by Donn Taylor
Dr. Sheldon raised a book from his lap and waved it at me. It was Mark Moyar’s Triumph Forsaken: The Vietnam War 1954-1965.
“This is the most thoroughly documented history book I ever read,” he said. “No journalistic bushwa. This will become the definitive study of the subject.”
“I’ll look forward to reading it,” I said. It would have spoiled his fun to tell him I’d already read it and agreed with his assessment.
A frown clouded his leonine countenance. “Mara has told me about Professor Fortier. I know this comes as a blow to you. She was a friend to Faith.”
“They were good friends,” I said. “We did a lot of things as a threesome, but I haven’t seen much of her since Faith died.”
“If you feel like talking, Press,” Mara said, “I’d like to know more about her.”
“I do feel like talking,” I said, partly trying to convince myself.
Mara focused her blue gaze on me. “When you knocked on Professor Fortier’s door, you called her ‘Mitzi’?”
“Faith’s pet name for her,” I said. “I’ve used it now and then.”
“She had some kind of musical symbol on her office door. I don’t know much about music.” Mara’s head was packed with more information than most people even knew existed, so she confessed this tiny unknown as if it made her a dunce.
“The symbol was mf, meaning mezzo forte, or moderately loud,” I said. “There’s a story behind it.”
Mara raised her eyebrows expectantly while Dr. Sheldon for once sat silent. He knew the story because he’d watched it develop.
“It was odd for Faith and Mitra to become friends because they were so different,” I said. “Faith was intuitive and emotional, as you’d expect a concert pianist to be. But she was also imaginative and playful. Mitra was a just-the-facts physicist. If you handed her a seashell, she’d try to compute the mathematical formulae for its curvature.”
Memories flooded back to me as I talked. Mitra’s singing brought her and Faith together, for Faith was a polished accompanist as well as a brilliant soloist. Mitra’s strong voice made her in demand for entertainment at faculty dinners. She sang with vigor but without emotional nuances. As some people are monotones, Mitra was a mono-volume. Everything she sang came out moderately loud, or mezzo forte.
So Faith in characteristic playfulness gave her a new name. Mitra became Mitzi, and Fortier got shortened to Forte. Mitra joined the game, proudly displaying the mf symbol on her office door. She was sometimes unpredictable. Who’d have thought the just-the-facts physicist would possess a well-honed sense of humor? I’d sometimes wondered if she had other hidden depths she never showed.
Mara cocked an eyebrow when I said Mitra often made a threesome with Faith and me. “Didn’t that get awkward at times— two women and one man?”
I thought a moment before answering. “I guess it would in most cases, but Mitzi didn’t have an ounce of flirtation in her. She’d been divorced before she came to Overton, and I guess that cured her of any romantic inclinations.”
Mara looked a bit uncomfortable, and I remembered her history of early marriage to a dominating older man. She still had that aversion to being touched, and her fierce independence would choke off romance before it got started.
I thought it best to push ahead. “Well, Mitra wasn’t all facts and logic. She had periods of moodiness. Then Faith would go spend a few evenings with her. After a few days, Mitra would snap out of it and be her confident self again.”
I decided to close the subject. “The good news is that there’s no way the police can involve either of us.”
“Certainly not me,” Mara said. “Professor Fortier and I hadn’t exchanged a dozen words before last night.”
Dr. Sheldon harumphed. “Don’t sell Clyde Staggart short, Press. He’s held that grudge against you for twenty years. He isn’t about to drop it now.”
“He can’t do anything without evidence,” I said. I hoped I was right.
Dr. Sheldon looked at Mara but spoke to me. “I understand Cynthia Starlington has come back as faculty. She always had a crush on you.”
I adjusted my trifocals. “She was a good student, and she seemed to like history.”
He snorted. “She liked your history. She never took a single course from me.”
“Maybe it didn’t fit her schedule,” I said.
Dr. Sheldon answered with a sarcastic laugh. Mara had returned to her study of the wall, this time without the smile.
Dr. Sheldon looked at his watch. “Five o’clock. Let’s see what our glorious friends in the Fourth Estate have come up with.” He pointed a remote control at a TV on a table in one corner. It was a cheap set with poor color. TV was not one of his priorities.
The screen announced station KLYE’s evening news program. Trumpets sounded a fanfare while colorful graphics gyrated around the screen, climaxing in a flaming nuclear explosion accompanied by a ringing bell. It was the only place I’ve ever seen A-bombs associated with bell ringing. The local news anchorette, Francie LaBouche, appeared out of the mushroom cloud like a stage magician emerging from a puff of smoke. She was dressed like a chorus girl, had brownish hair with bottle-born highlights, and wore enough grease on her lips to fry an egg. Her manner suggested she bore tidings more important than the Second Coming.
“Death struck once again at Overton University last night,” Francie orated. The visuals shifted to police cars with flashing lights outside the Science Center while the anchorette’s voice-over continued. “Last evening, physics professor Mitra Fortier was found dead in her office, and two of the same people involved in the Laila Sloan murder last fall were once again on the scene. The body was discovered by none other than professors Preston Barclay and Mara Thorn, shown in this footage from last fall.”
I’d had some decent photos taken for past college annuals, but they might as well not have existed. The footage chosen for the TV’s split screen had been taken the night we returned from a three-day investigation and found a decaying body stuffed into the trunk of Mara’s car. As I walked forward to identify the body, the cameras caught me in the rumpled brown suit I’d worn for three days. In the glare of TV lights I looked like something out of a Frankenstein movie.
Mara fared no better on the other half of the screen. The cameras showed her, grim-faced, being loaded into a police car for questioning at headquarters.
“For the latest details,” Francie announced, “here is KLYE’s Cissy Ferret live on the Overton University campus.”
“I’m glad she’s not dead,” Dr. Sheldon said.
Mara scorched him with her blue gaze.
The cameras focused on the Science Center exterior, where another chorus-girl/newsperson—apparently the aforementioned Cissy Ferret—interviewed Captain Clyde Staggart, with a distraught Dean-Dean dithering around in the background. Dean-Dean’s image inspired a reprise by my internal bassoon. Though the interview had obviously been pre-arranged, it was presented as spontaneous.
“It’s too early to suggest any theories,” Staggart began. “All we know right now is that we have a dead body. We won’t know the cause of death till the autopsy is complete.”
The reporter was not to be denied. “Was the deceased fully clothed?”
Staggart glowered. “Yes, but like I said, it’s too early for any theories.” His tone implied that someone might have sneaked in and dressed the corpse.
“I understand the professors who discovered the body are the same ones who found Laila Sloan’s body last fall. Does that suggest anything?”
“Well, they’re the same two.” Staggart’s face showed disgust. “But we can’t draw conclusions based on their character alone. We’ll have to follow the evidence to find the extent of their involvement.”
Dr. Sheldon clicked the remote control and the screen went blank. He made a noise like “Arrgh!” I think he’d have spit if he’d had a cuspidor.
Mara sat grim-faced and tight-lipped.
“It’s nice to h
ave friends in the bureau,” I said.
We sat in silence, not looking at each other.
After a while, Dr. Sheldon cleared his throat. “Well, children, what will you do now? You’re credited with being involved whether you are or not.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” I said. “In cold fact, we have no involvement beyond finding the body. We have to wait for the police to reach that conclusion.”
Mara stood up, still stony-faced but quite attractive in spite of it. “I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to go find some supper.”
“I hope he’s worthy of you,” Dr. Sheldon said.
Mara bristled but left without further comment.
I confess that I felt a little stab of jealousy. I would have asked her to join me for supper, but she hoped our avoiding each other would scotch the rumors of an illicit relationship. Tonight’s newscast knocked that plan into a cocked chapeau. Until Mara got used to that, I would have to stay away from her.
I gave her a few minutes’ head start, then said, “I guess I’d better go, too.”
Dr. Sheldon gave me a something-you-ought-to-know look. “She’s going to dinner with Emory Estes, the trustee who owns those used car lots.”
“Maybe it’s a job interview,” I said. “Contracts come out next week.”
Dr. Sheldon acknowledged with a grunt, his head already back in his book. No one ever accused him of being indefinite.
*****
I drove back across town while my internal orchestra played a Brahms Hungarian Dance, and I debated whether I should have briefed Mara and Dr. Sheldon on my interviews with Malcolm Combes and Freda Broyles. I decided I was right in not briefing them. I hadn’t learned anything significant and certainly nothing about my prospective job loss.
I drove by the campus and picked up a list of research questions I’d left on my desk. I would need them for my trip to the state university’s library tomorrow. With them in hand, I turned toward the door and found it filled by a uniformed policeman.
Fortunately, it was my former student Sergeant Ron Spencer, who’d made the actual arrest of Laila Sloan’s murderer. His embarrassed scowl showed this wasn’t a social call.
“Doctor Barclay, I thought you ought to know you’re still on Captain Staggart’s hit list. He’s given Bruno Pinkle a full-time assignment. He’s supposed to find evidence that will justify indicting you for a felony—any kind of felony.”
CHAPTER 8
Sergeant Spencer’s glad tidings should have kept me awake, but Friday had been a tough day. I slept the sleep of the just without wondering if I was qualified.
Saturday morning broke cold and clear. The sun reflected glaringly from all directions, but the roads had been swept clear of snow. I pointed my old Honda eastward on the Interstate for the hundred-mile drive to the state university and its Humanities Research Center. The car had lost a fender and wheel last fall in Mara’s and my flight from the mob’s hit men, but Manny Clampett had returned it to reasonably good shape. I could probably pay the repair debt off in four or five months if I lived frugally.
I love research, and a few hours of reading Marsilio Ficino’s Commentary on Plato’s Symposium on Love had me exhilarated. My spirits were still high when I joined my daughter, Cindy, for late lunch at a restaurant near the campus. She has Faith’s light brown hair and clear complexion, and her soft voice always reminds me of Faith. Cindy radiated her usual high spirits, and she had a surprise for me.
“Daddy, I want you to meet Mark Weston,” she said. “He edits Voice of Reality, the alternative newspaper on campus.”
The young six-footer behind her had clear gray eyes and a steady gaze, both reinforced by a firm handshake. “I’m glad to meet you, sir,” he said.
I returned the gaze and the greeting and reminded myself not to adjust my trifocals or my necktie. Those mannerisms had always irritated Cindy. We found a table where the canned music wasn’t too oppressive. For once, my cerebral orchestra cooperated by shutting down. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with my coffee. Cindy and Mark ordered hamburgers and Cokes.
“Alternative newspaper?” I asked Mark as the server departed. “Do you always swim upstream?”
Cindy answered for him. “He always does. He’s another dropout from the university’s Residence Life Education Program.”
Mark grinned. “If I’m going to be brainwashed, I’ll do it for myself and not surrender my mind to some half-trained dorm assistant.”
Cindy had run afoul of that program last fall when it taught that chastity was part of an oppressive patriarchal system, and one of her dates tried to act on that instruction. Her Residence Life group turned on her, but she finished the semester with head held high, moved off campus, and formed new friendships through her church.
She laughed at Mark’s comment. “He’s probably going to brainwash them. Last week, he wrote that if diversity made society better, we could further improve it by importing headhunters, cannibals, and terrorists.”
Now it was my turn to grin. “He’ll be the most popular man on campus.”
“You should see what he’s coming out with next week,” Cindy said.
Mark blushed but said nothing. The server preempted further conversation by bringing our food and commanding us to enjoy it.
“Thank you,” Mark said. “I shall endeavor to do so.”
The server gave him a what-planet-do-you-come-from look but departed without comment. I could see what had drawn Cindy to Mark—his reflection of her own stubborn streak that she’d unfortunately inherited from me. I hoped it wouldn’t land them in too much trouble with school authorities.
The food proved edible, and we attacked it without talking while the babble of student conversations, loud music, and clatter of dishes echoed around us.
While we relaxed over refills of Cokes and coffee, Cindy brought up the subject I dreaded. “Daddy, today’s paper told about your finding Professor Fortier. What’s that going to mean for you?”
I sighed. “Nothing, I hope. It’s a police matter, and I really don’t know anything about it.”
She gave me a stern look. “You’re not going to investigate it, are you? I came close to losing you last fall.”
“The only plan I have is to keep teaching history.” To change the subject, I asked, “How’s the car?”
She drives Faith’s decade-old Camry. To keep Cindy in school and give her a small nest egg on graduation, we have to keep the old car working.
“Oh, Daddy.” She wrinkled her nose. “The car’s doing fine. Oil and filter change aren’t due for another thousand miles.”
Not a bad answer, even if she spoke it in that special tone daughters reserve for overly protective parents.
Cindy turned to Mark and said, “If my father lived on Pike’s Peak, he’d buy flood insurance.”
“But not on Everest,” I said. “That would be overdoing it.”
Mark greeted the exchange with a smile.
“Will you be home for Valentine’s Day?” I asked Cindy. Schools in our state take a holiday on the Monday closest to Valentine’s Day. No one seems to know why.
Cindy looked at Mark before answering. “I don’t know, Daddy. It depends on a lot of things …”
“It’s fine either way,” I said. “You’re always welcome, but do what’s best for you.”
I parted from them then with a hug for her and a handshake for Mark, thinking privately that he looked like a pretty good specimen.
As my old Honda purred westward along the Interstate, my orchestra returned with the dramatic opening chords to the Grieg Piano Concerto No. 1. I used my voice recorder to make notes for further research, but my mood followed the sun on its downward path. Cindy’s nonconformist streak was bound to work against her with the university administration.
She’d shown that streak at her high school graduation. Her principal forbade her mentioning God or Jesus in her valedictorian speech and required her to submit a verbatim copy for approval. She
fumed about that at home, but at school she showed sweetness and light. She submitted a speech filled with the usual graduation clichés, ending with pabulum patriotism and an admonition to live lives worthy of our national anthem. Her manuscript closed with the note, “Quote one stanza of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”
Her principal assumed she meant the first stanza. But she actually quoted the fourth, with its plethora of religious references: “the heav’n rescued land ... praise the Power that hath made & preserv’d us a nation ... this be our motto—‘In God is our Trust’ …” So despite the principal’s censorship, Cindy reminded the audience that our nation’s religious heritage was not merely stated, but flaunted, in words established as our national anthem by act of Congress.
There was nothing the principal could do about it without exposing himself as a politically correct idiot. But Cindy would have no such leverage against the state university, so I worried about where her stubbornness might lead.
I tried to shake off the depression by recalling the pleasures of fruitful research and meeting with Cindy and her friend. But maybe I don’t have enough imagination. Each mile of highway brought me closer to the lingering threat of Clyde Staggart, the unresolved circumstances of Mitra Fortier’s death, and the unanswered question of why she thought my job was threatened.
My emotions hit bottom about sunset as I parked the Honda in my driveway. They stayed on bottom when I went inside. The empty house and its silent piano made life seem devoid of purpose, with my teaching history the only slender thread of hope. Beyond that, I felt again that disturbing premonition of unseen powers forcing me in directions I didn’t want to go.
Then the doorbell rang.
I opened the hardwood main door and looked out through the transparent storm door at Cynthia Starlington. She wore a caramel-colored coat with an ocelot collar. The waves of her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her late-model Lexus rested at the curb.
My internal orchestra switched immediately to a reprise of Artie Shaw’s liquid clarinet.