by Judy Alter
Susan nodded again. This time she managed a weak, “Thank you, sir.” But she wanted to ask what Scott’s reaction had been.
The interview, which had been exceptionally one-sided, was over. Atwater opened the door for her, shook her hand, thanked her for coming. But as she crossed in front of Shirley’s desk, he said, “Susan? I do hope you’re more talkative in class.” His eyes were laughing.
Outside his office, she collapsed against the wall and stayed there for several minutes, until two secretaries walked by and their curious looks prompted her to move on.
* * *
When she got home that evening about five-thirty, Jake was already there, sharing a drink on the deck with Aunt Jenny. Jake was drinking bourbon, and Aunt Jenny was knitting.
“What’re you making?” Susan asked her.
Aunt Jenny shook her head. “Afghan squares. I’ll never get enough of them, and I hate piecing them. But it keeps me busy.”
Jake and Susan exchanged amused looks over her head, and Jake stood to give Susan a quick kiss on the cheek. Aunt Jenny watched them and beamed happily.
Jake brought Susan a glass of Chardonnay and when she was settled in a chair said, “So how was your day? I hear you went to see Atwater.”
She stared at him. “How do you know?”
“He called me in earlier. Said to give the Missy Jackson case as much attention as I could. And told me you had his full support. I think what he said was, ‘I believe you know Dr. Hogan?’”
Susan, her terror over the interview now behind her, laughed aloud. “He said almost the same thing to me. He’s sly; not much gets past him. I was grateful that he seemed to believe in me.”
Jake took her hand and played with her fingers. “Why shouldn’t he?” His crooked smile testified to his own belief in her.
Susan hadn’t meant to tell him about Eric Lindler. She knew he’d disapprove. But it was a sharing kind of moment, and she opened her mouth before she thought. The story of her interview came tumbling out. “I like him,” she ended lamely. “He’s… he’s not a murderer. And I’m going to try to keep tabs on him, make sure he’s all right.”
Jake started with a stern “Susan!” but Susan interrupted him. “He says she had a job at Neiman’s in Fort Worth. That ought to be easy to check.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll get right on it.” He looked thoughtfully at her. “You think that’ll prove your theory, don’t you?”
Susan nodded.
Aunt Jenny interrupted them in a loud and clear voice. Without ever looking up from her knitting, she said, “He killed her.” After a minute, she said, “Reminds you of Shelley North, doesn’t it, Susan?”
They both whirled to stare at the older woman.
* * *
Jake Phillips knew that Susan didn’t always tell him the whole truth about some of the things she did. Like her lunch with Brandy Perkins. But he didn’t think that she knew that he too could skirt the truth. He certainly didn’t intend to tell her that he’d invited—ordered?—Brandy to his office for a conversation.
Jake had thought long and hard about Susan’s wild assumption that Oak Grove coeds were involved in a call-girl ring. And he wouldn’t have told her, at least not yet, but it made sense to him. Especially after he found out that Missy Jackson most definitely had not worked at Neiman’s. He hadn’t told Susan yet that the Fort Worth branch of the upscale store reported no record of any employee by that name. So what was Missy doing when she told Eric she was going to Fort Worth to work?
He should, he thought, take his information and his suspicions—all right, Susan’s suspicions—right to Dirk Jordan. Indeed, that was what Susan expected of him, he was sure. But if he did that, all of this would soon become public knowledge. As far as Jake could see that had two disadvantages: first, it would expose the school to scandal, and he had as much as promised Atwater he wouldn’t let that happen. Second, and more important, if these suspicions became public, the red-haired man and whoever else was involved would be on the alert—and Susan could be in more danger than she already was.
No, Jake had decided he’d best do some quiet sleuthing himself. He recognized the irony: he was doing what he’d forbidden Susan to do.
Jake sent his administrative assistant Barbara, a middle-aged woman who could have been anything from a full professor to a secretary, to wait for Brandy outside Susan’s class. He supplied a fairly detailed description of the girl’s appearance, based on the night at The City Restaurant but allowing for the casualness of classroom attire. Barbara said she thought she could do it. The challenge was that Barbara had to follow Brandy far enough from the classroom to talk to her without Susan seeing them. Susan knew Barbara well and would have instantly smelled a rat named Jake Phillips. And would have tried to horn in on the interview.
Barbara had to wait outside the classroom twice, first on Monday and then on Wednesday. Brandy was apparently absent the first time, which made Jake wish he could check her attendance and academic achievement records. Damn the privacy of information laws anyway!
The second time, Barbara confronted the girl, and Brandy replied, “I don’t have to talk to anyone I don’t want to.”
“No,” Barbara had told her reasonably, “but Mr. Phillips will go to the Oak Grove police if you don’t cooperate with him.”
Brandy stared at the woman, trying to judge how serious this threat was. Finally, she said, “Okay. But not today. I’ve got a lot to do. I’ll be there at eight tomorrow morning.”
Jake groaned when Barbara reported this. He didn’t normally get to the office until at least eight-thirty. But Thursday morning he was there at eight sharp, clutching a third cup of coffee in the hope that it would wake him up. Brandy appeared at almost nine o’clock, and it was hard for him to keep from making a smart, sarcastic remark.
“I’m late,” she said, sinking into an upholstered chair in his office, “because I almost decided not to come. You couldn’t do anything if I didn’t.” Belligerence stuck out like a bristle brush.
“No,” he said quietly, “I couldn’t do much. But I’m sure you want to solve Missy’s murder as much as I do, and I thought you might help.”
“I don’t know anything.” Her arms were folded across her chest, and she sunk down in her chair, trying to look bored.
Jake could see that every nerve in the girl was strung tight, in spite of her desperate efforts to appear casual and unconcerned. He looked out the window a long minute, giving her time to relax. Then, casually, as though friend to friend, he asked, “You have a good dinner the other night at The City Restaurant?” Relax, my foot! he thought as the girl coiled to attention in her chair. Susan was right: Brandy Perkins was scared to death.
“The City Restaurant? What’s that? I’ve never been any place like that.”
“I saw you, Brandy,” he said quietly. “I was there for dinner myself, and I saw you.”
“How’d you know it was me? We haven’t met before.”
He shrugged. “I’m a cop.” This was clearly not the time to tell her he’d been with Susan Hogan, who had pointed her out.
She sank back in the chair. “So I met my brother at The City Restaurant for dinner. So what?”
“Your brother? Which one—the redhead or the older gentleman you didn’t appear to have known before.” He didn’t add, Then why did you deny it?
She hesitated, staring at him appraisingly, wondering how much trouble she was in. Finally she said, “The red-haired one. He’s not really my brother—we’ve just been friends since grade school, and we feel like brother and sister. He wanted me to meet his boss.”
“Really? What kind of work does he do?”
“Oh,” she waved a hand in the air, “airplanes. He’s doing really well, and his boss… he’s a nice guy. Bought me dinner and everything.”
“Did Missy know this sort-of brother of yours?” Jake asked.
She shrugged. “Not really. She may have met him a time or two, b
ut she didn’t know him.”
She’s lying through her teeth, Jake thought. I’ve got to save this girl before she ends up just like Missy. “I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, Brandy, and I’ll tell you why I’m concerned. I don’t want what happened to Missy to happen to anyone else on this campus, especially not you.”
He saw the look of wild fright cross her face, though she almost instantly covered it with a mask. “Nothing’s going to happen to anybody. That was just an accident. You know, some crazy guy picked Missy as his target. Didn’t know her, didn’t have any reason to choose her except maybe that she was pretty.”
“So are you.”
She let just the briefest flicker of a smile cross her face. “Thanks. But I’m okay, I really am.” She stood to leave and reached out a practiced hand to shake his. “What you really ought to worry about is why that crazy guy stuffed Missy in your girlfriend’s trunk.”
Touche! She left before he could close his mouth.
Later Jake reflected that the only thing that interview had told him was that Brandy Perkins was lying with every word she said and she was scared. Susan’s call-girl theory was becoming more plausible every minute.
Chapter Eight
Susan was doing some secret sleuthing of her own. Remembering how strict the registrar’s office was about privacy of records, she went to the housing office. Deliberately, she went at lunchtime, knowing the director of housing and his staff took long, leisurely, off-campus lunches.
“Hey, Nellie, how’s it goin’?” She breezed in casually and greeted the secretary, a friend ever since the woman’s daughter had taken Susan’s American lit survey class and gotten an A. Nellie Thetford was a pleasant woman in her late forties who always carried about her an air of subservience, as though she were constantly aware that in the world of academia she was a mere secretary—uh, administrative assistant. This attitude made her obsequious, and she was given to changing her mood instantly, trying to present whatever attitude she thought was expected of her at any given moment.
“Dr. Hogan! How are you?” Her genuine pleasure at seeing her daughter’s teacher made Susan cringe, knowing she was about to abuse the poor woman’s trust.
“Fine, fine, Nellie. Nothing new… ’cept I guess you heard about the poor girl who was found in the trunk of my car.” Well, there’s another white lie, Susan thought. I’m not fine. I’m scared, and I’m mad.
Nellie’s face grew solemn. “Of course, everyone on campus knows about it. We all wonder why it was your car somebody put her in.” She stared at Susan a minute. “You seem to be okay about it. I mean, if it was my car… I’d be… oh, I don’t know, but I don’t think I could just keep on coming to work.”
Am I getting paranoid? Does she think I’m guilty because I’m at work? Why doesn’t she say she knows I had nothing to do with it and what a tragedy that it was my car. Aloud, she said, “It’s hard for me to come on campus, Nellie. But I figure I have to help”— She started to say “clear my name” and then decided that was wrong. “I owe it to that poor girl to help find out who put her in my car. I have some responsibility. In fact, I’m trying to find out a few more things about Missy Jackson.”
Nellie’s face turned stern with disapproval. “Does Mr. Phillips know you’re doing that?”
“Oh, of course he does,” Susan lied. “That’s why I’m doing it.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “And, Nellie, I think you can help me.”
“Me, Dr. Hogan?” She beamed with pleasure again. “If you’re sure it’s all right with Mr. Phillips…”
“He’ll be grateful,” Susan assured her. “All I need is some information about Missy’s roommates in previous years.”
“Oh, my!” She drew her mouth into a pucker that reminded Susan of Edith Bunker on All in the Family. “I don’t know… student records.”
“Well, of course, I’m not asking for grades or anything. Just some names.” Susan had decided if she could worm names and majors out of Nellie, she could track down the students herself.
“Well…” Nellie looked around as if to see if anyone was listening. The office was totally empty. “I’ll just see what I can find.”
Susan nearly took a nap, waiting for the woman to return. She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, looked at her watch seven times, and wondered what in heaven’s name was so difficult. At long last, Nellie came back carrying a piece of paper.
“Two of her former roommates are still on campus. I wrote down their names for you.” She thrust the paper at Susan as though anxious to get it out of her hands.
“Great. Thanks, Nellie.” As she stood up, Susan asked ever so casually, “You don’t know what their majors were, do you? I’m wondering about a connection…” She let that absolutely meaningless sentence drift off.
“Well,” Nellie said, “just off the top of my head, I remember that Barbara Buckness was an art major. Very unusual girl. She worked in this office for a while, and I… well, I found her difficult.”
“Thanks, Nellie. I’ll tell Mr. Phillips what a help you’ve been. And give Rosemary my best—how’s her first teaching job going?”
“Oh, just fine, thank you, Dr. Hogan. She loves it, and she still raves about all she learned in your class.”
Susan’s conscience bothered her as she left the housing office, but not too badly. It was twelve forty-five, and she didn’t have office hours until two. She headed for the art department.
The secretary in the art department neither knew nor cared who Susan was. She stared at her computer screen for a long time, apparently bored beyond measure, and finally looked up. “Help you?” she said, her voice flat.
“I’m looking for Barbara Buckness,” she said, “one of your senior majors.”
“Really don’t know where she could be.” The woman cracked a piece of gum, and Susan winced. There should be a law against chewing gum anywhere on an academic campus. Then she thought she sounded like Aunt Jenny.
“Do you know her?” Susan asked.
“Yeah, she’s a sculptor.”
“Terrific,” Susan said. “Thanks for all your help.” She headed for the sculpture lab, which was empty except for Dan Thurman, the teacher. She introduced herself and told him who she was looking for.
“Barbara Buckness? Yeah, one of my brightest students, got a real good career ahead of her. What you want her for?” He was a muscled, short man with blonde hair cut too short. It looked bleached to Susan. He wore jeans, a tight T-shirt, and he exuded the air of someone who thought himself masculine and irresistible.
“Just want to talk to her,” Susan said.
“Well, she’s working on that piece over there,” he jerked his head toward a stand. Whatever stood on it was covered with a drop cloth, “and I expect she’ll be in here about four. She usually works in the late afternoon. I try to come help her when I can fit it into my schedule.”
Susan wondered if he was one of those male faculty members who were not averse to a little hanky-panky with their students. One was caught a couple of years earlier when the student reported him, and the resulting scandal cost the associate professor his career and blackened the school’s name for a while.
“Thanks,” Susan told him. “I’ll come back.”
“Great. What’d you say your name was?” Without shame or embarrassment, he looked directly at her left hand. His words and tone held an invitation that Susan wasn’t interested in.
“Hogan,” she said. “English.” And with that, she was out the door, hoping he would be gone when she came back to meet Barbara Buckness.
“Hogan?” she heard him exclaim behind her. “The one who…”
She was out of hearing before he completed his inquiry.
* * *
Like many art majors, Barbara Buckness dressed the part. She wore baggy cotton trousers, a black turtleneck, and a gray smock-like jacket. The only thing missing was a beret. When Susan entered the studio at four-thirty, the girl was alone, intent on using small,
fine tools on the clay figure of a young woman’s head.
Susan watched a minute in fascination, because the girl’s work dealt with detail which her own eye missed. At last she coughed discreetly—at least, she hoped it was discreet.
Barbara whirled and looked at her. “Yes?”
“May I talk to you for a minute?”
“What about?” It was neither a hostile nor impolite answer, just one of curiosity.
Susan decided to be forthright. “Missy Jackson.”
Barbara Buckness was visibly startled. “Missy? What about her?”
It was time, Susan decided, to approach the girl, and she strode across the studio toward her. She was almost next to the sculptured head when she realized with a shock that it was a bust of Missy Jackson. Involuntarily she said, “That’s her!”
“Yeah,” Barbara said. “I can’t get her out of my mind since… well, you know. So I thought maybe sculpting her would do it. If it turns out okay, I’ll give it to her folks.” She looked sheepish, as though she’d been caught doing something naughty. But then she raised her eyes, looked directly at Susan and said, “Who are you?”
Boy, Susan thought, if they don’t take English, you’re nobody! “Susan Hogan, English,” she said, offering her hand and receiving in turn a hand moist with clay. “I’m the one… it was my car Missy was found it.”
“Oh, yikes, that’s right!” Barbara stared at her. “Everyone thinks you did it.”
“A few mistaken people think I was involved,” Susan corrected.
“Were you?”
“No.”
“If you’d known her, you would have been, willingly,” Barbara said flatly.
“Really?” she was surprised by the girl’s boldness. “I came to talk to you because I heard you roomed with Missy your sophomore year, but I guess you sort of answered my questions already.”
Barbara ignored the last part of Susan’s statement. “I did room with her, at least first semester.”