Chapter 7

There was a letter from San Diego State University waiting for me when I got home. It requested me, "despite the recent distressing occurrence," to agree to continue to serve on the committee I'd never gotten to on Monday. It was signed by the chairman of the "Inter-departmental Program in Comparative Literature." Across the bottom he had scrawled "Some Associate Vice President I never heard of phoned and told me to write this to you. Don't blame me. Send a suitable note I can show her. Irv." I decided it could wait till the next day.

But Friday morning, after breakfast, when we had gotten Hilda off to school, Ann enticed me (it wasn't hard) back into bed for a while, and then, after I had showered and re-dressed, off on a shopping expedition. When we got back to the house, around noon, there was a police car in front. I could see the driver was wearing a canary-yellow shirt.

"Are they after you?" Ann asked as she turned into the driveway.

"Yes. They found out that I still like my wife, and that's illegal in Southern California."

"I think it depends on for how long."

"How long you like your wife?"

"How long it's the same wife."

By now we were out of the car and the cop was out of his. It was the same guy from Monday.

"Hi," he said. "You most likely remember me. Lt. Billings. I hope we didn't give you too tough a time on Monday." He put out a hand and I took it. It was firm and warm.

"Not a tough time at all. I read a lot of mysteries. I was expecting far worse. My wife, Ann."

"Hi, Mrs. Diver. I hope your neighbors won't be upset. Lots of folks are afraid of a police car parked in front."

"How do you do, Inspector? Won't you come in?" Ann was on her British professor's wife kick.

"Lieutenant, but thanks."

We went inside. Ann accepted Lt. Billings' rejection of coffee, but got him a glass of water -- well-water, tap-water is undrinkable in La Jolla.

"Professor Singleton told me you were conducting an investigation," he started.

"Well, of a sort. I don't see myself as either a member of a police force or a private detective."

"Hmm. How would you like to give me a hand?"

"What do you mean? I've never discovered a corpse before."

"Few people do, thank God. Too many for my taste, anyway."

"I've only been looking at Gillespie as a person and a scholar."

"And I as a victim." We looked at each other. I was really excited and hoped it didn't show. Like Philo Vance, I was being asked to "help the authorities" ... or was it "assist"?

"Well, I'd be glad to do anything I can. What sort of thing do you want? Maybe you could give me an idea as to what you've found out."

"Of course. As you as you keep everything confidential. Not top secret." Billings turned a smiled at Ann, who had sat down facing him but closer to me.

"Certainly," I said. Ann nodded.

"Well, first off, a lot of people hated Gillespie. His home life wasn't much. He'd been divorced for over a decade. No hope there; his ex-wife was a the other end of California, and they hadn't had any contact for years. The knife's not much. A 3" kitchen parer. No prints. Some chewing gum stuck between the blade and the handle, for whatever that's worth. And that's about it."

"That's it?"

"That's the real evidence. Gillespie was stabbed from behind as he bent over the table, probably looking at some papers. The knife entered between the third and fourth rib to the left of the spine. It cut the aorta and the left pulmonary artery. He may never have realized what had happened. No one in the building saw anything unusual or anyone out of the ordinary. All in all, we've spoken to about 150 students, faculty, staff, and visitors." He took a drink from his glass. "Good water."

"We drive out to the valley about every two weeks to fill up some gallon jugs." Ann got up to refill the glass.

"Thanks. So there we are. Lots of people where motivation's concerned ... and lots without an alibi. But nothing seems right. Especially not Mrs. Larsen."

"Mrs. Larsen?" queried Ann.

"The former Mrs. Gillespie," I told her.

"Yeah. Well, I thought she'd make a dandy suspect. But she lives in Yreka and she has watertight alibis for Monday -- she was working at a junior high with a PTA group from before lunch on. Went home a little before two. She couldn't even have flown down and back in time. But the DA always asks 'qui bono?' And she sure does."

"Hunh?"

"We figure someone always gains from death, especially unnatural death. And it turns out that Gillespie never changed his will. It's dated 1960. And 'Susan' gets everything. And, well, I guess that's why I'm here."

He shifted on the sofa and drank a bit more water. "The County Attorney's office phoned her and she said she doesn't want anything and doesn't want to have anything to do with anything. She said Professor Singleton could do anything she wanted with the things in his office and in the house and sell the house and give everything to the SDSU scholarship fund." He drew breath. "I bet he'd be pissed if he knew." He looked at Ann. "Excuse me."

"It's OK. I've heard worse."

"Well," Billings went on, "That's OK with us. But I thought that before we turn everything over to Singleton, perhaps someone else might go through Gillespie's stuff." I must have looked puzzled. "Oh, our boys have looked through -- or at least looked around his office and home. But I thought that someone outside who knew something might find a clue that the police might overlook. And I thought of you, 'cause you're innocent."

Ann started to giggle. There were tears in her eyes. "Lieutenant, you're the first person who thought Burt was innocent in about 25 years." I glared at her.

"Right. Innocent of murder. Actually, you're most likely innocent of any interest in Gillespie in any sense. At any rate, will you help?"

"Sure. But when?"

"This afternoon would be great. It's not yet noon." He looked at his watch.

"Go ahead," said Ann. "It's better than returning to the library."

"OK," said Billings, standing up. "I'll run you down to the house. I've got the keys. You know, I really appreciate it. I've enough on my plate. Two teenagers knifed each other. A four-year-old boy is missing. And two rapes. And a teen-aged girl, but I think she's a runaway to LA or the Bay Area. And a dead junkie in a flop. Who needs a mystery?"

"All that!" Ann was aghast at Billings' catalog of ships.

"Oh. That's since Monday. There's loads on the back burner." He turned to me. "I'll run you back when we get done." And, as we headed out the door, "Thanks for the water."

My fame was made as we got to the police car, for school was out for lunch and there were 75 8-11 year-olds standing around it. As we got in some kid yelled: "They're arresting Hilda's dad!" "No they ain't!" responded a voice. "He's sittin' in front!" And

off we went. (We later learned that I was the focus of neighborhood chatter that weekend.)

The fact that I hadn't said much didn't mean that there wasn't much going on in my head. I was as excited as a teenager meeting a rock star. I would get the inside story of a murder. And I was getting a ride in a police car. And I'd get to rummage through Gillespie's stuff. I'd been wondering what he was really like; this would get me the inside information.

"Where should we start?" I asked Billings.

"The house. If there's time we can go on to his office. But I'd like to start at his house. I was there Monday afternoon, but nothing struck me. There might be something that strikes you, though." He smiled. I'm sure he knew that there was something to interest or startle me ... that was his surprise.

The house was on 55th between Montezuma and El Cajon. Small, puce-colored, with a small, yellow garage, a tiny lawn, and some ice plants. Billings pulled into the driveway.

"Handy to the campus," I offered. The house was like ten thousand others built between the war and 1960. Billings pulled some keys from his pocket, selected one and opened the door.

The house was dark and smelled stale. Being locked up for a few days didn't account for it. I looked a Billings. "May I open the drapes?"

"Anything you want, but try not to be disruptive."

I opened the front drapes, noticed two side windows and pulled the curtains then opened both of them. The room brightened, but it was a bare room, a cold room (if any room in the San Diego area was ever cold). There was an uncomfortable-looking sofa, two rather straight and rigid chairs, an oval coffee table with the current PMLA on it, a small bookcase. On the walls were a space heater, an enormous crucifix and a reproduction of the View of Toledo. I noticed that two of the books on the top shelf were a Maryknoll Missal and a Bible. To the rear I could glimpse a kitchen with a table and two chairs. A door near the heater obviously led to the rest of the house. There was worn wall-to-wall on the floor.

I opened the door. There was a tiny hallway, about six feet square, with a door in each wall. The one to the left opened on to a small room that had apparently been Gillespie's study. Bookcases lined two walls and a small desk, littered with papers, stood beneath another draped window. A desk chair, a typewriter table and a manual typewriter. That was it. No decoration relieved the space. I flicked the switch beside the door and walked over to the shelves, reading the titles. They looked like a scholar's library. Text editions and scholarly works for a number of authors: Lyly, Ascham, Hooker, Lord Clarendon, Milton, Mrs. Behn, Mrs. Haywood, Defoe, Richardson, Davys, Fielding, and Burney were there. English prose from Lyly to the beginning of the nineteenth century was quite well represented.