The Skeleton Haunts a House (7 page)

In short, she was as unlikely a candidate for murder as I'd ever heard of. Even Sid, whose theories were sometimes as ludicrous as his own existence, hadn't been able to come up with any reason anybody would have wanted to kill her. His best guesses were mistaken identity or a serial killer.

Despite my promise to Deborah, I couldn't think of anything else investigative to do that day, so while Sid continued to surf the Web for the latest and greatest news, I took my father out to retrieve his and Mom's Subaru from Deborah's garage. She'd been storing it for them, and being Deborah, had also kept it meticulously maintained, even starting it up every week or two to make sure it was ready to go at a moment's notice. I only wished I had somebody to lavish that much attention on my minivan, especially since I was worried it was on its last legs.

Then I finished up the laundry, graded papers, and made lesson plans for the coming work week. Right before bed, I went to Sid's attic to check on his progress, and though he said he'd typed his fingers to the bone—a joke he'd used so many times before that I couldn't even fake a laugh—he'd found nothing for us to go on.

I was ready to root for the cops.

M
ondays are usually the bane of my existence because they insist on starting so early in the morning, but in a miracle unmatched in my adjunct career, I didn't have an eight o'clock class that semester. In fact, my first class was at ten, and though I then had to face three sections of English composition in a row, at least I could sleep in a little.

My parents also had plans to go to McQuaid that morning—Mom to meet with Dr. Eberhardt about her panicking grad student and Phil to visit with fellow faculty members—but I'd thought they were going to ride in with me. It was only when I got down to the kitchen that I realized they were already gone, and I remembered something I should have done as soon as I found out they were back in Pennycross.

Madison was at the table eating eggs and bacon cooked by my father, while Sid read the newspaper. “When did Mom and Phil leave?” I asked them.

“Maybe five minutes ago,” Madison said, but Sid countered, “More like ten.”

I grabbed my cell phone and punched in my friend Charles's number. “Pick up, pick up,” I muttered.

“Dr. Charles Peyton at your service,” the voice at the other end of the line said. Even at that hour of the morning, with caller ID so he knew it was me, Charles minded his manners.

“Charles, we've got an emergency. My parents have come home.”

“Splendid! I'm sure you're gratified to have them back safe and sound.”

“The problem is that they're on the way to McQuaid. Right now.”

“Then presumably your father will want his office back?”

“Exactly.” Charles was another adjunct, and like me, didn't own a home. Unlike me, however, he did not have a parental haven to live in. Instead he squatted in odd corners of the college or university at which he was working: unused classrooms, labs that needed rehab, and most often, the offices of faculty who weren't in residence for an extended period. Since my parents had given me permission to use their offices while they were on sabbatical, I'd shared the wealth with Charles by letting him live in my father's office while I worked out of my mother's adjoining space.

“They left five or ten minutes ago, which means they may already be at McQuaid. I don't know where on campus they're heading first, but—”

“I shall decamp immediately. Many thanks for the warning.” He hung up, leaving me to wonder just how fast he could get his belongings packed and moved.

Madison, who'd watched me panic as she finished eating, said, “What was that about?”

“Sorry, but it's a secret, and not mine to tell.” Not only was Charles embarrassed by his living situation, but if the powers that be at McQuaid ever found out, he would probably be fired unceremoniously. Of course, any adjunct could be
fired unceremoniously at any time, but this version would include spreading the word to other colleges, making it nearly impossible for Charles to get another job. I'd only found out about his habits by accident and had been sworn to secrecy. I'd blown it by telling Sid, but since Charles had actually asked me not to tell another living soul, I was technically in the clear.

After making sure Madison got off to school, and checking to see that the doors were locked and both Sid and Byron were set for the day, I went to McQuaid so I could take care of some paperwork before class. I was also hoping to run into Charles to make sure that he'd gotten out in time, and was relieved to see him outside the adjunct office, chatting cheerfully with a man I didn't recognize. My friend, dapper as always in a tweedy suit with contrasting vest, looked more like a college professor than any other professor I'd ever met. He'd confided that his love for fine clothing was part of what kept him from being able to afford an actual home.

“Good morning, Charles,” I said.

“What excellent timing, Georgia,” he said. “I want to introduce you to one of my compatriots in the history department. Dr. Brownlow Mannix, American Studies. He'll be taking over for Dr. Donovan, who has to take leave a little sooner than expected.”

“Is she okay?”

“The baby came early, but they're both fine,” he assured me. “Dr. Mannix, this is Dr. Georgia Thackery, English.”

“Dr. Mannix,” I said out loud, though internally I was saying
Brownlow
? “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Actually, we've met before,” he said, taking my offered hand.

I took a closer look, which was nice because he was easy on the eyes. Also familiar. “Wait, weren't you one of the people the police detained after the murder Friday night?”

“Yes, I was. Were you there, too?”

“I was, though in costume—Velma from Scooby-Doo.”

“Now I remember. But I was talking about an earlier acquaintance.”

I went through a mental list of history adjuncts I'd met and/or worked with. “I'm sorry, I don't recall where we taught together.”

“We didn't. You came to my family business about this time last year.”

I'm sure I looked as blank as I felt.

He said, “Fenton's Family Festival? You were tracing a specimen.”

Charles looked curious, but was far too well-bred to ask what his colleague was talking about. As for me, now I remembered. Fenton's Family Festival was the carnival where Sid had first come to life, and I'd visited the place when trying to trace his origins. The attractive Dr. Mannix was the carny who'd helped me while making it plain that he didn't believe a single word of my cover story.

I said, “Now I know why they call you College Boy.”

He grinned. “Good memory.” To Charles he said, “My father has a fondness for nicknames. It's a carny thing. I'm just lucky he came up with something relatively polite for me.”

“How very interesting,” Charles said. “Would you prefer that we refer to you as College Boy?”

“Brownie would be fine. So how's your skeleton, Georgia?”

“Still dead,” I said and immediately changed the subject. “So you've run away from the carnival to join academia? Isn't that the opposite of the usual path?”

“Not so much running away as taking a break from. And not a very good one at that. The carnival is here in Pennycross for the Howl.”

“Oh, your carnival is providing the rides. I hadn't realized
because I never made it to the midway, given the circumstances.”

“I heard about the murder,” Charles said. “Terrible business. And you were both there?”

“My sister, Deborah, is in charge of McHades Hall this year,” I explained, “and my daughter is working there. I just happened to be around when the body was found.”

“I suppose you have even more reason to be afraid of haunted houses now,” Brownie said.

“I was not afraid of your haunted house.” When we'd first met, I'd been standing outside the carnival's zombie ride, trying to decide if it was where Sid had first come to life, and he'd concluded that I was nervous about going inside. I hadn't been—I'd never had any intention of going in. “What were you doing there? Checking out the competition?”

“No, our dark ride is no competition for an attraction like that. All we've got is mechanical jump-scares, no actors or chainsaws. With your place operational, our ride's business has been dead, if you'll pardon the expression. I've been trying to talk my parents into doing something more immersive, but they don't think it would be worth the extra staff we'd have to hire, let alone insurance liability. And having seen how things ended up Friday night, I've pretty much abandoned the idea.”

“You can't blame the haunt's staff for that,” I said indignantly.

“I don't, which is exactly why I wouldn't want to run something like that. We can vet our people all day long, but there's no accounting for towners.”

“Towners?” Charles said.

“Sorry, I mean people who aren't with it, ‘it' being the show.”

“Such fascinating usage,” Charles said. “It's quite evocative, isn't it?”

“You should hear his father,” I said. “I didn't understand half of what he was saying.”

“Dad does enjoy being colorful,” Brownie said.

“I look forward to meeting him. Shall we go inside and get you settled into your new home away from home? I seem to recall that there's an empty desk close to yours, Georgia.”

“There is. It's not on a wall, which inhibits privacy, but it's close to the front door for ventilation and there's a floor power socket handy so you don't have to deal with extension cords. The chair squeaks, but I've got some 3-in-One oil that would take care of that.”

“Sounds like prime real estate,” Brownie said, showing familiarity with the adjunct lifestyle. “I'm surprised it's vacant.”

“There is the issue of the biologist who sits in front of Georgia,” Charles said. “Dr. Weiss can be a little difficult to deal with. She's a longtime McQuaid adjunct, and likes to keep her finger on the pulse of the community.”

I said, “By ‘finger on the pulse,' he means nose in your business.”

“Sara does have an inquisitive nature,” Charles admitted.

“I grew up traveling with carnies who had nothing better to do than tell my parents what trouble I was getting into. I can handle Dr. Weiss.”

“It's your funeral,” I said as Charles opened the door for me to precede him into the casual cacophony that was the adjunct office.

I'd taught at schools that provided better accommodations for their adjuncts than a crowded, shared room, furnished with hand-me-down desks and chairs. Then again, I'd taught at schools that supplied no office space at all. Sadly, McQuaid was about mid-range.

Desks were not formally assigned. Instead, when an adjunct
joined the faculty, he surveyed the available spots and put his name on the white board grid at the front of the room to stake a claim.

I left Charles to explain the arrangements to Brownie while I went to my desk, unpacked my bag, and looked to see if I still had that can of oil. While I tackled the squeaky chair, Charles took Brownie around to introduce him to the other adjuncts. I watched their progress, trying to estimate how long Brownie had been in academia. He only greeted one other person as a friend, by which I estimated that he'd only taught at two or three other schools. The longer one was an adjunct, the more colleges and universities one had worked in, and the more connections one had with other itinerant scholars. I usually knew four or five people at a school, showing I'd been at it more years than I cared to count.

The ever-attentive Sara Weiss wasn't at her desk when we came in, but she showed up ten minutes later and spotted Brownie instantly.

“Who's the new guy?” she asked.

“Dr. Mannix, American Studies, and our new neighbor.”

“Interesting.” She fluffed her dark brown hair and smoothed her eyebrows, which didn't change the fact that she was several years older than he was. “Is he married?”

“No idea.”

“You didn't check his finger?”

I shrugged, and went back to reading e-mail. It wasn't that Brownie wasn't cute, and if Charles liked him he was almost certainly a good guy, but the idea of bringing a date home while my parents were in residence didn't stir my blood. It was bad enough dating with Madison around, let alone Sid.

“Did you hear about the murder?” Sara said with a touch too much glee for my taste.

“I did,” I said, volunteering nothing more.

“A dead woman in a haunted house! I wonder how that's going to affect McQuaid Hall.”

“The police have closed the haunt, if that's what you mean.”

“But for how long? The building has to be in use for McQuaid to maintain ownership.”

“You lost me.”

She looked superior, which I admit she was good at, possibly because her upturned nose was so well designed for looking down. “Don't you know anything about the university's history? The McQuaid School of Art was established by noted local artist Persephone McQuaid, but enrollment dropped after she died.”

“And the family gave the building to Pennycross to use for a university so long as they named both the college and the building after the family. I know that.”

She waggled her finger at me. “Oh, but there was another string attached. McQuaid Hall was designed by Persephone herself, so part of the deal is that the building must remain part of the university.”

“Meaning that it can't be torn down?”

“Meaning that it has to be in use. The administration has dodged the requirement for years by turning it into a haunted house for the month of October, but if the haunted house is closed, then it's no longer in use and the pertinent clause is enforceable.”

“And the building reverts to the McQuaid family?”

“Not just the building. That whole part of the quad is part of the parcel that came with it. So the front entrance, most of the quad, half of Stuart Hall, and I think a chunk of Benson Hall as well. All gone!”

“Wow,” I said, which was woefully inadequate for how much real estate the university stood to lose. I wanted to
pick Sara's brain further, but a glance at my watch reminded me that it was time to get to the first of my trio of classes.

Though I do try to keep my mind on my teaching no matter what distraction is at hand, I confess that I spent a few minutes thinking about what Sara had told me. Not only was it juicy gossip, but unless I was wrong, it was also a decent motive for murder.