by Donn Taylor
I’d hardly walked in the door when a student asked, “Is it true that someone murdered Professor Fortier?”
My cerebral musicians responded with three toots from a kazoo. I would have done the same, but that would not have been scholarly. So I only said, “It’s true that she’s dead. Anything beyond that is up to the police.”
Another student piped up. “Are you going to investigate?”
“We all are,” I said. “We’re going to investigate how Western civilization got us where we are today and why that is important. We’ll begin by looking at an obscure but important turning point in early English history.”
With resigned expressions at being denied their hot topic, the students settled back for a routine class in things they’d never heard of. The Synod of Whitby in A.D. 664 is one of those odd occasions when a few people’s simple actions produced far-reaching results they never imagined. King Osby of Northumbria observed Easter by the Scottish calendar while his queen observed it a week later by the Roman calendar. King Osby called the synod to resolve the question. Hearing that Peter founded the church at Rome and that he was keeper of the keys in heaven, the king changed to the Roman calendar to remove a possible obstacle to his entry into heaven.
The unforeseen result over time was that the tiny, competitive kingdoms of Anglo-Saxon England moved toward unity under the influence of a vigorous church while Scotland remained fragmented and outside the civilizing influence of Rome.
These small historical events and their huge results suggest that a force greater than human intellects directs the major tides of history. But the question remains: Does the Providence that controls the tides also concern itself with individual waves? And what happens when the waves clash with each other? These are theological questions, so I don’t tackle them in a history class.
Six or seven students showed genuine interest, and that’s all it takes to motivate me. By the end of class, serotonin was flooding in my brain, and I could agree with Browning’s Pippa that “God’s in His heaven—/ All’s right with the world.”
But my uncooperative internal pianist kept playing something atonal by Poulenc that sounded like it would never get anywhere. It didn’t, and I wasn’t getting anywhere either with worrying about what Mitra Fortier had said about my job. If she’d shared her thoughts with anyone else, the most probable recipients were her colleagues. So I sought them out in the Science Center.
Mitra’s office was locked, with yellow crime-scene tape almost obscuring the prominent mf that marked her door. I bypassed it and found Weldon Combes in the office just beyond. He looked up from his desk as I entered.
“Come in, Press.” He waved a pipestem-thin arm toward a chair against a side wall. “I suppose you’re here about Mitra’s death.”
“I guess so.” I adjusted my trifocals and tried to look as confused as I felt. “She and Faith were good friends, and her death made me realize I didn’t really know her.”
Combes fidgeted. “I knew her only professionally, though my wife and I had her over for dinner a couple of times. She did a fine job of teaching, and she put all of us to shame on math, especially probability theory.”
“Probability theory?” This wasn’t going the way I’d hoped.
“Yes.” Combes gazed off into space. “She worked out a system for winning at blackjack. It worked so well that they barred her from the tables in Las Vegas.”
That got my attention. During spring break three years ago, about the time Faith was dying, a faculty group spent spring break in Las Vegas. Our philosophy professor got in debt and had to pay off the mob by directing its rackets from our campus computer system. That led to last fall’s murder.
“I didn’t know Mitra had struck it rich,” I said.
Combes laughed. “They stopped her before she could break the bank. Two big guys escorted her into one of the offices. Several of us—faculty and trustees—waited outside the door, just in case. But she came out and said everything was all right.”
“Trustees? I didn’t realize any of them made the trip.”
“Three that I remember. The used car dealer, Emory Estes—he was ready to take on every goon in the place if they laid hands on Mitra.”
“And the others?”
“Gordon Samstag and his wife. They stayed pretty much to themselves, though he joined us while we waited for Mitra to come out of that office. So did Steven Drisko. That was soon after his divorce, so he’d come by himself.”
“Did anyone in the group seem to win or lose a lot?”
“Mitra won enough to buy new furniture for her living room. Some people won a little, others lost a little. No one complained much one way or the other.”
That wasn’t much help. The philosophy professor had concealed his losses, so others might have done the same. I changed to the subject I’d really come to investigate.
“Did Mitra talk about anything unusual lately? Something she hadn’t been concerned with before?”
He looked thoughtful. “Not that I can remember.”
“Maybe something about the college?”
Combes shook his head. “Only the usual stuff. Nothing new.”
I tried a different tack. “I heard someone had a real dust-up with her last week.”
“That new woman in philosophy went off her rocker and accused Mitra of discriminatory grading or something.”
“Were threats exchanged?”
“Not by Mitra. The other woman said something about Mitra … that she ought to be killed. She looked angry enough to try it.”
“How did it end?”
“Both of them were shouting at the same time so you couldn’t understand the words. The other woman saw several of us watching and just walked out. That was about it.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get ready for my lab.”
I stood up. “Thank you, Weldon. By the way, is there any reason you came to your office last night? You’re notorious for staying away after suppertime.”
He also stood, clumsily, and his chair tipped over. He caught it at the length of his long, thin arm, and yanked it upright—a surprising show of strength for anyone that thin.
“I came by to pick up something I’d forgotten,” he said, not meeting my eyes.
“It couldn’t wait until morning?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes it happens that way. Say, we have a faculty meeting Tuesday after the memorial service for Mitra. Rumor says someone may try to slip something by us.”
Was that change of subject supposed to divert me from questioning?
“I’ll vote, but I won’t speak,” I said. “I’m still in the doghouse from past skirmishes.”
“Voting is good enough.” He half turned, then added, “Be careful with your investigation, Press. You were lucky last time, but you may not be that lucky again.”
“Who’s investigating?”
I left before he could answer. I wondered if his warning had been friendly.
CHAPTER 6
Down the hall, I found Freda Broyles’ office door open and her sitting at her desk like a spider in her web. She gave me the welcoming glance she’d give a leprous polecat and motioned me to a chair.
“I’ve been expecting you, Press,” she said. “What took you so long?”
I didn’t waste time wondering why she’d been expecting me. “I’d lost track of Mitra since Faith died. I thought you might fill me in on these last couple of years.”
“Baloney.” Her look now classified me as a misplaced decimal point. “You think she was murdered, and you’re trying to find out who killed her. Be honest with me.”
It was okay by me if she wanted to think I was investigating a murder. With enough talk, she might give me a clue toward understanding what Mitra meant about my job.
“All right,” I said. “What can you tell me?”
Freda leaned her elbows on the desk. “I wouldn’t know much about Mitra except that she lives … lived ... across the street from me. We were both single women, so we ch
ecked on each other. She spent most evenings at home with the shades drawn. Maybe she read books, maybe she wrote letters, maybe watched TV—I never asked what she did.”
I looked at the ceiling. “Maybe she worked math problems. I heard she was a whiz on probability.”
Freda showed me a horned-toad scowl. “That was years ago. Her recent interest was .... Are you familiar with the term nano?”
“Not unless it’s the children’s nickname for their grandmother.”
She repeated the leprous-polecat look. “It’s a prefix meaning the one-billionth part of something. Mathematically, it’s the factor of ten to the minus nine. She got interested in nano-technology.”
“The study of very small things?”
“Very, very small. But before that it was accounting.”
“Accounting?” That sounded more promising.
Freda relaxed a bit. “That was about a year ago when she was dating a CPA fellow down in Cloverdale. She was happier then than I’d ever seen her.”
“He was teaching her accounting?”
“No such thing!” Freda sat straight up. “They were just dating. She studied accounting on her own so she’d know what he did for a living.”
“What happened?”
She sighed. “Mitra was really happy for about six months—till July, I think. Then he got killed in that airplane crash.”
“Tell me about that.” It was provocative—both halves of a dating couple killed within six months.
“Not much to tell,” she said. “Jerry had served in the Air Force and liked to fly on weekends. He and some others built their own airplane, but they must have done something wrong. A wing came off while he was flying, and he was killed. Mitra took it real hard.”
I vaguely remembered reading about the crash, but I’d never heard Mitra had a connection with it. That would take some research—if something made it relevant.
“I never knew,” I said. “She was a good friend to Faith.”
Freda sighed again. “After Jerry’s death, she turned back inside herself, though she kept going out somewhere on weekends. I never knew where and never asked.” Freda’s jaw hardened. “She didn’t deserve what that young wench said about her.”
“What young wench? What did she say?”
Freda harumphed. “Professor Starlington, and what didn’t she say. Some garbage about a grading problem years ago. And she threatened to kill Mitra.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Did she say she was going to kill her or only that she ought to be killed?”
“What’s the difference? But if you’ve heard about it before, you don’t need to get a recap.”
“It always helps to hear different viewpoints,” I said.
“Well, you won’t hear any more of mine. I have to go home and fix myself some supper.”
I was grateful that she didn’t ask me to dine with her.
“Thank you for the information,” I said. “It gives me something to work on.” I might as well pretend I was investigating a murder if that would keep her happy.
“You and Faith were good friends to her,” she said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have told you anything.”
“Tell me one more thing, then.” I stood up, hoping to increase the surprise of the question. “Why did you come to the Science Center last night, and why did you duck out when you saw the police?” That was two things, but I hoped she wasn’t counting.
Freda took a facial tissue from a box on her desk and wiped an invisible tear from her left eye. Without looking back at me, she took another one and repeated the process with the right eye. Then she viewed the two tissues with disgust.
“They make these confounded things smaller every year,” she said. “Before long, they’ll have to sell them in sheets like postage stamps.”
I said nothing and waited.
She spoke again with a look that demoted me from polecat to cockroach. “I’d forgotten a lesson plan I needed to look over before this morning. But if I got tied up with the police, they might keep me past midnight. I’m old enough that I need my sleep.”
I returned her gaze. “Freda, you never needed a lesson plan in your life.”
She dragged her bulk out of her chair to a standing position. “Old dogs can learn new tricks, Press. Shut the door on your way out.”
I did shut the door. The fact that Freda stayed behind it told me her claim of fixing supper was a ruse to get rid of me. Such are the niceties of campus life.
I was halfway down the hall before I realized I hadn’t asked her what Mitra was saying about the college lately. Freda’s diversionary tactic had worked.
In the gathering dusk, a chilling wind off the plains reminded me that I’d left my gloves in my office. When I went by to pick them up, I found a student named Sally Finhatter waiting. She’d never taken one of my classes, but I’d noticed her on campus because her dishwater-blonde hair usually covered one eye and the other one never seemed to look straight at anyone.
“Professor Barclay?” Her squeaky voice reinforced the impression of uncertainty.
“That’s me,” I said. “How can I help you, Sally?”
“You know my name? Well, I … I have a problem, and Arthur Medford said I should talk to you about it.”
Arthur Medford was Mara’s prize student. Last fall he’d organized a student demonstration in favor of Mara when she and I were on suspension. All bets were that he’d be next year’s student body president.
“Come in.” I unlocked the door, stopped it full open, and flicked the light switch on. I motioned Sally to a chair and took the chair opposite hers. “What’s the problem?”
Her unobstructed eye focused momentarily on mine, then returned its gaze to the floor. “Well, the other day I was talking to Professor Fortier in her office about, you know, like assignments and stuff. While we were talking, I had an index card in my hand that had part of my bibliography on it.”
I assumed she meant the bibliography was on the card rather than the hand, but I did not request confirmation.
“Well, I lay the index card on that table by Professor Fortier’s door.” She paused with a puzzled look. “I never can get that straight. Should it be lay or laid?”
“Laid,” I said.
“Well, then, I laid it on the table. Like just to get it out of my hand, you know?”
I said I did know. I only knew it because she had told me, but it would have been unkind to remind her of that. Besides, I was getting interested.
“Well …” She used that word almost as often as the news reporters on TV. “Well ... when I left, I went to pick up that index card, but there was another one just like it laying ... lying... right beside it, and I got that one by mistake.” Her eye flickered through another brief contact with mine before refocusing downward. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t realize till later that I had the wrong card, and when I came back for it, Professor Fortier had went somewhere else. Now the police have her office taped off, and I can’t get my card back.”
“Do you have the other card?”
She removed it from her jeans pocket and handed it to me. It contained one word scrawled in Mitra Fortier’s illegible handwriting. The word might have been Buspin, Ruskin, or something like that. Maybe even Rasputin, for all I knew. I wanted to study it further, but the police would need the card. So I led Sally into the department office and made a photocopy.
“You’ll have to take the card to the police,” I told her. “It may or may not mean something, but that’s their call.” She looked doubtful, so I added, “If you don’t tell them, I’ll have to. Withholding evidence is a serious offense. Besides, they might even let you have your card back.”
That last comment seemed to decide her. She said she’d tell me what the police said, then headed off down the hall.
Back in my office, I made no more progress with the photocopy than I had at first glance. Best leave it to the police, I decided. As always before leaving the office, I evaluated the day’s activities. There�
�d been plenty, and I’d collected many odd bits of information.
But none of them helped explain why Mitra Fortier thought my job was threatened.
CHAPTER 7
Full dusk had fallen, but if I hurried I’d have time before supper to visit my former chairman and mentor, Lincoln Sheldon, who would want to know about Mitra. In addition to being an excellent historian, Dr. Sheldon was a decorated Korean War veteran. Now in his eighties, he’d been wheelchair-bound in an assisted living center since a stroke cost him the use of his legs. But he still liked to stay abreast of campus affairs. His mind could still devour great quantities of information. His computer researches last fall had been invaluable to Mara and me in solving the Laila Sloan murder.
I always enjoy the drive across town to visit him. The Overton River isn’t much, but it has a magnificent mile-wide valley with steep hills rising on either side. Overton City lies mostly in the valley, but its recent growth spills out into the hills. The college ... uh … university ... dominates the valley and the city from the western hills. My long-time dream has been for our planned fine arts building to be topped with a cross to proclaim the college’s Christian heritage to the entire valley. But President Cantwell’s consultant says that heritage will drive students away. So the fine arts building will be just another red brick structure with another flat roof.
My mid-eighties Honda protested a bit going up the eastern hills but finished without a downshift. By all rights, it should have died by now, but a good mechanic named Manny Clampett has cured its periodic illnesses. I can’t afford to replace it as long as I have a daughter in college.
I found Dr. Sheldon in his room in the assisted living center, already in conference with Mara Thorn.
“Come in, Press,” he boomed, “I think you may have met Professor Thorn?”
He was goading me, so I answered in kind. “Professor Thorn and I have met on several occasions.”
Seated nearby, Mara carefully studied the wall, but her smile showed she was part of the game. In these quarters we didn’t have to worry about the Blatant Beast.