Majoring In Murder by Jessica Fletcher Page A

something wasn’t right. Two men had braved a tornado, and one of them had died. What kept them in their places? What worry was greater than the need to take cover from the storm? And when it was upon them, why didn’t they run? I’d heard the roar of the wind and felt its breath on my neck. Yet I’d made it to shelter in time. Why hadn’t they?
    And that briefcase. Where were its contents? Briefcases usually contain papers of one sort or another. I hadn’t seen any papers inside Kammerer House. Surely if the tornado had emptied the briefcase, wouldn’t there be at least a few papers left inside it?
    No, something was wrong. And I wanted to know what it was.

Chapter Four
    Vernon Foner, tieless, in slacks and a sweater, stopped at our breakfast table the next morning, and Harriet seized the opportunity to designate him to assess the English department’s needs and to report back to her as soon as possible.
    “Does this mean I am acting department head?” he asked.
    “This means simply that I’m asking you to assess the department’s needs,” she replied directly and strongly. “An acting department head will be appointed later. President Needler is swamped, as you might imagine, and has asked me to coordinate for him,” she told him.
    “Please assure him that he can count on me,” Foner promised cheerfully. “I’ll have a preliminary report for you this afternoon. By the way, if no one has already reserved it, the Langston Apartments in Sutherland Library would make excellent temporary quarters for the department. Did I tell you I saw similar rooms in Italy this past summer? It really is a shame to keep them closed when they could be enjoyed by people and serve a valuable function at the same time.”
    “I’ll keep it in mind.”
    No one questioned Harriet about the assumption of duties that usually fell to the president, believing her story of his immersion in the problems of the college caused by the storm. But, in fact, she’d assembled a core group of trusted advisers and was shouldering his responsibilities as well as her own, and accomplishing it with a steely resolve. I didn’t doubt for a moment that she was very much in charge, and up to the task. Since Needler’s return, he’d locked himself in his office, according to Harriet, and allegedly was occupying himself by phoning alumni to ask for donations to a cleanup fund he claimed he was in the process of establishing.
    “At least if he generates some income with these calls, we could say his time is well spent,” Harriet confided to me over breakfast. “But I’m afraid he’s turning off some of our most generous contributors.”
    “Do you think he’s unbalanced?” I’d asked. It seemed a logical question, considering Harriet’s tone.
    “It’s hard to tell with him, Jess. Some say he’s brilliant. Others view him as eccentric, to be kind. All I know is that when the school hired him, he brought with him all sorts of credentials that promised to add some needed sheen to our image. I talked with his secretary this morning. She assures me I’ll be thrilled when I see the bottom line of the alumni fund.”
    “Was he always like this? I mean ... well, eccentric?”
    “Now and then, but I don’t think the board would have hired him if we’d had any idea he tended to isolate himself during a crisis.”
    In addition to Foner, whose ambition, I decided, was written on his sleeve, two other people stopped by our table and walked away with assignments. Harris Colarulli, a postdoctoral fellow in the science department, and his wife, Zoe, an associate professor of English, had come over to offer condolences. Zoe was due to attend the English department meeting, but Harriet asked Harris to meet the buses returning from Wabash with the basketball team and the fans. He was to compare the returnees with the college’s lists, double-checking that everyone was accounted for. Zoe would help him when her meeting adjourned.
    “Keep it up,” I