Physics Can Be Fatal (16 page)

     “Did you observe any particular interactions Professor Sidebottom had with anyone in the department?  Or anyone at all?”

     Ruth thought for a moment before answering.

     “It seemed like the whole department was excited about his arrival at Cushing, but other than that . . . well, Professor Mann did stop by my desk a couple of times Monday morning to ask if Professor Sidebottom was looking for her.”

     Will thanked Ruth Benjamin, and left his card.

*

     There was a knock on Edwina’s door.

     “Come in,” she called from her desk.

     Seth Dubin walked in and closed the door behind him.

     “Got a minute?” he asked.

     “Sure thing, sit down.”

     Seth spoke softly.

     “This is somewhat awkward,” he began nervously.  “I didn’t mention it to Detective Tenney, but I think I need to tell someone.  It’s about Sheila.”

     “Go ahead”, Edwina said quietly.

     “It’s just that––with Sheila’s medical background and training––it crossed my mind that she could have poisoned Professor Sidebottom.  She would know exactly how to do it.  I know it’s a terrible thing to say.  But I just can’t help thinking it.”

     “Why would Sheila want to do that?” Edwina asked.

     “Well, I don’t know if you remember, but the night of the party she was very upset with Professor Sidebottom.  He was needling me a bit about my stammer, and Sheila took it very badly.  She was furious, as a matter of fact.” Seth said.  “Just furious.”

     “Well, has she said anything weird that makes you think she might have actually done it?”

     “No.  She hasn’t said a thing.  It’s probably just my imagination going crazy,” Seth said.

     “Yeah, probably.  Let’s keep it between ourselves for now.  No need to broadcast a suspicion.  And try not to worry about it, Seth.  It’s probably just your imagination.” 

*

      A poster was taped to the outside of Mitchell Fender’s door, showing a brightly colored biohazard symbol, and printed beneath, ‘Biohazard!  Infectious Personality!’

      The door was ajar, and Will knocked lightly.

     “Enter!”

     “Dr. Fender?  Detective William Tenney from New Guilford P.D.  May I have a few moments of your time?”

     “Come in, my good man,” Mitchell said jovially.

     The walls of the cluttered office were covered with colorful posters and signs. Hanging behind Dr. Fender’s desk a placard read, “MAY THE
m x a
BE WITH YOU”.

     “Dr. Fender we’re looking into the death of Alan Sidebottom, which we now know was a murder.  To be blunt, Dr. Fender, I understand there was no love lost between you and Professor Sidebottom.”

     “Unfortunately true,” Mitchell Fender said.  “Alan Sidebottom was brilliant, but as anyone will tell you he was unscrupulous.  He was almost pathological in his disregard for others.  I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead––he shouldn’t have died––but I have very little good to say about him, regrettably.”

      Mitchell Fender ran a beefy index finger and thumb over his bushy moustache.  Will noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick. 

     “I take it you’ve heard all about the plagiarism incident?”

     “Why don’t you tell me about it, sir.”

     “A messy, unfortunate episode.  I’ve been researching the event horizon for many years.  For you civilians, this refers to the point of no return––the threshold, the doorway––where matter and energy disappear into the infinite gravitational pull of a black hole.  The edge, if you like.  Take my word for it, you want to steer clear of these suckers!  Very exciting stuff.” 

     Dr. Fender leaned back in the desk chair and stroked his moustache.  A pair of red suspenders strained against his ample belly.

     “I’m with you, sir, please go on.”

     With his glasses pushed up on his forehead, Mitchell Fender cradled the back of his head in his interlocked fingers, and rocked gently in the creaking desk chair.

     “The long and short of it that Alan Sidebottom––shall we say, ‘appropriated’––some of my research and included it in his recent best seller.  I pressed charges for theft of intellectual property, but nothing came of it.  It couldn’t be proved, and the case was dismissed.”

     “You must have hated Professor Sidebottom for it?”

     “You’re right; I did.  That work would have gotten me tenure, and the respect I . . .”

     Dr. Fender’s voice faltered, and he fell silent.

     “Dr. Fender, sir, I’m told you and Professor Sidebottom were getting along at the Department cocktail reception, laughing together, and so on.”

     “Life is short, detective,” Mitchell said, recovering his composure. 

     “It’s important to seize the day, let bygones be bygones.  The deed is done.  My colleagues were very supportive of me throughout the whole ordeal, especially Helen Mann, and she’s the boss.”

     “I appreciate your forthrightness, Dr. Fender.  Would you mind telling me where you were Monday night, the night Alan Sidebottom died?”

     “Let’s see, now.  Monday night,” he said, stroking his moustache.  “Righto, got it!  I was at home alone, making a pot of stew and watching the football game on television.”

     “What did you think of the game?” Will asked.

     “We’ve got too many guys out with injuries.  But there’s still time to come back!” Mitchell Fender said with enthusiasm.

     “Thank-you for your time, Dr. Fender.  If you think of anything else, please contact me,” Will said.

Chapter 12

   A typical lunch for Will would be a take-out sandwich from Earl’s, eaten at his desk at the police station.  But today was different.  Since The New World Tavern figured into the investigation, Will decided to have lunch there. 

     Will had a good view of the whole restaurant from a small table in the corner.   He showed identification to his server and asked if might speak to the owner.  Louis Canevari appeared moments later walking briskly toward Will, and looking anxious.

     “Good afternoon, sir.  What can I do for you?  No trouble, I hope?”

     “No, nothing like that.  Please take a seat,” Will said genially.

     The diminutive proprietor relaxed visibly and sat down.

     “We’re investigating a death at the college, and I understand a group of students and faculty from Cushing was here on Tuesday night.  From the Physics Department.  Were you here Tuesday night?”

     Louis Canevari spoke energetically, his words seeming to launch out of him like missiles.

    “Yes, I know just who you’re `talking about,” he said.  “Some of them come in here regular.  Edwina Goodman––she used to work here––she’s a great girl.  Comes in here all the time.”

     “Did you notice anything strange or different about the way any of them were acting––anything you might have overheard, or something like that?” asked Will.  “Maybe an altercation or an argument?”

     Will was momentarily distracted by the appearance of Seth Dubin, looking uncharacteristically dour, accompanied by an attractive woman wearing a close-fitting outfit.

     “I’m sorry, Mr. Canevari.  Would you please repeat that?”

     “I was just saying – a couple of them stayed behind and kinda’ got into a disagreement.  A man and a lady.”

     “Can you describe them, please?” said Will, his attention fully back with Louis Canevari.

      “The guy––very nice-looking man, well-dressed, handsome.  The woman, she was kinda’ mousey––you know what I mean––not bad looking, just needs to fix herself up a little bit.  Probably a brainy type.  ”

     “How old would you guess this woman was?”

     “I would say they were both around forty, give or take,” Louis Canevari said.

     Will wondered if Louis Canevari might be describing Donald Gaylord and Charlotte Cadell.

     “Did you hear what the argument was about?” Will pressed.

     “That, I couldn’t tell you.  They were very hush-hush.  I could tell it was an argument, though.  You been married as long as I have, you can spot an argument a mile away!”

     “Thank-you, Mr. Canevari.  You’ve been very helpful.”

     “Enjoy your lunch, sir.  I highly recommend the trout.  Please, come again, and bring your police friends!”

     Will glanced across the room at Seth Dubin and his lunch partner several times.  Their conversation looked serious, but they were seated too far away and Will could not overhear any of it.  The couple ordered a bottle of wine, and the woman proceeded to drink most of it, only picking at her food.  The discussion appeared to grow increasingly intense the more she drank.  Will wrote down a description of the woman in his notes.  He would need to find out who she was.

     Will ordered the trout.  It was perfectly pan-fried in butter, and absolutely delicious.

*

     “Are you familiar with Newton’s Third Law of Motion?” Professor Nedda Cake asked Detective Will Tenney.

     “No, ma’am, I’m not,” he answered.

     The old woman’s pale eyes gleamed in the sunlight streaming through her office window.  Her velvety skin appeared translucent as a porcelain teacup.  

     “It tells us that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

     The old professor gazed at Will with a tranquil smile on her handsome face.  If the eyes are windows on the soul, Will had the feeling he was gazing into great depths.

     “Professor Cake, I understand there are members of your department who have reason to dislike Alan Sidebottom.  Can you shed any light on that?”

     Nedda Cake grinned.

     “Detective, my best academic work is behind me.  My powers of observation, however, do still seem to be in tact, and I am occasionally able to tease meaning out of facts,” she said, pulling the cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders tighter. “Now, then.”

     “My husband, Frank, and I did some important work during our time at Oxford years ago.  Alan Sidebottom was one of my husband’s students.  Frank always said Alan was one of his most gifted students.  And possibly the laziest.  Ultimately, Alan co-opted some of our work for himself, and indeed, wrote a paper that helped land him a position at Cambridge.  Frank never got over it.  He died not long after that.”

     “So you see,” she continued, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief embroidered with a pale blue “N”,  “I have an awfully good motive for wanting to kill Alan.  But of course I didn’t.  I believe in physics and mathematics, not in killing.  I also believe that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, whether it applies to the physical world or the moral one.  The universe takes care of it.” 

     She peered at the young detective. 

     “Alan Sidebottom was an immoral man,” Nedda continued.  “I’m sorry he’s dead, but then again, less wickedness in the world is quite a good thing for everyone.”  She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes for a moment.

     “Now then,” she said. “I’m sure you must know by now that Alan also stole ideas from Mitchell Fender and published them under his own name.  There’s a motive.  Helen Mann was involved with Alan romantically many years ago.  I think she may have been hoping to rekindle with him, but alas, he took no notice of her.  A woman scorned always has a powerful motive for revenge, don’t you find?  And then there’s dear Donald Gaylord, too clever for his own good.  I overheard Alan saying something to Donald at tea one afternoon, which seemed to upset Donald deeply.  Alan said something like, ‘Tommy said to say hello’.”

     “What do think he meant?”

     “No idea, dear boy.  You’ll have to work it out.”