Her initial surprise was replaced by flinty scrutiny. “Professor Delaware.”
“Thanks for remembering,” I said.
“You made an . . . impression.” She studied Milo. I introduced him.
“The police,” she said, evenly. “More about Mr. Drummond?”
Milo said, “More about Mr. Shull.”
Martin’s hands flexed, and she let them fall to her side.
“Come in,” she said.
The house was rambling, mood-lit, topped by skylights. A rear wall of windows looked out to a softly illuminated garden and a long, skinny lap pool that traced the curves of a high white wall. Large, abstract paintings hung on the walls. Brass cases were filled with contemporary glass.
Elizabeth Martin seated us on a low, black suede couch and took her place in a black leather sling-chair.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me what this is all about.”
Milo said, “Professor Martin, we’re looking into possible criminal activity on the part of A. Gordon Shull. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”
Sounds filtered from across the dining room. Footsteps and rattles behind white double doors. Utensil clink, running water. Someone in the kitchen.
“You can’t tell me more, but you’d like me to tell you whatever you want to know.”
Milo smiled. “Exactly.”
“Well, that seems fair.” Green silk rippled as Martin’s legs crossed. She was wearing perfume—something grassy—and it drifted toward us. Body-heat activated? She looked composed, but you never knew.
“Professor Martin,” said Milo, “this is a very serious matter, and I can promise you that the information will come out eventually.”
“What information is that?”
“Mr. Shull’s problems.”
“Oh,” she said. “Gordon’s got problems, does he?”
“You know he does,” I said.
She turned to me. “Professor Delaware, when you came to me you said Kevin Drummond had something to do with a murder. That’s not an everyday occurrence for a boring academic. That’s why you made an impression.” Back to Milo: “Are you now saying that Gordon Shull’s suspected of being a murderer?”
“You don’t seem surprised,” he said.
“I try to avoid being surprised,” she said. “But before we proceed, you must tell me this: Is something highly embarrassing to my department fulminating?”
“I’m afraid yes, ma’am.”
“That’s too bad,” said Martin. “A murderer.” Her smile was sudden, feral, unsettling. “Well, I suppose when too much garbage piles up, the best thing to do is to take it out. So let’s talk about Gordon. Perhaps you’ll be able to take him off my hands.”
She recrossed her legs. Seemed amused. “A murderer . . . I must admit, I’ve never thought of Gordon in those terms.”
“What terms have you thought of, ma’am?”
“Lack of substance,” said Martin. “Gordon’s a phony. All talk, no action.”
The kitchen doors opened and a man stepped out, bearing a hefty sandwich on a plate. “Liz?”
The same gray-haired man I’d seen in Martin’s office photos. He wore a white polo shirt, beige linen trousers, brown loafers. Tall and well built but running to paunch. Older than Martin by at least a decade.
“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “Just the police.”
“The police?” He approached us. The sandwich was a triple-decker, full of green stuff and turkey.
“Something to do with Gordon Shull, dear.”
“What, he stole something?” He positioned himself next to Martin’s chair.
“This is my husband, Dr. Vernon Lewis. Vernon, this is Detective . . .”
“Sturgis,” said Milo. To Lewis: “Are you a professor, as well, sir?”
“No,” said Martin. “Vernon’s a real doctor. Orthopedic surgeon.”
“That comment about stealing, Doctor,” said Milo. “Sounds like you know Gordon Shull, too.”
“Mostly by reputation,” said Vernon Lewis. “I’ve met him at faculty parties.”
Elizabeth Martin said, “Honey, why don’t you relax?”
Lewis shot her a quizzical glance. She smiled at him. His eyebrows rose, and he looked at his sandwich. “How long will this take, Liz?”
“Not too long.”
“Okay,” he said. “Nice meeting you fellows. Don’t keep my sweetheart too long.” He continued across the room, turned a corner, was gone.
Milo said, “What reputation was Dr. Lewis referring to?”
Martin said, “General amorality. Gordon’s been a problem—my problem, since the beginning.”
“Does amorality include theft?”
“If that were all of it.” Martin frowned. “Lord only knows what I’m doing to myself by talking to you, but the truth is I’ve had my fill of nonsense with that man. I run a three-person department, should have control over who I bring on.”