The Lesson of Her Death

have a contradictory problem here,” she said. “You read the
Register
, you must know this school’s in the midst of a fiscal crisis. Our enrollment is the lowest it’s been in twenty-three years.” She smiled humorlessly. “The baby boomers have come and gone.”
    Corde did read the
Register
. He had no idea what shape the finances of Auden University were in.
    “It’s of course in our interest to find the man who did this as fast as possible. But we don’t want it to appear that we’re panicked. I’ve already gotten a call from one of the school’s benefactors. He’s quite concerned about what happened.” Corde looked at her blankly. “When benefactors get concerned, Detective, I get concerned.”
    Kresge said, “We’ve beefed up security patrols in the evening.”
    Corde said that was good.
    The dean continued as if neither had spoken. “We’re getting applications now for the fall term and they’re running much lower than we’d expected.” She caressed her cheek with her little finger and missed an uneven streak of prime minister makeup by a millimeter. “Isn’t it most likely, Detective, that it was a drifter or somebody like that? Somebody not related to the school?”
    Kresge said, “We can’t assume anything, Dean.”
    The dean was ignoring Kresge too. She was his boss and could do a better job of it than Corde.
    Corde said, “We just don’t know anything at this point.”
    Kresge said, “One thing I wanted to mention. The Biagotti killing.”
    The dean clucked. “Wynton, Susan lived off-campus.She was killed in a robbery attempt. Isn’t that what happened, Detective?”
    “Susan Biagotti? It seemed to be a robbery, I recall.”
    The dean continued, “The school had nothing to do with it. So—”
    “It was never solved, Dean,” Kresge’s baritone droned. “I was just speculating.”
    “—why bring it up?”
    Corde said to both of them, “I don’t think there’s any connection. But I’ll look into it.”
    “There
was
no connection,” the dean said sourly.
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure that’s the case. Now the sooner I get back to work, the sooner we’ll catch this fellow. You’ll get that information, William?”
    “Wynton.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Uhn, Detective, I wanted to ask you something. About motives for this type of crime. I—”
    Corde said, “I’m sorry. I’m running pretty late. If you could just get me as much of that information as you can in the next hour or so I’d appreciate it. And the room. Don’t forget the room.”
    Kresge’s spacious unsmiling face nodded slowly. “You’ll get it when you want it.”
    Diane Corde pressed the phone tight against her ear. She still held a grocery bag in one muscular arm.
    “Oh, no …” She listened for a moment longer then lifted the phone away from her mouth. She called, “Sarah? Sarah are you home?”
    Silence, broken only by the click and whir of the refrigerator.
    “No. She hasn’t come back yet. When she’s upset sometimes she hides in the woods.”
    Diane cocked her head as she listened to Sarah’s teacher explain how concerned they all were. Mrs. Beiderson also added delicately that the girl had beendaydreaming all morning before the practice test. “I sympathize, Mrs. Corde, I really do. But she simply
must
try harder. She’s bringing a lot of these problems on herself.” Diane nodded at the phone. Finally she said the words that seemed to end so many of these conversations: “We’ll talk to her about it. We’ll talk to her.”
    They hung up.
    Diane Corde wore blue jeans and a burgundy cotton blouse. With her high school graduation cross gold and glistening at her throat she looked like a pretty, born-again country-western singer. Her husband said she had thisaway hair because she wore it moussed up and brushed back. Wide-shouldered and thin-hipped, Diane had a figure that had pretty much withstood two children and forty-three years of gravity. On her forehead was a small scar like a crescent moon, which mimicked by half the end of the iron pipe she’d run hard into when she was four.
    Diane set the groceries on the counter and returned to the back door to get her keys from the lock.
    No keys.
    She tried to recall—she had hurried inside from the car when she heard the phone ringing. She looked on hooks, on counters, at the bottom of her purse, in the freezer (it had happened more than once). On the off chance that she’d left them in the station wagon she walked outside and