Free Shadow of Death by William G. Tapply Page A

it.
    I certainly saw nothing to suggest that Albert was hiding something worth committing murder to keep secret.
    I ended up with two possible conclusions: One, Albert’s visits to his New Hampshire hunting camp were no more than what they appeared to be—innocent weekend getaways; or, two, Albert had been scrupulous about covering his tracks. He could’ve made phone calls from a pay phone or cell phone. He could’ve paid for everything in cash.
    I hoped it was the former. I knew I’d feel a lot better if I was positive that Gordon Cahill hadn’t died doing the job I’d hired him for.
    So would Ellen Stoddard.
    I glanced at my watch. Ten-thirty. I went back to the phone records and dialed the number for Albert’s office at Tufts.
    It rang five or six times before his voice mail answered. I didn’t leave a message.
    The phone book gave me the central number for Tufts University in Medford. I rang it and asked to be connected to the history department.
    A woman answered, said I’d reached the history department and her name was Terri. She sounded downright cheerful.
    I asked to speak to Professor Stoddard.
    â€œHe’s not here right now,” Terri said. “Do you want his voice mail?”

    â€œI tried his office,” I said. “He wasn’t there. I need to speak to him directly. It’s important.”
    â€œI can leave a message in his box, if you want.”
    â€œHave you seen him today?”
    â€œUm, no. But I think he has a class this morning. Hold on a minute … yes. Colonial History, nine to ten-fifteen. He’s supposed to be having his office hours now. You tried his office, you say?”
    â€œI did, yes. Do you know if he was in class?”
    â€œWell,” she said, “he didn’t call to say he wouldn’t be. Wait a minute. Nellie?” It sounded as if she’d lowered the phone, but I could hear her say, “You had Colonial with Dr. Stoddard today, right?”
    I heard another voice, too muffled to understand, and a moment later Terri said to me, “Hm. He didn’t show up for class. That’s not like him, not to call in.”
    â€œIt’s not?”
    â€œNo. Professor Stoddard is very conscientious. Well, did you want to leave a message?”
    â€œTell him to call his wife,” I said.
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    I took Henry for a leg-stretcher on the Common, and when we got back home, I changed into my office pinstripe, stuffed my jeans and sneakers into an athletic bag, and started for the door.
    Henry was sitting there looking at me.
    â€œNot today,” I said to him.
    He stood up and prodded the door with his nose. His little stubby tail was a whir.
    â€œIt’s the athletic bag, isn’t it?” I said to him.

    He sat down, cocked his head, and perked up his ears.
    â€œOh, okay,” I said. “I could use the company.”
    So Henry heeled along beside me while I retrieved my car from the garage on Charles Street, where I rented a space by the month, and he rode in the backseat while I drove to my parking garage in Copley Square, and he heeled again from the garage to my office.
    We got there in time for Henry to curl up on my old sweatshirt in the corner, and for me to be sitting at my desk pretending to study legal documents, the very model of a busy Boston barrister, when Randolph St. George, my day’s only appointment, arrived at eleven-thirty.
    Randy and Susan, his wife of twenty-nine years, were divorcing. Massachsetts is a no-fault state, so the reasons for the St. Georges’ split were legally irrelevant. Still, they were emotionally critical to Randy. A week after the wedding of their youngest daughter, Susan told him that she’d put up with him without complaint for all those years, and now she wasn’t going to do it anymore. She’d already talked to an attorney. The papers were being drawn up.
    Randy claimed he never saw it coming. The first time he came