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feel as though I’m trafficking in gossip.”
    “Look, you can call it what you want to, but the fact is we’re trying to find a murderer, remember? This was your idea, and if you expect to get anything accomplished, you’re going to have to talk about things you may find distasteful.”
    “All right,” he said, inhaling deeply and steeling himself. “There was talk at one time last school year that Gretchen might have been…er, involved …with Ted Greenbaum.” He took another big breath, like a kid who had just unburdened himself of a terrible secret.
    “An unlikely combination,” I observed.
    “Not much more unlikely than she and Hale,” Cortland said.
    “Except that I gather Gretchen and Markham were philosophically simpatico .”
    “Gretchen is a fine student—a scholar, make no mistake about that,” he said, “but I’ve yet to be convinced of her commitment to conservative philosophy. Her dalliance with Ted last year—if indeed it was that—would seem to indicate an intellectual instability on her part.”
    “It would if you equate political views with libido,” I said. “Is Greenbaum married?”
    “Yes.”
    “Happily?”
    “I don’t know!” Cortland wailed in exasperation. “I’m really uncomfortable talking about people like this.”
    “Then I’ll probably make you more uncomfortable,” I said offhandedly. “You mentioned that Markham was drawn to women. If not to Gretchen Frazier, to anyone in particular?”
    “Yes.” Cortland nodded grimly. “Elena Moreau is her name. She’s a tenured professor in the History Department.”
    “Am I right to assume she’s single?”
    “Widowed,” he said. “Her husband was killed in Vietnam.”
    “I’d like to meet her.”
    “You very likely will. Elena usually has lunch in the faculty dining room, sometimes at our table. And here we are.”
    We took an elevator to the third floor of the Union, and entered a Colonial-style room with brass chandeliers and polished wood tables and chairs, and waitresses in starched white costumes scurrying around. You had to admit that on the whole the Prescott faculty had it pretty nice.
    “There’s a table for six over in that corner,” Cortland said. “A group of us from Political Science and History usually sit together—the cast varies from day to day. But we occasionally have guests, so you shouldn’t feel at all uncomfortable.”
    “I never do,” I assured him as we got to the circular table, where one man, stocky, ruddy, white-haired, and with a high forehead, was already seated. “Orville, I’d like to have you meet an old friend, Arnold Goodman. He’s in from Indiana, looking the place over. His nephew is thinking about coming here. Arnold, this is Orville Schmidt, chairman of our Political Science Department.”
    “Mr. Goodman.” Schmidt smiled and rose halfway out of his chair and leaned across to pump my hand with his fat paw. “We’ll try to be on our best behavior for you. After all, a prospective tuition may hang in the balance.” He chuckled at his little joke and I grinned to show that I appreciated his insidiously witty humor. That appeared to cement our friendship. “Did you come east just to see Prescott?” he asked after I’d scanned the three-entrée menu and selected roast leg of lamb.
    “No, I was in New York on business and tacked on an extra day,” I told him.
    “What business are you in, Mr. Goodman?” Schmidt asked as he lavishly buttered a roll.
    “I’m an insurance investigator, with a company based in Indianapolis.”
    “Must be interesting work,” he said. I was getting an answer ready, but fortunately the conversation was interrupted by Ted Greenbaum’s arrival. Cortland went through the introduction routine again, and as we stood shaking hands, I realized Greenbaum was easily six-five, or would have been if he stood straight. I told him I’d been in his lecture that morning.
    “I know,” he said with a crooked smile. “I noticed you, of