Stairway to Death: A Collegiate Murder Mystery

By Daniel P. Hennelly

Professor Andy Stanard finds Dr. Alex Collinge bludgeoned to death in a campus stairwell. Tongues had been wagging at Chesapeake Bay University about Collinge for a while. Hed ditched Astrid, his wife of over twenty years, and moved in with a young sociology professor, Sheila. He then dumped Sheila and their infant son to hook up with a lithe yoga instructor.

Suspicion immediately falls on Collinges abandoned family. Astrid is the beneficiary of his substantial life insurance policy, and before their marriage imploded, she started a heated affair with a Nordic biology professor. Collinges two sons are also suspects, though. Markus had a vicious argument with his father the day before his death, and his younger brother, Matthias, quarreled with his father only minutes before he was killed.

When a bloody pipe is found concealed in Astrids office, Matthias and his mom are charged with murder. However, Professor Stanard doesnt believe the case is closed, as other peopleeven at the universityhad motive, too. He uncovers a link between Collinges death and the murder of a naval officer the year before. He quickly tumbles down a twisted trail into the dark secret of a vicious killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532012846

Daniel P. Hennelly

Daniel Hennelly, a retired university administrator, resides in Norfolk, Virginia. He is the author of two murder mysteries, Fatal Knowledge and Stairway to Death, set at fictional Chesapeake Bay University, and a science fiction novel, Slave Against The Galaxy. His wife is a retired librarian, and they have three grown sons.

Book preview

PRELUDE

I’D FINISHED DRESSING AFTER MY swim and exited the faculty locker room. Out in the corridor, a familiar voice hailed me from behind.

I turned around to find Alex Collinge, a professor in the psychology department. Alex was the last person I wanted to see. I’d always found Alex rather oily and tolerated him only because his estranged wife, Astrid, was an associate professor in my department. Alex was my age. His wavy hair was still dark brown compared to my mostly gray head. My wife, Laura, was always chiding me that I’d look ten years younger than my two score years and ten if I’d consult with Alex on his brand of hair color. Laura also observed that Alex colored the gray hairs in his stylish goatee. Unlike many men past their twenties, Alex’s time in the gym had paid off and his trim physique further belied his age. His contact lenses concealed the fact that he needed bifocals like most of us in our fifth decade of life.

Alex and Astrid had two sons, Markus and Matthias, the same ages as my two sons, James and Robert. Over the years, our paths had frequently overlapped not only because of various university committees but also through play groups, Cub Scouts, soccer, and the PTA. We also had lived in the same neighborhood next to the university - until World War III had erupted.

Astrid, a native of Stuttgart, was our department’s German historian with a specialty in the period before World War I. She and Alex were locked in a rancorous divorce battle. He’d dumped Astrid and, playing musical beds, moved in with Sheila Houghton, who was in her third year as an Assistant Professor in the Sociology Department. Just thirty, she was twenty years younger than Astrid, and as an astute observer noted, a cup size larger. When she’d arrived in the College of Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities, word quickly spread of the tall, auburn haired professor in the Sociology Department. On the Rate My Professor website, she was judged as hot by many of her male students.

Sheila gave birth to a bouncing baby boy six months after Alex moved in. Little Ethan was an unexpected blessing caused by Sheila forgetting one morning to take her birth control pill, according to the malicious grapevine that strangled Jordan Hall, where we all had our offices. Astrid sued for divorce, but the case dragged on and on because Alex was acting like Stonewall Jackson at the Battle of Manassas and refused to give any ground on the financial settlement. For her part, Astrid was pursuing a scorched earth policy that would leave Alex with nothing but his dog-eared copy of Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams.

The divorce had divided the College of Arts, Social Studies and Humanities into three camps. A small group, composed mostly of male faculty, supported Alex. Female faculty, believing Astrid had been badly wronged, were firmly in her camp. A small group of junior faculty, friends of Sheila, believed that Astrid’s intransigence stood in the way of true love.

Sheila’s parents, both Episcopal priests, were dismayed that their only daughter had given birth to a love child. I found this an odd stance for two individuals who owed their sinecures to the morally challenged King Henry VIII. Gossip alleged that Sheila’s parents were cold, if not outright hostile, to the baby’s father when they came to Norfolk to baptize their first grandchild.

How’s Ethan? I pointedly avoided any mention of Sheila, since as department chair I was expected to support Astrid or face the wrath of the ten female members of the history department. Alex was smart enough to realize that even the male members of my department regarded him as a social leper.

Alex squirmed and I knew why. Ethan is seven months old and just started crawling. It’s great to be a dad again, he replied.

I’d lunched earlier in the month with Emily Worthington, one of my departmental colleagues, at Tortilla Flats, a Mexican restaurant near campus when I saw an attractive young woman wearing a tight black spandex outfit come out of the yoga studio across the street. Her ripe body brought traffic to a crawl as male drivers craned their necks to get a better view. Like Helen of Troy, she was a woman of stunning beauty. Emily gleefully filled me in on how Alex had dumped Sheila for the nubile yoga instructor named Bari Travers, who was barely older than his sons. He’d already moved into her cramped apartment near campus. According to Emily, they’d hooked up when Bari conducted a yoga class for post-partum women that Sheila attended.

Emily, like most women in the college who weren’t Sheila’s close friends, believed that Sheila had gotten what she deserved. My wife Laura was also in the camp that thought Astrid had been mistreated by Alex. If Laura could, she and her female colleagues in the library would’ve cut off Alex’s faculty library privileges as well as his male appendage.

Since it was all so sordid, I decided to give Alex a pass on his current living arrangements. I had to admit, I was extremely curious how a man in his early fifties had managed to seemingly score at will with much younger attractive women. Just as I was about to say farewell, Markus, Alex’s oldest son, came around the corner into the corridor outside the locker rooms. He was sweaty and shirtless after finishing his workout. Like his father, Markus was tall, dark-haired, and muscular. His younger brother, Matthias, had inherited his mother’s Germanic genes as well as her blonde hair and blue eyes.

Markus was attending Chesapeake Bay University this fall after attending Dartmouth the previous year, where he’d played on the lacrosse team. Astrid, now a single mother, was unable to afford Ivy League tuition on her associate professor’s salary. Markus was furious that he was stuck at CBU while his friends, including James, were away at college and enjoying life without parental interference.

Alex was one of the top scholars in the Psychology Department with numerous books and journal articles to his credit. Despite holding an endowed chair at CBU with a princely six figure salary, he was unwilling to pay a portion of his son’s tuition. Emily had also reported that Sheila, furious at Alex’s betrayal, had filed a complaint demanding child support for their son. Maintaining a love nest is not inexpensive, and with Astrid putting the squeeze on him for a substantial financial settlement, Alex was caught between a rock and a hard place.

To my surprise, Markus pushed past his father without a single word. Markus stopped at the door to the student locker room and swiped his ID card to gain entrance. Alex was angry that his son had ignored him.

Hey - aren’t you going to at least say hello? asked Alex.

Markus let the door slam shut. Screw you!

I’m your father. `That’s no way to talk to me.

Father? That’s a laugh. Sperm donor is more like it.

Markus and Alex were blocking my exit. I could only stand there and witness this family tragedy as it unfolded.

I know our divorce has been difficult for you and Matthias.

Markus’s hairy chest heaved furiously up and down and his face turned red. You never gave a crap about us. I’m not some weak-minded woman you can manipulate with your psychological bullshit. You left mom to hump that sociology professor because you’d supposedly found your true soul mate. What was mom all those years? Now you’re shacked up with that yoga instructor Seth Monroe was banging. Yeah, she’s a great prize. Congratulations.

Seth’s father, Tollie Monroe, was the dean of the College of Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities. Where did Seth, a graduate student in physics, fit in this tawdry affair? He was only a year or two older than Bari, and a more natural and muscular match than Alex. Given Emily’s antipathy towards Tollie (he’d sacked her as chair of the department for being too assertive in her fight against budget cuts); I wondered why Emily had withheld that juicy tidbit about the lithe young yoga teacher. Emily never passed up a chance to stick it to Tollie. Like many campus rivalries, it had escalated from a perceived slight, and neither side was willing to give ground.

You’re too young to understand.

Markus laughed. I’m nineteen years old and I know a ‘ho’ when I see one. Seth told everyone about all the fantastic positions that Bari can twist herself into. You better be careful old man, or you might sprain your back. Not that I give a flying fuck.

Let’s have lunch at Nick’s and talk things over. Alex extended his hand but Markus slapped it away.

One day I’ll let you in on a little secret about your true love.

Just wait a minute.

Markus swiped his card again. You’re dead to me. He entered the locker room, the door slamming shut with such a resounding thud that the fire extinguisher hanging next to it rocked violently against the cinder block wall.

When I coached soccer, Markus and James had been teammates for several years. Markus was quick-tempered even as an eight-year-old and frequently picked up yellow cards for his physical play. Once he’d been ejected from a game for flattening a boy who’d bumped into him. His temper hadn’t mellowed as he’d matured.

The boys have taken our divorce rather hard, said Alex.

CHAPTER I

ALL THE ELEVATORS ARE BROKEN down again, said Emily Worthington, the department’s French historian, as she poked her head into my office.

Is the service elevator still inoperable? I asked. The service elevator had been shut down earlier in the week to replace malfunctioning electronic controls. Normally Jordan Hall had three elevators plus the service elevator for its ten floors.

Oui. I had to climb the stairs after my class on the second floor.

Mon Dieu.

Emily laughed. Yesterday the water was shut off in the building when the pipe broke in the fifth floor men’s room, now it’s the elevators. It’s worse here than a third-world country like Chad.

Is Woody trapped again? Woodrow Wilson Farrell, the department’s most senior faculty member had been stuck in an elevator for over an hour earlier in the week. After he was rescued, Woody, an unreconstructed southern Civil War historian, blamed his predicament on the company that installed the elevators being headquartered in New York City, the heart of enemy territory.

No, fortunately it’s only two students. The campus police are trying to get them out.

Yesterday Woody, fueled by a glass of bourbon ingested during lunch at the Faculty Club, came to see me and launched into a lengthy rant threatening to file a grievance over the state of the elevators. Russell B. Jordan Hall, built in 1968 by a construction company that secured the contract with the lowest bid and went bankrupt shortly afterwards, was not aging well and the elevators’ operating problems were only one symptom of the building’s deferred maintenance over two decades of slashed appropriations. Approaching seventy, Woody’s arthritic joints were as creaky as Jordan Hall’s elevators and he was unable to maneuver the six flights of stairs from the history department’s floor to the ground. The long-planned renovation of the building had been put on hold for over two years due to the Commonwealth’s ongoing fiscal crisis.

I looked out into the department office for Barbara Gilmore; the department’s recently hired secretary, but only saw Brittany, our student worker. Where’s Barbara?

I thought she was eating her lunch in the lounge, but I was just there and didn’t see her.

When she returns, have her send an email cancelling the department meeting scheduled for this afternoon. I seriously doubt they’ll have the elevators fixed before three o’clock.

Our former secretary, Janet Hodges, had retired to move down to Cary, North Carolina to be closer to her first grandchild. I’d feared the department would be stuck with an entry level person since Human Resources was holding the line on salaries. Barbara Gilmore, Janet’s replacement, had over twenty years of university service and wanted a change of scenery from her former department. I was fortunate to hire an experienced administrative assistant well-versed in campus procedures, since it was a lateral transfer.

Even though she’d been working in the department for almost three months, I had to admit I knew little about Barbara beyond her resume. Unlike Janet, who was warm and friendly, Barbara seemed detached, almost remote at times. Still trim and youthful looking, she greatly resembled her daughter, a CBU coed, whose high school graduation portrait held a place of honor on her desk.

I didn’t look forward to trekking down the stairs to the first floor where my class met. While eating my roast beef sandwich, I read a recently published journal article from a graduate school classmate on the Stimson Doctrine and American foreign policy during the early 1930’s.

Barbara poked her head in the door when she got back from lunch. She seemed out of breath, her face slightly red. Had she just run up the stairs?

Brittany said you wanted to see me.

Please send out an email to the faculty cancelling the department meeting this afternoon and reschedule it for Friday at three?

Are you nuts? None of the faculty will stay for a Friday afternoon meeting.

I laughed. The alternative is climbing six flights of stairs today. You better call Dr. Farrell. He doesn’t bother to check his email when he’s at home. Woody is rather antediluvian.

When the water was shut off yesterday, he threatened to send a chamber pot to President Clayton, laughed Barbara.

My class started in ten minutes and I decided to walk down early so I wouldn’t feel winded. I headed down the south stairwell since it was next to the men’s room. It was eerily quiet as it was less traveled than the north stairwell next to the elevators. I heard no other footsteps or voices in the stairwell. Making the turn onto the fifth floor landing, I was shocked to see a man face down on the stairs, blood oozing from a nasty gash on the back of his head had already left a sizable puddle on the concrete and was trickling down the stairs.

I ran down the stairs to help him, dropping my portfolio along the way. Although I’d received first aid training in the Boy Scouts, I realized his injuries were beyond my modest capabilities. Reaching into the pocket of my sport coat, I took out my cell phone.

911, how may I assist you? answered the crisp female dispatcher.

A man has fallen in the stairwell of Jordan Hall at CBU. He’s unconscious and bleeding profusely from his head. Send an ambulance immediately.

Which stairwell sir?

I’m in the south stairwell of the office tower, between the fifth and fourth floors.

We’ll send a police unit to assist until the ambulance arrives. Who am I speaking with?

I’m Dr. Andrew Stanard, chair of the history department.

I’ve taken down your number. Don’t try to move him.

Thank you, I won’t.

I knelt down next to him and realized it was Alex Collinge. His face was so covered with blood from a second gash on the right side of his forehead that I hadn’t recognized him at first.

Slowly my Boy Scout training came back to me, and I tried to find Alex’s pulse. I couldn’t feel one, but as I recalled I couldn’t find my scoutmaster’s pulse during the test for my merit badge, and he wasn’t injured. What caused Alex’s fall? The psychology department was on the fifth floor. He must’ve fallen just after entering the stairwell. Did he trip? Or did something else happen? Did he have a heart attack and lose his balance? Even though Alex was over fifty, he was in great shape so that seemed unlikely. Or did he fall while climbing the stairs from the first floor. That made a heart attack or stroke much more plausible. Once he fell, the stairwell’s construction of concrete, steel and cinderblock ensured that he’d suffer massive injuries.

After the police arrived, I’d have to find Astrid and tell her of Alex’s accident. She might want to go to the hospital with him, or maybe not. Their divorce had been so acrimonious that they were communicating only through emails even though they worked only one floor apart in Jordan Hall. Astrid went to great lengths to avoid even bumping into Alex. She’d skipped the dean’s Christmas party last year, graduation in May, and the college’s faculty convocation at the start of the semester. Still, she needed to be told. It might be best to leave that chore to the police.

Alex was wearing cordovan loafers so he couldn’t have tripped on his shoe laces. I looked around the stairwell for any sign of what caused his fall. I noticed what appeared to be a smear of blood on the wall and drips of blood on the stairs.

I heard the door open at the bottom of the stairwell and footsteps starting up the stairs, the squawk of his police radio echoing in the cinderblock stairwell.

I’m up here between the fourth and fifth floors, I called out.

At least it isn’t the tenth floor, replied a labored voice.

A minute later, a heavyset campus police office reached me. He was out of breath and cherry red in the face, looking as though he might be the next casualty. His name tag identified him as Officer Holloway.

You got here quickly, I said.

We were on the first floor trying to get some dumb kids out of the elevator. Did you see him fall?

No, he was already unconscious when I found him.

The officer squatted down and checked for a pulse. This guy is in bad shape. I can barely find a pulse. Do you know him?

He’s Dr. Alex Collinge of psychology.

Officer Holloway barked into his walkie-talkie, We have a man critically injured in the south stairwell, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. He may have broken bones and internal bleeding. His pulse is weak. Where’s that ambulance?

ETA is three minutes, replied the dispatcher.

Officer Holloway seemed to be hedging his bets on Alex’s pulse. He shrugged his shoulders.

The ambulance boys are going to have trouble getting him out of here with the elevators broken down.

It’s fortunate he’s not too heavy, I replied.

Officer Holloway thought I was making a comment about his weight. It’s hard to figure why he fell. Is he a boozer?

No, I never saw any signs of that. His wife is a professor in my department.

Astrid had vented her frustrations to Laura and me on several occasions during the divorce, but had never mentioned heavy drinking as one of Alex’s faults. Thanks to the campus grapevine, the vices of fellow members of the faculty were well publicized. Alex and John Barleycorn were never mentioned in the same breath.

The outer door to the stairwell opened and I could hear footsteps chugging up the steps. Two paramedics carrying a stretcher came around the bend of the stairs. Their equipment was strapped to it.

We’re going to have to be careful. He may have a broken neck, the older paramedic cautioned his beefy female partner as they went to work on Alex.

Does anyone know what happened to this guy? asked the young woman as she checked his wrist. The worried look on her face told me she was having trouble finding a pulse too.

I’ve never seen injuries like this in a tumble down the stairs. This head wound doesn’t appear to be caused by a fall, said the older paramedic.

Being careful not to move Alex, the female paramedic went into a contorted position to put her stethoscope to his chest. He’s in shock. We need to get him to the ER immediately.

A heart attack or stroke might explain the fall, said her partner.

Get on the line to the hospital so they can have a trauma team standing by, the woman directed Officer Holloway who, like me, was standing there with his arms hanging by his side. He used his walkie-talkie to communicate with his dispatcher.

I moved up to the fifth floor landing to get out of the way as the two paramedics worked to stabilize Alex and strap him on the stretcher. The door on the fifth floor opened and Harley Simpson, the chief of campus, and another police officer brushed by me as if I wasn’t there. They huddled with Officer Holloway.

Harley turned around and said to me, Holloway says you know him.

He’s Dr. Alex Collinge of the psychology department.

How do you spell the last name?

C-o-l-l-i-n-g-e, I replied.

Do you know his wife? We need to notify her to meet us at the hospital?

It’s rather complicated. His wife, Astrid, is a member of my department. They’re in the middle of a divorce. To say it’s been a nasty fight is an understatement.

Harley raised an eyebrow and looked in the direction of Officer Holloway. Most divorces are. Does he have any other relatives?

He has two sons. Both live with their mother. His parents live in the Midwest, I believe in Minnesota.

How old are his sons?

Markus is nineteen. He’s a CBU student. Matthias is seventeen, still in high school. Alex also has an infant son with his former girlfriend.

It looks like the oldest son is his closest relative. Do you want me to find him? asked Holloway.

Harley put up his hand to stop Holloway. Who’s his ex-girlfriend?

Dr. Sheila Houghton, she’s a professor in sociology.

The mention of Sheila Houghton’s name caused Harley to raise an eyebrow again. Where have I heard that name before? Harley muttered to himself.

I’ve heard that Alex moved in recently with a yoga instructor at the studio across from campus.

Some men don’t let the grass grow under their feet, said Holloway.

Harley shot him a look that showed his annoyance. What’s the son’s address?

Both sons live with their mother at 3470 Princeton Lane in University Terrace. I decided not to mention witnessing the argument between Alex and Markus yesterday. Hopefully Markus would feel differently with his father’s life in the balance.

Start there, Holloway. Someone might have to make some life or death decisions very quickly. Also check with the Registrar’s Office in case he’s in class.

With great effort, the paramedics started maneuvering the stretcher holding Alex down the stairs.

I’m heading to the hospital. Secure the stairwell as a possible crime scene, Harley directed the remaining officer.

Crime scene; do you think it was a mugging? I asked.

His wallet is still in his back pocket. A mugger wouldn’t have left his Rolex or the gold ID bracelet on his other wrist. The head wound suggests he was assaulted, said Harley.

Is it all right if I try to find Astrid and tell her?

The ex-wife?

Their divorce hasn’t been finalized yet. Legally she’s still his wife.

Leave that to us, Harley said as he started down the stairs.

I took out my cell phone and wrote down Astrid’s phone number for him. It was already ten past one. Most of my students had probably bolted when they arrived at the classroom and found me absent. Considering the general state of chaos in Jordan Hall, I can’t say I’d blame them.

I dialed the dean’s office on my phone. Is Tollie in? I asked Tammie McMillan, his secretary.

With the elevators out, he’s stuck up here, she laughed.

I’m climbing the stairs. I’ll be there in a few minutes.

When I reached the tenth floor, I stopped at the water fountain to catch my breath. Obviously, I was not in as great a shape as I thought. Tammie showed me into Tollie’s office. His tenth floor perch afforded a magnificent view of the city and was the envy of the other deans.

Look, don’t ask me for any more adjunct faculty funding for spring semester, said Tollie.

I closed the door behind me. Tammie was notorious for gossiping with the other secretaries in the building.

It’s more serious than that. Alex Collinge had a fall in the stairwell. The paramedics think he’s critically injured.

Alex has left a lot of wreckage in his wake, said Tollie.

Harley Simpson said they’re going to notify Astrid and hopefully get in touch with his parents in Minnesota.

Tollie nodded. What happened?

I thought he’d fallen, but the police are treating the south stairwell as a crime scene.

Crime scene? I thought they caught that crack addict last month that was responsible for mugging people in the parking garages.

The police ruled that out immediately.

I have enough problems. The Norfolk Police were here yesterday. Apparently Sheila Houghton is stalking that yoga instructor that Alex moved in with. They questioned her for over an hour. It’s messy for me since Seth had been seeing that girl before Alex. I’m glad Seth came to his senses and is no longer with her.

Clearly Tollie found something objectionable about Miss Travers, but I doubted it was her physique.

Are the police going to arrest Sheila?

Sheila hadn’t done anything overtly threatening. She just sat in her car outside the yoga studio and the girl’s apartment. The police advised Travers to get a restraining order.

Do you think Sheila could have shoved Alex down the stairs?

I don’t know what to think. One minute she’s a dutiful faculty member, the next minute she’s acting like her hormones have gone haywire. How is Astrid holding up?

She’s alternately angry or depressed. Alex hasn’t given any ground on the financial settlement.

Alex has burned most of his bridges. He’s been shirking his committee assignments and dumping the students he’s supposed to be advising on the other faculty in psych.

That wouldn’t cause someone to knock him down the stairs.

A mugging would tie everything up in a neat little package. Otherwise it’s going to be a sordid mess for someone to clean up, said Tollie without elaboration.

***

The history department was deserted when I returned from Tollie’s office. With the elevators still out, no one had bothered to return from lunch. My phone rang. I recognized Emily Worthington’s cell phone number.

I’m at the emergency room with Astrid. The doctor just pronounced Alex dead. They couldn’t resuscitate him.

Are the boys with her?

Only Matthias; Markus flatly refused to come to the hospital. He and Alex were no longer speaking to one another. We’re heading back to Astrid’s house.

CHAPTER II

AFTER EMILY HUNG UP, I called Laura.

Hi, dear, she answered cheerily recognizing my number.

I have some bad news -

Has something happened to one of the boys? Her voice had gone from cheery to frantic in a second.

No, our boys are okay. Alex Collinge just died.

There was stunned silence for several seconds. What happened? I saw him yesterday. He looked perfectly fine. After the way he’s treated Astrid, there’s no way I was going to say hello to him.

Never one to mince words, Laura’s opinion of Alex remained unchanged with his death. Many on campus held the same view. It might be difficult to find someone to deliver a eulogy at his funeral. But as Astrid’s friends for almost two decades, Laura and I would be there to offer her our support if she needed it.

I found him unconscious and bleeding in the stairwell about an hour ago.

He fell down the stairs in Jordan Hall?

Someone may’ve pushed him.

What?

We should go over to Astrid’s house. Emily just called from the hospital. They’ll be leaving in a few minutes.

Did Emily say how Astrid was holding up?

No. Even though Alex had deserted Astrid, she would probably react to his death with mixed emotions. They’d been married for over twenty years, and he was the father of her two sons. Alex had treated her rather shabbily over the past year. I wouldn’t fault her if she was less than heartbroken by his death. His death closed the door on their divorce and Astrid could move on with her life.

Laura cleared her throat. Alex had been our friend once, but I really can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sheila Houghton pushed him down the stairs. She was mad as hell when he left her to shack up with little Miss Pretzel.

The yoga instructor, you mean.

That snarky little bitch taught that yoga class I took last summer, and she had no sympathy for those of us approaching fifty who can’t bend and twist ourselves like Gumby. I’ll never understand why someone her age would want an old goat like Alex.

Old goat, I thought, raising my eyebrows. I was nearly the same age as Alex. Meet me at the car in ten minutes.

***

What do you think happened to Alex? asked Laura as we drove to Astrid’s house.

I don’t know. One of the paramedics speculated he had a heart attack. Climbing stairs could bring one on.

How do you know he was coming up from the first floor?

I’m just guessing, I replied.

He’d been under a lot of stress lately, self-induced of course. His legal battles with Astrid and Sheila Houghton might be enough to bring on the big one. I heard at the Faculty Women’s Association luncheon on Monday that Sheila is suing him for child support. Her parents have retained Nick Papadakis to take Alex for every cent he has.

Or had. I thought Papadakis only handled personal injury and criminal cases?

Sheila’s father knew him in college. He’s doing it as a personal favor.

Papadakis is the best trial lawyer in Norfolk; he’s like a shark when he smells blood. That would have added to Alex’s stress level, but Astrid never mentioned he had any cardiac problems.

One would think that Alex, with his active sex life, was in excellent cardiac health.

If he didn’t suffer a heart attack, what caused his death? asked Laura as we turned into Astrid’s street.

He had massive head trauma, possibly a broken neck according to the paramedic.

It sounds like someone pushed him down the stairs, speculated Laura.

Tollie just told me that Sheila Houghton is harassing Bari Travers. The police advised Travers to get a restraining order.

I really don’t have any sympathy for Sheila, but she could be suffering from post-partum depression. Then, you add Alex leaving her, and it’s a recipe for disaster.

If she pushed him down the stairs, it’s murder. Harley Simpson was treating the stairwell as a crime scene, I said.

Henrietta Sealy reported that Alex and Sheila had an argument in the library last week. She threatened to call security, and have both of them thrown out.

Henrietta was one of the reference librarians and had served in the library for almost forty years. She didn’t use her ruler, did she?

Very funny, said Laura tartly. Henrietta whacked that pervert who exposed himself to a sorority study group last month. Yep, he got what he deserved.

Henrietta’s handiness with her eighteen inch wooden ruler had been reported by various library blogs making her a heroine to librarians across the country. You didn’t mess with Henrietta.

I parked in front of Astrid’s house behind Emily’s car and took a deep breath to steel myself. When we rang the door bell, Astrid’s younger son, Matthias answered. His eyes were red. He’d been crying.

Come in Dr. Stanard, Mrs. Stanard. My mother is on the phone with my grandparents.

We’re sorry about your father.

Everything happened so suddenly, we’re all in a state of shock. Mom picked me up at school on her way to the hospital. They pronounced my dad dead shortly after we arrived. It was horrible to see him hooked up to all those machines. His eyes began tearing up and he began sobbing. Laura put her arm around him in her motherly fashion.

Emily came out of Astrid’s study. She beckoned for me to step into the kitchen. "Thank God you’re here. Astrid is having a terrible time