A COURSE IN MURDER
by Elizabeth Chater
A Course in Murder
by Elizabeth Chater
Smashwords Edition
Published by Chater Publishing
Originally published as “A Course in Murder”
by Elizabeth Chater writing as Lee Chaytor
by Transition Press Inc. San Diego, CA
Copyright 1969 by Lee Chaytor
Elizabeth Chater’s works are the property of
The Elizabeth Chater 2011 Trust.
All rights reserved. Republished by permission.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chater Publishing would like to thank Jerry Chater for transcribing the following document.
Edited and formatted by Jessica Swain, Strangelandediting.com
For more information about the amazing life of Elizabeth Chater, please visit our website: Elizabethchater.com
To Eve and Ann
1
At five minutes after ten a.m. on her seventeenth birthday, Button Gwinnett got the letter that changed the course of her life.
She was mulching fertilizer into her father’s Shakespeare garden on the shady side of the Rectory. For this less than romantic operation Button was wearing faded Levi’s and an old shirt of the rector’s. She was hoping that no one from high school would walk past and see the Homecoming Queen wrist deep in mulch.
The Rev. Charles Gwinnett’s hope was to have at least one of every flower and shrub mentioned in Shakespeare’s plays. Some of those damp- and cool-loving plants just wouldn’t thrive in the dry heat of a Southern California August, but he kept trying. Button sat back on her heels and regarded the rows of straggly plants grimly.
“ ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance,’ ” she quoted, and added, “and there’s fertilizer; that’s for remembrance too. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten these gardening gloves.”
At this moment, Mr. Garcia, the mailman, came up the front walk waving an envelope and calling, “It’s come, Button! The letter from Clovis College!”
Button dropped the trowel and shed her gardening gloves thankfully. She took the letter and held it, staring at the mailman’s brown, smiling face.
“Do I dare open it, Mr. Garcia? What if they’ve said—no?”
Mr. Garcia swept that poor-spirited quibble aside with a large gesture. “Open it, Button. It is yes. I feel it here!” He patted his chest.
Button nodded, and, opening the envelope, glanced at the first few typewritten lines. Then, calling out, “Daddy! Mrs. Sam! It’s here! It’s here!” she turned and ran for the house.
The door of the neat stucco rectory swung open and a slender silver-haired man hurried out and received his daughter into his arms. Close at his shoulder came a big woman who patted Button’s dark curly hair, her shoulder, the hand that held the letter, or any portion of Button she could reach. Mr. Garcia beamed at the joyful group and went whistling on his route.
When the congratulations, hugging, patting, and happy tears had subsided somewhat, the housekeeper blew her nose briskly and became practical.
“When do you have to register, Button? I’ll need some time to get your clothes ready.”
“Do they mention the scholarship, and whether you have a room in a dormitory?” asked the Rev. Charles.
Button smiled at them both and checked the rather crumpled letter. “Let’s see . . . Your application accepted . . . registration at nine a.m. on September fifteenth—that’s just a month, Mrs. Sam!—pleased to award you the Bishop’s Fund Scholarship for son or daughter of a clergyman; to be renewed annually if grade point average remains above 3.0—oh!” groaned Button.
“You’ll do it,” said the Rev. Charles confidently.
Button read on: “You will share a room at Dimity Hall with one other student.” She sighed blissfully. “Isn’t it just too neat? Dimity Hall! It’s too much!”
The Rev. Charles met his daughter’s enthusiasm cautiously. “I only hope you have been assigned a pleasant and sensible roommate, my dear.”
Button giggled at him. “Sensible! Father, that’s the last kind of roommate I want! I’m sensible enough for two.”
“That’ll be the day,” sniffed Mrs. Sam. “Now come in to lunch before it gets cold.”
“What are we having?” asked Button, perking up.
“Sandwiches,” said Mrs. Sam, and wondered why the Rev. Charles and his daughter were laughing.
In the weeks that followed, Button packed and unpacked her small trunk several times.
“You’ll wear your clothes out, child,” Mrs. Sam worried. “And I’m not sure you’ve got enough clothes as it is.”
“They’re fine, really,” Button hastened to assure her. “I checked the college issues of the women’s magazines. They tell you what you’ll need and how many. I’ve got plenty if I just keep things washed and ironed.” While Mrs. Sam looked skeptical, Button added, “I could use one new sweater.”
“Your father has a present for you,” said the housekeeper.
“Oh, Mrs. Sam!” Button squeaked ecstatically, “not that utterly gorge’ cashmere at Bloom’s? Don’t tell me he’s bought that?”
“I won’t, because he hasn’t,” answered Mrs. Sam dryly. “I advised him to get you a woolen bathrobe, but he had a different idea of what you needed.”
Button ran down the hall to her father’s study and tapped at the door. Bidden to come in, she went over to his desk, dropped a kiss on top of his silver hair, and said, “Mrs. Sam says you have a present for me.”
“Mrs. Sam is a gossip, to say nothing of being a tattletale, a babbler—”
“A squealer?” prompted Button.
“Precisely. However, since she has given away the surprise, if you were to look inside the Spanish chest, you might learn something to your advantage.”
Button was already kneeling in front of the heavy carved chest, lifting the lid slowly. Several large parcels, carefully wrapped, bore the words “For my darling daughter” in the Rev. Charles’ neat, scholarly script. Button lifted one heavy package out and carefully unwrapped it. Books! She met the loving gaze of her father, smiling happily about his gift. He knelt on the floor beside her, proudly displaying each book in turn, pointing out excellences in illustrations and bindings and beautiful type, his face alight with pleasure.
Button fought down a sense of sick disappointment. With half of what he had spent on the books, he could have bought a sweater, a second new dress . . . Hot tears rose in her eyes. With less than half of what he’d spent—Button realized suddenly that these books represented a very large outlay of money indeed from a clergyman’s salary that had to be stretched to keep a daughter in college for four years. True, she had won the scholarship, enough to pay her tuition, but there was still board and room at the dorm and all the incidental expenses of college, including the weekly allowance he had insisted she needed “for her pocket.” She realized that he must have been saving for ages to buy these books for her. Putting down her disappointment firmly, she began to pay attention to what he was showing her. It really was quite a good start for a personal library: Shakespeare, of course, the student’s edition complete in one volume; a good dictionary; Webster’s New Dictionary of Synonyms; Bartlett’s Quotations. There were others, including every book required for the first semester program she had decided on. The last half-dozen books she could hardly see because she was crying now, tears of love and gratitude.
“Now I’m really ready to go to college,” she said softly, and hugged her father hard.
2
The housemother of Dimity Hall was a plump, sweet-faced woman called Mrs. Good. She welcomed Button warmly, explained a few of the most important rules of the dormitory, and then beckoned to a pleasant-looking girl standing nearby.
“Sandra, this is a new student, Button Gwinnett. Will you take her to her room? It’s number thirteen. Show her where things are, will you? Button, this is Sandra Wade. She’s a sophomore, honor student, and member of the Freshman Welcoming Committee. I’ll see you later, dear.”
Button thanked Mrs. Good, smiled shyly at Sandra, and followed her down a long corridor which led from the charming reception lounge of Dimity Hall.
“Your room is on the ground floor, west wing,” Sandra said. “You’re really in luck. Right across from you is the bathroom, and beyond that, at the end of the hall there, is the laundry and drying room. There’s even a small patio with clotheslines, right through those French windows across the end of the hall. When you aren’t drying clothes out there you can get a tan. Just be careful to wear a bathing suit,” Sandra warned, laughing. “There’s a gate in the fence that opens on a service driveway. That’s where the trunks and boxes and parcels and stuff are delivered.”
Button tried to listen carefully, but she couldn’t help staring as they passed open doorways where chattering girls were unpacking suitcases, hanging posters on corkboards, arranging books and lamps on desks and stuffed animals on beds. So many girls! Button remembered that there were more students at Clovis College than there were people living in Solar, her home town. Among these dozens of laughing girls would there be one or two who would become her friends? Button took a deep breath. It even smelled exciting! What fun it was going to be!
When they reached Button’s room, they found her trunk and suitcase already there. “Better unpack right away,” Sandra advised. “The Monster will be around before supper to store the trunks and suitcases in the boxroom.”
“The Monster?”
“The custodian of Dimity Hall. Name’s Morton. His disposition’s pretty sour, but I guess we deserve it. The girls give him a bad time.” Sandra glanced around the room. “Everything’s here that’s supposed to be. All right, Button, here’s the setup: Orientation tomorrow. Come to the Greek Theatre at nine a.m. Classes begin day after tomorrow. You’ve registered? Good; you have your class schedule arranged then. You have your map of the campus, and your program of special events for freshmen—please come to all of them. You’ll feel at home here more quickly if you take part in all the activities. You’ll eat in the South Commons. Dinner’s at five thirty. Any questions?”
Button laughed. “At least a million, but I’ll unpack and get settled now and wait till tomorrow to ask them.” She glanced at the second bed. “My roommate hasn’t arrived?”
“I guess not. Do you need any help?”
“No, thanks, Sandra. And thanks.”
The sophomore grinned at her. “Part of the Clovis College superservice! I’ll stop by at five thirty and walk you to the South Commons. Glad you’re here.”
When Sandra had gone, Button closed the door and stood looking around the room which was to be her home for four years. It was small and plain. Bare walls, two large windows side by side on the wall across from the door had blinds but no curtains. There were two narrow beds, one on either side of the room. At the foot of each was a tall highboy, painted white. Crowding one wall was a door leading into a closet. It was clean, and neat, and serviceable, but it didn’t look like the room she’d left so casually that morning, with Mrs. Sam’s starched and ruffled curtains and the red rug and cushioned rocking chair.
Feeling depressed, Button heaved her suitcase onto a bed and began to unpack. Her things, new and old, were neatly pressed and made a good showing on the hangers provided in the closet. She was careful to count the hangers and take just half of them, but she didn’t use all of her half. She began to worry. The last girls to use the room must have had a great many clothes. Button put that thought firmly aside and began to put away her underclothes in the highboy. She opened her trunk. On the top were her sheets and pillowcases and blankets, smelling of lavender from the Shakespeare garden. The familiar sweetness made Button want to cry; instead, she got busy and made up her bed. Quickly, she unpacked the trunk, hanging and folding away and settling things where they belonged. Last in the trunk were the books her father had given her. Button ranged them neatly on one of the tippy desks, where they looked important and scholarly.
While she was admiring them, there was a knock on the door. Button opened it to face a sour-looking man in jeans and a gray shirt.
“Trunks ready?” he barked, looking past her into the room. He seemed surprised when she stepped back, nodding yes. He heaved the small trunk onto one shoulder, and took the suitcase in the other hand. “That all?”
Button nodded again. “Yes, thank you,” she said, adding, “Mr. Morton.”
The man shot her a suspicious glance, grunted, and went out. Button closed the door after him thankfully. She glanced at her watch—a graduation gift from Mrs. Sam. It was five o’clock already, nearly time for Sandra to come. Button got out a towel and went across the hall to the washroom to freshen up for supper. Several girls were using the basins, the showers, the mirrors. The room was warm and steamy and comfortable. Button smiled at the girl next to her as she dried her face. Together they watched a plump, cross-looking girl who was holding forth at length in a shrill voice.
“. . . hateful little pokey room, nothing like I’m used to. If they expect me to stay here . . .”
The girl beside Button whispered, “Who says they want her?” and giggled.
Button felt very thankful she hadn’t drawn the whining girl as a roommate.
“Her name’s Bottsey—Paris or Maris or something Bottsey,” giggled Button’s informant.
“If I had a name like that, I’d change it,” said Button extravagantly.
“Maybe she won’t find it so easy,” suggested the little red-haired giggler. “Most boys would run a mile from a voice like that.”
Just when Button was feeling smug about being able to join the redhead in a laugh at another girl, the redhead said, “I’m Marjie Brown. What’s your name?”
“Button Gwinnet,” said Button bravely. Margie went into another spasm of giggling. “Button! That’s almost as bad as Bottsey!”
Serves me right, thought Button, but I’d rather have her laugh at my nickname than know what it really is. She was saved any further embarrassment when Sandra poked her head in the door and called out, “Freshmen going to South Commons, come along now, please!”
The dinner was really quite good, and Button made it last as long as she could. She didn’t want to hurry back to the empty, bare little room any sooner than she had to. After dinner, to her surprise, there was an announcement on the P.A. system that all freshmen were invited to a free movie. What seemed like hundreds of them crowded into a huge auditorium and laughed and shouted for two hours at Laurel and Hardy comedies and color films made on campus to familiarize the freshmen with their new home. It was fun and Button fell asleep quickly after she returned to her room. It’s going to be all right, she thought, as she dropped off in a sweet cloud of lavender.
3
Button got the first hint of trouble Wednesday morning, the first day of classes. She arrived early for History I, and took a seat near the front of the room, checking to be sure she had two pens, in case one went dry in the middle of important notes. She headed a fresh page in her notebook with the date and History I, then she sat back and watched the other students come in. Several big young men wearing lettermen’s jackets strolled in and sat in the back row. A tall blonde girl in a fabulous cashmere sweater and tweed skirt came in and sat next to Button. She smiled and said, “Hi,” and then opened her notebook. Button was regretting that there wasn’t a familiar face in the whole room, when in walked the stout girl, Something Bottsey. She saw Button and came over to plunk down beside her.
“You’re from Dimity, aren’t you?” she began, in the high whiney voice. “I saw you in the washroom yesterday. Do you like Mrs. Good? I think she’s prejudiced. She was real short with me when I was telling her about my mattress being lumpy and how rude the Monster is.”
Button wanted to move away. A number of students, including the lovely blonde, were glancing at Bottsey. They probably think we’re best friends, Button thought miserably. At that moment there was a stir among the girls and Button looked around. Coming through the doorway was the handsomest man Button had ever seen. Bottsey, forgetting her grievances for the moment, said, “Wow!” in a dedicated voice, and even the blonde girl, cool and self-possessed as she seemed, paid tribute to the spectacular young man by quoting “Tiger, tiger, burning bright,” which Button recognized as part of a poem her father had read to her. The newcomer heard her and smiled.
Wow! agreed Button.
He was still standing by the door, looking around the room as if in search of a vacant seat. One or two girls moved books and handbags off the seats next to them, hopefully. He hesitated for a moment and then strolled over to the desk and stood behind it facing the class. There was a gasp from the girls. He was the instructor!
Button decided he was well aware of the effect he was creating. She wasn’t sure she liked that, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his fabulous face.
“My name is Christopher Green,” he began, and his voice matched his tweed jacket—a textured, richly-muted import. Button could picture English sunlight slanting through oak trees, bathing old Oxford walls in mellow gold. She pulled herself together in time to listen to the rest of what he was saying. “My office is Room 304, this building. My office hours are from one to two daily.”
The students, especially the girls, were writing this down carefully when the first discord sounded. A male voice almost directly behind Button said mincingly, “Why don’t you come up and see me sometime?”
A startled gust of laughter swept the room. Button looked at Professor Green, not wanting to miss a repetition of the marvelous smile with which he had greeted the blonde girl’s quotation. Mae West wasn’t Blake, but Button guessed that more students would be familiar with the actress’ quotation than the English poet’s.
Second discord: Green wasn’t smiling. His face had gone red with anger. It hadn’t occurred to Button that this gorgeous-looking creature might be lacking a sense of humor. But his words confirmed the fact.
“I have no time for sophomoronic humor,” he snapped. “The bright chap who made that remark can get out, and I’m serving notice that I won’t sign his transfer.”
The room became very still. Even the freshman students knew that to be put out of a class without a chance to transfer to another section meant automatic failure in the course, a waste of money and time that most of them couldn’t afford. Professor Green was waiting, his hard bright eyes probing along the rows of seats. Button decided that, for all his handsome profile and incredible eyelashes, he really had a mean look. Bottsey, next to her, apparently hadn’t changed her original opinion. She turned and darted a vindictive glance over her shoulder toward the place where the comment had originated.
“It was him,” she said, ungrammatically, and pointed. Nearly everyone in the class turned to look.
Seated in the last row, one of the large lettermen was staring at Bottsey, appearing quite startled.
“Well, sir?” challenged Green coldly.
The big young man glanced briefly at the men on either side of him. No one said anything. After a moment he shrugged.
“Your name?” demanded Green.
“I’m Bill Major. Sir.”
“And I’m Maris Bottsey,” said the fat girl self-importantly.
Making sure she gets credit for the kill, thought Button angrily. And this is too much fuss over just a silly joke. Button had never been able to stand watching anyone being tormented. As usual, she acted on impulse. Smiling worshipfully at Green—after all she had urgent reasons not to get expelled—she kicked Maris Bottsey on her thick ankle. The results were even better than she could have expected.
Maris said, “OW!” and bent forward to rub the injured leg. Her abrupt movement, combined with her formidable pectoral development, pushed her notebook off the desk-arm of her chair and also dumped the two large books which she had piled on her lap to leave room for Green to sit beside her when she thought he was a student. The books made a satisfying crash. She tried to retrieve them and lost her handbag. The bag hit the floor and flew open. Curlers, lipsticks, compact, cigarettes, candy mints, several pencils, a dirty comb, and money scattered over the floor among the chairs and feet. The class loved it.
When the second, stronger wave of laughter started, Professor Green walked out, slamming the door. The laughter died away. Maris was still scrambling on the floor collecting her belongings. There was a moment of apprehensive silence. Then, “Do you think he’ll come back?” one of the girls asked nervously.
“What are we supposed to do now?” asked another.
There was a murmur of discussion. It got louder. After a minute one of the men students said, “He’s paid to teach. He’ll have to come back sometime.” But he didn’t sound very sure of his facts.
“He can’t kick the whole class out,” argued another.
Maris flounced back into her chair and glared at Button. She was dark red in the face from her exertions. The color was unbecoming with her pinkish hair. “You did that on purpose,” she said.
“What?” Button asked innocently.
“Spilled all my stuff.”
“Don’t be silly. How could I? It was in your lap,” said Button.
“You kicked me,” persisted Maris.
“It was an automatic knee-jerk. A reflex.”
“What reflex?” Maris obviously didn’t want to believe her.
“I don’t like squealers,” Button explained. “Automatic reflex.”
Maris turned around in her chair and stared at the room. Button turned too. One of the boys beside Bill Major got to his feet. He was tall and skinny, and his ears stood out like cup handles. He said, “Can I talk to you all for a minute? My name’s Jones. This hassle’s my fault. I was the joker who annoyed Prettyman Green. Rather than foul up Bill Major’s last semester, I’m going up to Green’s office right now to identify myself.”
Maris Bottsey lifted her voice. “Do you expect anybody to believe that? If it was true, Bill Major would’ve told on you right away.”
Bill Major ignored her comment. “Jug, this is not necessary. I’ve told you that Green’s only a T.A. He won’t be likely to kick me out of class. Let it go.”
A male student said, “If Green tries to cause trouble, we’ll all boycott the class. Major and Jones are seniors. They need these three units in order to graduate. I vote nobody turns anybody in,” and he glared at Maris.
But Maris hadn’t given up yet. “Why should you worry,” she prodded Bill, “if you reely didn’t make that crack? Or has this Jug character got something on you?”
Button had been listening to the discussion with increasing annoyance. If the joker really had been Jug Jones, why had he let Bill take the blame? And she recalled that Jug hadn’t made his big confession until Green was safely out of the room. She looked at Jug Jones. He was lounging against the wall, watching the animated discussion taking place, a very faint smile on his lips. He’s loving this, Button realized, and opened her mouth to speak. But Maris was off on another tack.
“You’re seniors, and haven’t taken History I till now?” she challenged.
“I’m a science major on an accelerated program,” Bill explained. “I’m clearing up the General Education requirements this semester—if Mr. Green doesn’t kick me out of class.”
At this moment the lovely blonde beside Button spoke for the first time. “If we all keep cool, it’ll blow over. Teaching Assistants really can’t refuse to sign drop and add cards, and in this case I’m sure you won’t hear anything more about the trouble.”
Her relaxed, sensible attitude made the whole incident much less important. Seeing the way Bill Major’s face got more cheerful, Button wished she’d been the one to say those calm, comforting words. Major gave the blonde a nice smile and then looked at Maris. “Do you still feel Mr. Green should be told about Jug?”
Bottsey wriggled with pleasure. A letterman asking her advice! She whinnied at him, “You could coax me not to.”
Button got up and moved away. Some fates, she thought grimly, are worse than failing to get your degree, and Bottsey was all of them. A lonely little flicker of common sense protested that being pleasant to Maris wasn’t too dear a price to pay for the chance to graduate, but she countered that by asking why it had to be Bill Major who coaxed the girl, if it was Jug’s fault? Everybody seemed to be protecting other people. Look at you, Button jeered. You stick your foot out and kick somebody just because you hate bullying. Let the Big Man on Campus fight his own battles. She went out the door, leaving Major to his fate. The next time you feel like defending someone, she told herself sternly, make sure he needs defending.
She was roused out of her thoughts by a friendly voice at her shoulder.
“May I buy you coffee?”
Button turned. It was Major. She looked beyond him. No Bottsey.
“Why?” she asked cautiously.
“You kicked her. There ought to be some reward.”
Button looked at his face carefully. It was a handsome face, rather square, tanned, topped with dark, shaggy hair and lighted, right now, with a wide, white-toothed grin. “Have you disposed of the Bottsey?” she asked, hopefully.
He really had a very disarming smile. “Miss Bottsey and Jug and I couldn’t seem to agree on a price for her silence. I think she’s on her way to Green’s office now.”
Illogically, Button felt angry at him. “Why didn’t Jones play up to her? It wouldn’t have hurt him to take her to the Welcome Hop or something. Surely graduating is worth one evening of Bottsey?”
“How could Jug be sure it would stop with just one evening?” He grinned.
Button found herself responding to his smile. He took her arm. “If we’re going to drink coffee together, we’ll have to know each other’s names, don’t you think? I’m Bill Major. Almost an aeronautical engineer.”
“My name is Gwinnett.” Button felt suddenly shy.
“First or last?”
“Last.” Here it was again! Button tried to think how to handle her problem as Bill led her out into the arcade where the vending machines were surrounded by a mob of students. He handed her his notebook.
“Grab a bench. Cream and sugar?”
Button, turning toward the benches, answered, “Both, please.” She found space on a vacant bench and put the books down. She looked up to see Bill beside her, frowning.
“Just Gwinnett?”
“B. Gwinnett,” Button admitted.
He thought about that. “Bee as in honey? B as in beautiful?”
She was an expert in not answering that one. “More people think it’s B for Button. You know, after Button Gwinnett, the signer of the Declaration of Independence. I like it.”
“Button. For cute as a. It’ll do,” Bill agreed. “But you’re going to have to tell me someday, you know.”
This was too important to be rushed into, Button decided, so she said, “Didn’t someone mention something about coffee?”
Bill nodded and moved away through the crowd. It was pleasant to watch him. He didn’t push or jostle, but those big shoulders got to the machine and back quickly. Many students spoke to him. Jug Jones came up and seemed to be arguing. With a final arm wave which almost knocked the coffee out of Bill’s hands, Jug went away.
“Bad news?” Button couldn’t help asking.
Bill sat on the bench beside her and carefully handed her the coffee. “I think I’d like to tell you a little about Jug Jones,” he began.
With her usual impetuosity, Button commented, “He acted badly, letting you take the blame for him today.”
“That’s what I wanted to explain,” Bill said soberly. “Jug’s had a very bad time recently. His parents were divorced a year ago. It was a sensational case, in all the papers. As a result of the publicity, Jug’s girl broke their engagement. He’s uptight. We make allowances for him.”
Button didn’t look as though she were particularly eager to make allowances, so Bill continued, “He’s in my fraternity. I’m president. I feel an obligation to—well, sort of look after him. All the brothers try to help him through this difficult time,” Bill finished quietly, “but I have a special responsibility, in my position. You do see that, don’t you, Button?”
Button looked at his serious, concerned face. Her deep intuition was to suggest that such shouldering of responsibility as Jug had permitted another man to do today would not truly help him in the long run. It might weaken him, rather. But what, she asked herself, did she really know about the ties of fraternity or the ways of young men? Better to drop the whole thing, since it really wasn’t her problem. She said honestly, “I think he’s very lucky to have your friendship.”
Bill’s expression warmed and he leaned towards her, but whatever he was going to say was lost in the sudden interruption by Maris Bottsey.
“There you are, Bill Major! I’ve been looking for you. I didn’t tell him! What a fink that Green is! I knocked on his door, and he jerked it open and simply yelled at me to get lost! There was some woman in his office. She looked like she was crying, the peek I got. He was madder than a wet hen. Slammed the door right in my face. So I just made up my mind right then and there that I’d never tell old crabby Chris Green who it was that made fun of him!” She nodded her fat face self-righteously. “So now your friend Jug doesn’t get kicked out of class. Aren’t you grateful to me?”
Button thought of another word that fitted her feelings better, but Bill rose and said courteously, “Thank you, Maris. It is kind of you not to give Jug away. It’s important that he graduate. I was just explaining to Button—”
Maris preened like a plump hen. She wanted to hold onto Bill’s full attention as long as she could. She ignored Bill’s effort to include Button in the conversation.
“I dropped my purse just outside Prof. Green’s door, I was so upset at having it slammed in my face.” She pantomimed a broad wink. “While I was picking up my stuff, I heard Green quarreling with the woman he had in there. He called her Gracelle. Boy, were they mad! She was saying she’d found the right face for him, just like she was some Hollywood makeup woman or something, and if he’d just stop being so temperamental and take her advice, he’d be all right. And then he said he was getting fed up with her blank-blank possessiveness. Then she said, like she was threatening him, you’d better not submit that dissertation till you’ve settled with the car or something; I didn’t get that part. He said he was tired of her eternal nagging, and he wasn’t married to her thank God.” Maris’ face shone with excitement.
“Wasn’t it lucky I had so much stuff in my purse?” she gloated. “I got to hear quite a lot of the conversation while I picked things up, didn’t I? In case he ever tries to throw me out of class, I’ll tell him I heard him talking to that woman.” She smirked at Bill. “Don’t I even get a cuppa coffee for saving your friend’s life?”
Bill handed Button his cup to hold, smiled at Maris, said, “Back in a minute,” and went into the mob by the vending machines. Maris condescended to notice Button’s existence.
“Sort of cute, huh? Football type. Bet he’s a real BMOC. Fraternity, even.” She sighed blissfully. “And I’m in on the ground floor, my first day of classes. He’ll have to date me now I’ve decided not to tell on his friend.”
Button said grimly, “I have an automatic reflex about blackmailers, too.”
Maris looked nervous but stood her ground.
“Why don’t you talk to Jug Jones?” Button persisted. “He’s the one you’re saving.”
Anything Maris had to say to that was set aside by the arrival of Bill, who handed her a brimming cup of coffee with a smile. “Well, thank you,” she bubbled.
Bill took his cup back from Button, drained it, and picked up his notebook. “Got a class in a few minutes, over in Engineering.” His smile included both girls. “See you later.”
Maris’ wail of disappointment bounced off his retreating back.
“Oh, well, I’ll see him in class tomorrow,” she consoled herself, burying her nose in her coffee cup.
Button realized she had a problem. If she let what seemed to be starting between Bill and herself develop, would Maris change her mind and make trouble? Could she? Button decided that Maris would certainly try hard, if she were angered.
Maris’ voice cut sharply into her thoughts. “You look kinda funny. You sick or something?” With a self-satisfied smirk she went on, “Maybe you’re jealous, huh? Bill and me might could fix you up with one of his frat brothers.”
That did it.
“You’d better stay out of my business, and Bill’s. And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll stop eavesdropping on the professors,” Button finished grandly. “It could lead to trouble.” And she walked away and left Maris staring angrily after her.
4
The women students at Clovis College lived in huge dormitories. These buildings, iced with pastel stucco like gigantic four-layer cakes, were known by such names as Primrose (yellow stucco), Lavender (mauve stucco), Rose Hedge (pink), and Dimity (white).
After an early supper that evening, Button went back to her room in Dimity Hall to write a letter home and prepare for Thursday’s classes. She hadn’t made a friend yet, although several girls had smiled at her and spoken as she came into Dimity. She was afraid her impulsiveness might have made her an enemy in Maris Bottsey, but after some consideration she decided that she couldn’t have acted differently.
Even Father, with his gentleness and tolerance, would not have approved of Maris’ tactics. Thinking of her father made her feel so homesick, she was pleased when someone knocked on the door. She hurried to open it. The Blake-quoting blonde of the history class stood there, backed by a taxi driver carrying three heavy-looking suitcases. When these were brought inside, and the driver tipped and dismissed, the blonde girl closed the door.
“We met in class this morning, didn’t we? I’m Cleo Carter, your roommate.”
Button offered nervously, “My name’s Gwinnett.”
Cleo waited, smiling, her sleek eyebrows raised slightly.
Button gave up. The girl was going to be her roommate for a year; she could hardly be expected to call her Miss Gwinnett. Button blushed. “Boadicea.”
Cleo took it casually. “Professor’s daughter?”
“Minister’s. My mother died when I was born. My father’s done a wonderful job of being two parents.” She felt, as always, on the defensive.
“You were lucky he wasn’t a physicist or an Egyptologist. You might have been named Corona or Nefertiti. Now my parents called me Cleopatra. Mother was a Vassar graduate.” She made a wry face. “So you call me Cleo and I’ll call you . . . ?”
“Button,” she supplied gratefully. She took another look at the elegant Cleo Carter. With a smile and a dozen quiet words, she’d made Button feel better about her unmentionable name than she’d ever felt in her life. Cleo glanced around the room as she swung her suitcases up on the other bed.
“I think we’re both fortunate,” she said. “We won’t have to pick up after one another.”
Button was glad she’d already put her things away. Cleo was unpacking the suitcases, putting their breathtaking contents in drawers and in her half of the closet. Button felt shy of offering to help. Cleo was like a young lioness—lithe and casually graceful and more than a little aloof. She didn’t waste a minute or a motion, and she didn’t make small talk. It was restful in a dynamic sort of way, Button decided. Just to keep from staring at the things Cleo was hanging in the closet, Button went back to the desk and tried to study. When she was finished, Cleo stood looking around the room.
“Small, drab, and inconvenient. What does it remind you of?”
Button smiled. She’d been mentally writing a letter to her father, and had already decided on a description of the room that he’d appreciate. “ ‘Not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but ’twill serve,’ ” she suggested.
“Romeo and Juliet.” Cleo laughed. It changed her whole face, made it younger, more vulnerable. “I like you, Button Gwinnett. Thank heaven you’ve got a mind. When I saw you with the pink-haired charmer today, I wasn’t sure. I was thinking this room was the Black Hole of Calcutta, but yours is better. The architects who plan dorms are a race apart. They manage to create the completely unlivable room. Oh, well, we’ll see what woman’s ingenuity can do.”
Button hadn’t considered the necessity of doing anything about the room. The idea of spending money to fix it up struck her like a blow. Cleo seemed to sense her dismay.
“Button, I’ll have to tell you my gruesome secret. My parents have a great deal of money.”
Button stared at her. “This is gruesome?”
“They are also excessively protective, which is another way of saying they enjoy living my life for me. They’ve had me in a nice Eastern girls’ school, just fifty miles from home in Daddy’s Mark III. Mother has even been helping to select my courses. I decided to Get Away From It All for at least a year. However, they insisted on setting up a checking account for me at a local bank. They’ll be very hurt if I don’t use it, and I’ve hurt them enough already by coming so far away to go to school. And I only accomplished that because Clovis has a good, if quiet, reputation for excellence in scholarship. Shall we take pity on them and use some of their money to brighten this grim little cubicle?”
When Cleo Carter chose, she could charm a heart of stone. She convinced Button that it was her duty to help spend that inconvenient old money. Button began to see how she’d been able to persuade her doting parents to let her put a continent between them and her. Button had a momentary hope that Cleo wouldn’t want Bill Major. Maris Bottsey, she could handle, but Cleo . . . !
Cleo had taken Button’s assent for granted, and was staring speculatively around. “That patched plaster on the wall—we’ll need a screen to cover that. The beds both headed against the screen, with a lamp table between them. Bedspreads? Something Oriental, don’t you think? And matchstick bamboo drapes on the windows. And let’s throw those rickety little desks out and get a good big study table right under the light.” She walked over to the desks and scrutinized Button’s books. Really looked, long and carefully. “You chose well. We’ll both be consulting these all through the semester. Save us many a trip to that Gothic horror they call the library.”
She made Button feel that she had contributed importantly to the furnishing, to the intellectual life of the room. Button was able to explain about the Rev. Charles’ loving gift; she began to feel that she liked Cleo Carter very much indeed. At this moment of warming emotion, the door slammed open and Maris Bottsey bounced in.
“Oops!” Her eyes darted busily around. “Wrong door. I was going to take a shower. I thought this was the bathroom.”
“Across the hall,” Button told her. “That door with the letters BATH painted on it. Where I met you yesterday afternoon. Can’t you hear the racket?”
With the door of the room open, the sound of girlish voices rang out above the hiss of showers.
“Sorry,” Maris said. With a final lingering look around, she went across the hallway and into the community bathroom. Button closed the door firmly.
Cleo raised a sleek golden eyebrow. “Wonder what she wanted?”
“She said a shower.”
“Without a towel? Don’t you believe it. She was—uh—casing the joint.”
The words sounded so strange from Cleo’s lips that Button giggled.
The girls were interrupted again, this time by a knock. “Telephone for Gwinnett,” a girl’s voice called. As Button went down the hall to the telephone booth, she noticed Maris standing outside the door to the showers, watching her. Of course she’d heard.
It was Bill Major on the phone.
“As I was saying, when we were so rudely interrupted this morning,” his deep voice came over the wire, “will you go to the Freshman Welcome Hop with me tomorrow night?” His voice switched suddenly to a high affected whine. “I’m reely so anxious to go, and I have to have a freshman with me or they won’t let me in!” He was trying, not too successfully, to imitate Maris Bottsey. Button giggled.
“I’ll be happy to go with you, if you’ll leave Maris at home.”
His voice went back to normal. “God forbid I should bring her into it. You’ll come, then?”
“Yes, thank you. How did you know I lived in Dimity Hall?”
“I didn’t. I’ve tried Anemone, Lavender and Petunia already. I was prepared to go down the list to Zinnia, and here you were in the dress goods after all.”
Button giggled again, then caught herself. Ye gods, was she going to make a habit of that repulsive sound? Perhaps this was what being in love did. Love? Where had that idea come from? Bill was asking if she was comfortably settled.
“Oh, yes! I have Cleo Carter for my roommate. She’s the one—”
“I know,” said Bill. “The statuesque blonde.”
“How did you know her name?”
“What do you think the senior stags do the first day of classes?” There was a teasing note in Bill’s voice. “Find out the names; stake out the claims.”
Button didn’t know whether to be flattered or angry. She found herself laughing. She hung up the phone and walked back to the room. “Let’s go for a walk,” she asked Cleo. “I’m too happy to sit still.”
“Once around the campus,” agreed this perfect roommate.
The girls went out through the patio and the service gateway. Maris had disappeared. The girls didn’t bother to lock their door. They strolled along in a companionable silence: past the Commons, where a few gourmets were still lingering over the bread pudding; across the Quad, vast as a city block, where the Welcome Hop was to take place around a giant bonfire the following evening.
“Everybody has to wear a costume,” remarked Cleo. “I haven’t an idea. What shall we go as?”
“Gypsies are easy.” Button had done her share of improvising, as a clergyman’s daughter. “White blouse, full cotton skirt, some junk jewelry—”
“Bandana and earrings,” finished Cleo. “Are you going with Bill?”
“Yes.” Her face was so pink and happy, even in that dim light, that Cleo noticed. All she said was, “I’d better get Maris a date, then. Just to be sure you get out of the dorm safely.”
They both laughed.
They were approaching the library. It was almost dark, and the shadow of the great ugly building held a chill like a blight. Button shivered involuntarily.
“When I gaze upon that pseudo-Gothic extravaganza,” declaimed Cleo like a tour guide, “I am reminded of the ancient stories of architects who walled up every tenth workman in the foundations of a building to propitiate the gods. Or make the mortar more binding or something.”
Button tried to match her mood. “Did it work?” She looked up at the huge jagged outline, with its dizzying embrasured tower thrusting into the evening sky. As she gazed, concealed floodlights clicked on and the gray stone took on a faint greenish glow. The deep narrow window openings looked like so many small lighted stages. Button found herself peering from one to another to see who—or what—was going to appear in those medieval peepholes.
“If I were a priest, I think I’d want to exorcise the evil spirits from that building,” she said. She meant it to be funny, but it didn’t come out that way. It sounded scared.
Cleo craned up at the tower matter-of-factly. “There’s a stone staircase curving around inside it, very Gothic,” she agreed. “And each ledge in those window embrasures is wide enough to have a picnic on. They slant down and outward, but you could cling with one hand while gnawing on a drumstick.”
Button relaxed. She couldn’t afford to take any temperamental dislikes to a building in which she’d have to spend as much time as she would in that one for the next four years. “Who would design such a monstrosity?” she wondered.
“Someone who owned a stone quarry,” said Cleo positively. “Or perhaps the Mad Monk of Magoosalum. ‘Who prowls and yowls with screeching hoots / While maidens quake and shake i’ their boots.’ Mysteries of Clovis, Act 17, Scene three and a half.”
Suddenly they were both laughing. The more they tried to stop, the harder they laughed. “We’ll make a quick swing around Cuddle Terrace,” gasped Cleo, “and then back to dear old Dimity.”
“Cuddle Terrace?” Button shrieked. Everything seemed hilariously funny. “Named for Comelia Cuddle, Class of Ought Six?”
Pink-faced with mirth, Cleo shook her head. “Described chastely in the catalog as ‘The Cliff Terrace, with an unparalleled view of the ocean—’ as though anyone bothered,” said Cleo, her eyes brilliant with amusement. “What it doesn’t say in the catalog is that it’s the resorting place of those students who have more on their minds than the binomial theorem or the past perfect of the verb to be. Like for instance the first person plural of the verb to love.”
By this time they had come around the end of the gray stone building and faced the chill breath of the ocean.
“I should think this breeze would cool off anyone’s ardor pretty quickly,” Button ventured. Then she looked again. At least six couples had already discovered the extracurricular use of Cliff terrace. Sheltering within the cavernous side entrance of the library, or seated on the stone benches placed at intervals along the low guardwall, they were ignoring everything but themselves. The sea hissed and pounded at the foot of the cliff, and the cold night wind swept salt and mist against their faces. Button shivered. “Let’s get back to the dorm.”
The two girls began to run up the sloping cement walk. The library was built into the hillside, one end dug deep into the ground which fell away sharply toward the sea. “We’ll slip in the service gateway,” panted Cleo as they jogged back across the Quad. “It’s a lot quicker, and it brings us into the hallway right beside our own door.”
Button was afraid of her irrational fears. “A handy shortcut for girls out after curfew,” she remarked, worldly-wise.
“What a subversive thought!” said Cleo. “But yes, isn’t it?”
As they slipped through the dark-shadowed patio and into Dimity Hall, Button thought of the history class at eight in the morning, and wondered if Professor Green would appear. She was so tired she fell asleep the minute she had straightened out the apple-pie bed some jolly prankster—probably Maris—had set up for her. The last thing she thought was that, in the future, they had better lock their door.
5
In what seemed like two minutes, Cleo was shaking Button awake. “If you’re a breakfast eater, rise and rush—it’s after seven.”
Cleo was already dressed, immaculate in a crisp white blouse and a blue wool sweater and skirt. Button dressed in a hurry. They joined a mass migration on its way to the Commons. The food was good, but Button, usually a hearty eater, didn’t enjoy it. She was worrying about being on time for History I, and about Bill.
The girls were almost late. Maris was in class already, sitting beside Bill in the back row. He’d saved seats on his other side for Button and Cleo. As the girls were seating themselves, a woman walked into the room.
Maris gasped dramatically. The newcomer, good-looking in a heavy, tired way, like one of the older Italian actresses, glanced briefly in their direction, then turned to the blackboard. With a large, capable hand she wrote: Dr. Gracelle Byrde. She underlined it with short slashes.
This must be the woman Maris had seen crying in Professor Green’s office. He’d evidently persuaded her to exchange classes, Button was thinking. Dr. Byrde faced the class, unsmiling, and began to talk without any complimentary preamble.
“This section had been assigned to a brilliant young scholar, Christopher Green, who is acting as a Teaching Assistant in the History Department while he prepares his doctoral dissertation. After yesterday’s demonstration”—she glanced around the class with dislike—“it has been decided to give him a less troublesome class, while I conduct this one. I wish you to remember this: Clovis College, although not a great megauniversity, has prestige and a scholarly reputation. While we have football teams, dances, and other adolescent activities, the program here is primarily oriented to the majority of students who do have scholarly goals and dedication. You are here to get an education. I’ll expect you to try to remember this. As a beginning, you will be required to turn in one essay each week. The first will be one thousand words on the topic ‘Resources of Clovis College Library.’ I have instructed the library staff to help you. Guided tours may be arranged with Dr. McGavin. You are not adequately prepared to work at the college level until you are familiar with the location and extent of basic research materials available in this library.” She held up the machine-gun-type delivery for a moment to let those students who were desperately scribbling down her every word have a chance to catch up. “The first essay will be handed in Friday morning.”
There was a concerted murmur of protest. Maris Bottsey, ever vocal, squawked, “But Friday’s tomorrow!”
“I am aware of that,” said Dr. Gracelle Byrde in a voice like outer space. “If there are no other equally brilliant observations, I shall begin today’s lecture. The process of history . . .”
Button took notes frantically all that period. Dr. Byrde was obviously going to make them extend themselves. Good old-fashioned pedagogy without frill or favor. Button didn’t mind. After the temperamental Green, she was leery of Personalities. She felt she’d prefer even Simon Legree or the Witch of Endor to him—and Dr. Gracelle Byrde appeared to combine the worst features of each. With Green out of the way, it seemed that Bill and Jug were safe. Button wished she could take time to glance at Bill, sitting so large and reassuring in the next chair, but she was already two sentences and one idea behind Dr. Byrde’s rapid-fire delivery.
When the buzzer sounded for the end of the period, Dr. Byrde was already at the door. She finished her final sentence and walked out. “No stimulating post-class discussions here,” murmured Cleo, flexing a cramped right hand. Button agreed.
“Phew!” Bill closed his notebook and capped his pen.
“She’s hell on wheels,” whined Maris resentfully, surveying her ink-smeared notes. “I’m going to drop this class. Why don’t we all do that? It’d serve her right.”
Button was checking her notes. “Who was that librarian she mentioned? The one we were to see for the guided tour? We’d better get over there fast, if the paper’s due tomorrow.”
Bill was frowning. “Leave McGavin alone, Button. He’s got quite a rep.”
“But the essay’s due tomorrow!” Button wailed in echo of Maris.
Color darkened in Bill’s tanned cheeks. “I’ve got classes all day. Look, hurry through your supper and meet me in the library at six thirty. I’ll show you the card catalog and the reference sections before we go to the dance.”