Chapter 20

SPRINGFIELD IS A CITY of about 150,000 on the Connecticut River in Western Mass, near the Connecticut line. Hartland is a small town about fifteen miles upriver. We checked in to the William Pynchon Motel on Route 5, outside of Hartland, which made Susan look a little grim.

“I’m not sure about the naked frolicking,” she said. “I agreed to Springfield.”

“No need to decide now,” I said. “Hartland is nice.”

We drove into the town to look for Clarice Richardson, the woman who had put Gary Eisenhower in jail.

“Trees,” Susan said.

She had the same look of gladiatorial grimness that she’d had looking at the motel. We who are about to die salute you.

“Later we can have lunch,” I said. “I spotted a dandy little tearoom.”

“Oh, God,” Susan said.

Parking in Hartland was not an issue. We left the car right across from the wrought-iron archway that led to the college campus.

“Should we start at the college?” Susan said.

“Don’t know where else to start,” I said.

“It’s breathtaking sometimes,” Susan said, “to watch you work.”

“It’s one of the reasons I brought you,” I said. “Give you a chance to watch me in the field.”

“The excitement never stops,” she said.

We got directions to the president’s office and spoke to the secretary in the outer room.

“I’m trying to locate Clarice Richardson,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary said.

“With Clarice Richardson?” I said.

“Yes, sir,” the secretary said. “Do you have an appointment with President Richardson?”

I took out one of my cards, the plain, elegant one with only my name and address, no crossed pistols, and handed it to her.

“Please tell President Richardson it’s about Goran Pappas,” I said.

She took my card.

“Please have a seat,” she said, and went off down a short corridor.

“Brilliant,” Susan said, “how you ran her to ground.”

“Who knew,” I said.

“Makes me think well of the school,” Susan said.

“Yes,” I said.

The secretary returned.

“President Richardson will see you shortly,” she said, and went back to her desk.

Susan and I sat. The outer office was paneled in oak, with a big working pendulum clock on the wall and a wine-colored Persian rug on the floor.

“You think it’s politically correct,” I said to Susan, “to call that a Persian rug?”

“Iranian rug doesn’t sound right,” she said.

“I know.”

“How about Oriental?” Susan said. “More general.”

“I think Oriental may be incorrect, too,” I said.

“How about a big rug from somewhere east of Suez?”

The door opened to the outer office and a strapping woman came in carrying a gun and wearing a uniform with a Hartland College police emblem on the sleeve. She glanced at us and went on down to the president’s office, knocked, opened the door, went in, and closed the door.

“She’s kind of scary,” Susan said.

“Yeah, she’s big,” I said. “But for simple ferocity, I like your chances.”

The secretary stood and said, “President Richardson will see you now.”


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