“Of course, Professor Foner,” she said, her voice quavery, her eyes filling with tears. “Are you the official acting chairman now?”
“I am the unofficial acting chairman,” he replied.
“Self-appointed, Verne?” Professor Lawrence Durbin asked. He was the department’s Shakespeare authority, a bear of a man with unruly red hair.
“President Needler has yet to name an acting chairman, so for the moment, yes,” Foner said, sliding a finger under the knot of his tie and stretching his neck from side to side. “Nevertheless, Dean Bennett requested that I assess the department’s needs, and I take that to mean I am acting as chairman.”
“I see you’ve dressed up in corporate mufti today,” Durbin said. “You must be lobbying for the job.”
Foner stiffened. “I have to report to administration this afternoon. There may be some board members present. I don’t see that my attire concerns you.”
Durbin’s laugh was low and rumbling. He said in stentorian tones, “ ‘Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em.’ ”
Foner glared at him: “Meaning what?” he asked.
“Shakespeare, Verne. Twelfth Night. You remind me of Malvolio. Don’t despair over a lack of breeding or talent. There’s always luck.” The bearlike, red-headed Shakespearean expert laughed again and turned away.
Zoe Colarulli waved the sheet of paper Edgar had distributed. “Could we get down to business? You have me down for teaching Wes’s Readings in Contemporary Literature, Verne. Don’t you think you should have discussed this with me first? I have a full load, what with the Introduction to Language Arts and my composition classes. That’s at least sixty-five students. I don’t see how I can handle any more. Rebecca’s classes are smaller. Why can’t she handle some of this?”
“Now, just a minute. I have as many students as you do, Zoe,” Rebecca said. “Don’t try to pass your responsibilities off on me.”
“Yes, but mine are composition classes, and that requires more work.”
“I work just as hard as you do,” Rebecca said, glaring at the younger woman.
“Ladies, please, don’t stress yourselves. That’s what we’re here for,” Foner said smoothly, “to determine who does what. Nothing is set in stone. We’re going to be democratic about this.”
“Vernon, I would like to add something, if I may.” The speaker was Professor Emmanuel Rosenfeld, a soft-spoken man in his sixties. He’d been at Schoolman longer than any of the others, including Mrs. Tingwell, and had served as department chair earlier in his academic career.
“Go ahead, Manny.”
“You have a very ambitious agenda here, for which I compliment you,” he said. “But we’ll be here all day if we debate the merits of each of these items.”
“You’re right. That’s why—”
“May I suggest that for each agenda item, you designate a volunteer to take charge of the problem and come up with the resolution? Then we can all re-convene at four-thirty and you’ll have your report for the administration. Does that sound good?”
Under Professor Rosenfeld’s gentle prodding, the responsibilities were quickly parceled out, and the meeting broke up with a new sense of purpose. Mrs. Tingwell and Edgar retired to a corner to put together a preliminary list of supplies the department would need, Edgar writing down her tearful instructions with his left hand, while reaching for the tissue box with his right. Professors Colarulli and McAllister took on the dilemma of who would teach Wes’s classes. Larry Durbin proposed to investigate which files still existed and which missing ones needed to be replaced. Manny Rosenfeld had offered to chair the memorial service.
“May I help with arranging the memorial service?” I asked him.
“I would be very grateful for your assistance, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Please call me Jessica.”
“And you must call me Manny. We’re excited to have a celebrity on campus. Is this your first time teaching?”
“Actually, it’s not,” I said as we walked outside together.
The air was cool enough for a light jacket, but the sun warmed our backs as we walked across the quad, which was once again filled with students. The grass had been cleared of heavy debris, and some of the refuse hanging from the trees had been pulled down. Workmen on ladders were plucking pink tufts of insulation from one of the oaks, where it had caught in the cracks of the rough bark. Others with pointed sticks were batting or poking other tree-borne scraps to dislodge them from the remaining branches. We stopped to watch the work.
“In the spring, those trees will have new shoots and leaves, and we won’t see a trace of what happened here,” Rosenfeld said. “And by next fall, when they shed those leaves, their bare branches will look normal again.”
“It’s wonderful, the earth’s powers of regeneration.”
“It is, but my poor friend Wes will miss it. Fall was his favorite season. He loved the feeling of anticipation when the students came back to campus. He loved their enthusiasm and how they challenged him, never letting him get away with pat answers.”
“What a lovely memory. He sounds like a wonderful man. I wish I’d known him better. We’d met only a few times.”
“Wes was basically a good guy, but a hard man to know, quiet, private, worked hard, kept to himself. A bachelor. No one really close to him. Our only social interaction was the monthly poker game in town.”
“He must have enjoyed that.”
“He was good at it, I’ll tell you that. It’s a low-stakes, friendly game, fifty cents, a dollar. We don’t let anyone play too deep. If a guy is down thirty bucks, we make him stop playing. But I don’t ever remember Wes losing. He was always serious, concentrated on his cards. I often wondered if he enjoyed himself or just came to avoid being labeled antisocial.”
“He probably looked forward to those evenings more than you know.”
“I hope you’re right. He’d changed quite a bit these last three or four months.”
“Oh? How so?”
Rosenfeld frowned, as though trying to put words to what he was thinking. “Wes always was a bit paranoid, but it got worse recently. He seemed unusually on edge, anxious, distrustful. I’ve no idea why.”
“Obviously something heavy weighing on his mind,” I offered.
“Yes. I keep thinking there were still things he would have wanted to do. Travel, or read something new. I’ve got a pile of books I’ve been meaning to find time for. I picked one up for the first time last night.”
“That’s what death does,” I said. “It reminds us to appreciate life, not to take it for granted. But it’s a harsh way to learn that lesson.”
“It’s ironic, really. You get up in the morning, shave, dress, go about your business, and a storm comes up, dumps a house on top of you, and kills you.”
“Yes, it is ironic,” I said.
But was that what had happened? I was still disturbed about the way Wes Newmark had died. What was it? I knew I’d better come up with an answer soon or I was in for another sleepless night.
Chapter Five
“Dr. Zelinsky, pick up five-one-six-six,” a voice said over the public-address system. “Dr. Zelinsky, pick up five-one-six-six.”
Harriet and I walked down the corridor of New Salem County Hospital on Monday morning, bright orange visitor badges clipped to our collars, our plans to visit Schoolman’s bursar, Phil Adler, the previous day having been scuttled by her campus responsibilities.
“I hate hospitals,” Harriet said, jamming her fists into her jacket pockets.
“Lots of people do,” I said. “They don’t bother me.”
“I used to think it was because my husband died in a hospital. I was there for months, sleeping on a lumpy cot. Every time I went home to change and returned there, I would feel sick to my stomach. I thought it must just be that hospital and that situation, but this is a different hospital, and I don’t like this one either.”
“What do you
think bothers you?”
“The smell,” she said. “It’s faint, not strong. They keep this place very clean, I know. But there’s always this slight odor.”
“A mixture of institutional food and antiseptic?”
“That’s it exactly,” she said. “It gets me every time.”
Adler’s room was in the comer at the end of the hall. Harriet knocked on the partially closed door and pushed it open. He was reclining against two pillows, with his leg in a full cast, supported by three more pillows. He looked older than when I’d seen him last, his hair mussed, and with gray circles under his eyes.
“Are we disturbing you, Phil?” Harriet asked.
“Not at all,” he said, raising a bandaged hand. “Come on in. Can’t offer you much in hospitality, but you’re welcome.”
“You remember Jessica Fletcher, don’t you, Phil?”
“Sure. Our celebrity professor.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Not great,” he said. “There’s quite a lot of pain, and the pills last only so long.”
“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” I said. “Would you like us to call the nurse for you?”
“No, thanks. Won’t do any good. The nurse they assigned me is a bad-tempered one.”
“I heard that,” said a nurse, bustling into the room and setting a tray on the table next to his bed.
“I meant you to,” he said.
“And don’t I know it.” She picked up his wrist and timed his pulse. “Well, sweet talk won’t get you anywhere,” she said, poking a digital thermometer in his ear.
“Would you like us to leave the room?” I asked.
“Not necessary,” she replied. “He’ll be happy to hear it’s time for his meds. Maybe it’ll make him a nicer host.”
“How long will Phil have to stay in the hospital?” Harriet asked.
“I’m not the doctor, but I’m guessing he’ll be here close to a week,” the nurse said. “They put the bones back together but they can’t suture the skin till they make sure there’s no infection. He’s also got two cracked ribs and a bruised spleen that the doctors are watching.” She handed him a paper cup with two pills in it, and poured a glass of water from a bedside carafe.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I see your manners are showing this afternoon. That’s a nice change from this morning.” She picked up her tray. “He can use some cheering. Have a nice visit, ladies.” She was out the door.
“I guess I’ve been complaining a lot.”
“You’ve got reason,” Harriet said. “I brought you something from Mrs. Grace in the kitchen.” She dug into her bag and came up with a foil-wrapped parcel.
“What is it?”
“A piece of the apple crumb cake she served at breakfast this morning.”
Adler took the package with a wan smile and placed it on the rolling table next to his bed. “Please thank her for me.” He was silent for a moment. “I heard about Wes,” he said in a low voice.
Harriet sighed. “You did? I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said. “I thought I’d give you a little more time to recover.”
“Brad Zelinsky was in this morning with that policeman, Parish. They told me. I was waiting for Wes,” he said, looking from Harriet to me. “That’s why I got caught in the tornado. By the time I decided I should run, the storm was over the house and I was under a beam.”
“What was the appointment about?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, picking at a loose end of his bandage. “He just said it was urgent, that he had things to discuss with me and I shouldn’t leave the office.”
“Then you don’t have any idea what he wanted to talk about?” Harriet asked.
“None. Parish asked me the same questions.”
“Considering your position at the college,” I said, “do you think it would be safe to say Wes Newmark had some question for you having to do with budget or finances?”
“You can’t be sure. Maybe he knew some student who needed financial aid. Or maybe he wanted to borrow my car. He did that once last year when his old Chevy broke down. How do I know what he wanted? He didn’t say anything except, ‘Stay there; I need to talk to you.’ ”
“Were you good friends?” I asked.
“Not really. We had the occasional lunch together in the cafeteria, and I sat in on his regular poker game a couple of times—Brad invited me—but I can’t say we were good friends.”
“Who were the regulars in that game?”
“For heaven’s sake, Jessica, what could that possibly have to do with the appointment?”
“I’m just curious, Harriet. It’s not important.”
“Why do you think Wes didn’t keep his appointment?” I asked Phil.
“Who knows? Maybe he couldn’t find whatever he wanted to show me. Or maybe he was running late and the storm overpowered him like it did me. Hard to keep an appointment when you’re lying under a pile of furniture.”
“It’s really strange,” Harriet said softly. “He never told me he was meeting with you, but whatever he wanted to discuss must have been extremely important to him.”
“Well, I don’t know what it was,” Phil said, “and I guess we’ll never know.” He leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes. “I think the pills are kicking in,” he said.
“One last thing, Phil,” I said. “When did Wes make the appointment with you?”
“I can’t remember.”
“We’ll leave you in peace,” Harriet said, pulling on my arm. “Is there anything I can bring you the next time I come?”
He shook his head, eyes still closed. “If I think of anything, I’ll call,” he said, his speech slightly slurred. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“I want to check in with the social-work department before we leave,” Harriet said after we’d closed Phil’s door behind us. “He’s going to need assistance when he leaves the hospital. With that cast, he won’t be able to dress himself, much less get around. I want to alert them to the problem.”
“I thought he was married,” I said. “He wears a ring.”
“Was. His wife left him last year. I don’t think he’s gotten over it. The office is this way,” she said, steering me around a comer. “She was one of those self-centered glamour girls, long blond hair, high heels and jeans. A city girl. And she had a difficult time adjusting to small-town college life. I never cared for her. She complained all the time. I can’t say I was sorry when I heard she went back to Chicago. Apparently she has family there.”
“Harriet, would you mind if I stopped somewhere else while you see the social worker?”
“No, of course not. I’ll only be fifteen minutes or so. Where shall we meet?”
“How about right outside the auxiliary gift shop. If you’re delayed, I can browse their shelves.”
“That sounds perfect,” she said. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
I went to the reception desk in the lobby and asked where I could find Dr. Zelinsky.
“Would you like me to page him for you?” the lady in the pink uniform asked.
“No, I don’t want to interrupt him if he’s busy or with a patient. Does he have an office in the building where I can leave him a note?”
“You could leave a message for him with the pathology lab. It’s on the basement level. Turn right when you exit the elevator.”
I followed her directions and came to a glass door on which PATHOLOGY was etched in block letters. I pushed the door open. A pair of lab technicians bent over microscopes looked up. “Can I help you?” one asked.
“I’m looking for Dr. Zelinsky,” I said. “If he’s not here, I can leave him a message.”
“Let me see if he’s available. Who shall I say is asking for him?”
“We haven’t met. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m a visiting professor at Schoolman College.”
“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to an office chair. “I
’ll find out if he can see you.”
A moment later, Dr. Brad Zelinsky emerged from an office in the back.
“How do you do,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ve heard about you. How can I help you today?”
“I wonder if we could speak privately for just a moment.”
Chapter Six
“I’m sure your fears are unfounded, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Dr. Zelinsky as he opened the door for me. He’d kindly given me ten minutes, and that was all I’d needed to make my point.
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “It’s just a feeling. I can’t quite pinpoint what it was that triggered my thinking.”
“People die in tornadoes every year. Most often it’s just a tragic accident, but there are always numskulls who ignore the warnings. They figure, ‘It’ll never happen to me.’ And we’ve got Phil Adler upstairs as another example of this kind of stupidity. You can quote me on that.”
“I’m not planning to write anything about this,” I said.
“Just a figure of speech,” he said. “I gave Phil a piece of my mind this morning. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t run away, and that’s his own fault. I told him we’ve got enough problems taking care of sick patients in this hospital without throwing in healthy people who are just too dumb to take shelter when they’re supposed to.” He drew a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped perspiration from his brow. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get so hot on the topic.”
“I understand,” I said. “And as I told you, I’m really relieved to hear that you’ll be conducting an autopsy.”
“Got to do a postmortem whenever there’s an accidental death. That’s the law.”
“Or one under suspicious circumstances.”
Zelinsky smiled. “You’re sure a persistent one,” he said. “Yes, that’s true, too. But as I said, I don’t see anything to support that theory right now.”
“But if you do—”
“If I do, I’ll call you,” he said. “Or you can call me. You have my card?”
“Yes.” I patted my jacket pocket.
“The autopsy results are public information, so there won’t be any trouble if I read you the report.”
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