Always Kiss the Corpse by Sandy Frances Duncan Page B

heads nodded, agreeing.
    â€œWe can help you track down Cora,” Sheila continued. “Would it help to talk to any of the professors of the student, Sandro was it?”
    â€œSandro Vasiliadis, yes. We’d appreciate that.”
    She sat at her computer. “That was V-a-s—?”
    Kyra spelled the name. “Likely registered as Alessandro.”
    Sheila entered the information. She squinted at the screen. “You did say Alessandro?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWe seem to have a mis-entry here. We don’t have any Alessandro Vasiliadis.”
    Kyra squinted. “No?”
    â€œMistakes happen, it’s rare, but sometimes. We have a Vasiliadis. But it’s Alessandra.” She stressed the final a .
    â€œTypos, yes.” But, Kyra thought, Mrs. Vasiliadis had said, Rudy had said: no beard, no five o’clock shadow.
    â€œIt must be the same person. Alessandra, or dro, Vasiliadis is, was?—oh, the poor dear—taking two courses. Professor Atkinson in American History, that would be the US between the World Wars course. Atkinson’s popular, a large lecture course, he might not know his students well. And a course in Sociology, gender politics, cross-listed in Women’s Studies.”
    â€œWho’s teaching that one?” Kyra asked.
    â€œThat would be,” Sheila pecked at the keyboard, “Harriet St. Clair. The names are in the catalogue.” She strode toward a shelf, took down a book and handed it to Kyra.
    â€œIs either professor on campus today?”
    Sheila gazed at Kyra, and sighed. “This is all—quite terrible. When a student dies. I can look.” She moused her way through several computer windows. “Professor Atkinson doesn’t have classes or office hours today. Professor St. Clair teaches at three, so she’s likely in her office now.” Sheila told them the office number.
    Kyra bulldogged on. “We need to speak with Ms. Lipton-Norton as well.”
    Sheila, back to the computer. “She should be leaving a science methods course in ten minutes. Elementary education, third floor, down the hall, room 349.”
    â€œThank you.”
    In the hallway Kyra started to speak but Noel took her by the elbow. “Outside.” They sat on a low cement wall. “Okay. What have we got here.”
    â€œIf you’re thinking what I’m thinking, we know what we’re thinking. But we need to talk to a friend. Like Lipton-Norton.” She glanced at her watch. “Who’ll be leaving class in about five minutes. Come on.”
    Through a glass slit in the 349 door they could see students shuffling, standing, collecting notebooks and jackets. The door opened to release a young man in a hurry. Others followed. A thin young woman wearing heavy eye makeup and thick brown lipstick, a tough face, came out. Her short hair was emerald green.
    Kyra stepped toward her. “Excuse me, are you Cora?”
    â€œHuh?” But suddenly she smiled and her face was transformed to lovely. “Oh, no. You want her,” she pointed into the room, “that’s Cora.”
    A while since he’d seen such a finely formed face, thought Noel. Kyra thanked the girl. They waited for a second woman with short green hair. As she passed, Kyra again asked, “Cora?”
    â€œYes?” Hesitation. Taller, also thin, ears with rings as Claude Martin had mentioned, and the green hair. Maybe an inch of it, but the fuzz held a lot of color. She wore jeans and a short-waisted pullover which revealed three rings in her navel. Her thumb hooked a sweatshirt over one shoulder, the other hand grasped two books and a notebook.
    â€œMay we speak with you? It’s about your friend Vasiliadis.”
    â€œOh. Oh. Okay, yeah.”
    Noel asked, “You want a coffee?”
    â€œUh, okay. The cafeteria? Tea, maybe.” She led the way down two flights into a large space with a stage at one end. The