Crime is Murder Read Free

hovered expectantly over one of the vacant chairs, a rain-spattered fedora in one hand and a steaming teacup in the other. He had a harmless sort of face, slightly flushed from what must have been surprise at his own forwardness. His eyes were a bright, alert blue, his hair surely a premature white, and his hands had never done duty on one of those muddy farms Johnny had been so perturbed about.
    “Miss Bancroft, isn’t it?” he added. “We met last week at Tod Grahama’s office. Dawes is my name. Curran Dawes.”
    And then Lisa remembered.
    “Of course. The day I stopped by to pick up the keys to the house! Do sit down, Professor Dawes.”
    The man sat down, but he still looked embarrassed.
    “The title is a bit superfluous,” he said.
    “That’s the way we were introduced.”
    Now he smiled. “Tod Graham is more than a lawyer and a realty agent,” he explained. “He’s also Bellville’s greatest civic booster. We don’t have good citizens here; we have illustrious citizens. I once held an assistant professorship at the state university, but I’m only a schoolteacher now.”
    A sudden burst of laughter from the fountain drowned out his words for an instant. He looked in the direction of the noise and his smile took a slight twist.
    “A teacher of literature,” he added, “and yonder are some of my prize students. A few of them can even read.”
    “They look healthy,” Lisa said. “They’ll probably outgrow it.”
    “Very likely.”
    Curran Dawes sighed and took a sip of his tea. When he looked up from the cup again, the levity in his eyes had given way to cautious curiosity.
    “And how are you enjoying your house?” he asked.
    “It’s not my house, Professor. I’m merely renting.”
    “But Tod has hopes that you may buy.”
    “My secretary has fears of the same thing.”
    “And the town is rampant with rumors.”
    “Rumors?”
    There was nothing like a good rumor to brighten up a dull day. The melancholy that Johnny’s discomfort had helped to engender was all but gone now. Lisa’s interest was genuine.
    “It’s only natural, isn’t it? A well-known novelist comes to Bellville on the eve, one might say, of the Cornish Festival. It’s the talk of the town that you’ve come to do a novel on our local patron saint.”
    “Saint?” Lisa queried.
    Curran Dawes smiled again.
    “Then you are interested in Martin Cornish.”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    The tea was hot. Lisa tried to bury her face behind the cup for a moment. It was annoying to have a stranger—a whole community of strangers, in fact—telling her what she was going to do next. Buy a house. Write a novel on Martin Cornish. Did there have to be a reason for everything?
    “Maybe I’ve just come for the festival,” she said. “I do things like that. Edinburgh. Salzburg. Why not Bellville?”
    It was a weak explanation, but she didn’t get an argument at the moment because of something interesting that suddenly started happening in the shop. The door opened and a woman came in—a girl, actually. Quite a lovely girl. Her entrance not only drew the professor’s attention, and Lisa’s; it seemed to draw the attention of everyone at the fountain as well. The steady murmur of voices and occasional bursts of laughter gave way to momentary silence as she posed there—small, dark, and dramatic. Her eyes were large, her skin fair, and her hair, freed in one careless toss from the hood of a scarlet raincoat, was glistening black in the shop light. She looked like a very self-conscious ingénue trying to make a much too casual entrance.
    And she seemed to be looking for someone. The dark eyes glanced hurriedly over the faces at the fountain and then sought the tables beyond. Then she came forward, frowning.
    “Professor Dawes—” hands in her pockets, the girl ignored Lisa—”Have you seen Joel?”
    Her voice was as lovely as her face. Soft, melodious, but disturbed. Lisa had no idea who Joel might be, but the name had been