“The director says I have to leave at the end of the week,” Sarah Ann was saying to Wendy. “My situation is so not typical of what the shelter is supposed to be used for. Fortunately for me, they had a room to spare. But I can’t bear the thought of going back home to Mother. I wish I had the money to afford a place of my own, but I don’t have a job.”

  “Have you heard from your mother at all?”

  Sarah Ann looked even more distressed. “She called me up once, and she started off by saying that she was praying for me to come home. She’s like a broken record, of course.”

  “Have you thought that maybe that was her idea of a peace offering?” Wendy said.

  “You already know that she’s not very good at communicating very much except Scripture.”

  Sarah Ann’s expression changed from gloomy to outraged, and her voice rose a level. “But there’s something else I just have to emphasize to you again. She said that I had no idea what she had done to try and save me from the error of my ways. She even admitted she had broken one of the Commandments for me. Don’t you see what I’m getting at? I’m so afraid she was the one who did away with Aurelia, even though I have no idea how she could have done it. Mother and cocaine just don’t seem to belong in the same universe at all, but we all readily admit that ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is one of the biggest Commandments there is.”

  “I would definitely agree with you on that,” Wendy said, nodding eagerly. “But my husband has interrogated her in-depth, of course, and he doesn’t feel she is a likely suspect.”

  “I don’t know what good it’ll do,” Sarah Ann continued, “but maybe you could talk to her and see if you can get some concessions so I could return without being driven crazy.”

  Wendy struggled to repress a chuckle. “I don’t know why you think she would listen to a stranger who is teaching you how to play a card game and also arranged for you to sip on a mint julep during the lesson. Let’s not forget that she caught us all red-handed at the RCC, so to speak.”

  “Why does that seem like light-years ago to me?”

  “Because so much that’s disturbing has happened since then,” Wendy said. “Aurelia’s vision for Milton had Hiroshima-like effects immediately, and there’s still some fallout.” Wendy briefly told her about Earl Jay Doxey’s murder. “And I seriously doubt your mother had anything to do with that, either. I think we would both agree that she’s most definitely not a street person.”

  “No,” Sarah Ann said, somewhat taken aback by the revelation. “She is supremely at home in a church pew and just about no place else. But I still have a bad feeling about my mother and what happened to Aurelia Spangler. I just can’t shake it, no matter how hard I try.”

  “What would you do if your mother does turn out to be guilty?” Wendy said, suddenly playing devil’s advocate. “Keep in mind that you do have to be careful what you wish for in this life.”

  That seemed to stop Sarah Ann in her tracks, and she took her time before she spoke again. “You make a good point. I’ve been so obsessed with getting away from Mother’s eternal quotes that I haven’t thought beyond that. Mother does take care of my room and board and all that other stuff I take for granted.”

  “Parents are generally pretty good at that, though there are exceptions.” Wendy paused to think it through and came to a decision. “Listen, I’ll do my best between now and your departure date to see if I can talk to your mother and get her to compromise with you.”

  “Would you? I’d be so grateful.”

  Wendy noted how much more attractive Sarah Ann was when she smiled—even her freckles seemed more alive—and said, “I make you no promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  Ross walked into Professor Isaacson’s cramped office at the college with next to no expectations. Yet he knew from past experience that sometimes the most successful results in criminal investigations arose from the most unlikely sources. Perhaps there would be one little thing—however trivial—that the good professor of literature would reveal that might have a significant bearing on the case.

  “I wanted to ask you about something that may surprise you,” Ross said, after taking a seat in front of many books stacked on shelves reaching to the ceiling and also surrounding him in shorter stacks on the floor. The professor’s desk was devoid of a surface; there were only piles of papers from side to side, along with an in-basket that was overflowing with a variety of disparate items. It occurred to Ross that this particular office had not been cleaned in a very long time, and he wondered how that could be allowed to happen. Did they not have a custodian to take care of such things on a regular basis? Did being messy and cluttered come with being an academic? At any rate, the room offended Ross’s highly organized and always neat sensibilities, but he did not comment, of course.

  “I assure you that there’s nothing much that surprises me these days,” Professor Isaacson told him.

  “This might, though,” Ross continued. “I wanted you to give me your version of the singing telegram that was delivered to you recently by Milton Bagdad of Party Palooza. We were also told that the owner, Rex Boudreaux, was along for the ride that evening. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, he was there, too, but I must say that I stand corrected,” he said, cracking a smile. “That truly does surprise me. Why would you want to know anything about that god-awful telegram? I have to tell you that a few of these female students that I teach have gotten it into their heads recently to send me these anonymous concoctions via Party Palooza. The first time, I thought it was cute in a vague sort of way. But the second time, I began to worry that there might be no end to these escapades. I called up and finally complained to Mr. Boudreaux about them, and I asked him to warn me if another one of those things was coming my way.”

  “And did he?”

  “He most certainly did, and we worked out a plan for the telegram you’ve brought up to me just now.”

  “A plan?”

  “It really wasn’t all that complicated,” Professor Isaacson began. “Mr. Boudreaux explained to me that his man, Milton, had had a bad scare recently—something about a psychic’s prediction that was off the charts. He said he needed me to help him restore this young man’s confidence but without the boy knowing about it.”

  Ross perked up considerably. Perhaps he was getting somewhere, after all. “Please go on. I’m very interested in the rest of what you have to say.”

  “There isn’t much more to it, actually. I was annoyed by the telegrams and those souvenir rag dolls that I had no use for, so Mr. Boudreaux suggested I just rip them up with a knife and that that would help calm down this boy, Milton. At least, he seemed to think it would. I didn’t bother to question any further about it.”

  “And apparently it did.”

  “It really did. We all relaxed and had a drink together afterward—actually, more than one so there was no designated driver that night—and Mr. Boudreaux’s since informed me that he will accept no more of these foolish, schoolgirl crush telegrams. He will gladly turn down the business to keep the peace with me. Now, that’s an extremely considerate businessman, I have to admit. How many would go out of their way to do that for you? So that’s the end of that.”

  “It would appear you’re right.”

  All the time Ross had been conducting his interview, Professor Isaacson’s rather large head had been blocking a small shelf on the wall directly behind and slightly above his cluttered desk. It suddenly came into view when the professor crossed his legs and shifted his weight to one side. Ross was immediately drawn to the gleaming bronze figurine that was prominently displayed there.

  “I’ve been admiring that donkey on the shelf behind you,” he said. “Would you mind telling me the history behind it? I know there’s got to be one.”

  “Ah!” came the enthusiastic reply. The professor rose in his chair, halfway turned around, and plucked it from the shelf, then turning it this way and that to catch the overhead light. “I’m more than happy to share him with you. That delightful ornament would be Dapple—I found him in a little gift shop on a trip to Taxco in Mexico on one of my vacations. I bargained and bargained with the shopkeeper until I got him at a reasonable price, although I was still probably taken to the cleaners. They say the merchants start way above what the item is worth so they can still make a handsome profit when they finally settle. Anyway, this is Sancho Panza’s donkey from Don Quixote, which I always teach in my European Lit course. It’s practically my favorite novel of all time. I sometimes fancy myself as Dapple—plodding along, working hard, loyal to his mission in life. My master is literature, of course. The thing is, I want to do more than inspire hormones among these females—thus my irritation at these silly singing telegrams they started sending to me on a whim. I want to expand their minds instead and get them thinking about the significance of a concept like ‘tilting at windmills.’ An impossible dream, you say? Perhaps.”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t a big reader growing up,” Ross said, missing the reference entirely. “I was more the ‘playing-cops-and-robbers’ type. But I do admire people who can write. My wife, Wendy, reads all the time, since she’s an investigative reporter for the paper.”

  Professor Isaacson continued in lecture mode, gesturing vigorously, and Ross could see why certain students found him to be so such a dynamic personality. “Yes, I’ve read your wife’s column from time to time. She’s quite good at what she does. But there’s an entire universe of literature out there for students to explore, if they only would. But I’m afraid there’s serious competition in this generation coming up from social media and keeping in touch with each other twenty-four/ seven. I can’t think of a good reason to do that, if you want my opinion. I’m a man who jealously guards his privacy and time alone with his own thoughts.”

  Ross glanced at his watch, stood up, offered his hand, and said, “Well, that’s all very interesting, and I want to thank you for your time. You’ve actually given me some considerable food for thought.”

  “Have I? I only wish that I could say the same thing about myself regarding my students.”

  “I’m sure you’re just being modest,” Ross told him with a smile. “You’re obviously doing something right, or your courses wouldn’t be as popular as they are. One of your students volunteered that information, by the way.”

  “Do you mind telling me who that was?”

  “Sarah Ann O’Rourke, I believe.”

  The name struck a responsive chord, causing the professor to puff himself up somewhat while nodding his head. “Yes, yes, Miss Sarah Ann O’Rourke. She certainly pays attention in class and has done well on her tests so far. You’d never catch her sending me one of those ridiculous telegrams. She’s far too sensible for something like that.”

  “I’m sure,” Ross said, leaving it at that and heading for the door. “Anyway, thanks again for giving me a bit of your valuable time.”

  “Of course. Glad I could work it into my schedule.”

  * * *

  On the drive back to the station, Ross’s brain had shifted into warp speed. Perhaps this was the break they had been searching for, after all. There was the donkey, big as life, and with its own literary backstory to boot. What an accomplished animal! The donkey that Mary Liz had overheard Doxey repeating in that emotional phone call he was making to someone—and that someone might even be his killer, and maybe Aurelia Spangler’s as well.

  Yet it was difficult to picture the erudite Professor Isaacson as a down-and-dirty drug dealer, someone ruthless and brutal enough to murder two people without compunction. He truly did appear to be a genuine academic with those particular lofty priorities and nothing else on his agenda. Street trade, and the money that came with it? That seemed completely off the table.

  But, to conjure up Wendy’s concept of hiding in plain sight once again, suppose that was exactly what Professor Isaacson was doing as the ultimate cover? Was he even supplying some of his students with cocaine? God forbid. Could he be the outlier who had done away with Aurelia Spangler for reasons known only to him? Ross’s mind was reeling, and he was unquestionably tumbling head over heels down the slippery slope of all time.

  At this point, there was only one thing to do: discuss the interview at great length with Bax and explore the possibility of having Ronald Pike or another officer put a tail on Isaacson to see if there was any suspicious activity that added more to the story. Then he returned to that one word again: donkey.

  Could it really be as simple as a figurine on a shelf? Or was that just one of those misleading coincidences that by assigning any credibility to it eventually turned a case cold?

  * * *

  The very thick and burly Ronald Pike, the detective with whom Ross had partnered most often over the years, was having a yawner of a day so far, following the routine of Professor Isaacson at the College of Rosalie. Note-taking was at a very low ebb. The professor had not returned to his car in the faculty parking lot since sliding out of the front seat for what surely must have been his classroom duties at approximately 10 a.m. After that, time moved at a glacial pace. Finally, lunch hour came and went, during which Pike sipped coffee out of a thermos and nibbled on a ham and rye that he’d picked up at a gas station. Then, to satisfy his ever-present sweet tooth, he followed that with a store-bought brownie—all of it unremarkable, but it did the trick.

  Around 2 p.m., however, the dam burst. Professor Isaacson hopped into his car, having walked at a brisk pace toward it from his classroom building. Pike thought it was more than brisk. It seemed on the order of urgent. In fact, the professor’s tires made squealing noises as he exited the parking lot—with Pike waiting behind for just the right length of time to follow without being noticed.

  The cars headed into Rosalie proper in a far from obvious tandem, and Pike noted that the professor was exceeding the speed limit by a good ten miles over. But this was hardly about giving the man a ticket at this point in time; it was manifestly about seeing what he was up to, and whether it was legit or not.

  Pike began frowning when Professor Isaacson’s car turned onto North River Street. He knew the details of Earl Jay Doxey’s murder as well as all the other members of the department did. In a very literal sense, the professor seemed to be returning to the scene of that particular crime. The three of them—Bax, Ross, and Pike, of course—had discussed down at headquarters yesterday afternoon the implications of the donkey figurine, coupled with her husband’s conversation that Mary Liz Doxey had said she’d overheard. They had all agreed that there was enough of a connection there to warrant a detail that Pike was now undertaking to the best of his ability.

  But his frown soon turned into a shaking of his head, together with a biting of his lower lip. “It can’t be this easy, can it?” Pike found himself saying out loud. “Where the hell is he headed in such an all-fired hurry?”

  A few minutes later, Professor Isaacson ended up parking in front of a modest cottage that was five or six houses down from the spot where Earl Jay Doxey had been so brutally stabbed on the sidewalk recently. Was he possibly visiting the culprit or someone who knew who the culprit was? Or was this a matter of dispensing or acquiring drugs? Pike noted the address from his GPS and finally had something of substance to write about from his vantage point down the street a bit.

  When Professor Isaacson emerged from the cottage a good hour or so later, his stride from the front porch to his car was a great deal more relaxed than it had been going inside. It was as if the man were moving in slow motion now. Then, Pike’s imagination kicked in, as he played an episode of a police show starring himself across his windshield. In the very first scene he could see himself running up to the man and arresting him for cocaine use or possession or whatever combination existed. The professor would meekly comply, caught red-handed, and Pike would read him his rights. Then he would take him down to the station, where the thorough interrogation by Ross or Captain Bax would reveal that he had been the one to commit both crimes because the victims, Aurelia Spangler and Earl Jay Doxey, were threatening his drug dealing—a wildly successful enterprise using his academic profession as the most respectable cover ever. Who would ever have thought to suspect it but for a donkey figurine on the shelf? Bravo, Ross! Bravo, Bax! But most of all—Bravo, Pike!

  Then the episode ended, and Pike returned to the reality of mostly clear glass with a bug splat or two marring its surface, while smiling at himself in the rearview mirror for such a superb diversion. If nothing else, there was certainly plenty to warrant bringing the good professor in for further questioning.

  CHAPTER 16

  Which of the Ten Commandments had Dora O’Rourke broken? That was uppermost in Wendy’s mind as she and the woman faced each other in one of the Citizen’s small meeting rooms. In fact, Wendy was surprised that Dora had been willing to come in at all, but here she was, looking as stiff and uncomfortable as ever.

  “I have said my piece to my daughter,” Dora had told her over the phone in a none-too-polite tone. “She’s clearly outta control, and I don’t know where she’s headed.”

  “But that’s the point. She’ll have no place to head after Saturday,” Wendy had explained then. “I promised her I’d talk to you about making some sort of arrangement before that happens to her at the shelter.”

  Somehow, Wendy had managed to convince Dora to at least come to the paper and listen to what she had to say. Maybe that meant there was a crack in the woman’s dogmatic armor, after all.

  “She doesn’t respect me,” Dora was saying, once their conversation in the meeting room had begun in earnest. “I’m her mother. I’m entitled to that. Need I remind you of ‘Honor thy father and mother’?”