going?”
“Well, as sure as chickens come from eggs, I know Stephen is not the lemon. Maybe instead,” C.J. paused, searching for the right words, “a slightly bruised apple. But that is all.”
“So how do you know for certain he didn’t do it?” asked Betsy. “There must be a reason he’s sitting in Elm Grove City Jail at this very moment.”
“Well,” hesitated C .J., “that’s a little awkward. The bruise on Stephen’s apple is his alibi and that is why he won’t mention it. I’m going to visit the boy this afternoon to see if I can’t talk some sense into him.”
Betsy sipped her coffee through pursed lips. Really, C.J. could be so infuriating. If she knew something, why didn’t she just come out and say it? Betsy’s lengthy marriage had given her many years practice in ignoring those who were frustrating her, so she pl aced her coffee cup down gently and got out her latest project. Today, she was crocheting a baby blanket for grandchild number seventeen, expected in only four months.
Betsy was busy stitching her foundation chain, oblivious to those around her, muttering thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four ...when something C.J. said caused her to look up and lose count.
“...so I was thinking that you might be right, and Jefferson might be the murderer,” concluded C.J.
“What?” asked Betsy blankly, her crochet hook hanging limply in one hand, and the yarn collapsed in her lap like a disheartened snake.
“Bet -sy Will-iams,” C.J. elongated her friend’s name in exasperation. Her growly mood of the morning was clearly not completely eradicated. “I just explained why I thought Jefferson could have murdered Edmund.”
“But, but,” stammered Betsy, “the other day, I didn’t really think that was true. It was just that on all the T.V. shows, it’s always the least likely person. Why would Jefferson kill Edmund?”
“Revenge. Mary Beth showed me a letter today she had to type for Edmund. Here, read it for yourself.” C.J. pulled the letter to Professor Brustad out of her satchel. “I would say Edmund was a swine, but I actually like pigs.”
Betsy looked over the letter, still looking confused.
“Do you realize what this means? Edmund was ruining Jefferson’s reputation…saying all their joint work was really Edmund’s work. Please. Edmund had been riding Jefferson’s coat tails for years. I think it was because the Nobel (and its more than one million dollars in prize money) was in the offing. Edmund didn’t want to share the glory or the cash.”
“But to kill? Over a letter?”
“This isn’t just a letter, Betsy. This is a career. And a brilliant, very public one at that.”
Betsy picked up her crocheting again. She had completely lost count of the number of stitches in the chain and felt too befuddled to recount them. This poor grandchild was going to have some very uneven squares in his or her blanket. “So…how do you think Jefferson killed Edmund?” asked Betsy as she tried to come to terms with the new theory.
“Well, that is interesting,” said C.J. “The police say the time of death was after one and before two. So Edmund was alive at noon when Jefferson says he left for his run. And Jefferson says he ran around campus twice. When Jeffie came into seminar at two, he was out of breath and in running clothes, which backs up his story. I think, if he is our lemon, the highest probability event is that Jefferson stopped off in the econ building between laps, went up to Edmund’s office and strangled him.”
“He could have,” said Betsy uncertainly, “but surely someone would have seen him.”
“I’m not convinced that someone didn’t. Mary Beth , God love her for trying to wear an analog watch, is very confused about the time she saw Jefferson that afternoon. First, it was ten past one. Then, it was ten to two. If she did in fact see him at ten past one, he could have ducked up to Edmund’s office, been the person that Edmund
“Well, as sure as chickens come from eggs, I know Stephen is not the lemon. Maybe instead,” C.J. paused, searching for the right words, “a slightly bruised apple. But that is all.”
“So how do you know for certain he didn’t do it?” asked Betsy. “There must be a reason he’s sitting in Elm Grove City Jail at this very moment.”
“Well,” hesitated C .J., “that’s a little awkward. The bruise on Stephen’s apple is his alibi and that is why he won’t mention it. I’m going to visit the boy this afternoon to see if I can’t talk some sense into him.”
Betsy sipped her coffee through pursed lips. Really, C.J. could be so infuriating. If she knew something, why didn’t she just come out and say it? Betsy’s lengthy marriage had given her many years practice in ignoring those who were frustrating her, so she pl aced her coffee cup down gently and got out her latest project. Today, she was crocheting a baby blanket for grandchild number seventeen, expected in only four months.
Betsy was busy stitching her foundation chain, oblivious to those around her, muttering thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four ...when something C.J. said caused her to look up and lose count.
“...so I was thinking that you might be right, and Jefferson might be the murderer,” concluded C.J.
“What?” asked Betsy blankly, her crochet hook hanging limply in one hand, and the yarn collapsed in her lap like a disheartened snake.
“Bet -sy Will-iams,” C.J. elongated her friend’s name in exasperation. Her growly mood of the morning was clearly not completely eradicated. “I just explained why I thought Jefferson could have murdered Edmund.”
“But, but,” stammered Betsy, “the other day, I didn’t really think that was true. It was just that on all the T.V. shows, it’s always the least likely person. Why would Jefferson kill Edmund?”
“Revenge. Mary Beth showed me a letter today she had to type for Edmund. Here, read it for yourself.” C.J. pulled the letter to Professor Brustad out of her satchel. “I would say Edmund was a swine, but I actually like pigs.”
Betsy looked over the letter, still looking confused.
“Do you realize what this means? Edmund was ruining Jefferson’s reputation…saying all their joint work was really Edmund’s work. Please. Edmund had been riding Jefferson’s coat tails for years. I think it was because the Nobel (and its more than one million dollars in prize money) was in the offing. Edmund didn’t want to share the glory or the cash.”
“But to kill? Over a letter?”
“This isn’t just a letter, Betsy. This is a career. And a brilliant, very public one at that.”
Betsy picked up her crocheting again. She had completely lost count of the number of stitches in the chain and felt too befuddled to recount them. This poor grandchild was going to have some very uneven squares in his or her blanket. “So…how do you think Jefferson killed Edmund?” asked Betsy as she tried to come to terms with the new theory.
“Well, that is interesting,” said C.J. “The police say the time of death was after one and before two. So Edmund was alive at noon when Jefferson says he left for his run. And Jefferson says he ran around campus twice. When Jeffie came into seminar at two, he was out of breath and in running clothes, which backs up his story. I think, if he is our lemon, the highest probability event is that Jefferson stopped off in the econ building between laps, went up to Edmund’s office and strangled him.”
“He could have,” said Betsy uncertainly, “but surely someone would have seen him.”
“I’m not convinced that someone didn’t. Mary Beth , God love her for trying to wear an analog watch, is very confused about the time she saw Jefferson that afternoon. First, it was ten past one. Then, it was ten to two. If she did in fact see him at ten past one, he could have ducked up to Edmund’s office, been the person that Edmund
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