Physics Can Be Fatal (14 page)

     She jogged down the hall to Reception. Ruth Benjamin was at her desk, typing.

     “Ruth?  Quick question,” Edwina said, holding up the pink flyer. “Did everybody in the department get one of these?”

     “Yup.  There was a pile of those sitting on my desk, so I stuck one in everybody’s box.  Why?”

     “Oh, nothing, I was just curious. Thanks,” Edwina said.

     Edwina sat at her desk and stared out the window, wondering about the significance, if any, of the advertisement for a hair salon. She opened a desk drawer and fished around until she came up with the card Will had given her. 

     She picked up her phone and texted him.

    
I hope I’m not being a Bossy Boots, but our whole department got flyers for a discount haircut at Leah’s Place in town.  Thought you should check it out asap. Maybe Sidebottom went there.

*

     Will read Edwina’s text as he walked through the parking lot of the police station.  He climbed into an old Ford pick-up truck, sat behind the wheel and texted her back.

    
Good work, BB.  Sidebottom got a haircut at Leah’s sure enough.

      He drove through downtown Old Guilford, through its quiet residential streets, and into the surrounding hills toward the neighboring town of Westover.  Halfway to Westover he turned onto a rural route for a few miles, and then onto a steep, dirt road through dense woods. He parked on a remote property with his half-built house, his tipi out back, and a spring-fed pond, mostly hidden by foliage.

     The plans for the house were laid out on a makeshift table––a wooden door set across two sawhorses––in the kitchen area of the house. Will poured a large container of clam chowder into a saucepan and heated it on a double-burner hot plate. He studied the plans while he ate, making notations in pencil here and there. 

     What would eventually be the living room area of the house was currently fashioned into a workspace.  Will changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbed a cedar board and ran it through the miter saw, cutting it to size for clapboarding.  He repeated this until twenty new clapboards had been added to the pile. 

     Although plumbing lines had been run before the concrete foundation was poured, the bathtub and shower would not be installed for another few weeks, at least.  When he was finished working Will trotted out to the pond and stripped down in full view of the neighboring wildlife.

     The last rays of evening sun made the treetops appear incandescent   He bathed quickly in the cold water, and changed into a pair of clean sweatpants and tee shirt. Before retiring to the tipi with a Louis L’Amour book, Will swept the sawdust around the miter saw into a neat pile, scooped it up with a dust pan, and dumped it into a half-filled trash bag.  He used water from a plastic jug to rinse out his dinner dishes, dried them off, and trudged up the hill at the back of the house.

       The tipi’s interior was surprisingly spacious. Will had studied
The Indian Tipi: Its History, Construction, and Use
, by Gladys and Reginald Laubin (published 1957). He had finally mastered adjusting the smoke flaps, so the smoke could get out but the rain would not get in.  Seventeen twenty-seven foot poles around the perimeter held the tipi in place.  Camping lanterns lit the inside, which was scattered with tools, books, and clothes.  The bed, a sleeping bag on a raised cot, was perfectly sufficient for the duration.

     Will lay in bed gazing up at the peak of the tipi.  Listening to the owls and bullfrogs in the background, he thought about the case.  Of course, there were still Department members he had yet to interview, and he could not speculate about them. 

     Donald Gaylord had distinguished himself by his willingness to point the finger in so many different directions without a moment’s hesitation, and by getting Will’s hackles up in record time.  Donald struck Will as untrustworthy, the way he had tried to duck questions and control the interview. Donald Gaylord was hiding something. 

     Charlotte Cadell had been more forthcoming, but Will thought she, too, was withholding information.  There was something more than a broken engagement that made Charlotte so prematurely spinsterish.  Charlotte was an attractive woman.  Will wanted to know why her disappointment of years ago had destroyed her confidence––or faith, or something––so completely. 

     And Helen Mann. Her history with Alan Sidebottom included an affair, and goodness knew what else. Will tried to imagine Helen as a younger, attractive woman, but he was getting sleepy. His thoughts were growing hazy, and his imagination fell short. 

     He forced himself up one last time to stoke the fire in the wood-burning stove. The nights were getting cold up on the mountain. He added logs to the fire and stirred the coals. The sweet aroma of wood smoke settled around him like a soft blanket as he scrunched down into the sleeping bag.  Edwina Goodman popped into his mind, with her glinting hazel eyes and pale freckles. 

   A fe
w minutes later Will was dead to the world.

Chapter 9

    There was frost on the ground Saturday morning.  Edwina sat at the kitchen table dressed in a fleece vest zipped up over her nightgown, with a steaming pot of tea.

     A computer search quickly resulted in information about the Brussels conference where Helen and Alan had had their fling thirty-five years earlier.  A child resulting from their affair would be in his or her mid-thirties.

     Edwina began a new search. 

     Starting with department members Seth Dubin, Lois Lieberman, and secretary Ruth Benjamin––all of who were around their mid-thirties––she started looking up birth records.  As there were a number of people in and around the department who were the right age to be the child of Helen and Alan, it proved to be a time-consuming effort, and after an hour and a half Edwina had come up with nothing useful.

     Hunger demanding her attention, Edwina made breakfast.  She sat in the wicker rocking chair with a plate of eggs and toast, and watched the birds and squirrels outside the kitchen window.  The squirrels were busy burying acorns for the winter months ahead.  The birds seemed to be enjoying the day as they chatted across the bird feeder and ignored the squirrels, which darted back and forth feverishly, flicking their tails nervously as if the world were coming to an end.  Edwina sopped up the last bit of egg yolk with a piece of toast and washed it down with tea.

     While she washed the breakfast dishes a thought came to her, another name to search, someone else in the right age category to be the child of Alan Sidebottom and Helen Mann.  Edwina dried her hands quickly and sat down at the computer. 

     She found Sheila Dubin’s maiden name listed in a biographical entry about Seth on a scientific web site.  Now she could search for Sheila’s birth record.

     Edwina could find no birth record for Sheila Dubin, nee Donovan.  That could mean that Sheila had a different last name when she was born, and that the Donovans were not her birth parents.  What if Helen Mann and Alan Sidebottom turned out to be Sheila’s birth parents, and had given her up for adoption?  Did Sheila know it?  Was it mere coincidence that Sheila had married a physicist and ended up at Cushing?

     What if Sheila didn’t know Helen and Alan were her birth parents?  What if she unwittingly killed her own father in an act of revenge for humiliating Seth and ruining his chances for advancement? 

     Then another thought occurred to her.

     She kept thinking about the night she overheard Donald Gaylord with a woman in his office at Sanborn House.  She was just about positive it was Sheila Dubin.  What if Donald found out Sheila killed Professor Sidebottom, in a rage after his cruel treatment at the party toward Seth?  Could Sheila have possibly involved Donald in her crazy bid for revenge?  She was pushy enough to talk him into it!  Edwina could never figure out why kind and gentle Seth Dubin had married such an aggressive woman as Sheila in the first place. 

    
Edwina looked at the clock.  It was almost lunchtime.

     She called Will to share these latest ideas.

     “Where are you?” he asked.

     “At home.  Why?”

     “I’m in town today––doing laundry at the Laundromat.  My usual Saturday routine.  Why don’t I stop by your house on my way home?  I’m just about finished here.”

     Edwina looked down at her nightgown.

     “Sure.  How about half an hour?  It’s number thirty-eight, Canaan Farm Road.”

     Edwina trotted upstairs, showered and dressed.  She made the bed, tidied up the house, and made a pot of tea.

*

     Will was prompt.  Edwina showed him into the kitchen.

     “Great stove,” he said.  “It’s a classic model, did you know that?  It’s a shame they stopped making this one.  I don’t know why they discontinued it.  How’s it heat for you?”

     “Great.  Heats the whole house.”

     “I see you burn ash,” he said, remarking on the basket full of split logs.  “I’ve got a couple cords of oak that burns as well as the ash, and it has a nice, sweet smell to it.  I could drop some off for you, if you like.”

      Edwina was surprised by the unexpected offer.

     “Oh, really?  That’d be great,” she said.

     A pot of tea was warming on the woodstove.  Edwina filled two mugs with steaming, black tea and set them on the table, alongside a small pitcher of milk, a jar of local honey, and spoons.

     “Nice house,” Will said, taking a sip of tea.

    “Looks like you get a lot of customers,” he added, watching the steady activity at the bird feeder.

     Edwina laughed.

     “Yeah, they practically eat me out of house and home, the swine,” she said.

     “So what’s up?” Will said.

     Edwina leaned forward on her elbows, her hands overlapped on the kitchen table.

     “I don’t know if this will have any great bearing on the case,” she began, “but I have some information about the department I thought you should know.”

     Edwina’s stomach growled.  She took a sip of tea to quiet it.

     “I have reason to think that Seth Dubin’s wife, Sheila, may be having an affair with Donald Gaylord,” she said.  “I was working late one night at Sanborn House.  I thought I was the only person in the building, but then I heard voices coming from another office.  I’m pretty sure it was Donald and Sheila Dubin.  And this was in the middle of the night.”

     Will sipped his tea.

     “Let me make sure I follow so far,” he said.  “You spent the night on college property, spying on members of the department.” 

     “I did spend the night in Sanborn House, yes, but I spent the night there working, and the eavesdropping thing was sort of an accident,” Edwina answered defensively.

     “Go on.”

     “Sheila wears a very distinctive perfume.  It’s really pretty overbearing.  I smelled it the night of the party for Professor Sidebottom.  When I was in Donald’s office a couple days ago, I’m just about positive I smelled it.  I think it’s possible that Sheila was so enraged at Professor Sidebottom because of the way he treated her husband, Seth, at the party that night, that she killed him.”

      Will listened.

     “And it’s possible that Sheila got Donald Gaylord involved, somehow.  Or if he’s not directly involved, I’ll bet he knows she did it.”

     Edwina regarded Will in earnest, her wide eyes focused intently.  The edges of her ears poked out through her hair, still damp from the shower.  The perfumed scent of shampoo mingled agreeably with the smell of wood smoke.

     “What do you think?” she said.

     “It’s certainly an interesting thought,” Will said. 

     “Donald Gaylord was so eager to point the finger of suspicion toward anybody else, he’s got to be hiding something.   I agree Sheila Dubin has motive––although not the strongest motive––payback for the public humiliation of her husband on the night of the party.  She sees Professor Sidebottom’s behavior as a serious setback to her husband’s career.”

     Edwina’s stomach growled loudly again.

     Will got up from the table and walked to the refrigerator.

     “Let me see here.  How about a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich?” he said.

     Edwina watched while he buttered the bread, sliced cheese and tomatoes, and cooked the sandwiches to gooey perfection in a skillet on top of the woodstove.  He set them on the table and rinsed the cutting board and knife, leaving them in the dish drainer.  He wrapped up the remaining ingredients and put them back in the fridge.

     “Do you consider Seth Dubin a suspect?” Edwina said biting into a warm mouthful of sandwich, blissfully unaware of the long string of melted cheese dangling from the corner of her mouth.

     Will re-filled their mugs with hot, black tea.

     “I never liked him much for the murder.  He’s still a possible, though.  Everybody is, for now,” he said, handing Edwina a napkin.

Chapter 10

     Paolo and Francesca Rossetti invited Lois Lieberman and Ravi Kapoor for dinner on the weekend.

     Of the three colleagues only Paolo, a transplant from Rome, was married.  His wife, Francesca, also from Rome, pregnant with their first child, taught Italian language and literature at the college.  The Rossettis lived in a spacious Victorian house near campus that was divided into two apartments, one on the first floor and one on the second.  They resided on the ground floor.  Compared with their compact apartment in Trastevere, the New Guilford digs felt lavish.  Paolo, a keen gardener, grew vegetables and flowers at the back of the house.

     Lois and Ravi were over for dinner.  Both Paolo and Francesca enjoyed cooking and sharing their table with friends.  Lois arrived with a bottle of wine in hand, and Ravi brought flowers for Francesca.

     “How are you feeling?” Lois asked Francesca.

     “Fat!  Actually, I feel great––just a little tired,” she said.

     “You are not fat––you are more beautiful than ever!” Paolo exclaimed, handing glasses of bubbly
moscato
to Lois and Ravi.

     “What’s going on with the investigation?” Francesca asked, sipping sparkling water and stirring a pot of risotto.

     “Paolo and I can’t help wondering if Mitchell Fender might be involved, but I think Lois has other ideas,” Ravi said.

     “Oh?” said Francesca.

     “I’m not saying she did it,” Lois said, “but if you had seen her reaction when Alan Sidebottom made fun of Seth at the cocktail party . . .”

     “We’re talking about Sheila Dubin, I take it?” Francesca said.

     “I’m telling you,” Lois said, “the look she gave Sidebottom was pure venom.  Total hatred.  I wouldn’t put it past her.”

     “Still, it’s a long way to go from being pissed off at somebody, to committing murder,” Paolo said. 

     “The few times I’ve met Sheila Dubin,” Francesca said, “I could almost believe she has it in her.  There’s something unpleasant about her . . .”

     “What about Mitch Fender?” Paolo said.  “He has the perfect motive.  Everybody knows that Alan Sidebottom was an intellectual pirate––he took ideas wherever he liked––he robbed poor Mitch blind.  The poor guy probably snapped.”

     “The sad part of it is, I don’t think Mitchell would have snapped if his wife hadn’t left him,” said Ravi.  “In a million years, I don’t believe Mitchell would go off the deep end if she hadn’t moved out.  It must have been the last straw.”  He sipped
moscato.
  “Is there anybody else, anybody we’re not thinking of?”

     “What about Seth, himself?” said Paolo.

     “Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Lois.  “Seth wouldn’t hurt the proverbial fly!”

     “Even
I
know that’s a preposterous idea!” Francesca agreed.  “Seth Dubin? 
Impossibile!”

     “I don’t know––” Paolo speculated.  “Maybe when you are that gentle and docile, you eventually explode.  Maybe things build up inside you for so long, and then––kaboom!“

     “No, I can’t see it, not Seth!  More likely, one of us!” laughed Ravi.

     Paolo dressed and mixed the salad, and set it on the dining room table, alongside a large bowl of risotto, a loaf of Italian bread, plates and utensils.  Francesca brought over glasses and a bottle of wine from the kitchen.

     “
Alla tavola!
” she said.

     “Oh, wow.  This is delicious,” said Lois, tasting a bite of risotto.

     “Mm, fantastic!” agreed Ravi.

     “What about the two of them colluding – what about Mitchell Fender and Sheila Dubin in it together?” Francesca said, serving the salad.  “Mitchell Fender and Sheila Dubin––getting together to kill Alan Sidebottom.  Maybe when they realized that each had a motive they decided to pool their resources?”

     Paolo tore off a piece of bread.

     “Mitch Fender and Sheila Dubin plotting together?  Highly improbable!  Can you really see the two of them colluding?  They would more likely end up killing each other,” Paolo laughed.

     Lois Lieberman took a sip of wine and shook her head. 

     “How Seth ended up with a she-animal like Sheila is a mystery to me.”

     Francesca threw Paolo a look.  He caught it.

     They had coffee and Italian cornmeal cake in the living room.  Ravi and Paolo played a game of chess.  Francesca and Lois chatted on the sofa.

     “Are you coming hiking with us tomorrow?” Lois asked.

     Francesca patted her protruding belly.