Thirteen Diamonds

caught with a memory lapse, as I had been in Carol Grant's office. I pulled it out of my purse and consulted it. There was no Harrington on the list and I had never heard of one at Silver Acres.
    I compared the table of contents of the draft version of the book with that of the hardcover version. They were the same. I spot-checked portions of the text. I found a few minor differences: grammatical corrections, spelling, some wording changes, but nothing radical.
     
                       *    *    *
     
    When Benny returned from his class I showed him the title page of the draft version of the book. His face showed surprise, but he didn't say anything right away. He noisily sucked in air, wiped his fingers across his mouth and finally said, “Dr. Harrington was a professor in the Economics Department when I was a graduate student here.”
    “He must have worked on the book with Gerald,” I said, hoping to elicit more information from him.
    “I-I don't know. He had a stroke and became incapacitated; he died soon afterward.”
    “But that doesn't justify Gerald dropping his name from the book if he helped to write it. At the very least it's a copyright violation.”
    “Gerald would not have done anything like that,” Benny said, passionately. “He was a good man—good and fair. He always gave credit to me for the papers I co-authored with him—even when I was a lowly graduate student.”
    “I'm sure you're right. But everybody reacts differently to temptation. And I know from personal experience that academia is very competitive. Look at this situation.  Gerald has co-authored a book that he realizes may be seminal—may even be in Nobel territory. Then his partner is put out of commission, unable to assert his contribution to this history-making event. If you were in Gerald's shoes, wouldn't you be tempted to take full credit?”
    “Of course. But Gerald was not like that. He was a cut above the rest of us.”
    “Now that he is gone you are proposing him for sainthood.”
    Benny managed a grim chuckle. “Perhaps.” He sucked in air. “But if word leaked out that Gerald had ever done anything unethical, it would tarnish his reputation. Just when his theories are enjoying a revival.” He looked hard at me.
    “I have no intention of publicizing this,” I said, hoping to set his mind at rest. “In fact, the only reason I'm interested in Gerald's past is because I think he may have been murdered.”
    “Murdered?” Benny sat down suddenly. “Tell me about it.”
     
                       *    *    *
     
    “Harrington.  That's right. Please check the residents' roster for me tomorrow and call me back. Leave a message if there's no one here.”
    “I don't remember anybody named Harrington at Silver Acres,” Tess said, at the other end of the line.
    “I don't either,” I said, but you know how our memories are. Please, just check the roster.”
    “You're working on Gerald again, aren't you,” Tess said, accusingly.
    I was back in our motel room, keeping one eye on Winston, who had learned how to change channels on the television set using the remote control, while Sandra took a shower. She had picked up Mark at the airport and he had taken a room close to ours.
    I believe that my hearing is almost as good as ever, but between trying to answer Tess' charges, the television blaring (Winston had also found the volume control) and Winston babbling along with it, I guess I didn't hear Mark's knock on the door.
    He opened it with perfect timing just as Sandra stepped out of the bathroom, naked as a newborn babe. To say that both of them were surprised is understating the case by several orders of magnitude. I quickly told Tess I'd talk to her later and hung up the phone. Mark and Sandra stared at each other as if turned to stone. Mark got a full-frontal view of Sandra, as they say in movie ratings, and what he saw was exquisite.
    Finally, the tableau ended. Mark mumbled an apology and stumbled out the door. Sandra turned and hightailed it back into the bathroom. When he was gone she crept out again, wrapped in a wayward towel. The redness in her face was not just from the hot water of the shower.
    “I'll never be able to face him again!” she cried, dramatically, accenting her words with appropriate arm gestures.
    “Why not?” I asked. “You did a good job of facing him just now.”
    “Gogi, this isn't funny! We've only had one date.”
    “But that one