Mary Welk
A
Merry Little
Murder
A Merry Little Murder
A Rhodes to Murder Mystery, Book One
An Echelon Press eBook
First Echelon Press Publication / December 2007
All rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2007 by Mary Welk
Previously published as A Deadly Little Christmas
Cover Art © Nathalie Moore
2004 Ariana "Best in Category" Award winner
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In loving memory of my father,
Dr. Lawrence Anthony Thoennes.
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence,
the best of the brave.
The Defense of Lucknow
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Prologue
December 14
For an artificial Christmas tree, this one wasn't half-bad. At least that's what Martha Schoen said, and she ought to know. Having browbeaten her critics into silence years before, Martha reigned as the town's undisputed authority on all things great and small, fake balsams included.
"I chaired St. Mark's beautification committee for thirty-two years," the silver-haired matron sputtered when Gail Garvy rebuffed her offer to supervise the trimming of the seven-foot tree. "No one's more qualified for the job than I."
Martha snatched the box of ornaments from Gail's hands with a snort of contempt. Holding the box aloft like a worn but trusty battle flag, she marched across the room with the resolve of a crusader off to fight the Saracens, her progress punctuated by a running commentary on the stupidity of modern youth. Only when she spied May Eberle did she pause for breath, and then merely to refocus her outrage on the tiny woman standing slumped against the west window. Frail in body and spirit, May offended the sensibilities of the tough-minded Mrs. Schoen. Weaklings had no place in Martha's world. She firmly believed in survival of the fittest, and May was far from fit in any sense of the word. The elderly spinster existed as a shadow dweller, a woman more dead than alive whose terror of the real world confined her to the dark corners of her private universe. May rarely spoke except to whimper over some perceived slight or whine about life in general. She spent most of her waking hours wrapped in a cocoon of silence, her body held rigidly still, her face an inscrutable mask concealing all thought.
At present, May's attention appeared riveted on a glazed section of windowpane where frost fairies had traced icy tendrils on the glass. Martha doubted that the artistry of winter could so capture the other woman's fancy. It seemed more likely that senility had just punched another hole in the Swiss cheese brain of little Miss Eberle. Much as she disliked May, Martha knew her duty when she saw it.
"Snap out of it, Eberle. You're daydreaming again."
May Eberle winced. The choir had begun its final hymn. Six men in black suits lifted her casket to their shoulders and processed solemnly down the aisle. In their pews, the little congregation wept.
"Did you hear me, May? Stop all that nonsense and come lend a hand with these ornaments."
The choir faltered, their sweet harmony disintegrating into cacophonous gibberish that grated on May's ears. She forced herself to concentrate, but the fantasy continued to fade. First her casket disappeared, then the mourners vanished. When she could no longer smell the incense on the altar, May turned from the window in surrender. No use fighting it; the cemetery would have to wait.
"I'm coming, Martha." May glared at her nemesis. Today had been ruined, but tomorrow she'd have her revenge. Tomorrow she would plan Martha's funeral. How different it would be from her own!
"Be careful now," Martha commanded when May sidled up to her. "I spent all morning making this." She handed May a string of popcorn and cranberries and pointed to the tree. "Drape it on the branches, but don't break it!"
May caressed the garland with bony fingers, momentarily forgetting her hatred of Martha Schoen as a wave of memories flooded over her.
"My sister April and I used to string cranberries at Christmas," she whispered. Her brow puckered in a frown. "But Papa was so particular. If even one berry didn't meet his approval, he'd make us take the whole string apart and start over."
"Humph." Martha dismissed Papa Eberle with a wave of one plump hand. "I'd never put up with such behavior from a man." She tucked a dented Santa deep in the tree where it wouldn't be noticed. Satisfied with the result, she turned and studied the woman standing next to her. With her tight gray bun and beady black eyes, May reminded Mrs. Schoen of a field mouse that had wandered mistakenly close to a sleeping cat. Martha flexed her fingers, mentally extending her claws.
"But of course," she purred, "I've always said, one should do things right the first time. Sloppiness is a wicked habit. It springs from sloth, and you know what the Bible says about that."
May Eberle's head shot up. She stared at Martha, but saw Papa scowling back at her, Papa whose mouth twisted in condemnation. May clamped her hands to her ears to shut out the sound of her father's wrath.
"Watch what you're doing," Martha screamed as shredded popcorn fluttered to the floor. "You'll crush the garland."
May buried her face in the berries, terrified at the extent of Papa's rage. She prayed he wouldn't hit her. Papa had hit April, and looked what had happened then.
"Oh, give me that!" Martha lunged at May, but the frightened woman pulled away. The garland tore in two and cranberries cascaded down May's legs.
"Now look what you've done," cried Martha. She fell to her knees and scrabbled at the berries. Horrified, May retreated a step. Thick drops of blood rolled past her feet. She cringed when Papa plucked some from the carpet and hurled them at her.
"You stupid woman!" Martha pitched another handful of berries at May. "You destroy everything you touch."
"For God's sake, turn it off."
The sudden intrusion of another angry voice so startled Martha that she pitched forward and sprawled unbecomingly on the carpet. Overcome with fury and embarrassment, she twisted around to lash out at the newcomer.
"Who do you think… Oh!"
Martha blanched at the sight of Thomas Adrian's clenched hand quivering inches above her head. Adrian's face was contorted, his olive skin suffused with an unhealthy reddish glow that extended from collar to hairline. The cords on his neck bulged like wire ropes with each ragged breath.
"Nobody gives a damn about you and your berries," Adrian snarled. "You're not as important as you think." He whirled around, almost colliding with May who shrank against the tree in terror. "I'm the one they're after. It's me they're out to get."
Martha scrambled to her feet and fled to safety behind a worn leather recliner.
"You're mad," she gasped. "Absolutely mad."
"Shut up, you old souse." Adrian's eyes glittered darkly. Flecks of spittle dampened his lips and chin and high on his left cheek a muscle twitched.
"You tell her, Tommy boy."
Will Chapell strolled into the room, his fists tightly balled in the pockets of his grease stained jeans. A wicked grin creased his craggy features as he took in the scene near the Christmas tree.
"Havin' a little argument, are we?" Chapell approached the group, his gaze sliding over the two women and coming to rest on Adrian. Having chosen his victim, he edged nearer to Thomas and slapped him on the back. "Now, now, Tommy boy. Mustn't let these old biddies get under your skin. If they're causin' trouble, just shoot 'em 'tween the eyes and be done with it."
"Stay away from me." Adrian spun out of Chapell's grasp. He despised the big blond oaf with his work-worn hands and hillbilly accent. He let it show in the look he threw at Will.
"Ooh, Tommy! Aren't we touchy today," Chapell sneered.
"That's enough."
Gail Garvy appeared in the doorway, arms akimbo and eyes blazing. Anger gave her the voice of a drill sergeant as she bore down on the group.
"Keep it up and there'll be no Christmas party today, tomorrow, or any other day this year." Gail's gaze strayed to the mess on the floor, then moved up to the frightened face of Martha Schoen. For a brief instant she almost pitied the woman. "We'll clean this up later, Mrs. Schoen. For now, let's all get back to work."
Ignoring an eruption of complaints from the suddenly loquacious quartet, she herded them toward the tree, then bullied them into decorating it. Chapell and Adrian traded jibes despite Gail's threats while May Eberle cowered in the background eyeing both men anxiously. Only Martha Schoen seemed to relax as she concentrated on the placement of each ornament. After setting the last one in place, she claimed the privilege of fixing the angel on the top branch.
"Now it's done," she exclaimed after backing ponderously down the stepladder. A perfectionist to the end, she checked the placement of the angel from all sides of the tree before nodding in satisfaction. "Nice and straight, exactly as it should be."
"Ain't a bad lookin' tree if y'all like institutional trees," Chapell drawled.
"Bea-u-ti-ful! The tree is sooo bea-u-ti-ful!"
Curled in a fetal position on a corner sofa, Richard Canty had awakened from his nap and clapped his hands in delight. Martha pursed her lips and frowned at the pale little man with the bald head and watery eyes. She'd forgotten he was there in the room, almost forgotten he'd existed.
"Do something about him, Garvy. He's…he's…sick!"
"Ain't she the perceptive one," crowed Chapell. He grinned at Martha, then leaned forward and said softly, "Angel's crooked, Mrs. Mayor."
Martha threw him a withering look. "Mind your own…"
"Institutional tree! Institutional tea! You can pay a hefty fee to sit in here with tree and tea! I'm a poet, and don't I know it." Richard Canty rocked back and forth on the sofa. His high-pitched voice crackled with an adolescent excitement that belied his advanced age.
"Bet you could shut him up with this." Chapell plucked a peppermint cane from the tree and tossed it to Adrian. "Unless you'd rather eat it yourself."
Adrian stared blindly at the striped candy, then threw it down and ground it into the carpet with a twist of his foot. His eyes met Chapell's and he grinned triumphantly.
"You think I'm some kind of fool? You can't poison me that easily."
Chapell opened his mouth to retort, but Gail held up a restraining hand.
"Enough! We need to light the tree before everyone arrives for the party. How about doing the honors, Mr. Chapell?"
"Got a match, Garvy?" Chapell waggled his thumb in the direction of May and Martha. "I bet the little ladies would enjoy warmin' their britches by a bonfire."
Martha's lips drew back in a silent hiss of disapproval. May's expression, though, remained benign. Absorbed in planning Richard Canty's funeral, she hadn't heard Chapell's crude reply. Gail disregarded the remark also. She'd grown tired of Chapell's word games, just as she'd grown tired of Martha's bossiness, May's tears, and Adrian's paranoia. Canty didn't count; she considered the man already brain dead. The only one worth bothering with was the bronze-skinned ex-soldier standing quietly at attention near the electric fireplace. Much to Gail's frustration, even the inscrutable James Belding was fast becoming a bore.
"Could we get on with it?" Martha demanded. "Light the tree, Garvy."
"Light the tree," May Eberle echoed dreamily.
"Light the tree and serve the tea," sang Richard Canty.
"It's traditional to gather around it first," Gail insisted. "Then we can…"
"Traditions are all well and good," interrupted Martha. "But you're wasting your time if you're looking for a volunteer to plug in the lights. The outlet is near the floor, and I, for one, refuse to dirty my skirt crawling around under those branches."
"Let Mr. Belding do it."
Of course, thought Gail. What better way to draw the recluse into the group. She turned toward the fireplace, a pleased smile lighting her face, and motioned to Belding.
"How about it?" she said, coaxing the man forward. "Will you light our tree?"
Lost in a world where Christmas no longer existed, James Belding chanced a look at the present and saw in the eyes of his jailer the pain of empathy.
'This one knows,' his first self said.
James raised his index finger, then slowly uncurled the second, third, and fourth fingers. "Four to go," he whispered.
Gail inclined her head and nodded.
'She only thinks she knows,' warned his second self.
James Belding groaned. Resigned to captivity, he obeyed the order given him and walked slowly toward the tree. Gail pointed to the electric cord dangling from the trunk, then signaled the others to come closer.
"Si-i-lent night…" she sang.
Belding reached for the cord with trembling fingers.
"Ho-o-ly night…" caroled Martha Schoen.
He sank to one knee and forced himself to concentrate.
"All is calm…" May Eberle added sotto voce.
'Fool,' hissed his second self. 'They've got you now!'
"All is bright…" they sang in unison.
'I know,' cried his first self.
"Thy will be done," James shouted. He plunged the plug into the outlet.
The explosion was immediate and devastating. By the time Caroline Rhodes reached the doorway, Recreation Room 2, Psychiatric Ward One, St. Anne's Hospital, no longer existed.
Neither did its inhabitants.
One
December 19
Caroline Rhodes stood on the nursing dorm steps and plotted murder. The methods she considered were primitive–boiling oil, the guillotine, a quiver of arrows through the heart–but effective nonetheless.
"And exactly what he deserves," she growled.
He'd been bursting with confidence at noon, cocksure of his ability to predict the future.
"Take my word for it, Rhineburg. You can put away those shovels until after Christmas. We're in for a spell of blue skies and sunshine clear through the holidays."
Then at two o'clock a breeze ruffled the treetops along Wilhelm Avenue. A gray haze crept catlike into the western sky, thickening over time until dark shadows slunk across the fields outside of town. Still, the voice on the radio jeered at the doubters.
"Okay, you worry-worts. Lay off the lines. I told you no snow and I meant it. Relax!"
By four o'clock the weakening sun had disappeared behind a barricade of clouds. Gusts rattled the windows of City Hall and weather vanes spun crazily on farmhouse roofs. Rhineburg held its breath and waited for the next report.
"There's no need for concern, folks." The forecaster's bravado had vanished. Nevertheless, he stuck to his guns. "It's too warm for snow, although we might see some rain tonight. We could use it, though," he added cheerily. "Let Mother Nature clean up our roads."
"So much for weathermen," Caroline grumbled.
Good old Mother Nature was cleaning up all right, but not with any gentle rainfall. Ambushed by shifting winds, Rhineburg had surrendered to a squall so intense that previous blizzards paled by comparison. By eight o'clock five inches of new snow whitened the dirty mounds abreast of the highway. Drifts rippled across the roads, each crest and valley glistening with ice formed by the plunging temperature. Given another hour, the storm could transform the landscape into a mini version of Antarctica.
Caroline grimaced at the thought. She could cope with a normal winter, but like the ghost voters of Chicago, the snow had come early and often this year. Three weeks into December and already the hospital's snow gauge measured a two-foot accumulation. Rhineburg's youngsters were delighted. Caroline's generation was not.
"No putting this off any longer."
Caroline tugged the hood of her parka lower over her forehead and trudged down the unplowed driveway. The wind buffeted her until she felt like a punch-drunk boxer. It squealed through the treetops and spit showers of ice crystals onto her face and down her neck. She jerked at her scarf, already stiff with frozen snow, and pulled it over her nose. The smell of wet wool increased her annoyance.
"Damnation!"
Caroline longed for the protection of her ancient Buick, but the twelve-year-old car lacked the punch for tackling the storm. A fair weather friend, it tended to balk at the slightest hint of cold. Right now it sat cringing in the hospital parking lot, a worn blanket protecting its battery from the frigid air. Caroline knew she must either walk or stay home; she had no intention of doing the latter. She'd promised Martin she'd appear at Bruck Hall for the university's holiday bash. Come hell, high water, or twelve inches of snow, she'd keep her word.
"If Hannibal could cross the Alps during the worst part of winter, I can surely make it across Bruck Green in a little blizzard."
Of course, Hannibal had elephants to carry him. Caroline had to rely on her own two feet, not the best mode of transportation tonight. A dog sled would have come in handy, or at least a pair of snowshoes. Ice lurked beneath the drifts and Caroline's boots crunched on it as she struggled against the wind towards Circle Road. Irked that the walk wasn't shoveled, she kicked at the remnants of a snowman littering the pavement. She immediately regretted the impulse. Her right foot skidded forward, her left one flew back. Like a drunk on a Friday night binge, she staggered the length of the path, lurching to a halt at the corner where a blast of wind pummeled her with sleet.
"This is ridiculous," she snarled. "I could be home in my warm bed, a stiff drink in one hand, and a good book in the other. But no, here I am tramping through this god-awful snow to some god-awful party with a bunch of god-awful people I don't even know. And all because of my damned son."
Caroline experienced a twinge of remorse for referring to her first-born in those terms. Neither the storm nor the invitation could be blamed on Martin. A Ph.D. candidate vying for a teaching post at Bruck University, Martin was fortunate to be on the guest list. She wondered, though, why she'd been included. Her invitation had arrived late yesterday, the apologetic note accompanying it couched in effusive language that immediately aroused her suspicions. Could her sudden popularity be related to the bombing at St. Anne's Hospital? Had some committee selected her as the evening's entertainment, her role that of survivor eager to tell all? If so, they'd made a big mistake. She refused to play the part of the gruesome guest.
Caroline pushed that problem from her mind and considered a more immediate one. Across the road lay Bruck Green, a broad wooded oval separating the hospital from the campus of Bruck University. At the south end of the campus stood Bruck Hall. The building should have been visible from the corner. Tonight, the storm effectively camouflaged it.
'Great,' she thought disgustedly. She'd originally planned to take one of the many paths that crisscrossed the Green. In better weather that would have meant a five-minute trip to the Hall. Attempting it now, though, would be suicidal. Blinded by the blizzard, she could easily slip on the ice and collide with one of the massive oaks straddling the Green's cobbled walks. And if she fell into a snow bank, she'd have one helluva time extricating herself from its suffocating softness.
Caroline turned her thoughts to the street girdling the Green. Despite its oval shape, the town fathers had, for some unfathomable reason, christened it Circle Road, or The Circle, for short. Mounds of snow covered the pavement, but if she zigzagged between the drifts, Caroline could follow the curved surface all the way to Bruck Hall. Not a bad ides as long as she didn't encounter a snowplow along the way.
The only other route lay to Caroline's left. South of the road a sidewalk meandered past look-alike bungalows reserved for faculty housing. The walk curled in and out of cul-de-sacs before finally reaching the campus, making it the longest of the three approaches to the Hall.
Caroline hunched her shoulders against the biting wind and considered her choices. The snow lay as deep on the walk as on the street, but the former offered one advantage. Victorian-style gas lamps sprouted from the pavement at ten-yard intervals. To a native Chicagoan like herself, even this modest lighting provided a sense of security not found on the darkened road. People weren't mugged under streetlights. Muggings were reserved for shadows–alley shadows, park shadows, gangway shadows–but certainly not for streetlights.
'But this isn't Chicago,' Caroline mused. 'This is quiet little Rhineburg, home to wealthy farmers and poor professors. Sedate as sedate can be.'
"Also," she said aloud, "home to a mad bomber!"
She shivered, more from the memory of recent events than from the cold, and hurried across the street. Psychopaths who blew up hospital wards probably didn't stoop to mugging middle-aged women struggling through snowdrifts. Still, she'd feel better once safely ensconced in Bruck Hall. If only the pavement wasn't knee deep in snow!
"Doesn't anyone here believe in shovels?" Caroline shook her head in bewilderment. In Chicago, people would have been outside long before now, shoveling sidewalks and staking claim to cleared parking spaces with beat up old lawn chairs saved for such occasions. Children would be sledding on the streets while neighbors waved to each other and wondered aloud where the heck the city plows were. Caroline missed her old home. She missed Chicago and the people there. Rhineburg was so very–different.
Lost in memories, Caroline barely noticed the shift in the weather. The wind had died, and with it the snow. The absolute silence accompanying this change ultimately captured her attention. She paused beneath a street lamp, puzzled, then pulled back the hood of her parka, and gazed up at the sky. A single star glimmered in the darkness. In the east, the moon slowly crept from behind a bank of clouds. The storm had indeed ended. Caroline heaved a sigh of relief.
Walking became easier without the wind battling her every step. She quickened her pace and soon reached the final stretch of sidewalk leading to the campus. The houses in this section glittered with Christmas lights. Wreaths of holly and ivy hung from the doors, and several porches boasted plastic Santas or snowmen. A common theme united the block: each lawn featured a painted plywood reindeer studded with miniature white lights, a larger red bulb blinking merrily on its umber nose. The animals stood posed beside oversized alphabet letters outlined in strings of red, blue, or green lights.
Caroline passed three houses before the significance of the display registered in her mind. A smile softened her features as she slid to a halt before a slightly tipsy reindeer leaning against a four-foot tall letter 'P'. The deer's nose flashed on and off like an errant stoplight above his crooked grin. His left lid drooped in a sly wink while his right brow arched over a noticeably bloodshot eye. One slender foreleg crossed the other causing his body to tilt toward the 'P' in a most unreindeer-like manner.
Caroline turned and looked back down the path. The letters 'H' and 'A' were barely in view, but she could clearly see the 'P' next door. She walked past another house where a bright blue 'Y' decorated the lawn. The head of a sleepy reindeer lolled between the branches of the 'Y', a bottle of champagne cradled in its antlers.
Caroline's smile grew to a grin. It took a real joker to dream up a line of inebriated reindeer toasting the New Year. Seeing them there almost made up for the long cold trek to Bruck Hall.
But only almost. Chilled to the bone, she plunged on through the snow while taking a quick mental count. Twelve letters, twelve houses. She trudged past a 'Y' and an 'E', slipped on the ice near an 'A', then regained her balance as she passed the letter 'R'. She slowed to more decorous pace when she approached the Hall's spacious lawn.
Bruck Hall looked impressive at any time with its pink stone walls rising to twin towers fore and aft. Tonight the storm had worked a kind of magic on the old building. It shimmered in icy elegance like a spun sugar castle, moonlight bouncing off its mullioned windows and highlighting the snow capped gargoyles perched above them. Caroline's spirits rose at the sight of it. They lifted even higher when the great oak door beneath the portico swung open and she saw other snowmen-and-women scurry inside. She shook the blanket of white from her own shoulders, then hurried down the Hall's freshly shoveled sidewalk and up the staircase.
Caroline barely touched the ornate bronze handle before someone unexpectedly flung the door open from inside. Off balance, she pitched headlong into Bruck Hall's brightly lit lobby. Saving her from a face-to-face encounter with the floor was a pair of strong hands that grabbed her from behind and yanked her unceremoniously to her feet.
"Mother! I thought you'd never get here." From a foot above her head, Martin Rhodes frowned down on Caroline. "Where in the world have you been?"
"I took the scenic route, dear," Caroline said irritably. She rubbed the back of her neck, conscious of a twinge in her upper spine. "You could have killed me jerking open the door like that."
"I was only trying to help. You were late."
"In case you haven't noticed, our latest blizzard has fouled up the streets again."
Caroline shrugged off her parka and shook the dampness from her ash brown hair.
"Hey, watch it!" Martin ducked as a shower of melted snow spattered his suit. Dancing out of the way, he collided with his wife Nikki.
"Don't mind your son," chuckled Nikki, her dark eyes sparkling with mirth. "He's just eager for you to meet his friends." She handed Caroline's parka to Martin who grumbled something about impossible women before marching off down the hall. "He a nervous wreck," Nikki said as she watched her husband wedge his mother's jacket onto an already crowded coat rack. "All the bigwigs are here, including the President's advisory committee on hiring."
Caroline felt a surge of sympathy for her son.
"I meant to be on time," she said apologetically. "But I had to walk. My old rattletrap wasn't up to the weather." Caroline collapsed on a bench, slid off her boots, and wiggled her cold toes. "This has been quite a day so far," she said as she slipped on the shoes she'd stored in the parka's pocket.
Nikki gave her mother-in-law a wry grin. "Bad time in the ER?"
"No more than usual. It's these constant interruptions by the police that are so irritating. They ask the same questions over and over. I'm totally fed up with them."
"Why are they badgering you?" Martin returned with a numbered ticket for the parka. He handed it to Caroline. "They must realize you've told them all you know about the bombing."
"Of course they do!" Caroline drew a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. "Forgive me if I'm grouchy, but every time I turn around, there's an officer from some agency asking to speak with me. Today it was the ATF. I've already told my story to the FBI, the Rhineburg police, and the state police. I've even talked to a JCAHO investigator."
"JCAHO? What's that?"
"That, my dear boy, is the Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations. JCAHO accredits hospitals. They have a Sentinel Event Policy covering unexpected occurrences involving death or serious injury. JCAHO sends an investigator to determine what happened and if the hospital could have prevented it. God only knows what they'll come up with. Probably a recommendation to ban Christmas trees on the wards."
Nikki rolled her eyes. "So which agency is in charge of the case? It can't be the Rhineburg police."
"Your guess is as good as mine. Seems like everyone has a finger in the pie. But I'd bet on the FBI." Caroline rose. "We'd better go in to the party. Your friends will be wondering where you are."
"Especially Professor Atwater." Martin's rugged face registered a mix of pride and amusement. "My boss wants to talk to you about the bombing. Carl's the town historian. These murders are grist to his mill. He's hoping to get some inside information from you."
Caroline's left eyebrow shot up. Before she could reply, the man they were discussing hailed them from the end of the corridor.
"My, my, Mr. Rhodes. Don't tell me this lovely young woman is your mother!"
If Caroline hadn't known better, she'd have sworn she saw Santa himself standing there. A massive man who nevertheless carried himself well, Carl Atwater wore his thick white hair collar length and curly. His matching beard and mustache accented eyes the color of forget-me-nots in a face so plump and wind burned that Caroline could almost hear the sound of sleigh bells. The fact that he claimed no waist–his top being as round as his bottom–added to the professor's Santa-like appearance, as did his red checked shirt, black corduroys pants, and knee-high laced hiking boots.
Caroline extended her hand while pointedly ignoring the professor's ridiculous compliment. She knew she looked like a half drowned cat, limping down the hallway on frozen feet with damp hair clinging to her forehead and cheeks. As for the young part, she'd passed her fortieth birthday years before and felt no need to hide it.
"You must be Carl Atwater, Martin's mentor at Bruck. I understand you're chairman of the history department."
"Due to a lack of contenders, I earned that honor many years ago. Since then, I've simply outlived my rivals."
Caroline smiled. "I bet your ability has something to do with it."
"I consider myself a fairly good teacher," Atwater replied with a shrug. "But as far as the chairmanship goes, that's more a matter of tenure and politics."
Caroline found herself pleasantly surprised by the professor's candor. Maybe Atwater was the paragon of virtue her son claimed him to be.
"So," Atwater said as they walked down the hall. "I hear you've moved to Rhineburg permanently. Thinking of buying a house soon?"
Caroline glanced at her son. His face registered nothing but innocence.
"Actually, I haven't decided if I'll stay. I've taken the position of nursing dorm housemother on a temporary basis only."
"Hmm. Martin told me you enjoy working with young people. Of course, living with them does have its drawbacks."
Caroline considered her answer. Keeping track of forty students could be troublesome, especially at night. There wasn't a trick in the book they didn't try when it came to breaking curfew. But she'd pulled the same tricks in her youth and had no problem anticipating the current generation's antics. All in all, she had no complaints.
"It's certainly not a dull job," she replied. "But I'm not sure I want to make it a life-long occupation."
"I suppose not. You're a nurse also, aren't you?"
Caroline nodded. "I'm in the float pool at St. Anne's. I usually work in the ER, but I'll help out elsewhere if needed."
"Marty said you were on the psychiatric ward the day of the explosion."
So, the perfect professor had at least one flaw: curiosity.
"Yes, but let's not spoil the party with talk of bombs and blood." Caroline turned to Nikki. "What I'd rather discuss is that line of inebriated reindeer I ran into on my way here."
"Aren't they hilarious?" Nikki laughed. "They were Dr. Pauly's idea. He convinced everyone on the block to join in the fun."
"You should have seen the crowds the first night they were lit," crowed Martin. "Hundreds of students lined the street."
"Now, children, behave yourselves," said Atwater. "You know our esteemed president disapproves of said decorations. They're out of keeping with the character and dignity of this fine institution."
"I'm glad to hear you agree with me, Professor."
Martin and Nikki froze in their tracks like two statues bearing similar expressions of horror. They stared at Caroline who in turn stared at Professor Atwater. The professor, on the other hand, didn't seem the least bit disturbed as he turned to greet the newcomer.
"Ah. President Hurst. Welcome to our little circle. May I introduce my teaching assistant, Martin Rhodes, and his lovely wife, Nikki." Atwater motioned toward Caroline. "And this is Martin's mother, Mrs. Caroline Rhodes. We were just discussing Dr. Pauly's reindeer."
"So I heard. For once you seem to concur with me."
Opposite of Atwater in size and stature, Hurst puffed up his scrawny chest and glared at them through horn-rimmed glasses.
"You misunderstand," Atwater said smoothly. "I wasn't agreeing with you, only stating your point of view."
The two men exchanged artificial smiles. With the atmosphere getting chillier by the minute, Caroline decided to change the subject.
"Bruck University is quite beautiful, President Hurst. I've always enjoyed visiting the campus."
She thought Hurst might ignore her, but then his hooded eyes swiveled to meet hers. Dark pools of granite, they radiated none of the warmth of his words.
"We try to maintain a gracious educational setting here at Bruck. It's a difficult chore since we're obliged to rely heavily on our alumni for financial support." Hurst glanced at Martin. "You're one of our graduates, Mr. Rhodes?"
"Y-yes, sir," Martin stammered. "I'm doing my post-graduate work under Professor Atwater. I hope to teach history on the college level after I earn my Ph.D."
"Really." Hurst's head bobbed in the direction of the chairman before his gaze returned to Martin. "Good luck, young man. I'm sure you'll do Bruck proud some day."
He favored the women with a tight smile, then excused himself and walked toward the faculty lounge. Atwater watched with narrowed eyes.
"Observe a master at work, Martin. If you hope to rise in the academic world, remember one thing: flattery will get you everywhere."
Caroline took note of the contempt in the professor's voice. She glanced at Nikki and saw her tug surreptitiously on Martin's sleeve. He looked down and the girl shook her head ever so slightly.
It didn't take a genius to understand the gesture. Still, men could be dense at times. Caroline wasn't one to take chances.
"I don't know about the rest of you, but right now I could do with a good stiff drink. Is there a bar set up somewhere, Martin?"
"How rude of me." The professor bowed to his guest and extended a chubby arm. "If you will do me the honor, madam."
Caroline latched onto his elbow like a fish to bait.
"Lead on, MacDuff!"
Bruck's faculty lounge overflowed with revelers when the foursome made their entrance. Atwater cut a path through the crowd, his goal an unoccupied settee near the buffet table.
"This should do nicely," he shouted above the din. "Close to the food and the fireplace."
Caroline looked about the room in surprise. She'd expected it to be utilitarian in nature, furnished in chrome and vinyl with steel shelving for bookcases and sensible stain-free carpeting on the floor. Instead, the motif reflected down home cozy. Tartan plaid easy chairs stood scattered in groupings near an enormous stone fireplace at the far end of the lounge. Matching sofas flanked the door on the opposite side. The plank flooring gleamed a burnished gold except where an occasional throw rug concealed the shine. Dead center in the room stood a large oak table, its surface hidden by an ivory tablecloth on which rested a smorgasbord of delights already being sampled by Professor Atwater. He gestured for Caroline to join him, but her attention had strayed to the room's holiday decor.
"How beautiful!"
Caroline gazed appreciatively at the various arrangements scattered about the room. Someone had lent a professional touch to the job of decorating and it showed. Massive pots of crimson and pink poinsettias crowded the windowsills bracketing the far corner of the lounge. To the left of the windows, a four-foot wreath embellished with scarlet and silver streamers dominated the chimneypiece of the fireplace. A line of vanilla scented candles graced the stone mantel above an artistically draped balsam garland. Smaller candles flickered on pewter stands next to bowls of holly scattered about the shelves of the floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases.
The piece-de-resistance occupied the corner left of the fireplace. There, a grouping of three pines, the smallest perhaps five feet tall, the largest almost touching the ceiling, sparkled with miniature red lights and silver glass balls. Nestled in the center of the trees stood a magnificently carved candle in peppermint shades of pink, deep rose, and white. Pots of scarlet poinsettias surrounded its wrought-iron stand.
"Very nice," exclaimed Caroline.
"Credit Mrs. Pauly," Atwater replied between mouthfuls. "This room is off limits for days while she's transforming it from drab to magnificent. Well worth it, though. Our faculty party is the highlight of the social season at Bruck."
"That's understandable," said Caroline. "Life in a small town probably offers few opportunities for this kind of gathering."
The professor shot an incredulous look at Martin who merely shrugged his shoulders.
"Actually, you'd be amazed at the number of 'opportunities' we poor Rhineburgers have for celebrating," Atwater retorted. "We may be short on opera and ballet, but we manage to amuse ourselves in various backward ways."
Caroline blushed. "I didn't mean it that way."
Nikki rushed to her mother-in-law's rescue. "How about some hot cider, Mom? Marty!" She poked her husband in the ribs. "Go get us something to drink."
Martin didn't need any urging. "How about you, Professor? Cider or beer?"
"Beer, of course. Unless that cider is well spiked." Atwater snatched another canapé from the table and followed his protégé to the bar.
"What a gaffe," Caroline muttered disgustedly. "I must have sounded totally condescending."
"Don't worry about it," Nikki reassured her with a broad grin. "Most urban refugees consider Rhineburg a bit provincial at first."
Caroline smiled ruefully. She knew Nikki had easily adapted to life in the boonies. But could she, city born and bred, ever do the same?
"Tell me," she said, changing the subject. "What's up with President Hurst and Professor Atwater? They act like they're charter members of the Mutual Un-admiration Society."
"So you noticed. Well…" Nikki glanced at the people nearest them before drawing Caroline over to a deserted corner. "You have to be careful what you say around here. At Bruck, the walls not only have ears, but hearing aids as well."
Caroline laughed. Still, she got the message. She lowered her voice to match Nikki's.
"Did something happen recently?"
"Oh, no. Those two have been at each other's throat for years. It began soon after Hurst arrived here."
"When was that?"
"1985."
Caroline's eyes widened. "That's what I'd call a long-standing feud. What started it?"
"Jealousy on Hurst's part. Professor Atwater is practically an institution in Rhineburg. He went to college compliments of the government after his Army days, then came here to teach. He says he started at Bruck and he'll finish at Bruck, no date of retirement specified."
Caroline watched the subject of their conversation wend his way through the clots of people blocking the bar.
"Martin's boss could afford to shed a few pounds. But on the whole, he looks pretty good for a man in his seventies."
"Don't ever allude to his age, Mom. The professor goes bananas over the term 'senior citizen'. Those are two words he never applies to himself."
"Young at heart, huh? Okay, I'll forego any mention of white hair in his presence. Tell me more about Hurst's jealousy."
"The professor is a born historian. He's written several books about rural America, and they've all sold well."
"I've read two of them," said Caroline. "He delves into a particular town's past. The stories he digs up are fascinating."
"Marty's doing research on Atwater's next project, a book about company-owned coal mining towns. The professor has earned a pile of money on his books, plus a reputation for educating folks who normally don't read historical non-fiction. The university adores using his name to attract new students. His credits look impressive on those glossy brochures they hand out at open house."
"So Bruck needs Professor Atwater more than he needs Bruck."
Nikki nodded. "That's why our dear president despises him so. Hurst hates to share the limelight. It bugs him that Professor Atwater draws more attention from the press than he does."
"Come on, Nikki. There has to be more to it than that. Professional jealousy I can understand. But President Hurst is an important man in his own right. Why, he runs the entire university!"
"And quite poorly, if you ask me," Nikki countered darkly. "Look around this room. The faculty is almost evenly divided between supporters of the president and those who'd like to see Professor Atwater elevated to that post."
Caroline's eyebrows rose a fraction. "Is the professor gunning for the job?"
"He says he isn't, but he's not happy with the curriculum changes Hurst is making. The president is decimating the liberal arts program. He's slashed classes across the board, especially in history."
"I can see how that would upset the professor," Caroline remarked dryly. "There's nothing so irritating as having someone infringe on your turf."
"The professor's not like that," Nikki retorted. "He just doesn't think the liberal arts program should suffer because the Emperor–that's what everyone calls Hurst–wants a football stadium."
"Hold on, Nikki. You've got me totally confused. Since when has Bruck had a football team?"
"We don't now. But we will if Hurst has his way. He says emphasizing sports more will attract kids to the school, as if that's what college is all about."
Caroline saw a glimmer of sense in the plan. Bruck relied on its graduates for a portion of its funding, and everyone knew that alumni cherished their sports teams. Look at the dough Notre Dame raked in from its Knute Rockne devotees. There wasn't a college in the country that didn't wish Ronald Reagan had made them famous with his 'win one for the gipper' line.
"The Emperor's in thick with Mayor Schoen," Nikki continued. "He wants the town to refurbish the old high school stadium that abuts the campus so he can field a team there."
"Rhineburg doesn't have that kind of money, does it?"
"A lot of folks here live and die by their sports teams. If Hurst can convince them of the need for a decent stadium, they'd hold bake sales from here to eternity to pay for it. He's already pledged reduced tuition for any kid from Rhineburg who attends Bruck. He's hinted at other concessions as well. Mayor Schoen's all for it since the quarry would supply new stone for the stadium walls."
Caroline vaguely recalled hearing of a quarry somewhere nearby. She'd never seen it, but it probably employed a good number of the town's residents. A contract to repair the stadium would benefit both the workers and the town treasury.
"Hurst claims Bruck can pay part of the cost by cutting what he calls 'non-essential classes'. He's pink-slipping professors who haven't earned tenure, but only in certain departments. The business school is actually growing because everyone and their uncle want to major in business."
"So the professors in the school of business are backing Hurst."
Nikki nodded. "And those in the liberal arts department are supporting Professor Atwater. The problem is, their numbers are shrinking every semester."