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Eventually, I did get to talk to the secretaries. But before going over to their offices with Jim, I spent about half an hour with Alice Singleton. Our conversation, if that was the mot juste, had been quite straightforward, but left me puzzled.
"Al," too, had hated Gillespie. But she was direct and articulate as to the reasons for her antipathy and its long-standing nature. She had, as she put it, been revolted by "that man" for upwards of two decades. It turned out that it had been Al and her husband to whom the one-time Mrs. Gillespie had fled when fleeing the loathsome professor. (This was a revelation, as the newspapers hadn't even mentioned a spouse -- though everyone knows they are prime suspects.)
Alice Singleton had been a surprise. Not a surprise like Nan, but a surprise. First of all, though obviously over 50, she gave the impression of limitless energy. Secondly, though she was equally obviously of an older academic generation, she dressed like a woman who knew that she was a woman, not a neuter academic. She was wearing an autumn-y dress (though the weather was more like spring in New England -- and late spring at that), and her greying, once-auburn hair was neatly bobbed at just-above-shoulder length. And she was enormous.
Not fat. Not really that tall. Maybe a tad under six feet, she must have weighed over 200 pounds. But every ounce was well-distributed and, as I said, she was obviously a woman. Just larger than I had expected. And her dress, too, in red and orange and brown made her look gargantuan. She filled Jim's doorway, and filled Jim's office when she entered.
"So you're the chap who found Cy," she began in a low and unexpectedly attractive voice. "I saw your piece on Laxness but didn't finish it. I can't get myself into novels about nuclear power stations and homey communists in Iceland. I must admit I'm glad he's dead -- Cy, not Laxness. He's been a thorn in this department's side for twenty years. Now we can get someone decent in the early novel. Lots of young people looking for jobs these days, not at all like the early sixties. I called Susan right away, and she wasn't sorry at all, either." She paused for breath.
"Susan?"
"Cy's wife. Former wife. Whatever. She left him -- oh, eighteen years ago. I remember her arriving on our doorstep the evening she left him. Just there. Pretty as a picture with a little valise in her hand and their Pontiac out in front. They'd been married about seven or eight months, and Susan had just had it. She'd never realized what she was getting into. Anyone could have told her that he was a monster. But she was a grad student and he was a professor -- I guess he'd just been promoted to associate professor. So she was sold on his intellect and he on her legs or some other part of her anatomy. She stayed with us three or four days -- never even spoke to Cy -- and then moved back north. Mountain View or Los Altos or something. Her parents were there. I think they're both dead now. I only went up there once, for the wedding. Anyway, she got some Bay Area or LA lawyer and the whole divorce was done very quickly. I never get those legal things straight." She paused again and I looked at Jim. He looked as though Alice's narrative force and physical bulk had overwhelmed him completely. I caught myself wondering just what Mr. Singleton was like.
"Where's Susan Gillespie now?" I asked innocently.
"Oh, she's not Gillespie. She went back to her maiden name, Mitchell, and then remarried about two years later. She's now Susan Larsen. Her husband's an insurance man and they've got two teen-aged girls. They live all the way up north, near Oregon. In Yreka." Al turned to face Jim, "Did you know that 'Yreka Bakery' is a palindrome?"
"Hunh?"
"'Yreka Bakery' is a palindrome. You know. The same thing backwards and forwards. Like 'dad' and 'civic' and 'Madam, I'm Adam' and 'Able was I ere I saw Elba.' There are a lot of them. Some student from UCSD pointed it out to me." She looked pleased as hell, like a kid tasting a favorite candy. I tried to look interested, but word games weren't my topic for the day. I leaned forward.
"So you phoned Susan Larsen?"
"Yes. Around two. Maybe two-thirty. I got out of my one o'clock around ten to and went to get my mail. The secretaries were all agog about the murder, though it turned out that there was nothing on the radio yet. But one of the girls knows a security guard and he came right over to tell her all about it." She looked at me shrewdly. "Susan's the obvious suspect, isn't she. The ex-wife. Well, there's no hope there. She was certainly in Yreka around two, and there's no way at all she could have gotten there from San Diego that fast. The paper said that Cy had been killed between 9:30 and ten." And with that her battery ran down and she looked her age.
"I'm developing a lot of curiosity about Gillespie," I said, lamely.
"He's determined to play Peter Wimsey," my faithful Watson put in.
Alice smiled. "I can see why you wanted to talk to me. I'm the perfect suspect. I certainly detested Cy. Had for decades. And I can't account for my whereabouts between nine and ten yesterday morning." She shot me a brilliant smile. "Oh, I was in my office. But no students came around that early, and I didn't see Fred or any of the secretaries. Or talk on the phone to one of the deans. So, I've got no alibi. I spoke to one of the officers yesterday, but wasn't hauled in. I guess I'm not a good candidate for the gas chamber." She cocked her head to one side and heaved her enormous breasts in a histrionic sigh.
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