Free Murder in the English Department by Valerie Miner Page B

Not until a friend had been raped up by the Campanile at dusk. Now Nan was startled by the sight of two cops walking together through Dwinelle Plaza. She looked away and quickened her pace. A cold wind blew up towards the hills, and Nan held her coat around her. Of course there would be twice as many cops for New Year’s Eve.
    Approaching Wheeler Hall, she walked through the light pouring from Angus Murchie’s window, an odd beacon in the darkness. And another light streamed toward the Campanile. Was it her own lamp? Her heart stopped. Had she been so stupid as to leave it on? No, of course not, it was Mr Johnson’s. He must have arrived late tonight. Good enough. He would be a reliable undertaker. No doubt by morning, at least, he would check Murchie’s office. Then the police would come, also the reporters.
    Nan wondered about Marjorie Adams. It had been her voice? Of course it had been. She hoped that Marjorie Adams was well on the way to Kabul by now, or at least to the family estate in Maryland. She was not the kind of woman—not with that sterling silver spine—to fall apart. She was a bright one, a survivor.
    Nan intended to go straight home to finish her bottle of brandy, a lease on the first night’s sleep of the new year. Instead, she found herself turning up Ashby Avenue and heading for the Warren Freeway to Hayward. The Alameda County hills were peaceful at night, like so many sleeping, naked women. ‘The sun to me is dark and silent as the moon,’ recited Nan. This was the quote Murchie had tacked on the bulletin board outside his door, from ‘Samson Agonistes’.
    No, she would not be sad; she would not grieve over this terrible man. She sped through the dark. If she tried hard she could ignore the shopping centres and tract homes. All these electric lights might be stars shining against the blackness.

Chapter Six
    SHIRLEY’S LIVING ROOM WAS congested with smoke and loud laughter and Barbra Streisand music. A stranger had opened the door to Nan. Probably he wasn’t a stranger, this heavy-set man in the orange and black checked slacks. No, he was probably a neighbour of many years, some native son of the Golden West, proud citizen of Desert Palms Estates, whom she had met at a dozen barbecues. Nan nodded cordially to him. Remembering the dark red stain on her dress, she buttoned her sweater securely and joined the party.
    â€˜Well, if it isn’t her highness, gracing us with the royal presence,’ said Joe, leering from his position on the dance floor, his arms tightly around someone’s wife.
    Nan smiled wanly.
    Shirley turned from the drinks table, smiled at her sister and nodded reproachfully to her husband.
    â€˜Hi, Nan,’ called Shirley. She tried to hide the surprise behind her delight at Nan’s arrival.
    â€˜What’ll it be?’ asked Shirley as she walked over to her, ‘Red or white wine?’
    Nan gave her a quick kiss.
    â€˜You haven’t got anything stronger, have you?’
    â€˜Sure, Nan, wine’s what you usually want, but …’
    Noticing her sister’s concern, Nan said, ‘I’m just a little shook up from the drive. Crazies on the road tonight.’
    Nan walked into the clean, bright kitchen, her eyes following the flowers on her sister’s swishing polyester ass. Their old family kitchen on Kelly Hill had felt safe like this, a dispensary for food and other care. Until Nan was in high school she assumed everybody kept their bandaids and merthiolate in the kitchen cupboard. Tonight, for some reason, Shirley reminded her of Mom. Mom leaning across the linoleum table, listening to ten-year-old Nan confess to the blood dripping between her legs. Mom’s face had betrayed shock at such physical force in one so young. But she soon recovered, reassuring young Nan that this was the most natural thing in the world. The blood made Nan a woman. Now would Shirley tell her that the blood on