

Murder in Primary Colors

Nora Barker

the Smashwords Edition of

a StoneThread Publication

Copyright ©2011, 2012, 2013 by Jackie McElroy-Edwards

StoneThread License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Please don't resell it or give it away.

If you want to share this book, please purchase an additional copy as a gift.

Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure there are no errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or inconsistencies herein, any slights or people, places, or organizations are unintentional.

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Credits

Editing, formatting, cover photo and cover design by Harvey Stanbrough

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Chapter 1

Before Elizabeth Page hit the floor she caught a glimpse of blood spraying to her right. Her last thought? How dare— She was dead within seconds.

Dr. Christmas Connery, Chris to all who knew her, found herself sitting on the floor, feet splayed, ten feet from the body. She had no memory of how she got to that position. When she staggered back and landed on her bottom, surprise and shock stripped her of every perception but the corpse. Slowly, awareness of her surroundings began to return. She heard someone gasping for breath and was startled to realize it was herself. Get a grip! she told herself sternly. Her self-image as a person who coped with skill and aplomb was badly shaken.

She looked around. She was in the Midstate University Museum of Art. It was dark and deserted, except for the corpse in front of her. The emergency exit lights reflected here and there off the polished chrome of the little "Do-Nothing" sculptures filling the small sculpture gallery and the aluminum ladder lying on its side beyond what remained of Elizabeth Page.

The doorway through which she'd rushed when she'd first glimpsed someone's feet where they shouldn't have been gave her a view of the Sixteenth-century Italian Mannerist paintings filling the outer gallery. Without the usual lighting they were just dark rectangles against the lighter walls. She looked back at the body, half-expecting it to be gone. It wasn't.

From out in the larger gallery she heard toenails clicking on the polished porcelain tile and her basset hound, Walter Matthau, appeared in the doorway, hackles raised and nose working industriously. She'd told him to "stay" when she saw the feet but his sense of smell was way too good for that to matter. She struggled to her feet to intercept him.

Leash in hand and wobbling a little, she retraced her steps through the larger exhibition space to the atrium and the docent's desk and telephone. Walter was reluctant to leave such a tempting target unsniffed. He backed up most of the way.

She dialed 911 with a hand that shook so violently she had to do it twice.

"Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"

"She's dead." One part of her brain scolded the other part for being unable to manage this with her normal self-possession. "I mean, I just found someone who's dead."

"I have you at the Midstate Museum of Art on campus. Is that correct, Ma'am?"

Chris tried to take a deep breath and made little gasping sounds.

"Just relax, Ma'am. We'll have help on the way as soon as you confirm where you are." The operator's reassuring voice calmed her and she was able to confirm her location.

"I'm in the museum."

"Your name, Ma'am?"

"Chris Connery. I'm the director of the Division of Fine Arts at Midstate," she stammered.

"Do you know who's been injured?"

"She's not injured. She's dead. It's the director of the museum, Elizabeth Page."

"Is anyone else hurt?"

"No. She's the only one here. I think she fell off a ladder."

"Okay, the campus police should be there in less than five minutes. You just try to stay calm, Ma'am."

Chris hung up. She sat in the docent's chair and looked at her shaking hands. Get a grip! she told herself again. She tied Walter's leash securely to the arm of the chair and went back to survey the scene, this time without the shock-induced tunnel vision.

From the middle of the atrium she could hardly see into the largest gallery ahead and to the left. It was difficult to see anything clearly except in the atrium where Chris had flipped switches when she'd come in through the door behind the docent's desk. The second largest gallery opened ahead to the right. Page lay in the small, windowless exhibition space that opened in the middle of that gallery's far wall and just visible from the docent's desk.

She went to the back of the museum, through the doors leading to the freight elevator and flipped switches in the circuit box. When she returned to the entrance of the smallest gallery the lights glinted off the small kinetic sculptures. They were clanging and twanging once again, as they had all afternoon during the opening. Some waited for a button to be pushed or a lever pulled, but most operated on their own. They all gleamed in the intense light of the spots.

Elizabeth Page lay in partial shadow, but there was enough light to see the shimmery teal silk pantsuit. A broad pool of blood was congealing in the carpet. Chris didn't really want to look at the body but curiosity kept her coming back to it as if drawn by a magnet.

Until her death Elizabeth Page was the Director of the Midstate University Museum of Art. She had been the textbook example of the successful fundraiser and skillful manipulator: always in control, always one step ahead of her competition, always convinced the ends justified the means. Since her ends were usually laudable, people tended to overlook her means.

The closer Chris approached, the stronger the coppery smell of blood became. It was mixed with the other more familiar smell of feces and caused her to experience a transient wave of nausea. She fought it down. Red blood, blond hair, blue suit. Primary colors. It was an irrational and irrelevant thought, but it wouldn't go away.

Chris knew Page would have hated her present situation for more reasons than the obvious fact of her death. She always dressed with impeccable care. She was never seen in public less than well-turned-out. To be lying in disarray, her hair in a tangle, her legs awkwardly twisted, her blood seeping into her clothes and the taupe carpet would have been insupportable if she'd been alive to see it.

Page's temple, distorted by a deep and bloody depression, left no doubt about the cause of death. Chris looked closer in spite of a rising urge to vomit and peered at the mangled head. That she'd hit something with tremendous force was obvious.

The ladder was on its side. The crumpled body lay between it and the wall. Chris looked up at the track lighting. One of the small spots was dark. She fell while trying to change a light bulb?

Chris skirted the blood pool, having watched her share of televised mayhem. No tampering with evidence before the police cordon off the death zone. From out in the atrium Walter whined briefly and strained to keep Chris in sight, his ears pinned back and nose twitching as always. She called to reassure him.

When did the light blow? It hadn't happened during the opening this afternoon. At least, she hadn't noticed it if it had. Of course, there were a lot of people filling the galleries over the course of the afternoon. She might not have noticed Hannibal and his elephants.

Late this afternoon Page left a message on Chris's home answering machine saying she had information that could be damaging for the university and she needed to speak to her right away. Would she then have set about replacing a spot when she could have ordered someone else to do it first thing in the morning?

No matter the reason, Elizabeth Page apparently had gone to the lower level in her elegant teal outfit and dragged a twelve-foot stepladder out of a storeroom and into the cargo elevator. She then dragged it from the service area behind the main floor galleries, across forty or fifty feet of polished porcelain tile floor and into the gallery housing the "Do-Nothings," Richard Bjornson's solo show. There, Page mounted the ladder in four-inch stiletto heels to change a lamp and fell to her death. The impossibility of that scenario was at war with the circumstances before her.

Knowing she shouldn't, but assuming she already contaminated the body when she tried to find a pulse, Chris crept closer. Page lay with the right side of her head up, her eyes slightly open and her mouth slack. The blond hair, parts still glossy, was a tangle. Blood wicked into the shiny teal silk, leaving red-brown stains almost an inch up from any point of contact with the pool of blood on the carpet. A challenge for the best dry cleaner, she thought and then shook a mental finger at herself for the irrelevance.

What did she hit on her way down? Chris surveyed the area from the ceiling all the way to the floor. Nothing projected or protruded. The pedestal usually illuminated by the burned out spot had square corners, but they were free of blood or any trace of violent contact. Chris looked at the ladder. Except for the rubber skid pads on its feet, it was all aluminum. Page probably hit that when she overbalanced, she thought. But no part she could see had any evidence of blood. Nothing immediately presented itself as the point of contact.

She was so lost in her ruminations that she jumped when she heard the door open behind the docent's desk. She stepped back into the larger gallery. A young campus policeman, Officer Anderson, appeared.

He came through the atrium and stopped at the entrance to the sculpture show, scanned the scene and then acknowledged Chris's presence with a nod. Finally he squatted beside the remains of Elizabeth Page.

"Do you know how this happened, Dr. Connery?"

"No, I found her that way. There doesn't seem to be anyone else here, but I haven't been through the entire building."

The officer just nodded.

"She must have hit her head," Chris added.

He rose and used his walky-talky as a siren grew loud and abruptly stopped behind the museum. Soon they could hear pounding on the loading dock doors.

"Go let them in," Anderson said. As Chris started toward the service area, he added, "Come right back."

She would soon be answering a lot of questions.

Chris reached the loading dock and pushed the panic bar to open the door. The emergency medical technician standing on the other side nodded and turned to his partner. They hefted their cases and rolled the gurney inside, asking about the victim. Chris led the way into the freight elevator and they rose to the main floor.

Officer Anderson was standing in the middle of the Mannerist gallery. "Just confirm that she's dead, then get out of there. The city cops are on their way. We're not equipped for this."

The two EMTs went to the body and retreated in less than a minute. One of them used her radio to call in a report. The other leaned against the gurney and affected a bored expression. Officer Anderson stood with arms folded beside the doorway. Chris thought he was trying to look like this wasn't the first time he'd been in this situation. He failed.

From his place away from the action Walter whined briefly.

Chris looked at Anderson. "I don't suppose I could take my dog home."

"Better stay put, Dr. Connery, until the city cops get here. Then maybe you can take off."

"Can I take him out for a walk? He probably needs to go."

"Sure. Just try to stay where I can see you."

When she stepped out through the all glass entrance with Walter eagerly leading the way, she heard the faint wail of more sirens. It seemed like every cruiser on duty in Camford was headed their way. More excitement for a Sunday night than there had been in many a year.

By the time Walter had completed his business, the Camford Police Department had arrived in two cruisers, lights flashing and sirens shrieking. The officers were crowded around the entrance to the sculpture gallery when she and Walter returned. Beyond them the kinetic sculptures continued to create a falsely cheerful clatter. She sat at the docent's desk.

Thirty minutes elapsed before the homicide detective arrived. It was at least another twenty minutes before he showed any interest in her. That Camford had a homicide detective was a bit of a surprise. Students more than doubled the population of the small town when the university was in session and she couldn't remember any crime more lethal than drunk driving.

He emerged from the gallery where he'd been kneeling and approached the docent's desk. He introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Ryquist.

She stood to shake hands and pointed at the nametag clipped to his lapel by his badge. "Pronounce your first name for me. I've never met anyone with that name before."

"Hjelmer, like Elmer with an H," he responded after a pause during which he regarded her carefully.

"Thank you, Detective. I've lived up here for five years but the Scandinavian names sometimes defeat me."

Ryquist moved aside empty wineglasses left from the opening to lean across the tall reception desk. A thought occurred to Chris but his question derailed it.

"You find the body?" He ran a hand through short salt and pepper hair. He was over six feet with the build of an aging athlete. Not fat, but perhaps not as hard bodied as he once had been.

"I did." Chris nodded and sat back down. Walter watched, alert. He still had not relaxed.

Behind the detective a camera continued to flash, sending jolts of light ricocheting off the white walls and polished tile. After the initial gawking, everyone seemed to have a task and to be engrossed in performing it. Since Camford was normally such a peaceful little town, and violent death, even by accident, was rare, Chris wondered how they'd learned to be so professional.

Ryquist cleared his throat and brought her attention back to his broad face. "So let's get started. Full name?"

"Christmas Eve Connery."

He looked up. "Really?"

Chris grimaced. "Yes, really. I use Chris, however."

"Wonder why," Ryquist mumbled, jotting in a small notebook. He nodded toward the basset hound. "What's his name?"

"Walter Matthau."

"You always tour museums with your dog?"

"I was just going to be here for a second and then we were going for a walk on the quad before I went to the store." She pointed out the glass doors toward the grassy center of the campus.

"I see. Address and phone?"

Chris supplied them.

When the data had been carefully recorded in his notebook, the plainclothes policeman said, "Tell me about it from the beginning."

Chris wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but an open-ended question wasn't even on the list of possibilities. So much for watching all those cop shows. She started with finding a message from the museum director on her machine when she came in late that afternoon and deciding to ignore it because she'd had enough of Elizabeth Page for one day.

At that Detective Ryquist raised his eyebrows.

"You'll find out soon enough that Elizabeth could be challenging. She was frequently arrogant and could be very unpleasant to those who worked with her."

"So what made you come to the museum after all?" The big man gazed down at his notebook as if he were indifferent to her response.

Chris knew he wasn't. "I wanted to go to the store for ice cream and discovered I didn't have my purse. I left it in the docent's desk during the opening of the new shows this afternoon. When I had to get Richard Bjornson home I guess I forgot it."

"Why'd you have to get Richard—What's his name? Bjornson? We'll come back to why you had to get him home. What did you do when you got here tonight?"

"I used my master key to come in the side door."

"Where's that?"

Chris waved at the door behind where she sat. "The administrative offices and storage rooms are down there. The side door is at the far end of that hallway."

Ryquist circled the desk, opened the door and looked down the four steps leading to the hall. "Okay. Why'd you bring the dog?"

"Walter loves to walk on the Quad. I meant to get my purse and leave through those doors." She pointed.

"How'd you happen to see the body?"

"I turned on lights in the atrium so I could find my purse—the switches are at the top of the stairs by the door—but I saw her feet in the doorway of the small gallery. I rushed over right away."

"Taking the dog?"

"What? No. I told him to stay."

"Did he?"

"No, but I got him before he got near the body."

"You touch the body?"

"Yes. I tried to find a pulse. Then I guess I sort of fell backward or something because the next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor."

"What did you do then?"

"Grabbed Walter and came here to call nine-one-one."

"So tell me about this guy you had to get home."

"Richard Bjornson. The sculptures in there are his. He's a professor in the Art Department and he got pretty drunk during the opening. I couldn't let him drive, so I sort of man-handled him over to the parking garage."

"You man-handled him? How tall are you?"

"Five one and three-quarters." Chris was sensitive about her size. Small, cursed with curly dark hair tamed only by keeping it very short, and given her mother's whimsy in naming her "Christmas" because she'd arrived on the twenty-fourth, she'd been condemned to being underestimated most of her life. She'd learned to turn that to her advantage a long time ago.

"He was still capable of walking, but then Colin McCarty said he'd help and offered to drive him home so I took him up on it."

"Colin McCarty?" Ryquist's ballpoint hovered over his notebook.

"Professor of Drama. He was here at the opening too."

"So you left when?"

"I think it was just five. After we got him to Colin's car I went home."

"So you run into this McCarty and he takes over?"

"He walked with us from the museum."

"Anything happen during the opening? Ms. Page have any kind of dust-up with anyone?"

Chris squirmed uncomfortably. "Not during the opening but earlier. She created a nasty situation with the Mannerist show catalog, but I made arrangements to get it fixed. So, yes, there was a dust-up, as you say, but it was resolved by last Friday."

"What kind of nasty situation?"

Chris sighed. All the Fine Arts Division's dirty linen would be on display before this was over. "Elizabeth cut a scholarly article from the catalog. The author is the professor of Art History who arranged to get these paintings here." Chris waved in the general direction of the largest galleries. "She wrote an article to explain Italian Mannerism and her theory that they distorted anatomy for religious reasons, but Page cut it out without saying a word before it went to the printer. Understandably, Antonia was upset when she found out."

"Antonia?"

"Dr. Antonia Westphall. It was an unprofessional thing for Elizabeth to do."

"So how'd you get it resolved?" He was still watching her closely. Chris felt like a worm surrounded by robins.

"The dean gave me the funds to print the article with the same cover as the catalog. Anyone who buys a catalog will get it when it's off the press later this week. It was expensive, but what else could we do?" She shrugged, then pointed to the end of the counter where an eight by eleven plastic sleeve held a sign. "I put that sign there to explain." The sign announced, Coming soon! "Mannerism in the age of the Reformation" by Dr. Antonia Westphall. Free with purchase of catalog.

"Okay. So Westphall will get her article in print. She still mad about it?"

"Probably, but it's been resolved and she seemed grateful. She's up for tenure next year and this was important for her vitae."

"Someday you can explain tenure to me. Meantime, let's go over this again."

Chris went through the whole event for the second time, winding up her narrative with calling 911. Detective Sergeant Ryquist then began to run through it with her from the beginning, checking what she said against what he had written down.

Twice he asked about the time stamp on the phone message. Was she sure the answering machine was properly set to record the time? She was fairly sure, not having given it a moment's attention since she'd set it up months ago. Elizabeth Page had been alive around 6:00 p.m. It was apparent he was checking his own accuracy rather than trying to trip her up. Chris relaxed a bit.

Behind Ryquist, the coroner supervised the EMTs loading Page's mortal remains onto the gurney. Chris watched in fascination as they rolled it out of sight toward the freight elevator.

"One more time, Dr. Connery," said Ryquist, bringing her attention back to his face.

When they'd revisited the dialing of 911 for the third time, Chris asked, "Could I take Walter home?"

Ryquist shook his head. "In a minute. Now tell me what you did after you called nine-one-one."

Chris tried to remember. She fumbled around mentally.

Ryquist prodded. "Did you touch anything?"

"Maybe. I can't be certain."

"Did you stay right by the phone?"

"No, I went back to the gallery."

"Why?"

"I couldn't believe it. I thought I might be wrong."

"Did you take the dog with you?"

"No, I tied him to this chair."

"Turn any lights on or off?"

"Yes!" Chris remembered at last. "I turned on the gallery lights because everything was off and I couldn't see very well. I suppose I shouldn't have done that."

"Well, we'll be able to eliminate your prints from any others on the light switches, but next time don't touch anything."

"Yessir." Chris felt even less capable than she had earlier. "May there never be a next time."

"Show me those switches."

Chris led the way to the back of the museum, through the door to the elevator bay and the circuit breaker panels. Ryquist used gloved hands and a ballpoint pen to open the panel. He stood looking at the array, then put his hands on his hips. "Which ones did you turn on?"

"I turned on all of the circuits marked for galleries two and four. I don't know which lights are which so I just turned them all on."

"And they were all off? Not just one or two?"

"All of them," she acknowledged. While Ryquist stared at the panel, a thought penetrated the fog in her brain. "Why were all the lights off if Page was going to change a lamp? She of all people would have known which circuit ran which lights. She'd have turned off just the one she needed."

"I agree. She wouldn't have turned them all off if that's what she was going to do."

Chris was startled. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud.

"Well, Dr. Connery, let's take your fingerprints and you can go home. We'll be here all night, but I'll be in touch with you tomorrow. And I'm sending a cruiser over to pick up your answering machine tonight if that's all right." He flipped his notebook closed. "Lab'll check it out and get it back to you in a couple of days. Oh, and we need a list of all the people who were here at the opening."

"All the people who were here? I couldn't possibly! We have a guest registry, but not everyone uses it. We don't insist. People came and went. I can try, but—"

She did the best she could, but the list didn't come close to the number of people who attended. When she handed it to Ryquist, the thought she'd had earlier resurfaced. "Detective, there's something else. No one has cleaned up in here."

"Janitors don't work on Sunday?"

"I'm sure they do, but this stuff...." She waved at the plates, napkins and glasses littering the docent's desk. "This is all the caterer's responsibility. For some reason they didn't stay to clean up."

"Interesting." He pulled his battered black notebook out of his jacket pocket again and made a note.

By the time Chris and Walter pulled into her driveway, she'd begun to accept the fact that Elizabeth Page hadn't just fallen off a ladder. She'd been murdered.

Chapter 2

Chris sat in her kitchen drinking a much-needed beer. Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream, her fatal weakness, would have been better, but she'd forgotten her original errand when she discovered the body.

Suddenly she remembered, in spite of the hour, someone in the university hierarchy beside herself should know what had happened in the museum. Since chain of command on a university campus aspires to military perfection, her first call was to Lorraine Campbell-McFee, Dean of Arts and Letters. Jerry McFee answered sleepily, and asked whether he could take a message. Chris told him what had happened. The dean came on the line immediately after her husband's startled, "Jesus Christ!"

After Chris filled her in and explained that the police were still on the scene, the dean said she would take over informing the rest of the administration. Chris was about to hang up when Lorraine asked the one question she hadn't thought about at all.

"Did she have family in town?"

"No, I'm sure she didn't."

"There must be next of kin somewhere. Let me know and I'll send them a condolence too." With that she said good-bye and hung up.

Next of kin. Chris hadn't even considered it. Elizabeth Page was so self-contained, even self-manufactured, the idea of parents or siblings was faintly illogical. Writing a letter of condolence would be for later, however. At the moment, finding next of kin was a priority she hoped she could leave to the police.

She finished the beer and wondered whether she could sleep.

The doorbell rang. A uniformed policewoman introduced herself as Kate Branvold and said she had been sent to pick up the answering machine. "Got to tape the message first in case your machine is one of those that wipes out when the power's off."

Chris nodded and gestured toward the machine on the table. Branvold held a little recorder up to the speaker and Chris pushed the playback button. The officer left with the machine two minutes later and walked out to her cruiser trailing wires in a fashion that brought the awful events into sharp focus. Chris burst into tears.

By ten o'clock Monday morning, Chris Connery was still dispirited. She was also cranky. Lack of sleep had done nothing to improve the situation. At eight-thirty she'd stumbled into the office and sat bleary-eyed, trying to ignore Charlie Inquist, her six-foot tall secretary, in the outer office as he fended off the curious. So far he was doing an admirable job, but the death of Elizabeth Page had been on all the local radio and television stations. Everyone in Camford and the university community knew what had happened, and it seemed to Chris from the safety of her office that half of them wanted to hear about it directly from her.

When her phone rang she grimaced and lifted the receiver as if it might bite.

"How are you holding up?" Dean Lorraine Campbell-McFee asked.

"Tired. Didn't get three hours of sleep."

"I imagine the police kept you a long time," Lorraine said with a degree of empathy. "What time was it when you called me?"

"Two-thirty, I think."

"Go home early. That's an order."

"Roger that." That had been Chris's plan from the first.

The dean switched to business mode. "I called because we can't let this derail the Unveiling."

The Unveiling. Chris had almost forgotten the stupendous gift the museum was about to receive from one of the university's wealthiest alumni.

Chris tried to sound confident. "I'm sure Elizabeth had the Gala well in hand. I'll get her assistant to fill me in."

"I'd like you to do more than that, Chris. You need to be in charge of the whole event. We can't risk offending the donor or messing this up."

Chris thought, The donor probably has already been inconvenienced by the death of the museum director. He was at the opening yesterday and she'd given his name to the police as one of the attendees. Howard Randall was unlikely to forget his first visit in fifty years to Midstate University. She sighed. "What do you want me to do, Lorraine?"

"As soon as the museum is released by the police, you need to get over there and find out what arrangements she'd made. The Unveiling is only three weeks off. The invitations have gone out to the whole legislature, the governor and every notable in the state. We can't have Midstate look like... like amateurs."

Chris opened her mouth to say how much she trusted Page's assistant, the long-suffering Rachael Jacobsen, but Lorraine interrupted her. "I understand no one has even seen the painting yet. Get this under control." With that the dean excused herself and rang off.

Chris sat for a long moment, looking out her window at passing students. So much for going home early. She wondered where museum staffers were this morning since the police had cordoned off the whole building. She knew it was off limits because when she'd trudged in to work, her first steps from the parking garage led, as usual, to the museum. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered across the main doors and she was forced to continue on to the Fine Arts Complex without her usual stop at the Lotta Latte Coffee Bar. The swill that passed for coffee at the Student Union was out of the question.

Well, at least she'd get to see the fabled painting at last. Elizabeth Page had refused to show it to anyone, even her boss, a fact that had been the source of considerable tension between them in the last few weeks.

Howard Randall was a collector of early Twentieth-century European art and he was donating one of the plums of his collection to his alma mater. Pablo Picasso's Still Life with Pipe and Wine Bottle from 1914 was estimated conservatively to be worth twenty-five million dollars. One of the premier examples of Synthetic Cubism by the master, it would be the jewel in the museum's permanent collection the instant it was unveiled. Elizabeth Page had been smug from the moment Randall had offered it.

Randall's correspondence indicated he'd heard about the museum and its new building from the Alumni Association and was interested in doing something special to mark its opening. His was the first major donation attracted to Midstate because of the new facility. Page had been convinced it would not be the last. "Of course, he gets a great tax write-off," she had said in one of her less-guarded moments with Chris. "I checked him out. His collection is large and very strong. We can expect more from him if we do this right."

Maybe if Chris walked over to the museum, someone there could tell her how long the building would be cordoned off or where the staff members were waiting out their exile. She pulled her purse out of the bottom drawer of her desk and stepped into the outer office.

Her secretary was hunched over his desk, his phone held to his shaggy blond head. "As I said, Dr. Connery is unavailable at the moment. If you'll give me your name and number I'll have her get back to you when she can." He jotted a note on a pink message slip and hung up as Chris rounded his desk.

"Dr. Connery? Do you want to talk to reporters?"

"No. Absolutely not."

Charlie crumpled the pink slip and tossed it.

"I'm going to the museum, Charlie. I have to find out how long it will be before it's available."

A familiar voice behind her made her turn in surprise.

"We should be done this afternoon." Detective Sergeant Ryquist came through the outer office door. "You can probably have it first thing tomorrow."

"You saved me a trip, Detective." Chris smiled at him even though his presence wasn't exactly welcome.

Ryquist returned the smile. "So, Dr. Connery," he said. "You busy?" Chris was not comforted by his apparent friendliness.

Charlie cleared his throat. "Ah, she's been harassed all morning. She needs time to get her class organized."

Chris appreciated Charlie's effort on her behalf, but she knew it was useless. The police were all over the building, interviewing those who had attended the opening or had other dealings with Page. Class schedules and office hours meant nothing today. She invited Ryquist into her office and waved him to a chair.

Ryquist casually leaned back and ran his big hands through his hair. "You get any sleep?"

"Not much." Chris shrugged. "You have more questions for me, Detective?"

"Call me Hjelmer, Doc," Ryquist said, trying for a casual tone but failing to Chris's ear. "Yeah, just a couple more questions. For example, have you thought of anyone else I should talk to who was at the opening yesterday?"

"I did the best I could last night, Hjelmer, but I can't even remember whose names I gave you then. Besides, I don't know all of them by name."

Ryquist fished several pages of printouts from his suit coat pocket and tossed them on Chris's desk. "Look that over. Maybe you'll think of someone else when you see what we've got."

She looked at the list. Most of it was familiar, but when she came to two names she didn't recognize, she stopped. "I didn't give you all these names, did I?"

"Nope. We've been interviewing people all morning and one of the things we ask is who else was at the museum when they were there. So, anyone new come to mind?"

"No, but I'll call you if I think of anyone. Can I ask why you're so interested in who all was there? Elizabeth was fine when I left, and if my answering machine is correct, she was fine as late as six o'clock. The opening ended at five."

Ryquist leaned forward, laced his blunt fingers together and rested his elbows on his knees. "We're just doing the routine stuff, Doc. Not to worry. So tell me about the guy who made all those mechanical things. The 'Do-Nothings,' I guess they're called."

Chris was relieved to move on. "Richard Bjornson? He's the sculpture professor in the Art Department. They're neat, aren't they?"

"They are that. Very interesting mechanically. He and Page get along?" He watched Chris with guileless gray eyes.

Chris realized the question hadn't been casual after all. There would be no casual conversations with this man in spite of his apparent nonchalance. "I really don't know. She gave him a show in the museum, so I assume they must have gotten along well. She doesn't... didn't do that for just anyone. Have you talked to Richard? He's got classes this afternoon."

"I telephoned for him, but your assistant out there said he'd called in sick. Guess we'll have to go over and bug him in his sickbed."

"I didn't realize he wasn't in today, Hjelmer. Sorry."

"Suffering from the 'bottle flu' from what I gather."

"Well, he was pretty drunk when we got him out of the museum at five. If he kept going once he was home, he'd have one heck of a hangover today."

"You and this McCarty guy did that, right? And he took over and you left to go home. That right?"

"Yes."

"You think of anyone else who might have been unhappy with the deceased?"

"It's a long list, Hjelmer. She could be difficult."

"So are McCarty and Bjornson friends or what?"

"I don't know that they're friends... they know each other, but that's true of everyone in the division. We all know each other, at least by name and by sight."

"Bjornson have any special friends that you know of?"

"Not really. That is, I don't know who his friends are because Richard and I aren't particularly close. Just a working relationship, you know? There are a couple of students he works with. Maybe they can tell you." She wrote their names on a sticky note and handed it to him.

"I'll look into that. Just seems funny, guy doesn't have friends among his coworkers, y'know?" Ryquist said and leaned back in his chair.

Chris took a deep breath. "Someone must have told you about Richard's practical jokes."

"Doesn't seem to have endeared him to the other art teachers, Doc."

"He's got a talent for picking on the one thing guaranteed to push someone's buttons. Very few people find them as funny as he does."

"Nobody I talked to would describe his jokes in detail. So what does he do? Water balloons from the second story windows?"

Chris grimaced. "Not quite that juvenile, but close."

"Gimme a for-instance, Doc."

"Talisha Rice is a good example. She's the most recent victim. She teaches Art Ed and Art Appreciation. She's a religious person, a fundamentalist, though she doesn't make an issue of it. Bjornson must have found out because he used the drawing skeleton and a plaster cast of a Greek torso to create a homosexual pornographic tableau in the storage closet she uses."

Ryquist frowned.

"He added realistic phalluses to the skeleton and the torso. They were made out of clay."

"Ah." Ryquist nodded. "So that offended Ms. Rice. He ever pick on Elizabeth Page?"

"Not to my knowledge. And if he had she'd have yanked his solo show from the schedule in a skinny minute." Various scenarios rolled around in Chris's brain, none of them good. "May I ask why you're interested in Richard's pranks?"

"Just being a nosy cop, Doc. You've got a class to get ready for so I'll let you go." Ryquist rose and collected his printout. "I know where to find you." He ambled through the door and was gone.

When Chris returned from her class at two that afternoon, Charlie was nearly bouncing in his chair with suppressed energy. "You hear the latest?"

"Now what?"

"The police confirmed she was murdered." He paused to let that sink in. "I've got a buddy on the force and he says they shipped her body off to the capital for an autopsy but they X-rayed her head first. Seems there's some big round metal thing in her skull."

"Big round metal thing. You mean a bullet?"

"My buddy thinks she might have been shot with an antique rifle, like a Civil War weapon."

"What?"

"Those old guns shoot big pellets, like nearly half an inch across. He says the metal in her head is about that size."

Chris flopped back into a chair. "That's just bizarre! Who would do that?"

Detective Sergeant Ryquist joined the conversation once again from the doorway. "Anyone around here collect old guns, Doc?" He took the chair next to Chris.

"I'm pretty sure no one in Fine Arts does," Chris said firmly, mentally crossing her fingers and hoping she was right.

"Is it true she was murdered?" Charlie blurted.

"Yep," Ryquist responded. "Looks that way at the moment, so we'll proceed accordingly until the autopsy tells us different."

Chris and Charlie exchanged looks.

Charlie whispered, "Wow!"

"So, Doc. You got a minute now that your class is done?"

"I guess so. Come on in." She rose to move to her office but Ryquist shook his head.

"I mean over at the museum."

Chapter 3

Chris and Ryquist set off for the Midstate Museum of Art through the crisp late fall air. The snow that had fallen over the weekend clung in tiny patches on the shady side of trees. The leaves on the sidewalk were a sodden brown, no longer vivid. Chris, preoccupied with wondering what the police expected of her once they got there, said nothing as they walked.

The museum burst into view as they rounded the corner of the biology building. The newest structure on campus had been open a year and a half and opinion was still sharply divided about it. It sat right on the quad, a gleaming aluminum-skinned bunker amid staid English Collegiate Gothic classroom buildings. Partially embedded in a hill, adorned with false walls and lots of windows that let in light but no direct sun anywhere, it was bringing campus architecture into the Twenty-First century so fast the more traditional were getting whiplash.

They passed the bronze bust of former Midstate president Hartwell Turner (1923–1934). It was one of seventeen such commemorations scattered around the campus. Chris barely registered the sunglasses with rhinestones he was wearing, she was so used to the indignities these objects attracted, but Ryquist stopped to inspect them closely. As he turned back to the sidewalk, he said, "So who would have it in for Page, Doc? Got any ideas?"

"You know, she wasn't very popular, but murder? I can't believe she did anything to deserve murder."

"Nobody deserves murder, but it happens all the same." Ryquist stuck his hands in his coat pockets. "She have any particular enemies? Someone from her past maybe?"

"It sounds strange, I know, but I hardly knew her, Hjelmer," Chris shrugged. "I mean, I never knew of anyone that she socialized with other than the people on her board. She would come to division functions sometimes, but not often. She kept to herself, at least as far as I was concerned."

They walked on in silence for a bit. Ryquist jingled the keys in his pocket. Finally he asked, "What's been happening at the museum lately? Anything big?"

Chris nodded. "There's the Picasso. That's about the biggest thing to happen to the museum since the new building. Maybe longer."

"I heard she was getting a big-time painting."

"She wasn't getting it, the university was. It's a gift from an alum, Howard Randall. I gave you his name last night, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did, Doc. Haven't found him yet, but we're looking. This is a big deal, right?"

"One estimate sets the worth of the painting at more than twenty-five million. That's almost as much as the new museum building cost."

Ryquist whistled. "Where is this painting?"

"It's somewhere in the museum, I'm sure. I've never seen it myself. Elizabeth was planning a gala unveiling for December eleventh and no one was supposed to see it beforehand. She was guarding it like Cerberus."

"Like who?"

"The three-headed dog that guards Hades," Chris responded, immediately regretting the elitist allusion.

"You get along with the deceased, Doc?"

"I got used to her being perpetually crabby. Most of the time we had a working truce going."

When they arrived, the doors were still crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape. Ryquist knocked and an officer Chris recognized from the night before pushed one open enough to admit them. As they entered the broad, two-story atrium, Chris glanced longingly to the right where Lotta Latte was dark and empty. Ryquist led the way to the sculpture gallery. The first thing Chris noticed was how quiet the place was. All the sculptures had been unplugged. The second was the large hole in the carpet where the bloodstain had been. Two officers were measuring distances, one using a tape measure, the other noting the dimensions.

"Anything different in here, Doc? From when the show was going, I mean."

"Nothing's working, you mean?"

"Got to be too distracting. No, I mean is anything missing, rearranged, what have you." Ryquist stood with his arms folded just inside the gallery door. "Go ahead. Walk around if you want."

Chris walked in and looked around. The ladder was standing now. She noticed black smudges on its sides that she presumed were left over from fingerprinting. She took in the large rectangular hole in the carpet and the spotlights, one of which was still out. She looked at the sculptures.

The room seemed remarkably unfinished without the motion and noise the kinetic sculptures normally made. She walked slowly around the room and stopped by the Pencil Sharpener.

Ryquist joined her. He chuckled. "This is a good one." He bent and plugged the "Do-Nothing" back in. When he pushed the ostentatious red button on top of the polished walnut box, soft whirring began and a metal extension arm rose out of a trap door at the rear. This arm reached for a pencil lying in a trough on top of the box. When it had clamped firmly on the pencil, it rose again and moved to the front where a second arm pushed a metal flap aside exposing a pencil-sharpener sized hole. The first arm inserted the pencil and grinding replaced the whirring. After about three seconds the arm withdrew the pencil and returned it to the trough on top of the box before it retracted and disappeared from sight with a decisive bang.

"I had to unplug all these things because the guys were spending more time playing with them than working the scene," Ryquist confided under his breath.

Chris smiled. "You should have seen it yesterday during the opening, Hjelmer. It was like my son's eighth grade science fair."

"I can see why. So okay, Doc, keep looking around. Tell me about anything that's different or out of place."

Chris continued to move around the gallery, wondering what she was supposed to be seeing. Then it hit her. One piece was missing. Its pedestal was the one normally illuminated by the burned-out bulb. How did I miss that last night? She pointed at the pedestal. "Did you take the sculpture that's supposed to be there, Hjelmer?"

"Nope. Describe it."

"It was about eighteen inches high and all chrome." She gestured with her hands. "About this wide. It had five or six metal tubes about eight inches long arranged sort of like a Gatling gun. They shot big ball bearings at a concave dish about every five seconds. It was one of the noisiest pieces in here." She looked around, expecting to see it somewhere on the floor.

Ryquist didn't move. "Interesting, Doc. How'd it do that?"

"Electro-magnetism, I was told, but I don't really understand it. Richard would be able to explain it."

"Was it working all right at the opening?"

"Yes. My son and his friend were particularly fascinated with it. Where did it go?"

"Let's look around. You'd recognize it if you saw it?"

"Sure, but why didn't I notice it was missing last night?" Suddenly the earlier revelation surfaced about the "big round metal thing" in Elizabeth's ruined skull. A startled, "Oh!" escaped unbidden.

"You see why I'm interested?"

"Yes."

Ryquist headed toward the docent's desk and the door leading down to the working areas of the museum with Chris trailing after.

"I even looked at the pedestal to see if she'd hit her head on it. I just didn't register that it was gone." She shook her head.

"You were in shock. Weird stuff happens in that kind of situation.

They stopped in Elizabeth's office and Ryquist picked up the keys that lay in the middle of an otherwise clean desk. "Everything's been printed in here so we can use these." He started for the door.

Chris, with newfound sensitivity to anomalies in her environment, asked, "Was the desk this free of papers when the police found it?"

Ryquist stopped to look at her. "Yep. Why?"

"It's just that her desk was usually a mess. I never saw it this tidy before."

Ryquist stopped to make a note in his small black leather notebook. "Interesting."

Detective Sergeant Ryquist and Chris Connery started on a tour of the art museum storerooms using Elizabeth Page's bundle of keys. The crate that contained the Picasso was in the first storeroom they entered. Chris wanted to open it right then and there, but Ryquist was on a mission to find the missing Bjornson sculpture and shooed her through the door and on to the next room.

By the time they had inspected every room, closet and cubbyhole in the museum it was nearly four-thirty. There was no trace of the small sculpture.

"You know, Hjelmer, Richard will have a photo of the piece. Artists usually photograph their work before it's exhibited or sold."

"Guess I'll have to go see him pretty soon," Ryquist said as they climbed the back stairs to the main level of the museum. "So tell me, Doc, what's that article Westphall wrote got to do with the price of beans?"

"You mean why was Antonia mad?"

"Yeah. And why'd Page cut it? Something wrong with the article?"

Chris knew her answer could put Antonia high on Ryquist's suspect list. She considered her words. "Elizabeth said it was too long and would add too much to the cost of printing so she cut it. The printer says it should be done by Wednesday or Thursday, by the way."

Ryquist stopped and turned to face her. "So it's fixed."

"Yes... at least, it soon will be." He regarded her without speaking. He obviously wanted more. "It was important to Antonia since she's up for tenure next year. It would be a good thing to have on her résumé."

"Tenure," Ryquist said as they continued back to the sculpture gallery. He stopped in the doorway and turned to face Chris. "Hey, I've got a minute. Tell me about tenure, Doc." Arms folded, he listened attentively.

Chris fumbled around for a moment. Tenure is nearly inexplicable outside of academe, she thought. Where do I start? "Tenure protects a professor's right to teach what he or she believes to be the truth... the best information available. You can't be fired for espousing unpopular ideas or researching things someone might not want you to research." She stopped, trying to collect her thoughts.

"So someone with tenure could tell students the world was flat, right?"

Chris shook her head. "Someone who believed that wouldn't be likely to get hired, let alone get tenure. You need to produce research that's reviewed by your peers, experts in your field. Articles in refereed journals, papers presented at conferences—stuff like that. A flat-worlder wouldn't be able to get an article into a legitimate professional journal. Other scientists would laugh it out of town."

"So if a guy went around the bend after he got tenure, he could tell kids the world is flat?"

"Lots of people think that, but it isn't true. You can be fired, even with tenure. It's just harder. Tenure is meant to protect the higher education system from political pressure and the vagaries of intellectual fads."

"So Antonia Westphall doesn't have tenure and this article is going to add to her credentials, right? Why would she care if she got tenure or not? What kind of political controversy could there be around artists who've been dead, what, 400 years?" He gestured toward the painting they were standing next to, an impossibly pretty nude man seen from the back and yet looking out at the viewer so completely that Chris always expected his head to fall off. "Nobody would be likely to kick up a political fuss about some dead painters, would they?"

"Well, for one thing, if you don't get tenure, you don't get to keep your job."

"So it matters to her, even though nobody gets excited about dead artists."

"I didn't say that, Hjelmer. You wouldn't believe the controversies swirling around dead artists. Just the fact that she didn't include any female artists in the exhibition or the article will get her flak from some quarters. The fact that she didn't emphasize the fact that a couple of these guys were gay will bring the house down on her in other quarters. That fact that they are all dead white men is hugely controversial right now and has been, off and on, for thirty years."

Ryquist stood looking at the floor and pulling his lower lip. "Tempests in teapots," he said at last without looking up.

Chris shrugged. "Still a big deal to the folks inside the teapots."

"Reason enough for murder, Doc. Teapots are always coming to a boil."

Chris gasped. "But she knew it was taken care of, Hjelmer! She didn't have a reason to kill Elizabeth!"

"Yeah, that's what you said. Still, I bet she wasn't over being mad about it." Ryquist turned into the sculpture gallery doorway and looked around. "Don't worry, Doc. I need to cover all the bases, but I try not to jump to conclusions."

Chris was not much comforted by that. After a moment she asked, "Do you need me any more today? I've got a lot to do at the office and—"

"Yep, but not much longer, Doc. Let's go back to Page's office where we can talk a little bit. Then I'll let you go."

Back in the museum director's office Ryquist invited Chris to sit and took the desk chair for himself. He sat for a moment, opening and closing drawers. "How big a mess was usually on her desk?"

"Most of the time it was six inches deep in spots. I never did understand how she found anything, but she seemed to know right where everything was."

"She clean it up for the opening?"

"Why? Nobody comes down here. This is off limits to the public. Besides, I remember once her assistant came in here and hunted for something when Elizabeth was out of town. She almost fired her over it. Said she'd messed up her system."

"Okay. Now tell me about anyone else you know had a beef with her." He sat back in the chair and swiveled back and forth as he listened.

"It's a long list, Hjelmer. She was rude to her employees and sometimes even to her volunteers. I never could figure out why they put up with it. They aren't even getting paid."

"That's what we've heard from a lot of people." He stopped swiveling and looked at Chris. "She was even giving the Picasso guy—what's his name? Randall?—a hard time, I hear."

"That was out of character for her, Hjelmer. I noticed that Mr. Randall didn't seem to be too pleased with her at the opening, but I can't imagine why or what she would have done or said to annoy him. That was one thing she was extraordinarily good at."

"What was?"

"Dealing with the rich and powerful. She could get a donation out of Scrooge himself. She raised the majority of the funds by herself to build this museum. She was thrilled to be getting the Picasso. I can't believe she'd have said or done something on purpose to offend him."

"Maybe not on purpose," Ryquist said. "Anyway, we hear Randall was pretty frosty with her. Someone said he cut her dead at the opening."

Chris grimaced. "Not a happy metaphor, Hjelmer."

He grinned.

Chris shrugged. "I guess you'll have to ask Mr. Randall about it, but I wouldn't read too much into it."

"So who else, Doc? Somebody disliked the lady enough to plug her. There's usually some forewarning. Who else had trouble with her? She screw anyone else out of getting tenure, for example?"

"Not that I know of. She'd been here three years longer than I have, but I would have heard something, I'm sure. You can't keep a secret on a university campus. The grapevine grows faster than the speed of light."

After going over the list of people who'd had regular dealings with Page, Ryquist rose and stretched. As they climbed the stairs back to the main level, he said, "Thanks, Doc. You've been helpful."

"When can I get a look at the Picasso?"

"Soon. Like I said, if we don't find anything new, we'll release the building tomorrow morning."

"By seven a.m.?"

"People need their art fix at that time of day?"

"More likely their caffeine fix," Chris said, staring longingly at the shuttered Lotta Latte.

Ryquist held the yellow tape up for her to pass through. "Maybe you should bring a Thermos, just in case we find some reason to hang on to this joint."

Chris trudged back to Fine Arts with that happy thought as her companion.

Chapter 4

The day before Thanksgiving dawned cool, crisp and cloudless. Chris took a deep breath and looked around when she put Walter out in his run. She hadn't had a moment to enjoy the fall weather, which had returned as if the weekend snow had never happened. Having a day or two off will be a relief, she thought if I can just get through today. She and her son Drew would have turkey and pumpkin pie and watch football. The idea cheered her.

Drew Haggerty, the product of her early, unsuccessful marriage to Andy Haggerty, was a freshman at Midstate. Since he'd moved into the dorm in August, she'd had to adjust to having only Walter for company. It hadn't been easy. Of course, Drew appeared occasionally to do his laundry or mooch a meal, but it wasn't the same as always having someone sharing her space.

After a slow ramble across campus from the parking garage by way of the reopened Lotta Latte, looking at the sky and feeling the sun warm her cheeks, she was in a reasonably festive mood when she reached the office.

Charlie Ingquist leaped up and hustled her into her office, closing the door behind them before she'd had time to say hello.

"They found it!"

"Found what?" Chris asked.

His eyes grew wide and his eyebrows levitated. "The Do-Nothing! The one that was missing from the show!"

The fact that Chris had said nothing to anyone about the missing sculpture after Ryquist told her not to caused her own eyebrows to raise.

Charlie went on. "Last night Bjornson was getting something out of one of those bins where they store wood scraps and there it was. Binty Buchanan just told me. Bjornson called the police because they'd been asking about it and they came and took him and the sculpture away. Can you believe it?"

"Away? As in, away? To jail?"

"Well, Binty just said they asked him to come with them to show them how it worked and he went. But jeez, how'd it get there? And what if he doesn't come back in time for his classes today?"

Chris waved that concern away. "Well, it's the day before Thanksgiving. His classes are all in the afternoon. What chance do you think he has of having many students show up anyway? How did it get in there?" she wondered aloud.

"Good question," Charlie said. "He couldn't have done it, could he? I mean, you said he was really drunk, right?"

"Close to passing out, I thought." _He couldn't have done it, could he?_ She shook her head. _No, he was too drunk. Of course, it's possible to fake being drunk. But why would he kill the woman who had just arranged a successful show for him? No._

After lunch Detective Sergeant Ryquist sat across from Chris, looking as guileless as he always did. Chris's guard was naturally up.

"So, how come you haven't opened the Picasso crate yet, Doc?"

"I've been really busy. Monday you wouldn't let me near it. What's changed?" She tried to make it a casual question rather than a suspicious one.

"Well, you said it was worth twenty-five mil. I'm not touching it myself." He laughed. "Besides, I'm just covering all the bases looking for a motive to explain why the lady was done in. What if the Picasso was stolen? Ever think about that?"

"Jeez Louise! No, I never thought about that! Let's go!" Chris was on her feet and moving before Ryquist could respond. She told Charlie where she'd be and waited impatiently while Ryquist put his trench coat back on with maddening deliberation.

"If it's gone, Doc, it's gone. Nobody could have stolen it since the murder, so we don't need to set the land speed record getting over there," Ryquist huffed as they left the Fine Arts Complex.

Chris slowed her pace only marginally. "I just never thought... I mean it never occurred to me that.... Oh God! If it's gone the whole Gala will have to be cancelled!"

"How much trouble would that be?"

"The invitations are already out to five hundred and fifty members of the A-list statewide. It would be embarrassing at the least and really bad publicity at the worst, I guess."

"Can't be worse than murder, Doc," Ryquist offered with eminent logic.

Chris laughed at herself. "Sorry. It's just that I've been charged with taking over Elizabeth's job arranging the Gala and I've been obsessing about it for two days. I wouldn't be totally unhappy if we had to cancel."

When they reached the museum they found Madge Turner, Docent-in-Chief, sitting at the desk. "Dr. Connery, Ms. Jacobsen has been wondering how long before she can get into Ms. Page's office. She needs some files, I guess." Though her question was directed at Chris, Madge's eyes never left the detective.

Chris turned to Ryquist. He had released the museum on Tuesday morning with the exception of the director's office. He looked mildly exasperated and then relented. "I'll check with the shop and let you know. Probably this afternoon."

They descended the four steps to the working level of the museum and walked past the director's office to the first storeroom on the left. Once inside they lifted the crate onto the worktable in the center of the room and hunted separately for Phillips screwdrivers in the many drawers and cabinets that lined the walls. When they were equipped they started unscrewing the lid by working on either side of the table. The crate was over four feet long and nearly that in width. The lid was held in place by screws every six inches. It took awhile.

When the lid was free, they each took a side and walked it down to the far end of the table. Chris lifted the thin layer of protective glassine paper. Picasso's Still Life with Pipe and Wine Bottle lay face up in the garish light of the fluorescents overhead. Chris had seen very inadequate reproductions of the piece on the Internet. Seeing it in person was a totally different experience.

"What's it supposed to be?" Ryquist asked after a moment.

"See the shape of the wine bottle there? And this is a pipe. These collaged newspaper scraps are sort of the table top, or they might be the shadows of the objects."

Ryquist said nothing more. Chris could read his mind. Twenty-five million dollars divided by 2016 square inches. "Lots of money, isn't it, for just paint on canvas," she commented at last.

Ryquist nodded. "Well, at least it ain't missing," he said. "You wanna box it back up?"

"In a minute," Chris answered. "I've been so curious about this piece I can't put it away so fast."

They took hold from their respective sides and lifted it straight up to remove it from the box. Chris stood back and surveyed it after they'd propped it on an easel. "It's brighter than I thought it would be, but these lights are terrible for seeing color accurately."

Ryquist folded his arms and stared at it. "You like this thing, Doc?"

"I know it's a very important piece, but I'm not particularly fond of the style." That was an understatement. She'd never had a personal connection to Cubism, neither the Analytical nor the Synthetic phase. It was overly self-conscious and unlovely to her eye, but there was no denying its impact on the world of European art for fifty years afterward. They lifted the painting and prepared to fit it back into its padded slot. Chris glanced at the back before they laid it flat in the case again. She stopped.

"See that? One of the most famous art dealers in Europe put that label on there. Kahnweiler was Picasso's dealer." In spite of her lack of aesthetic response to the painting, the sense of time and place the work represented gave her a little adrenalin jolt. She surveyed the back for a moment longer before they carefully laid the painting in the box.

When Chris returned to the office, Charlie reported that Bjornson was in the building, apparently unarrested for the time being. She went immediately to the sculpture studio to see for herself. Bjornson was staring disconsolately into space when she entered his office. "You okay, Richard? I heard you found the missing sculpture."

"How drunk was I, Chris?" Bjornson asked without preamble. "I know you took me home, but I just don't remember so I must have been pretty bad off, huh?"

"I didn't take you home, Richard. Colin McCarty did. Can't you remember anything about it?"

He grimaced. "Guess not. The police wanted to know if I went back later, but I don't think so. I think I passed out on the couch 'cause that's where I woke up. Drunk or sober, I wouldn't have taken that sculpture. Howard Randall said at the opening he wanted to buy it. Now it's all scratched up and it doesn't work right anymore. I'll have to rebuild it for him if he still wants it." Bjornson looked like he was perilously close to tears.

"What do the police think it has to do with the murder? Did they say?"

"They didn't but they were sure interested in the electro-magnetic system for moving the ball bearings. They want me to demonstrate how it works by building them a sample."

"Why, for heaven's sake?" Chris made a mental note to ask Ryquist the next time she saw him. She was sure that wouldn't be too long.

"I guess what killed her was a ball bearing... just like this piece uses. I tried to tell them this sculpture couldn't have done it because I've got it rigged so the bearings pop out with just enough force to hit the dish across six inches of space. I guess they had to believe me once I got it working again." He sighed. "I wouldn't have hurt her, Chris." He stood. "I've got a class." He left her sitting in his office.

Chris was back in her own office trying to concentrate on the list the Alumni Office sent over of canapés to be provided by the caterer for the Gala. Smoked salmon held no appeal, and her mind kept wandering back to the unbelievable scenario that would include Richard Bjornson cast as a murderer. In her imagination she saw Bjornson, stripped to the waist like Sylvester Stallone, brandishing a sculpture. The phone rang, jolting her out of her fantasy.

Pansy McMillan chirped happily. "Guess what! I'm here! Can you come pick me up?"

"Mother?" Chris managed when she got control of her slack jaw. "What do you mean, you're here? Here, where?"

"At the airport, silly. I just flew in to surprise you for Thanksgiving."

Chapter 5

While Chris drove the twenty-seven miles to the airport Camford shared with three other small towns she wondered what to expect from this visit. Pansy McMillan had been widowed a year and a half earlier. Her third husband, Quentin, had died on the thirteenth green at his country club in Naples, Florida. Since that time she had become a world traveler and was as likely to call her daughter from Morocco as Florida.

Theirs was not an easy mother/daughter relationship. The fact that Pansy carried Quentin's cremated remains with her on her expeditions had been a source of some conflict. Chris thought it was sentimental at best and ghoulish at worst. Pansy had documents explaining the ornate vessel's contents. She would pack it in her checked luggage and off "they" would go.

"Dear Q always wanted to see Venice," Pansy would announce over the phone to Chris, usually from the airport just before her flight was called. Chris had not known Quentin McMillan well—he and her mother had married when she was in college—but she'd liked him and wondered aloud what "Dear Q" would have thought of this process. Pansy thought Chris lacked both sentiment and humor. It was a personality conflict that dated back to Chris's childhood and had settled into a sort of cold war that rarely flared up but also didn't go away.

When Chris arrived at the airport Pansy was in a wheelchair. That drove all thought of tension from her mind.

"I'm sorry I forgot to mention it, Dear One," Pansy said shrugging helplessly.

"I don't know how you could forget something like this, Mom. What happened?"

"Knee surgery." Pansy pointed out her suitcase as it circled on the carousel.

With the help of the flight attendant who had stayed with her since the plane landed, they got to the parking lot and maneuvered Pansy into the station wagon without additional injury.

Once they were on the road Chris tried again to get an explanation. Pansy would only say was that she would need to spend at least six weeks being looked after.

"I wouldn't do this to you, Darling, but you know, it's like that poem by Robert Frost." Oblique as the reference was, Chris immediately recognized the reference to "Death of the Hired Man." "When you have to go there, they have to take you in."

"Mother, don't give it a thought. This will work out fine. Drew and I will set up a system. It'll be fun to have you through the holidays." Chris mentally crossed her fingers.

Before they were back in Camford, Chris used her cell phone to call Drew. He agreed to meet them at the house so he could help get his grandmother safely inside. Pansy started to insist there was no need for special efforts on her behalf, but Chris reminded her of the four steps into the house and the full staircase to the second floor.

When they pulled into the driveway Drew bounced down the back steps, grinning. "How's my best girl?"

Walter cavorted and woofed and got in everyone's way. While Chris tried to subdue the dog's enthusiasm, Drew maneuvered the wheelchair so his grandmother could slide out of the car safely.

"So what did you do to yourself?" he asked as he drew the chair backward up the rear steps and into the kitchen.

"And why didn't you call us?" Chris asked as she followed.

"Dear ones, I didn't have the time. Things happened so fast. I fell last Wednesday. The next thing I knew I was in the hospital and they were saying that surgery was the best choice and bing, I was under the knife." Pansy wheeled her chair somewhat awkwardly toward the living room.

Chris trailed after her. "You still should have called or had someone call for you, Mother."

"I need crutches or a walker. I'm supposed to use them several times a day for a while until I'm ready for physical therapy," Pansy said. "Is there some place in Camford I can find a physical therapist? There must be. Anyway, isn't this going to be fun? We haven't spent Thanksgiving and Christmas together in years. I'll bet Drew was fifteen the last time you came down to Florida for the holidays. Dear Q would be sorry he missed this."

"Did you bring Quentin with you, Mom?"

"Not this time. He'll just have to spend the holidays alone on my mantle down in Naples. He really never liked the cold you know."

Chris nodded and took a relieved breath. "So please tell us how you fell and tore up your knee."

"Yeah, Gram. What did you do to yourself?" Drew sat on the couch near Pansy.

Pansy, to Chris's astonishment, looked sheepish. "I suppose you two will never let me forget this. I fell into a bunker on the twelfth green."

"Golf?" Chris and Drew said in simultaneous disbelief. "You were playing golf?" Pansy McMillan had never, to her daughter's certain knowledge, expressed a positive interest in the game that was her third husband's obsession. Whenever she had the opportunity she had described it variously as a waste of valuable time or the ruination of a pleasant walk. She fumed that the need to make a tee time subverted their breakfast more times than not, or that there was always some event at the club that prevented their taking a two-week cruise or spending a month in France.

"You were actually playing golf?" Chris had a hard time picturing this.

"Well, I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I took some lessons at the club last spring after I got back from China. I never did get around to relinquishing Q's membership and I thought I'd see what it was like before I did. I actually sort of enjoy it. I mean, I'm not fixated the way Quentin was and I never will be, but it is kind of fun." Pansy continued to look embarrassed.

"Well," was all her daughter could find to say.

Drew said, "That's way cool, Gram. High-five!" They slapped hands. "So are you any good?"

"Well, I keep up with the old ladies, but I may never play again. I'm beginning to think this was an omen. Quentin loved the game. Maybe he's jealous because he can't play anymore."

"I really doubt that he pushed you into the trap, Mother," Chris said, trying to keep a sensible core to the conversation that frequently, with her mother, would spin out of control.

"They're not traps. They're bunkers," Pansy said, then turned to Drew. "I feel his presence, you know,"

Chris said, "How could you not, toting him around the world as you do? Don't you take him with you in your golf bag?" Why does my mother always make me feel like she's a teenager and I'm the parent. She checked her watch. Slightly less than two hours... right on schedule.

Sleeping arrangements seemed difficult until they finally settled Pansy on the convertible sofa in the office on the main floor. Better a little discomfort on the lumpy couch than negotiating the staircase. Chris moved her computer to the guest bedroom on the second floor and worked out a plan with Drew for meeting Pansy's needs with minimal fuss.

Thanksgiving dinner the next day went remarkably well. Pansy chopped vegetables on a board on her lap in the living room and watched football with Drew. Chris did the cooking. It was the first Thanksgiving she could remember in which a difference of opinion over how to make the stuffing didn't threaten to give her indigestion.

For her part Pansy worked at being the perfect guest and seemed delighted by her family's extra attention. When the police dropped by on Friday morning, a casual observer would have thought the murder had been arranged exclusively for her entertainment.

Hjelmer Ryquist rang the bell at nine. He was hardly in a holiday mood but that changed when he was introduced to Pansy McMillan. "Pansy... that's an unusual name." He sat and accepted Chris's offer of coffee.

"I have seven sisters and we're all named for flowers. My father wasn't a gardener, but he had a Burpee catalog, or so the story goes."

Ryquist grinned. "So what are the others' names?"

"Iris, Marigold, Daisy, Petunia, Rose—she's the oldest—Lily and Daffodil. My father said they had to stop having children because he didn't want to name a child Oleander."

In the kitchen Chris poured coffee and warmed cinnamon rolls in the microwave. When she came into the living room with a tray, Ryquist was chuckling and grinning at Pansy in what was, for Chris, a rerun of the reaction to her mother of every male she'd ever known.

"Thanks, Doc," Ryquist said and took a big bite of roll.

Pansy leaned forward in her wheelchair with a winning smile. "Now, Hjelmer, you need to tell me all about the murder. Chris has told me some things, but I need to hear all the details."

Chris thought, Fat chance of that happening.

Licking his fingers and wadding up a paper napkin, Ryquist defied her expectations. "Okay, Pansy, what would you like to know?"

By the time he'd laid out the situation for Pansy, Chris had confirmed a lot that she'd suspected and learned a number of things for the first time. Elizabeth Page had been killed in the room where she was found very shortly after she left the message on Chris's answering machine. Said machine had been plugged in all week at police headquarters and checked periodically. It seemed to keep perfect time. Thus the police were willing to accept that she had died shortly after 5:54 p.m.

The autopsy had been completed downstate. Elizabeth hadn't been drunk, but the rest of the toxicology reports wouldn't be in until later. She had died within minutes, if not seconds, of sustaining a massive head injury caused by the half-inch stainless steel ball bearing found in her skull. The bearing had no significant marks on it. There was nothing to suggest how it got into her skull other than it did so with great force. She hadn't fallen off the ladder unless she'd been standing on the bottom rung because she had no injury consistent with falling from a height.

"What about a slingshot?" Pansy inquired eagerly.

"Take a pretty big one," Ryquist said slowly. "I suppose we should look into that."

"Absolutely, Hjelmer. I know something about slingshots. There are hunting ones that might do the job. I think you'd have to get off a lucky shot though." Pansy stopped and blushed. "Well, you know what I mean. You'd have to hit a person just right."

Ryquist chuckled. "Now how do you know about such things?"

"When I was trying to reeducate the Thompsons' nasty old cat I tried to get one big enough to do him in, but they talked me into one that would have been good for killing birds, but not bigger game. They said I would have a hard time pulling a bigger one."

"Mother!" Chris gasped. "You wouldn't have tried to kill Thomas, would you?"

"Well, maybe not, but he made me so mad that I inquired. Once he found out he'd get whacked when he sprayed our back door, he stayed away so I didn't need to pursue it."

"Mrs. Thompson would never have forgiven you."

"Marybelle Thompson was an old poop and so was her cat," Pansy said positively and sipped her coffee. Hjelmer Ryquist nearly choked. Chris made a helpless gesture behind her mother's back.

"Actually, Pansy, we have an idea that something a bit more exotic might have done the job," Ryquist said when he'd recovered. He described the not-so-subtle hint they'd gotten from the sculpture found in the wood scrap bin in the sculpture studio. "We messed with it on Wednesday. Had Bjornson show us how it worked. No way it could have done the job. Not powerful enough. But something like it, a stronger version, maybe."

"You don't really think Richard Bjornson could have done it, do you?" Chris asked skeptically. "He's got a mean streak when comes to practical jokes, but I think he's more juvenile than murderous."

"I hear you, Doc, but he's the only one I know of close to the case who knows how to make electro-magnetism move ball bearings." Ryquist shrugged. "Got to put him at the top of the list for the time being."

Chris shook her head. "I understand from my son that diagrams for things like that are on the Internet. He and his friend Ted have been looking at them for their physics class. At least, he says that's why they're looking at them. Does that make them suspects too?"

Pansy and Ryquist spoke at once. Pansy's "You don't mean it!" was laid over Ryquist's "What do you mean?" He held up his hand to keep Pansy at bay for a moment. "Explain that, Doc."

"Drew said Ted found plans for building unusual devices for shooting things on the Internet. That's where they got the plans for the potato cannon they were messing around with last week. Why wouldn't there be plans for something like the system Bjornson uses? I'm guessing he didn't invent it."

Once again Ryquist and her mother spoke simultaneously. This time Pansy won. "What's Drew doing with guns?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"It wasn't a real gun, Mother. They made some kind of cannon thing that shoots potatoes. They used hairspray for the propellant. They didn't tell me what they were up to until they'd done it, but it seemed to go okay and they didn't hit anyone or hurt themselves. They were just trying to see how far they could blow a potato."

"You say they found plans for an electro-magnetic gun on the 'Net?" Ryquist asked when he could get a word in.

"I guess so. They were talking about that and some other things when they were over here for dinner a couple of weekends ago. It connected in my head because I knew what Bjornson's show was going to be like and I suggested they go see him at work. Drew could tell you, I'm sure."

"Where can I find him, Doc?"

"He's upstairs, sleeping. Do you want me to wake him?"

"Nah, it can wait. Right now I got another problem you can help me with. That's why I stopped by. I'd like you to go over to Page's apartment with me. Can you do that?"

Chris looked at her mother.

Pansy fluttered her hands in a shooing gesture. "I'll be fine."

"I'll get my coat."

When they entered Elizabeth Page's apartment a half-hour later, Chris was embarrassed by her own prying curiosity. Elizabeth would have hated having people tromping through her home, or at least so Chris imagined. When the door opened on a tidy arrangement of Scandinavian furniture and area rugs, she was taken aback. This was not what she'd imagined, though truthfully she'd never given Elizabeth's home a moment's thought until this morning. Teakwood and cloth-cushioned chairs, sleek end tables, bookshelves packed neatly with books, and small pedestals displaying objects from around the world created a designer look that was very attractive, even welcoming.

"You ever been here?" Ryquist asked as they stood in the small foyer. The kitchen opened to the left and the great room was straight ahead.

"Never, Hjelmer."

"Well, you knew the lady better than me, so check it out. I want to see if your impressions are the same as mine." He gestured for her to look around. "Tell me what you think."

The kitchen was tidy, nothing on the drain board or in the sink. It was a typical apartment dweller's kitchen, small and convenient as long as you didn't try to do Thanksgiving dinner for twelve. Chris moved into the living room and looked around. The sensation of being a voyeur was disappearing fast because there was literally nothing out of place. It looked like a model home. There were no newspapers, no magazines, no personal pictures. Only artfully designed furniture, just-right vases with silk flowers, and small sculptures on elegant pedestals.

She picked up an elaborately carved black wood figure and turned it over. The label said it was Benin. Original African sculpture. She set it back down.

"She had a nice collection, Hjelmer." Chris gestured. "These are worth a packet."

"Keep going, Doc. Anything strike you about this room?"

"You mean that she didn't live in it?"

"Yeah, like that. Tell me more."

"I never heard of her having big parties, but maybe she invited her board members and people she was schmoozing over for drinks. This would be an impressive place to entertain a few people."

"Look over the rest of the place, Doc."

Chris obediently started down the hallway, poking her head first into the bathroom to the right. Neat as a pin. Fresh towels laid out, nothing in the wastebasket.

"She must have had a cleaning service, Hjelmer," she said as she backed out of the room and continued down the hall.

"My thought exactly," Ryquist said as he followed. He almost ran into her when she stopped suddenly.

"When was this place cleaned last?" She turned to face him. "So far it looks like she never set foot in it."

"We haven't talked to the cleaning lady yet. Out of town for the holiday, but if I had to guess I'd say it was cleaned on Monday morning. We didn't send anyone over here until Monday afternoon and this is the way it looked."

"Whoever it is must have a key."

He nodded. "Would seem so. We'll see."

The master bedroom lay straight ahead. It too was a model of tidiness though here there was actual evidence of Page's presence in the form of two shirts and a skirt on the end of the bed. They were neatly folded. There were five pairs of shoes with varying heel heights standing at attention in a perfect line facing the closet door.

Chris shrugged. "The cleaner tidied up, folded the clothes. Elizabeth probably left them lying around when she got dressed for the opening."

"Check out the other bedroom. She used that as an office." Ryquist led the way back a short distance up the hall and opened the door.

Chris said "Well!" and stopped just inside the door. She took in a disorder that spoke of the same filing skills Elizabeth guarded so jealously at the museum. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of books, papers, and magazines stuffed helter-skelter in every crack and crevasse. Copies of Art News and Art in America filled a bottom shelf to the left of the door. Additional copies for which there was no room were piled next to the bookcase.

The desk was a teakwood table set at a right angle to the wall. Beneath it was what Chris took to be a filing cabinet, also in teak. The table held a lamp, a miscellany of pens and paperclips, and computer cables that lead from the printer on the left to nowhere.

"Did you take her computer, Hjelmer?"

"Yep. That's all we took though. Otherwise it's exactly as we found it."

Chris looked at the dusty footprint of the computer. Dust was missing from most of the rest of surface of the desk, but it clearly outlined the computer.

"She didn't let the cleaner come in here," Chris said at last.

"That's what I was thinking," Ryquist agreed.

"So where are the papers and things that must have been on the desk from here to here?" She gestured at the more or less dust-free area that was the majority of the table.

"We're wondering about that too. Check out the file cabinet."

The cabinet was under the table to the left. Chris bent and tried to open the face. It wouldn't budge. Kneeling, she inspected the wood. Barely perceptible lines told her what she needed to know and instead of trying to swing a door to the right or left, she pushed down on the trim strip. In a miracle of Danish design and craftsmanship the front slid down and out of sight like a roll-top desk in reverse.

Inside were conventional file drawers that pulled out in the usual way. One drawer was full of old tax returns and related receipts going back about twelve years. The other held nothing. About eighteen inches of empty space suggested a lot of missing material.

Chris stood and looked at Ryquist.

"So, you think she's likely to have scooped up a bunch of papers or whatever and done something with them?" he asked.

"I have no idea, Hjelmer. It's like her desk at the museum."

"Sure is, Doc. I'm guessing someone took all the papers on the desk and in that drawer. Just like in the museum. Now, another reason I brought you here.... When we got here there was one file folder on the floor in the hall." He moved to the doorway and pointed toward the living room.

"Whoever it was dropped something?" Chris joined Ryquist in the hall.

"Not much in it but this envelope." He fished in his breast pocket and withdrew a plastic bag marked with the location and time it was recovered. An unsealed business envelope inside was addressed to "Dr. Christmas Connery, Head Bitch, Division of Fine Arts."

Chris stared at it, transfixed. She looked up at Ryquist. "What was in it?"

The policemen seemed to regard her with X-ray vision. "A letter of resignation."

"Elizabeth's? She was going to quit?"

"It wasn't dated. Maybe she was just keeping it on reserve."

"I can't believe she'd quit—not unless she had a better job at a bigger museum. Did she say why she was leaving?"

"Nope. Just that you should put the museum and all its parts where the sun don't shine."

"Ouch."

"No kidding. You had no idea?"

"None. Not that I'd have been unhappy to see her go, frankly. Good as she was at running a going institution, I'd have welcomed the chance to work with someone else, someone less confrontational. She took a lot of energy."

Ryquist didn't say anything immediately.

"Hjelmer, I didn't kill her."

"Pretty sure that's true, Doc, but I gotta cross all the Ts, ya know? So you didn't have any idea she was thinking of quitting?"

"I'd have thought she was more likely to have considered it back when I first came. That was a rough year. Maybe the letter was a leftover."

"Just kept it for sentimental reasons?"

Chris smiled. "You might say that."

"Okay, Doc. One more factor to file with all the other loose ends."

It was almost noon when they arrived back at Chris's house. Pansy peppered Ryquist with questions, which he answered with what seemed to Chris to be very un-policeman-like abandon.

Drew stumbled downstairs. Chris introduced Ryquist, and he immediately began asking questions about potato cannons, E-M guns and the Internet. Drew rubbed his face and blinked.

Chris took pity on him and poured him a cup of coffee. "Give him a minute, Hjelmer. It's taken him half an hour to wake up since he was born."

By the time Drew was awake and articulate, the coffee was gone and a fresh pot was brewing. Pansy insisted from the doorway of the kitchen that everyone sit down for turkey sandwiches and leftover stuffing. No one paid her much attention as they listened to Drew explain where he thought Ted had found the plans on the 'Net.

"You got copies of these plans?" Ryquist asked.

Drew shrugged. "Just the potato cannon. Ted's got the other one. He's way interested in that stuff. I just go along for grins."

"What's Ted's address?"

Drew gave it.

"He in town or what?"

"He's at his folks' place in Maryville. He'll be back Sunday night."

Frustrated with that line of inquiry until then, Ryquist prepared to leave.

Pansy wheeled herself out of the kitchen with a tray of sandwiches on her lap and announced lunch. Chris, who had never yet seen a man capable of resisting her mother when she was determined, was not surprised to see Ryquist remove his coat and sit at the dining room table.

Chapter 6

Before Chris had been at the office more than an hour the following Monday, ramping up preparations for the Gala Unveiling had taken over her life. The beleaguered staff of the Public Relations Office might still be engaged in damage control, but the murder seemed to have slipped into a poor second in the competition for the university administration's attention. For once they were throwing themselves into an arts event. Chris later reflected that the intensity of their interest in this project was directly proportional to their inability to control events related to the murder. The president, the provost and the dean had something important to do that prevented their concentrating too long or too hard on who killed Elizabeth Page.

When Drew stopped by the office in the afternoon that day to report that Ted Olsen had delivered the plans for an electro-magnetic gun to the police department, Chris had only a moment to consider the implications before she had to dash to another meeting. As Drew walked with her toward the administration building, she insisted, "Promise me you two won't build one of those things, Drew."

Drew grimaced, but promised, and they parted at an intersection where President Grover Wilmot (1897-1901) sat rigid on his plinth. A filthy Santa Claus hat drooped over one of his bronze eyes and he glared out at the world with the other, clearly offended by the impertinence. Chris chuckled for the first and last time that day.

If she expected anyone at the meeting to bring up the subject of murder, she was disappointed. The provost only grunted when she told him that Rachael Jacobsen was assuming responsibility for the museum's daily operations for the moment. Dean Lorraine Campbell-McFee, when given the same information said, "Good, good... we'll deal with it later," and returned to perusing the list of RSVPs. The president's main concern seemed to be that no one do or say anything to offend Howard Randall by any means, intentional or inadvertent. Chris wondered whether the donor would think it appropriate to have a grand party in his honor when there was an unsolved murder in their midst, but she swallowed the impulse to bring it up.

"Randall and his wife will be here the Friday before the Gala," the president announced as the meeting was drawing to a close. "He says they have a cabin down at Little Walk that he hasn't seen in years and they plan to stay there, but what if packrats have moved in? I think we should make the gesture to put them up at the Camford Inn. If he turns us down, so be it."

So Randall is keeping in touch by some means, Chris thought. She wondered whether the Camford police knew as much as the administration did about his whereabouts. She'd have to ask Ryquist.

Later that day Antonia Westphall stuck her head in Chris's door and said in what passed for a whisper, "Have they been talking to you, Chris? The police?" The little art historian was infamous for one distinguishing characteristic: her voice. In spite of her size, under five feet, she possessed a resonant alto that could be heard over the babble of dozens of undergraduates with minimal effort on her part. No one ignored her when she opened her mouth.

"Off and on, Antonia." Chris waved her in. "Shut the door, please."

When she had perched on the edge of the visitor's chair, Antonia said, "Well, I just don't know what more I can tell them. I mean, it was fixed. You fixed the catalog fiasco, Chris. I was angry, of course. Who wouldn't be? But, Dios mio, I wouldn't kill anybody! Well, maybe Fidel if I got the chance, but no one else." She made wrinkles in her skirt with nervous fingers. "Why do they keep coming back to me?"

"Maybe they're checking to see if your story is consistent or if you remember something more." Chris immediately regretted saying anything.

Antonia's eyes got very round. "Madre de Dios! Have I changed my story?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant. I meant they might need to make sure they understand exactly what you've said. You know how easy it is to misinterpret things." Like right now, for example.

"I went home after the opening. That's all I did. My downstairs neighbors were gone so they can't say when I came in. I don't know when they got home, but the police have been talking to them too. I don't have an alibi!"

Chris thought maybe only the students in the soundproof practice rooms in the music wing failed to hear Antonia's lament.

"Antonia, I am so sorry you're upset this way. What can I do?"

Antonia looked out the window for a beat. "Nothing," she said at last in the lowest decibels that passed her lips since Chris had known her.

"If you weren't out and about that night, the police won't be able to find anyone who can say you were, right? Tell them the truth and you'll be fine."

"I'm not sure what the truth is anymore. I've been over it so many times in my own mind. Maybe I went for a walk. Maybe I forgot going to a movie. I just don't know anymore." She rose a little shakily and reached for a tissue on Chris's desk. "I just don't know anymore." She left.

Chris looked after her colleague for a moment. Will life ever get back to normal? When the phone rang ten minutes later and it was her dean, Chris expected to be brought back to the everyday realities of campus life. Instead she found that the police also had visited Lorraine Campbell-McFee.

"I just thought you should know that they are starting to ask a lot of questions about how and why the museum ended up in the Division of Fine Arts. Apparently the board members have been sharing what they knew about Elizabeth's fight for autonomy."

"I guess I'll have to explain my part in it to Ryquist."

"Luckily you didn't have much part in it. I just thought you should know." The dean rang off.

Chris stared out her window, reviewing what she knew first hand or had heard through the grapevine about the politics of placing the museum in her jurisdiction when she was first hired. Elizabeth Page had operated autonomously from the time she was hired. By the end of the second year her budget over-runs were beginning to push the president and the provost past annoyed toward thoughts of firing her. When Chris was hired they simply moved the problem to the Division of Fine Arts and waited to see how the new director would deal with it.

Chris vividly remembered her first encounter with Page. It had happened within Chris's first week as director of the Division of Fine Arts. When the museum director walked in and sat in the visitor's chair she was elegantly dressed and graceful in her movements. She seemed poised and very attractive. Then she opened her mouth.

Elizabeth Page saw no reason to keep her displeasure with the turn of events from her new boss. She made it very clear that she saw the move as tying a dead weight onto the soaring ambitions of her museum. It was, she announced, a short sighted and bureaucratic maneuver that she would continue to fight every way she could.

The dean and other administrators had warned Chris about Director Page. Still, Chris had been startled by the snide superiority and unabashed disdain Page lavished on her before Chris had even said a word. It was clear that Elizabeth Page was smarting from defeat.

Chris kept her temper despite a great temptation to do otherwise. She listened to the tirade and let Page come to a defiant halt.

"Finished?"

Page nodded.

Chris took a breath. "As long as the arrangement exists in its present form you will abide by the rules of the Division. That means you no longer have sole control of the museum budget or the exhibition schedule. You will report to me as director of the Division of Fine Arts. You will not try to make 'end runs' unless you're prepared to accept the consequence of having even less control over the affairs of the museum than you currently enjoy. If that is unacceptable, you are certainly free to seek a remedy with the upper administrators, but as they are the very folks who devised this new arrangement, they are unlikely to be sympathetic at present. For that reason, I think you'd be well advised to control your remarks until the arrangement has time to play itself out over the course of the academic year."

Since that confrontation, the passage of five years had tempered their interactions and, although the relationship was never an easy one, the university seemed pleased that the museum no longer overran its budget. The Art Department enjoyed participating in the development of the exhibition schedule and felt well served by the arrangement. Now Chris would have to explain all that to a non-academic who was looking for a motive for murder. She sighed.

The net was being cast far and wide. On Tuesday Chris heard from Charlie that one of his buddies in the registrar's office had heard a very interesting tidbit from a secretary in the president's office. The police had interviewed that august personage about the politics of the museum's presence in the Division of Fine Arts. How information traveled on a university campus was a mystery worthy of a sociology dissertation at the very least.

Richard Bjornson was spending a good bit of time with the police. He still hadn't built an E-M gun for them, but he and Colin McCarty had been interviewed several times about their interaction after the opening. Bjornson maintained he still didn't remember much and McCarty's version of events was thus unsubstantiated. No one had been eliminated as a suspect so far.

By Friday of the second week following the murder, even the Camford Times was finding it difficult to say anything new about it. The police were making no progress, at least none that was visible to the press, and hints about inefficiencies in the department were starting to find their way into the editorial mix.

At breakfast Pansy lowered the paper with a sigh. "It's a shame they haven't found out who did it yet, but based on what Hjelmer told us, they aren't just sitting around like this article implies." She sniffed. "I think people are too quick to judge, don't you, Teensy?"

The reversion to Chris's childhood nickname, out of favor for at least thirty years, made her frown briefly. "I guess so." She resumed reading the business section.

"I wonder whether that young man will be on time this afternoon," Pansy continued, unconscious of any gap in her train of thought. It took Chris a minute to catch up.

"You mean the physical therapist? I'm sure he'll be here as promised unless he doesn't know this part of town and ends up on the north side."

Camford's founding fathers had played a particularly bad joke on later generations by naming streets on either side of the railroad line for members of their own families and neglecting to use north or south designations to clarify things. Politics combined with familial pride created a stalemate in place to this day. One learned eventually that Eleanor Avenue and Elynor Avenue were on different sides of town, but it was a struggle. Camfordites had taken to saying "Eleanor EA" and "Elynor Y" when giving their addresses. Eventually, as if by osmosis, one caught on.

Chris got to the office a few minutes late, diverted only a little by a trip to Lotta Latte. She was thinking pleasant thoughts about the coming weekend when Charlie announced that she was to call Detective Sergeant Hjelmer Ryquist ASAP. Her pleasant thoughts evaporated instantly.

"How you doing, Doc?" Ryquist's baritone boomed cheerfully over the line. "Say, I've got a couple of quick things to discuss with you so I wonder when you're gonna be free today. I'll even buy you a cappuccino, if you've got the time."

They arranged to meet at Lotta Latte at three-thirty. That left the bulk of the day for Chris to stew about what fresh horrors might be coming her way.

When they were seated in the museum coffee shop at the appointed hour Ryquist began talking without being prompted. "Talked to Page's brother last night finally." He paused. "He doesn't sound all that broken up as it happens."

"Maybe they weren't close." Chris sipped her double skinny latte.

"That's an understatement. According to him, the first time Page came back to Oklahoma since she was nineteen was for her mother's funeral in '03. He says she looked down her nose at everybody and left without saying goodbye. He hasn't seen her since."

"Well at least she was consistent," Chris replied. "I wouldn't like to think she was Miss Charm everywhere but here. What does her brother do for a living?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Elizabeth was a bit of social climber. I'm just curious."

"That's why we couldn't find him for so long. He's an over-the-road truck driver. A real bubba by his own description. He said the whole situation was summed up for him by the fact that Elizabeth went ballistic every time he called her by the family nickname."

"And that was...."

"Lizzie."

Chris's mouth fell open. Slender, blond Elizabeth—elegantly coifed and accessorized—Chris had never even thought of calling her anything but Elizabeth. Even Beth, Liz and Betsy all reeked of a familiarity that was clearly unwelcome, but Lizzie? That was so far from logical that she almost choked. She thought of her own detested nickname. "Family names are a pain sometimes, but they don't usually cause a total rift."

"I'm thinking it was sort of symbolic." Ryquist scratched his ear.

"You're probably right, Hjelmer. So what can I help you with?" Chris had been hoping to leave school early today to meet her mother's physical therapist and check on Pansy's progress. It would be good to move this conversation along.

"Well, here's the thing. We found her lawyer and he coughed up her will. She would have left half of her estate to her mother, but since that lady's dead everything goes to the art museum."

"Generous of her," Chris said, surprised. "Did she have much of an estate?"

"What would you expect, Doc?" Ryquist watched her speculatively.

Chris shrugged. "I don't know. The university provides some life insurance and she qualified for teachers' retirement. She didn't own her apartment. I'd be surprised if it was much."

"It was almost two million," Ryquist said.

"Wow!" Chris gasped. "Where'd she get that kind of money?"

"I was hoping you'd help fill me in there."

'"Me? I have no idea. What form is the money in? Did she play the market or something?"

"Mostly mutual funds, some bonds. And a summer place in the Adirondacks worth almost half a mil."

"Some summer place!"

"Told her lawyer it was a gift to her from someone in New York." Ryquist swirled the dregs of his coffee and took the last swallow. "He said she complained about the property taxes every year, but she wouldn't consider selling it."

"This makes you suspicious for some reason, Hjelmer. Why? She had a life before she came here." Chris put her cup down and concentrated on Ryquist's broad face.

"Just wondering if she was the type to blackmail someone, Doc. You think she'd do that?"

Chris went slack jawed again. She finally shook her head. "I have no idea. Two weeks ago I'd have said the idea was preposterous. A lot's happened to convince me I don't know much about anything anymore."

"Would you say it's totally out of the realm of possibility?"

Chris thought about it. Beautiful, ruthless Elizabeth Page. "No, I guess I wouldn't."

Chris arrived home too late to meet the physical therapist. Pansy was back in her wheelchair when she walked in.

Chris threw herself on the couch. "How did your session go, Mother?"

"Tom says I'm on schedule. He made me do some terribly painful things but he says I can start using the walker more and the chair less. He showed me how to get up and down stairs. Won't be long and you can have your office back."

"No hurry, Mom. What shall I get us for dinner?" Chris winced inwardly at the thought of the state of her refrigerator. She brightened considerably when Pansy said, "I'll give you a list for the store. You buy and I'll cook." At least one thing was looking up.

Friday, December tenth arrived at long last. Chris taught her last class for the semester, spending most of the hour answering questions about the final exam scheduled for the following Wednesday. When she closed and locked the classroom door it felt like a great weight had been lifted. Back in her office she told Charlie to expect her when he saw her, and she walked through a light snowfall to the museum to get to work on her most important mission for the day: hanging the Picasso.

The debates about where to hang the painting had been long and arduous. The president wanted to put it behind the docent's desk in the interest of security. The Alumni Association's director, Harrison Foy, expressed his desire to hang it in their own building. Both suggestions were nixed but only after rigorous debate. When Chris asked Rachael Jacobsen whether she knew where Elizabeth had intended to hang it, she was surprised to learn that she did.

"We had the security company come check it out, Chris. They gave us this remote sensor, so it will be hooked into the system without having to rewire anything. Elizabeth said she was concerned about vandalism so this should be a great place." They stood at the railing of the mezzanine looking across six feet of open space to a blank wall. This was one of the imaginative openings the architect had built into the plan to create the illusion that the second floor floated. Since the main floor was the exhibition space for rotating shows and the mezzanine housed the permanent collection, having the painting visible from the mezzanine was appropriate. The fact that viewers would look at it across the space that opened to the main floor twelve feet below meant their most valuable object by far would be safe from most disasters.

"People won't be able to get right up on it, Rachael. That's both a good and a bad thing." Theft would be difficult, which should please their insurer and Chris shared Elizabeth's apparent concern about vandalism. Some disgruntled student would have to write rude things in ballpoint somewhere else unless he got a twelve-foot ladder. "It's just that I like to look at stuff up close and personal."

Rachael chuckled. "Well, you'll have to be satisfied with what you can see before we hang it, I guess."

They descended to the storeroom to unpack the painting. When Chris and Hjelmer Ryquist had checked to see that theft of the painting hadn't been the motive in Elizabeth's murder they'd replaced only a third of the screws holding the lid in place. Chris and Rachael got it off fairly quickly as a result and Picasso's Still Life with Pipe and Wine Bottle, 1914, once again lay face up in the unflattering fluorescent light.

Chris sent Rachael off to find one more pair of hands. She enlisted student assistant Binty Buchanan and while the two women lifted the painting out with great care, he slid the crate out from underneath.

When they had laid the painting flat on the table and stowed the crate, the three of them looked it over carefully. Chris warned Binty not to touch the surface. The three of them nearly knocked heads as they peered at it.

"So what's it supposed to be?" Binty asked.

Chris pointed to the distorted form at the right of center. "There's the wine bottle. You took the survey of art history, right?"

Binty nodded, then shrugged. "Never did get Picasso," he said a little sheepishly. "But I guess somebody must like this stuff 'cause I hear it's worth mega-bucks." He continued to stare at it. "It's kind'a weird," he said at last, then left to return to his other tasks while Rachael went to supervise the delivery of the scissor-lift that they would need for the hanging.

Chris had a much better developed sense of history than did a twenty-year-old college student. Although she wasn't fond of the Synthetic Cubist style, it was a Picasso after all. She inspected it closely. Forms like the table top, the wine bottle and the pipe were identifiable, though distorted, and the colors were certainly brighter than those he'd used in the earlier Analytical Cubist style. The introduction of collage elements had been a revolution at the time. She walked around the painting, put on white cotton gloves and took a soft cloth out of a box of rags.

She wiped and dusted the frame carefully down one vertical side and was working across the bottom when she stopped to look more closely at the collaged areas. What was happening in the world the day he glued these patches of newspaper into place? Did he do this work before or after June 28, 1914, and the start of the First World War?

Moving to the side she looked at the painting upside down to scan an exposed patch of newspaper, readable through a transparent reddish glaze of paint. Her French had not completely deserted her, she was glad to realize. There was something about farmers being angry with the government. Some things never change, she thought as she turned her attention to another scrap, also upside down when the painting was viewed normally. This one caused her to step back and take a deep breath.

She approached it again and moved the painting a bit for better light. Was what she thought she had seen really there? It was. In a sentence visible through a thin ochre glaze appeared the names Reagan and Thatcher.

Chapter 7

Chris sat for a long five minutes in Elizabeth Page's desk chair and stared at nothing. Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher weren't making news in 1914. Something's not right. But if the work had been restored, she knew it was the current practice to leave obvious evidence of restoration so future restorers and conservators would know which parts of a work were original and which had been added. She had to look again.

She went back to the storeroom and unlocked the door. The painting lay as she had left it. Gloved again, she turned the painting face downward on the padded surface while she inspected the back. The canvas seemed to be in good shape. Too good? The stretcher frame was lighter in color than she was used to seeing on old paintings. Either the wood hadn't darkened because of extraordinary care or it had been a much lighter wood to start with. Or it isn't as old as it should be.

Close inspection revealed nothing else particularly troubling, yet everything was now open to speculation, and she looked closely at the Kahnweiller label. The print was clear, but the handwritten elements were faded nearly to illegibility. Chris searched for a magnifying glass, found one in Elizabeth's desk and used it to survey every inch of the label. She gave up in disgust. She was outside her area of expertise. She needed someone who had the right credentials.

She turned the painting face up again. Using a scrap of brown wrapping paper, she transcribed all the readable newspaper text.

She was finishing when Rachael Jacobsen's sudden appearance at the storeroom door caused her to start like a frightened horse.

"Sorry, Chris! I didn't mean to startle you. Building Services finished putting in the hangers, so we're ready. Shall we take this up by way of the stairs or use the freight elevator?"

Chris collected her scattered thoughts and stuffed the transcript into her pants pocket. "Elevator. Let's use a cart to move it. It isn't heavy but I don't want to drop it." She sounded calm and in control of herself. In her mind, an argument played out. What if it's a fake? Are we really going to hang this when there's a question? Yes. We don't know anything for sure. Find the condition report that came with the painting and any restorations will be listed there. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill.

She and Rachael lifted the painting onto the rolling cart and walked it carefully through the circuitous hallway to the freight elevator.

"We need a cover sheet," Rachael said suddenly, hauling Chris out of her distracted musings. Rachael raced back down the hallway. When she returned they draped the painting with a dust cover large enough to conceal it until the dramatic unveiling and continued into the elevator and up to the main level.

Chris asked, "What was Elizabeth going to do about the drape? Did she have someone making one with a long rope so it could be pulled off during the Gala?"

"I don't know. She didn't say anything, but I suppose she did. I'll ask around. If not, I'll find a cord and pin it to this sheet." They rolled the painting off the elevator and into the largest of the four main-floor galleries where the scissor lift stood waiting.

They rolled the cart next to lift and carefully lifted the painting onto the platform. Chris closed the safety bar and Rachael pushed the button. The lift rose sedately.

"I don't much like heights," Rachael said when they'd reached the intended spot twelve feet off the floor.

"Neither do I."

Building Services had installed two fasteners to the wall at the level Chris and Rachael had agreed was appropriate. She hoped they wouldn't be required to make adjustments. She wanted this to be over as soon as possible so she could dive into Elizabeth's files to find the condition report. She decided that unless the painting was obviously too high or too low, she would live with it.

Rachael brought the remote motion sensor out of a pocket.

"Did you turn off the security system?" Chris asked.

"Yes. Once it's hung and the sensor is in place I'll turn it on and we'll test it. I warned them to expect at least one false alarm."

"Grab that side, Rachel, and we'll lift it into place," Chris said. They used their gloved hands to lift and gently set the painting's hanging wire on the two fasteners. Chris stood back to survey the picture.

"They told me to set this in back on the bottom stretcher. If it's jostled in any way, it'll set off the alarms." Rachael checked to see that the sensor was turned on, then positioned it while Chris held the bottom edge of the painting away from the wall.

Rachael, obviously less distracted than Chris, produced a small level from another pocket and set it on the top of the frame. After a small adjustment it was perfect. They fixed the drape in place and descended to the floor.

Rachael left to turn on the alarm system while Chris took the first deep breath she'd had in many minutes. She looked up at the shrouded painting. I'm being melodramatic. I'll find the condition report and see that the painting was restored in the lower third, left of center sometime in the 1980s. All will be well.

Her cell phone vibrated busily in her pants pocket, jolting her. It was her son.

"Gram and I are going to Alfred's. She says she needs to buy some clothes for the cold. She says for you to meet us at Spike's later and we'll have pizza."

"Careful with your grandmother. Don't let her talk you into doing the tango or something."

"Nah, I'll keep her on a short leash."

Pansy protested in the background.

"I'll meet you at Spike's at six." Chris rang off.

Rachael reappeared in the gallery doorway. "Try moving the painting and I'll watch the screen." She returned to the docent's desk while Chris pushed the "up" button once again and slowly rose to the painting.

"Ready?" Chris called.

"Go for it."

She pulled the painting slightly away from the wall.

"It's working," Rachael called.

Chris descended toward the floor but before she got there she heard Rachael utter a startled, "Oh, jeez!" She stepped back into the gallery. "Someone just slammed a door downstairs and that set it off too. We've got to adjust the sensitivity."

"How do I do that?" Chris asked as she reached the floor.

"Little setting right beside the on/off switch. I had it set on high. You'll need a Phillips." She disappeared.

In the end Chris didn't have time to peruse Elizabeth's files. The motion sensor required several adjustments and a phone call to the company. They also had to attach a cord to the concealing cloth. Chris had been up and down on the scissor lift enough times that the height had ceased to bother her. When everything was working well, she had barely enough time to get to the pizza place without being late. Tomorrow she would check the files.

Saturday dawned bright and clear but the weather forecast was for descending temperatures and possible snow by late afternoon. The assembled glitterati will be getting slush on their shoes when they come for the Gala Unveiling this evening, Chris thought as she munched toast and looked out the window.

Pansy thumped into the kitchen with her walker and sighed in annoyance. "I really hate to bother you, Teensy, but would you bring my coffee cup out to the living room? I can't figure out how to maneuver with this thing and carry hot liquids."

Chris filled the mug and trailed after Pansy to the living room. She set the cup on an end table. "Will you be okay if I go into school this morning? I need to check on something."

"I'll be fine. Drew said he was coming over for lunch. I told him I'd make hangabers." When he was little, Drew couldn't say "hamburger," so they'd been "hangabers" ever since. "Are you checking on whatever's been bothering you since last night? Is that what you're going in for?"

Surprised, Chris hesitated and then sat down. "I unpacked the Picasso yesterday and hung it for the Gala. Before I did, I looked at it closely. I saw something that made me think it might have been restored quite a bit in the 1980s."

"Would that be bad? It being restored?"

"Wouldn't be great news. It would still be a Picasso, of course. It's just that it might not be worth as much as everyone's been saying."

"I detect a 'but' in there somewhere," Pansy said after a pause.

Chris looked at her mother. How does she do that? She'd never figured it out, not when she was sixteen and breaking curfew and not now. "I guess I'm afraid it wasn't restored."

Pansy waited.

"That would mean it's a fake."

Pansy's expression changed slowly. "Lord!"

Sharing the thought with someone else was a relief. Chris rushed on. "If it is, think of it! When was it replaced for the original? What happened to the original? What will Randall say when he finds out? Will he blame us for losing it? Was it replaced the night Elizabeth Page died? Did she catch someone in the act? Who would be stupid enough to try to steal it while she was still in the building?" Chris had dumped every unknown at once. She sat back and shook her head.

"How can you find out?" Pansy asked at last.

"If it was restored, it'll be listed on the condition report that came with the painting... at least, I think there's a condition report. Elizabeth never said anything about it. If I go through her Picasso files I should find it."

"Then you'd better hop to it. If it's a fake the university won't want to go through with the Gala." Pansy sounded positive, then reassuring. "But I'm sure you're going to find that condition thing."

On her drive to school Chris realized she didn't share her mother's confidence that she would find the condition report. And there was no chance the administration would cancel the Gala even if there were clouds hanging over the event. Too many folks had been invited and probably were already in town for the occasion. First things first, though. She'd have to search the files.

When she got to the museum she used her master key to go in through the employees' entrance and skipped down the stairs. Faint sounds of activity filtered down from upstairs. Building Services is probably setting up the speakers' platform.

She walked the length of the hall to Elizabeth's old office. Rachael Jacobsen had moved into it for convenience and was already transforming the place. One whole bookcase held nothing but books arranged by subject and periodicals neatly placed in order by date. There were still piles on the floor and spilling out of other bookcases, but Rachael hadn't been idle since the staff was allowed back into the crime scene.

She sat at the desk and swiveled to the file cabinet behind it. Most current projects should be close at hand, but with Elizabeth she couldn't be sure. She opened drawers and read labels, looking for anything related to the Picasso. Nothing. She did it a second time. Still nothing. She considered. Turning to the desk, she opened that file drawer. Rachael had been at work here too. Files had what looked like brand new labels and were in alphabetical order. Picasso was not to be found, but Randall, Howard J. was in its proper place.

Inside the folder were copies of all the letters to and from Randall regarding the gift. No condition report. In Chris's filing system such items would be in a file marked Picasso or maybe Still Life with Pipe and Wine Bottle. In Elizabeth's system, anything was possible. Add Rachael Jacobsen fixing things and she despaired of ever finding the condition report.

Condition report. She swiveled back to the file cabinet and started looking for a file with that label. She was rewarded almost immediately with a fat folder full of an admixture of papers, some with the Midstate Museum of Art logo, some with those of lending institutions. The bulk of them referred to the Mannerist show hanging upstairs. None of them referred to the Picasso.

An hour of careful checking led nowhere. Chris sat at the desk speculating. It was impossible for her to believe that a major work of art from a serious collector wouldn't come with a condition report. Would Elizabeth have taken it home? She'd found no files of any kind referring to the Picasso other than the file of letters. That in itself was a mystery. Surely there would be documentation of the insured value, a copy of an appraisal, something like that.

She hunted for a phone book and found Rachael Jacobsen's number.

"Rachael, have you seen any files in Elizabeth's office that refer to the Picasso? A condition report, an appraisal or anything like that?"

"I was going to ask you about that, Chris. I was trying to get my ducks in a row about the painting before the Gala and I only found some letters back and forth to Howard Randall. Isn't that odd? I mean we have enough paperwork on the Mannerist show to fill a drawer and nothing on the Picasso. It doesn't make sense."

Chris agreed. "Well, if you think of where it might be, give me a call, please. I'm sitting in your office hunting for it." She was about to hang up.

Rachael said, "You know, maybe that was on the desk when she was killed. All those papers and files disappeared that night, remember?"

Chris hadn't remembered. "Jeez, you're right. How could I forget that?"

After she'd hung up, she sat thinking. This was getting to be a bit too much for one person's psyche to handle. She decided to call Dean Lorraine Campbell-McFee. Might as well give the administration a heads-up, just in case.

Lorraine gasped when Chris told her of her suspicions. "Surely you can't believe it's a fake!" she stammered.

"Well, the most likely thing is that it was restored," Chris said. "It's just that I haven't found the condition sheet yet and I thought someone should know."

After a long pause, Lorraine said, "We'll not share this with anyone else, okay? I mean, let's get through this evening and then we can decide what to do at our leisure."

"Do you think someone should ask Mr. Randall about whether he had the piece restored?" She knew before she heard the answer what it would be.

"No! Absolutely not!" Lorraine took an audible breath. "We aren't going to do anything to cast a pall on this party."

Chris sighed when she hung up the phone. There was nothing to do but go home and help Pansy get ready for the party. By the time she'd pulled into her driveway, she had decided she would ask Randall whether he had sent a condition report along with the painting. She hadn't been expressly forbidden to do that.

Chapter 8

The snow started about 3:30 and by 7:15 was beginning to pile up in the streets. Chris had asked Charlie to meet them at the parking garage so he could help Pansy maneuver. Pansy agreed that her wheelchair would be a better option than the walker because it promised to be a long evening.

They took the elevator to the lowest level and set out for the museum through one of the tunnels that made life so much easier for pedestrians in the winter. As they walked, Chris thought longingly of ducking out early but was resigned to an evening spent being falsely cheerful. Questions about the Picasso haunted her.

Seventy-five percent of the invitees had responded positively, so the museum was already elbow-to-elbow when the elevator opened to admit them to the atrium. Local and statewide movers and shakers wouldn't miss being special guests for the unveiling of the only painting by Pablo Picasso in the state. More particularly, they wouldn't miss connecting with the multimillionaire donor. After shedding their coats Chris and Pansy moved to one side to watch the arrivals.

Charlie brought them wine and whispered, "Let me know if you need me, Boss. I'm going to circulate." He was gone.

A medium height, bull-necked man and a tall woman wearing a mink jacket stepped off the elevator into the atrium. Howard Randall looked around and started for the coat check. Chris wheeled her mother into his path and reintroduced herself. "Welcome, Mr. Randall."

"Of course, Dr. Connery. A pleasure to see you again."

"And this is my mother, Pansy McMillan."

"This is my wife, Tweety," responded Randall and waved at the statuesque blond who could have passed for a Las Vegas showgirl. She was at least twenty-five years younger than her husband and two or three inches taller.

Chris tried not to react to the rather bizarre nickname. Pansy had no such inhibitions.

"Tweety!" She radiated charm. "What a cute name! Is it short for something?"

Tweety Randall hesitated a moment. It took a second for the charm rays to penetrate. "Well, my mother, rest her soul, named me after my Aunt Twila. Would you believe it? Anything's better than Twila."

"I understand completely. My sister Daffodil has had nothing but misery from her given name since the day she was born," Pansy said.

Tweety smiled and laughed.

When Randall took his wife's coat and aimed for the coat check, Chris trailed after him.

"Mr. Randall—"

"Please, call me Howard."

"Howard, I need to ask you one quick business question before you go into the party. Did you send a condition report or provenance document along with the painting?"

Randall handed the coats over to the attendant and turned. "Condition report? Why do you ask?"

"Well, since Page's death we've been trying to get everything tidied up, you know. I just can't lay my hands on it, if you sent one."

"I can have another copy sent to you. How's that?"

"That would be wonderful. Thank you so much. Enjoy the festivities." She returned to her mother, feeling smug for having accomplished her mission without defying her dean, at least not directly.

The Randalls moved away and went to join the president of the university, who was chatting with a group of Camford's elite. President McGinnis turned and smiled engagingly at the man of the hour.

Pansy whispered, "Did you see Tweety's ring, Teensy? I'm surprised she can lift her arm!"

Chris shook her head. She'd been so focused on her problem that she barely registered the expensive burgundy cocktail dress and matching shoes.

Pansy continued. "It's what takes the place these days of a brand on the trophy wife's ass."

"Mother!"

"I'm just commenting." Pansy waved away her daughter's objection airily. "You know what she said to me while you were gone? She said it looked like most of these people had to be from somewhere else because they certainly cleaned up too well to be locals."

"Mother!" Chris gasped again.

"I didn't say it, she did. She's a real New Yorker, all right. I asked. She was born and raised in Queens and moved to Manhattan as an adult. She's seldom seen the need to cross the George Washington Bridge. I'll bet she's spent more time in Europe than outside the city in her own country."

"I guess that's not so unusual for someone in her circle," Chris whispered back.

"Makes her pretty provincial in my book," Pansy declared and began wheeling herself into the gallery.

President James McGinnis surveyed the crowd on the main floor and judged it about time to start the formal festivities. He said as much to Dean Campbell-McFee and Howard Randall, who stood beside him looking unusually solemn for someone who was about to be praised without stint. They climbed the stairs to the mezzanine and moved to the platform where there were chairs and a podium. McGinnis continued to look around for the director of the Alumni Association and the director of Fine Arts. They all needed to get on the stage at the same time. He spotted Harrison Foy chatting with the lieutenant governor and someone McGinnis knew he should know from the State Arts Commission.

Leaving Randall and the dean standing by the platform he pushed toward Foy while continuing to scan the crowd for Chris Connery.

Foy saw him coming and nodded. He excused himself and joined the president. "Isn't this a great turnout? What a wonderful event for the Randalls! We're really showing them how much we appreciate their generosity."

The president had heard all that earlier and assumed that Foy had been saying virtually the same thing to everyone he met all night long. He hoped Foy would be more original during his turn at the mike. He finally caught sight of Chris Connery by the gallery entrance with a woman in a wheelchair and that young sculptor.

The president asked Foy to head for the speaker's platform. "I'll be right behind you," he said, and moved off toward Chris. Before he arrived within earshot of the director of Fine Arts, the sculptor—Bjornson is it?—began talking loudly to someone McGinnis couldn't see just outside the gallery entrance.

"Here's my biggest fan, isn't that right, Colin? Biggest fan! You wouldn't think it to look at him, but he likes my stuff. Isn't that right, buddy?"

Heads turned. President McGinnis frowned. He marveled that someone would show up at a function of this sort actually looking like an artist. The young man wore a sport coat, jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of a presumably naked man in a trench coat flashing himself at a bronze statue of a nude woman. The caption read Expose yourself to art. Under the circumstances the Art Department had to be invited en masse, the occasion being an art event. McGinnis scowled. You'd think he could wear a tie just once. Besides being scruffy, he's clearly drunk. He shook his head. Completely unprofessional. As he approached, Colin McCarty nodded stiffly in obvious embarrassment, said something he couldn't hear and moved away.

"Chris, it's time to start."

"Certainly Dr. McGinnis." Chris bent to say something to the attractive older woman in the wheelchair.

"Who might this lovely lady be?" McGinnis boomed heartily and bent to take Pansy's hand. Chris introduced them. Behind Pansy's wheelchair Bjornson was weaving slightly, an unfocused stare on his face.

"You go ahead, Chris," Pansy said. "I'll get Professor Bjornson to keep me company. Wheel me over to the elevator, Richard, so I can get a good spot." Bjornson steadied himself on Pansy's chair and they started off around the crowd.

"I'm not sure that's the best escort for your mother, Chris," the president whispered as they pushed through the crowd. "Seems like he got a head start on this party."

"Pansy will be fine. And she'll keep him busy and out of trouble."

"Let's hope so."

The speeches began with the president welcoming everyone to the university and the museum. Harrison Foy did indeed say over the microphone exactly the same thing that he had said to everyone in the place as they came through the door. He added a few remarks about Howard Randall's tenure as a student at Midstate University, including a quote from Randall's fraternity housemother, now 102 and living in a nursing home in Ft. Myers, Florida. The actual remark had been, "Who the hell's that?" but Foy, intent on including the centenarian, invented such a witty remembrance that the audience chuckled warmly and wished to a person to be so sharp at such an age.

Howard J. Randall shook his head and laughed with the rest while he struggled to remember who the woman was. The days he had lived in the frat were a beer-drenched haze in his memory, and if he had paid any attention to the woman it was accidental. At that time he had preferred leggy blondes. He was pretty sure she hadn't been a leggy blonde. I still preferred leggy blondes, he thought, glancing down at his leggy blonde wife standing in front of the platform next to the president's wife.

Chris rose when it was her turn and tried to put her reservations out of her mind for the duration of her speech. "It's my job to put this work of art in perspective, to place it in the context that provides the grounds for its value. Synthetic Cubism is a variation of the earlier Analytical phase. At the start of the Cubist revolution, Picasso and his friend Georges Braque studied traditional still life setups from various angles and presented the different points of view simultaneously in one image. In the effort to concentrate on form, they simplified their problems by severely limiting the palette to black, white, brown and blue. In contemporary parlance, they 'de-constructed' the traditional process of image making that had dominated Western art for the previous four hundred years. The resulting intersecting planes and varying points of view create images in muted colors with edges that don't quite define objects, space that is ambiguous at best, and forms that seem to be there and not there at once.

"When the Synthetic phase, the style of our painting, began about 1912 they were continuing and simplifying that process. A full-color palette returned, but forms continued to be ambiguous. Previously in the Renaissance tradition the artist created a pictorial space, a 'magic window,' a visual illusion for the viewer's contemplation. But Braque and Picasso had created a new 'space.' This space intrudes upon the viewer; things are glued to the surface, textures are exaggerated, and one can no longer look through the magic window because everything is on the surface.

"Most of the major movements in Western art of the Twentieth century were either positively or negatively responding to Cubism. It is considered one of the most important movements of the early Twentieth century.

"History is always being rewritten. Where this particular object will fit remains to be seen. Assessment of its value may be subject to change as critics and scholars reevaluate the individual work, its period, and its creator. It is beyond doubt, however, that Pablo Picasso will remain the most significant artist, the most powerful shaping influence on Western art in the first half of the Twentieth century and beyond." She sat down and breathed in relief at having gotten through it.

At last it was Howard Randall's turn. He rose to face the microphone. "My wife and I have lived with this picture for the last twenty-six years," he said.

Several in the audience calculated that the current Mrs. Randall had probably been thirteen when Mr. Randall purchased this piece and had never heard of Picasso or Randall at that time. Of course, he hadn't said which wife.

"We will be sorry to be without it, but this gives Mrs. Randall a chance to redecorate and it gives me a chance to find something else to hang in that spot."

Polite laughter filled the gallery while everyone in the room pondered the fact that this man had even more art and money to give Midstate in the long run. Randall looked down at the president seated to his right. "This is just my way of saying thanks to this great university for getting me started in life." He sat down to the first heart-felt applause of the evening, his brevity having earned their genuine admiration.

The president took the floor again. "Now it's time to unveil the painting. He asked everyone to turn their attention to the opening in the wall where a white sheet draped the picture. "The intention, as I understand it, was to place the painting so it could be viewed with the permanent collection in the mezzanine, but from enough distance for security's sake." He invited all present to ascend to that level to get a good look while they continued to enjoy the wine and the string quartet.

Then it was Rachael Jacobsen's task to tug gently on the cord and pull the sheet from the much-heralded gift. When the cloth was a rumpled pile on the floor below, a murmur rose from the crowd. Belated applause filled the gallery and the speakers' platform emptied into the milling crowd.

Chris Connery rescued Pansy from tipsy Richard Bjornson and they worked their way to the railing for another look. She hoped her doubts about the painting's authenticity hadn't crept into anything she'd said or into the look on her face as they gazed at it now. This painting, Still Life with Pipe and Wine Bottle from 1914, was typical of the Synthetic phase. It was much more colorful than its Analytical antecedents, with red and yellow planes that seemed to intersect, but didn't quite. Splashes of ultramarine blue, flat areas of yellow ochre, and slashes of black paint defined some forms and obscured others. The yellowed newspaper was collaged to the surface where one would expect the tabletop to be in a more traditional image. There was a rough texture, perhaps sand mixed in the paint, in what would have been the background if Picasso had cared about such things at that time. The result was a flattening of forms in a tense composition that was the essence of Picasso's style.

Pansy cocked her head. "I really never liked his work much, Teensy."

"Neither do I, Mom," Chris replied.

"But what you said about it was interesting... about the 'magic window' thing."

"It was a side effect of this kind of work to force the viewer to realize that even those old-master 'magic windows' had always been just paint on flat surfaces," Chris said, trying not to sound too professorial. "Picasso seemed to be challenging a tradition he saw as worn out."

"Actually, I like traditions," Pansy said. Someone pushed up to the rail next to them. Colin McCarty leaned forward and squinted at the painting. He was a lean, handsome man who, even on the weekends, had creases in his pants that would cut butter.

Chris always thought of Noel Coward when she saw him in a tux. "Well, Colin, what do you think of it?"

McCarty ignored the question. "Did you know, Chris, that Picasso did some set designs in the 'Twenties? Quite unusual and, of course, very avant-garde. He was quite influential in more than just art, wasn't he?"

Chris nodded.

"Myself, I just don't get it," McCarty said at last and turned away.

Around them, guests buzzed. Some, their tongues loosened by two or three glasses of wine, declared themselves not much impressed and left to find the hors d'oeuvres again. "Who would spend twenty-five million dollars for something like that?" said the mayor of Camford as he turned to leave the railing.

Fenton Mitchell, senior professor of painting in the Art Department, pushed through the throng and joined them just as they were about to leave. When Chris greeted him and introduced him to Pansy she realized he was having difficulty speaking.

"Are you okay, Fenton?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said gruffly and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to blow his nose. "It's just that this is such a coup for the university, Chris. It's my favorite period. I mean just look what happened! The whole point of painting changed in those fifteen years and here's an example by the master himself. I can hardly take it all in." Mitchell continued to stare at the painting across the six feet of space that opened to the floor below. "You actually got to touch it, didn't you?" he said.

"Yes, I did." Chris crossed her fingers that she'd never have to tell Mitchell he was getting worked up over a fake. They were turning to leave when Scott Mathern arrived.

The lithography professor was clearly not as enraptured by the new acquisition as the painting professor. "Well," he said. "At least we didn't have to pay for it."

When Chris had finally had more than enough, she had to persuade Pansy that it was time to leave. Pansy would have preferred to stay parked near the hors d'oeuvre table where she was sure to meet everyone before the evening ended. She relented when Chris pointed out that Pansy was sitting down while her daughter was standing in three-inch heels.

Howard Randall, with his wife at his side, was just outside the gallery in the atrium shaking hands and acknowledging compliments. He looked genuinely pleased for the first time all evening. Chris found it endearing that he should have been afflicted with nerves earlier, for such was her interpretation of his humorless expression when he'd first arrived. She and Pansy found themselves in line with the lieutenant governor and the head of the State Arts Commission, preparing to express their thanks.

When they were finally before the benefactors, Chris thanked them on behalf of the students who would benefit from their generosity for years to come. Randall expressed the hope that would be true, and Mrs. Randall didn't say a thing except to thank Chris for her part in organizing "such a nice party."

When they turned away and were headed for the coat check, Chris saw the one person she hadn't expected to stay at this function from beginning to end: Richard Bjornson. He was standing by a nearly empty tray of wineglasses just inside the gallery. While she watched he poured two decorously half-full glasses together and slugged down the contents in two or three gulps.

Colin McCarty paused on his way past. He nodded toward Bjornson and whispered, "Is he as bad off as I think he is?"

"Worse, I think," Chris replied.

"I'll take him home," McCarty said after a short hesitation. "At least I know where he lives now."

"You are a saint, Colin," Chris said in a whisper. She promised herself to send McCarty a little thank you on behalf of the Gala committee.

Chapter 9

When Chris crawled out of bed on Sunday morning she was surprised to find it was almost nine-thirty. Walter hadn't tried to rouse her for his breakfast. Walter, in fact, was nowhere in evidence. She shuffled downstairs and discovered the basset hound staring raptly at Pansy, who was frying bacon.

"Good morning, Dear One," her mother chirped with typical buoyancy. Chris had seen her mother unhappy, even cranky at times, but never in the morning. She had no idea how she did it.

"Morning, Mom. Did Walter wake you up?"

"I was up early as usual. He just tagged along when I got up. You must have been really tired, Teensy. You haven't slept this late since I've been here."

"Pooped, Mom. Seriously pooped." Chris poured coffee.

"Good thing it's Sunday. You can relax, especially now that the Gala is over." Pansy put bread in the toaster.

"Don't know how much relaxing I'll do today. We need to get our ducks in a row about the Picasso." Chris sipped coffee and leaned against the counter.

"That can wait until tomorrow," Pansy said.

"I'm not so sure. The dean said to put it off until after the Gala, but we really need to tell the president and get started on authenticating it."

Pansy stopped moving bacon out of the pan and looked at her daughter. "You didn't find that report you were looking for, did you?"

"Nope, and I was reminded that a bunch of papers were taken when Elizabeth was killed, so we may never find the original condition report. Randall told me he'd send another one, but who knows how long that will take?"

"Do you think that was what the killer was looking for?" Pansy asked suddenly, as if struck by an inspiration. "Wouldn't that put the Randalls on the hot seat?"

Chris grimaced. Pansy's imagination sometimes went a little too far. "I don't know what the killer was looking for. He or she took so much stuff there's no way to tell. Anyway, the best thing is to deal with this ASAP and get past it, I think. I'm going to call Lorraine and make arrangements to tell McGinnis sometime today, if possible."

"Well, eat your breakfast first and read the paper. It's uncivilized to call anyone before noon on Sunday." Pansy loaded a plate.

Chris took it to the dining room where the Camford Times was waiting. The Gala occupied a portion of the front page. While Chris ate she read a breathless account of last evening's events and wondered whether they'd held the presses to get the article in. The reporter had been there until the place closed. Well, why not? she thought. This is as close to a Hollywood premiere as Camford is likely to get.

It took until eleven to read the paper from end to end. When she was finished at last and had drunk too much coffee, Chris went upstairs to shower and dress. The phone rang as she struggled into a sweatshirt. It was the dean.

"You're psychic, Lorraine. I was going to call you. Can we get together to discuss what to do next about the painting?"

"Just what I'm calling about. I've talked to Jim McGinnis and we are to meet him at his house at one. Can you make it?"

"Did you tell him?"

"No, that's a face-to-face task if ever I heard of one."

They agreed to meet there and Chris hung up, contemplating what she would need as evidence of her suspicions. The transcript she'd made of the suspect newspaper scraps when she first found the names of Reagan and Thatcher was at her office. She wondered whether Herb Cadieux from the French faculty would be around and able to offer his opinion about them before then. She decided to try.

When Chris walked into the Art Department she was aware of an abnormal noise level for a Sunday afternoon. There seemed to be almost as many people working as on a school day. The fact that final exams and portfolio reviews started Monday explained the feverish atmosphere.

She went to her office and rummaged for the transcript of the newspaper scraps collaged to the painting. With it in hand, she found the home phone number of the chair of the Romance Languages Department and dialed.

"Hi, Herb. This is Chris Connery and I need a favor."

Herb Cadieux listened and jotted notes while Chris read in French what she'd copied. His translation matched Chris's own.

"Can you hazard a guess as to when this was written, Herb?" she asked at last.

"Well, the two names Reagan and Thatcher sort of give that away, don't you think? I'd say mid-eighties. Why? Is there a question?"

"Something I was working on suggested this was from the early Twentieth century, maybe the teens." She crossed her fingers.

"Not much chance of that, I'd say. I mean, take the names out of it and there are still some constructions that are pretty contemporary. French is a stodgy language, as you know. They're always going after foreignisms like 'le email,' but even so things creep in. Even without the names I don't think this could have been written much before the mid-seventies. Why is it an issue?"

Chris had a lie prepared. "Just a student project gone astray, I'm afraid."

"They never learn to cheat well. Guess that's good for us, but still they should be smarter." Cadieux chuckled and, after accepting her thanks, rang off.

Chris hung up and stared disconsolately out the window. She sighed, put her transcript and her notes on Cadieux's opinion into a folder and prepared to walk across campus to the president's mansion for the one o'clock meeting.

President James McGinnis sat in his lounge chair and eyed Chris warily. "You can't seriously believe that Howard Randall gave us a fake Picasso!"

"There's a fifty-fifty chance the piece isn't authentic, Dr. McGinnis," Chris insisted with as much bravado as she could muster in the face of his disapproval. "The best we can hope for, and perhaps the most likely thing, is that it was restored pretty heavily in the Eighties," she added soothingly.

"And Randall agreed to send us a new condition report?" the president asked.

"He said he would."

"So why not wait until we get that?"

"We can, of course, but over the Christmas break might be the best time for the painting to come down without a lot of comment. Also, we might be able to get my expert here over the break. He teaches at Columbia, so he's obviously off now too." Chris shifted uneasily.

McGinnis turned his frown on the dean. "What do you say, Lorraine?"

"I agree with Chris that sooner is better than later."

Chris blessed her silently.

The president looked at Chris again. "What's the situation if it turns out to be restored?"

She shrugged. "It won't be worth as much as we thought previously. It will probably save us a little on insurance. Otherwise, it's still an important Picasso."

"And if it turns out to be a fake?"

"We can't hang it if that's the case. We could use it educationally, I suppose, but we'd have to make it clear that it isn't a Picasso after all."

McGinnis winced. "Why would Randall give us a painting that isn't authentic? It makes no sense."

"He might have no idea, Dr. McGinnis," Chris rushed to assure him. "He might have been the victim of theft."

Dean Campbell-McFee jumped in. "Jim, Chris was telling me that Randall will be able to take a huge tax deduction for donating the piece based on its presumed value, so he might have a stake in it not being found to be a fake, but I assume he'd be as surprised as anyone if it turns out to be a copy."

Chris tried to explain. "You know how it is, Dr. McGinnis. Things hang on the wall and eventually you're so used to them, they don't register much anymore."

"Well, I'd sure as hell notice if someone took a piece like that off my wall," McGinnis said in exasperation.

"What if it was replaced when they were traveling?" Chris offered. "It's there when they leave and it's there when they get back."

The president glowered at the fireplace where a cheerful log fire snapped and crackled. Eventually, without looking up, he said, "Here's what we do. We wait for the paperwork to come. If it's been restored, hallelujah! If it hasn't, then we take the next step. Not a word until that document arrives." He turned and looked at the dean and the director in turn. "Am I clear?"

"Perfectly," Lorraine Campbell-McFee said. "But what about dealing with it when there aren't a lot of folks around?"

"Wouldn't it have to come off the wall to be cleaned or something?" The president looked from the dean to Chris.

"Yessir," Chris agreed.

"Then that'll be our story, if and when we need it."

The president stood, clearly a signal that the meeting was at an end. The two women also rose and the dean had started for the door when Chris stopped.

"Dr. McGinnis, don't you think we should tell the police about this?"

McGinnis look horrified at the mere suggestion. "Jesus Christ, what for? We aren't going to start a rumor that it's a fake, that's for damn sure!"

"I only mean it might have something to do with Elizabeth's murder."

The two administrators looked at each other. Chris looked from one to the other. Finally, after a nearly audible internal struggle, the president nodded. "I suppose we ought to."

"We don't want to be accused of withholding information in a murder investigation, Jim. That would be worse publicity than having a fake by far," Lorraine said.

"No, I suppose not. Do you think the police will be discreet?"

"If you explain the situation to Hjelmer Ryquist I'm sure he'll try." Chris hoped she was right. "They have different concerns than we do, but he'd have no reason to go to the newspaper with it,"

"Okay then. You explain it to him since it's your theory, but not a word to anyone else... agreed?"

Chris returned to the Fine Arts building walking head down and trying to ignore the cold wind that stung her cheeks and made her eyes water. She had resigned herself to the president's position, though she really would like to settle the issue before spring semester started. She knew she'd have trouble including the painting in her lectures with a clear conscience. She also knew other departments were planning to use the painting in one way or another. Spanish, for example, was planning to make Spanish II students write about it and its creator. And Business was working it into case studies on the art market. She hoped the school could avoid serious embarrassment should the worst come to pass.

Far more daunting was the task of telling Detective Sergeant Hjelmer Ryquist about their problem and their desire for discretion. She had presumed the president and the dean would want to take the lead in that task, but neither of them had expressed the slightest interest in having the conversation. They were only too glad to delegate this one. She would call him first thing Monday.

Chris followed the path that led around the small ornamental lake that was the backdrop for the president's mansion. The frozen water only made her feel colder. She was almost up to the sculpture of President Andrew Jackson North (1874–1875), the first president of what was then Midstate Normal School, when she burst out laughing. President North had red Christmas balls hanging like earrings off his very impressive muttonchops and a tiny Christmas tree taped to the top of his head. Chris considered those things to be improvements to his normally severe countenance.

By the time she reached her office, her dark mood had oozed back around her. She sighed and unlocked her office door. Dropping her coat on the chair and the folder with the translation of the text on the desk, she tried to decide what to do next. Get my final exam together. Might as well as long as I'm here. It was only mid-afternoon. She could get something done when she wasn't likely to be interrupted.

She walked down the Art Department hallway to the women's bathroom, marveling at the increased level of activity. Students were actually working during the open studio hours. They had until six p.m. when all the studios except painting would be locked for the night. They always complained about the restriction at this time of year, but most accidents happened in unsupervised studios late at night and she allowed no exceptions.

Hammers and power saws from the sculpture studio made it sound like someone was building a house. A boom box thundered down the hall in the ceramics studio. If they'd all thrown themselves into their work this way earlier in the semester they'd all be Picassos, or at least A students.

She was washing her hands when raised voices somewhere nearby carried the unmistakable vehemence of real rage. She shut off the water and listened. She couldn't catch what the shouter was saying, but the anger was evident. She stepped to the door and opened it. The voices were coming from the sculpture studio across the hall and to the left.

"You think it's funny, don't you?" the speaker snarled. "This time you've gone too far! This time you're messing around with someone's career! I warn you, you're going to regret this!"

Chris didn't recognize the tense and unnaturally forced voice. She strained to hear more over the general din. Something metal falling to the floor in the woodshop obscured more angry words. Then "I'll sue you for everything you've got or ever hope to get if one word of this gets out!" came with greater clarity.

A power saw started and whined to a stop. Then, "Don't be so damned uptight! Christ, it's a joke!"

Bjornson, Chris thought. Someone caught him at another of his pranks. She stepped back into the washroom to dry her hands. When she returned to the door she heard nothing from the sculpture studio. She stepped across the hall and through the open door. Bjornson was in his office, whistling to himself.

"I thought I heard voices, Richard. What's up?"

"Nothing, Chris. I'm working on remaking that sculpture for Randall. He wasn't going to buy it after all 'cause it's in such crappy shape, but I convinced him to let me make another version for him."

Chris ignored the deflection. "Didn't I hear someone yelling?"

Bjornson grinned. "Nah... must be something on the boom box."

Chris shrugged and departed. Bjornson's tuneless whistling resumed when she passed into the hall. He's unnaturally cheerful for someone who was just threatened with a lawsuit, she thought and then decided getting a reaction like that was the whole point of his tricks. Sick, she thought and returned to her office.

Chapter 10

Monday morning Chris arrived early and went straight to a seven-thirty meeting with Dean Campbell-McFee. They needed to find a permanent replacement to fill the post left vacant by the unscheduled departure of Elizabeth Page from the Museum of Art. They spent forty-five minutes discussing the job description for the search before the door of the conference room burst open. A matronly secretary not known to be an alarmist stepped inside, her eyes wide and her lips trembling.

Dean Campbell-McFee was startled. "Eloise, what is it?"

Eloise tried to speak and was forced to clear her throat and start over. "Charlie Ingquist just called. Someone found Richard Bjornson dead in the sculpture studio." She looked as if she was having a hard time believing what she had just said.

Chris rose and abruptly sat back down again when her knees gave way.

The dean looked at Eloise. "Did anyone call the paramedics?"

Eloise nodded. "I think so."

Chris tried standing again, this time with more success. She said something about being needed and fled toward her office, thoughts flooding her mind. What did Richard do to himself? A sculpture studio can be a dangerous place and Richard was not inclined to be cautious. Did he get drunk and cut an artery with a power tool? Chris's worst fears for the safety of students and faculty usually centered around the sculpture and ceramics studios, as they were full of volatile gases, poisonous chemicals and sharp instruments.

Panting, she arrived at the Fine Arts Complex and found a scattering of people standing silently in small groups in the lobby area. She went straight to her office.

Charlie greeted her soberly. "They sent an ambulance, but there isn't much point," he said without preamble. "They got here about five minutes ago."

"Who found him? What happened?"

"A custodian went in to empty the waste baskets and clean up. Bjornson was on the floor in the welding area behind one of those safety curtains, so he didn't see him right away. Got a surprise when he went in there to sweep though."

"Did he cut himself or something?" Chris asked.

"Lots of blood, so that would be a good guess, except he's got a big dent in his head. I went down there with the custodian after I called nine-one-one. I think Bjornson must have been there a while 'cause he was cold when I tried to find a pulse."

Charlie's face was a mask. Chris recalled her reaction to finding Elizabeth Page and knew nothing she said would make the images in his head fade any faster. She turned and started down the art wing. He left his desk to join her. "You sure you want to go down there?" he asked quietly as they walked.

Chris nodded. A siren sounded in the distance. They turned the corner into the hallway leading to the sculpture classrooms and stopped about midway down its length outside the open door to the welding studio. The EMTs were standing just inside the door barring entrance with their gurney. From where they stood, Chris couldn't see past the safety curtains.

"Are you waiting for the police?" Chris inquired and received a nod in reply. Outside the siren grew louder, then stopped abruptly.

The University Police had arrived in the person of young Officer Anderson, who was clearly flustered. With inappropriate wryness, Chris thought, He should be getting the hang of it by now.

The young officer stood in front of the safety curtain, speaking quietly on his walky-talky. Chris got the gist of it and knew that very shortly Detective Sergeant Hjelmer Ryquist would once more be on the scene. This is crazy! she thought. She looked at Officer Anderson. "I'm going back to my office. I'll be there if you need me."

He held up one hand to keep her in place. "Who found him?"

The hapless custodian emerged just then from the men's room across the hall, still looking a little green. "I did," he admitted. "I don't gotta go back in there, do I?"

"We'll see." He gestured toward the two EMTs. "Anyone else go in there besides these guys?"

Charlie explained he'd felt for a pulse but didn't find one. Chris was then given permission to return to her office while Charlie stayed to talk to the Camford Police. She turned the corner and walked up the long corridor toward the central atrium and her office.

She was about halfway there when her son appeared, coming toward her wearing an oversized jacket with a Campus Security stencil clearly visible across the front. She stopped and gaped.

"I forgot to tell you I got a job on campus," he said. "I've been in training for a week and today is my first day." He looked over her shoulder at the knot of people forming at the end of the hall. "What's up down there?"

Chris found her voice. "What does Campus Security do? Is that the same as Campus Police?"

"Nah, we write parking tickets and we patrol between eight and midnight to walk women to their residences if they want us to. I'm on parking ticket duty today, but I got a call we might need to help over here. What happened anyway?"

"Richard Bjornson was found dead in the studio." Even though she said it, it still hadn't sunk in. "What kind of training did they give you? Are you armed? Why did they call you over here?" Motherly concern was fast replacing amazement. Every time Drew overran his allowance, and that was nearly every month, she'd suggested he get a job on campus. She had no idea he'd actually done it. She tried to temper her anxiety with an effort at self-control.

Drew sounded mildly exasperated. "Mom, chill. I don't get to carry a gun, I just write parking tickets. I guess they want someone to keep the road clear or something out by the loading dock. It's a great job. I work two half-days and one night a week and one day on the weekend. Twenty hours—more if they need people for big events and stuff." He shifted from one foot to the other. "I gotta go," he said at last, apparently waiting for Chris to give him permission.

"Go. I'm glad you got a job that fits your schedule." Bussing dishes at a frat was more what she'd had in mind.

It was all horribly familiar. Chris called the provost's office and her dean to let them know what she knew, which wasn't much. They asked to be kept informed. The provost promised to let the president know. He also said Public Relations would set to work to prevent worried parents from keeping their offspring home during spring semester. That thought hadn't even occurred to Chris and, even though it was irrational, she was irked that it was the provost's first reaction to the tragedy.

She spent most of the morning sitting in her office staring blankly at her computer screen. She found it hard to keep a coherent thought in her head. Charlie was with the police, first down in the sculpture studio and then in the conference room. It was nearly eleven before the custodian was finally released to go about his business. Charlie was dismissed soon after. He returned to his desk where coeds gazed at him with a mixture of curiosity and awe as they checked their mail for the fifteenth time that morning.

Chris stepped out of her office with a question on her lips. It died there when she saw Detective Sergeant Ryquist coming through the lobby toward the office. Charlie looked up and followed her gaze. "Your turn, I guess," he said and turned to his computer.

Chris squared her shoulders as Ryquist entered and gestured toward the privacy of her office. She nodded and they went in. Ryquist closed the door behind them.

"You look a little rough, Doc," he said with a degree of kindness Chris found consoling.

"What's going on, Hjelmer? What's happening to my nice little university?" To her embarrassment she found herself on the edge of tears.

"You tell me, Doc. I just drop in occasionally. You're here all the time. So who'd want to do in our friend?"

"Are you sure it's murder? Couldn't it be an accident? He was always doing something stupid like trying to work when he was drunk. Couldn't he have cut himself?" She realized she sounded desperate and fought to get herself under control.

"Well, unless he was seriously ambidextrous and double jointed he couldn't have dinged himself in the back of the head like that." Ryquist waited.

"Oh, God." She took a deep breath. "Maybe he fell and hit his head?"

"There'll be an autopsy downstate, so it'll be a while before we know the official cause of death. Right now I'd give a lot for a big city crime scene unit and a forensic lab. Sending everything away wastes a lot of time and makes me crazy." He sat back in his chair and looked out the window at the soft snowflakes beginning to fall.

"I can see it would."

"If we knew right away how he died I could concentrate the troops. As it is we gotta cover all the possible scenarios, and the force is so small here we can't do that very well. I should be concentrating on the murder... if it is a murder."

"And that is clearly what you think it is," Chris said, her heart sinking in her chest.

"If you fall and hit the back of your head, how do you end up face down spread eagle in the middle of the room? And there would have to be some blood and matter on some corner or projection. I couldn't find any blood on anything he could have hit his head on."

Chris grimaced. Accident would not be the explanation.

"Nobody I talked to was exactly fond of him, Doc. Practical jokes nobody but him thought were funny, right?" Ryquist sat back and crossed his legs. "He had a habit of ticking people off, right?"

Chris spread her hands. "If that's all it took for people to commit murder, there'd hardly be a professor left standing."

"Did he have any serious enemies, Doc? Not just people who were ticked off at him?" His pen poised over his notebook.

"I don't know, Hjelmer. Someone was down in the studio with him yesterday yelling about some prank he'd played. I don't know who it was though. I also don't know anything about Richard's life outside the division. Maybe he made someone murderously mad who doesn't have anything to do with Midstate." The proposition sounded thin and she knew it, but the idea of someone in her division reacting to a practical joke by committing murder was inconceivable.

Ryquist apparently had no such problem because he quizzed her for half an hour about the shouting match she'd over-heard. When she was unable to provide any further detail, he said, "Well, I'll need to talk to all the art professors. Can you give me a list with their phone numbers? It would save me some time over searching through my notes on the Page case."

She nodded and reached in her desk for a copy of the Division of Fine Arts roster. It came complete with the names, phone numbers and email addresses of everyone who taught, from full professors to adjuncts and graduate teaching assistants.

"It's a weird wound, though," Ryquist mused aloud. "Crunched the back of his skull like a rotten melon, and that's not easy to do." When Chris gasped audibly at the picture he had planted in her head, he looked up and immediately apologized. "You and I been hanging out together so much on the Page case, I forget you aren't used to this sort of thing. Sorry."

Chris tried to hide her discomfiture. "How can you be used to it yourself, Hjelmer? I'd never heard of a murder in Camford until Elizabeth was killed."

"Well, I did my bit in Naval Intelligence when I got out of college and then I spent six years in Washington, D. C., on the force. I saw my share of murders," he said somewhat defensively. "It's just that D. C. is a lousy place to raise kids and when our first one came along we got out before he went to school. Coming back to Camford suited me and my wife fine."

"Don't you miss the action of a big city?" Chris asked.

"Sure, but not enough to like the fact that I've got two unsolved murders on my plate right now." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "So just for form's sake, Doc, how'd you spend Sunday?"

Chris blinked. Was now the time to tell him about the Picasso? "I had a meeting at the president's house... and I have something to tell you about that later." She then described the rest of her day. Selecting images for her Wednesday final exam in Nineteenth Century European Art until five, home to dinner with Pansy, television until ten and to bed.

"So what do you have to tell me about the meeting at the president's house?" He turned a page in his notebook and looked up expectantly.

When Chris had laid out all her suppositions about the authenticity of the Picasso and he'd gone over it several times, Ryquist folded his notebook and sat back. "You've known about this since Friday. Why wait until today to tell me?"

"We don't know anything for sure. I thought if I could find the condition report, it would all be explained. It is imperative that we sort it out, but it would be awful if a rumor got started. Randall would never forgive us. And McGinnis told me to tell you right away once I'd told him." She'd stretched the truth a bit in the president's favor on that one. "Then Richard was found and I forgot all about it until now." She shrugged and hoped she looked convincing.

Ryquist eyed her for a moment. "Yeah, I guess."

"This must mean I was right about Bjornson not killing Elizabeth," Chris said after a pause.

"Well, if he did do it, we aren't going to be able to convict him of it now," Ryquist said wryly. "I was leaning toward him pretty good, but it seems I'll have to find a new scenario. Maybe Bjornson got in the way somehow." He scratched his chin speculatively. "Well, no good guessing. Solid police work will do the job eventually." He rose to leave. "We're gonna close off the sculpture area and the johns for now, that whole end of the building, maybe for a day. That going to be a big problem?"

"There are other bathrooms. We'll figure out something for the sculpture students."

"We'll need to talk to anyone who was around."

"Use the conference room as long as you like."

"Are all the faculty around right now?"

"Some. Finals started today and people will be in and out until the end of the week. We're supposed to have a division meeting late Tuesday afternoon so no one should have left for the holiday before that. Of course, the students go home as soon as their finals are over or their portfolios are turned in."

"I'd better get started then, I guess," he said and rose to leave. "You get an idea who the guy was yelling at Bjornson yesterday, Doc, you come to me, right?"

"Right." Chris nearly saluted. She watched his departing back and wondered for the umpteenth time who it was she'd heard.

Chapter 11

Tuesday saw no end to the police presence in the Fine Arts Building. Chris arrived early knowing she would face some academic problems as a result of the death of the sculpture teacher. As a group, students could be remarkably single-minded when the issue of grades and course credits arose. As she anticipated, there were several people waiting for her, all with the same questions.

"How are we going to get graded in Sculpture II, Dr. Connery?"

"I heard we're going to have to repeat the class to get credit. Is that true?"

"Who do we turn our stuff in to for Three-D Design?"

Before nine Chris had created an ad hoc committee of art faculty to take over grading Bjornson's classes. Michael Windwalker, the ceramist, agreed to accept portfolios for those classes until Thursday morning at 10 a.m. and Chris posted signs to that effect around the department. When she was finished she stopped at the sculpture wing, which was cordoned off with crime scene tape, and asked the first officer she saw whether Hjelmer Ryquist was available. He wasn't.

"Do you know how long it will be before we can get into Richard's office?" she asked.

"No, Ma'am. You better ask Detective Sergeant Ryquist about that."

"It's just that we need his grade book and class assignments to be able to grade his students."

The officer just looked at her. So much for her attempt to return to business as usual.

It was nearly eleven before Ryquist showed up in the division office. Officers had been interviewing faculty and students in the conference room all morning, and Chris despaired of ever getting back to the business of ending fall semester. Her spirits lifted a little when he handed her a battered grade book.

"This what you were looking for, Doc?"

"Yes, thank you. I didn't think the officer I talked to was too interested in helping us find this."

"Oliver's a good man. He wouldn't let us screw you up more than we already have." Ryquist turned to leave.

"Hjelmer, we may need to get a look at Richard's files," Chris said as she thumbed through the book. It didn't have much recorded that would be helpful in assigning grades. There were lists of students for each of his three classes, but only mid-term grades recorded. Nothing more.

"We'll be done with his office this afternoon. I'll let you come down after that, okay?"

"Thanks. I'll be here whenever you're ready."

Chris watched his broad back as he disappeared into the outer office. Her phone rang.

"Chris? I have a couple of folders of stuff from Elizabeth's office that you might be interested in," Rachael Jacobsen began. "Shall I send them over or will you be getting coffee sometime soon?"

"I could use some coffee, come to think of it. I'll pick them up," Chris replied. "What exactly am I going to get?"

"Oh, just some files of newspaper and magazine clippings. I gave them a quick look and thought they might be of interest to someone in art history. Not much use to me, I'm afraid. I've almost made it through every bookcase in her office. She was such a packrat that I've got a huge pile to toss, but these things might be some help to someone."

"I've been so tied up over here with Richard's death that I haven't had a decent cup of coffee since last week. I'll be over soon."

"It's terrible, isn't it? I mean, it's so disrupting. It's taken us all this time to get over Elizabeth."

"You're over it? I may never be," Chris replied.

"Oh, I just mean getting back to the routine."

"As I said, I may never be." They disconnected.

A half-hour later when Chris walked into the division office carrying two cups of coffee and three fat files of clippings, Richard Bjornson's two student protégés, Binty Buchanan and Geoff Richards, greeted her with nervous faces. They were sitting on chairs beside the closed conference room door.

"Hi, guys. What's up?"

"The cops told us to wait," Binty said.

Chris looked at Charlie with raised eyebrows. He accepted his mocha double shot gratefully and followed Chris into her office, closing the door behind him.

"Guess who's in there right now."

"President McGinnis," Chris said sarcastically and tossed her coat on a chair.

"Close. Howard Randall."

"Yikes!" Chris turned to face Charlie.

"No kidding. Randall wasn't happy when he arrived either. I thought he was gonna blow a vein. Geoff and Binty saw him in the sculpture studio Sunday and they told the cops."

"That's why the guys are out there?"

"I suppose so. Ryquist just told them to sit tight and there they are. My buddy at the cop shop tells me Richard probably died around ten that night. Binty says they saw Randall about two in the afternoon, but they didn't see him leave because they left shortly after he came. Then I remembered that Bjornson asked me for Randall's address in New York City the other day. Ryquist asked me what for and I didn't know, but I'll bet he thinks Bjornson was up to something, some prank. He sent the P. D. all the way down to Little Walk and dug Randall out of his cabin to bring him back here."

"Richard told me he was remaking that little Do-Nothing for Randall. That's probably why he needed his address—to ship it to him when it was done," Chris said.

"You probably should share that with Ryquist."

"I thought I already had." Chris shook her head. She actually couldn't be sure of anything anymore; she'd been over it in her head too many times.

Charlie sipped his coffee and left to answer a ringing phone.

Chris thought about the last time she saw Richard after overhearing the argument. Randall wasn't there then. Could the voice have been his? She hadn't paid attention to the time, but it must have been close to three-thirty or four. Could it have been the donor threatening Bjornson with a lawsuit? But still asking him to remake the damaged Do-Nothing he'd bought out of the show? It didn't seem likely. Besides, the unknown person had said something about Bjornson "messing with a person's career" or words to that effect. Randall's career these days seemed to be managing his money. Surely he was immune to anything Richard Bjornson could do to him.

Whatever Chris had planned to do that afternoon was lost in distracting phone calls about whether finals were cancelled (serious disappointment when she told callers they were all on schedule), and debating with herself about the likelihood of Howard Randall having a reason to kill Richard Bjornson. She kept one ear tuned to the comings and goings from the conference room.

Geoff and Binty were finally dismissed about two-thirty. Howard Randall emerged about an hour later looking like he was way past due for "blowing a vein," according to Charlie. Chris didn't have time to contemplate this if she wanted to be on time for the Division meeting. Tradition and the Division by-laws dictated having an end-of-semester meeting, but it was going to be anything but traditional, she was sure.

The group was unnaturally silent as they filed into the theater and took seats. The last Division of Fine Arts faculty meeting of the fall semester was about to commence under the most bizarre circumstances Chris could imagine. One of their number had been murdered two days earlier, and another three weeks before that. The police were still in the building doing who-knew-what and finals were in full swing. In normal times everyone would want to get the semester over quickly so they could concentrate on holiday activities that ranged from Colin McCarty's traditional Christmas in London taking in plays to Scott Mathern's ski holiday in Montana. In the best of times hardly anyone's mind would be entirely on the business of the university. This was not the best of times.

The agenda was a short one. The usual end-of-semester business that might normally occasion some discussion and debate was handled with a dispatch Chris could only pine for at other times.

When new business was in order, Chris outlined for them what little she knew about the death of Richard Bjornson and let them ask questions for which there were no answers as yet. She was ready to adjourn the meeting when Dr. Dan McFarland, the second Art History professor, rose like a stork getting off its nest and requested a moment of everyone's time. Geeky and a little inept, he always reminded Chris of Ichabod Crane. He carried a large, lumpy plastic bag to the front of the theater and turned to face the assembly.

"Before all this happened an ad hoc committee of Art Department faculty and staff had decided to make an award to one of our colleagues who overcame serious obstacles in carrying out an ambitious project. We planned to make the award at this meeting and, given the circumstances with two deaths in our midst, we discussed waiting until a more appropriate time. It seems to us, however, that a bit of cheering up might be in order so, with all due respect to our departed colleagues, here goes." He rummaged in a pocket, extracted a piece of paper and began to read:

"Whereas one of our colleagues has nearly single-handedly undertaken a project that reflects well on the Division of Fine Arts and Midstate University, and whereas said faculty member had some obstacles thrown in her path just as she was bringing her project to fruition, and whereas researching, negotiating and collecting the objects necessary for such a major exhibition would be formidable even without an obstructionist's interference, and whereas said colleague only narrowly avoided a total meltdown...."

A gentle titter began to arise in the group and Antonia Westphall began to squirm as McFarland continued.

"Be it known that, by the power vested in a small group of Art Department faculty and staff members by no one in particular, it is hereby decreed that Dr. Antonia Westphall shall be the first recipient of the "Forgot to Duck Award," hereafter to be awarded annually to the faculty member who aims highest but steps in it the deepest, misses the mark by the widest margin and still manages to come out on top."

He stuffed the paper back in his pocket and began fumbling with the plastic bag. Eventually emerged a stuffed mallard drake of particularly dissolute mien, mounted on a polished wood base and wearing a silver medallion on a chain around its neck. Its expression was hostile. A wire protruded from its head and its feathers were about as moth eaten as Chris had ever seen. The absurdity of the object sent the room into sustained laughter.

Antonia Westphall rose and came forward alternately grinning and simpering at her colleagues. Chris led the room in applause. Antonia shook hands with McFarland and accepted the duck, grinning widely.

McFarland said, "The Ad Hoc Duck Committee intends that you be charged with the care and feeding of The Duck for one year, at the end of which time you may keep the medallion. By that time we will have selected some other hapless soul to whom we will pass it along." Applause and laughter filled the room again.

As Chris reflected later, the bit of comic relief was made all the funnier by the grimness of the circumstances in which they found themselves.

Back in her office Chris dropped her final exams into her briefcase for safekeeping and was preparing to leave when her phone rang. It was President McGinnis.

"Chris, Howard Randall is in my office and would like to talk to you about the Picasso."

Chris's heart fell to somewhere around her knees. "He's heard about the newspaper scraps?" she asked.

"Yes," McGinnis replied tersely.

"I'll be right over."

The group assembled in the president's office was large. Dean Campbell-McFee, Harrison Foy, and Rachael Jacobsen had all been summoned. Chris surmised they were insulation for the president.

President McGinnis started the meeting. "I think Dr. Connery should explain the problem that has arisen, Howard. I think you'll see why we are concerned when she's explained. Dr. Connery?" He waved by way of turning the floor over to Chris, who cleared her throat and took out her file with the transcript of the newspaper scraps. Foy smiled at her encouragingly.

"Mr. Randall," Chris said, acutely conscious of being on the spot. "When I saw the Picasso up close for the first time, it was the day before the Gala. I cleaned the frame of the painting before we were going to hang it and while I was doing that, I started to read the text of the newspapers collaged near the bottom." She gestured to describe the part of the painting in question.

Randall nodded brusquely. "I know where they are."

"It's human nature, I guess. The painting's date is 1914, and since World War One started that year I was curious to see what, if anything, was in the clippings he used." Everyone's eyes shifted from Chris to Randall and back. She handed him the transcript she'd made. "I think you'll see what I saw."

No one in the room seemed to breathe. Randall took out his glasses and scanned the transcript. Foy moved around behind Randall's chair and peered over his shoulder. There was a moment of quiet, during which Chris held her breath. Then Randall grunted. "So? I don't read French."

Foy muttered, "I don't either, but I think I see what Dr. Connery saw. Look there." He pointed.

Randall looked. "Shit," he said distinctly after a moment. "Shit!" He straightened and stared with apparent fury at the ceiling. "Reagan and Thatcher," he said hoarsely. "Reagan and goddamned Thatcher."

"You see why we're concerned, Howard," McGinnis said at last.

Randall's eyebrows were knotted into a single line. He slapped the table and started to swear. The range and fluency of his cursing caused the president's eyebrows to rise ever so slowly. The Alumni Director's jaw dropped at about the same rate. When Randall subsided at last, red in the face and glaring, the silence stretched out for a bit. No one, least of all Chris, wanted to say anything.

Finally the president cleared his throat. "What do you think our next move should be, Howard?"

Randall said nothing. To fill the gap, McGinnis said, "Dr. Connery thinks we should get an expert out here to assess the situation."

Still Randall didn't speak.

"I'm not an expert in the period, Mr. Randall," Chris said into the silence.

"You're sharp enough to see the obvious, Dr. Connery," Randall said abruptly, blind to the disparaging implication.

"Of course, if you had the painting restored at some point, that might explain it," Chris said somewhat tentatively. "We looked for the condition reports, the one you sent with the painting and the one created here when the painting arrived, but as I told you, we can't find them."

Randall looked up at her sharply. "That's why you asked me to send another one. What do you need them for?"

"Well, as you know, contemporary restorers try to leave obvious evidence of their work. I thought that might explain the incongruent newspaper." She subsided and watched Randall warily. His reaction was unreadable though he seemed to be struggling with himself. She finally asked, "Did you have it restored?"

"No, I did not," Randall said through his teeth.

"We're thinking that it might be best for you to take the painting back so you can pursue this matter directly," Harrison Foy said with all the diplomacy of an arms negotiator.

"Bullshit," Randall said. All trace of his emotional outburst disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. "I gave you a Picasso." He stood and fixed the president with a look. "If you don't still have it, that's your problem."

James McGinnis's eyebrows repeated their slow upward progress once again at the same rate as Harrison Foy's jaw descended. "You can't seriously think the painting is not the one you gave us!" Foy said.

"How do I know? I haven't been here every moment, have I? I can't be held responsible for your lack of security, can I?" Randall's pugnacious stance seemed rooted to the floor.

Chris looked from one man to the other as the contest of wills seemed to escalate. Her mouth was so dry she couldn't swallow. She tried to speak, found she couldn't, cleared her throat and started again. "Mr. Randall, the painting we have hanging is the painting that was delivered. If you want, we can take it down and I can show you the mark on the left stretcher bar on the back, right by where the hanging wire is screwed in. You'll see the university's logo and the date." She had noticed it when she inspected it the first time. She subsided in the face of a withering glare from Randall.

"Yes!" President McGinnis said, relief flooding his person like dye through water. "I remember Page made quite a fuss about not doing anything to the work that would affect its value, but the insurance man was quite insistent that the piece be marked indelibly when it arrived, and before witnesses. I finally just had to tell her we were doing it."

"We'll see about that," Randall said, moving as if to leave.

"Howard, think about this," Foy said spreading his hands. "It's bad enough that you might have been robbed somehow, but why make it worse with a nasty fight over the authenticity of the work in our possession? I imagine the publicity would be unprecedented."

"He's right, Howard," McGinnis said. "I'm sure you don't want any more attention drawn to this than there has been already."

Randall's face underwent several changes in the space of a few seconds. It was like watching a storm system pass through on a TV weather map. Finally he seemed to collect himself with some effort. He turned to Chris. "Forgive my lapse in manners, Dr. Connery," he said with obvious effort. "I accept that this is the painting you received. I may have a few words with the crating and shipping company, but rest assured I accept this is what Midstate University received." He turned to the president of the university and the director of the Alumni Association. "I'm sorry. My outburst was perhaps understandable, but impolite and I apologize." Randall's tone and diction had become rigidly correct, in contrast to his earlier tirade. "I do not, however, think you need to return the piece to me. I think I can do what I need to do without actually having it in my possession."

"If you think that's best, Howard, that's fine with us," the president responded, expansive in his relief. "We only wanted to facilitate your effort to find out what happened. The painting will be here if you or anyone else needs to see it as part of your investigation." He turned to Chris. "Now, Chris, whom should we bring in to settle the question of authenticity? That should be our first step, don't you think?"

Chris thought, That's exactly what I wanted to do in the first place. She named the scholar who had been recommended by an old grad school friend. Foy offered to foot the bill to bring him to Midstate as soon as possible.

While this conversation was going on, Randall shifted from one foot to the other impatiently. Finally he interrupted to excuse himself and departed, trailing nearly visible shreds of his anger.

When he'd gone, Harrison Foy expelled a breath. "I haven't heard cursing like that since Viet Nam."

"Turned the air blue, didn't he?" The president chuckled, then cleared his throat and returned to making plans.

Dean Campbell-McFee spoke for the first time. "I can understand why he'd be angry, but imagine him trying to tell us it might not be the same painting!"

"I think he's not quite himself," Foy said. "If he's had one painting 'replaced,' maybe there are others. I'd bet he'll be on the next plane out of here to go home and check."

"He might not be able to leave," Chris said. "The police seem to think the painting may have something to do with Elizabeth's murder."

It was as if a skunk had just walked into the room. Everyone froze. Chris realized she'd brought an unwelcome reality abruptly into their midst. When they'd finished their plans and were departing, no one wasted much time on good-byes.

Chapter 12

By the time Chris had given her final exam in Nineteenth Century European Art the next day, she felt as wrung out as her students looked as they slouched out of the classroom after dropping their test booklets on the desk. A couple of them stopped long enough to wish her a happy holiday. One took the time to tell her how much she enjoyed the class. Most simply fled. She envied them their sudden release. The winter holiday would hold no such exhilaration for the director of the Division of Fine Arts. The best Chris could hope for was some quiet time with her son and her mother and fewer interruptions at the office while she tried to catch up with the normal business that had been pushed aside for the last few weeks.

When the last straggler gave up, she bundled the booklets into her briefcase, checked the room for forgotten gloves and textbooks, flicked off the lights and closed the door. When she turned she almost collided with Colin McCarty.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Chris. I just wanted to have a word with you before you disappear for the holiday."

"I'm not going anywhere, Colin." She hefted her bulging briefcase. "I'll be here over the break."

"Let me take those," McCarty said and relieved her of the lighter half of her burden. "I need to talk to you about something if now is a good time."

"Sure. Do you want to come to my office or is the hall good enough?"

"Let's go to your office." They walked the Art Department hallway and traversed the central lobby to the office complex. It was unnaturally quiet. Chris tried to make conversation as they went, but with not so much as a grunt in return she gave up.

They entered the office together just as the department ceramics professor, Michael Windwalker, was leaving the conference room. He looked very pleased to be out of there.

"Did you just finish with the police?" Chris asked.

McCarty's head whipped around before Windwalker could respond. "The police?"

"They're still using the conference room to interview faculty about Richard's death," Chris explained.

Windwalker smiled as if relieved. "I guess they're done with me because I was down on the Rez when Richard was killed. Of course they'll be checking up, but lots of people saw me." He headed out the door in the direction of the ceramics studio, his single black braid swinging across his broad back.

When Chris and McCarty were seated at last in her office with the door shut, she folded her hands on the desk and waited without comment, regarding him quietly. McCarty was one of those faculty members whom she had come to know more by association than through personal contact. She had decided long ago on no clear evidence at all that he was gay. He fit several parts of the stereotype. He was single, never married, always tastefully and expensively dressed, and owner of one of the most beautifully restored Victorian homes in Camford.

He smiled thinly. "I'm sorry to bother you right now. You must have so much on your mind."

"No problem, Colin." Chris wondered at his reticence, extreme even for him. "Please tell me what I can do for you."

"Well, I just needed to see what you want me to do about the proposal to remove the Museum of Art from the Division of Fine Arts."

Chris gaped. "Remove the museum—I thought the police were satisfied it wasn't a big deal."

It was McCarty's turn to gape, his eyes widening. "What do the police have to do with it?"

"Wait—what are you talking about?"

"Elizabeth's proposal to remove the museum and make it a free-standing entity. You're listed as receiving copies of all the memos I have."

Chris shook her head slowly. "I really don't know what you're talking about. I've never received a memo about it."

"She was playing me," McCarty said quietly. "What do the police have to do with it?"

"They figured out that Elizabeth didn't like the current administrative arrangement and were looking into whether that could be a motive for her murder but, as I say, they seem satisfied that it wasn't too likely."

McCarty considered that for a moment. "You really didn't know she was forcing the issue?"

"I know she never liked the arrangement, but I hadn't heard she was trying to do anything about it for three years at least. I thought it was a dead issue."

"Oh, it was very much alive. She was calling me at all hours since mid-term, trying to get it moved to the top of the agenda for the Executive Committee to deal with."

Chris's brain whirled as she tried to digest this new information. "How would you be able to accomplish that for her, Colin?" But the answer came to her before she finished speaking. "You're on the Ex-Com! She wanted you to bring it up to the Senate!"

"Yes. She thought I could influence the Ex-Com to bring it to the floor with a 'do-pass' recommendation. You know how rarely the Ex-Com does such things and how infrequently the Senate goes against a do-pass. She thought it was a lock." He laughed mirthlessly.

"She thought you would be able to sway the Ex-Com all by yourself?" Chris shook her head. "She obviously didn't understand much about the workings of the Faculty Senate."

"Apparently not. Anyway, I suppose the proposal died with her, but I just wanted to check before I chuck all the paperwork into the trash. I was supposed to bring it to the Ex-Com at tomorrow's meeting, but with all the excitement... I just forgot." McCarty sounded tired and preoccupied. "It's the last meeting of the semester and Page insisted that it be dealt with so it could come to the full Senate in January."

"Would you mind giving me what you have on the issue rather than chucking it?" Chris asked. "I've really heard nothing about it and I'm curious."

"Well, I'm glad I talked to you. I was sure you were aware of what she was up to before she died."

"It's all right, Colin. I would have found out before it could go too far."

"It's so terrible what happened to her, isn't it?" He shook his head. "And now Bjornson. I mean I never really knew either of them well. She could be difficult, I know that for sure, and I've heard a lot of people talking about how mean spirited he was at times. And I know for a fact he was an alcoholic, but it's a terrible waste, I think."

Chris nodded her agreement.

He continued. "I guess Bjornson's practical jokes caught up with him. Have the police got any leads?"

Chris just shrugged.

"Was it murder for sure? I've heard a few rumors."

"The police seem to think so."

"Why do they think that?" All pretense of casual interest was replaced with frankness.

"Apparently there was an object in his skull, just like Elizabeth," Chris replied.

"A bullet, you mean?"

"The police aren't saying anything about it, but in Elizabeth's case it was a ball bearing."

"How odd! Were they killed the same way, do you think?"

"I suppose so, " Chris replied.

"Will there be a memorial service?" McCarty said, blinking somewhat blearily as his habitual reserve settled around him once again.

"I understand the President's Office is arranging something for later this week."

McCarty nodded and pushed himself to his feet. "I'll bring those memos by before I leave today." He left without another word.

When the phone rang later Chris was so absorbed in trying to decipher a student's very bad handwriting that she jumped. Detective Sergeant Hjelmer Ryquist was on the line.

"Got something you might be interested in, Doc. You gonna be in your office for a while?"

"Yes, I'm grading finals, so I'm not going anywhere."

"I'll be by in an hour." He rang off without further comment.

Chris shook her head. What now? No point worrying about it until he got there, and she still had lots of exam booklets untouched in a pile in the middle of her desk. She got back to work.

When Hjelmer Ryquist poked his head in her doorway an hour and a half later she jumped again.

"Didn't mean to scare you, Doc." He shed his overcoat and settled into her visitor's chair.

Chris waved a hand at the heap of test booklets. "It's just that I'm really focused on trying to get through these tests. It'll be my last official act for the semester and I want to get out of here this year more than usual."

"Can't blame you for that." Ryquist adjusted his belt. "Found something over at Bjornson's place that might interest you, Doc. If you can take a minute." He handed a small pile of papers over the desk, each in a sealed plastic pouch. "Don't try to take'em out. They're evidence."

Chris leafed through them. Memos from herself to the faculty, an exhibition agreement with the museum. Nearing the bottom of the pile, she gasped. It was the condition report on the Picasso.

"How'd this get to Bjornson's place?" she asked skimming the top page, the only one visible of what looked like three pages stapled together. There was no mention of a restoration, but the first page only went up to 1960. The piece had been cleaned in 1958, long before Randall bought it. She really wanted to see the second and third pages. Ryquist didn't answer immediately and she looked up. He sat passively looking out the window. "Hjelmer?"

He turned his steady gray eyes to her. "You got any ideas about how that came to be at his place?"

"None at all. Did he pick it up by mistake? Maybe bring it along with the exhibition contract?" she offered, then shook her head.

"See? You got ideas. Picking it up by mistake. Now, if he wasn't dead, I'd be questioning him again about his relationship with the deceased, but since he is also deceased, I'm asking you, and you give me a possible solution. He picked it up by mistake." He returned his gaze to the scene outside the window.

"You don't like that solution, do you?" Chris said.

"Not at all. In my experience, things that stick out do so for a reason. Accident is low on the list of reasons."

"Can I ask what's your take on it?"

"Nope. I got to think about it for a while."

"Will we be able to see the rest of this any time soon?" She waved the condition report. "I know Randall said he hadn't had any restoration done, but I'm really curious about the history of the painting."

"I'll let you know when, Doc. See you this weekend, if not sooner." With that cryptic remark he picked up the stack of plastic evidence bags and left.

This weekend? What does that mean? Chris couldn't afford to give it too much thought at the moment and forced herself to return to the tests still littering her desk.

Later that night, as Chris sat bundled in her bathrobe with the rest of the house quiet and asleep, she paused in her reading to rest her head on the back of her armchair and think. Test booklets were scattered about her. The files of clippings Rachael Jacobsen had given her and a fairly thick folder containing all the paperwork Colin McCarty had turned over were untouched in her briefcase. The exams came before anything else, much as she'd rather have studied the details of Page's maneuvering.

She shrugged off the thought. Page was dead and the proposal did indeed die with her. No point in wasting time with it, she told herself for the tenth time since receiving it. Something else was bothering her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Her meeting with Hjelmer Ryquist had left questions chasing randomly around in her brain: a whole lot of motion but very little forward progress. She really wanted time to sip tea and think. That luxury would have to wait until the tests were marked and the final grades calculated. Maybe whatever was bugging her would present itself politely at that time.

Chapter 13

Friday of finals week finally arrived. There had been no time to sip tea. Thinking about anything but immediate crises was out of the question. Not all the problems created by the precipitous departure of two members of the Division of Fine Arts had been solved, but at least Chris was keeping her head above water.

Students in Richard Bjornson's classes would get grades and credit for their work. The three faculty members assigned this task had his assignment sheets and grade book to aid them. The sculpture area and the bathrooms were available again. The police had left black fingerprint powder on every surface in the welding studio and Bjornson's office and the custodians didn't even complain, so fascinated were they about being in the crime scene.

The conference room was finally empty after the police used it to interview everyone in the Division of Fine Arts over the course of four days. When they finally packed up and left on Thursday, the only thing Chris knew for sure about Bjornson's death was that he had been murdered. The X-ray taken before the body was shipped down to the capital had revealed another big round metal object in his skull, one nearly twice the size of the one that killed Elizabeth Page.

Over at the Midstate University Museum of Art, Acting Director Rachael Jacobsen continued to demonstrate she could be a whirlwind of efficiency in gathering the loose ends and taking over. Chris realized she could relax, at least about the management of the most public part of the Division of Fine Arts.

All in all, it was the best one could do. Maybe better than I have a right to expect, Chris mused as she packed her briefcase for an early departure. Bjornson's memorial service was scheduled for three o'clock at Camford Baptist Church.

Charlie was shutting down his computer when Chris emerged from her office, bundled against the weather. She waited while he finished, and together they set off for the parking ramp. The campus was quiet. Finals were over and the students had virtually disappeared. The sun was low and having no effect against minus two degrees.

"It was a week for the ages, Charlie," Chris said as they crunched over the snowy path. "With so much going on it's hard to remember that Richard was killed just five days ago."

The drive to the church was a short one and Chris was pleased to see a respectable scattering of cars in the parking lot. Perhaps not everyone in the Division of Fine Arts had come, but it looked like most had. She waited for Charlie while he pulled in next to her.

The service was nearly identical to the one held for Elizabeth Page. The minister spoke at some length about Richard Bjornson, a man he was frank to admit he'd never met. Based on his telephone conversations with Bjornson's brother and some Midstate faculty, the Reverend Carlson formed a picture of the man that was in some conflict with the reality experienced by members of the Art Department. He apparently believed Richard's practical joking was all done in a spirit of benevolent fun. Several members of the department lifted their heads and looked at the minister in disbelief as he droned on about teasing being a sign of affection and affection in any form being a manifestation of God's love for all his children. Some seemed to have difficulty restraining an impulse to correct this impression immediately, but eventually it was over. Everyone rose and began filing out. Relief was the strongest emotion Chris read on the faces that passed.

Dean Campbell-McFee waited for them by the door. "Congratulations on getting through the week without losing your mind, Chris. I think you really did a very good job handling the emergencies, and I think you could use a drink at the Camford Inn. Join us, Charlie?"

"Thanks, Lorraine," Chris replied. "I needed that."

"And the drink?"

"And the drink. Come on, Charlie, it's too late to do anything useful at the office." They set off in a caravan behind the dean's car.

When they walked into the Camford Inn and found a booth away from the door, Charlie commented that it was appropriate to come there to toast Bjornson since it was his "joint of choice."

"Was it really?" asked the dean. "I wonder why." They looked around at the tastefully restrained leather booths and the antique mahogany bar. It had manufactured the ambiance of an English gentlemen's club. It seemed an unlikely hangout for the scruffy sculptor.

"They have a two-for-one happy hour after nine o'clock," Charlie said.

"Oh." That explained a lot.

When they had their drinks, the dean repeated her praise for Chris's grace under pressure. They touched wineglasses.

"Here's to Richard Bjornson, who was just getting started artistically," Chris said somberly. The three of them drank a sober toast.

"Who will the Do-Nothings belong to when the show comes down?" Campbell-McFee asked eventually.

Chris shrugged. "I suppose his brother will get everything. He doesn't have any other immediate family. It's unfortunate, too, because it sounds like his brother didn't much care for Richard and thought his being an artist was stupid. You notice he didn't bother to come out here for the memorial. The brother took over the family business, I gather, and has some big bucks."

"Maybe we can convince him to leave the sculptures with Midstate as a sort of memorial to his brother," Charlie said as he swirled beer in his glass. "He probably doesn't want to pay to haul them to Richmond, Virginia."

Chris looked at the dean. "You see why he gets such good evaluations every year?"

"You want to come to work for me, Charlie?" the dean asked.

Chris said, "Hey, you've got Eloise. Keep your mitts off Charlie."

Ignoring both of them Charlie said, "I have to call him about some other business and I could just sort of suggest it."

"I think that is a great idea," said the dean.

Chris agreed. "And more of Bjornson's work will probably sell now that he's gone."

"Then I'd better do it first thing Monday morning. That way we can keep the money," Charlie declared and finished his beer.

When she walked through her back door, a pan with chicken fresh from the oven was on the counter island before her. Chris found her son and his friend Ted Olsen setting the table. Walter greeted her by woofing politely, but was too preoccupied following Drew from room to room to engage in his usual noisy ritual. Pansy was standing at the sink washing vegetables for salad, her cane resting against the counter. It was not going to be pretty when Pansy left and Chris reverted to canned chili and hot dogs.

"Guess what, Dear," Pansy said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. "Drew and I both have news. Mine first. I took Walter for a walk today and we did just fine. I had my cane just in case, but he was very good. We went around the block."

"That's great, Mother. " Chris bit back an urge to fuss at her about risking a fall on the snowy sidewalks. "Walter didn't try to pull you around?"

"He was the soul of patience. I think he knows I'm not ready to run a marathon," Pansy replied, pulling brownies out of the oven and replacing them with the chicken to keep it warm.

"And Drew's news?" Chris asked, searching the refrigerator for something to drink.

"We're gonna build an electromagnetic gun for Mr. Ryquist tomorrow," Drew said, coming into the kitchen. Ted trailed behind him. "He says he's got all the parts."

"Sweet, huh?" said Ted. "I mean, it's like so cool! We get to see how they test it and everything!"

"I thought Richard showed the police how it worked," Chris said, trying to cover her surprise.

"He was supposed to build them one from scratch strong enough to kill somebody. Guess he got killed before he did that," Drew shrugged.

"Why are you two helping them?" Chris looked from one boy to the other.

Drew shrugged again. "We went over to see Bjornson working on one of his pieces, like, a couple days after the opening, y'know? Guess I forgot to mention it. He showed us what he was doing, so the cops want us to show them." He glanced nervously at his friend.

Ted came to Drew's rescue. "Yeah, Dr. Connery. It's just that we saw the pieces when they were apart for that big fountain deal he was making, y'know? The one he was going to call 'Fountain for the Desert' or something like that? The one that sort of spits ball bearings into the air?"

Chris remembered the sculpture quite well. It still stood to one side in the welding studio where Bjornson had been working on it before his death. It consisted of a large basin with five chrome-plated tubes standing vertically in the middle. They were all at least six feet high and about an inch in diameter. The first time Chris had seen it was when a student reported Bjornson had plugged it in and nearly blown a hole in the ceiling with a barrage of ball bearings. The student had found it hilarious—from the safety of the hallway. Chris had been less entertained. By the time she got down there it had been unplugged, but the damage to the ceiling was obvious.

"I wound the copper wires too tight," Bjornson had offered by way of explanation. He hadn't been concerned about the ceiling.

"Just please be careful, you two," Chris said abandoning any pretense of being a cool mom. "If we're right about that being the way two people were killed, it's obviously very dangerous."

"Hjelmer won't let them shoot the thing," Pansy said firmly. "Will he?"

"We have to try it to know if we did it right, Drew's Gramma," Ted said with irrefutable logic.

"Besides, he needs to see if it can be made powerful enough to break a person's skull," Drew said and turned to his friend. "What will they shoot it at, do you think?"

Ted said, "I'd set up a coconut, but maybe they've got something in the crime lab that makes a better human head than that."

Pansy looked from one boy to the other with widening eyes. Finally she turned to Chris. "Can we be there?"

"I can't imagine the police would want us all there, Mother," Chris said, shaking her head.

"Well, I want to keep these boys from doing something dangerous," Pansy declared virtuously.

Chris threw up her hands. "Too late, Mother."

"I suppose that's true, Teensy," Pansy said with a trace of resignation. "But wouldn't it be fun to see it work?" Fun did not describe what Chris thought it would be, but she conceded that they would attend the demonstration if Ryquist would allow it, and they settled at the table to make short work of Pansy's dinner.

When all was said and done, the building and testing of the electromagnetic gun went very smoothly. Ted Olsen came armed with pages of diagrams printed off the Internet. Ryquist and a police technician had gathered PVC pipe, welding rods, copper wire, and extension cords on the worktable in the center of a storeroom in the basement of the Camford police station.

Chris decided this was what Ryquist meant when he said he'd see her this weekend because he agreed without fuss to let Pansy and Chris attend, though Drew insisted before they arrived that they stay in the background and try not to be too obvious. He could have saved his breath.

Pansy kept asking questions as they worked. It was all far more complex than Chris had anticipated based on the boys' previous conversations, while at the same time the materials were frighteningly untechnical. It ought to be harder to make a murderous weapon, she thought and then remembered that there wasn't much that was complex in throwing a rock or using a big stick.

The boys exercised their newfound physics jargon with the police technician, who introduced himself only as Bill and who was obviously having the time of his life. There was a lot of conversation about force perpendicular to the direction of the current and other things that were incomprehensible to Chris. Eventually she gave up trying to understand what they were saying and let the dialog simply become sound, much as she did when she was in a country whose language she did not speak. She was only here to prevent her son from sticking his head in front of the blasted thing once it was complete. She idly scanned the diagrams Ted had brought along.

She tugged on Pansy's arm at one point. "Mother, look at this." They peered down at a cut-away diagram of a futuristic military tank. The caption indicated that it was a proposed "rail gun" and would, when perfected, be able to obliterate anything it aimed at using an electromagnetically driven projectile. The two women were silent as they read.

"I guess that answers the question of whether one of these things could be made powerful enough to kill someone," Pansy said quietly.

Behind them a discussion began on whether the device would need a trigger.

"Depends," Ryquist said. "Does this thing go off as soon as it's plugged in?" Ted and the technician nodded. "Then I'd say it needs a trigger. You can't be too accurate hitting a target if you have to be bending down to plug it in or using two hands to attach it to an extension cord."

They immediately directed their activity to designing what the technician called a "pressure plate for closing the circuit. Nothing simpler in the world," the technician said.

Easy for you to say, Chris thought.

After another half-hour Chris was about to suggest she and Pansy just give up and let them continue without motherly supervision when the technician began patting the table, hunting for his calculator under the accumulated papers. Behind him the conversation had turned to figuring the "muzzle velocity" of a certain configuration, the details of which were lost on Chris.

Ryquist pulled on his lower lip, his eyes shifting from one speaker to another. When the technician had located his calculator, he and the others exchanged a lot of arcane jargon that Chris realized finally had to do with predicting how fast the ball bearing would be going when it left the tube.

Ted offered, "I bet we could do some serious tweaking with two-twenty." The technician, who was only five or six years older than the two boys, agreed and started banging on his calculator once again until Ryquist intervened.

"Got to keep it to what we know or think we know the killer used," he said. "Don't go trying to improve this sucker."

The boys were clearly disappointed, as was the technician, though he was smart enough not to let his boss see that.

Ryquist turned to Chris and Pansy. "You understand what they're talking about?"

"Not a word," Chris said. Pansy just shook her head.

"They're trying to calculate the configuration that will do the kind of damage we found. It would be nice to get it right without having to spend a month experimenting."

"Do you understand how this all works, Hjelmer?" Pansy asked, the tone of every word indicating that she was in awe of a person who could do that.

My lord! She's in full flirt-mode. She'd seen this in her mother twice before and a husband was the result each time. Since Hjelmer Ryquist was apparently a happily married man, one could only assume Pansy was acting on reflex or was just practicing for her return to Florida.

Ryquist ignored Pansy. He turned his attention once again to the animated discussion continuing around the calculator. A stiffening back forced Chris to join her mother on one of two folding chairs against the wall. They'd been there for three hours and still the weapon existed only in the imaginations of the participants.

At one o'clock Pansy and Chris went to pick up lunch. There was still no weapon in evidence. When they returned, however, a plastic tube about thirty inches long and about an inch and a half in diameter was standing on two notched blocks of wood. It was pointed at a hay bale on a table pushed against the opposite wall. A normal two-wire appliance cord went to the back where it split, one wire going through a cardboard cap on the end and the other to a cardboard flap standing upright on top of the tube. A hole had been drilled in the tube and a wire with a bare copper end poked out. It was held down with electricians' tape.

The four men were engaged in an animated debate about whether a coconut or a bale of hay was a better target. Ryquist finally held up a hand and announced they would conduct the experiment using the bale of hay as a target because he wanted to see whether there would be any telltale marks on the bearing from its passage through the tube. Hamburgers and police authority finally put the discussion on hold.

"How did you get it together so quickly?" Chris asked between bites.

"Nothing to it once we decided how much wire to use and how to wrap it on the rails inside the tube," Bill, the technician, said as he dragged a french fry through a puddle of catsup.

Chris looked at Hjelmer.

"I'd hate for the criminal class to figure this out," he said. "It was twenty-five minutes work. No more."

"Cheap, untraceable materials," agreed the technician.

"As long as your criminal can find a place to plug it in," said Drew.

"Can you feature it?" Ted laughed with his mouth full. "Guy wants to hold up a gas station, comes in with this thing and has to ask the clerk to plug it in?"

"There's the battery one that guy built," Drew said. "You know, the one with the web site? That would probably be good enough to rob a gas station with."

Chris's food almost lost all flavor in her mouth. Pansy, delicately removing the pickles from her hamburger, pretended not to hear.

Drew continued. "I mean, if you could make it look threatening. It didn't really pack a lot of punch and it looked like some kid's whiz-bang toy."

Everyone agreed that wouldn't do the job for the average gas-station-robbing thug.

"When are you going to test it?" Chris asked. She could see her whole day disappearing into this project.

"Right now," Bill said as he stood and wiped his hands. Pansy and Chris cleared away the luncheon debris while Drew and Ted joined the technician in a final appraisal of their handiwork.

Bill was the first to sight down the barrel at the bale of hay standing against the far wall. Then Drew and Ted each took a turn. Finally Bill shooed the boys toward the rest of the group clustered at the rear of the room. He plugged the cord into an extension lying on the table.

"Fire in the hole," he said and pressed the cardboard flap down to put the bare wire taped to its underside in contact with the bare wire coming out of the tube. The whoosh was immediate, as was a thunk. Everyone stared silently at the bale of hay. There was a clearly visible hole punched in its side.

Ryquist was the first to speak. "Guess that would do the job." He and Bill leaned down, peering at the hole.

"How far in is it?" asked the tech with some amazement. "That looks like at least as far as a twenty-two caliber bullet would go." They began breaking into the bale, looking carefully for the bearing. When they found it, Bill put it under a microscope and declared that he could see no marks that hadn't been there before.

"If this catches on, the bad guys are going to win a lot more often," Ryquist said grumpily as he dusted hay from his pants leg.

Drew grinned. "But only if they have really long extension cords."

Chapter 14

Pansy McMillan stood with both hands on her cane and eyed Detective Sergeant Hjelmer Ryquist with disapproval. "What do you mean, you can't tell us whether this contraption is like the one that killed those poor people?" She sounded for all the world like she was telling him for the last time to pick up his room.

Chris cringed inwardly. Ryquist seemed to be immune, however, and ignored her.

"Hjelmer, we've been very cooperative and I think we are entitled to know whether this little experiment was worth our time." Pansy stood her ground while Ryquist and Bill the technician conferred over a stack of notes. "Hjelmer," she said again, this time more sweetly. Chris grabbed her elbow and tried to start her toward the door. She might as well have been trying to drag the door to Pansy.

It was obvious that Pansy was going nowhere, so Chris gave up and sat back down on a folding chair. Ryquist sent the technician on an errand and finally turned to face the two women. Drew and Ted fidgeted in the background.

"Yeah, Pansy, I think this is the kind of thing that did the job. There probably were two different weapons because there were two different sized bearings used, but both of them probably looked like this gadget here."

"So who does that incriminate?"

"You don't give up, do you?" the policeman said with a chuckle. Pansy's charm rays were at it again.

"What about Randall?" Pansy asked eagerly, recognizing a breach in his policeman's demeanor. "Does he have an alibi?"

"This alibi thing is really overrated," Ryquist responded. "Almost no one can account for their whereabouts easily if you just ask them where they were, say, last Thursday night. Where were you, Pansy?"

"Well, I was at Chris's house, of course, but then my knee is limiting my options right now."

He pursued his point. "Can you prove you were there?"

"My daughter can vouch for me, can't you, Te... ah, Chris?"

Chris shook her head. "You know, I can't remember last Thursday night. What did we do?"

"See what I mean?" Hjelmer said shrugging. "Alibis are hard because innocent people don't think they'll need to remember where they were or what they were doing or who they saw. They just go on about their business. Unless they did something unusual, they're likely to have to think about it a lot. Then, most folks don't have corroboration."

"So does that mean the Randalls don't have alibis?" Pansy persisted.

"The night Page was killed, Randall was at the Little Walk Casino playing blackjack until about one in the morning. He says he and his wife got down there about six and ate in the buffet. Takes fifty minutes to get there from Camford so the latest he could have left town was around five. He says he paid cash for his dinner and took his wife home to their cabin. So no one can swear he was at the casino until he bellied up to the blackjack table. We checked the casino security video. He played his first hand at nine-twenty. He'd have had time, if he's lying about when he left Camford or what he did after he dropped his wife off." Hjelmer shrugged.

"What about the sculptor? Is Randall a possible for that one?" Pansy was clearly prepared to go through the whole list of suspects and Hjelmer would have no peace unless she could be deflected.

"We still haven't nailed that down entirely. He says he was at his cabin with his wife that night and she confirms it."

"Anyone else we should be looking at?" Pansy continued.

Ryquist put his hands on his hips. "What's this 'we' stuff, Tonto? You just relax and let us do the job, Pansy."

Chris had heard enough. "Mother, we have to let Hjelmer get on with his work and we need to do some Christmas shopping." Shopping was the one entertainment Chris thought might be more compelling than murder for her mother. She was wrong.

Pansy was unrelenting. "Chris told me about all the nasty little practical jokes Bjornson pulled on his fellow teachers. There must be a slew of suspects in his case. Is there someone who had it in for both of them?"

Ryquist drew a deep breath and looked at Chris who shrugged and made an "I give up" gesture.

Behind him Drew and Ted made throat noises like they wanted to be a part of this conversation. Drew said, "Mr. Ryquist, are you thinking someone needed to have special skills to make one of these things? 'Cause Ted and I talked about it, and almost anyone could have seen what he was doing in the sculpture studio. He wasn't secretive about it at all. Stuff was all over the place when we were there, and he was kind of in and out when he was looking for a tool or something. Somebody could even have taken one of those pipes he was making for the Desert Fountain and I'm not sure he'd notice right away."

"Yeah," Ted Olsen said. "It was a bodacious mess in there. Sure different when you see the stuff in the studio instead of the museum."

Ryquist contemplated the two young men for a moment. "Good point," he said at last. "Makes for a pretty big field."

"So who's in the clear? Maybe that's the place to start," Pansy said eagerly. "What about Chris? Could she have done it?"

"Mother!" Chris was aghast.

"Gramma!" Drew looked momentarily terrified.

"Your mom's in the clear, Drew," Ryquist assured him between chuckles.

"I wasn't suggesting you did it, Teensy. I just meant we have to start narrowing the field somewhere. She couldn't have done it, right?"

"We checked her out, Pansy. She's got a neighbor vouching for her at the time Page got it and she was with you when Bjornson was done."

Chris sat upright. "A neighbor?"

"Yeah, old guy says he saw you take Walter for a walk. He's sure of the time because he kind'a keeps tabs on you."

"Old guy. You mean Mr. Twingley?"

"Yep, he thinks Walter's cute and you're wonderful. So he keeps his eye out for your comings and goings."

"Oh, good lord."

"I'd say he's got the hots for you, Doc."

"I know, I know. He's been making passes at me since we moved in."

"Told me he wished he was fifty years younger," Ryquist added with a twinkle.

"Oh my god!" Chris glanced at her son, flushed crimson and looked at the floor.

Her mother looked at her speculatively. "This Mr. Twingley rich?"

Chris stood. "That's it. We're out of here. Come on, Mom, if you don't want to walk home or have to take a cab."

Hjelmer Ryquist was struggling unsuccessfully to keep his face arranged. Drew was nearly the same color as his mother. Chris headed for the door with Pansy trailing reluctantly in her wake.

"Hjelmer, if we think of anything pertinent, we'll call you right away," Pansy said over her shoulder.

Ryquist finally burst out laughing. They went up the steps to the main floor slowly in deference to Pansy's knee, and echoes of Ryquist's good humor followed them most of the way.

When they got home late that afternoon after dropping Drew and Ted off and shopping for last minute Christmas gifts, Chris was acutely conscious of being watched, or so she supposed, as she got out of the car and unloaded packages. Pansy made her way up the back steps and Chris followed, trying not to look next door where she was sure octogenarian Horace Twingley was lusting after her through the lace curtains on his kitchen windows.

"Teensy, we should have a Christmas party—a birthday party for you actually—and invite the neighbors," Pansy began.

Chris held up a hand and shook her head vehemently. "Mother, don't even think about it. He's eighty if he's a day and I am not having a birthday party, period."

"Well, you only have one birthday a year, and how long has it been since I've been here on your birthday? We should do something. Nothing big and fancy, just a few people in...." She trailed off when she caught the look on Chris's face. "Well, if you're going to be a poop about it." She huffed dramatically and limped off to her room.

That won't be the last of it, Chris thought. Birthdays were sacred for Pansy. Since Chris's was on Christmas Eve, her mother had always found a way to create a party, usually sometime between Christmas and New Year's Day, to compensate for the lack of special attention her daughter could expect on the actual day. She was reminded of her fifth birthday, shortly after her parents' divorce and a move to a different state. Pansy had rounded up ten five year olds, not one of whom Chris knew. It had been a great party in spite of that, noisy and high spirited. Chris still retained one image of its aftermath after all these years: Pansy flopped on the couch, holding paper plates and scraps of birthday wrapping in each hand, sound asleep.

No, this will come up again. Chris could only hope to control the form the party would take and insure that neighbors to whom she'd never said more than "hello" were spared the need to participate. She made hot chocolate, poured two mugs, added a shot of Bailey's to each and set out to make amends.

Peace offering delivered and accepted, she curled up in her favorite chair to sip the warm brew. The fat folders of clippings she'd received from Rachael Jacobsen were on the table next to her, and she began leafing through them. Articles cut from art periodicals and reviews of shows from the New York Times demonstrated Elizabeth Page's eclectic interest in most aspects of the art scene in the city. They were in no particular order that Chris could discern, so she began to lay them out on the floor around her to make useful piles. She placed anything of interest to one of the other two teachers of art history in discrete piles, things that interested her in another, and things of marginal interest to anyone in a discard pile.

When she started on the third and last file, the discard pile was by far the largest. Most of the clippings came from the years before Elizabeth arrived at Midstate. The newspaper reviews were the bulk of the rejects, as their shelf life was long gone. Amazingly, Chris observed, there were very few glowing reviews that presaged actual success for longer than eighteen months.

She was about to place a review of a performance art exhibition in the discard pile when she noticed something. Yellow highlighter marked a fragment of a paragraph on the back. She checked the front again. Two lines—March 10, 1997 and below that NY Times—were hand written at the top. She turned it over again and reread the marked paragraph.

Colin McCarty, 42, lead in Back to Basics at the Stuyvesant Repertory Theater, was detained for questioning after the third act curtain regarding his relationship with a 17 year old boy following a complaint filed by the boy's parents. McCarty maintained his innocence as he was led off by police. The parents, who refused to be identified in order to protect their son, said McCarty had carried on an illicit relationship with the boy for the past four months. The relationship had been discovered by accident when—

At this point the article was cut off. The original point of the cutting clearly had been the review on the other side.

Chris put the cutting down and sighed. "Oh, dear." In all probability nothing came of it, she decided. As far as she knew, in thirty years McCarty had never been missing from Midstate except when he was on sabbatical.

"If he'd been convicted he'd surely have spent time in jail," she said aloud. Walter raised his head and looked at her out of the corner of one eye. She rubbed him with her foot. "I think it's best to assume that there was nothing to it, don't you, Walter?"

Walter sighed heavily and squirmed into a tighter ball. He was snoring in less than a minute.

Maybe it isn't even the same person, Chris thought, though the highlighter applied to McCarty's name in the cutting left little doubt that Elizabeth Page was confident she knew the man in question.

She reread the clipping. Was Page holding this over McCarty's head to get him to help with her plan to get the museum out of the division? She was reminded of what seemed like a testy exchange she'd witnessed from afar between the two of them early in fall semester. Does this have something to do with what they were arguing about?

Chris tried to return to perusing the clippings but she wasn't very attentive. Finally she paper clipped the piles to be kept and returned them to the folders, then went through the throw-away pile one last time to make she wasn't missing anything. She told herself she was looking for things of artistic importance, though in reality she was looking for more about the incident reported in the clipping now resting on her coffee table. In the end she found nothing more and went to bed knowing that on Monday she would have to look closely at Colin McCarty's file.

Chapter 15

Though Chris tried to put the possibility that Colin McCarty had a dark chapter in his life out of her mind for the remainder of the weekend, she wasn't very successful. By the time she parked in the ramp on Monday morning and headed toward the museum (a latte before anything else), she was focused on having a look at McCarty's curriculum vitae.

Had he been missing for a period and she was just unaware of it? A gap at the right time might be suggestive, though perhaps not conclusive. She thought about why she would do this. It wasn't just curiosity. If he was missing for a significant period at the right time, it could mean he was a convicted pedophile. Chris knew that all sorts of recent legislation existed that required notice to communities and registration of offenders. She needed to know or she might be liable for prosecution herself. There were times—and this was certainly one of them—when she didn't much like her job.

She arrived at the division office to find Charlie putting final grades into the computer. Chris asked him to dig out McCarty's file when he had a chance. She then went to her own office to fire up her computer and check her e-mail. It was close to eleven o'clock when Charlie dropped the thick folders that recorded McCarty's work life on her desk.

"How are the grades coming? Do you have everyone's?" she asked. The noon deadline was fast approaching.

Charlie shrugged. "All but Dr. Westphall's and the bunch that're finishing Bjornson's classes. They swear they'll have them in by eleven-thirty. Dr. Westphall is always the last one in. I think she waits in the hall until I start closing up for lunch."

Chris laughed and turned to the top folder. The first section of McCarty's personnel file would contain a current copy of his curriculum vitae. She spent five minutes and then sat back and closed her eyes.

During the academic year 1996-97 McCarty had been on sabbatical. According to his c.v. he spent the year as part of a repertory company in New York City and had starred in Back to Basics from mid-February through mid-April. A copy of a flattering review dated March 27th of that year was included in the file. The reported arrest had taken place on March 9th, according to the clipping. His vitae indicated he had taught a summer school course at Midstate University from early June through August of that same year. He'd been in continuous residence at Midstate ever since. It was obvious that he was indeed the Colin McCarty who had been accused of pedophilia and just as obvious that he did not go to jail for it. Apparently the only thing that resulted from his arrest was that it had drawn the attention of the reviewer for the New York Times who had made an effort to see the show.

Chris rose, put the file back together and returned it to Charlie's desk. He was engrossed in recording grades and didn't look up. She returned to her desk and took a deep, relieved breath. The incident referred to in the clipping, while unsettling, did not result in a conviction or even a trial. She turned her mind to developing a series of lectures about early Twentieth century architecture for her spring semester class.

She was in the slide library checking the inventory of architecture images when she heard Antonia Westphall open her office next door. Chris wandered out to the hall to say hello and was surprised to see Hjelmer Ryquist coming from the opposite direction.

"Morning, Doc," he said soberly. "Dr. Westphall here?"

"I just heard her come in, Hjelmer." They arrived at Antonia's open door at the same moment and looked in. Antonia was seated at her desk, facing the door and punching numbers on her phone.

"Oh!" she boomed. "I was just calling you, Chris. I want—" She stopped when she saw Ryquist.

"Got a minute Dr. Westphall? I've got a couple of questions."

"I'll leave you two," Chris interjected. "I'm in the slide library, Antonia, when you're finished if you want to talk to me. Did you give Charlie your grades, by the way?"

"Just now when I came in," Antonia replied, not taking her eyes off Ryquist.

Chris stepped around him as he stood aside to let her pass. When she was back in the library she tried to return to reviewing images but kept wondering what additional questions Ryquist had for poor Antonia.

She had successfully begun to concentrate on the early work of Frank Lloyd Wright and was searching for images of the Unitarian Church in Oak Park, Illinois when she heard Antonia Westphall say loudly in obvious frustration, "There isn't anything else to tell!"

Chris froze. She knew in that instant who she'd heard threatening Bjornson with a lawsuit for "messing with a person's career." Antonia Westphall's masculine voice, strained and furious, had mislead her. It wasn't a man. It was the diminutive art historian. "Oh god!" she whispered and dropped the pile of slides she had been laying out on the light table.

When she arrived at Antonia's office door, Ryquist was nowhere to be seen. She stepped in and sat without invitation in the visitor's chair. "How'd it go?"

"He keeps harping on that fight I had with Elizabeth over the catalog and it just isn't logical. It got fixed! You fixed it, Chris! Why would I want to kill her over that?" Antonia twitched nervously and tried to keep her hands still. She laced her fingers together so tightly the knuckles turned white.

Chris thought, If that's all Hjelmer's got and he's focusing on her, wait till he finds out she was the one yelling at Richard before he was killed. She said, "Did Richard pull one of his jokes on you, Antonia?" No sense being coy about it.

Antonia went white under her olive skin and stopped moving altogether. It was harder to see her in this state than to watch her multiple tics and twitches.

"Were you the person I heard yelling at Richard that afternoon in the studio?" Chris waited while fear and anger and frustration battled for control of Antonia's face.

"I didn't know anyone heard us," she said in the first true whisper that Chris had ever heard pass her lips.

"I was in the women's bathroom. I didn't hear a lot, but I did hear you say something about him messing with your career." Chris leaned forward in her chair. "Will you tell me what that was all about?"

Antonia hesitated only a moment. "I got a letter from someone claiming to be a lawyer. He threatened me with a lawsuit for using copyrighted material without attribution." Antonia stopped and struggled to get possession of herself. "I spent every waking moment for a week in the library and on the web trying to find the article he said I used."

"What did he accuse you of doing with it?"

"The Mannerist catalog—he said I'd lifted big blocks on the work of Pontormo and Bronzino. Chris, I didn't! I know I didn't, but I searched anyway because there was a chance I'd repeated someone else's research. Finally by Sunday I was sure there was no such article and no such author, at least not one who's an expert in the Sixteenth century. I mean, there probably is a person with the name, but he's never published anything on any topic that I could find. I finally decided it was Richard and one of his nasty little pranks, so I confronted him. He denied it at first and then he started to laugh. He thought it was hilarious! I could just see my tenure blowing up. I told him I'd sue him and I left. I was going to call a lawyer the next morning and then he was found dead and I've been waiting for the police ever since. Are you going to tell them, Chris? Do you have to? I didn't kill him, I swear!" Antonia twisted her hands in her lap. Chris saw that they were trembling violently.

"I think you should tell Detective Ryquist yourself, Antonia. As soon as possible. Right now, in fact, if we can catch him. Don't wait for him to come to you."

"I hate him!" suddenly burst from Antonia's lips at a decibel level that caused Chris to jump. "Well, I do," she said more quietly. "Richard's dead and I hate him. Isn't that sick? I wish he were alive, the little weasel, so I could let him know how much I detest him and his stupid, hurtful—" She reached for a tissue. Chris noted there was quite a pile of them in the wastebasket. Antonia was having a very bad day.

"I'll come with you to find Ryquist. Let's get it over with."

Antonia sniffed and gulped. "Okay," she said at last with a bit more of her normal volume.

The detective sat back and stared at Antonia across the conference room table. He'd been chatting with Charlie when the two women arrived in the office. "So he engineered a letter to you that accuses you of borrowing someone else's material. That right?"

"It wasn't just borrowing, it was plagiarism," Antonia lowered her voice to what was a normal tone for anyone else. "It could have ruined my chance of getting tenure next year." She sniffed into a tissue miserably.

"We talked about tenure before, Hjelmer," Chris interjected. "Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." His gaze shifted back to Antonia. "Thanks, Doc. I'll call you if I need you. Okay, Dr. Westphall, let's go over it again."

Chris would rather not have been dismissed, but she nodded and left the conference room, closing the door behind her. Poor Antonia would have to cope unaided.

"Dr. Westphall have some kind of fight with Bjornson?" Charlie asked after the door was closed.

"Seems so," Chris sighed. "He pulled one of his pranks on her."

"What did he do?" Charlie asked with frank interest.

"Got someone to send her a letter accusing her of plagiarizing material for her article in the Mannerist catalog."

"Jesus, he had a nose for it, didn't he?" Charlie shook his head.

"He was just mean," Chris agreed. "He always went for the weak spot."

"I hate to speak ill of the dead," Charlie said. "But he was a predator."

"A very good description," Chris said and stepped into her office.

When Antonia Westphall emerged from the conference room half an hour later, she looked just as miserable as when she'd gone in, Chris observed, but she wasn't in shackles so maybe there was hope. The little art historian left without a word. Ryquist stepped out of the room moments later and Chris was struck with a sudden need to confess that she too had something to tell him. Ryquist looked at her blandly and waved her into the conference room.

They sat across from each other at the conference table. "Okay, Doc. Shoot," the policeman said evenly.

"I learned last week that Elizabeth was planning to try to get the museum moved." There. It's out. Chris could take her conscience to bed without fear.

"Move it somewhere?" Ryquist seemed puzzled. "Don't imagine the administration would be too pleased, what with the new building and all."

"Oh, she wasn't plotting to move the museum physically, just get it out of the Division of Fine Arts administratively."

"Interesting." He continued to watch Chris closely. "This place is just a gold mine of information today. I knew it would be good to come here. Better tell me more about it."

Chris took a deep breath. "I learned that she was trying to do it by some pretty underhanded means."

"We heard she wasn't happy with the present arrangement. I've been following up on that since she died, and I gotta tell you, I still don't get it. This some kind of big deal, whether the museum is in the Division of Fine Arts?" He stared at Chris with guileless gray eyes. There was that worm vs. robin sensation again.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Hjelmer," she replied, buying a little time to think before she spoke.

"What's it matter in the scheme of things?"

"I'm not sure it does matter actually. I can't imagine it would matter to anyone outside the campus. The museum was put into the division when I was hired five years ago. Elizabeth had been in the habit of overrunning her budget and she wouldn't tell anyone what she was up to. When they hired her they gave her free rein with the exhibition schedule, not realizing what the fiscal consequences would be. When they tried to get the place under control she fought by enlisting a board of directors from the elite of Camford. They were well intentioned, but it made life really hard for the administration. They were all so sick of it, I've been told, that when someone suggested the museum be placed in the Division of Fine Arts when I was hired, they jumped at it. It was a rough couple of years. I told you she was tough to work with. I think she hated reporting to a woman. Actually she probably would have hated reporting to anyone."

Ryquist persisted. "What would be better from her point of view if she was on her own?"

"Not having to report to me, certainly," Chris acknowledged. "Possibly she thought she'd get her budget back into her exclusive control."

Ryquist nodded. "Money is always a good motivator. Go on."

"She might have thought her board of directors would be easier to manipulate. At the present time they're largely ceremonial and advisory." Chris shrugged. "I really don't know. I thought she'd given it up years ago until Colin McCarty brought it up."

"What's he got to do with it?"

"He's on the committee she was trying to push into approving the change. He came by last Wednesday to ask me if the proposal was dead. I mean... well, you know what I mean... if the proposal should be pulled now that Elizabeth is gone."

"I'm trying to figure out if anything about it would make a good enough motive for murder," Ryquist said. "Would she take a big chunk of your division's budget if she left?"

Chris shook her head. "She'd take the museum's part of our budget. It would be a wash fiscally. I mean, the other departments didn't get anything by being in the same division, or lose anything, for that matter."

"But she was out to stab you in the back."

"Hjelmer, she was a pain to work with. She was snappish and egotistical and frequently very rude. My life would have been a lot easier with her in someone else's administrative control. But it was best for the museum and the university if she stayed, so I would have fought to prevent any such action by the senate. That is not a motive for murder in my mind, but you may feel differently."

"Well, there's motives for murder and there's motives for murder," Ryquist mumbled.

Chris shrugged. "It's just hard to see how anything about it could make someone mad enough to commit murder. I always thought murder was intensely personal. That was just administrative maneuvering."

"She'd need more than one person to get that done, wouldn't she?"

"Realistically, she would have needed a lot more," Chris replied. "You surely don't think more than one person was involved, do you, Hjelmer?"

"No, this was probably a one-person operation. Was there one person more than anyone else who would be inconvenienced if she pulled out of the division?"

"The upper administration would be inconvenienced if she started blowing her budget the way she used to, but on a personal level I can't imagine that it would matter to anyone." Then a thought struck Chris. "Of course, maybe I'm the villain of that piece. She tries to remove the museum from my trembling grasp and I black out in a fury and zing her."

"You'd be up on the list if it weren't for your neighbor."

"Honestly, he's the dirtiest old man I've ever met, but if he keeps me out of trouble I'll have to be grateful."

"He's eighty-three and quite a character. I wouldn't go over there alone to express my gratitude if I were you, but you might bake him some cookies or something. Without him we might have decided you had the best motive to do the lady in. Everyone we've talked to describes how she treated you from the day you arrived. They all think you're some kind of saint for taking it without losing your temper." Ryquist was smiling. "Course, I know you're not a saint, Doc, but I promise not to tell."

Chris laughed thinly at Hjelmer Ryquist's joke and plowed ahead. "When I saw Elizabeth and Colin McCarty arguing I couldn't imagine what it was about because I didn't know they even knew each other except by sight."

"Arguing?" Ryquist leaned forward. "When? Where?"

"I don't remember exactly. Sometime last fall. They were in the theater and I overheard them exchanging words. I guess the fight must have been about the political maneuvering she was doing. Maybe he didn't like her tactics or something."

"He stand to lose if she pulls out of the Division of Fine Arts?"

"No, I can't imagine why it would matter to him. Not professionally and certainly not personally."

"Why not personally? He's a man. She's a woman. Sometimes personal just happens."

Chris nodded. "True. It may happen—or it may have happened, that is, for Elizabeth. I've heard talk over the years, but honestly I don't think it happens for Colin. He's a real loner." She stopped short of saying that he was also gay and perhaps had a taste for younger men. "That's why I was so startled to find them arguing. It's just so out of character for him."

"What's the most surprising thing about it to you, Doc? Just think out loud."

"That they knew each other well enough to argue."

"And?"

"That Colin never said anything about her maneuvering to me. Or that I didn't hear about it through the grapevine. Usually you can't keep a secret like that on this campus for long." Chris paused. "Of course, he assumed I knew because Elizabeth had told him I was copied on all the paperwork he had, so he probably thought he didn't needed to bring it up." She didn't think that was all of it, but said nothing more.

Ryquist nodded and was silent for a time. "Okay," he said at last, coming to his feet. "Thanks for filling me in, Doc. One more piece for the puzzle." He started for the conference room door.

Chris stood and trailed after him. "You aren't seriously thinking Antonia had anything to do with this, are you?"

Ryquist stopped and turned back. "Why do you ask?"

"She just doesn't have it in her. She'd be so squirrelly and nervous if she did anything like that she'd fall apart in a day."

"She's a twitchy one, all right. I'm keeping all the options open until we solve this, Doc. That's the right way to go about it. I'll try not to scare her too badly, though. Okay?"

"Thanks, Hjelmer, but I think it's already too late on the that score."

Chapter 16

By Tuesday morning when Chris walked into the empty outer office, things had returned to normal, more or less. Finals were over, the semester had officially ended, and grades had been turned in. That was the normal part. That there were no policemen in the building, though a relief, struck Chris as faintly abnormal under the circumstances.

A sign on the door said Charlie Ingquist was off getting the mail since there wasn't intra-campus delivery over school holidays. Chris was struck by the hollowness of the Fine Arts building when there were no students or faculty around. She scanned Charlie's desk for anything he might have for her and noted a stack of papers awaiting filing. McCarty's thick set of file folders was also still there. Charlie must have been very busy yesterday. He was normally a paragon of efficiency whose desk never looked used, let alone cluttered.

She opened her office and lamented her own lack of efficiency. Books and papers were stacked on the corners of her desk and only the blotter was clean. Time to tidy up. She told herself this was why she'd come in this morning—to do a little sorting and organizing. Actually, Pansy was still intent on arranging a birthday party for her and, rather than fight about it, Chris said she had work to do and left. It wouldn't hurt to do a little tidying, she told herself and started in.

Ten minutes later Charlie was back with an armload of mail and two cups of coffee. "Thought you'd be here," he said, putting one of the cups on her desk. He returned to the outer office to begin sorting letters.

Chris reviewed and tossed until her file drawers were immaculate. The top of her desk still looked like a paper-recycling drive, but she'd made progress. She began sorting through the piles.

Charlie stuck his head in the door and grinned. "You want some gossip, Boss?"

"Anything to relieve the tedium of housekeeping." She consigned her notes for last semester's class to an accordion file.

"The top two candidates, according to my buddy at the cop shop, are Dr. Westphall and Howard Randall." He came all the way in and sat down.

Chris paused and looked at him. "Really? Do you know why?"

"She had a fight with both of them and he had the opportunity and the skill to make one of those E-M guns. They're still pretty sketchy about a motive for Randall, at least as far as Bjornson's concerned."

"Antonia couldn't make one of those things, could she?"

"That's a hang-up from what Cliff says. They've got the motive and the opportunity for her and the opportunity and the means for him. Gotta have all three for the county attorney, so they're are still digging around. Cliff says they're trying to find out if she could have stolen the parts from Bjornson. He also says they're canvassing every hardware store in the area looking for someone who bought the right supplies."

"From what I saw Saturday if they go at it that way, the list of possible candidates could be huge."

"Why's that?"

Chris shrugged. "All common, garden variety stuff. Extension cords, copper wire, PVC pipe, welding rods—not much more than that."

"Interesting. You got to see it? The E-M gun?"

"My son helped them make one."

"Sweet! Did you see it work?" Charlie would have been right at home in the basement of the P. D.

Chris thought, Must be a guy thing. When she'd recounted as much as she could remember, Charlie returned to his office and Chris returned to sorting and filing. The tedium had almost reached its maximum tolerable level when she was finally able to see the entire top of her desk. She flopped back in her chair and said, "Done!" to the ceiling. Then she called, "I'm out of here, Charlie."

"Me too, boss. Remember I'm going home for Christmas tomorrow so you're on your own until next Monday."

"I'll bring the mail over every day, but I'm not sitting here in an empty building when there are cookies to be baked," Chris said, wrapping her scarf around her neck. "Don't forget to make sure the file cabinets and drawers are locked. I assume a few people will come in to check their mail. And have a great holiday, Charlie."

"You too, Boss. And happy birthday."

Chris stopped mid-stride on her way to the door. "Thanks. How'd you know?"

"You told me when I asked about your name years ago. Don't see many people named Christmas, y'know?"

"You have a very good memory," she said, continuing out the door and spent the walk to the parking garage trying to remember whether he'd ever wished her a happy birthday before. You're being overly suspicious, she told herself at last.

Chris assumed Pansy had forgotten about her birthday by the twenty-seventh of December. She was wrong. She had taken her mother shopping for a winter coat. When her mother ultimately refused to buy one, in spite of having tried on several that looked very nice, Chris should have been suspicious. When Pansy declared she couldn't live without a pizza at Spike's, bells should have rung. None did.

When they walked into Spike's Pizza at six o'clock that Monday, Chris was astonished to see everyone in the Art Department who hadn't left town, Aaron Brinkmann from Music and Tony Taylor and the normally reclusive Colin McCarty from Drama. Her amazement redoubled when he raised his glass with everyone else and shouted, "Happy Birthday!"

"Mondays are slow in the pizza business," Pansy explained when Chris had a chance to ask how her mother had been able to arrange to take over the restaurant. Charlie admitted to having conspired with Pansy to pull this off, and Drew sidled up to his mother grinning widely. He gave her a nudge with his elbow. Hugging one's mother in public was apparently still a no-no. A nudge is better than nothing, Chris thought as she returned nudge for nudge.

She was seated at a table covered with wine bottles in gift packages reading the cards aloud when she got another surprise. Hjelmer Ryquist and Tom Eicher, Pansy's physical therapist, walked in with two women Chris assumed were their wives. They came straight for Chris, bearing cards and wine bottles of their own.

"Pansy invited us," Ryquist explained in answer to the question Chris was determined not to ask.

"I'm so glad she did," Chris responded truthfully, for she did like the detective sergeant, in spite of the circumstances of their meeting. Ryquist introduced his wife, Mae, and announced that Tom Eicher, the physical therapist, also was his nephew. He introduced Eicher's wife, Patty. Chris was reminded once more of the smallness of Camford.

She went back to the cheerful task of reading aloud the outrageous cards, most of which suggested it was a miracle she could still walk without help and didn't drool. When she got to one that had two vultures on the front saying, Enjoy your birthday! she should have been prepared for the punch line: It might be your last. Somehow, she was not. She tried to grin and passed the card around with the rest, but a shadow had passed over her good mood.

Don't be stupid, she thought. She opened the last few cards and finally joined the line at the buffet for pizza.

"Having a good time, Chris?" Antonia asked when she settled at a table with the art historians.

"Absolutely!" Chris responded stoutly and dug into her piece of pepperoni.

Dan McFarland chuckled. "Some of those cards were great."

Talisha Rice sniffed. "Not that vulture one. Tacky, I call it. Under the circumstances and all."

"It was okay," Chris said. "We wouldn't even notice if it weren't for the situation."

"What's that policeman doing here, I wonder?" Antonia whispered after a bit. Only the people working in the kitchen didn't hear her.

"My mother doesn't know many people here," Chris explained. She recounted the story of her fifth birthday, but Antonia didn't look comforted. When Chris caught Ryquist looking at Antonia speculatively, she decided Antonia was right to be unnerved. Party or not, he was a policeman.

Chapter 17

Dr. Richard Price arrived in Camford late the next day. There was so little activity on the Midstate University campus that the presence of a renowned expert in Cubism, specifically the work of Pablo Picasso, aroused no attention at all. The grapevine remained silent. Chris was extremely grateful, both for that and for the administration's change of heart about having the Picasso vetted.

Wednesday morning she picked Price up at the Camford Inn and delivered him to the museum, introducing him first to Lotta Latte and then to Acting Director Rachael Jacobsen. The Picasso had been taken down and was resting face-up on the padded surface of the worktable in the storeroom.

"I'd prefer to work alone for the time being, Dr. Connery," Price said smoothly, never taking his eyes off the painting as they stood inside the doorway. He put his kit and his laptop on the counter by the door.

"Of course, Dr. Price. You have my number, and Ms. Jacobsen will be glad to assist you in any way." Chris backed out of the room, following Rachael, and closed the door behind her.

"He's all business, isn't he?" Rachael said when they were out of earshot in her office.

"I invited him to call me Chris when I met him at the airport and he said, 'No, thank you.' So it's Dr. Price for the duration."

"Really!" Rachael said, taken aback. "Aren't we the stuffed shirt!"

"He's the reigning expert on the period, so I guess he doesn't have to be charming."

"Do you think he'll be able to settle it one way or the other? I mean, wouldn't it be awful to have spent all this money to get him here only to have him say he can't be sure?"

"Bite your tongue!" Chris said flapping a hand in the air. "President McGinnis would have a stroke."

"I've got my fingers crossed. Poor Mr. Randall must be so worried. I've been thinking about how it could have been substituted, and it really seems like it wouldn't be too hard." Rachael shook her head. "They travel a lot. They have servants. Suppose one of the servants hatches a plot to steal the painting and leave a substitute in its place. They'd have all the time in the world to make a copy while the Randalls were in Europe or somewhere. Tweety Randall told me they always spend six weeks on the Riviera."

"That seems like the stuff of thriller novels, doesn't it?" Chris remarked as she shrugged into her coat. "I mean, think of it: A ring of art thieves who don't smash and grab. They just quietly remove works of art in their owners' absence and replace them with high-quality fakes." She shook her head. "Too bad that can't be what happened."

"Sounds good to me, Chris," Rachael responded. "Why couldn't it work?"

"I guess I have a hard time seeing how a gang of art thieves could engineer it. They'd have to have someone on the inside. They'd need a highly skilled and very expensive forger, and he or she would have to have access to the painting for a long time, maybe months, don't you think?" Chris sounded somewhat wistful that this romantic solution was not likely to be the right one.

"I think they could do it if they had the time to take lots of good pictures of the piece, real close-ups," Rachael said. "If the artist could get access to the piece periodically and work from photos in the meantime, I think they could do it, don't you?"

"It just seems to me it would involve too many people and too much risk. The money isn't good enough. Everyone would get a cut for taking the risks, and in the end they could only sell it for a couple of million. It wouldn't be worth it."

"I thought it was worth more than twenty million!" Rachael responded in surprise.

"I read an article about art theft some years ago, and the author said the going rate for stolen art is only about ten percent of its appraised value. And then consider the investment of time. People like the Randalls don't get their servants by putting an ad in the newspaper. I'll bet anyone who works for them has been thoroughly investigated and is bonded. Wouldn't you think so?"

"Probably." Rachel grinned. "But I'm a lowly development officer. I have never swum in such deep water and I probably never will."

Chris concluded. "So anyone who got into their household would have to have faked wonderful credentials or been a mole for a very long time."

"Maybe their time investment pays off because he's got a very large collection. There could be a lot more fakes, don't you think?"

"Good point." Chris shrugged. "Still seems fantastic though."

"And how else could it have been done?" Rachael asked as she walked with Chris up the stairs. "I can't figure that out."

"It's a tough one," Chris said. She wasn't about to share her suspicions with anyone.

Dr. Richard Price refused lunch and stayed locked in the storeroom for the better part of the day. He asked for an Internet connection for his laptop at one point and otherwise was not seen or heard by anyone in the museum until he emerged at four-twenty to ask for a ride back to his hotel. Chris collected him at the museum and walked with him through the tunnel to the parking garage, making small efforts at conversation. She got little in return.

When she pulled into the curved drive of the Camford Inn and stopped, Price thanked her for the ride and started to get out of the car.

"Do you want me to pick you up again tomorrow morning, Dr. Price?"

He paused with his hand on the door. "Eight sharp, please. I should be able to tell you something by early afternoon."

"Shall I arrange to have you meet President McGinnis and the former owner, Howard Randall, at two?"

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He slammed the car door and walked into the Camford Inn without a backward glance.

Thanks for nothing, Chris thought and put her car in gear.

The meeting the next afternoon took place in the storeroom of the Midstate University Art Museum. President McGinnis had offered his office as being more comfortable, but Richard Price had refused, saying it was important for the painting to be available.

James McGinnis, Harrison Foy, Howard Randall, Rachael Jacobsen, and Chris Connery were thus crowded around one end of the padded worktable at two o'clock. Price stood at the far end with the painting now resting on an easel. He had an array of computer printouts spread out on the table, and to Chris's amazement pulled a laser pointer out of his pocket. He tapped it on the easel to get everyone's attention.

"I have analyzed the subject painting very carefully," he began. "I haven't had time to get results from paint analysis yet, but I don't think we'll need to wait for those to say something definitive about this object." He looked around his audience, all of whom were holding their collective breath.

"This is a fake, a reproduction if you will, of an important Synthetic Cubist piece." A groan interrupted him and he frowned. "It is an extremely good fake, but it is clearly not original, clearly was never intended to be taken as an original, and I have no idea why I was called out here to look at it when a sophomore could spot its flaws."

Howard Randall stiffened next to Chris. "Now wait just a minute!"

Price silenced him with a look.

"Most obvious are the incongruous newspaper collages and the fact that no attempt at all was made to find canvas of the period. Also, it is my opinion that tests will prove the yellow here is one that wasn't in use before the Second World War." A red laser dot darted around a small area near the top right.

"Why do you say it was clearly not intended to be taken as an original, Dr. Price?" Chris asked deferentially. Hanging on his every word would get farther with him than confrontation, she thought.

"Because, Dr. Connery, I think I know who did it and when."

Howard Randall made a sound in his throat.

President McGinnis said, "Good God!" He turned to look at his companions.

"Please tell us," Chris urged with as much breathless admiration for his skills as she could manufacture.

"When did you acquire this object, Randall?" Price asked abruptly, ignoring her.

"I bought a Picasso from a reputable dealer in 1977. I have the provenance and the bills of sale going back to Kahnweiller." Randall was clearly not going to allow himself to be stampeded by this overbearing academic. He leaned forward over the end of the table and fixed Price with a withering glare.

The glare had no apparent effect.

"This painting was made in the mid-Eighties, probably by Egon Starkovich. I don't care how many pieces of paper you have. It's a fake."

"We thought as much," Foy said at last. "Dr. Connery noticed the newspaper discrepancy right away. That's why we hired you to confirm it."

Price glanced at Chris briefly. "Well, good for you, Dr. Connery. I see not everyone out here is naïve."

Randall exploded. "Now wait just a goddamn minute!" He was going to say more, but at that moment the storeroom door opened and everyone turned to see Hjelmer Ryquist filling the doorway, a uniformed officer barely visible behind him.

"I was told I'd find you all here, and here you all are." Ryquist grinned briefly and stepped into the room.

"Who the hell are you?" Price said, looking down his patrician nose.

"Detective Sergeant Hjelmer Ryquist, Camford P. D. You must be the art expert everyone's been waiting for," Ryquist replied equably. "So what's the word?"

Price looked at McGinnis and Randall in turn without saying anything.

"Tell him," McGinnis said at last.

"It is not a Picasso, in my opinion," Price said stiffly and frowned at McGinnis. Chris was positive he was more upset about being upstaged than about the budding confrontation with the painting's former owner.

"Interesting," Ryquist said. "Mr. Randall, we have some questions for you in light of this new information. I need you to come with us for an interview."

Everyone in the room exchanged wide-eyed looks. Randall seemed to Chris to inflate like a puffer fish. He stood red faced, fists clenched, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The uniformed officer moved around Ryquist to stand behind the donor.

"Best you just come with us. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours," Ryquist said cheerfully. "Officer Ekert here will see you to the car."

When they were gone the group that remained in the storeroom was fixed in place as if stupefied.

Price was the first to recover. "So, shall I go on?" he asked the room in general.

"God, no," McGinnis snapped. "Just give us your report in writing as soon as possible." He surged out of the room, heading for the stairs.

"Thank you so much for clearing this up for us, Dr. Price," Chris said into the ensuing silence. Others murmured their perfunctory thanks, and in seconds the room was empty except for Price and Chris. They looked at each other briefly. Price began stacking his printouts and stuffing them into his briefcase. He pocketed his laser pointer.

"I would appreciate hearing what else you found, Dr. Price. Perhaps you can fill me in while I take you to the airport," Chris said at last as she watched him.

"I'm glad someone takes an interest in what I have to say," Price said somewhat stiffly. He took a last look at the erstwhile Picasso. "Starkovich does good work, for what he does." He hefted his briefcase. "Let's go. I have a five-thirty plane to catch."

They were in Chris's station wagon on the road to the airport when Price finally explained. "Egon Starkovich spent ten years in jail in Spain for forgery back in the late Sixties. He is the best I've ever heard of at imitating Nineteenth and Twentieth century masters. Even fooled the Prado, but he got caught when he tried to sell them a painting they already had in storage. When he got out he set up shop as an imitator, creating reproductions. The idea was to allow the real paintings to be held in safe storage while the fakes were displayed in their owners' villas. Supposed to save a bundle on insurance and security. To keep himself out of trouble, he always makes it very obvious that it's a fake, if you know where to look. Interpol has been watching him for twenty-five years and he hasn't screwed up yet."

"How did he screw up this time, do you think?" Chris asked.

"I'm not sure he did. The danger in these things is that once they're out there, you can't be positive someone won't use them for some nefarious purpose."

Suddenly Chris remembered something. "The Rockefellers started that reproduction gallery, didn't they? Sometime in the Seventies? Was that what they were really doing?"

"Not quite. They were making reproductions of their own works of art, things in the family collection."

Chris chuckled. "My professors were still arguing about it when I was in grad school. The Rockefellers maintained that art shouldn't be only for those who can afford it so they made really good reproductions of Monets and Brancusis and such. You say they were things in their own collection?"

Price nodded. "As far as I know."

"They were still pretty expensive, as I recall." Chris shrugged. "I'm not sure they did the humble masses much good."

"They didn't. I suppose if you're a Rockefeller spending a couple of thousand on a so-called Monet instead of several million would seem like a good deal, but it's still too rich for my blood. And besides, it's still a reproduction," he said with a superior sniff.

"Absolutely. But how did that turn into the business of hanging reproductions instead of the real stuff for serious collectors?"

"I'm not sure, but by the Eighties it was a full-blown fad and it's been Starkovich's bread and butter for years now." Price lapsed into silence, staring out the window at the frozen cornfields.

"Well, I hope this helps get things straightened out here," Chris said as they were nearing the airport.

"What's going to happen to the painting now, may I ask?"

"I have no idea. We'll probably hang it with the real artist's name and use it as a teaching tool."

"I'll contact Starkovich and have him send you copies of his records. He's meticulous. He has to be to keep out of jail."

"That would be wonderful, Dr. Price!" Chris said with genuine enthusiasm. "Thank you so much!"

"Call me Richie."

Chris drove home from the airport giggling periodically. "Richie," she said aloud and chuckled once again. By the time she arrived back at her own driveway, however, she'd settled once again into the muddled state that she'd acquired slowly since the first murder. It had been building, this sense of foreboding and confusion. Her world had been knocked sideways and she was still reeling. At least the question about the Picasso had been settled—not for the best, but settled. The rest of it, the murders, would probably still keep her up nights.

Surely the police would have to arrive at some conclusion before the start of spring semester. Chris was used to marking time in terms of semesters and breaks. She couldn't imagine how they would start classes with this sword of Damocles hanging over them. She switched off the lights and pulled her key from the ignition. She was out of the car heading for the back door, head down and lost in thought when a motion just within her peripheral vision to the left caught her attention. She stopped and turned to look just as the back door burst open.

Drew bounced down the steps wearing his Campus Security jacket. "Got to get to work, Mom," he said, breezing past her. Chris had been so lost in her dark musings she hadn't even noticed his battered Honda parked next to her station wagon.

"Sorry I missed you, Kiddo."

"Gram's got some wicked cherry pie in there," he added as he opened his car door with a squeal of rusty hinges.

She watched him back out and drive off and then looked toward the clump of poplars where she would have sworn something big had moved not a minute ago. There was nothing there but poplars. She shrugged, climbed the back stairs and went in.

The next morning Chris and Walter drove to the university to pick up the mail and distribute it in the Fine Arts office mailboxes. As far as she knew that would be her only chore, but when she arrived she found Oscar Stullmann, head of the Campus Safety Office, standing by the office door with his hands on his hips, looking thunderous.

Now what? she wondered. Stullmann's contentious relationship with the Art Department was uncomplicated by any understanding or sympathy on his part for their mission. He thought them a nest of slovenly bohemians, pure and simple.

"Dr. Connery, you got to get with the program here. I just found the fire doors propped open in Music again. That's the third time since the break started. The rules say they have to be closed at all times to prevent the spread of a fire, and by God I'm here to tell you they will be kept closed. Are we clear?"

Apparently Walter took offense at his tone because he pressed his body against Chris's shins. She looked down in surprise. Bassets aren't famous for being guard dogs. "It's okay, Walter." She bent to give him a pat. When she rose she said, "Mr. Stullmann, I haven't been in the building myself to do more than distribute the mail. I have no idea who could be doing that, but I promise I will let Music know." She juggled the bundle of mail and the leash and fumbled with her keys.

"You better do more than 'let them know,'" he said officiously. "I'm gonna have to report this to your bosses, and if it happens again, we'll have to take some action. And there ain't no dogs allowed in the classroom buildings." He stalked off toward the main door and disappeared.

Chris sighed and hefted her bundle of mail onto one hip so she could unlock the door. Action? What action does he think he can take? Nail them shut? Post a guard? At that moment Antonia Westphall appeared from the Art Department wing and boomed a hello.

"Hi, Antonia. Having a good break?" Chris led the way into the office. Walter wagged a welcome that Antonia returned by bending to scratch his ears.

"Not really, Chris. The police are here twice a day. I wanted to go to the Nutcracker in Farmington and they wouldn't let me." She sounded more frightened than indignant.

"Jeez, Antonia, I had no idea," Chris stopped and regarded her. "They're following you?"

"Apparently so. I got about two miles outside of town and they stopped me." Antonia, though putting on a brave face and speaking with forced courage, was pale and her hands shook slightly as she undid her coat. Then she took part of the pile of mail. "Let me help you with that."

They worked silently for the ten minutes it took to fill the mail slots. When they'd finished, they parted for their separate offices. Assuming he was stuck for a while, Walter sighed pointedly and sprawled in Chris's doorway.

She was listening to telephone messages and jotting notes when someone came into the outer office. Walter stood at attention, tail wagging slightly, but didn't advance on the newcomer. With half an ear on the message and the other half on the outer office, she heard someone rummaging in a mailbox. Then the door whispered shut and they were alone again. She finished with the messages and hung up. She used a large black marker to make signs for the Music fire doors, demanding they be kept closed at all times, then grabbed her coat. Walter tugged enthusiastically, anticipating a walk on campus.

"In a minute, fella. We have to put these up first." She used her passkey to get into the music wing. When the signs had been taped to the doors they left by way of the main entrance and started a slow, nose-driven ramble across the campus.

The sky was lead-gray and low. Chris hunched against the wind, which seemed to be picking up. They walked around the small ornamental lake, passing the president's mansion and the soccer practice field. Walter was happily engaged in leaving messages for other dogs on every tree, post and sculpture plinth they encountered.

They were standing before the grim bronze image of President Andrew Jackson North (1874–1875) when the sleet began to fall. He was frowning, Chris was sure, because of the indignity to which Walter was subjecting him. Chris hunched into her coat and tried to urge Walter to get moving. Walter left one last message and they started back for the Fine Arts Complex. By the time they arrived, the sleet was driving into their backs and the sidewalks were getting slick.

"We'd better get home, Walter," she said as they hurried through the building to the loading dock where she'd left her car. Had they started a half-hour earlier they might have had an easier time. As it was, Chris spent five minutes clearing her windshield with a scraper only to have it ice up again in a minute.

The drive home was slow. By the time they finally arrived, the streets were approaching impassability. She'd narrowly missed sliding through one intersection and had opted finally to take alleys to get home because their rougher gravel surfaces gave her marginally better traction. The sleet showed no sign of stopping or changing decisively to either rain or snow. Late December in the Midwest is not for wimps, Chris thought.

When they got home at last she and Walter entered through the kitchen. Walter went straight to his dish as usual. Chris tried to stomp the slush from her feet and called out to Pansy, "It's a real mess out there, Mom. I hope we don't have to go anywhere else today."

"Come say hello to Hjelmer, Teensy. He just stopped by."

Chris joined them in the living room. "I'm sorry to have been bellowing from the kitchen, Hjelmer. If I'd known Pansy had company I'd have been more discrete."

"You didn't say anything indiscrete as far as I'm concerned." He chuckled and returned to his chair. "I was getting tired of trying to drive in this mess so I thought I'd stop and say hello to Pansy, let her feed me some tea."

"We've been having a nice chat about all the clues and what they suggest," Pansy said brightly.

"I thought you policemen were supposed to be tight lipped and taciturn," Chris said. "Here you are letting my mother pry information out of you."

"She bribed me with these snickerdoodles," Ryquist said, reaching for a cookie. "I couldn't help myself. Better than sodium pentothal."

"You should have seen what she could do when I was a kid. I never could keep a secret from her," Chris said as she went to the kitchen for a cup. When she returned she poured tea for herself and settled back. "Okay. Spill it. What clues have you been revealing?"

While they waited for the sleet to stop, either Chris or Pansy had brought up most aspects of the murders of Elizabeth Page and Richard Bjornson. Ryquist was less than forthcoming on the status of the investigation, but they gleaned some facts nonetheless. Ryquist and his people had narrowed the investigation to those who were known to dislike both Page and Bjornson. There were still far too many of those since the police were now starting with the premise that anyone who worked with Page disliked her. They had discounted the glowing praise given her by the citizen members of the museum board since virtually no one on campus appeared to agree.

The list of victims of Richard Bjornson's practical jokes was lengthy, but largely confined to his colleagues in the Art Department with only the occasional attack on someone from Music or Drama. Ryquist said they were concentrating on finding someone who had been abused by both victims in some way.

"What about the Randalls, Hjelmer?" Pansy poured him a third cup of tea. "Chris said you hauled him off to jail yesterday."

"I said no such thing, Mother!" She turned to the detective. "I didn't, Hjelmer. I just said he left with you. What did you find out from him?" That question had been irritating her twenty-four hours.

"I'll keep that to myself for the moment, if you don't mind," Ryquist replied looking studiously into his teacup and swirling the contents.

"You're no fun at all when you act like a policeman, Detective Sergeant Ryquist," Pansy said with a mock pout, then limped to the kitchen for more cookies.

Chapter 18

Friday, New Year's Eve, arrived overcast and still. The snow had been covered with a glittering crust of ice thanks to Thursday's sleet storm. It did not promise to be an attractive day, but at least it wasn't snowing when Chris rose and staggered toward the kitchen in Walter's wake. Walter trotted briskly ahead and sat with a thump by his dish. He was torn between a need to go out and his desire to have his breakfast at the earliest moment. Chris solved his dilemma as she always did by opening the door and hustling him outside into his kennel run.

Pansy was still asleep so Chris tried to keep the noise to a minimum as she dropped kibble into his metal dish after starting the coffeepot. By the time she'd let Walter in, however, Pansy was standing in the kitchen doorway, yawning. They settled in the living room with the paper and coffee cups at their elbows and for the next hour spoke not a word other than to pass sections of the paper back and forth. All in all, it was a perfect morning but for the fact that the murders in the Division of Fine Arts were still causing far too much ink to be spilled in the local paper.

"Look, Teensy," Pansy said at one point. "They seem to have discovered that Richard Bjornson was a practical joker." She held up the front of the section devoted to regional news and pointed to a headline that read Did Joke Backfire?

Chris groaned.

"They just rehash what's been in the papers before and they don't seem to have any specifics about pranks that he pulled, but they certainly got wind of his being hard on his colleagues," Pansy said, adjusting her half-glasses on her nose.

"Just what we need now—more publicity and all of it bad," Chris groused as she rose to take their cups to the kitchen for refills.

She returned to sit and bury herself in the funnies. Pansy, for whom local politics and sports scores were supremely uninteresting, finished reading before her daughter did and made her way to the kitchen to fix Spanish omelets for breakfast. Walter followed her, sure in his knowledge that occasionally things getting chopped up land on the floor.

They were ready to sit down to eat when the phone rang. Chris answered it with the coffeepot in one hand. Pansy listened to half of the conversation and frowned in irritation. Who bothers someone on New Year's Eve with business that can surely wait? She regarded her offspring when she came to the table and sat. "Well?" she queried, ready to rush in to encourage dereliction of duty. She didn't get the chance.

"That was Oscar Stullmann, the University Safety Officer. Apparently there's been a break-in at the Music Department. He wants me to come see what's missing and talk to the police. He was really upset because they got into the band room through fire doors that he's been on me to keep closed."

"Why can't the Music Department deal with it?" Pansy asked.

"He said he tried to reach the Music chairperson and the band director but no one's at home. He wants me there right now, but this will probably take all day and I need nourishment. I told him I'd be there in an hour."

Showered, dressed and in the car she headed for the campus. Walter was in the back seat resting his chin on the front seat to watch the road, as always. Chris had decided to rebel openly against Stullmann's "no dogs allowed" pronouncement. Besides, he'd be too busy to notice.

The roads had been cleared and sanded after yesterday's sleet storm. As she drove she thought about what might have been stolen. Recording equipment, band instruments, speakers—the list was depressingly long and expensive.

Chris was totaling the potential loss in her head when she pulled into the Art Department loading dock out of habit. As she was letting herself in it occurred to her that she would have been closer to the scene of the crime had she parked by Music's loading dock. Of course, she would need to spend some time in her office anyway to deal with this fresh disaster. Walter trotted happily at her side.

They crossed the foyer without stopping at the main office and headed for the Music Department. The doors were locked tight. She used her master key. The hallway was dark and she fumbled for a light switch. The place seemed absolutely deserted. Walter, never having sniffed this hallway before, began a thorough nasal inspection of every inch as far as his leash would allow. When his person didn't move, he turned and looked at her with wrinkled brow.

"I don't know, Walter. Something's not right. Where's Stullmann and the police? They should be here. Maybe they've been here and are already gone."

She turned and tugged Walter back through the door and headed across the foyer toward her office. When she got there she struggled to unlock the office complex door before she realized finally that it was already open. Surprised, she pushed into the outer office. No lights were on and everything seemed normal.

She gritted her teeth. The price for letting faculty have keys to the main office for access to their mail was that they sometimes forgot to lock up.

She was opening her own office door when a whoosh and a loud thunk startled her into dropping her purse. She looked around. The door to the conference room directly opposite her own was standing open but she couldn't see into the depths of the windowless room. She bent to pick up her purse a fraction of a second before a second whoosh/thunk galvanized her into action.

Forgetting the purse, she shoved the door open and dragged Walter in behind her. Someone was aiming at her with what she knew at a visceral level was the same type of weapon, if not the very one, that had killed Elizabeth Page and Richard Bjornson. Before she got the door closed all the way, there was another solid thunk that ripped it violently out of her hands and banged it back against the coat rack and the inner wall of her office.

Now she was on her hands and knees, seeking cover out of range of the open door. Her heart was pounding so loudly she couldn't hear anything else. She looked behind her. The metal door was dented dramatically at head height, about six inches from the left edge. There were two other dents in the middle. She started to gasp for breath, dizzy with fear. Adrenaline flooded through her. Her arms prickled and her mouth went dry. Walter's ears were pinned back and his head was swiveling between Chris and the door. Chris hauled on his leash to bring him into the relative safety she'd found out of the line of sight from her door across the office to the conference room.

Could she reach the office door and close it? Would it even close and latch with the distorting dent in it? An image of Elizabeth's mangled skull flashed into her mind. She gasped and mentally shoved it away.

From the outer office she heard muffled muttering, the sound of something metal falling to the tile floor, and a stifled "Shit!" She looked frantically for something to use to swing the door closed without presenting a target. A yardstick was leaning against the corner of her desk. She grabbed it and stretched it across the opening to force the door toward her. The heavy door moved and began to swing shut. It was almost closed when another sickening bang slapped it back against the wall again.

There were now four dents in the door, the last so close to the edge that it had dented the face and created a bulge in the metal a little above the handle. It was clear that even if she could swing it back, the door would no longer close completely. She quivered and gasped for breath. Walter smelled her fear and began growling low in his throat. His hackles were raised. Chris gripped his leash like a lifeline.

From the outer office she heard an incongruous chuckle. Her heart leaped once again. The madman thought it was funny!

"Dr. Connery," Colin McCarty said in his smoothest actor's voice. "You can't get out of there, so you may as well give in to the inevitable."

Chris was stunned. "Colin? What are you doing?"

"Trying to kill you, of course. Silly bitch."

"Why, for God's sake?" She edged around her desk toward the phone.

"Well, that should be blindingly obvious even to you. To keep you from telling on me," McCarty said with a childish lilt in his voice. He laughed shortly.

"Telling what? To whom?" Chris said desperately, simultaneously lifting the receiver. She hoped her voice would cover any stray sound.

"The police, of course. The university, the newspaper, who do you think?" He was scornful. "You've already figured it out. I know you have."

Chris put the phone to her ear and almost wept when she heard no dial tone. She could see the purse with her cell phone on the floor outside the door just beyond reach. Keep him talking.

Walter's growling got louder. Normally easy going to the point of sluggishness, Walter was behaving like a Doberman.

"You killed Elizabeth and Richard?" She looked for a place to hide in her spartan office and found nothing adequate beyond the kneehole in her desk.

"Well of course I did, and you know it," he said from beyond the door. "Why pretend you don't? It's too late now anyway."

Walter stared intently at the open door, then dropped his head and started toward it until his leash stopped him. Chris looked for something to throw. Nothing but art history texts. Weighty as they were, they seemed pitifully inadequate under the circumstances.

"Why did you kill them, Colin?" Chris panted slightly and tried to keep her wits from scattering like leaves before the wind.

"Oh God, Connery, do you think I'm a fool? I saw my file out on the desk. I know what you were looking for. That bitch left something that told you, didn't she?" It was not a question. As he spoke calmly, other sounds told Chris he was loading his lethal toy with another bearing.

"Do you mean about the arrest?" Chris was stacking books on her desk, whether to use them as missiles or a bulwark, she hadn't decided. "I saw the clipping, but it didn't go anywhere did it, Colin? You didn't go to jail. I would never say anything about it."

"Right. Senior professor of Drama, twice honored for teaching excellence, arrested for pedophilia? How could you resist?" He made a choking sound between a guffaw and a sob.

"I'm surprised you think so little of my integrity, Colin," Chris said, trying to sound offended rather than terrified.

"She was holding it over me so I'd help her get the damn museum out of the division. God, what a self-absorbed bitch! She didn't give a shit about anything but what she wanted!"

"What about Richard? What did he have to do with it?" Chris had every book off the shelf behind her desk and with trembling hands was stacking them between her and the door.

"You're kidding, right?" McCarty's voice sounded muffled. He had turned away from her door.

Walter's growl rose to such a pitch that Chris said, "What? I didn't hear that."

"They were lovers," he said in a louder tone. He was facing the door again. "She must have told him what she had on me because he started to pull one of his stupid little pranks, but I got him before he got me." The chuckle that followed made Chris's hands tremble violently. She gripped a book to stop the shaking.

"The two of them weren't worth your concern, Chris."

"Colin, I swear I didn't know," Chris said shakily.

"Well, too bad. You do now," McCarty said savagely. "It's all pretty ironic anyway. I was the victim! I didn't do anything wrong! That stupid, selfish child.... He thought he was so grown up, fooling me like that. He said he was twenty. Said he went to NYU. The first I knew he was a high school kid was when they came to arrest me. Can you believe that? Mister Control gets taken by a wet-nosed kid? When he finally told the truth I'd already spent two nights in jail. Me!"

Chris was being pulled into his story in spite of her fear. She couldn't help saying, "So his parents dropped the charges?"

"Pedophilia is a felony. They didn't have anything to do with the charges. The prosecutor had too much on his plate as it was and I'd been a model citizen up to that point. They reduced the charge to disorderly conduct and I got a big fine and time served. I was sent on my way without so much as an apology from the little bastard or his parents. And it was all gone, forgotten, until that self-aggrandizing bitch dredged it up again."

There were scuffling sounds coming toward Chris's door now. She opened her desk drawer with a noisy rustle of pens and paperclips. In the outer office McCarty said, "Don't try anything, Chris. You'll just make it worse."

Chris struggled to get possession of herself. In a voice far shakier than she liked she said, "Did you know I keep a gun in my desk, Colin?" The scuffling in the outer office stopped instantly. "Ever since a young man went nuts and attacked me because he got a B in an Art History survey course I taught."

"You're bluffing. I never heard about that." McCarty didn't sound as convinced of his control of the situation as he had a moment earlier.

"It didn't happen here, Colin," Chris said. "It was at Texas when I was just starting."

"Who goes nuts over a B?" McCarty said scornfully. "You'll have to do better than that." Faint noises resumed. Chris could visualize McCarty moving slowly past Charlie's desk with his E-M gun in hand, dragging an extension cord.

"A disturbed young man who had received all As in his college career up to that point, that's who," Chris said, her voice more firm and in control. Walter never stopped growling.

"You let that dog out where I can see him and he'll get it first, Chris," McCarty warned.

"You even think about hurting him and I'll shoot!" Chris said. A quaver had returned to her voice.

"Well, if you have a gun, why don't you just shoot me and get this over with, huh?" McCarty taunted. "Just show me the gun and we'll call it a draw. Stick it out where I can see it."

"And let you break my hand with your little toy? No chance." Chris was getting into the rhythm of the game at last. She was still trying to think of something to use as a weapon. Nothing more lethal than Janson's History of Art was coming to hand. Why had she never stocked the office with revolvers?

Suddenly Walter's leash began to slip from her sweating hand. She grabbed at it and stopped him from advancing more than two feet. Walter did not take his eyes off the open doorway. His throaty rumbling started deep in his chest. If McCarty didn't know what breed of dog he was dealing with, Chris might have convinced him it was a rottweiler.

Scuffling told her McCarty was much closer to the open door than he had been. "Stay back, Colin. I promise I will shoot you," Chris said as steadily as she could. He said nothing in response. Suddenly she remembered. "Oscar Stullmann is somewhere in the building too, so you'd be better off to stop now and not make it any worse for yourself."

McCarty snorted with laughter. Suddenly Oscar Stullmann's voice said, "You better come in right away, Dr. Connery. There's been a break-in in the Music Department." Chris was stunned into silence. Tears she was no longer able to suppress stung her eyes.

"Jesus, I am an actor after all," McCarty snarled with suppressed fury. "That fat bastard's twang isn't hard to imitate. I heard him complaining about those doors." Chris couldn't think of a thing to say, and then several things happened at once.

McCarty strode two long paces forward and jerked his lethal homemade device into the doorframe to point it at Chris. In doing so he pulled the extension cord out of the wall behind him in the conference room. Nothing happened when he pressed the plate that closed the circuit on top of the tube.

When McCarty and the plastic tube appeared in her doorway, Chris dropped behind her desk with its textbook ramparts and lost her grip on the leash. Walter lunged forward, snarling. Chris knew when his teeth found their target because McCarty's scream was eerily high pitched. Then she heard the door to the outer office open. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed two books to use as weapons and dashed to her open door.

Walter had sunk his considerable fangs into McCarty's crotch with outraged authority. He was on his hind legs, his front paws braced against McCarty's body. Chris tried to heave a book at McCarty, but Drew Haggarty exclaimed, "Dude!" and ducked in time to avoid being knocked cold by The Compact Oxford English Dictionary. Hartt's Twentieth Century Art followed closely.

McCarty fell backward as Drew was picking himself up. Walter began vigorously shaking McCarty's private parts, every move causing the shrieks to rise in intensity. Chris came out of her office to launch herself at either the dog or her son. It was not clear which.

"Call him off!" screamed McCarty.

"What's going on, Mom?" yelled Drew.

"He's the killer!" Chris sobbed, what little self-possession she had mustered up having deserted her completely.

After Drew had tied McCarty hand and foot with his own extension cord and left him curled in a fetal ball in front of Charlie's desk, he used his walky-talky to call the Campus Police. Chris stood shaking in her doorway, unable to move or speak. Walter, who had to be pried loose from his death grip on McCarty's privates by both Chris and Drew, leaned against Chris's legs and continued to growl. Now, however, his tail was wagging. Every time McCarty moaned or tried to move, the tail wagging ceased and the growling rose dramatically in pitch.

Though it seemed like an hour to both Chris and Drew, it was barely three minutes before the Campus Police arrived, and only two minutes after that before they were joined by Camford's finest, who startled everyone, especially McCarty, by arriving with drawn guns.

Drew put his arm around his mother, who sagged gratefully against him. They watched as McCarty was lifted to his feet and helped down the hall to a waiting police car. The front of his pants was torn and bloody and he winced with every step. He was unable to stand erect and kept insisting that he needed to go to the hospital. Whether he went there first or to the police station was of no interest to Chris, who found herself hoping his penis was hanging by a shred. The depth of that desire disquieted her, having never thought of herself as a violent person until twenty minutes ago.

Chapter 19

It was late in the afternoon before Chris, Drew and Walter returned home. Pansy fussed over all three of them in equal measure and insisted on feeding everyone before she would ask any questions or allow any explanations. Chris thought that was evidence that the three of them must look very stressed. At last the three humans sat at the dining room table full of Pansy's medicinal homemade chicken soup while Walter lay on the kitchen floor, working on an enormous rawhide bone.

"Now tell me everything," Pansy said, leaning forward eagerly.

Chris began with her arrival at the Music Department door and ended with the information that Colin McCarty's wounds were painful and disfiguring, but not life threatening. "Walter's the only one who got any licks in," she said. "Too bad we pulled him off. I was hoping for castration at the least."

"Teensy!"

"Well, I was," Chris countered, unrepentant. "You would too if you had heard him sneering. He said he was going to kill me as matter-of-factly as if he was ordering lunch. I have never been so frightened in my life."

Drew launched into his side of the tale. "So I'm driving on my way to do parking tickets in the lots over by the fieldhouse and I see Mom's car in the Art Department loading dock so I stopped. Just as I open the door to the office, there's this guy jumping toward Mom's office and Walter jumping at this guy and then this big book comes flapping at me. It was mega-sketch!" Drew's eyes were as wide as Chris had ever seen them.

"I take it that's bad? Sketch?" Pansy asked.

"Mega," Drew replied with an energetic nod. "It was really messed up. I mean, jeez, who knew Walter would do that, y'know? And Mom was all, 'He's the killer!' and there's this dude on the floor with Walter trying to rip his nuts off and he's screaming to get him off and I'm like, wow, y'know?"

Pansy knew.

"They took McCarty to the hospital," Chris said. "Walter didn't 'rip his nuts off,' but every time he pees for the rest of his life he's going to know how close he came."

Pansy's disapproving frown started to appear and dissolved into a chuckle. "Why'd he attack him there, for heaven's sake?" she said, reddening slightly.

"He's only about a foot tall at the shoulder, Mother. When he jumps that's about as close as he can get to someone's throat." Chris began to chuckle as well.

"Good ol' Walter," Drew grinned. "He sure acted like he was having a good time. I mean, he had a mouthful of McCarty's jeans and he was shaking him like that stuffed penguin we gave him when he was a puppy."

Chris nodded and kept laughing.

"Well, it's too bad he didn't rip his nuts off," Pansy said at last and raised her glass in Walter's direction.

By the time Hjelmer Ryquist arrived at Chris's door later that evening everyone was starting to relax. When the bell rang, however, Chris jumped like she'd been stuck with a pin and Walter went into a frenzy of barking and snarling that stopped everyone in their tracks for a moment. When Chris opened the door to admit Ryquist, Walter apologized in the best basset fashion by fawning and falling at his feet for a belly rub.

"You give him a reward, Doc? He did the work of ten today," Ryquist said from his squatting position where he rubbed the offered belly enthusiastically.

"He got the biggest rawhide bone we could find. He's been chewing nonstop all afternoon," Chris replied.

Walter seemed to remember that bone just then. He squirmed up and trotted away without a backward glance.

Ryquist accepted the invitation to take off his coat, and Pansy went to the kitchen to get refreshments, calling as she went, "Don't start until I get back, Hjelmer. I want to hear everything."

When he was seated, Ryquist surveyed Chris. "You all right, Doc?"

Chris nodded. "I'll be fine. My stomach is still jumping, but I'm not shaking anymore." She held out a hand to demonstrate. It quivered only a little.

"Well, you did great today," Ryquist said seriously. "You stayed cool when it counted. Telling him you had a gun was smart. It slowed him down."

Drew said, "Even if she hadn't, his electro-gun wouldn't have worked because he pulled it out of the wall, right?"

"Actually, McCarty had plenty of cord to get into your mother's office," Ryquist replied. "It just got tangled up and he didn't notice."

"This isn't helping me calm down," Chris said faintly.

"Well, you were lucky, Teensy," Pansy said, returning with a bottle of beer and a glass. She handed them to Ryquist and bent to pat her daughter's hand. "But you were also smart, as Hjelmer says. You bluffed him. He'd have been hard put to get you, what with Walter in the way."

Chris's eyes filled with tears. "He'd have killed Walter and then come for me. Poor Walter wouldn't have stood a chance." The thought stung her eyes and closed her throat more powerfully than had her own peril. She sniffed into a tissue.

"Well, Doc, I don't know about Walter not standing a chance," Ryquist said. "One reason dogs are so effective on the police force is that they're quick and bad guys see them as unpredictable. Tends to freeze them in place, at least for a while."

"Yeah, Mom, you should have seen how quick he moved to grab the guy's balls," Drew said.

"How about you, Drew?" Ryquist asked, appraising the young man's flushed face. "You doing okay?"

"I'm fine. It's cool. What's happened to McCarty?" He leaned forward with his arms on his knees.

"Don't you answer that!" Pansy called from the kitchen.

Drew chuckled. "You heard the question well enough, Gram. Let him answer."

Ryquist laughed. "I'll speak up, Pansy. McCarty is in jail. Took about three hours to stitch him up and now he's in a cell with the novocaine wearing off."

"Good," said Pansy, approaching with a tray loaded with cheese and crackers. "I hope no one gives him so much as an aspirin."

"Cruel and unusual punishment isn't our style. He's got some pain killers, but the doc said they weren't going to be perfect, so you'll be happy to know Walter's handiwork will be a constant reminder."

"How much damage did Walter do?" Drew asked, squirming in his chair.

"You don't want to know," Ryquist said, crossing his legs after he loaded a cracker with brie.

"Has he confessed?" Chris asked.

Ryquist shook his head. "He's not saying one word. Other than to ask for a lawyer, he's been a clam."

"A lawyer won't get him out, will he?" Anxiety flooded Chris and her arms began to prickle once again.

"No chance, Doc. He's charged with two counts of capital murder and one of assault with intent to kill. No judge in this part of the state would let him see daylight with what we have on him."

Drew moved to sit closer to his mother and hold her hand. The gesture brought tears to Chris's eyes and she nodded.

"I just came to let you know that, Doc. It's all over. You can relax."

Chris cleared her throat. "I was sitting here earlier thinking that I should actually have a gun in my office, just in case someone goes nuts or something. Can you believe that? Me? Thinking about getting a gun? I think I've totally lost it." She sniffled again and fumbled for a tissue.

"Don't worry, Doc. We got him by the short curlies. Pardon my French. I checked with New York about that arrest. He told it to you straight. The kid hung out with the theater crowd. Everyone in the company knew him and they all thought he was of age. Little prick was cutting school, staying out until all hours." Ryquist shook his head. "His parents never tumbled to it. Makes you wonder, don't it?"

"The only thing it makes me wonder is where his parents were when he wasn't in school or home at night," Pansy said tartly. "If his being gay came as a surprise to them it's no wonder." She sniffed disgustedly and passed the cheese plate. "Whatever happened to him after all that, I wonder."

"Died of a drug overdose two years ago," Ryquist said promptly.

Finally Drew broke the quiet that followed this revelation. "So McCarty killed Ms. Page because she was threatening to tell everyone he'd been arrested for being homosexual?"

"Not for being homosexual, Drew, for pedophilia," Pansy corrected. "For having sex with a minor. Homosexuality is not illegal. Having sex with children certainly is."

Chris shook her head. "I still can't take it all in. How did she think she could get the museum out of the Division of Fine Arts by coercing one person? I never thought of her as stupid, but that alone would qualify."

"You said yourself she wasn't an academic, Doc. Maybe she really didn't know how the system worked." Ryquist reached for another cracker and took a big swallow of his beer.

"I see her as one of those people who are so self-centered they're just oblivious to anything outside their own concerns," Pansy said. "Like Martha Hartly across the street—you remember, Teensy?" She waved a hand at Ryquist. "Terrible woman. All oil and nice words when she wanted me to watch her rotten kids, and vinegar when I asked her to return the favor by helping out with a neighborhood drive. Nearly slammed the door in my face." Pansy sounded as if the incident had happened last week instead of almost thirty years ago.

Chris ignored her mother. "Do you have any idea why he killed Richard, Hjelmer? He said it was to stop a prank, but he didn't say what kind?"

"It's my guess something made McCarty think Bjornson knew he'd killed Page, but with one party dead and the other not talking, we aren't likely to find out much."

Pansy went back to the kitchen for another beer.

Chris said, "Tell me, Hjelmer, why did you take Howard Randall away from the meeting with the Picasso expert, Richard Price?" She'd almost called him Richie and suppressed a grin. It would have been the first smile she'd experienced in some hours.

"No sense me trying to disguise this because you all know who and what we're talking about. Howard J. Randall knowingly gave a fake Picasso to Midstate University." He paused, waiting for the reactions to subside.

"Knowingly?" Pansy said with a gasp of disbelief from the kitchen doorway. "You don't mean it! He told you that?"

"Yep. He did it on purpose and Midstate was chosen for not the most flattering of reasons." Ryquist eyed Chris. "You don't seem surprised, Doc."

She shrugged. "I guess I'm not."

"Why do you think he tried to pawn if off on Midstate?"

"He thought we wouldn't notice."

Ryquist smiled. "You got it in one, Doc."

"How could he imagine that no one would notice?" Pansy asked, bewildered. "It's supposed to be a Picasso, for Pete's sake! There aren't so many of them in Camford that people wouldn't be looking at it pretty closely."

"He's not the first person to underestimate us, Mom," Chris said with a shrug. "Medium-sized university in the Midwest. He didn't think anyone here would be able to tell it was a fake because he didn't think there would be anyone knowledgeable about such things in his old alma mater. Am I right?"

Ryquist nodded. "Two for two, Doc. He needed a tax break, and donating a work of art with a supposed current value of between twenty and twenty-five million was just the ticket."

Chris nodded. "I thought he might have substituted the fake himself. I just didn't know why. So what happened to the original?"

"He sold it to a drug dealer in Columbia in the late Eighties when he was hard up for cash." Ryquist poured more tea for himself and Pansy.

"Did his wife know?"

"Nah, he'd had the fake made two or three years before he married her. She didn't know anything about it." He waved a hand. "That's what I wanted to ask you about. See, he says all his collector friends were doing it, having fakes made of their priciest stuff. Does that sound right to you?"

"Our Picasso expert says it's been going on for some time. I knew that a market existed for reproductions, but I didn't know this other side of it. Reproductions have caused a lot of flap in art history circles off and on for years. Debates about the value of authenticity, the nature of uniqueness in this mass-production culture, that sort of thing."

"Well, he says his friends told him to put the original in a vault, that its value was too high to risk theft or whatever. He says they told him to have a fake made, hang it and not say a word to anyone but his insurance company. No one would be the wiser. Does that sound right to you?" Ryquist wrapped his big hands around his glass and leaned forward.

"Sounds like what Price was describing, but that's really outside my expertise. I'm a lowly art historian, Hjelmer. What I make in a year, Tweety Randall spends on clothes. It wouldn't surprise me at all though."

"Well, he told us that he paid three and a half million for the painting when he bought it, and when he had the fake made it was worth ten times that. Could that be right? Everyone says the value is about twenty million, not thirty-five," Ryquist said skeptically.

"Oh, I believe that part all right," Chris said decisively. "The price of important art by marquee artists went through the roof in the Eighties. Then the bottom fell out and there was a time when you couldn't give the stuff away, literally. Collectors had been able to deduct the market value of any piece they donated to a museum. It became a common practice to try to raise the value of a piece before it was donated."

"Sort of trying to get the most out of it?" Pansy asked.

Chris nodded. "Yes, I'm sure that's how it started. But traditional appraisals in the Eighties weren't keeping up with the inflation in the art market. Appraisers were apparently very reluctant to jump prices up. Even auction houses were routinely underestimating what a work would bring at a sale."

"So some big donor would be pretty sure the painting was probably worth more than they were being told," Ryquist said.

"Yes. They figured out that instead of traditional appraisals, they could use how much was offered for it at auction as a measure of the current value and—"

"But if they sold it at auction, they wouldn't have it to give away. That doesn't make any sense."

"But they wouldn't actually sell it. Sometimes they worked a scam with the auction house to buy their own piece back. The auction house agreed to take a small percentage as a brokerage fee and they had proof of the piece's value."

"That's like churning in the stock market," Pansy said.

Chris nodded.

Ryquist leaned his elbows on the table. "But why would the IRS go for it when they were listed as the seller as well as the buyer?"

"They could offer it anonymously. Or if asked they could just say the reserve price wasn't met and it was withdrawn from the sale," Chris explained.

"Jeez Louise," Ryquist said through his teeth.

"Oh, it was even worse. Sometimes there was no legitimate interest in the particular piece being 'churned' and the auction house would have a shill or two bid to get the piece to the level the owner thought he wanted. They created wholly artificial markets for some artists who would otherwise have slipped into oblivion."

Ryquist shrugged. "I'm not so sure that's worse, Doc. So a few artists get a boost. So what?"

"It distorts history, Hjelmer. It makes a mockery of scholarship. It—"

"Okay, I get it. So the Go-Go Eighties comes to an end and then what? Why'd the bottom fall out of the art market?"

"I'm not sure what all the economic factors were, but I do know that Reagan's Tax Reform Act changed the law. You couldn't use current market value to figure a gift deduction any more, only what you'd paid for a thing, no matter when you bought it or what had happened in the interim. There was a sudden drying up of gifts to museums. Collectors couldn't afford to give a work away when they could sell it for a huge profit, so the museums started lobbying to get some kind of secondary reform so philanthropy would return."

"But Randall said he wanted to give it away for the tax deduction," Ryquist said.

Chris shrugged. "Well, Reagan's reform has been changed, so now museums can expect to get major works of art again."

"So Randall says he needed the deduction because of some business reversals and he decided to give you guys the fake that's been hanging in his apartment for the last fifteen or so years. He doesn't figure the real one will surface anytime soon. He thinks no one here will be any the wiser and he can avoid paying a pile to Uncle Sam." Ryquist shook his head sadly.

"Why'd he tell you all that, Hjelmer?" Chris asked.

"To avoid being suspected of murder." Ryquist grinned. "Something about the way he was acting made me suspicious. He just wasn't being forthcoming about things, so we threatened to put him in jail as a material witness to help clarify his thinking." He smiled at the memory.

"Jail? Howard Randall? Oh God... he'll never want to come back to Camford again." Chris thought about how that would play in the administration building.

"Well, he got himself an attorney. After they'd discussed it for a time we agreed not to say anything publicly in exchange for the whole story. Randall isn't happy about it, but at least the questions about your painting are all answered."

"There's one question nagging me that this doesn't answer," Chris said, rising to go to the kitchen.

"What's that, Doc?"

She returned with two glasses of wine. "Why did Elizabeth Page let the Gala proceed when it seems likely she knew the painting was a fake?"

Ryquist nodded and set his glass down. "I asked Randall if Page had given him any indication that she knew the Picasso was phony. He wouldn't talk about it for quite a while."

Pansy interrupted in confusion. "Wait... he'd talk about forging a major work of art, but not about whether she knew it was a fake? I don't understand."

"He was afraid he was providing himself a motive for murder," Ryquist explained. "See, she did know. It took some persuading and consultation with his attorney, but Randall finally admitted she dropped little hints the first time he met her when he came to campus last fall. She finally laid it on him when they opened the crate and told him he wouldn't need to worry about it as long as he gave generously to the Museum Endowment Fund. Essentially she was blackmailing him."

"Blackmail?" Pansy's head swiveled from Chris to Ryquist and back.

Chris sat back in her chair and looked at the ceiling. "I don't think she thought of it like that," she said at last. "She probably thought, since it wasn't for her personally, it was just fund raising."

It was perfect. The explanation fit everything she'd learned about the late director of the Midstate Museum of Art in the last five years: self-absorbed, single minded, dedicated to the museum and completely ruthless.

Chapter 20

Spring semester started in the middle of January, and gradually, at about the same rate as the air turned warm and the leaves began to emerge, Chris's emotional state began to normalize. She stopped being afraid to be alone in her office. She began to recover her sense of humor and her faith in her colleagues, most of whom suffered their own torments as a result of the deaths of two of their number and the incarceration of a third.

The Department of Drama, forced to replace a senior faculty member, coalesced gracefully around the leadership of the director of the Division of Fine Arts, covered two classes as best they could and cancelled the third. Enrollments, amazingly, did not drop significantly. After the mid-term exam period the drama faculty began the search for a permanent replacement for McCarty. In the Art Department the search for a new sculpture professor was well underway. Life began to feel like it would return to normal.

When word spread that the first important Picasso in the state was a fake, Howard Randall was safely back in New York. The Camford Times reporter who called him seemed to think he was as surprised as everyone else and noted that Randall was having his whole collection appraised "to determine whether other works of art had been replaced."

At the last Division of Fine Arts meeting of the year, Chris was able to announce the awarding of the first Richard Bjornson Scholarship, funded by the sale of eight of his Do-Nothings. She also announced to excited applause that Howard Randall was giving Midstate University a major Matisse, another Picasso and a promise to include the museum in his will. She didn't share with them that the gift was by way of apology and, not inconsequentially, a way of getting a real tax break. Nor did she mention the verification of authenticity Randall had agreed to before Midstate would accept the paintings.

The meeting was stuttering to a close when Antonia Westphall stood and declared that by unanimous consent of the division faculty, she was relinquishing the last half of her year of custody of the "Forgot to Duck" award in favor of Chris. "No one in the division could have come closer to disaster and survived than you did," she said. "We're thinking this should be yours permanently under the circumstances."

Chris stood open mouthed. "Well, really I wouldn't want to deprive future disaster averters from their proper acknowledgement," she stammered.

"Deprive us! Please!" yelled someone from the back of the room, and everyone laughed long and hard.

As a result the decrepit stuffed duck—scruffy feathers, new silver medallion and all—stood on the bookshelf behind Chris's desk. It was not likely to become her favorite piece of memorabilia.

That same week the state's attorney and Colin McCarty reached a plea agreement. In return for a full confession and a plea of guilty, he would be sentenced on two counts of second-degree murder rather than first-degree, capital murder. McCarty apparently saw the wisdom of accepting two consecutive terms in prison over a lethal injection. The odds of his seeing freedom again were zero. Chris read all this in the newspaper one May morning just before graduation. She cried with relief.

Hjelmer Ryquist appeared in Chris's office doorway that afternoon. A surge of emotions and memories nearly lifted her out of her chair when she looked up. It had been a long time since she'd seen him.

The first thing out of her mouth was, "Nobody's dead, are they?" Then she shook her head and started over. "Hello, Hjelmer. It's been a while."

He laughed at her gently. "No one's dead that I know of, Doc. How you been?"

"Better. Busy."

"I thought I'd stop by and treat you to a latte. I'm hooked on'em and I don't get over here often enough." He waited while she handed a stack of papers to Charlie who, with significant waggles of the eyebrows, let Chris know it was nearly time for his break.

The three of them walked across the campus. Crocuses and daffodils were long gone; late tulips were fading and being replaced by irises and peonies. They passed the bronze effigy of President Sanford James (1975–1982) who was sporting a mortarboard perched jauntily on the back of his head. It was held in place with an inelegant strip of duct tape. No one commented on it, though Ryquist turned to get a second look. The rest of the walk to the museum was a pleasant one full of mild breezes and the scent of freshly turned earth. That aroma was replaced twenty-five feet outside the entrance to the museum by the smell of freshly ground coffee.

"Shame to go inside," said Ryquist.

"The acting director thinks so too, so they are about to open a sidewalk café around the side. Should be ready by the time summer school starts," Chris said.

"She doing okay filling in, Doc?"

Chris nodded. "She's doing very well, Hjelmer. Wouldn't surprise me if she gets the job for real."

They went in, ordered and sat at a table near the windows. Ryquist filled them in on what had not appeared in the Camford Times. "The plea agreement probably saved McCarty's life." Ryquist stirred his coffee. "That okay with you, Doc?"

"That's too bad," and "Of course," came simultaneously from Charlie and Chris respectively. Chris continued. "I'm not an eye-for-an-eye person, Hjelmer. I just want him out of everyone's life forever."

Charlie agreed, though he said he'd have been happy if McCarty had gone to trial and been sentenced to death. "It would be appropriate."

"What can you tell us that isn't common knowledge, Hjelmer?" Chris asked. "I have to report to Pansy tonight and she'll scold me if I haven't pumped you."

"How's Pansy doing? She been traveling?" Ryquist asked, diverted momentarily from the justice system.

Chris laughed. "My peripatetic parent has remained in Florida, getting the strength back in her knee since she left in January. She's planning a trip to New Zealand in November, and she wants to be in shape. She says the Kiwis are serious hikers."

Ryquist smiled and nodded. "So what would you and Pansy like to know, Doc?"

"Everything," Chris and Charlie said simultaneously.

"Like, why did he choose such an arcane weapon?" Chris said.

"He had a tiff with Page the same day he happened to see Bjornson experimenting with that E-M system. McCarty walked by just as he plugged it in. Bearings nearly went through the ceiling. Bjornson stood there cursing and McCarty asked him what happened. He told him he'd wrapped too much wire around the rails. That gave McCarty the idea. He figured he could pin it on Bjornson because he knew Bjornson and Page were more than casual acquaintances."

Chris was amazed. "How on earth did he know that? It's not as if he's ever been tuned in to the gossip channel." This was a tidbit of which she had been unaware, in spite of being literally at the center of the action in the Division of Fine Arts.

Ryquist shrugged. "Saw them together a few times, I guess, put two and two together."

"He didn't spend a lot of time wandering the halls," Charlie said. "I'm surprised he happened to see Bjornson doing anything. I mean, he came to check his mail once a day at two o'clock and that's it, as far as I know."

Ryquist sipped his coffee. "He said there were plumbing problems in Drama and everyone was forced to use the johns in Art."

"Of course," Chris nodded as the displeasure of Drama faculty and students experiencing that inconvenience came back to her.

Charlie said, "I forgot that! It went on for weeks. Nobody was happy about it over there."

Chris leaned in. "But it isn't exactly child's play to make one of those things. How did he manage it?"

"McCarty said he told Bjornson how much he liked his stuff and asked if he would demonstrate things for him, so Bjornson showed him how it worked one night. Said he came back several times to use the john and kept his eye out. When the studio was open and Bjornson wasn't in sight one night he pinched a tube that was almost ready to go. He said it didn't have enough wire on those rail things to really put out a shot so he modified it."

Charlie frowned. "I don't really get what that means."

Chris explained. "How tightly wound the wire is on the rods determines how strong the magnetic field is, which determines the muzzle velocity. The more the merrier, as it were."

Ryquist continued. "He figured that Bjornson would be the most likely candidate for her murder once we scoped out what did her in. To make sure, he pinched that sculpture and hid it in the wood scrap bin near Bjornson's office."

Charlie asked, "If he was so hot to pin it on Bjornson, why didn't he just leave the weapon where you'd find it?"

"He says his 'sense of drama' wouldn't let him make it too easy. He figured Bjornson would be too smart to do dumb things like that. He assumed we'd get to him eventually. McCarty told Page they needed to talk about the meeting of some committee he was on, that he had some serious inside info that she needed to hear right away. It couldn't wait, but they couldn't be seen together. He told her to clear everyone out of the museum as soon as possible and he'd tell her that night.

"After he took Bjornson home, McCarty went back to the museum through the tunnel from the parking garage, toting his little toy. He dropped the E-M gun off in the sculpture exhibit, plugged it in where it'd be handy, and found Page in her office."

Chris stopped him. "He made one with a trigger?"

Ryquist nodded. "Bjornson showed him how. Anyway, they started the argument about the museum and the Division of Fine Arts all over again. They went at it for a bit and she got pretty hot." He looked at Chris. "McCarty says she called you with him standing there and that almost queered his plan. But she didn't say anything about him or what she wanted to tell you, so he figured he'd do it. He says he waited until she got really riled up. Then he turned his back on her and walked out and up the stairs to the main floor galleries. She followed him, mad as a wet hen from what he says, and he just kept going until she was where he wanted her. Then he just picked it up, turned around and plugged her."

"Good lord!" Chris breathed.

"He says he just pointed it at her and closed the circuit. He got her with one shot. He had a pocket full of bearings. Said he was prepared to zing her as often as it took, but he got her in one."

The three of them were silent for a moment. Ryquist offered to get refills. Chris and Charlie waited in silence until he'd returned.

As she stirred sugar into her second latte, Chris asked, "So what was the point of setting up the fake fall?"

"He just wanted to throw some dust in our eyes the way he figured Bjornson might do. He didn't want us to really think it was an accident, of course."

Chris summarized. "So he thought the little hints he planted would point to Bjornson."

"Yeah, and he almost made it work." Ryquist shrugged. "He's smart and determined. He's also got balls the size of melons."

Chris gasped. "Did Walter do that?"

Ryquist laughed. "No, no. I meant that figuratively, Doc. I mean he's pretty fearless." Ryquist ticked items off on his blunt fingers. "He killed her, set up the fictitious fall, got all the papers on her desk and her keys out of her office. He went to her apartment and searched it for any reference to his unfortunate episode in New York, took a stack of files just to be sure, returned to the museum and returned her keys, neat as you please."

Chris shook her head. "From the sound of it he's very lucky the prosecutors offered him a deal. It seems like such a clearly premeditated act."

"He is lucky. We were able to make him see how lucky. The judge will make sure he doesn't ever see the light of day again."

"And Bjornson?" Charlie asked.

"Bjornson blacked out that night at the opening pretty much, but McCarty says he did remember eventually how he got home. Bjornson must have thought they were pals because McCarty liked his work or something. Anyway, he says Bjornson said something about Page that sounded like he knew way too much so McCarty decided to plug him too."

"He told me Richard was about to pull a prank on him. Is that true?" Chris asked.

"There was a prank in the planning stages, McCarty says. He says he doesn't know how it was going to work, but apparently he got wind of it and plugged Bjornson before it could come off. He won't say what he thought it was going to be about."

Chris couldn't keep the amazement and disbelief out of her voice. "He won't say what the joke was about? What could possibly be worse than admitting to two murders? He's so embarrassed he'd rather go to jail forever than tell?"

"He knows he's going to jail forever anyway, so he doesn't see any reason to compound his suffering, as he says."

"Richard was a world-class practical joker," Charlie said, smiling ruefully. "He really did know how to get to a guy."

Chris nodded, then looked at Ryquist. "Tell us how he killed Richard."

"Simplicity itself. You weren't the only one who heard Westphall yelling at Bjornson, Doc. He figured it would be a great time to do it. He brought his toy to the office that Sunday night, went down the hall to the Art Department large as life, marched right into Bjornson's studio with it in his hand and said he had something to show him. He said Bjornson thought they were going to run a test. McCarty plugged it in and told Bjornson to set up a target. When he turned his back, bingo." Ryquist made a shooting gesture and sat back with his hands in his lap.

"What did he do with the weapon?"

"Took it apart and threw the parts away in various dumpsters around campus."

After a bit of silence, Charlie asked, "So why'd he try to kill my boss?"

"He saw his file out on your desk. It was there twice when he came for his mail. Figured you were looking into things." Ryquist shrugged. "That's all it took."

"Pansy says that once a person has crossed a line, they never quite come all the way back," Chris said on reflection. "I think he was going crazy."

"Well, that may be, Doc, but the insanity defense sure wouldn't work in this case. There's too much premeditation for him to convince a jury that he couldn't tell right from wrong or that he acted on an irresistible impulse."

Chris mused. "Was he a sociopath all along and we just didn't see it?" She looked into her coffee mug and found no answers there.

Later that night after reviewing everything she'd learned that day with her son during dinner, Chris called her mother to share the latest on the "big case," as Pansy insisted on calling it.

"I tell you, Teensy, I am the hit of the bridge club. My information on the murders even trumps pictures of grandchildren." Pansy laughed with real relish.

"I'm glad it's working so well for you, mother," Chris said with more than a trace of exasperation.

"You don't know these biddies," Pansy said. "If I told them what I'd done with Quentin I think they would faint collectively."

"What did you do with Quentin, Mom?"

"I spread his ashes on the thirteenth hole."

"The club gave you permission for that?"

"Never asked."

"Mother!" Chris gasped. "You didn't!"

"Did so. By all reports he spent a lot of time in that water hazard. Besides, it was time he stopped following me everywhere."

Ends

About the Author

Nora Barker started her professional life as an artist, a printmaker, who taught at a middle-sized Midwestern university for more years than she cares to admit. Born in Wisconsin, raised in the Dakotas and Minnesota, she's lived her whole live among hard-working Scandinavians. Following their example, she couldn't just stop working when she retired so she took up her other creative love, writing. Visit www.norabarker.com to see other titles in the series coming soon.

