Honest Doubt by Amanda Cross Page B

suggested nothing pleasant or inviting. Still, I supposed, one suburb was very like another, and none of them my choice of a place to live. The only real differences I had ever found between one suburb and another was the distance between the houses, and the size of the lawns.
    Donald Jackson told me to meet him in a bar not too far from the college. He had explained, when I returned his call, that he didn’t want to meet in the police station, and that he thought we ought to talk before I took on the English department or any part of the college. A good idea, I thought.
    I found the bar and the detective without any trouble; he was in a booth, and I could see why he had chosen the place. It was a local sort of bar not suited either to the students or the nearby suburban folk. The police didn’t meet each other socially in this town, and weren’t likely to stick their heads in here; Donald Jackson and I were quite unnoticed. In fact, it was my kind of place—working class, with big sandwiches and breakfast all day. We each ordered coffee; he had a hamburger and I had breakfast, my favorite meal: bacon, eggs, home fries, and toast.
    He told me he was called Don, and I told him I was called Woody. He was tall, muscular, handsome—a black man who knew just how attractive he was to women; I for one would never again wonder why they kept starring Denzel Washington in every second movie. I worried that the first sight of me would disappoint him; I always worry about that. I didn’t ask why he owed Reed, and he didn’t tell me. He treated me just right, like he was ready for now to respect a new colleague, giving me the benefit of the doubt. I thought we could probably work together just fine.
    â€œIf I’ve got this straight,” he said, “you’re a private eye hired by the college to find out who offed their Professor Haycock.”
    â€œThat’s about it,” I said, “except that the family hired me before anyone in the English department did. I’ve sort of spread out my investigation to the college since that anonymous letter. A member of the family may have done it, but somehow I don’t see it. That doesn’t mean I may not see it any day soon.”
    â€œThat’s how I figured it. We were originally called in by the family too, and now we’re supposed to be looking at everybody, including the college. But between you and me, I don’t think that the police are going to get very far here. The idea seems to be that the main suspect is a woman who didn’t show the proper respect for some poet who’s been dead a century, give or take a year.”
    â€œYes,” I said. The bacon and eggs were great, but I tried to keep my mind on the conversation. He asked if he could try my potatoes and I said he sure could. I thought that was the most tactful request I’d heard from man or woman in years, maybe ever. I saved it up for Kate, to show her an example of real tact: making someone who was female, fat, a private eye, and not usually welcomed by the police, feel good. Real tact.
    â€œThe poet Tennyson.” I groaned. “Fortunately I’m getting some help on the literary side of things, but colleges are not exactly my usual place of operation either.” I didn’t mention that it was Reed’s wife who was assisting me. Don probably knew it, but he’d respect me for not spilling everything—just the stuff he needed to know, and from him, the stuff I needed to know. Which was plenty.
    â€œI haven’t seen so much infighting since we had to look into some guys who were shaving points in a basketball play-off,” he said. “There’s a lot of money involved there. But, hey, I like one country singer, I’m not going to blow you away because you like a different one who may dislike mine, if you follow me.”
    â€œYou might if your reputation, which in the academic world is the same as money, or just