The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders by Mignon F. Ballard Page A

police plan to question him,” I told her.
    â€œHumph! They’ll have to find him first. Nobody’s seen him since his last class yesterday.”
    I frowned. “How do you know?” Since I wasn’t due at Sarah Bedford until later that day, I hadn’t been to the campus.
    â€œYou know Kim—does my hair at the Total Perfection—well, her daughter Belinda sits for them some, and she says he didn’t come home last night at all.” Nettie shook her head. “Can you imagine? And him with all those little children, too! Well, the police will round him up in short order.”
    Round him up? It sounded as though the missing professor was divided into numerous little pieces that the authorities would scoop together like bits of clay. I remembered watching the man calmly reading his paper in the cafeteria only the day before. Had he been planning his getaway even then?
    My neighbor put a hand on my arm as I was leaving. “And by the way, what’s the deal with that boarder you took in last year? The woman who’s staying in Charlie’s old office? I see her light from time to time, so how come I never see her? ”
    â€œAugusta? Oh, I think you’d like her, Nettie. She’s simply an angel.” I slipped through the door before she could pursue the subject. It’s funny, but if you tell people the truth, I’ve found, they seldom ever believe you.

    â€œJoy Ellen says D.C. probably was killed early Saturday morning,” I told Augusta and Ellis over supper that night. The history teacher still wasn’t thrilled about my being there, but at least she wasn’t hostile when we met for a planning session that afternoon.
    Augusta had discovered the slow cooker and planned the week’s meals around it. Tonight it was chicken stew. Ellis, whose husband Bennett had some kind of dinner meeting that night, contributed her “homemade” biscuits (out of the freezer case at Harris Teeter) and I had stirred up a dessert.
    Augusta broke open a steaming biscuit and slathered it with some of her strawberry jam. “How does she know that?” she asked.
    â€œHeard one of the policemen talking about it. Said it looked like the Hunter girl died from a blow to her head, possibly from a fall. That old shed has a stone floor, but you probably wouldn’t notice it for all the dirt that’s accumulated there.”
    â€œI think it used to be a stable,” Ellis said. “And after that, the college stored lawn tools there, things like that.”
    I nodded. “Joy Ellen said Londus Clack told her he remembers when it served as a concession stand back when students still swam in the Old Lake.”
    â€œWhen was that?” Augusta asked. “Ellis, you’ll have to give me the recipe for these biscuits. They’re simply delicious.”
    â€œHad to have been more than thirteen or fourteen years ago,” I said. “Roger dated several girls at Sarah Bedford and I’m sure the lake was posted off limits even then.”
    Steam rose about her face as Augusta sipped her coffee. “Londus Clack? He’s the maintenance person you spoke about, isn’t he? The one who sings? Has he been with the school that long?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” Ellis said, “but Londus grew up here, you know. His father worked for the college.”
    â€œThen he must feel right at home there,” I said.
    Ellis ladled more stew into her bowl. “Maybe. Maybe not. The college let his father go. I remember Bennett talking about it. He was on the board of directors when it happened. Caused quite a stink at the time. Bennett never did believe he’d done it. Old Dorsey Clack was as honest as the day is long, he said. Turned out later, he was right.”
    â€œWhat did they think he’d done?” Augusta asked.
    â€œSome student accused him of stealing jewelry—a ring, I think. Said she’d seen him in her