Majoring In Murder by Jessica Fletcher

knowledge sets us apart from the larger communities beyond our borders. What we sacrifice in privacy, we gain in comfort and security. People who move to a small town from a big city sometimes find that off-putting, preferring to keep their lives private and to choose friends from a small segment of the population. Wes Newmark had struck me as a private sort of person, not the kind to socialize much with anyone. But then Schoolman College as a whole wasn’t very large. If he’d lived here a long time—Harriet had said she’d known Wes for many years—I suppose it would be foolish to think an English professor wouldn’t have friends off campus as well as on.
    I studied Dr. Zelinsky as he finished his examination and ticked off several boxes on his clipboard. He must have been over six feet tall, but his stooped posture made him appear shorter. I gauged him to be in his late fifties. His brown hair was tousled, and as I watched him, he ran his left hand through thinning locks, leaving a clump standing on end. He scribbled his signature on the bottom of the form, touched Newmark’s shoulder, shook his head, and walked away.
    Pastor Getler leaned over the body. I could see his lips moving but couldn’t hear his words. Only the crackle of the police radio broke the respectful silence that accompanied his prayer.
    The quiet continued during the rapid breakdown of the recovery site. The ambulance sped away with the deceased, its siren and lights extinguished. The fire trucks backed down the street, onto the main road, and drove off into the night. The police in their patrol cars followed shortly afterward. The lights from the drama department and fire department were dismantled, and the crowd that had waited to witness the liberation of Professor Wesley Newmark’s body dispersed.
    I walked over to the building and picked up Professor Newmark’s briefcase. It was empty except for several pencils rolling around in the bottom, along with a few paper clips, rubber bands, and a plastic calculator. I handed the briefcase to Harriet. “His sister might like to have this,” I said.
    “That’s very thoughtful of you, Jessica. Are you sure it’s his?”
    “Yes,” I said. “He was carrying this when I saw him last, but it was bulging, presumably with papers. Now it’s not.”
    “Just look at the quad,” Harriet said as we walked around to the front of the building. “It’s covered with papers. Whatever he had in this briefcase is probably somewhere out here.”
    “I hope not,” I said.
    “I’m going to hunt up a cup of tea before I go home,” she said. “Will you join me?”
    “That does sound good.”
    “Do you think the Red Cross left us any of their doughnuts?”
    “If we’re lucky.”
    “It’s ironic,” she said as we headed for the Student Union. “Because of Wes, we got a big boost in the cleanup from the fire and police departments. They filled three Dumpsters tonight. Tomorrow that job is ours.”
    “And you can’t just hire a crane and cart all the debris away,” I said. “You have the files and records from three departments to salvage.”
    She moaned. “That’s right. Which means it will take twice as long to clear everything away. Plus we used the basement in Kammerer House for storage. There must be dozens of file cabinets down there.”
    “That’s strange,” I said.
    “What’s strange?”
    “If Kammerer House had a basement, why didn’t Wesley Newmark take shelter down there? Was it kept locked?”
    “No. There was no need to lock up old records.”
    “Phil Adler, your bursar, said he was expecting a visit from Wes.”
    “And Phil got hurt waiting for him,” Harriet said. “Foolish man. When I see him at the hospital, I’m going to ask about the nature of that appointment.”
    “I’d like to join you when you go, if you don’t mind.”
    “Of course I don’t mind. You’re more than welcome.”
    I didn’t want to alarm Harriet, but all evening I’d had a feeling that