by Judy Alter
Startled, Susan said, “Why shouldn’t I?”
The girl shrugged. “Police might not like it. I mean, it’s none of my business, Dr. Hogan, but, aren’t you more mixed up in this already than you should be?”
“Yeah, Jamie, I am,” she said as she left the office.
She couldn’t call Jake. He could probably find out the boy’s schedule, but he would forbid her to talk to him. Besides, he was probably furious at her now for sneaking out of the house. Discouraged already at eight-thirty, Susan went back to her office.
Jake called almost the minute she got in the door. “That wasn’t funny, Susan. Dammit, how can a person protect you when you’re so goddamned stubborn?”
“I’m sorry,” she said and really meant it. “But, Jake, I can’t have a bodyguard every minute—even if he is the most handsome man in Oak Grove and the best lover and—”
“Cut it out, Susan. I’m serious.”
“So am I. Jake, I watched to see that I wasn’t followed”—she didn’t say that she didn’t know what she’d have done if someone followed her—“and I checked out the house carefully before I went in.”
“I’m going to get you a gun,” he said.
“I’m scared of guns.”
“I don’t care. You’ll have to take a class and after that, you won’t be scared.”
“I don’t have time to take a class,” she protested.
“You’ll make time,” he said, his voice grim. “This morning I’ll send someone over to take that cat to Jordan.”
“It deserves to be buried, Jake, not thrown into a Dumpster. Jordan doesn’t need the box and the cat—he just needs the note.”
“He needs to see the whole thing. Then, by God, I’ll bury it. But Susan, you try a man’s patience.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
She longed for coffee but was reluctant to face the lounge. While she contemplated that dilemma, Ellen appeared at her door.
“You need coffee,” she said, and there was no question in her voice. Ellen had apparently decided to go casual this day too, for she wore denim pants and a denim shirt, a concho belt looped below her waist—very southwestern looking. Her hair was in a ponytail—well, not in the teenage style but one of those that sat low at the neck.
“Yeah,” Susan said, “I do.”
“If I go get you some and bring it back here, will you listen to something weird that happened to me?”
“Sure.” Susan’s attention perked up a bit. Something weird happening to someone else would be a relief.
Ellen was back in minutes. “You could have gone yourself. Place is deserted. Ever since the, ah, the murder, no one seems to hang out at the department lounge.”
“It’s because they don’t want to meet me,” Susan said.
“Oh, go feel sorry for yourself, why don’t you?”
It was enough to startle Susan. “Okay, what weird happened to you?”
“Well, yesterday, I just couldn’t face the faculty center—okay, okay, I feel the same way you do, I just usually don’t admit it. Anyway, I went to the cafeteria in the Union, got my salad, and decided to eat it right there. Found a table in the corner and thought it was great. I’d eat in peaceful solitude, even in the midst of all those noisy students.”
“Sounds good,” Susan said. “So what’s weird?”
“Well, I’m sitting there, and this guy comes up and says, ‘You really remind me of someone.’ I wanted to say, ‘Listen, sonny, that’s the oldest line in the world and you’re ten years too young.’”
“He couldn’t tell that by looking at you,” Susan said.
“Is that a slap because I dress like the kids?” Ellen was just the least bit indignant.
Susan laughed a little. “No, it’s an honest compliment. Nobody will mistake me for twenty-one ever again.”
“You laughed,” Ellen whispered. “I’m glad I’m telling you this story.” Then her voice grew stronger again. “Anyway, he sat down without so much as a ‘May I?’ or ‘Do you mind?’”
“Did he have food?”
She shook her head. “No. It was like he was looking around the cafeteria, seeing who he could spot. But wait till you hear what he said.”
Somewhere in the back of Susan’s brain a warning bell was going off. “Okay, what did he say?” She leaned her elbows on the desk and, face propped in her hands, stared at Ellen.
“He said, ‘Want to make some extra money after class? I’ll give you my card.’”
“He offered you a job? Doing what?”
“We never got that far,” Ellen admitted. “I was so astounded I just said, ‘No, thanks.’” Ellen gestured as she spoke, her eyes sometimes growing wide with the puzzle of the story she was telling. “I told him, ‘I’m a teacher,’ and he bolted.”
“You should have taken the card,” Susan said.
Ellen nodded. “I suppose so, but I was so taken back…”
Susan felt herself falling into a detective mode. “What did he look like? Was he a, what do they call them? Not older, but nontraditional student?”
Ellen shook her head. “I don’t know all ten-thousand students on this campus, but I swear I’ve never seen him before. He had red hair—that kind of real bright red that there’s no suspicion it’s anything but natural. And it, well, it held to his head in waves, like it had been marcelled.”
“What the hell is marcelled?” Susan asked.
Ellen rolled her eyes. “You know, those waves they used to create with a special machine. My grandmother had her hair marcelled.”
“Aunt Jenny just has hers permed,” Susan said. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
“You would if you saw it,” Ellen said. “And his waves were natural. Nobody marcells hair anymore.”
“Thank heaven,” Susan said, and they both laughed. Susan thought Ellen was right—it was good to laugh again.
“Enjoying yourselves, ladies?” Dr. Scott stuck his head in the door. “Just passing by, and I couldn’t help hearing your jocularity.”
Susan hoped he hadn’t also heard their conversation. If he disapproved of Susan for her unconventional ways, he also disapproved of Ellen for her youthful appearance. “Too young to teach,” he had once been overheard to say. At least Ellen did not come up for tenure review until the next year.
“Just a light moment in a serious discussion about teaching methods,” Susan said.
“I’m sure.” His head withdrew.
“If he heard…” Ellen’s voice trailed off.
“I don’t think he did, Ellen. But there’s something in that story, something I can’t put my finger on. But it has to do with Missy Jackson.”
“Missy Jackson? Susan, you’re getting tunnel vision. It was just a weird case of mistaken identity or whatever.”
“Okay, but if you see that guy again, get his card.”
“Yes, sir!” Ellen saluted and marched out of the office, whistling, “This is the Army, Mr. Jones!”
When Ellen was gone, Susan realized she hadn’t told her about the cat. Maybe if she had, Ellen wouldn’t have accused her of tunnel vision. Then again, maybe she ought not broadcast around campus everything that frightened her. If whoever did all this was on campus, it would only provide fuel for his crazy fire. She began to wonder if Missy Jackson’s murder had nothing to do with it, and Ernie Westin was trying to distract her from getting her book far enough along to seek a contract for publication.
Susan couldn’t concentrate. She sharpened pencils, read her grade book twice, checked her notes for today’s two classes, and got not one bit of new work done. But at ten o’clock, something popped into her mind that made her realize why she was so interested in Ellen’s story: Missy Jackson had lied about having a work-study job, and yet she had earned money somehow. What did that have to do with the red-haired stranger with funny waves in his hair who offered coeds ways to make money after class?
If she could answer that question, she might know who was framing her for murder—a
nd trying to kill her at the same time.
John Scott had called a departmental meeting for four that afternoon, which kept Susan on campus much later than she normally would have stayed on a Friday afternoon. It would, she knew, be boring as always. Ellen stopped by her office and they went together, slinking into seats near the door. Susan vowed if it went past five, she was leaving. Ernie Westin sat right in the front row, and when Dr. Scott (as he preferred to be called) strode into the room, Westin called out, “Want me to take minutes, John?”
Scott looked first surprised and then disapproving. “No, that won’t be necessary. This will be brief.”
Scott droned on for a few minutes about mid-semester break, attendance records (not all teachers kept them) and the importance of a level grading system—all things they’d heard before. Then he turned, almost happily, to his main subject.
“As you all know we’ve had a tragic death on campus, and one of our own has been accused of murder.” At least he had the grace to refrain from either naming Susan or looking directly at her. “We must all work together to solve this crime and free the English department from any stigma that hangs over it at present. I will be issuing some memoranda on curriculum, since I understand a curriculum problem may have contributed to this sad situation.”
Susan sat stunned. She saw no point in telling him, here and now, that she hadn’t been accused. He hadn’t named her, but he didn’t need to. What bothered her more was the curriculum reference—he meant her class on women’s lit. Would he drop it from the schedule? It was the most useful and satisfactory—and popular—class she taught, and for a minute she saw white with fury. Ellen grabbed her hand, just as Westin said, “We all know, sir, that our job is to teach them about literature, not to encourage new ways of thinking.”
Toad! Susan rushed from the room, not caring what impression she left behind.
* * *
Susan spent Friday night in a frenzy of cleaning that left her exhausted but did much to distract her from that awful department meeting. It wasn’t so much cleaning as it was straightening, sorting, hiding—this stack of books could go back to the library, that pile of papers should be in her office at school, the dirty socks and underwear she fished from under the couch needed to go in the washing machine. She washed sheets, put clean ones on the guest bed, hung fresh towels in the bath for Aunt Jenny.
The frantic work made her forget about dead coeds and dead cats and fear, until the phone rang. It was Jake. “You all right?”
“Of course I’m all right,” she said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. “I’m all locked in, and I’m in the cleanest house you ever saw.”
“And you’re not scared?”
“Haven’t even thought about it.” Silently she added, until this minute. “What did Jordan say about the kitten?”
Jake paused. “Uh, well, he’s got a theory.”
Susan rolled her eyes heavenward. She could tell from Jake’s voice that the “theory” was going to make her angry. “What’s his theory?”
“That you’ve angered some student, and that kid is taking advantage of the Missy Jackson case to harass you. He, well, he thinks the incident with the Jeep and the kitten are related to each other but completely separate from the murder case.”
Susan yelped. “Doesn’t he see it as an awfully strange coincidence that I’m involved in both? Especially in a town where nothing like any of this ever happens?”
Jake tried to choose his words carefully. “I think he sees the one reflecting the other.”
“What the hell does that mean, Jake? Could you speak English?”
“He thinks the fact that a student is angry enough at you to do these things says something about your character, something that makes it more likely that you’re involved in the murder.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “What school of crime detection did he go to?” she asked incredulously.
“I’m on my way to get dinner and bring it over. What do you want?”
“Nothing,” she said too harshly. “I just need to be alone.” Even as she said the words, she knew she wanted to tell him about the department meeting.
He kept his voice firm. “Susan, I will not—repeat, will not—let you stay alone in that house tonight.”
“Well, that’s what I’m going to do,” she said and slammed down the phone. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face.
Susan ate cold cereal for supper. The milk in the refrigerator had soured, so she mixed the powdered cream she kept for Jake’s coffee with a little ice water and poured it over the cereal. The result was barely passable, and she gave up.
She managed to keep busy all evening—and thereby keep the demons away from her—by cleaning the refrigerator. She threw away the remnants of beef bourguignon—dinner Jake made sometime before the murder?—two pieces of moldy cheese, some lunch meat she no longer trusted, and the carton of milk that had soured. Then she washed the shelves and put an open dish of baking soda in the fridge. Aunt Jenny had a thing about clean refrigerators.
Ellen called to sympathize about the department meeting, but Susan was in no mood for sympathy. She was still angry. “My curriculum did not cause a murder. That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”
“I agree,” Ellen said, “but could you please not shout in my ear?”
“Sorry. I’m in a mood. Turned Jake away tonight too. Let me talk to you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Will you call if you need me… or need a sympathetic ear?”
Susan promised and hung up the phone.
Finally, she settled down to read one of the few Zane Grey novels she hadn’t read. The Shepherd of Guadalupe, about a rancher who returns from the Civil War to find his New Mexico land occupied by a nester, was so far removed from Susan’s own troubles that she was able to lose herself in the book and forget anything else. There was a love story—Grey always wove them in—and lots of violence and melodrama. It was good escape reading.
About eleven, after she’d finished the book, she drank a glass of wine and decided it was time to go to bed. Hah! And Jake thought I’d be afraid alone! Knowing they were locked but just to be sure, she checked the doors and windows and then fell into bed in her jeans and T-shirt.
She woke at three-thirty in a cold sweat. Was that a noise she heard? She lay motionless, afraid to move. Around her everything was pitch dark and absolutely silent. Finally, as her eyes adjusted, the glow from the night light helped her to see. Shakily, she stumbled from her bed and began to prowl the house, turning on lights in the guest bedroom and then the bath and finally making her way into the kitchen. From the kitchen window she peered out toward the parking area by her deck.
There sat Jake’s truck. When she looked closely she could see him sitting sprawled across the front seat. Opening the sliding glass doors, she called out, “What are you doing?”
He kicked open a door with his feet and slid out of the truck. “Watching you,” he said. Then with a hand on his back, he moaned, “I’m getting too old for a stakeout. Makes me stiff and sore.”
Susan couldn’t stifle a laugh. “Why are you watching me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I told you I wasn’t going to let you be alone here at night. And it’s a good thing. You got scared.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his hand. “Don’t deny it, Susan. Why else did you go from room to room turning lights on and off?”
“I thought I heard a noise,” she muttered, chagrined at having been caught in her moment of fear.
“Probably your own snoring woke you,” he said. “I kind of circled the house about midnight, and you were really lettin’ it go. How much wine you drink last night?”
“Not that much!” she said indignantly.
“Well,” Jake said, “I’m glad nobody with evil on his mind came by. You were out like… what’s that phrase?”
“Lottie’s eye,” she supplied. “I’ve no idea where it ca
me from.” She looked at him a long minute. “You going to come in?”
“Yeah. I’d really rather spend the rest of the night in your bed than in this truck.”
“This is your last chance,” she said teasingly, as he brushed past her. “When Aunt Jenny’s here, you’re banished.”
He grabbed her and pulled her to the bedroom. “Then let’s not waste time!” He was laughing as he said it, but once in the bedroom they made a ritual of undressing each other, dancing to a tune only they heard, and then slowly, ever so slowly, leading each other to the bed.
It was nearing morning before they slept, and Susan later remembered murmuring, “It’s a good thing no one tried to kill me. You wouldn’t have heard them and wouldn’t have been able to protect me.”
“Umm,” he murmured sleepily, “you’re right.”
* * *
After Jake left about eleven on Saturday morning, Susan settled down to make notes on The Shepherd of Guadalupe. Maybe it was Jake, who promised—threatened? insisted?—he’d be back for one more night before Aunt Jenny’s arrival, or maybe it was the sunny, pleasant day, but Susan felt better than she had since the day before Missy Jackson’s murder. She even took her book and laptop out on the deck to work. The notion that anyone thought her a bad influence was far from her mind, and nothing seemed out of order in her world.
When the phone rang, she went impatiently to answer it, resentful of the interruption of her work.
It was Brandy Perkins, Missy Jackson’s roommate. “I’ve got to see you,” she said, her voice tense.
“What about?” Susan asked, her attention having jumped immediately from Zane Grey to Missy Jackson.
“Missy,” came the reply.
“I don’t know any more than you do,” Susan protested.
“I’ve got to see you,” the girl repeated, and then her voice faltered as she said, “It’s real important.”
Susan couldn’t tell what she detected in the girl’s voice, but she was suddenly alarmed, worried about Brandy. “Can we meet somewhere, maybe have some lunch? I’m famished.”
“I won’t eat,” Brandy said, “but I’ll meet you at Subway in thirty minutes.”