My new disposable number started buzzing. I looked at the caller ID, but I had only given this number to one person: Mrs. Dinsmore. There was a sign about no cell phone use, but as I’ve now learned, I sometimes live on the edge. I moved into a corner, turned my face to the wall, à la the old woman with the walker, and whispered, “Hello?”
“I have Archer Minor’s file,” Mrs. Dinsmore said. “Do you want me to e-mail it to you?”
“That would be great. Do you have it right there?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything strange about it?”
“I didn’t look at it yet. Strange how?”
“Would you mind taking a quick peek?”
“What am I looking for?”
I thought about that. “How about a connection between the two murder victims. Were they in the same dorm? Did they take any of the same classes?”
“That one is easy. No. Archer Minor was graduated before Todd Sanderson even matriculated here. Anything else?”
As I did the math in my head, a cold hand reached into my chest.
Mrs. Dinsmore said, “Are you still there?”
I swallowed. “Was Archer Minor on campus when Professor Kleiner ran off?”
There was a brief pause. Then Mrs. Dinsmore said in a faraway voice: “I think he would have been a freshman or sophomore.”
“Could you check to see if—?”
“One step ahead of you.” I could hear file pages being flipped. I glanced behind me. From across the room the old woman with the walker and tattered bathrobe winked at me suggestively. I winked back with equal suggestion. Why not?
Then Mrs. Dinsmore said, “Jake?”
Again she used my first name.
“Yes?”
“Archer Minor was enrolled in Professor Kleiner’s class called Citizenship and Pluralism. According to this, he received an A.”
Beehive returned, pushing Natalie’s mother in a wheelchair. I recognized Sylvia Avery from the wedding six years ago. The years hadn’t been so kind to her up until then and judging by what I was seeing now, that hadn’t gotten any better.
With the phone still to my ear, I asked Mrs. Dinsmore, “When?”
“When what?”
“When did Archer Minor take that class?”
“Let me see.” Then I heard Mrs. Dinsmore’s small gasp, but I already knew the answer. “It was the semester Professor Kleiner resigned.”
I nodded to myself. Ergo the A. Everyone got them that semester.
My mind was whirling a thousand ways to Sunday. Still reeling, I thanked Mrs. Dinsmore and hung up as Beehive rolled Sylvia Avery right to me. I had hoped that we would be alone, but Beehive waited. I cleared my throat.
“Miss Avery, you may not remember me—”
“Natalie’s wedding,” she said without hesitation. “You were the mopey guy she dumped.”
I looked toward Beehive. Beehive put her hand on Sylvia Avery’s shoulder. “Are you okay, Sylvia?”
“Of course I’m okay,” she snapped. “Go away and leave us alone.”
The wooden smile did not so much as flicker, but then again wood never does. Beehive moved back to the desk. She gave us one more look as though to say,
“You’re too tall,” Sylvia Avery said to me.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just sit the hell down so I don’t strain my neck.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Again with the sorry. Sit, sit.”
I sat on the couch. She studied me for a bit. “What do you want?”
Sylvia Avery looked small and wizened in that wheelchair, but then again who looks big and hardy in them? I answered her with a question of my own.
“Have you heard from Natalie at all?”
She gave me the suspicious stink eye. “Who wants to know?”
“Uh, me.”
“I get cards now and then. Why?”
“But you haven’t seen her?”
“Nope. That’s okay though. She’s a free spirit, you know. When you set a free spirit free, it flies off. That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
“Do you know where this free spirit landed?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but she lives overseas. Happy as can be with Todd. I’m looking forward to those two having kids one day.” Her eyes narrowed a bit. “What’s your name again?”
“Jake Fisher.”
“You married, Jake?”
“No.”
“Ever been married?”
“No.”
“You got a serious girlfriend?”
I didn’t bother answering.
“Shame.” Sylvia Avery shook her head. “Big, strong man like you. You should be married. You should be making a girl feel safe. You shouldn’t be alone.”
I didn’t like where this conversational route was taking us. It was time to change it up.
“Miss Avery?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what I do for a living?”
She looked me up and down. “You look like a linebacker.”
“I’m a college professor,” I said.
“Oh.”
I turned my body so that I could get a clearer look at her reaction to what I was about to say. “I teach political science at Lanford College.”
Whatever color had remained in her cheeks drained away.
“Mrs. Kleiner?”
“That’s not my name.”
“It was though, wasn’t it? You changed it back after your husband left Lanford.”
She closed her eyes. “Who told you about that?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Did Natalie say something?”
“No,” I said. “Never. Not even when I brought her to campus.”
“Good.” Her quivering hand came up to her mouth. “My God, how can you know about this?”
“I need to speak to your ex-husband.”
