by Donn Taylor
Cynthia’s lipstick was smeared where she’d been biting her lip. “Press, I have to talk to you. The police have been just awful.”
“Not here,” I said. “The campus rumor mill mustn’t find out you visited me at home. Especially this late in the day.”
Her hands flew to her hips. “I’m a grown woman, and I’ll go wherever I like.”
I made no effort to unlatch the storm door. “You don’t know the local gossips. I’ll meet you on neutral territory. Do you know Goolock’s? Find a table there, and I’ll meet you by accident in about fifteen minutes.”
Goolock’s was a combination donut shop, grill and convenience store halfway between the campus and downtown. The owners were a middle-aged couple who’d immigrated from China about thirty years ago. The name came from their selling of lottery tickets. Mrs. Lee always wished the lottery customers good luck, but in her imperfect English it came out “Goo’ lock.” The customers began calling the shop Goolock’s, and the owners adopted the name in good spirit. Their children, of course, had assimilated with perfect English. Their son was valedictorian of his class at Overton and, in his valedictory speech, had brought down the house by claiming that the name Lee qualified him as one of the First Families of Virginia. Their daughter, now in our junior class, was well on her way toward honors.
Cynthia’s tight-clamped jaw showed disapproval, but she marched back to her Lexus and drove away. My internal clarinet was replaced by a grotesque duet by a bass violin and a piccolo.
I stood there with mixed feelings. I didn’t want to get involved in police business, even as an advisor. But behind me I felt the sadness of the silent piano, and in spite of my better judgment, I knew I’d enjoy talking with Cynthia. She had a quick mind, and she wasn’t a bit hard to look at. A vision of light reflecting from the golden tips of her hair appeared before me. I spent the next ten minutes mentally kicking myself, but then I cranked up the Honda and headed for Goolock’s.
After exchanging pleasantries with the Lees, I bought donuts and coffee and joined Cynthia at one of the four tables. A plastic cup of Sprite sat in front of her, and she’d nibbled at something that looked like a cream cheese sandwich. I didn’t like our table’s location in front of a plate glass window, but the convenience store’s shelves shielded us from internal observation. At the sight of Cynthia, my soft clarinet music returned.
Cynthia looked at me through worried eyes. “The police questioned me today, Press. It was awful.”
“It’s seldom fatal,” I said. “What did they ask?”
“They asked me about my ... my quarrel with Professor Fortier.” Cynthia toyed with her sandwich. “I told them everything I could remember, but they kept trying to make me say there was more to it than there was.”
“It’s their way to keep you talking,” I said. “Sooner or later, a guilty person will slip up. You have nothing to worry about if you’re innocent. Besides, Professor Fortier may have died of natural causes.” I tried very hard to believe what I was saying.
Cynthia made a face. “They certainly questioned me as if it were murder. And that man—Staggart, I think they called him. He looked at me like ... like he was going to attack me physically.”
“He likes to lean on people,” I said, “but he can’t do anything without evidence. If there’s nothing more than your shouting match with Mitra, you’re home free.”
My soft clarinet kept weaving quiet melodies.
Cynthia looked at the floor. “There is one other thing.” She looked up, anxiously searching my eyes. “After my ... scene with Professor Fortier, I mailed her a letter. I said I meant every word I’d said to her, and I’d carry that feeling to the grave.”
My internal clarinet glissandoed into something high, shrill and squeaky.
“For a salutatorian,” I said, “you have an unusually low quotient of common sense.”
A tear rolled down from one of her dark eyes. “I know it was a dumb thing to do. I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been so angry.”
I knew what Staggart would say: You wouldn’t have killed her if you hadn’t been so angry. But I didn’t say it. Cynthia looked at me like a hurt child, so I asked instead, “Did you post it in the campus mail office or downtown?” I might be able to finagle an unstamped letter out of a student mail clerk.
“In the main post office downtown,” she said. She knew as well as I did what that meant.
I grimaced. “Then you’ll have to wait for the police to question you about it. When they do, tell them that was your way of dissipating your anger and that once you’d done it, the anger was gone.” The police might even believe that story if she batted those dark eyes often enough.
She turned them on me now as she reached over and squeezed my hand. “Thank you, Press. You’re a good friend.”
My hand tingled and my mental clarinet resumed its liquid tones.
I was about to tell Cynthia she should start being a friend to herself, but a carload of young people drew up in front. Fortunately, they were too busy bantering among themselves to look inside the store.
“Some of those kids are students,” I said. “There’s no telling what kind of rumors they’ll start if they see us together.”
While the students stood around ragging each other, I dumped my coffee and uneaten donuts into a receptacle and ducked behind a row of shelves. Armed with a candy bar, I arrived at the cash register as the students entered.
“No lott’ry ticket?” Mrs. Lee asked as she checked me out.
“Not tonight,” I said.
She knew very well that I never bought one, but she always asked, and I always gave the same answer.
“Goo’ lock anyway,” she said.
As I drove away into the night, Cynthia Starlington still sat by the window, nibbling at her cream cheese sandwich and looking like a beautiful orphan. I didn’t know if I was angrier with her for getting into trouble or with myself for being foolish enough to sympathize with her. At home, I solved the supper problem with another ham sandwich. At least I had the candy bar for dessert.
Afterwards, while my musicians plinked away at something oriental that I didn’t recognize, I chided myself for even listening to Cynthia’s story. The lingering fragrance of her perfume on my hand where she’d squeezed it didn’t improve my mood. I consoled myself, though, that listening to her did not constitute involvement.
Then I did another dumb thing. I turned on the television to station KLYE. The same bright graphics raced around the screen to the same fanfare, climaxed by the same explosion and the same incongruous bell-ring. Then Francie LaBouche emerged from the nuclear cloud. Tonight she wore a different chorus-girl outfit and a different color of grease on her lips. She spoke with the voice of one crying in the wilderness, “Make straight the way of the media.”
“Here is the latest on the mysterious death of Professor Mitra Fortier,” she orated. The visual changed to a still photo of Clyde Staggart, whose black eyes glowered at the camera.
Francie’s voice-over continued, “Captain Staggart of Homicide said this afternoon that, pending the autopsy, they have to keep open the possibility of murder. Officially, he remains neutral on that question, but he says the deceased had a suspicious bump on the back of her head. Reliable sources, though, say he has identified several ‘persons of interest’ in the event the autopsy indicates foul play.”
I didn’t have to ask who one of those persons would be.
My internal musicians responded with the mocking growl of blues played Clyde McCoy-style on a wah-wah muted trumpet.
CHAPTER 9
Sunday morning brought more sub-freezing weather with another ear-slicing wind off the plains. Still depressed, I fumbled through breakfast and skimmed through the Sunday paper. I skipped the front-page coverage of Mitra Fortier entirely. Between the funnies and the sports, I found a report that a company called Western Admini-Med was under investigation for Medicare fraud. Nothing unusual, except that the company was a subsidiary of one that ha
d Gordon Samstag as Chairman of the Board. Samstag was quoted that his companies would cooperate fully and appropriate action would be taken.
After that, I inspected my two suits. The blue one needed more touches from a Sharpie to disguise its frayed cuffs, and the brown one wasn’t far behind. I made a note to buy a brown marker pen to keep that one up to snuff. I’d have to buy new suits sooner or later, but the later I could make it, the better for Cindy’s education and my solvency. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday were brown-suit days this week, which made Tuesday and Thursday blue-suit days. That meant I should wear the blue suit to church today.
Eleven o’clock found me in a rear pew in St. Mark’s Grace Church. That church figured in many of my cherished memories, for Faith and I used to attend it together. During the hymns and prayers, we would hold hands and feel close to God in a way I haven’t felt since her death. Going there without her brought so much pain that I’d stayed away until a couple of months ago.
Providentially, my internal musicians usually take a break during church. I hope they listen and learn something. Today, as always, the solemn organ music, the prayers and the deep harmonies of hymns renewed my consciousness of the eternal truth, order, and goodness that hold as firm bedrock beneath the transient evils of daily affairs. That knowledge doesn’t make the evils less painful, but it does put them in context. I was resting in that assurance by the time Pastor Urim Tammons delivered his homily.
He began by reading from Proverbs—“A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.” He went on to say that we devise in our minds what we want to be true, and we try to build our dreams into reality. But in this fallen world, our minds are also corrupt, and what we want reality to be is often far removed from what reality actually is. So we all live to some degree in imaginary worlds, and our fantasies collapse when they collide with the Lord’s reality.
That reminded me of my difficulty, at the reception, in telling what was real and what wasn’t. By the time Pastor Tammons finished, he had me wondering how much of my world as I perceived it was real and how much was fantasy.
After the final “amen” today, several people stopped by to express sympathy about Mitra Fortier. Some asked if I was going to investigate, and I gave my stock answer that I only taught history. Everyone gave way as Pastor Tammons approached. He is a bit past sixty and a bit overweight, thoroughly knowledgeable and poised in his calling. I’d describe him as always sympathetic and never overbearing, but a bulldozer couldn’t move him one millimeter off of principle. He was proving the ideal mentor for Mara since her conversion.
“I’m sorry about Professor Fortier,” he said, “but how are you doing, Press?” He meant my whole process of grief, not just my response to the momentary trauma of Mitra’s death.
“About the same,” I said. “We all owe God a death.”
His eyes twinkled. “What we worry about is the due date.”
He is a well-read man, and we both knew we were paraphrasing an exchange between Shakespeare’s Falstaff and Prince Hal.
“The process continues to unfold,” he said and moved on to another parishioner.
I knew what he meant. From time to time in my grief, he’d reminded me that God wasn’t through with me yet. So now he meant that I shouldn’t take up residence on my present plateau.
Then the full question hit me. Did his contrast of our imagined wishes and reality mean my claim that “I just teach history” was not my final destination but only a rest stop along the way?
My musicians returned with soft strings as, across the sanctuary, Mara Thorn moved into the aisle without looking in my direction. I knew she was fighting the rumors about us, but I still felt a twinge of regret. I’d enjoyed our brief partnership last fall, and our present avoidance of each other brought its own kind of emptiness. Then Cynthia Starlington engaged Mara in conversation and made a conspicuous nod in my direction. Mara shook her head in definite negation.
I beat a quick retreat before complications could arise. I also changed my plan for lunch at a good restaurant in favor of a hasty sandwich at home. For variety, I had cheese along with the ham. My euphoria from church prevailed throughout lunch, and my internal organist cooperated by playing “Panis Angelicus.” But the phone rang as I downed my second cup of coffee. Dean-Dean’s high-pitched voice sounded from the receiver.
“Professor Barclay, I want to see you in my office tomorrow morning between classes. When are you free?” It would never occur to him to look at the schedule.
“Ten o’clock,” I said. “What are we going to talk about?”
His voice climbed to a higher pitch. “There’s no preparation needed. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Okay,” I said, and he rang off.
That was not good news. Our annual contracts would be in our campus mailboxes sometime this week. Would Dean-Dean tell me I had no contract for next year? Or had he scheduled the meeting to make me worry about it? In either case, he’d make sure he had witnesses.
I decided not to let it worry me, but I worried anyway. Since Faith’s death, teaching history is my life. And as I keep saying, I’d make a lousy used car salesman. For consolation, I kept telling myself that even if I lost my job, there was nothing to get me entangled in the investigation of Mitra’s death.
Nevertheless, that insidious canker of worry remained as I tried to lose myself in professional reading, in this case the late M. Stanton Evans’ Blacklisted by History. I was shocked by the fact that essential documents about the Joe McCarthy hearings had disappeared from the National Archives. Documents are subject to interpretation, but each document itself is a historical fact. With original sources for that important study removed, we might never achieve accurate understanding. Maybe that’s what someone intended.
Hours later, at sunset, my worry still goaded me like a steel cocklebur in my brain. Then I heard a car drive up outside. It stopped right in front of my house.
Flashing red and blue lights reflected through the windows and a heavy pounding sounded at the front door. I opened the hardwood door and saw, through the transparent storm door, the angry face of Captain Clyde Staggart. The basset-faced detective I knew only as Dogface stood behind him.
Staggart pounded again on the door.
“You still haven’t discovered doorbells?” I asked. “There’s one three inches to the right of the door.” That had been a contention the last time he came visiting.
“Open up,” he bellowed.
“Do you have a warrant?” I asked.
He glowered. “I don’t need a warrant to talk to you.”
“Then talk,” I said. “I can hear you through the door.”
“No go,” he said. “We can talk inside, or you can come down to the station.”
“I’ll meet you halfway,” I said. “If you turn off the flashing lights on your kiddie-car, you can come in for the purpose of conversation.” The lights were his way of getting me in bad with the neighbors. They’d already accomplished their mission, so turning them off was a belated effort at damage control.
Staggart looked like he wanted to argue, but Dogface headed out to the car and doused the lights.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” I said, and opened the door.
Staggart marched in and took one of the two comfortable chairs. Dogface took the other one. I pulled up one of the straight-back hardwood chairs and straddled it backwards, resting my chin on my hands on the chair back. Staggart stared at me for several seconds with a malevolent grin.
“You didn’t come to play gin rummy,” I said. “What’s your business?”
“Business, Press?” Staggart’s grin widened. “You’re known all over town as a good family man. Now tell me about your longstanding affair with Mitra Fortier.”
CHAPTER 10
I admit being stunned. It’s one thing to be accused of something within the bounds of possibility. I expect people to scan my essays on history for plagiarism, and I expect every year or two to b
e accused of unfair grading. I stand prepared to defend myself against logical claims like those. But it’s quite another thing to be accused of something that never crossed my mind. So I sat there with my mouth open while Staggart watched me with a knowing leer.
After a long silence, he spoke again: “All right, Mr. Virtuous Professor. What do you say to that?”
I took a deep breath and answered with a calm I didn’t feel. “Two things. First, I have never had an untoward relationship with Professor Fortier. Beyond that, I exercise my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”
Staggart tried again. “I suppose there was nothing ‘untoward’ between you and your little Wiccan last fall?”
“Fifth Amendment,” I said.
Still leering, Staggart turned to Dogface. “This guy is a regular Casanova, Don Juan, and Bluebird all rolled into one.”
With rare presence of mind, I refrained from correcting either his mispronunciation of Bluebeard or his confusion of that mythical wife-murderer with mere seducers. Silently, I awarded myself a medal for discretion.
Dogface also made no comment, but he did look uncomfortable.
Staggart stood and fired a final rhetorical shot. “You’ll tell us all about it, Lover Boy, at a time and place of our choosing.”
He stalked out with the unspeaking Dogface close behind. This, in itself, was a minor victory for me. In our last few encounters, Staggart had left with a warning to “Keep your nose clean, Press,” and I had said, “I always do—I thought you’d remember that.” I suppose he got tired of my reminding him of our contrasting departures from the active Army—me with an honorable discharge and him with a forced resignation in lieu of a court martial.
When I heard the door close behind them, I went over and locked it. They drove away with lights flashing, but at least they didn’t turn on their siren. I searched under the chair cushions to make sure they hadn’t planted anything, then plopped down in the chair Dogface had vacated. With my musicians playing something dissonant, I reviewed what I knew of Clyde Staggart.