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She stood and smoothed her navy skirt. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “Of course, Savannah. This is too important to put off.”
She handed him the folder. “This is what I found.”
He perused it silently, then handed it back. “He also ordered a ream of history department letterhead.”
“He’s a law guy. What reason did Ellison give for the order?”
Beckett shrugged. “I doubt anyone questioned him. Most people know better.”
She held up the folder. “Should we call the police?”
“I think we should confront him first. We’d look pretty stupid if he has a perfectly good explanation for all of it.”
“What explanation could there be?”
“I have no idea, but you know Ellison. He’s quick on his feet. I’m ready to go now if you are.”
The president’s office was across the green belt and down Oak Lane. They could walk there in five minutes. Savannah would barely have time to compose herself before confronting Ellison Abernathy, but she didn’t want Beckett to see her reluctance. They gave Boo Radley a wide berth on the way to the sidewalk, and the trip went far too quickly for Savannah. Her heart rate increased with every step closer to the ivy-covered brick building until they stood in front of the green door.
Beckett swiped his pass at the door and opened it.
She took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway into the foyer. It smelled of the fresh disinfectant the cleaner had used. This early, Abernathy would probably be the only one in his office, and she let Beckett lead the way.
The door to the presidential office suite wasn’t quite shut. Beckett frowned. “It’s usually closed until his secretary arrives.” He pushed it open and walked in. The small secretarial office in front of the president’s office was empty. Beyond it, the door to the president’s office stood ajar. “Ellison?”
Savannah grabbed Beckett’s arm. “Something’s wrong, Beckett. I can feel it. We should call campus security.”
“If he’s hurt, we need to do more than call security. I’m going in.” Beckett walked past the secretary’s neat desk and pushed open the door to the president’s office.
Savannah had no choice but to follow him into the cavernous space. Abernathy’s giant desk occupied its usual space by the mullioned windows looking out onto the campus, but he wasn’t seated behind it.
“He’s not here.” A peculiar odor she couldn’t identify hung in the air, but it raised the hair on the back of her neck. “Something’s wrong.”
She didn’t wait for an answer but pulled out her phone and called the campus police to request assistance. Before someone picked up on the other end, she spotted a black shoe. A Salvatore Ferragamo like Abernathy always wore. She dropped her phone and rushed around the edge of the desk to kneel at Abernathy’s side.
A pool of blood spread out from the president’s head and from around his torso. His color was odd. Savannah vainly tried to find a pulse in his wrist before she moved to his neck with the same results. Nothing. Finding him like this brought back the horror of the day her little girl died.
She scrambled back on her haunches, not aware of the keening sound erupting from her throat until Beckett called her name.
Breathe. In and out.
Beckett helped her up, but she was barely aware of him. Abernathy took all her focus. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and red tie under a navy Armani suit, but his hair was in disarray. Could he have fallen and hit his head on the edge of the desk as he went down? Head wounds tended to bleed heavily.
Then her gaze fell on the note pinned to his lapel. She leaned down to take a better look.
Something Wicked This Way Comes.
The familiar title by Ray Bradbury was in her own library. It took a moment for reality to sink in—this was murder. Someone had killed the university president.
* * *
Savannah’s office was usually her refuge on campus where her favorite books surrounded her, but not today. Her hands shook as she made fresh coffee for her and the detective who stood peering at her bookcases.
Savannah turned and went to her desk. “I already told the officers everything I knew yesterday at the scene.” Yesterday was a blur in her mind. The police had peppered her with questions, and the news had rocketed through the small student body finishing up summer classes.
She’d met Detective Augusta Richards several times at the hardware store her husband owned. She wore her short brown hair in a no-nonsense cap around her face and was tall and lanky with kind brown eyes. Her quiet, unruffled demeanor should have soothed Savannah’s agitation, but the fact she was here at all had raised her hackles.
