Sounds of Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Joan," moaned Pamela, "now you sound like Rocky."

  "Please don’t say I sound like that big, soldier boy of yours!" she shrieked.

  "Not your voice, your complaint."

  "Joan is right," chimed in Arliss, "I’m so glad you don't have that recording. I mean if it got out that you did, the killer—whoever he or she is--might target you. Oh, God, Pam."

  "Then," she sighed. "I guess you'll have to keep on worrying."

  "I thought you said you gave it to the police."

  "Not before I made a copy for myself," she answered, reaching down under the table, into her purse and bringing out the notorious disk, showing them a glimpse of it, then quickly returning it to her purse. "Look, I found Charlotte. I feel a sense of responsibility for what happened to her. I know I can find something in that recording if I just have enough time to work on it."

  "I think," said Joan, shaking her head, "that it's very unwise. I think you’re simply asking for trouble, my dear."

  Their dinners arrived and for a while there was silence as the three colleagues scarfed up their enchiladas, burritos, and tortillas--along with buckets of salsa and chips.

  "Yum," intoned Pamela, "Wonderful!"

  "How does this compare to what that gourmet general of yours makes?" asked Joan.

  "Different," she answered, "It's nice for a change. And, of course, the company cannot be beat." She smiled at her two friends who returned her warm expression.

  "Pam," said Arliss, slowing down on her enchiladas, "Didn't you say you had several things to tell us?"

  "I did," she replied.

  "You mean, there's more than--" Joan bent in close, and whispered, pointing discreetly to the disk under the table, "the audio recording of the actual killing that could get you killed?"

  "This is probably not so dramatic," she tossed out, "just more like some juicy gossip, which you may already have heard."

  "Speak! Speak!" said Arliss, encouraging with hand gestures, hot sauce dripping out of her mouth.

  "I have this in confidence from Jane Marie, so you have her to thank for it, but, please, don't accredit it to her--you might get her in trouble,"

  "Jane Marie who?" asked Arliss, shrugging.

  "Don't know the woman," agreed Joan, munching a tortilla chip.

  "The night of the murder, right before my seminar, Charlotte and Mitchell had a horrible row in his office—I heard them.”

  "Do you know what it was about?" asked Arliss.

  "Not really," said Pamela, shaking her head, "just that it was loud. Then, here's a follow-up. The next day, Jane Marie found an unaddressed envelope in Mitchell’s mailbox that was not there the night before when Jane Marie left. Jane Marie suspected it was from Charlotte because she recognized Charlotte’s personal stationery. She opened the envelope and discovered a photograph of a woman."

  "A photograph of whom?" asked Joan.

  "Jane Marie didn’t know," said Pamela, "There was just a photo. No note. She had no idea who it was, but she thought it might be a former student and so she went through some old yearbooks and found this woman's picture in an annual from about ten years ago. Her name is Evelyn Carrier."

  "That’s weird," said Arliss, "Why would Charlotte put a former student's photo in Mitchell's box without a note?"

  "Yes," agreed Pamela, "why? Anyway, there's more. This afternoon, the woman shows up and asks to see Mitchell. She goes in his office and stays there for about an hour. All this according to Jane Marie. When this Evelyn left Mitchell’s office, she was traumatized, said Jane Marie. She’d been crying and her eyes were bloodshot."

  "Maybe," suggested Arliss, "she didn't know about Charlotte's death, and Mitchell told her. She could have been one of Charlotte's former students or something."

  "Yes," said Pamela, "that's possible, but why the subterfuge on Charlotte’s part? Why not just give him the photo? Why not attach a note? Why put just a photo in his mailbox with nothing attached? And why would Mitchell keep that from Jane Marie? He tells her everything. He hasn’t said a word to her about any of this."

  "It’s a mystery," said Joan, looking puzzled. "Do you think it’s connected to Charlotte's murder?"

  "I don't know. Maybe," said Pamela.

  "It does seem like a possibility," said Arliss. She took a deep breath. "Do you think, whatever it is, that it was so horrible that it gave Mitchell a motive to murder Charlotte?"

  "Mitchell murder Charlotte," said Joan. "That's ridiculous. They may have yelled at each other, but he’s Casper Milktoast; I can't see him physically attacking anyone."

  "Joan," said Pamela, "can you see anyone in the department attacking her?"

  "No," said Joan, "but if the killer is someone who had a personal grudge against Charlotte, it could be anyone. There must be hundreds of people who fit that bill."

  “Maybe it was this Evelyn,” suggested Arliss.

  "The police seem to think it's someone in the department," suggested Pamela, carefully.

  "Why?" asked Arliss.

  "First," responded Pamela, "look at access. Anyone in the department could have done it. We all have keys to the lab. Charlotte was alone in the lab; she probably locked the door after herself. Only faculty members and grad students who had checked out lab keys could have gotten in. That limits the pool of suspects quite a bit."

  “But the door was open when you found her, you said,” argued Joan.

  “The killer probably left it open when he—or she—left,” responded Pamela, “but that doesn’t mean that Charlotte was working in the lab alone at night with the door open. I’m sure she probably locked herself in. She was fanatical about lab security. Remember what Mitchell said at the meeting.”

  "So," said Arliss, looking worried, "the police really do think the killer is one of us."

  "Yes, because we have keys," said Pamela, "I know it wasn't me, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't either of you. So who does that leave?"

  "Mitchell, Willard, Rex, Laura, Phin, Jane Marie, and Bob," listed Joan, counting on her fingers.

  "It wouldn't be Bob," said Arliss, quickly.

  "Dear," answered Joan, "I was just listing the faculty members who didn't happen to be sitting here."

  "That does narrow the field, doesn't it?" said Pamela. "But, we know all these people. Truly, I can't imagine any of them killing anyone."

  "Maybe the police are wrong, Pamela," said Joan, firmly, "maybe it is someone from the outside.”

  “And speaking of someone from outside, have either of you ever heard of a researcher named John Pierce Culver? Who did research on addiction?” queried Pamela.

  "That would be in Charlotte’s domain,” answered Arliss.

  “Joan?”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Charlotte was reading his dissertation online when she was killed,” responded Pamela. “Shoop told me when I dropped off the disk yesterday.”

  “So? Does it matter what she was reading?” asked Arliss.

  “Normally, I’d say not,” answered Pamela, thinking, “but when she left Mitchell’s office that night she was in a fury. I just can’t see her toddling down to the lab and suddenly focusing on her addiction research. I think there’s a possibility she was working on something that led to her murder.” She felt a sudden shiver roll up her spine as she realized she hadn’t mentioned—and didn’t intend to mention to the two women—the secret notebook that Shoop had showed her. "Oh, my," she added, looking at both of their faces, "I’ve totally monopolized this evening. I haven't even asked either of you about what's going on in your lives."

  "My dear," sighed Joan, "what excitement is there for a widow whose children live thousands of miles away? I live vicariously through you."

  "And you, Arliss?" asked Pamela, turning to her more laid back friend.

  "Same 'ol, same 'ol," shrugged Arliss.

  It was getting late. The women had finished their meals--and several Margaritas. Discussing a murder that had recently
been committed in their department had had a sobering effect on their behavior. They decided that it was time to go, so they gathered their belongings, divided up the check three ways, and headed out of Who-Who's. After farewell hugs, Arliss slid into Joan’s car, as Joan had promised, and the two women took off.

  Pamela got in her car, switched on her ignition and her headlights, and exited Who-Who's' lot onto Jackson Drive toward her home. It was fairly busy for a Friday night, but Who-Who's was on her edge of town and wasn't too far from her house. Soon she was in the country, a non-populated area, and the number of cars diminished.

  One car behind her was particularly bothersome, its headlights on bright. The driver was, as far as Pamela was concerned, following much too close. How infuriating! She squinted and tried to turn away from the glare shining at her in her rear view mirror. As she looked up, checking, she noticed that the vehicle behind her was getting even closer to her car, as if the driver was trying to annoy her. Should she speed up or would that encourage the driver to chase her? If she slowed down, the driver might take advantage and taunt her.

  It was probably some teenage joy rider out on a Friday night, she thought, up to no good. She sped up a bit to test the waters, and the vehicle behind followed suit, getting progressively closer and closer. As she watched the actions of the car in her mirror, she realized that within a few more seconds, the car would slam into her if she didn't do something immediately. She increased her speed. Her turn was coming up quickly. If she could just make it to her turn, maybe by turning onto it abruptly, the vehicle behind her would keep going straight and leave her alone. Here it came, her turn. Quickly she jerked the steering wheel to the right and her car swerved down the side street. The car behind her sped beyond her down Jackson Drive.

  Struggling to maintain control of her vehicle, Pamela drove as fast as she could, winding through the streets she knew so well to her home, before the crazed driver could figure out what had happened, turn around, and follow her into her sub-division. She saw her house. Quickly, she pressed her garage door opener, willing the door to open immediately, but it groaned slowing upward. As fast as possible, she drove inside her garage and immediately hit the button to drop the garage door. Only then, did she get out of her car.

  Now, she thought, panting with fear, was that a coincidence? Or was someone out to get her?

  Chapter 19

  Rocky, of course, was waiting for her. When she told him of her encounter with the crazed driver, he became even more incensed than usual, insisting that she call the police immediately. She sat on the edge of their bed, still clutching her purse and books.

  "Rocky, no!" she pleaded, "I just need to calm down for a moment. I can't take anymore police right now." She looked at him soulfully.

  "All right," he demurred, "but, just until you relax a bit, then we're contacting them."

  "Fine," she agreed, and set her belongings aside and removed her jacket. "Is Angie here?"

  "No, she's spending the night at Tina's. Did you get anything to eat?" he asked.

  "Yes," she responded, "Plenty of Who-Who's' burritos and several of their margaritas."

  "Are you sure this guy in the car wasn't some alcohol-induced figment of your imagination?"

  "Definitely not!" she said, with irritation.

  "Okay, Babe," he said, "just wait here a minute. I know what you need."

  She leaned back on the bed, her head feeling like a throbbing tomato on the pillow. Oh, my God, she wondered. How much did I drink? I know what I experienced, and I was chased by a crazy driver. It did happen.

  Rocky was gone for a while. When he returned, he handed her one of his famous cups of hot cocoa.

  "Work on this," he said. She sipped slowly on the luscious liquid, the foam top coating her upper lip. Her husband disappeared into their bathroom and soon she could hear water running in their tub. When he returned later, he grabbed her hand and led her to the bathroom.

  "Let's get those clothes off," he ordered.

  “Yes, sir!” She gave him a wobbly salute.

  She saw that he’d filled the tub and put in her favorite bubble bath. He’d lit a vanilla candle and set it on the sink, the aroma from the wax filling the room. She stripped off her blouse and skirt and then slid out of her underwear. Carefully she lifted a leg over the edge and lowered herself into the tub.

  Rocky dimmed the lights until only the flickering candlelight remained. He sat at the end of the tub near her feet and pressed the Jacuzzi button. Immediately soft foam churned into large billows. Sliding lower in the tub, Pamela leaned her head back.

  "Give me your foot," he ordered. She lifted her right leg and placed her heel in his palm. Using firm but consistent movements he massaged the bottom of her foot, being careful to manipulate each toe. Pamela experienced relaxation move throughout her body, her worries seeping slowly away, as if passing out of her foot and into Rocky's strong hands.

  "So," he spoke softly, "do you feel like talking or should I just rub?"

  "Rub," she mumbled.

  "You must’ve had a great time with your girlfriends," he noted, smiling.

  "Yup," she agreed.

  "The three of you probably were in gossip heaven," he added.

  She opened her eyes, somewhat annoyed. "Gossip? Never!" she declared. "We’re scientists. We analyze. We evaluate."

  "Yeah," he said, nodding perceptively, "It looks like you've analyzed yourself into a drunken stupor. I'm surprised you made it home."

  "And with a maniac following me," she added, waving her arms around.

  "Well," he observed, "you won't have to worry about that this weekend."

  "Why?" she asked, sitting up a bit, the tub water sloshing around.

  "Because I called the police when I got your cocoa and told them what had happened," he told her. "I actually spoke with your Detective Shoop."

  She realized she should be mad at him for calling Shoop, but she was just too tired.

  "My Detective Shoop? He was there working on Friday night?"

  "Amazing," he said, "Your local law enforcement hard at work. He seemed reasonable enough--and concerned about you. He said--and these were his words---‘I told your wife to lay low.’"

  "I was laying low," she protested, "I was having drinks with my friends."

  "That's not what he meant," he scolded her, "He was talking about making that damn disk." He rubbed harder on her foot.

  "Hey!" she shrieked, "If you're annoyed with me, don't take it out on my toes."

  "Sorry, Babe," he apologized. "I only want to help you—really."

  "I know, honest," she said, feeling a cold shiver move from her spine through the water. "I don't know if what I'm doing is right or wrong--foolish or smart. I really don't know."

  "Then, just don't do anything," he urged, "Let the police do their job. It's their job to investigate murders--not yours."

  "But, Rocky," she cried, "I found her. Charlotte was a colleague. No, I wasn't crazy about her--but I found her body. I feel I owe it to her to do what I can to find her killer. And, don't you see? The main clue--if there is a clue in all of this--is sound. Sound. That's my specialty. If anybody in all this mess should be able to figure out the sounds on that recording--it should be me. It's as if fate is telling me to plunge ahead, saying 'You found her body. Now, you find her killer.'"

  "You're a crazy woman," said Rocky, shaking his head, "but you're my crazy woman." He gently put down the foot he’d been massaging and reached over and lifted her other foot, and began his ministrations on that appendage. She let him rub her foot and enjoyed anew the tingling sensations on this part of her body. She began to relax again, the bubbly water calming her.

  "So, what did Shoop say when you told him about the driver who followed me from the restaurant?" she asked.

  "He said there wasn't much they could do." Rocky seemed deflated. "But he did say they’d send a patrol car to drive by our house and check to make certain no one was bothering us."

  "That was n
ice," she answered.

  "Yeah," he grumbled, "nice. A murderer follows you home and you say nice."

  "Rocky," she repeated, "It was probably just some drunken teenager. It’s Friday night, for heaven’s sake."

  "Anyway," he announced, "you have the entire weekend to relax and take it easy. No thinking about murder."

  “Not the entire weekend,” she noted, “I have to go to Charlotte’s memorial service on Sunday afternoon.”

  “You’ll be getting an escort for that,” he said, with a pointed glare, “Me.”

  “That will be lovely, dear,” she smiled back at him. “You won't mind then," she asked, tentatively, "if I listen to the disk, will you?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "No," she said sweetly, rubbing her free foot against the inside of his knee.

  "Not fair," he said.

  "Anyway," she continued, "I really need to be able to discuss what I hear with you. There is obviously Charlotte's choking. But there are a lot of other odd noises--bumps, scratches, clicks, scrapes. If I could identify some of the noises, maybe I could figure out something about the killer."

  "How?" he asked.

  "I don’t know," she responded. "Maybe one or more of the noises might be connected to someone or something. I just have no idea."

  "Yeah, yeah," he nodded, expecting the next remark, "you're a scientist. You have to follow the data."

  "Right!"

  "I do have some other tidbits for you to savor," she teased.

  "As a cook," he noted warmly, "I’m all for savoring."

  She told him about the big fight and the mysterious photo and then added, “Oh, and that's not all. There's the Tenure Committee. We have three candidates up for tenure this year--but, the Dean apparently wants to restrict our department to two."

  "That hardly seems fair," he mused.

  "I know," she added, the bubbles dripping off her shoulders. "Mitchell was pushing, I think, for Rex and Phineas. Charlotte was probably behind Laura because she was her protégé."

  "Maybe," he suggested, "that was the subject of the big fight."