A/N: I didn't think it would take this long to get to the action, but here we are! We're just getting into the nitty-gritty. I did tour Washington University a few years back when I was looking at colleges, so I have an approximate knowledge of the campus (including University Hall, now called Brookings Hall, featured here). By the way...no implied Dr. Pepper sponsorship here (I'm laughing just typing this sentence), mostly due to the fact that I hate it as much as Emily does!
Next time: a shocking discovery, and the interrogation to end all interrogations.
George and Emily Take St Louis
Chapter Seven
"We don't have time for this," George insisted from the washroom. Just out of the corner of his eye, Emily sighed deeply and rolled over, squinting into the light streaming through the drapes.
They had returned back to their room shortly after three in the morning and risen with the dawn, allowing for a very fitful sleep indeed. In their haste to prepare for the dinner party, they hadn't payed much attention to the fact that the room only had one bed, a luxurious king that she had immediately claimed as her own. So as to preserve modesty, George settled into the chaise at the opposite end of the room, only to be met with don't be silly and I know you won't try anything and how are we supposed to discuss the case when you're all the way over there. As it turns out, he dozed off just as soon as his head touched the pillow, laying about as far apart from his companion as humanly possible.
Some time later, Emily slid out of bed, only to return moments later divested of their borrowed finery. The wig had compressed her hair, making her curls stick out at odd angles. This struck the constable as charming, and he had drowsily reached out to wrap a ringlet around his finger. She only smiled and rolled towards him.
He was the first to come to, stumbling into the adjoining room to perform his morning ablutions. George had slept in his trousers and dress shirt, which was sure to cause a fuss when he attempted to get their deposit back. The gown was hanging from the top of the door like the afternoon before-so what was Emily wearing?
He discovered the answer upon attempting to dress. The lightweight cotton shirt, the one he'd so often worn underneath his uniform, was nowhere to be found. Could it be? Peeking around the corner and examining the figure of the drowsing woman in bed, his suspicions were confirmed.
It wouldn't have done any good to become cross-no, that was the furthest thing from what George was thinking. Standing at the bedside with two garment bags slung over his shoulder, he said, "I need you to telephone Detective Kidwell and tell him we'll be making a few stops before coming by the precinct. Tip the maid when she comes in, and make sure nothing incriminating is lying about." According to plan, they would keep the room just in case Mr. and Mrs. Troost needed to make an appearance at another society event. Besides, it was on the dime of the Metropolitan Police.
The only response he was given was a sleepy yawn. Gently shaking her shoulder, he demanded, "Emily, look at me."
At last her eyes came open to behold the shirtless man standing before her. Smirking mischievously, she mumbled, "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to return these clothes to the department store-"
"Mhmm."
"-get breakfast-"
"Mhmm."
"-and stop by the home of my boarders. They probably think I'm dead," he concluded, thinking about how he hadn't returned home in the past two nights.
"Mhmm."
"And Emily?"
"Yes, darling?"
Was she trying to rile him up? "I'll be needing my shirt."
There was a pause. Emily rustled around underneath the covers, pulling it over her head and tossing it in his face. Immediately, she pulled the blanket up to her shoulders-her bare, beautiful shoulders-and crossed her arms expectantly.
He dressed quickly, trying to ignore the fact that there was a nude or semi-nude woman just inches away. All the while he could feel her eyes on him. Finally, she broke the silence, "I'll be seeing you at University Hall at nine, then?"
Mumbling in agreement, George stumbled to the door, trying not to trip over himself as he went.
-0-
The administrative center was situated atop a great hill overlooking the fairgrounds. If one stood at the top of the steps-as Emily did for quite some time, waiting for her accomplice to appear-the Grecian turrets of the Palace of Fine Arts were just barely visible through the trees. The western edge of the fairway was sparsely populated with souvenir vendors; many of the main attractions had yet to open, so all was quiet for as far as the eye could see.
Ultimately, she saw George approach, wearing a fresh set of clothes and toting two green tinted glass bottles. When he was finally within earshot, she asked, "What took you so long?"
"Try this," he encouraged, handing her the decanter of brown liquid. "They call it Dr. Pepper. It's like soda water, but with caramel flavor."
She watched the bubbles of carbonation form and rise to the top at an alarming rate. "It certainly doesn't look very appetizing." And it was true; she as of the opinion that the beverage quite resembled pond sludge.
"They've been working on the formula for fifteen years, Emily! At least that's what the vendor told me. I wonder if he has his doctorate…"
Grimacing, she tipped her head back and allowed the slightest drop to travel past her lips. At once her tongue and nose began to sting, but not painfully-no, the sensation was more akin to a tickle. And it was supremely unpleasant. "I hope you didn't spend a good deal of money on these. This tastes like cough syrup."
He was genuinely surprised that she disliked it. "I suppose it's an acquired taste." The two turned and walked up several steps to the underside of a gothic archway. "You needn't worry, they were only two cents a piece."
"A fool and his money are soon parted," she intoned, watching as he downed the rest of his bottle.
Before they entered the building, he placed hers on the threshold and explained, "Just in case you change your mind."
They followed the signs past the administration offices for various exhibitions, including doors that bore signs such as "REPLACEMENT GENERATORS-PALACE OF ELECTRICITY-DANGEROUS VOLTAGE-ENTER AT OWN RISK" and "TEA STORAGE-EMPIRE OF JAPAN". At the end of one corridor and up the stairs, they found what they'd been looking for.
The Vice Chancellor's suite was modest in scope; to get to his office, one had to pass through an antechamber, about the same size and shape as a broom closet. By some minor miracle, a janitor had managed to fit a desk lengthwise into the space. That was where they found Jonathan Larimore, bent over his schoolbooks and scribbling like a madman on a sheet of legal paper.
"Mr. Hampton isn't in at the moment," he said as soon as the door opened, not even bothering to look up at them.
Emily smiled and laid a hand on his desktop, gently closing the textbook. "We're not here for him. Truthfully, we need to-"
"I don't need your pity," he exclaimed, pushing his chair back. "It's been a steady stream of well wishes since the news about Celia broke. Everyone and their mother just wants to tell me how sorry they are. People I've never seen before. They don't seem to understand that no amount of sympathy can bring her back from the dead. But as long as you're here, you might as well make yourself comfortable." Standing, he removed two buckets from a previously unseen closet and set them down before his desk, leaving the door open.
Both were taken aback by the young man's candor. He appeared at most a few years younger than them, but carried the barest suggestion of muscle across his shirtsleeves. Eventually, George spoke: "We're here on official business of the Toronto Constabulary under the supervision of the Metropolitan Police Department."
The young man appeared unimpressed, yawning into his hand as George flashed his badge. "Toronto, huh? I daresay you're a long way from home."
"We were hoping you could answer a few questions about your relationship with Celia Vandeventer," Emily said, choosing not to elucidate on the former topic. After all, they had no way of knowing if he was also in conspiracy with Eva.
He scoffed, knitting his fingers behind his head. "So I'm also a suspect in my fiancé's murder? Don't you have somewhere more useful to be?"
It didn't take a psychiatrist like Julia Ogden to discern that he was hiding his anguish behind a wall of sharp words. "You are not necessarily a suspect, but it would behoove you to tell us everything you know." She leaned forward, hoping to convey with one prolonged look that the pleasantness of this interview was entirely contingent on his next response.
George was utterly mystified by what was taking place before him. At long last, he had seen it-the look capable of turning men to stone. Jonathan shifted in his seat and pushed his glasses up his nose. Frowned.
And then he began to talk.
They'd met the year prior at a mixer for students and their families, bonding over their shared tastes in novels. What followed was a whirlwind romance conducted in secret. She was a woman of means with several men lined up to court her; he was a student from a poor area of southern Missouri paying his way through university through work study. The Vandeventers never approved of their relationship, but that apparently didn't stop them from becoming engaged.
"She was willing to be disowned for me," he admitted, "In fact, she almost was."
"Almost?" George questioned, brows knit together as he attempted to memorize every facet of this conversation.
In the other room, the telephone rang. Jonathan stood at once and almost immediately lost his balance, but grabbed his desk to steady himself. He entered the adjoining room under a soft admonition of 'careful, Mr. Larimore' and soon he was in deep conversation with someone on the other end of the line.
The two of them made eye contact, and then looked together towards the open closet door. High upon one of the shelves was a small wooden box, precisely like the one given to Mr. Hampton by Eva the night before.
Was it the same one? There was only one way to tell. Emily rose as if to stretch, taking a step towards it-
And was promptly interrupted by Jonathan reentering the room. She sat down with force.
"As I was saying, apparently she had made amends with her mother in the past few weeks. That was just as well. I wanted her parents to be there for the opening ceremonies of the Olympics."
"To spectate?" She asked, eyes roaming over the academic materials on his desk. It appeared that the young man was a student of mathematics, for every spare scrap of paper was covered with complex formulas.
He shook his head. "No, ma'am. I'll be running the marathon that afternoon."
So she was somewhat of a local hero in sport, as well as a brilliant man of letters. "Congratulations. I hope you perform well."
"Mr. Larimore, did you see Celia the day of her murder?" George wondered, searching for a plausible alibi.
Another negative. "The secretary down the hall said that she came to see me, but no one was in. I found that odd, because she knew I had coursework that afternoon."
"I see. Are you willing to remain in town just in case we have more questions for you?"
"Look, Mr.-Crabtree, was it?-I've got nothing to hide," he insisted, shrugging his shoulders, "I just keep the books."
The pair rose and traveled around his desk. "All the same, don't hesitate to contact us if you notice something."
"Notice something?"
"Something suspicious," George concluded, shaking his hand vigorously. Behind his back, Emily reached out and seized the box, tucking it into one of the folds in her skirt.
He seemed satisfied by this and returned the gesture. Just before they exited the office into the corridor, he added: "I'd suggest looking after her brother's fiancé, Evelyn. That woman is a witch."
-0-
"Did you notice how delirious he was?" Emily inquired as soon as they were outside once more.
Gathering their discarded soda bottles, George led the way to a shaded bench in the treeline. He hadn't noticed, but then again it was probably only something a physician could pick out. "How do you mean?"
She made a show of causing her hands to shake, yawning and blinking rapidly. "His pupils were massive. Perhaps it has something to do with conditioning for the marathon."
After considering this for a moment, he suggested: "Codeine?"
There was no way to tell, but it was certainly possible. Sitting down and making sure her back was to the building, Emily revealed the box she'd smuggled out of the Vice Chancellor's office. The top panel slid away to expose a delicately embroidered lace handkerchief. Before she even removed it, they could make out three letters stitched in one corner with immaculate cursive script: VDV.
If that was a coincidence, it was an extraordinary one. She uprighted the contents into her hand and was surprised at the weight. Carefully unfolding the fabric, Dr. Grace discovered a wrought iron key.
"I wonder what this unlocks?" George took it from her and held it up to the sunlight, finding its design nothing out of the ordinary.
Briefly she lifted the box to her nose and sniffed. Wrinkling her nose, she asked, "Do you smell that?"
"Smell what?"
"Sulfur."
He didn't have time to respond, for in the next moment a woman screamed. It was a frantic noise, filled with terror, so the wind had no trouble carrying it up the hill to their ears. They didn't wait. Gathering her skirts in her hands, Emily dashed down the pathway after George.
Following the continued calls for help led them to the alleyway beside the Spectatorium. Several constables were already there. The victim faced away from them, crouched over with her hands clasped to her ears. She continued to vocalize her discontent.
As they got closer, her severe hairstyle and broad shoulders began to look familiar. "Anechka!" The doctor cried, falling to her knees and drawing her friend into her chest.
That was when George noticed a wooden handled revolver on the ground. Not far away, a shell casing lay spent. A ream of parchment paper had been tossed to one side, its pages begin tousled by the light breeze. From a distance, he was able to make out the photograph from Murdoch's telefacsimile, as well as the words: "WANTED FOR SUSPICION OF MURDER. EVA PEARCE. AGED TWENTY-FOUR. ALIASES EVA MURDOCH, CASSIE CHADWICK. IF FOUND, DO NOT APPROACH. CONTACT THE METROPOLITAN POLICE."
"Someone was following me as I was hanging up my posters, taking them down, staying just out of sight," she stammered out, her knuckles white as she clung to Emily. "I meant to get away from her, but she followed me into the alleyway. I looked over my shoulder and saw a gun, so I took papa's gun and shot her before she could shoot me. Oh, bozhe moy, what if I killed her?!"
Neither said anything, for they knew better than to try and get any information out of a witness while they were emotional. Soon enough Detective Kidwell made an appearance, a rifle balanced in the crook of his elbow. "We found this just around the corner. It's safe to assume it's what they used to threaten her. Unfortunately, one of our men recognized it as belonging to the Hunting in the Ozarks exhibition."
"Thank God you were on the beat," Emily ground out, her tone dripping with sarcasm. He didn't seem one bit concerned for the traumatized woman on the ground. "Could you describe what she looked like?"
Exhaling raggedly, Anechka made a gamble to steady her breathing. "Fair haired girl about my age, dressed well. A little short, with a birthmark on her face."
George appeared physically pained. "It's Marjorie. By heaven, they've got to arrest a Rockefeller."
"What's this now?" Kidwell cut in. "You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you'd just apprehended the girl, Miss Kapralova."
"Detective, I've just had the fright of my life!" She rasped, standing up straight. It was an ineffective attempt to gain compassion from the expressionless gentleman.
He made a dismissive hand gesture. "Where did you shoot her?"
"Just in the arm. I'm not a very good shot," she said sheepishly, as if that was something to be ashamed of.
To the officers nearby, he demanded, "Go to the hospitals in the immediate area. Tell them to look out for a young woman with a gunshot wound."
Once they were mostly alone and the bystanders had wandered off in search of other entertainment, Kidwell confided, "We've got another problem. I just came from the precinct-Dr. Haynes has been found dead."
(to be continued)