Murder Is Served (Mr. and Mrs. North Series #12)
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Murder Is Served (Mr. and Mrs. North Series #12)
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Overview
All semester Prof. John Leonard has directed his lectures at Peggy Mott. Not because she’s beautiful—although that doesn’t hurt—but because she has the sharpest mind he’s encountered in all his years teaching psychology. When she turns in her final assignment, a paper on human emotions, Leonard expects a brilliant essay, but what he reads shocks him to the core: There’s someone Peggy detests. And based on her paper, Professor Leonard believes she hates enough to kill.
When Peggy’s husband is found with a steak knife buried in his neck, the comely young student is the only suspect. But Jerry and Pamela North see it differently. Mrs. North has a mind that could drive any psychologist batty, but for the sake of a shining pupil, she’ll find out the truth.
Murder Is Served is the 12th book in the Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504031295 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | MysteriousPress.com/Open Road |
| Publication date: | 03/08/2016 |
| Series: | Mr. and Mrs. North Series , #12 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| Sales rank: | 235,845 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Murder Is Served
A Mr. and Mrs. North Mystery
By Frances Lockridge, Richard Lockridge
MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
Copyright © 1948 by Frances and Richard LockridgeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3129-5
CHAPTER 1
Thursday, January 22, 7:40 p.m. to 9:10 p.m.
John Leonard tilted his chair, felt its back engage the eraser trough behind him, removed his glasses and regarded forty-three members of X33, Experimental Psychology, most of whom regarded him. He enquired whether everything was clear to everyone and forty-two men and women looked back at him, as if hoping that he would, in fact, make everything clear. The forty-third looked rather dreamily out a window.
"Good," Leonard told them. "Very good. Then you may as well get about it."
Forty-three students got about it. A young woman in the front row shook her fountain pen, as if to shake thoughts out of it. The young man next to her looked at the ceiling. Three rows back, a girl — undergraduate, as Leonard remembered — put her pencil in her mouth and, although he could not see them, he could guess that she tied her legs into a knot. Situation normal, Leonard told himself; situation as always was and always would be. He lighted a cigarette. He watched while, one by one, the forty-three began to write in little blue books; he shuddered to think how difficult most of what they wrote would be to read. Situation normal, situation as always. And the two or three who would have the most to say would be the least decipherable.
What would they make of it, he wondered? He wondered what he would make of it if he were one of the forty-three. You came expecting something, you came for an examination. You came, perhaps, with names and dates, with definitions. And you got this — this evasive instruction. Write me a discussion, as long as you like, as short as you like, of the effect of some emotion on human behavior, the effect of hate or fear or love or greed as those things were felt normally by the normal mind. Tell me, from what you have heard here, what you have read during the course, what you have found out during your lives, how one of these emotions colors thought, tilts logic into illogic, makes the abstract into the particular. What would I have made of such a demand? John Leonard wondered. What would Weldon Carey make of it? The young woman looking out of the window? The undergraduate with the tangled legs? What would Peggy make of it? John Leonard, Associate Professor of Psychology, Department of Extension, Dyckman University, corrected himself. Not Peggy — Mrs. Peggy Mott. In this room, at this time — not Peggy. He looked at her. She was writing very rapidly, very intently. The shadows on her face, with her head bent so, made her expression uncharacteristically sombre.
Love would be the emotion of which she wrote, John Leonard suspected. It would be appropriate; if he was not mistaken, it would be something she knew about. Not hate, surely not fear. Fear — or hate or anger — would be what Weldon Carey would know about. Carey had had cause to be afraid, Leonard suspected, to be afraid, to hate. And he seemed always, obscurely, angered. He would, in all probability, write the best discussion of any of them, and the most violent, the most resentful. Probably, as regards me, as of now, his resentment is abstract, Leonard thought, looking at the top of Weldon Carey's head, with the black hair sprawling from it. Carey has enough abstract resentment to go around.
You got a mixed bag these days, Leonard thought, and let his chair drop down again to the floor. This was a mixed bag, even for Extension, even for nowadays. The half-dozen undergraduates, five of them female — that was normal. The housewife from Jackson Heights, she was normal. The middle-aged businessman was normal too, and as essentially inexplicable as always. Why was he there? Why was he giving two evenings a week, from seven-forty until nine, to hear lectures on psychology? Had somebody told him John Leonard would make him a better salesman? Teach him how to approach the boss for a raise? He was always there, he was always inexplicable. The undergraduates, the housewives from Queens, the unexplained businessmen — those were standard, those formed a nucleus. You added the anonymous ones, with no apparent personalities, no recallable names, and you had perhaps two-thirds of the class. Then the mixed bag began, the really mixed bag. The Peggy Motts, the angry Weldon Careys, the illusive Cecily Breakwells.
Carey was, Leonard guessed, about thirty. He should, in the normal course, have been done with all this years ago. But not if you took five years out, if somebody took five years out. Five years to be afraid in, to hate in, to build resentment in. God knows, Leonard thought, I'd resent it. I'd resent it like hell. I'd resent me, because I had it soft; I'd resent everyone who had it soft, and everybody who made it hard. I wonder how he'll write it, Leonard thought. I wonder if this sort of thing helps him any?
There were a good many Careys, although most of them did not hate so much, or feel anything so much. Or, if you came to that, think so much. They were part of the mixed bag, these men home from the wars, going back to school as beneficiaries of the "G.I. Bill of Rights." How idiotically people used words, Leonard thought. Why "bill of rights," for God's sake?
He put his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it — and wondered a little how he still got away with smoking, letting the class smoke. The rules forbade. He wondered whether he did not smoke so much in class because the rules forbade. Resentment of rules, there was an emotion for you. He picked up his book, turned so the light fell on it, and began to read. But he was always conscious of the forty-three. Forty-three minds at work, forty-three pens and pencils moving on paper, leaving marks which would, for the most part, be barely decipherable. And of those minds, perhaps half a dozen — be generous, Professor, be generous — perhaps half a dozen which worked well enough to matter. He laid the book down and walked to the window and looked, far down, at the snow-covered street. Carey's mind mattered, he thought; perhaps Peggy Mott's did, although he might think that because of the way her hair fell, because of the wideness of her eyes. The young man in the back row, the balding young man who was now regarding the ceiling with an expression of pleased interest, had a pleasantly quirky mind, and the baby undergraduate — Dorothy Brown? Agnes Brownley? — had something. It was too soon to tell what.
That did not add to half a dozen. There would be the dark horse, of course; the unexpected prize which came, out of the anonymous, often as not, on the occasion of a final term paper. All right, Leonard thought, call it five, and figure my own subjective in, my own response to the way hair lies sleekly around a pretty head. I'm a hell of a professor, John Leonard thought; a hell of a psychologist. He looked at his watch. They had been at it almost three-quarters of an hour. The first fireman was almost due, the speed demon, the lad who could dispose of the emotion of love in half an hour, and correct all his errors thereon in fifteen minutes.
Leonard walked back to the table and sat at it, a long man and a thin one, sprawling. His blond hair, which was thinning only a little, looked as if it had been pawed. His face was long and narrow, with unexpectedly red lips; his forehead was high and domed. Looking at himself, John Leonard too often thought, "My God, you look it. What else would you be?" And next he thought, more moderately, "Why shouldn't I? It's what I am." And then, finally, and almost always, "It's what I want to be." It was absurd to object to looking what you were — an associate professor with thinning hair, working toward full professorship and baldness. And — his mind now running on vaguely — doing what comes naturally, as Ethel Merman had been singing the year before at the Imperial. He began, half-consciously, to hum the tune. But you couldn't hum the Merman's little kick. You couldn't hum any part of the Merman.
The trouble was, Professor Leonard thought, rubbing his hair, that too many things came naturally. Teaching was fine, and sometimes almost exciting, and it came naturally. If the mind were as neat as any classification made it, that would round things off. I am John Leonard, Associate Professor of Psychology. Stop. Full stop. But the mind didn't stop, the inclinations didn't stop. Emotions affected human behavior, and human need. Love and hatred, fear and greed. Greed in my case, most probably, John Leonard thought. Greed for color and light, for things which could be touched and tasted, for the sensations which ran from fingertips, from eyes, from nostrils, from the taste buds of the tongue, into the mind. Sensationalist, Professor Leonard told himself. Sensualist, if it came to that. He smiled, thinking of Professor Handleigh, head of the department, round, jovial, to whom being head of a department came more naturally than anything else. A professor of the old school, Handleigh was, with the cultivated light touch. "Ah, Leonard," Handleigh had said once, coming on his junior, with a girl who was clearly his junior's junior, at André Maillaux's, coming on them late in the evening, when they had brandies in front of them. "Ah, Leonard, so far from the cloister?" he had said, with the air of one who, almost pointedly, does not disapprove. And, subsequently, Professor Handleigh was reported to have told someone that Leonard, brilliant beyond question, was also "something of a rogue." Handleigh, John Leonard thought, ran a personal sanctuary for words far gone in obsolescence. A rogue, indeed! A rogue, forsooth. I could stand a brandy now, Leonard thought; I could stand doing the rest of that evening over again.
He controlled his thought, put his glasses on again, and tilted his book to the light. Duration of Post-hypnotic Suggestion in Relation to Induced Fatigue. That was where he was; that was his homework. Then there was movement, the sound of movement, in front of him and he looked up. The first fireman was sliding down his greased pole. He was one of the anonymous ones. He put the blue book on the table in front of Leonard, who murmured, "Your name's on it? Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Ah —."
"It was a very interesting course, sir," the anonymous one said. "I feel I got a lot out of it."
"Good," Leonard murmured. "Er — good."
Mr. Ah went away, having broken the ice. Two other students, neither of whom had wanted to be first, stood up simultaneously and advanced, holding blue offerings. Leonard smiled to their vague smiles, checked the presence of their names, began the pile of blue books. When they had left the classroom, he opened the topmost book, looked at the chirography, and shuddered. He put it down and, unconsciously, rubbed his fingers with the tip of his thumb. He hoped that conscience would not, tomorrow, make him fight his way from the beginning of that one to the mist-enshrouded end. A rogue, indeed! He would bet Handleigh, faced with that, would give it three minutes, two paragraphs, and a B-minus. And I'll bet I won't, Leonard thought, and sighed. He did not enjoy his conscience.
They came more rapidly then. By eight-forty they were coming one a minute. They had enjoyed the course. They had got a lot out of it. They hoped they could arrange to come back for the spring term. "Yes," Professor Leonard murmured. "Yes. I'm glad. I hope so. Yes." And the pile of blue books grew. A second pile started.
Weldon Carey came forward at eight-fifty. He was not smiling. He seemed to consider Leonard one with the desk, the chair. He did not say that he had profited from the course, or that he hoped to come back for the spring term. He put his book down and turned away.
"Oh — Carey," Leonard said. Carey turned back, did not move back, waited. "How's the new play coming?" Leonard said.
"All right," Carey told him. "All right, I guess." He was not impolite, but he was waiting to go on.
"Good," Leonard said. He smiled faintly, and Carey did not return the smile. "Why did you take this course, by the way?" Leonard said.
Carey did not seem surprised at the question, or much interested in the question.
"Had the time," he said and paused. "You can't tell," he added.
"No," Leonard said. "You can't tell. All right, Carey."
He watched Carey go out. Where would he meet Peggy Mott, Leonard wondered. At the subway kiosk? At the coffee counter in the bookshop? Or would he merely wait outside, in the corridor? And where would they go? Professor Leonard looked, almost without volition, at Peggy Mott.
Peggy's head was still bent forward, the light still made shadows on her face. But the shining blondness of her hair reflected the light. She had finished writing, was reading over what she had written. As he watched her she turned the last page, changed a word on it and closed the book. She looked up then and the light fell on her face. She's got the widest eyes, Leonard thought. The widest eyes. She was looking toward him, but did not seem to see him, or anything. The shadow which had been on her face seemed still to be in her eyes, although literally it was not. She sat so for a moment, and then she pushed back the hair which had fallen against her right cheek. She stood up. She had her fur jacket over her arm. They were meeting in the corridor, then, Leonard thought, suddenly.
She was rather tall. He wondered if that was a problem to her. It was better for actresses not to be tall; height in women was a casting problem. He watched her move the few feet toward his desk. She walked well; she had learned that part of her business. He wondered whether she could really act. She smiled as she came toward him and she put the examination book on top of the smaller pile. She had written her name in the corner — "P. S. Mott" and "X33" and the date — and then his own name, "Professor Leonard." He looked up at her, taking his glasses off.
"It's been very interesting," she said. "May I come back next term?"
"I'm glad," he said. "Of course."
He felt he was looking at her too intently, that he was embarrassing them both. He looked down at his desk.
"I hope it's all right," she said, seeming to mean her examination paper. She started away and paused after a few steps. "Next term," she said. "If — if nothing happens."
Then she went and opened the classroom door and kept her left hand on the knob, pulling it shut behind her. There was a large dinner ring on the smallest finger. That was all. Well, Leonard thought. So. Professor Leonard resumed his glasses.
He picked up her blue book. She printed. It was an affectation of which, for practical reasons, he strongly approved. He found it easy to read the first few sentences. He turned the page. Then, as he read on, lines formed in his high forehead, and his eyebrows drew together. He shook his head slightly, as if to shake off something, and went on reading. When he finished, he laid the book down carefully on the pile, took his glasses off and began to polish them with a handkerchief, looking at nothing, looking across the two toilers who remained, still writing anxiously, still pouring forth their ideas of hate and love, of greed and fear.
Professor Leonard did not see them, was not even impatient for them to finish. He sat for a moment, polishing his glasses more and more slowly. Then he stood up, still carrying his glasses in his hand-kerchief, and walked to the window. He looked down into the snow-covered street seven stories below. There were moving figures, indistinguishable, on the cleared sidewalk, and Professor Leonard watched them without thinking about them. He would be damned, Professor Leonard thought; it was, certainly, the damnedest thing. He had not expected anything like this.
CHAPTER 2Friday, 11:15 a.m. to 10:25 p.m.
"— subsidiary rights," Mr. Gerald North said, finishing a sentence. "Make it 'cordially,' Miss Corning, under the circumstances. Now, take one to Miss Wanda Wuerth, and be sure it's u, e, not o, care B and B, dear Miss Wuerth several of our readers have objected that damn that telephone I told them never mind, I'll take it — yes?"
"A Mr. Leonard is calling," the girl at the switchboard said.
"Leonard?" Jerry said.
The switchboard girl was firm.
"A Mr. Leonard," she said. "He says it's important. Wait a minute, please. Yes?" There was a momentary pause. "He says it's Professor Leonard of Dyckman, if that helps," she said. "Just a moment, please." Jerry North reclined against the telephone in his left hand and looked at nothing. "He says you ought to remember," the switchboard said. "He says because it only sold twelve hundred and you lost your —"
"Miss Nelson," Jerry North said, with firmness. "Please. I do remember. Just put Mr. Leonard on."
"I have Mr. North for you now," the switchboard said. "Go ahead, please."
"Mr. North?" a new voice said. It was a male voice, modulated, vigorous. "This is John Leonard. You did a book of mine last year and —"
"I remember," Jerry said. "Hello, Leonard. Another book? I'm afraid —"
John Leonard laughed.
"Don't sound so alarmed," Leonard said. "Not that bad, Mr. North. Nothing worse than murder, this time."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Murder Is Served by Frances Lockridge, Richard Lockridge. Copyright © 1948 by Frances and Richard Lockridge. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Thursday January 22,1 7.40 P.M. to 9.10 P.M.,
Friday,
2 11:15 A.M. to 10:25 P.M.,
3 11:30 A.M. to 2:50 P.M.,
4 2.50 P.M. to 4:40 P.M.,
Saturday,
5 4.05 P.M. to 8:45 P.M.,
6 9:15 P.M: to 10:50 P.M.,
7 10:50 P.M. to 1:15 A.M.,
Sunday,
8 1:15 A.M. to 11:45 A.M.,
9 12:05 P.M. to 2:35 P.M.,
10 3.40 P.M. to 4.45 P.M.,
11 6:10 P.M. to 9:45 P.M.,
12 9:45 P.M. to 10:25 P.M.,
Monday,
13 12.20 A.M. to 1:05 A.M.,
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