Page 19 of A Talent for Murder

“Was your friend’s husband at the art teachers’ conference?”

“Probably,” I said.

“You must have heard about it, but that was the conference where one of the participants jumped from Milner.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why we were talking about it. It was awful, he said.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Poor girl.”

“What do you know about it?” I said, leaning in close, hoping to invite her to tell me any salacious details she might have up her sleeve.

“Do you know who found her... found the girl’s body, I mean? It was Jim Prescott, out for an early run. I heard she was naked. Can you imagine?”

I didn’t know who Jim Prescott was, but said, “God, poor Jim. Why did she jump, did anyone know?”

“There was a whole murder investigation, from what I heard. She didn’t leave a suicide note, so I guess they had to wonder if she’d been pushed off that balcony. I say they should just tear down that whole monstrosity. Who puts balconies in student dorms to begin with? And Arnold Milner was a pervert, you know.”

“Yes, I did know that.”

“But they can’t take his name off because he was never convicted. So I say just tear that whole dorm down and be done with it.”

“I don’t think anyone would complain.”

“There’d be a celebration.”

I took a sip of my cold tea. “Who was the woman who jumped, someone from around here?”

“No, she was an attendee. Josie Something. She was an art teacher from Woodstock.”

“And did the police determine that it was a suicide, after all?”

“From what I heard it was eventually ruled a suicide. But I also heard that it was only ruled that because they couldn’t find any solid evidence of foul play. Some people think she was thrown off. I know her husband made a big stink about it. He came down here, insisting she’d never have killed herself, and that some murderer had gotten away with it and was now out on the loose.”

“Understandable,” I said.

“Right, but what I heard, and this was not public information at all, was that that girl had been looking for company during the conference. Everyone knows that all these teacher-training conferences that Shepaug runs turn into Roman orgies late at night. I guess if you spend your time teaching sixth-graders to make collages you need to add some excitement to your life any way you can.”

“So the rumors were that Josie Nixon was sleeping with someone at this conference?”

“Well, the rumors were that she was hoping to, that she was on the make, for lack of a better word. And, of course, she was naked when she jumped.”

“And she was married.”

“And she was married.”

“So, it’s possible,” I said, “that she had sex with someone at the conference and then felt guilty about it and threw herself off the balcony.”

“Right. Or he felt guilty about it and threw her off the balcony.”

“Did her husband know about all this?”

Libby frowned, the tiny lines around her mouth contracting. “I don’t really know. All I know is that he didn’t believe she killed herself, so he probably also didn’t believe she’d have an affair.”

“Probably not,” I said. “Maybe it was easier for him to believe that someone killed her than it would be to believe she took her own life. Or to believe she had an affair and then took her own life.”

Libby got another one of her faraway looks and said, “Do you remember Eileen Morrell? No, you wouldn’t, would you? She taught here before you were even born. Her husband shot himself and even left a note behind. Eileen must have felt guilty about it, because the rumor at the time was that she was sleeping with someone in the Science Department. She kept insisting that her husband had been killed, the suicide note faked. They gave her compassionate leave, or whatever they were calling it back then, but she never came back. I wonder what ever happened to her.”

I was doubly wet and doubly cold when I made it back to Monk’s House. I stripped down and took a long hot bath in the claw-footed tub on the second floor. I thought about Josie Nixon and her husband. And I thought about that summer conference for art teachers in July, the days filled with panels and classes, and the nights with social events. Josie Nixon, for whatever reason, had been excited about the prospect of a summer romance. She’d have met Alan Peralta, the man who set up his booth of funny T-shirts and quirky trinkets. Everyone attending the conference would have met him, of course. And was he there looking for a temporary fling as well?

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