by Donn Taylor
Mara sighed her disgust. “I didn’t find anything there.”
“Neither did I, but I can question a few faculty members about her. I’ve already talked to Weldon Combes and Freda Broyles.”
“What did you learn?”
“They weren’t forthcoming, but I think there’s more to forthcome. I’ll try again. Meanwhile, why don’t you see if you can get anything out of Sergeant Spencer.”
Her head snapped around to face me. “Why me? I have no special ‘in’ with him.”
She seemed as defensive as she’d been in our first meeting last fall.
“Division of labor,” I said. “I’m interviewing faculty because I know them better than you do. You and Sergeant Spencer finished the Laila Sloan case as allies.”
“Maybe Dr. Sheldon can help with computer research,” she said.
I gathered that meant the Spencer issue was settled. “Dr. Sheldon will love it. He’s bored stiff except for reading.” I pointed my penlight at my watch. Three o’clock. “We’d better call it a night and catch a couple of winks before classes tomorrow. Not to mention our glorious interview with Dean-Dean.”
She turned the car around and headed back across town. “Where do I drop you? Same place?”
“Same place,” I said, “and keep it quiet. Don’t forget to post the return copy of your contract in the mail office before class.”
“I’ll remember.” She ground the answer out between clenched teeth.
*****
She eased the car to a stop at the mouth of the alley behind my house. I hopped out and pushed the door almost shut. She leaned across and held it, driving with the other hand until I lost sight of her around a corner. I never did hear the door close.
Inside, a few minutes later, I considered the night’s work. Mara and I had gotten by with another burglary, and it felt good to work with her again. The pleasure was short-lived, for the odds against our success rolled over me like the tread of a tank.
The campus gossip mill, the college dean, and the entire Homicide Division were arrayed against us.
And we didn’t even know what we were looking for.
CHAPTER 13
The alarm clock jangled me half-awake at seven the next morning. A shower lifted me to three-quarters. A dazed look at the calendar told me it was a brown-suit day. I had a nine o’clock class in Renaissance History of Ideas and—oh joy!—a ten o’clock session with Dean-Dean. Once on campus, I dropped the return copy of my contract in the mail office.
My mailbox contained a notice reflecting Dean-Dean’s unusual approach to the English language:
A memorial service for Professor Mitra Fortier will be held in the old auditorium at 10:45 Tuesday, all faculty must attend because a faculty meeting will follow. If any faculty member has a conflict they must cancel and attend.
Dean Billig
Vice President for Academic Affairs
By noon, some phantom grammarian would post that message on the mail room board with the errors circled in red. I don’t know who does that, but Dean-Dean thinks I do.
In my nine o’clock class I tried to introduce the students, gently, to the fact that people haven’t always gone about the business of thinking in the same way. That’s because the Medieval and Renaissance picture of the universe was perceived mostly by comparison while our modern picture is approached largely by cause and effect. I was just getting started when Cynthia Starlington slipped into the classroom and took a seat in the back. But I persevered, drawing my usual blackboard diagram of the Ptolemaic cosmos, the centerpiece of the Renaissance body of knowledge.
For once I had the students’ complete attention. They’d never heard that the Ptolemaic system had any relevance to the way they’d been taught to think. The idea that there were other ways to go about thinking came as a shock. So it was a good class right down to the summary, during which Cynthia slipped out as quietly as she’d come in.
My cerebral orchestra celebrated the class with trumpets and timpani while I dragged my reluctant carcass to the Executive Center and my interview with Dean-Dean.
Mara was there before me in Mrs. Dunwiddie’s office. Mrs. D is a gentle late-middle-aged lady who does her job and tries to stay out of trouble. She busied herself shuffling papers on her desk. That was not a good sign.
Dean-Dean’s door opened presently, and the little man himself beckoned us in. My internal orchestra promptly launched into a bassoon concerto. Something about Dean-Dean always brings up that bassoon. I’ve wondered if my cerebral musicians associate the words bassoon and buffoon, but that is a question beyond my expertise.
As we entered, I pressed the “Record” button on my voice recorder. Two hardwood chairs awaited us in front of Dean-Dean’s desk, and Mara’s boss, Dathan Hormah, was seated to our rear. My chairman was not present, presumably because he is not as cooperative as Professor Hormah. It looked like bringing the recorder was a good idea.
From behind his desk, Dean-Dean glared at Mara and me in turn. He began in his high-pitched voice, “I’ve brought you here to talk once again about your job performance.”
Mara preempted. “I would like to talk to President Cantwell.”
Dean-Dean blinked and said, “That’s not possible. President Cantwell is in Minnesota on a fund-raising tour.”
“I didn’t realize he’d taken up ice fishing,” I said.
President Cantwell is an ardent fisherman. He spends weeks away from the campus on fund-raising tours. He does raise money, and he’s making good progress toward funding the planned fine arts building. But he always takes his fishing tackle, and it’s suspected that he spends more time catching fish than catching funds.
At my comment, Dean-Dean pointed a finger at me. “I am fed up with your facetious obstructionism.”
“Bon appétit,” I said.
Dean-Dean’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Behind me, Dathan Hormah cleared his throat. Call me a knight out of season, but my main objective was to draw fire away from Mara.
Dean-Dean finally got his voice back and started in on me again. “You’ve been uncooperative ever since I’ve known you—”
“Could you please clarify?” I asked.
He cited my role in the faculty’s defeating an administration proposal to abolish our core of required courses and make all courses elective. Then he mentioned my leading opposition to the administration’s attempt to drop chemistry from the nursing curriculum. Faculty voted to keep the required chemistry course, but the administration subverted it by taking the course away from the Chemistry Department and bringing in a high school teacher to teach it separately.
There are reasons I’m the campus pariah. But after the nursing problem I’ve mostly tried to stay out of the line of fire. Teaching history is my life, and I wouldn’t be much good at anything else.
Dean-Dean was just getting warmed up. “When President Cantwell told your department that we were ‘on the very cusp of history,’ you asked if that made us cuspidors …”
A suppressed giggle emerged from Mara.
Dean-Dean glowered at her and plunged on. “When we modernized the names of things on campus, you satirized it with that idiotic contest. And you sabotaged our requiring faculty to take that personality test—”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I didn’t do anything about anyone’s taking that test.”
Dean-Dean pointed his finger again. “You marked answer A to every question on it.”
“You told the faculty we had to take the test,” I said. “You didn’t say we had to pass it.”
He was breathing fast now. “And you led other people to do what you did.”
“No, sir,” I said. “I made no effort to influence anybody. A couple of people looked to see why I’d finished so quickly, and they talked to their neighbors. I never said a word to anyone.”
“But the end result was that more than half the faculty turned in papers with nothing except answer A. How do you expect me to know my faculty if the t
ests are invalid?”
“You might try talking to them,” I said.
Dean-Dean knew when to change the subject. “I also want to talk to you two about your personal conduct.”
“What’s wrong with my conduct?” Mara demanded.
“Please.” Dean-Dean raised a hand. “Overton University is on the annual budget of more than one hundred churches. We cannot afford anything that might lead them to drop us.”
“Then scuttle your plan for coed dorms,” I said.
Dean-Dean tried to draw himself up to full height, which proved difficult while he was sitting down. “Our consultant says coed dorms will bring in more students.”
“Then fire the consultant,” I said. “We all know the trouble kids get into.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Mara said.
Dean-Dean looked pained. “We have previously discussed your spending the night in Professor Barclay’s house.”
Mara’s eyes blazed. “You know very well I found him unconscious on the floor and stayed to take care of him through the night. Nothing else happened.”
Dean-Dean put his nose in the air. “Be that as it may, there are new stories circulating about you two and ... and the late Professor Fortier.”
“Those stories are false,” I said, “and you could only have heard them from Captain Clyde Staggart. You ought to know by now that everything he’s told you about me is false.”
“I have no reason to doubt Captain Staggart’s veracity,” he said.
“The next time you talk to him,” Mara said, “ask him why he had to leave the Army.” I’d confided my story to her, and now she was defending me.
Dean-Dean blinked again. “That’s immaterial. The subject of this discussion is your conduct. On questions of morality, we have to draw a line in the sandbox. I’m putting you on notice that no improper conduct by any member of this faculty will be tolerated.”
He leaned back with an air of satisfaction.”Have either of you wondered about your contracts for the coming year?”
Mara and I exchanged elaborate shrugs. We looked back at Dean-Dean and said nothing.
Uncertainty appeared on his face. “Did you check your mail boxes on Saturday?”
Mara smiled. “I did, and my signed contract is on its way back to you.”
“Mine is, too,” I said. “Thanks for the raise.”
Dean-Dean looked down and yanked his desk drawer open. He looked like he’d stumbled into a plague house.
“Did you want to talk to us about anything else?” Mara sounded all sweetness and light.
Dean-Dean sat speechless. Then he looked down and muttered, “N-n-no, I guess not.” Mara rose and said, “Thank you again.” She smiled at her amazed department chairman, “Have a nice day, Dr. Hormah.”
I ignored Dean-Dean and followed Mara out of the office. As if on cue, my musicians turned off the bassoon and changed to soft strings. Mara and I said nothing until we cleared the Executive Center.
We rounded a corner, checked to make sure we weren’t observed, and let our laughter explode. It went on and on, and I recalled the companionship of our laughter together last fall after the waitress had named me Cupcake. It was a good feeling.
When we finally stopped, Mara asked, “What do we do now?”
“We each do what we agreed on last night. Then let’s meet with Dr. Sheldon tonight.”
Mara nodded and headed across the campus circle to her office. I held in place, deciding what to do next.
The euphoria of our small victory over Dean-Dean faded quickly.
Clyde Staggart still threatened our reputations and perhaps our freedom.
Our investigation still lay ahead, but we had not the slightest idea of what we were investigating or how we should go about it.
CHAPTER 14
I didn’t know what I was looking for, but the ticking clock told me I’d better start looking. As before, the most probable sources of helpful information were Mitra’s colleagues. But it was lunch time, so the best place to find them was the campus grill.
Weldon Combes was coming out of the grill as I was going in. He stopped me and said, “Something you ought to know, Press. A couple of trustees were talking about you earlier in there.”
“Which ones?” I asked.
Combes checked to see that we weren’t overheard. “Emory Estes and Gordon Samstag.”
Strange that Samstag should turn up this soon after I read his name in the paper. But stranger yet that two trustees would still be on campus in the week after their meeting.
“Were you in the group?” I asked.
“I was at the next table, but they talked pretty loud.”
He paused, apparently expecting me to prompt him. I tried to wait him out, but he out-waited me. So I did prompt—“I suppose I should know what they said.”
Combes resumed with enthusiasm. “They agreed that you had great talent for stirring up a hornets’ nest. They wished you’d lay off and let the police handle it.”
He paused again. “That’s all I heard because Samstag left and Emory Estes went across the room and sat by Professor Thorn.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know why people think I’m investigating.”
He showed an I-know-better-than-that expression and headed out across campus.
Inside, I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and coffee. The only open seat was directly across the table from Mara Thorn. She appeared deeply engaged in conversation with the husky trustee Emory Estes, who sat beside her. The other two persons at the table were composition specialists, one male and one female.
“Have a seat, Press,” Estes said, his voice too loud for the occasion. “Always room for one more.”
I sat and Mara recognized my presence with a nod. Nothing more. I felt a little pang inside, though I understood her reason. I looked for ways to give the Blatant Beast a false scent.
Before I could find one, the female composition specialist chimed in. “What do you think about that rocket failing in California?”
“What rocket?” I asked.
“You haven’t heard? One of those multi-million-dollar things went out of control after takeoff and blew up over the Pacific. I heard it on the news a few minutes ago.”
Estes made a wry face. “Our hard-earned tax dollars at work.”
I wasn’t interested in rockets, so I asked him, “How’s the used car business?”
Estes launched into blow-by-blow descriptions of his latest sales. Accent on the blow. I listened with half a mind while giving primary attention to my sandwich and coffee. I’ll never know how long his epic would have continued because Cynthia Starlington came by and rubbed a few circles on my back. Estes stared in unbelief.
“Hello, Cyn,” I said.
“Hello, Press.” Cynthia’s long eyelashes fluttered a few times. “I hope you didn’t mind my visiting your class. It was always one of my favorites, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to hear that lecture again. You’ve added some new things.” She rubbed a few more circles while everyone at the table watched.
“There’s been some good work done in that field lately,” I said.
“Got to go now.” She stopped rubbing and flashed everyone a smile. All eyes followed her as she glided out of the grill.
“The last pose of summer,” Mara said.
“The word is rose,” I said.
She pushed back her chair and stood. “You take your word, and I’ll take mine.” She left with Emory Estes trailing close behind.
The female composition specialist filled the conversation gap. “You won’t believe what one of my students wrote.” I had no chance to say if I would or wouldn’t because she continued, “He wrote, ‘The editors of the student newspaper are not illiterate. Every one of them has a mother and a father.’”
“Remarkable,” I said.
We seemed headed for normal faculty chit-chat when Steven Drisko and his wife occupied the chairs vacated by Mara and Emory Estes. Another trus
tee in the grill? Drisko spoke directly to me. “Professor Barclay, I don’t think you’ve met my wife.”
I stood and said, “I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Drisko.”
“Call me Brill,” she said. She looked bored with everything except the cheeseburger in front of her and not too happy with that. I couldn’t blame her about the cheeseburger. One drop of the grease oozing from it was enough to spoil the elaborately casual slacks she wore. They must have cost a leg or two at Neiman-Marcus or Saks Fifth Avenue, but a centipede like Drisko could spare a few appendages.
Until now, I’d only seen Brill at a distance. Here at close range she was impressive. The term “big blonde” leaped immediately to mind, but there was nothing phlegmatic about her. Every move she made showed strength and coordination. Her most distinctive features, though, were small black eyes and tightly-curled bottle-blonde hair.
I didn’t have to wonder long what had brought Drisko to the grill.
He looked up and grinned. “Still not investigating, Press? I’d think another mysterious death would get your curiosity going.”
I shrugged. “It’s a police case. They’ll make an announcement when they know something.”
His grin broadened. “TV news says they’ve already got you and the Wiccan woman involved.”
“Former Wiccan,” I said. “We’re not involved. We just happened to find the body.”
Brill Drisko intervened, her voice a bit too loud. “That’s getting to be a habit with you, isn’t it? I learned long ago not to get involved in things that don’t concern me.”
“We’re not involved,” I said again.
Steven Drisko gave a satirical laugh. “The TV people implied a lot more than that.”
“Then they implied wrong.” I pushed back my chair. “Sorry, but I have to teach a class.” I added as an afterthought, “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Drisko.”
“Call me Brill,” she said around a mouthful of cheeseburger.