Read Online Murder is an Art by Bill Crider - Free Book Online

was to back the reluctant listener into a corner and stand so that there was no escape short of death.
    When Sally saw him, she was careful to stand on the side of the transparency maker that was farthest from the corner, which was a good thing. When he heard the machine begin to operate, Menton stood up and began to sidle toward her.
    â€œI’m waiting for my wife to come pick me up,” he said as he approached. “My car is in the shop.”
    There was a faculty legend that Menton had once trapped a part-time instructor in the lounge and talked nonstop for six hours about the time the timing chain went out on his 1983 Buick. Sally didn’t want something like that to happen, so she grabbed the last transparency as it fed from the machine and started toward the door.
    â€œI have a student waiting in the office,” she lied brazenly and unashamedly. “Otherwise, I’d love to hear about your car. What seems to be the trouble?”
    â€œIt’s the transmission,” Menton droned. “I had the fluid checked last week, but it seems to have all run out in the road as I drove to school yesterday. I hope the transmission’s not burned up. I’ve heard—”
    â€œI’m sure it’s fine,” Sally said, not sure at all. She didn’t know a thing about transmissions. “You can tell me about it sometime when I don’t have a student waiting.”
    She made her escape, feeling slightly guilty about the disappointment on Menton’s face as she’d gone through the door. Thank goodness he hadn’t gotten her into a corner. She might have missed her aerobics class.
    On her way back to her office, she passed Jack Neville’s door. It was closed, but there was a light showing underneath it. She wondered if he were still working or if he had left the light on by accident. She knocked on the door.
    There was no answer. It didn’t matter that the light was on. One of the cleaning crew would turn it off later. Then she thought she heard something that sounded like the squeak of an office chair. She knocked again.
    Jack Neville opened the door.
    â€œOh,” he said. He seemed surprised to see her. “Hi.”
    â€œHi,” she said. “Working late?”
    Jack looked over his shoulder at the computer, which was turned on. Nothing was visible on the screen except the main menu, however.
    â€œJust doing a little work on an article,” he said.
    â€œFor that record magazine?”
    â€œThat’s the one.”
    â€œWhat’s the article about?”
    â€œBuddy Holly and Elvis Presley,” Jack said. “I guess you’re a little young to have been a fan when you were growing up.”
    â€œI’m more of a Creedence Clearwater Revival fan.”
    â€œThey were good, all right,” Jack said. “Uh, would you like to come in and sit down?”
    Jack’s office was much smaller than Sally’s and not a lot neater, but he had a chair for visitors beside his desk.
    â€œI wish I could,” Sally said. “But I have an aerobics class in just a few minutes. I have to go change and get ready.”
    â€œOh,” Jack said, his ears reddening.
    Sally wondered why, but didn’t mention it. “I hope you get the article done. I’d like to read it.”
    â€œI’ll give you a copy when it’s finished.”
    â€œSee you tomorrow, then,” Sally said, and went on down the hall.
    When she turned the corner to her own office, she wondered why she always seemed to feel awkward when she talked to Jack. He was certainly nice enough, and an excellent instructor. And he was good-looking in a sort of rumpled manner. Not as overtly macho as Jorge, but just as attractive in his own shy way.
    But she shouldn’t be thinking of either of them in this way, she told herself. She’d promised herself when she came to Hughes that there would be no involvements with men at the school. Involvement