Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death (20 page)

Cynthia looked frustrated. I suspected she had thought her information hunt would yield a fast result. “Not a lot. We’ve got the list for Circle A, although we’re assuming there are no outliers, like he seduced someone because he saw her from afar in Schneider and fell in lust. We can ask Jean or Jane about Circle B, because there was a limited number of rooms or buildings that had any sort of a kitchen, and I refuse to believe that anyone cooked this up over a campfire. We have a list of professions, which will help with Circle C—who had the relevant knowledge. And as for Circle D, you’re supposed to be collecting the pictures, remember?”

“I told you, I think Xianling is our best hope. I’ve never seen her when she didn’t have that tablet in her hand, taking pictures, so she should have just about everything covered. Otherwise, when have I had the time?” I protested. “And we’ve got only two days. That’s just not going to happen.”

“Then mine whatever Xianling has, and then focus on anyone else who was taking a lot of pictures. Otherwise we’re going to be stuck asking around to see if anybody noticed what cologne the professor was wearing.”

It took me a moment to figure out what she meant, and then I looked at her and burst out with giggles. “Yeah, that’ll work. Or maybe something like, did he have that mole in the shape of Sicily behind his left ear removed?”

“Ooh, you’re good.
Was
there a mole?”

“I have no idea. Fine pair of sleuths we make.”

“Speak for yourself. Besides, you started this, you with your innocent little phone call to the higher powers.”

I almost expected her to stick out her tongue at me. But she was right: I felt responsible. Of course, I was the one who had found the body, but I could have handed it off to the local authorities and left it there. But noooo, I had to get in touch with my contacts and make sure the autopsy was thorough. My instincts had been bang on, but I had created a lot of complications for a lot of people, and now I had to wonder if I had done the right thing. “How about we look at that list of professions? That might be the shortest.”

Cyn eyed another page on her tablet. “We’ve got five current or retired MDs, but only Christine and Valerie admit to knowing the professor.”

“Specialties?”

“Ob-gyn, no surprise, given the times.”

“A medical doctor might not be the only category to look at. What about people who are pursuing alternative medicines? A late-life conversion? They could know about herbal remedies, if they’re into holistic medicine or natural remedies. Although they might not be familiar with poppies that grow only in Italy. Unless they’re the same as California poppies.”

Cynthia tapped a few more keys. “Close enough, although it’s not clear whether the California ones are strong enough to have much effect. The Tuscan variety has a much longer track record for medicinal uses. Anyway, neither of the MDs lives in California where the poppies grow.”

“But they might have, once. Or gone to school there. You can check that.”

“Yes, I can.” More tapping. “Nope, neither one, at least not that I can tell from the information I have. What else you got?”

I was coming up empty. “You know the Amanda Knox case, right?”

“Who doesn’t? Face of an all-American angel, but the Italian authorities tarred her as a sex-crazed slacker. And they’re still arguing over whether she did it.”

“Exactly. And in that case they had physical evidence, even if they bungled it. What do you think they’d make of our case?”

“I’d rather not find out. It could take years, and there’d be a cloud hanging over all of us. We don’t want that.”

“No, we don’t. So we’ve got to make this right.”

“I’m with you on that. What next?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes, I am. I’m the info gatherer.”

“I thought I was!”

“Nope,
I’m
Watson. You found the professor—he’s your problem. I stand ready to be awed by your brilliant deductive reasoning. So?”

Funny, in our past years together, Cynthia had always taken the lead. When had that changed? Now I was in charge? I had to think this through. “If this were a crime novel, we’d gather all the cast together in the last chapter and make the big reveal. Or hope that the culprit gave herself away as we led up to it.”

“Well, worst case, you’ve got the setting all lined up—the big dinner in the vineyard on our last night. All the suspects gathered together. If we haven’t figured this out before that, you can stand up and announce, ‘The killer is …’ and see who runs screaming into the night.”

“That might be a bit extreme, especially if I have nothing to back it up. But if all else fails, I can throw the question on the table and see what happens.”

Cynthia looked at me sadly. “I wish I could say I had a better idea, but I don’t.”

“Okay, then I’ll talk to Xianling and ask her to put together whatever she can, and we’ll see if that adds anything to what we know. If we’re lucky we’ll have something before the banquet.”

“Big if,” Cynthia said. “You know, being Watson isn’t as easy as it looks. You want more coffee? Or you want to shop?”

“I will happily look for souvenirs that weigh less than two ounces, until it’s time for dinner.” Anything was better than hiking up that hill, only to turn around and come back in an hour or two.

So we shopped, and I allowed myself to buy one deliciously scented bar of soap. And after shopping we wandered over to the restaurant, where people were already congregating. Once inside, we were divided among different tables in different rooms, and even if I’d wanted to ask some discreet questions, the noise level made it impossible. When I’d figured that out, I relaxed and just went with the flow. It was a pleasant dinner, not as good as some, but tasty. It was nearly dark when we finally exited the restaurant, and I could hear the sea nearby.

Cynthia and I looked at each other. “Ready for that hill?” I asked.

“I guess. Where are our sister vineyardites?”

“Is that even a word? I think they’re still inside. You want to wait?”

“Not really. You and I are pretty evenly matched—we both start panting at the same time.”

“Yeah, about halfway there. All right, let’s go.”

We passed the church, now dark, although some of the cafés on the plaza in front of it were still doing a good business. We continued up toward the hotel, passing under an arch. At the
carabinieri
station, a lone tabby cat sat on a low wall and washed its face. It ignored us. Then came the long dark hike, and I swear it was at a forty-five-degree angle. Or at least an angle that grew steeper each time we climbed it. We huffed and puffed our way to the top, then dropped into the chairs on our little patio.

“What … about … mosquitoes?” I panted.

“Haven’t … seen … any … here,” Cynthia replied.

We waited a minute until our breathing leveled out. “Another thing nobody mentioned: bring bug spray. Think we could have gotten it into the country?”

“If it was small enough. The more important omission was mentioning the hills.”

“You’ve got that right. I wonder if anybody would have bowed out if they had known how much climbing they’d have to do. I mean, unless you have a topographic map, you don’t even think about it. Unless you’re visiting Switzerland. Or Nepal.”

“Maybe the lazy and the feeble ones self-eliminated and are sitting at home patting themselves on the back and knitting.”

“Hard to do both at once,” I commented. “Damn, I don’t want to get old.”

“We aren’t old, we’re mature. Wise. Seasoned.”

“Yeah, right. I hope somebody shoots me if I get too decrepit to do something like this. I had a friend back at college whose grandparents kept taking grand trips abroad into their nineties. I still have their old steamer trunk in the attic, and it’s covered with shipping labels for wonderful places. I think it’s full of my mementoes now—nothing as grand as theirs, I’m sure. Anyway, I always thought that’s the way I wanted to live, just keep going and doing the things I enjoyed until I dropped in my tracks.”

“How does the gene pool in your family look?” Cynthia asked.

“So-so. My grandmother was ninety-four, but my mother died of cancer in her seventies. My father was eighty.”

“Not bad. You’ve got a few good years left in you.”

“I hope so. You?” I asked.

“My mother’s still alive, and living on her own. My father’s been gone for a decade. But I take care of myself, when I’m not glued to a computer monitor.”

I could hear the sounds of our hilltop companions making their way up the path. I looked at Cynthia, but she was lost in her own thoughts. I was too comfortable to move, so I remained silent and waited to see what the others would do.

Chapter 18

I had expected the others to peel off to their rooms on the far end of the patio, but instead they kept coming until they were directly below where we sat.

“Ahoy? Permission to come aboard?” Valerie called out.

“Aren’t you mixing up your metaphors? The sea’s the other direction. But sure, you’re welcome to join us.”

Valerie appeared first, clutching a bottle of wine, which she held up. “I come bearing offerings.” She turned to her lagging companions. “Come on, guys—it’s only a few more steps.”

Connie and Pam appeared next with Denise, and when we were all seated, the little table was crowded. Xianling wasn’t with them. The newcomers exchanged glances.

Then Valerie spoke. “We know what you’re doing.”

Now Cynthia and I looked at each other, alarmed. “What are we doing?” I asked cautiously.

“Trying to figure out who killed Professor Gilbert. We want to help.”

Well, that cat had escaped its bag and was now howling for attention.

“Who else knows?” Cynthia asked.

“Just us—as far as we know. We haven’t talked about it to anyone else. It’s hard to find a quiet place and enough time to talk privately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Believe me, we’ve noticed,” I said. “So you think someone killed the professor?”

“Don’t you?” Valerie asked. “I’m just not buying the idea that he just fell down the hill and died. Too many people in the group hated him.”

So it had been that obvious to her? Had it been to any others? I wondered. “You know who?”

Our companions shared looks. “I can guess,” Pam said. “I’m a pretty good observer. And I have a near-photographic memory. By the way, I’m a lawyer.”

I glanced at Cynthia. She nodded.

“I think there’s a question I need to ask, before we go any further. Which of you took a class with Professor Gilbert? Or had any interactions with him in any other way?” I thought it would be kind of a test. I still wasn’t sure I had complete confidence in these women, but on the other hand, we were running out of time and we had to trust someone.

Valerie spoke first. “I was in one of his classes.”

Then Connie. “I didn’t take one, but my roommate did, and it wasn’t a good experience for her.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Pam said. “I took a couple of classes with him, and I thought he was slime. But you already knew that, Cynthia, didn’t you?”

Cynthia waited a few moments before answering, studying Pam’s face. Finally she said, “Yes, I did. We did. Denise?”

“You’ve heard my story,” Denise said. “He plagiarized my research and called it his own.”

“You checked us all out,” Pam stated bluntly.

“Yes. I wanted to narrow down the list of suspects,” Cynthia said. “And I wanted to see who would lie about it.”

While Connie and Valerie looked unsettled by the revelation, and Denise just nodded once, Pam seemed pleased. “Fair enough,” she said. “Yes, I took one of his classes. I thought it was fluff. I thought he had an ego the size of Texas. I got a respectable B-plus in the class and never took another one in that department. He never made a pass at me or bullied me or made fun of me—I might as well have been invisible. Hey, I know what I look like, and what I looked like then. I wasn’t his type, and that was fine with me.”

She looked like an ordinary and, yes, forgettable person, as she had forty years ago. “But you knew back then that there were others who did get that kind of attention from him?” I prompted.

“Sure there were, and it was obvious to anyone who was looking for the signs. Some of the women in the class were practically drooling over him. Most of them found an excuse to stay after class and ask him some really important questions, alone, of course.”

“You aren’t suggesting they were asking for it and they got what they deserved, are you?” Cynthia demanded.

“Of course I’m not,” Pam snapped. “We were all young and stupid and impressionable, and he was hot. Things happen. People move on.”

“Well, it looks like somebody didn’t,” I countered.

“Quite possibly. Look, do you know the dropout rate for freshmen in our year?” Pam demanded.

“I do,” Cynthia said, and named a number. “And that doesn’t include the transfers to the men’s colleges that went co-ed around that time.”

“Okay. Some of those women left for academic reasons—they just couldn’t cut it. Some for social reasons—they felt like they didn’t fit in, or they couldn’t hack being at a college with only women. Some for financial reasons. And some—a small percentage—bailed because creeps like Gilbert messed with them. But having said that, most of the women he, uh … well, you know what I mean—most of them got over it and him and went on to graduate and lead happy and successful lives. How many of our class do you think had or have the potential to be killers?”

“Two,” Cynthia fired back promptly. “One spousal abuse, case dismissed, and one psychotic break.”

“Damn, you are good, given what you have to work with here,” Pam said admiringly. “So how do you profile someone who waits forty years to seek revenge? Was it planned? Was it a spur-of-the-moment thing, where just seeing the guy again unexpectedly brought back a whole lot of repressed memories and she just snapped? Who knew where he was, the night he died?”

“Hold on—you’re going too fast,” I said. “Let us tell you what we’ve worked out so far, and then you can tell us what you can add and what the next steps should be.”