“But it's too late now,” continued Jane Marie, even faster, “He opened it himself. Or, rather I think he opened it himself, so I won't be able to see him react. Maybe he hasn't opened it. It could still be sitting there on his desk unopened. He was horribly upset when he came in. Opening his mail was probably the furthest thing on his mind."
"Jane Marie!" shouted Pamela in a stage whisper, "What was in the envelope?"
"Do you think I’m horrible for opening it? I was just concerned for him? I just want to protect him."
"No, you're not horrible. You have his best interests at heart. What was in the envelope?"
"If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone."
"All right, all right," Pamela nodded. "I won't tell. Just tell me what was in this mysterious envelope that you think Dr. Clark put in Dr. Marks's mailbox."
"It was a photograph of a woman."
"A woman?" Pamela asked. "What woman?" She pulled up a chair next to the secretary’s desk.
"I don't know," said Jane Marie. "I'd never seen her before." She rubbed her face again, stroking her cheeks upward as if they were the source of her grief.
"Was it his wife?"
"No, not Velma," said Jane Marie, "I know her. I'd recognize her photograph, even an old one."
"Describe it," ordered Pamela, scooting her chair closer to Jane Marie.
"It was a black and white photo and it appeared to be snipped from a newspaper--fairly recently. The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties. Pretty. Smiling. Blonde. Very stylish."
"Was there anything written on the photograph?"
"No, I checked. Nothing front or back. No handwriting. No print."
"Why would Charlotte put a photograph of a woman no one knows in an envelope and stick it in Mitchell's mailbox?"
"My question exactly," said Jane Marie. "Do you think it has something to do with their fight?"
"Maybe. But I may be wrong in my other assumption."
"What other assumption?" asked Jane Marie.
"That it’s a photograph of a woman no one knows. You don't know her, but that doesn't mean that Mitchell doesn't."
"You’re right," said Jane Marie, her eyes and mouth widening in concert. "What should we do?"
"Nothing," announced Pamela. She stood up.
"But what if it’s related to Dr. Clark’s death?" she said, trembling.
"Jane Marie," said Pamela, firmly. "If I were you, I’d forget that you ever saw that photograph. This is Mitchell's problem. He’s an adult--and head of the department, I might add. If he believes it’s pertinent to Charlotte’s death, I’m sure he’ll mention it to the police." Jane Marie seemed to take solace from Pamela's words.
"You’re right. Thank you, Dr. Barnes. Have a candie" She held out the Jack-o-lantern and Pamela grabbed a wrapped toffee.
“You’re welcome.” She smiled weakly. After grabbing her mail out of her slot, she started to go, but stopped when another thought crossed her mind. She turned abruptly, frowning.
"What?" asked Jane Marie, "Oh, Dr. Barnes, you do think that photo is related to Dr. Clark’s death don’t you?"
"I don't know. They did have that fight last night." Pamela stood there scowling.
"I know, but, surely that isn’t related to her death." Jane Marie looked at Pamela. "I mean, I thought someone came into the lab and attacked her--someone unknown. That's what Mitchell thought it must be."
"They don’t know much yet," answered Pamela, "We’ll just have to wait and see." Keeping her eyes on Jane Marie, Pamela turned and headed out of the main office, not looking where she was going.
As she exited, she bumped into a younger colleague, Rex Tyson, entering, looking dapper in a grey pinstripe suit. Rex was Phineas Ottenback’s research partner and the two of them made a prolific and productive team. However, they were as different as two professors could be—Phin being the shy, nebbish, and Rex, the dynamic, gregarious ladies’ man. Pamela knew that their interests in deviant personality behavior obviously brought them together as researchers, but they were definitely the departmental odd couple—although she doubted they were homosexuals, as both had wives--somewhere. Neither wife appeared with any regularity at department functions.
"My God, Pamela," Rex crooned, "You came to work? I thought for sure you’d stay home. How awful for you to discover Charlotte like that."
"Yes," she agreed, "Not at all pleasant."
"You really shouldn't be here," he reiterated in his warm voice, placing his hands gently under her elbow. "I mean, you really shouldn't have come in." He tsk-tsked her with a sympathetic smile and two very deep dimples.
"Maybe not," she sighed, "but I'm here now, so I'm going to stay." She smiled at him. Really, she wasn’t an invalid, she thought, and she wished people would quit acting as if she were. She continued on her way up the side stairs towards her office.
Now, hours later, after her morning classes, she found herself sitting on her sofa eating her lunch. It was a lovely thin-sliced turkey sandwich on a crescent roll--with tomatoes, endive lettuce, and a creamy garlic sauce. Normally, Pamela would be savoring each delectable morsel. But today, she just couldn’t enjoy it. Rocky loved being her personal chef and had created her favorite sandwich, knowing how stressful the day would be for her. She sipped her orange spiced tea from the thermos he always packed. He’d even included two crispy Madeleines that he baked last week. She smiled as she thought of the effort her sweet husband invested into creating these sack lunches for her as well as their family dinners. The Army had taught him the basics but he had taken that knowledge to new heights of gourmet magnificence. For her, it would be work, but for him gourmet cooking was therapy—more like an obsession, something like working out at the gym was for her. Oh, my God, it had been ages since she’d worked out and she could feel her thighs expanding just sitting here....
She grabbed her hair brush from her purse and walked to her full-length mirror on the back of her office door (great for checking to see if one’s slip was showing before class) so she could run her brush through her hair. She perused her form and face. Every time she saw herself in the mirror, it didn’t seem like the person she pictured in her own mind—definitely older, plumper, and not nearly as cheerful-looking as she usually felt. Did she look particularly more stressed today than usual? She couldn’t tell. She certainly felt it. Flip, flip. A few strokes with her brush and her hair-do looked renewed.
Replacing her brush in her pocketbook, she returned to her couch and half-heartedly attempted to nibble on her sandwich for a while. Suddenly she stopped mid-bite. Here she was munching away, drifting off, when one of her colleagues had just been murdered. What kind of a person are you? she chided. Then, answering her own question, she responded mentally, Oh, give yourself a break, Pamela. This is the first moment she’d actually sat down and relaxed since she’d arrived on campus this morning.
She had awakened at her regular hour of seven o'clock and had made sure both Rocky and Angela were up and got to their classes on time. As for Rocky, he’d been out the door with only a brief kiss and a whispered warning to be careful. Rocky never let his feelings stand in the way of his duty—part of his military training—and something he’d instilled in both her and Angela over the years.
Her daughter Angela had been petulant, almost as if one of her mother’s colleagues dying was a personal affront to her. She had wanted to talk to Pamela the previous night and was upset that her mother had had to stay late. Angela changed her tune, however, when she discovered that her mother had found the dead woman. Then, she’d seemed suddenly intrigued and Pamela had had to provide her with a blow by blow description of what had happened while she prepared Angela's breakfast—not a pleasant combination What a ghastly way to bond with my child, Pamela had thought—crime and cereal. However, the previous night’s events had provided them an opportunity for a rare mother-daughter conversation which eventually turned to more mundane matters:
"How did that essay come out that you were
working on last night?" Pamela had asked.
"I turned it in," answered her daughter.
"Good," said Pamela, carefully, not wanting to unwittingly tackle a topic that would antagonize Angela during this brief conversation opportunity. "What was it about?"
"I told you. We had to write about some difficult experience we had. I wrote about Carl."
"You did?" questioned Pamela. She was surprised that her daughter had actually discussed the painful experience she’d had with a boy in junior high school who suddenly began bullying her for no valid reason. The boy had terrorized several students, not just Angela, and eventually had been shipped off to boarding school by his parents. The bullying had stopped but the pain had lingered for Angela.
“Did you get your paper back?” asked Pamela.
“Not yet.”
She wanted to quiz her daughter further about the content of the essay, but decided that Angela would reveal what she wanted in her own good time. For the moment, Pamela was happy to hear that Angela had managed to face this particular demon in a positive, constructive way and that she was able to discuss it with her mother. She only hoped that the English professor would not belittle Angela’s revelations or focus so totally on her vocabulary and grammatical mistakes that Angela would regret writing about the wrenching event. Angela struggled with every aspect of her life. She seemed to look for—or at least expect--the worst in everything, especially herself. The results of that early bullying experience just wouldn’t seem to go away.
Now, sitting here on her office couch, as she thought about their talk this morning, Pamela felt a small tear gather in the corner of her eye. She loved this little girl--or rather this young woman--for Angela was now eighteen and a college freshman, although Pamela often wondered if Angela had the same feelings for her. Even a slight show of affection from her daughter would be appreciated.
Was all that this morning? It seemed like years ago. Yesterday--last night--the discovery of the body now seemed like it had occurred in another decade. Pamela felt in limbo. It was all she could do just to eat her sandwich—and think.
She wondered if she should ring Jane Marie's extension to see what was going on downstairs. Maybe the police were finished interviewing Mitchell. She’d like to know the outcome. She’d like to know if--when--Shoop would be coming back to talk to her. Surely, he would. If she had more questions in just the few hours since she’d discovered Charlotte's body, surely he would too.
She hadn’t mentioned to Shoop that Charlotte and Mitchell had been arguing when she overheard them talking in Mitchell’s office last night before the murder. Now there was the issue of the weird photograph that Charlotte had apparently placed in Mitchell’s mailbox after the argument. Having never before been interrogated in a murder investigation, she really wasn't sure what was and what was not an appropriate concern for discussion.
She finished her sandwich. It was delicious. As she sipped her spiced tea, she thought back to her classes this morning. Oh, the students had been difficult, as she knew they would be. In the past when tragedy had struck--like 9/11 or Hurricane Katrina--students needed class time to process the event. The death of Charlotte Clark was no different, except it was closer to home and scarier.
Many of her students had questions about what had happened. Many were concerned for their own safety because they assumed that a murder in the building meant that a possible serial killer was on the loose. Pamela tried her best to allay those fears. She assured them that the police thought (although she was not completely sure what the police thought) that Charlotte Clark’s murder was an isolated event. Dr. Clark was alone in the lab, she said, and it was very late at night. If they continued to be reasonably cautious, they needn’t be afraid. That seemed to calm them somewhat.
Some students seemed worried about Pamela's welfare also. They expressed concern that she might have been in danger. This touched Pamela deeply, and she admitted to herself that she was frightened, although she tried not to let her students see her fear.
But her fear was not so much that some maniac was on the loose somewhere on campus and might strike at any moment. No, her fear was of something more insidious. Someone had killed Charlotte Clark, and Pamela did not think, any more than Detective Shoop evidently thought, that it was done by a thief caught in the act of stealing equipment from the lab. Pamela was beginning to believe more and more strongly that whoever killed Charlotte had intended to do so for reasons of their own, reasons that had nothing to do with theft.
Chapter 7
She heard the crisp, sharp tapping of footsteps coming quickly towards her office. She recognized the sound of Dr. Joan Bentley's sturdy, yet lady-like heels. Joan appeared at her door, and knocked. Pamela leaned back on her sofa.
"Thank God, it’s you," she sighed, looking up at Joan.
"My dear," said Joan, entering and setting herself primly on the straight back chair near the door. "You’ve been a busy girl since I saw you yesterday. What a horrible night for you!" The older woman tilted her head of white hair, stylishly coiffed in a loose bob, and looked expectantly towards Pamela.
"Joan," Pamela sighed, "When did you hear?"
"Arliss called me last night," Joan said. "We debated whether to call you at home, but decided we’d talk to you today. You needed your sleep."
"Arliss heard about it last night?"
"It was on the local eleven o'clock news," reported Joan calmly, nodding.
"Did they mention me finding her?"
"No, dear," Joan answered, "But they said a female colleague in the Psychology Department who was teaching a night class found her. That would be you."
"No," groaned Pamela. "I don't want to get involved with reporters."
"Just avoid them. If they ask to interview you, just say no," she replied, as if it were quite simple. Pamela wished Joan would loan her the magic wand she used whenever she encountered a nosy reporter. Joan was a well-known researcher in her own area of educational psychology, almost as famous as Charlotte Clark was in the field of addiction. Some of Joan’s studies had even drawn attention from the local media and she was well-accustomed to handling the press.
Pamela heard the sound of another set of footsteps heading down the hallway. She recognized this pair also--the long, striding, sneaker-clad gait of Arliss MacGregor. Arliss's head appeared in her doorway. Arliss was lean and lanky and dressed more like a boy, in trousers, a man-shirt, and a vest--than like the instructor and lab director that she was.
"My God, Pam!" She entered the office, waving her arms around. "What happened?" She plopped down in Pamela's desk chair.
"I wish I knew," said Pamela. "I wish I’d just gone home last night instead of checking to see if the lab was locked. Someone else would have found her then."
"Thank you, Mitchell Marks!" announced Arliss, hands on hips, "Protect our computer lab at all costs! Who knows what you may find there?"
"Arliss!" chided Joan, "This has been a traumatic experience for Pamela. Just imagine finding a dead body."
"And to make it worse--it was Charlotte's," said Arliss, pulling a wayward black lock out of her face and back into her ponytail.
"Arliss,” said Joan.
"Come on, Joan," sneered Arliss, "You didn't like her any better than anyone else did." She leaned back and put her feet up on the desk. Pamela was not thrilled when Arliss took over her desk like this, but it was one of the drawbacks she tolerated in order to maintain her favored position on her sofa.
"I didn't wish her dead," said Joan, her nostrils puffing out as her nose rose skyward. She folded her hands neatly on her lap.
"Neither did I," said Arliss, slamming her feet firmly on the floor.
"Please, you two!" Pamela cried, throwing her hands up in defense. "Can't we stop this?"
"I'm sorry, Pam," said Arliss, "really, I am. For you, I have nothing but sympathy." She blinked and stuck out her lower lip.
"Yes, dear," agreed Joan, reaching over and patting Pamela’s hand. "We both
are here for you. You're the one we're concerned about. Nobody can do anything now for Charlotte anyway."
"So," Arliss, began again, "What can we do to help you? Anything. Just ask." She flung her arms wide in a gesture of conciliation.
"Yes, dear, why don't you take a day or two off? I’d be glad to cover your classes." Joan offered, flouncing her skirt out a bit as she edged closer on her chair.
"Me too," agreed Arliss. The two friends edged closer to Pamela, hoping to provide support.
"No," said Pamela, firmly. "That’s not what I need. I need to keep busy. My mind is working overtime. I just can't stop thinking about it."
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Joan, shaking her head, "it must have been horrible."
"What did she look like? I mean, was it gross?" asked Arliss, sotto voce, scooting even closer to Pamela on Pamela's wheeled desk chair.
"Arliss!" responded Joan, "I can’t believe you. You’re not typically so insensitive." She gave Arliss a penetrating stare.
"Hey," said Arliss, "I'm just curious. Pam's the first person I’ve ever known to discover a dead body. Don't pretend that you aren't curious too, Joan." She peered back at Joan over the tops of her black frame glasses.
"Ladies," said Pamela, holding up her hands and calming her two friends as best she could, "I'm happy to share my experience with you. Lord knows, I had no special feeling for Charlotte, but she was a fellow human being, so I'd at least like to be civil, if that’s acceptable?"
"Just tell us the juicy details and we’ll be models of civility," agreed Arliss, flinging one arm in front of herself in a sweeping gesture. Joan nodded in agreement.
"There's really not much to relate," said Pamela, "Kent Drummond, my graduate assistant, went to check on the security lock in the lab after our seminar, and almost immediately came running back yelling. I went down there and discovered Charlotte, at Carrel #4, bent over, the power cord from a headphone set wrapped around her neck. It was quite obvious she was dead.” She related all the events of the previous evening for her two friends, including the gruesome details for Arliss’ benefit and concluded with, “That was it. Nothing more."
Sounds of Murder Page 5