The Mother's Day Murder by Lee Harris Page A

talked about the class. This Randy appeared to be auditing it. Her name was never called on the roll.”
    “So she must have followed Tina one day to see where she was going because she knew she wanted to play the part of a novice.”
    “She also asked questions about being a novice and about some of the nuns. Tina remembers that your name came up.”
    “That fits with what we know.”
    “Why did she pick me to come to?” I asked.
    “Perhaps she knew we were friends.”
    “I wonder if she was living with someone nearby. She certainly wasn’t living at the convent.”
    “It’s hard to find out when we don’t have a name. If she rented a room in town, who would notice she was gone until the next rent day?”
    “Joseph, do you have any empty rooms in the dorm?”
    She left the table and went to the file cabinet near her desk. She pulled a folder from a drawer and brought it back to our table. “You’re thinking she might have been a squatter in an empty room?”
    “It’s possible. We should certainly look into it.”
    “Last semester we were filled to capacity but one student left at Christmas and didn’t come back and one girl fell ill a month or so ago and went home. It may have been mono or something like that and her family thought she should rest at home.”
    “I’d like to see those rooms when we’ve finished our lunch.”
    “That’s easy.” She looked through the folder. “And there are two rooms under renovation, which means there are men in there weekdays between nine and five.”
    “I’ll look at those, too.”
    Joseph made some notes. “If your suspicions are true, it would make her sound quite devious.”
    “Resourceful,” I said.
    “Where would she have gotten the key to such a room?”
    “Where did she find my name and address? Where did she find a novice’s habit?”
    “You’re right. She was resourceful. I hope we find out who she was. She must have a family somewhere.”
    I agreed. Whoever they were, wherever they lived, they would want to know what happened.

12
    Armed with the master key, I walked over to the college dormitory when we finished our lunch. It was the end of the semester and girls were finishing exams and getting ready to leave for the summer. I went up to the second floor and down the long hall, hearing pieces of conversations from the rooms I passed. From one came the sound of wailing: “I’ll never get it. I’ll never get it. Why do I have to take this stuff? I’m not going to be a chemist if I live a hundred years.”
    I had felt much the same way myself about chemistry but I had managed to pass. The room I was looking for was the last one on the right, a corner room with, as it happened, a window on each outside wall, a very desirable place to live.
    “She’s not there,” a girl said, and I turned.
    “Who isn’t?” I asked.
    “Amanda Snyder. She got mono and she left.”
    “Anyone else been using her room?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    She watched me as I turned the key. “Thank you,” I said, letting myself in.
    It was about the size and shape of the nuns’ roomsand with similar furniture. I opened the closet and found it empty. The bed had a cover on it but there were no sheets underneath. The desk had nothing on it but a lamp in one corner, and the drawers were empty except for dust and ink stains and eraser tidbits. I carefully removed each drawer and looked underneath, then into the drawer space itself. Nothing. A similar search of the dresser yielded only an old stamp, not enough to post a current letter. I got down on the floor and peered under the bed. Dust floated there and a piece of paper lay among the balls. I stretched my right arm as far as I could and just barely touched it. I flattened myself, got my shoulder under the bedframe, and snared the paper between my first two fingers and pulled it out.
    I blew the dust off, making myself cough. The note was written in ballpoint and said, “Dr. Cabot, 3 P.M . Thursday.” Probably