Maid of Murder

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Shh . . .” I exclaimed.

“India?” The bushes asked with concern. “Are you okay?”

Because the bush was not engulfed in flame, and I recognized the voice, it was safe to assume that I was not having a Mount Sinai moment.

“Mark?” I barked.

My right big toe, which had been creamed by the falling cooler, was already turning blue. I may never wear flip-flops again, I thought forlornly.

The bushes rustled as Mark crawled out of his hidey-hole. His glasses sat crookedly on his face, and dead leaves and twigs snarled in his hair and beard. He brushed the majority of the dirt and underbrush from his T-shirt and shorts.

“Is this what you did Monday? Roll around in the bushes while you ditched work?” I asked.

Mark pulled a large twig out of his hair. “Huh?”

“Never mind. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been staying with Mom and Dad. I heard them prepare for a rally this morning. It didn’t take a genius to guess what the rally’s for. What are you doing here? You could get fired if Lepcheck sees you.”

“Supporting you is more important than my job,” I said quixotically, although I’d shared that exact sentiment with my father.

Mark shook his head. The remaining twigs flew back into the hedge. “This suspension is the least of my worries.”

I thought of the picture in the trunk of my car, and I silently agreed. The perfect opportunity to confront him about it presented itself. “The police searched your office Monday.”

“You told me that already.”

“What I didn’t tell you is that they didn’t find anything incriminating.”

“Of course they didn’t.”

“Not even that engagement picture.”

“Engagement picture? What are you talking about?”

“I reached your office a few minutes before the police. There was a framed copy of Olivia and Kirk’s engagement picture in the middle of your desk. How did you get it? Why was it there?”

“Why would I have that? It’s not mine. That’s the last thing that I would want to have.”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” I insisted. “I have it, if you don’t believe me.”

“You took it from my office?”

I crossed my arms. “You do know about it.”

“No, I don’t. But you stealing, well…”

“You wanted me to leave it in your office for the police to find? You should be thanking me you’re not in jail right now. Tell me where you got it.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not mine.” His voice cracked like an eleven-year-old boy’s. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And that you would accuse me of hoarding a picture of Olivia, like, like some psycho. You’re—” he stopped, apparently searching for the most scorching epitaph. “An idiot.”

Having called myself worse in the Monday morning mirror, his insult didn’t faze me. “I don’t think you’re a psycho.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You think that I had something to do with . . . with . . . Olivia’s death. Just like her family, just like Lepcheck. My own sister.”

“No, I don’t,” I protested.

A pair of students walking by paused at my outburst. Contrary to national folklore, librarians have been known to yell now and again. Feeling disgruntled, I gave the students a nasty mind-your-own-business look that I had mastered behind the library’s reference desk.

Mark’s hand went to his mouth. “I know. I know what happened.”

I watched him wearily. “What?”

“Someone planted it in my office. They wanted the police to find it because then they would have some real evidence.”

“Planted? Come on. Who would do that?”

“Anyone could have done it. Security on campus is down in the summer, and any nimrod with a credit card could break into my office.”

“Maybe not any nimrod,” I said under my breath, thinking of my own B&E.

Mark’s eyes shone. “Whoever was with Olivia at the fountain planted that picture. I just know it.”

Now that Olivia’s death was a puzzle, a mystery, a tricky logarithm that he could possibly unravel, he could see it as a mathematician, with scientific detachment. He used the same gusto when teaching quadratic equations. When he turned off his emotions, Olivia’s death was like arithmetic, and Mark was very good at arithmetic. His idea was logical if not provable.

“Tell me about the other person. Male? Female? White? Black? Asian? Anything?”

“I already told you, I didn’t see anyone.”

“What did the person sound like?” I persisted.

“I didn’t hear the other person speak.”

I threw my hands up in the air. “Then how do you know anyone was there?”

“I heard Olivia’s voice; she was talking to someone.”

“This is the twenty-first century, Mark; she was on a cell phone.”

“You’re wrong. I felt that someone else was there.”

Terrific, now he’s receiving psychic inklings.

I tried to keep my voice at a quiet level as more students strolled by between classes. In the background, the chanters continued their mantra, “Hark! Hark! We want Mark! Hey! Hey! Bring back Hayes!” My father would be wondering what happened to me and the cooler.

“Did you tell the police this?” I asked.

“Yes, and they said the same thing you did about the cell phone.”

“You’re sure someone was there?” I shifted, trying to ignore my throbbing toe.

Mark looked me directly in the eye for the first time, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Yes, I swear.”

I believed him, just like I believed him when we were kids and he’d told Mom that he hadn’t stolen all the figurines from the church’s nativity set and hidden them in odd places throughout the church. The janitor had found the frankincense-bearing wiseman inside the church’s industrial tub of orange punch mix the following July. Okay, I had believed him then because I’d done it—the manger kidnapping, anyway, not the blackmail. Olivia and I had done it, to be exact, but when faced with the angry accusation from our mother, Mark had had the same face he wore at the moment. If he could wear that earnest face when confronted with Mom’s full-on fire-and-brimstone persona, he had to be telling the truth. And for the record, it had been Olivia’s idea to put the wiseman in the punch.

“Okay. I believe you.”

Mark’s despondent face broke into a weak smile.

“Promise me you won’t do anything about this. You’re in enough trouble as it is. I’ll handle it.”

“Handle it? What are you going to do?”

“Well, I can’t tell the police about the photograph, because I swiped it from your office just before they arrived, now can I?”

“Where is it?” He asked, his tone hushed.

“Safe,” I answered evasively. “I’ll find out where that picture came from. Maybe you’re right, maybe it will lead to someone who knows who—what—happened to Olivia.”

He nodded. “What are you going to do?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. There’s something else.” I had to ask him even if it sent him back into a black mood.

Mark waited and I gathered my courage.

“It’s something Bree said to me. She said that you sent Olivia flowers and candy long after Olivia moved to Virginia.”

Mark’s pale face flushed with embarrassment.

“You actually did? I thought she was making it up. I thought you had no contact with Olivia.”

Mark looked down at the sidewalk. “She called me.”

I blinked. “When?”

“Every now and again when she was having problems or just needed someone to talk to.”

“What exactly does every now and again mean?” I felt my agitation grow.

“Every six months or so. I hadn’t heard from her in the last year or so, though. I know now that’s because of Kirk,” he said sadly. “That’s what I wanted to talk to her about: why she hadn’t been calling. I wanted her to know that I would still be there for her.” He looked like he was about to cry.

“She led you on,” I whispered.

Mark’s face hardened. “She didn’t promise me anything.”

“She called you. She shouldn’t have. She didn’t let you get over her. That’s wrong. It was selfish and wrong.”

“I know she cared about me.”

I gritted me teeth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mark looked up from the sidewalk and met my gaze. “She asked me not to. She said you wouldn’t understand.”

“Damn right, I wouldn’t understand. She led you on for years, and you let her.” My anger at Olivia burned within my chest. How could she treat my brother so poorly? How could the both of them keep it from me for so long?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Sorry, what are you sorry for?”

“You’re right; I let her lead me on. I loved it when she called. Now look what’s happened because of it. She’s dead, and I’m the number one suspect.”

My anger deflated, and I patted his arm. “You’re not responsible for what happened to her. I will figure this out. We have the picture to go on now, remember?”

He nodded.

“Go home, if Lepcheck sees you here, he’ll have one of the rent-a-cops throw you in a janitor’s closet. Or worse.”

After a little more prodding, Mark agreed, got into his car, and drove away.

I picked up the cooler and shuffled to the fountain. Nicholas was still on the ground with his pile of blocks, now deconstructing the fortress, but my father was in front of the protestors waving what appeared to be a permit to protest in Lepcheck’s face. Lepcheck’s complexion blazed maroon under his bottled tan.

Putting the cooler down next to my nephew, I crouched beside him and whispered, “Hey, Nicko.”

He looked up from his blocks. “Dia!” he shouted at top voice.

I winced and peered up to see if we had attracted Lepcheck’s glance, but my father had his undivided attention. I held a finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

He mimicked me. “Shhh.”

“I have to go. Can you tell Grandpa that after he’s done talking to that angry-looking man?”

“The one with the purple face?” whispered Nicholas.

“That’s the one.”

I beat a hasty retreat.

I knew I was being a coward, but I couldn’t hang around with Lepcheck in sight. No need to tempt fate with the status of my employment.