in my tiny, empty cottage or at Madison Square Garden. So I quickly said, “Okay, Forrester. Dinner at my house, just the two of us. But you have to let me pick the evening.”

“Done.” He sounded so pleased with himself that for a second there I truly regretted saying yes.

But as soon as I reminded myself what I was getting out of it, I decided that slurping up some Chinese takeout food with Forrester was a small price to pay for the chance to visit Nathaniel’s home. Heck, I wouldn’t even serve dessert.

“So how soon can you meet me? Stibbins lived in Elmdale.”

Like the Bromptons, the town was also on Long Island’s south shore, about ten miles from the Worth School. Not far, by Long Islanders’ standards, even one like Nathaniel, who’d had to make the trip five days a week.

Still, I hadn’t realized this field trip would be scheduled so soon.

“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” I told him, doing a quick calculation in my head. “No, wait, make that twenty. Give me the full address.”

“It’ll be easier if you meet me at the Elmdale train station,” he replied. “We can drive over together.”

“Fine.”

As soon as I hung up, I began scrolling through my list of numbers so I could call Sunny and ask her to rearrange the rest of my morning. So what if I had to work late, possibly right up to that night’s PTA meeting? I knew a stroke of luck when I saw it, even if its source was Forrester Sloan—and it came with a rather hefty price tag.

A
s soon as I’d talked to Sunny and she assured me she’d start freeing up my morning right away, I headed out to Elmdale.

I’d driven by the village’s Long Island Railroad station countless times before, so it was easy to find. The small, quaint building with a peaked roof and gingerbread trim looked like the basis for one of those miniatures that model train aficionados collect—or that people lucky enough to possess the Martha Stewart gene put underneath their Christmas trees.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted Forrester’s dark green SUV idling behind the station. I could see him watching me as I climbed out of my van and headed toward his car.

“Glad you could make it, Popper,” Forrester greeted me through his open window with a wide grin. “Seeing you always adds a little extra sunshine to my day.”

“Please, spare me,” I insisted, scowling as I slid into the front seat next to him. “I already said I’d have dinner with you. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’ll never be enough,” he replied with a laugh.

After heading out of the parking lot, we traveled east on Wintauk Highway, driving past one housing development after another. We’d just breezed by our fifth when I demanded, “Where exactly are we going?”

“Surely you didn’t expect that an
artiste
would have lived in just any old cookie-cutter house, did you?” he asked, glancing over at me with an annoying look of amusement in his eyes.

I was still wondering what the mystery was all about when Forrester veered off the highway and onto the Norfolk University campus.

Could Nathaniel possibly have lived in campus housing? I mused. A faculty apartment—or a dorm?

But I kept silent, staring out the window as we wound along the curving roads of what had to be one of the most beautiful college campuses in the world. The school was located on the former estate of one of the world’s most famous industrialists, a man who had made his fortune in railroads, shipping, and steel.

When the property was first converted to a college more than half a century earlier, most of the buildings had been left intact. The former mansion now housed classrooms, while outbuildings had been converted into such facilities as a gym, a field house, and a greenhouse that had to be every serious botany student’s dream come true. In more recent decades, a smattering of houses had also been constructed on the land, but
those were self-contained little communities on discreet cul-de-sacs that had been carved out at the same time.

Forrester drove past all that, heading toward the back of the property. I was relieved when he finally pulled off to the side of the road and switched off the ignition.

Not that I was any less confused. He’d stopped in front of a low redbrick building that jutted up three or four stories in the middle. The small piece of land it occupied was surrounded by a low hedge, the shield of dense green foliage enlivened by carefully maintained flower beds bursting with pink and yellow impatiens.

“We’re here,” he announced.

I blinked. “This looks like some kind of tower.”

“It
is
a tower. A clock tower.”

I still wasn’t getting any of this. “Nathaniel lived in a clock tower?”

“Nope, somebody else lives there. He lived behind it. Come on.”

Still puzzled, I climbed out of the car and followed him through a redbrick archway off to the left. The fact that the opening was too narrow for cars was probably just as well, since the walkway that passed under it and continued beyond was paved in uneven cobblestones.

I was silent as we walked, still half-convinced that Forrester was playing a trick on me. But then he stopped in front of a row of single-story buildings. At least that’s what they appeared to be at first glance. As I studied them more closely, I realized they were
actually even shorter than one story, with roofs no more than eight or nine feet high.

“What
is
this place?” I asked, widening my eyes.

“Chicken coops,” he replied with a grin. “A whole row of them. At least that’s what they used to be.”

That explained the numerous doorways, as well as the tiny boxy windows placed at regular intervals and sealed up with wooden shutters.

Poor Cousin Nathaniel lived in farm animals’ quarters? I thought. No wonder Dorothy considered him the black sheep of the family!

I was still contemplating this irony when I saw that we weren’t alone. A slight man with a build that might be described as scrawny, and sleek black hair that looked as if it had been dripped in olive oil, was lurking in front of the one-time chicken coops.

The sight of Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Norfolk County’s one and only chief of homicide, made my heart sink.

“How ya doin’, Forrester?” he greeted my companion, striding over on short, spindly legs and giving him a hearty handshake that actually involved using both hands.

“I’m great, Lieutenant Falcone,” he replied, shaking back with at least as much fervor.

I was thinking about the fact that there was entirely too much testosterone floating around for my comfort level when Falcone turned to me.

“So we meet again, Dr. Popper,” he said with a smirk.

Actually, given his heavy New York accent, what he
actually called me was “Docta Poppa.” But by this point I was used to that.

What I
wasn’t
used to—and couldn’t seem to get used to—was his condescending manner. At least as far as I was concerned. When it came to Forrester, the man seemed to have no trouble at all treating him as an equal.

“Small world,” I commented, forcing myself to smile.

Falcone’s smirk tightened into something more along the lines of a frown. “I heard it was somethin’ more than that. Rumor has it you were related to Nathaniel Stibbins.”

“Almost
related,” Forrester corrected him, casting me a meaningful look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Falcone looked annoyed that somebody else knew something he didn’t know.

“It’s kind of a long story,” I answered quickly. “One I’m sure you’re much too busy to listen to.”

“It’s true that I got a lot more important things to do than standin’ around and shootin’ the breeze,” he agreed, jutting his chin into the air.

I can imagine, I thought. Admiring your reflection in the mirror, thinking up creative new ways of getting your name and your picture in the paper, stocking up on hair goo that I believe was once referred to as “greasy kid stuff” …

At the moment, however, I wasn’t about to antagonize the man—that is, any more than I did simply by reminding him of my existence on the planet. Not
when I’d been presented with a golden opportunity to pick his brain, such as it was.

“Forrester tells me you’ve made some serious progress on the investigation,” I said boldly.

Not surprisingly, Forrester cast me a scathing look.

“He did, did he?” Falcone squirmed just enough that the highly padded shoulders of his shiny polyester suit gleamed in the summer sunlight. “We’re workin’ on it.”

“How about those fingerprints?” I said, using the same intonation as if I’d said, “How about those Mets?”

“You know, the ones that were left on the murder weapon …?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Like I said, we’re workin’ on it.”

So there
were
prints on the knife that was used to kill Nathaniel, I thought, translating Falcone’s words and body language. But the cops haven’t been able to find a match for them, most likely because the killer had no previous police record.

“And the guests at my wedding—including the members of Nathaniel’s family?” I was still doing my best to sound knowledgeable without threatening a man whose ego was as fragile as a butterfly’s wing.

“None of them ever made it to the suspect list, if that’s what you mean,” he replied.

“Boy, you guys sure are covering a lot of ground,” I said. “I’m really impressed.”

Falcone cocked his head as if he couldn’t figure out if I was being sarcastic or sincere. Actually, all I wanted was for him to keep trying not to look bad in front of another member of the male persuasion.

“From what I can tell,” I said casually, deciding not to mention my conversation with Dr. Goodfellow, “Nathaniel didn’t have much of a social life.”

The only response I got was a slight twitch in Falcone’s left eye. “What makes you think that?”

“You mean he did have a social life?” I asked. My heartbeat quickened over the fact that I was about to be handed some additional information.

“Stibbins was actually quite the ladies’ man. He had one girlfriend after another.” Frowning, he added, “However, the last five women he’d been seeing all had rock-solid alibis.”

Five? I thought. It sounds as if the man was as terrified of commitment as I am.

“That must have been a disappointment, at least in terms of the investigation,” I said. “I mean, the spouse or love interest is usually the first person the cops consider, right?”

“That’s right,” he replied. “We didn’t find indications of any love triangles, either, in case that’s where you’re going with this.”

“Then it sounds as if checking into his workplace is the obvious next step,” I said.

“We’re in the process of talking to several people at the Worth School where he taught,” Falcone sounded as if he’d rehearsed that line for the press. In front of a mirror, no doubt.

Hey, me, too! But I kept that thought to myself.

Instead, I looked toward the front door of Nathaniel’s house hungrily. Now that I’d wrested the information I’d wanted from Falcone about how the homicide pros were doing with their investigation, I
was anxious to learn what I could about the place where the victim hung his hat. Or his beret.

“Well, I’m sure you have to get going,” I hinted. “Forrester and I also happen to be pressed for time, so we should probably get on with this.”

“Thanks for letting us take a look around,” Forrester said.

“Hey, I always do whatever I can to cooperate with
Newsday
,” Falcone said.

No doubt, I thought. This is a man who would do just about anything to get his name in the paper. Especially if his picture ran with it.

He turned back to me. “As for you, Dr. Popper, I hope you’ll remember this favor.” His dark brown eyes bore into mine as he added, “I’m kinda puttin’ myself on the line here by lettin’ somebody like you walk around the victim’s house. It’s a biggie.”

“Almost as much of a biggie as all those murders I helped solve in the past?” I countered, returning his icy look.

He drew back slightly. It was only an inch or so, but that was more than enough for me to feel a surge of satisfaction.

“So you got lucky once or twice,” he grumbled.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky again.” I lifted my own chin a little higher into the air. “Especially since the deceased and I were almost related and all.”

He just glared at me for a few seconds. I got the feeling he was trying to think up a snappy comeback. But that wasn’t about to happen since he’d obviously used up whatever limited brain power he possessed.

Instead, he pulled out a key and unlocked one of
the many doors lined up in front of us, the one with the brass knocker on it.

He pushed it open and stepped aside. “I got one rule for the both of you, and it’s a hard-and-fast rule. Don’t touch anything, y’hear me?”

Forrester and I both nodded like dutiful children.

“Okay,” Falcone said, eyeing us warily. “Aside from that, just make sure you pull the door shut tight when you leave.”

“Thanks again,” Forrester called after him.