There was no way she could put off talking to Laurie, but what was the best approach to take? She dialed Justin Donnelly’s home number. There was no answer.
She reached Dr. Carpenter. His questions were brief. “Laurie adamantly denies writing the letters? I see. No, she’s not lying. She’s blocking. Sarah, call her, reassure her of your support, suggest she come home. I don’t think it’s wise for her to be around Professor Grant. We’ve got to get her in to see Dr. Donnelly. I knew that at the Saturday session.”
The dinner was forgotten. Sarah dialed Laurie’s room. There was no answer. She tried every half hour until midnight. Finally she phoned Susan Grimes, the student who roomed across the hall from Laurie.
Susan’s sleepy voice became instantly alert when Sarah identified herself. Yes, she knew what had happened. Of course she’d look in on Laurie.
While she waited, Sarah realized she was praying. Don’t let her have done anything to herself. Please God, not that. She heard the sound of the receiver being picked up.
“I looked in. Laurie’s fast asleep. I can tell; she’s breathing evenly. Do you want me to wake her up?”
Relief flooded through Sarah. “I’ll bet she took a sleeping pill. No, don’t disturb her and please forgive me for bothering you.”
Exhausted, Sarah went up to bed and fell asleep instantly, secure in the knowledge that at least she didn’t have to worry about Laurie anymore tonight. She’d call her first thing in the morning.
40
THAT REALLY PUTS the icing on a perfect day, Allan Grant thought as he replaced the receiver after his call to Sarah. She’d sounded heartsick. Why wouldn’t she? Her mother and father dead five months, her kid sister well into a nervous breakdown.
Allan went into the kitchen. One corner of the largest cabinet held the liquor supply. Except for a beer or two at night, he was not a solitary drinker, but now he poured a generous amount of vodka in a tumbler and reached for the ice cubes. He hadn’t bothered much with lunch, and the vodka burned his throat and stomach. He’d better get something to eat.
There were only leftovers in the refrigerator. Grimacing, he dismissed them as potential dinner material, opened the freezer and reached for a frozen pizza.
While it heated, Allan sipped the drink and continued to debate with himself how badly he had botched the business with Laurie Kenyon. Both Dean Larkin and Dr. Iovino had been impressed by Laurie’s adamant denials. As the dean pointed out, “Allan, Miss Kenyon is quite right when she says that it’s a typewriter anyone in her residence might have used, and that a similarity in handwriting style is hardly proof that she is the author of those letters.”
So now they feel that I’ve started something that may embarrass the college, Allan thought. Great. How do I deal with her in class until the end of the term? Is there any chance at all that I’m wrong?
As he took the pizza from the oven, he said aloud, “There’s no chance that I’m wrong. Laurie wrote those letters.”
Karen phoned at eight. “Darling, I’ve been thinking about you. How did it go?”
“Not well, I’m afraid.” They talked for twenty minutes. When they finally hung up, Allan felt a lot better.
At ten-thirty the phone rang again. “I’m really okay,” he said. “But, God—it’s so good to finally have it out on the table. I’m going to take a sleeping pill now and go to bed. See you tomorrow.” He added, “I love you.”
He put the radio on the SLEEP button, tuned the dial to CBS and promptly fell asleep.
Allan Grant never heard the soft footsteps, never sensed the figure bending over him, never woke up as the knife slid through the flesh over his heart. A moment later, the sound of the flapping curtains muffled the choking gasps that escaped him as he died.
41
IT WAS the knife dream again, but this time it was different. The knife wasn’t coming at her. She was holding it and moving it up and down, up and down. Laurie sat bolt upright in bed, clamping her hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking. Her hand felt sticky. Why? She looked down. Why was she still wearing jeans and her jacket? Why were they so stained?
Her left hand was touching something hard. She closed her fingers around it and a quick stab of pain raced through her hand. Warm, wet blood trickled from her palm.
She threw back the bedclothes. The carving knife was half-hidden under the pillow. Smears of dried blood covered the sheets. What had happened? When did she cut herself? Had she been bleeding that much? Not from that cut. Why had she taken the knife from the closet? Was she still dreaming? Was this part of the dream?
Don’t waste a minute, a voice shouted. Wash your hands. Wash the knife. Hide it in the closet. Do as I tell you. Hurry up. Take off your watch. The band is filthy. The bracelet in your pocket. Wash that too.
Wash the knife. Blindly she ran into the bathroom, turned on the taps in the tub, held the knife under the gushing water.
Put it in the closet. She raced back into the bedroom. Throw your watch in the drawer. Get those clothes off. Strip the bed. Throw everything in the tub.
Laurie stumbled into the bathroom, flipped the handle to the shower setting and dropped the bedding into the tub. As she stripped, she flung her clothes into the water. She stared as it turned red.
She stepped into the tub. The sheets billowed around her feet. Frantically she scrubbed the stickiness from her hands and face. The cut on her palm continued to bleed even when she wrapped a washcloth around it. For long minutes she stood, eyes closed, the water cascading over her hair and face and body, shivering even as the bathroom filled with steam.
Finally she stepped out, wrapped her hair in a towel, pulled on her long terry-cloth robe and plugged the drain. She washed her clothes and the bedding until the water ran clear.
She bundled everything into a laundry bag, dressed and went down to the dryer in the basement. She waited while the dryer spun and whirled. When it clicked off, she folded the sheets and her clothing neatly and brought them back to her room.
Now remake the bed and get out of here. Be at your first class and stay calm. You’re really in a mess this time. The phone’s ringing. Don’t answer it. It’s probably Sarah.
On the walk across the campus, she met several other students, one of whom rushed to assure her that she had a real sexual harassment case, a kind of reverse one, but she ought to press it against Professor Grant. What a nerve he had to accuse her that way.
She nodded in an absent way, wondering who the little kid was who kept crying so hard, a muffled kind of crying like her head was buried in a pillow. The image came to her of a small child with long blond hair lying on a bed in a cold room. Yes, she was the one who was crying.
Laurie did not notice when the other students left her to go to their own classes. She was unaware of the stares as they glanced back at her. She did not hear one of them say, “She is really weird.”
Automatically she entered the building, took the elevator to the third floor. She started down the corridor. As she passed the classroom where Allan Grant was scheduled to teach, she poked her head in the doorway. A dozen students were gathered in a circle waiting for him. “You’re wasting your time,” she told them. “Sexy Allan is dead as a doornail.”
Part
Three
42
WHEN SARAH COULD not reach Laurie in her room Wednesday morning, she called Susan Grimes again. “Please leave a note on Laurie’s door to call me at the office. It’s very important.”
At eleven o’clock Laurie phoned from the police station.
Total numbness took over Sarah’s emotions. She took precious minutes to phone Dr. Carpenter, told him what had happened, and asked him to contact Dr. Donnelly. Then she grabbed her coat and purse and rushed to the car. The hour-and-a-half-long drive to Clinton was hell.
Laurie’s halting, stunned voice saying, “Sarah, Professor Grant has been found murdered. They think I did it. They arrested me and brought me to the police station. They said I could make one call.”
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Her only question to Laurie, “How did he die?” She’d known the answer before Laurie told her. Allan Grant had been stabbed. Oh God, merciful God, why?
Sarah arrived at the police station and was told that Laurie was being interrogated. Sarah demanded to see her.
The desk lieutenant knew Sarah was an assistant prosecutor. He looked at her sympathetically. “Miss Kenyon, you know that the only one allowed in while she’s being questioned is her lawyer.”
“I’m her lawyer,” Sarah said.
“You can’t—”
“As of this minute, I’ve quit my job. You can listen while I call in my resignation.”
* * *
The interrogation room was small. A video camera was filming Laurie, who was seated on a rickety wooden chair, staring into the lens. Two detectives were with her. When she saw Sarah, Laurie rushed into her arms. “Sarah, this is crazy. I’m so sorry about Professor Grant. He was so good to me. I was so angry yesterday because of those letters that he thought I’d written. Sarah, tell them to find whoever wrote them. That’s the crazy person who must have killed him.” She began to sob.
Sarah pressed Laurie’s head against her shoulder, instinctively rocking her, vaguely realizing it was the way their mother used to comfort them when they were little.
“Sit down, Laurie,” the younger detective said firmly. “She’s signed a Miranda warning,” he told Sarah.
Sarah eased Laurie back onto the chair. “I’m staying right here with you. I don’t want you to answer any more questions now.”
Laurie buried her face in her hands. Her hair fell forward.
“Miss Kenyon, may I speak with you? I’m Frank Reeves.” Sarah realized that the older detective looked familiar. He had testified in one of her trials. He drew her to the side. “I’m afraid it’s an open-and-shut case. She threatened Professor Grant yesterday. This morning, before his body was discovered, she announced to a roomful of students that he was dead. There was a knife that is almost certainly the murder weapon hidden in her room. She tried to wash her clothing and bedding, but there are faint bloodstains on them. The lab report will clinch it.”
“Sare-wuh.”
Sarah spun around. It was Laurie but it wasn’t Laurie in the chair. Her expression was different, childlike. The voice was that of a three-year-old. Sare-wuh. That’s how the toddler Laurie used to pronounce her name. “Sare-wuh, I want my teddy.”
* * *
Sarah held Laurie’s hand as she was arraigned on the complaint. The judge set bail at one hundred fifty thousand dollars. She promised Laurie, “I’ll have you out of here in a few hours.” Beyond pain, she watched a handcuffed, uncomprehending Laurie led away.
Gregg Bennett came into the courthouse as she was filling out forms for the bondsman. “Sarah.”
She glanced up. He looked as shocked and heartsick as she felt. She had not seen him for months; Laurie had once seemed so happy with this nice young man.
“Sarah, Laurie would never willfully hurt anyone. Something must have snapped in her.”
“I know. Insanity will be her defense. Insanity at the time of the killing.” As she said the words, Sarah thought of all the defense attorneys whom she had defeated in court who had tried that strategy. It seldom worked. The best it usually did was to create enough doubt to keep the accused from the death sentence.
She realized that Gregg had put his hand on her shoulder. “You look as though you could use some coffee,” he told her. “Still take it black?”
“Yes.”
He returned carrying two steaming Styrofoam cups as she completed the last page of the application; then he waited with her while it was processed. He’s such a nice guy, Sarah thought. Why didn’t Laurie fall in love with him? Why a married man? Had she chosen Allan Grant as a father substitute? As the shock wore off, she thought of Professor Grant, of how he’d rushed to be with Laurie when she fainted. Was there any chance he had led her on in subtle ways? Led her on, at a time when she was emotionally bereft? Sarah realized that possible defenses were forming in her mind.
At quarter-past six, Laurie was freed on bond. She came out of the jail accompanied by a uniformed matron. When she saw them, her knees began to buckle. Gregg rushed to catch her. Laurie moaned as he grabbed her. Then she began to shriek, “Sarah, Sarah, don’t let him hurt me.”
43
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK Wednesday morning the phone rang in the Global Travel Agency in the Madison Arms Hotel on East Seventy-sixth Street in Manhattan.
Karen Grant was on her way out the door. She hesitated, then called over her shoulder, “If it’s for me say I’ll be back in ten minutes. I have to get this settled before I do anything else.”
Connie Santini, the office secretary, picked up the receiver. “Global Travel Agency, good morning,” she said, then listened. “Karen just stepped out. She’ll be back in a few minutes.” Connie’s tone was brisk.
Anne Webster, owner of the agency, was standing at the file cabinet. She turned. The twenty-two-year-old Santini was a good secretary but sounded too abrupt on the telephone for Anne’s taste. “Always get a name immediately,” Anne would preach. “If it’s a business call, always ask if someone else can help.”
“Yes, I’m sure she’ll be back right away,” Connie was saying. “Is something wrong?”
Anne hurried over to Karen’s desk, picked up the extension and nodded to Connie to hang up. “This is Anne Webster. May I help you?”
Any number of times in her sixty-nine years Anne had received bad news over the phone about a relative or friend. When this caller identified himself as Dean Larkin of Clinton College, she knew with icy certainty that something was wrong with Allan Grant. “I’m Karen’s employer and friend,” she told the dean. “Karen is right across the lobby in the jeweler’s. I can get her for you.”
She listened as Larkin hesitantly said, “Perhaps it would be wise if I tell you. I’d drive in but I’m so afraid Karen might hear about it on the radio or a reporter might phone her before I can get there . . .”
A horrified Anne Webster then heard the terrible news of Allan Grant’s murder. “I’ll take care of it,” she said. Tears were welling in her eyes as she hung up the receiver and told the secretary what had happened. “One of Allan’s students has been writing love letters to him. He turned them over to the administration. Yesterday the student made a terrible scene and threatened him. This morning when Allan was late for class, this student told everyone he was dead. They found him in bed, stabbed through the heart. Oh, poor Karen.”
“She’s coming,” Connie said. Through the glass wall that separated the travel agency from the lobby, they could see Karen approaching. Her step was springy. A smile was playing on her lips. Her dark hair was swirling around her collar. Her Nippon suit, red with pearl buttons, enhanced her model-size figure. Obviously the errand had been a success.
Webster bit her lip nervously. How should she begin to break the news? Say there’d been an accident and wait until they were in Clinton to say more? Oh God, she prayed, give me the strength I’ll need.
The door was opening. “They apologized,” Karen said triumphantly. “Admitted it was their fault.” Then her smile faded. “Anne, what’s wrong?”
“Allan is dead.” Webster could not believe she had blurted out those words.
“Allan? Dead?” Karen Grant’s tone was questioning, uncomprehending. Then she repeated, “Allan. Dead.”
Webster and Santini saw her complexion fade to an ashen pallor and rushed to her. Each taking an arm, they eased her into a chair. “How?” Karen asked, her voice a monotone. “The car? The brakes have been getting soft. I warned him. He’s not good at taking care of things like that.”
“Oh, Karen.” Anne Webster put her arms around the trembling shoulders of the younger woman.
It was Connie Santini who gave what details they knew, who called the garage and told them to have Karen’s car brought around immediately, who collected coats and gloves and purses. S
he offered to go with them and drive. It was Karen who vetoed the suggestion. The office needed to be covered.
Karen insisted on driving. “You don’t know the roads, Anne.” On the way down, she was tearless. She talked about Allan as though he were still alive. “He’s the nicest guy in the whole world . . . He’s so good . . . He’s the smartest man I’ve ever known . . . I remember . . .”
Webster was grateful that the traffic was light. It was as though Karen were on automatic pilot. They were passing Newark Airport, going onto Route 78.
“I met Allan on a trip,” Karen said. “I was leading a group to Italy. He joined it at the last minute. That was six years ago. It was over the holidays, and his mother had died that year. He told me that he realized he had no place to go for Christmas and he didn’t want to stay around the college. By the time we got back to Newark Airport we were engaged. I called him my Mr. Chips.”
It was a few minutes past noon when they arrived in Clinton. Karen began to sob as she saw the cordoned area around her home. “Up till this minute I thought it was a bad dream,” she whispered.
A policeman stopped them at the driveway, then quickly stepped aside to let the car pass through. Cameras flashed as they got out of the car. Anne put a comforting arm around Karen as they hurried the few steps to the front door.
The house was filled with police. They were in the living room, the kitchen, the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Karen started down the hallway. “I want to see my husband,” she said.
A gray-haired man stopped her, led her into the living room. “I’m Detective Reeves,” he said. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Grant. We’ve taken him away. You can see him later.”
Karen began to tremble. “That girl who killed him. Where is she?”
“She’s under arrest.”
“Why did she do this to my husband? He was so kind to her.”