Murder Mezzo Forte (A Preston Barclay Mystery)

by Donn Taylor

  “By seven-thirty usually.”

  I briefed Mara on the lies Freda had told me and the questions I would ask. “Use a woman-to-woman approach and work on her conscience,” I said. “Now we’d better head home before the police check the park. Do you need a convoy?”

  Mara’s chin lifted again. “I can handle it. Go home and get some sleep.”

  I cranked up the Honda, but I didn’t put it in gear until Mara’s Buick cleared the park. A sudden loneliness descended on me, the same loneliness I’d felt last fall when we parted company after working together.

  No one followed me home this time, so maybe organized crime types kept union working hours. Once in bed, I fell dead asleep and knew nothing until the alarm clock woke me at six-thirty. If it hadn’t waked me, Dean-Dean’s phone call would have at seven. His scratchy voice was pitched several tones higher than normal.

  “Professor Barclay, I heard the news last night …” He made the mistake of pausing for dramatic effect.

  “So did I,” I said. “There isn’t a word of truth in it, but Francie LaBouche is kind of cute, isn’t she?”

  He stammered a few incoherent sounds. “That’s beside the point. The point is your personal conduct. See me in my office at eight.”

  “A.M. or P.M.?” I asked.

  “A.M., of course,” he fumed. “Be there.”

  He hung up before I could answer.

  I knew what was coming. I’d either be suspended or summarily fired. Maybe Emory Estes Experienced Autos could use another salesman.

  Seven-thirty found me waiting outside Weldon Combes’ office, and the incumbent himself arrived shortly after. He stopped when he saw me, consternation on his face.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Press. Not after last night’s news. What’s the occasion?”

  “Unresolved questions,” I said. “Do we talk here or in your office?”

  He unlocked the door, and we entered. He closed it after us and retreated behind his desk. I took one of the chairs along the wall. Sweat showed on his bald pate in spite of the cold day. I held his gaze and let him stew.

  “What kind of questions?” he asked.

  “Tell me about the play you made for Mitra Fortier after her boyfriend got killed.”

  A long scarecrow arm wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do,” I said. “You can answer me now or answer under oath in court.”

  That was pure bluff, but it worked.

  “I ... there wasn’t much to it,” he said. “I felt sorry for Mitra ... We worked closely in the department, and I kept going by her office to see how she was doing …”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “She was an attractive woman, and the wife and I weren’t getting along too well right then.” He threw me another defensive glance. “I made a few comments that I shouldn’t have.”

  “What did she say to those?”

  “Nothing ... She just looked at me.”

  “This happened several times?”

  Combes looked at the floor. “Three, to be exact.”

  “So what did you do then?”

  “Well, I saw it wasn’t going to happen and decided to make the best of it.”

  “But that isn’t what makes you so nervous today, is it?”

  I stood and advanced on his desk and leaned on it with both hands. He looked up at me the way a bird looks at a snake.

  “Now tell me the real reason you came back to the office the night we found Mitra’s body.”

  His face whitened, “Press, I’ve never seen you like this …”

  I showed him the glower I used to use on sticky occasions in Special Forces. “You’d better hope you never see me like this again. Now, you can answer the question to me or to the judge. Which will it be?”

  I hoped he didn’t know I was bluffing.

  “All right.” He put his head in his hands. “I found her body before you did.”

  That rocked me back on my heels. I’d known he was hiding something, though I had no idea it was that big. But I mastered the shock and bored in again.

  “How did that happen?”

  His head remained in his hands. “I meant to catch her at the reception—something about a student adding one of her classes after the deadline. But whenever I looked, she was busy with someone else. I started for home, then decided to come back and leave her a note. But I found her dead behind the desk.”

  “Wasn’t the office locked?”

  “It’s a two-person department. Each of us had a key to the other’s office.”

  “What did you do when you found her body?”

  “I panicked. I did check to see if CPR would do any good, but she was already too far gone. I was afraid my ... my advances toward her would come out, and I ran. I was late enough that no one saw me leave.”

  That must have been while Elmo Koonz was checking out that car’s backfire. If he’d been unfreezing his whatzis in his lookout post, he’d have seen Combes leave.

  “So you left the body for Professor Thorn and me to find,” I said.

  He looked up, more defensive than ever. “I didn’t know who would find her. I just knew it couldn’t be me.”

  “Did you remove anything from her office or rearrange anything?”

  “Not a thing. I got out of there and locked the door behind me.”

  “Why did you come back later?”

  “I … I couldn’t leave her there all night. But when I got there you’d already—”

  “Did Mitra ever say anything to you about a number of faculty going to lose their jobs?”

  “No.” His face looked blank as well as white. “She never said anything like that ... Press, I won’t have to tell this in court, will I? My wife …”

  I backed toward the door. “I don’t know, but if I were you, I’d have a witness for everything I did the night she was murdered.”

  “Press …” He stood and leaned on the desk. “I wonder about something else ... I locked her door when I left. But you say you found it unlocked when you got there. That could mean that someone else ... Well, I’ve been wondering …”

  I grinned at him. “Now I’m wondering, too.”

  That was probably a low blow, but my anger had been building ever since he admitted finding Mitra’s body. If he’d acted like a man instead of running away, then Mara and I wouldn’t have been involved. We’d still be in trouble, but we’d have one less thing to worry about.

  And speaking of trouble—I trudged through the winter cold toward my meeting with Dean-Dean.

  CHAPTER 27

  Mara hailed me, and I turned to see her emerge from the Science Center. The chilling wind put a pleasant glow on her ivory complexion.

  “I’ll brief you about Freda when we get through with Dean-Dean,” she said.

  “He called you, too?” You’d think Dean-Dean would have learned better than to take on both of us at once.

  “It’s not going to be pleasant.”

  “We’ll survive,” I said. I hoped.

  In the Executive Center we found Mrs. Dunwiddie fiddling with things on her desk. When Dean-Dean opened his door, she said, “The Vice President will see you now.”

  I flicked on my pocket voice recorder.

  The setup was much like our last encounter—two hardwood chairs facing his desk with Dathan Hormah seated behind us. In addition, Mrs. Dunwiddie sat back there to take notes. My internal bassoon sounded its recognition of Dean-Dean’s presence.

  Dean-Dean’s face was red with agitation. “I’m sure you both know why you’re here,” he blustered.

  “I was hoping you’d tell us,” I said.

  He blinked but otherwise ignored me. “The last time you were here, I told you I was drawing a line in the sandpile—”

  “Sandbox,” I said.

  Dean-Dean’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He swallowed once and began again. “As intelligent people, you know that when a person rea
ches the point that they can no longer perform effectively in a given position, that it’s best to move on. A time to cut one’s losses. A time to throw up the towel—”

  “Throw in the towel,” I said.

  Dean-Dean sputtered before regaining his voice. “What I’m leading up to is that it’s time for you to resign.”

  He paused, and I said, “I’ve done nothing to justify either resignation or any unfavorable personnel action.”

  “Nor have I,” Mara said.

  Dean-Dean turned to Mara. “Professor Thorn, you’ve been arrested for having child pornography on your office computer. That is a disgrace to the college—”

  “University,” I corrected. Anything to blunt his attack on Mara.

  “You keep out of this,” he said to me.

  “You’re the one who ordered me to come here,” I said.

  Mara torched him with her gaze and said, “I demand to see President Cantwell.”

  Dean-Dean showed a malevolent grin. “That is impossible. President Cantwell was taken to the hospital on emergency last night with pneumonia. Given his past reactions to antibiotics, he won’t be out anytime soon. In his absence, I am in charge.”

  Visions of the sorcerer’s apprentice floated through my mind, but now the apprentice wore the black hood of an executioner.

  “Now, Professor Thorn,” Dean-Dean continued, apparently aware that the news of President Cantwell had shocked Mara and me into silence, “why did you think you could use a ... uh ... university computer for an illegal purpose?”

  Mara’s chin rose that eloquent fraction of an inch. “I stand upon my constitutional right to remain silent. Any statements will be made through my counsel.”

  “That may be well enough for the legal system,” Dean-Dean said, “but this is a purely administrative inquiry in which fine points of law do not apply.”

  I interrupted again. “Are you saying that because she’s a member of this faculty she has no constitutional rights? If you act on that you’ll get the college sued for every cent it’s worth.”

  Behind me, Dathan Hormah cleared his throat. Dean-Dean looked at him and blinked. Neither corrected my calling the university a college.

  “Be that as it may,” Dean-Dean said, “I’m told the police have documentary evidence of illicit conduct by both of you. It’s been all over the news. This institution cannot tolerate that kind of bad publicity. We are on the monthly budgets of more than one hundred churches.”

  I interrupted again. “You’ll get publicity worse than that if you authorize coed dorms.”

  “That’s beside the point,” Dean-Dean flared. “We’re speaking of your personal conduct. The police have evidence that you, Professor Barclay, had a long-standing affair with Professor Fortier, and that the two of you were carrying on even before your wife died—”

  “That information is completely false,” I said. “No one who knew Professor Fortier will believe it, and no one who knew Faith will believe she would tolerate it.”

  “Nevertheless,” Dean-Dean said, “your conduct in that affair has brought disgrace to this institution—”

  This time Mara interrupted. “‘He that answereth a matter before he heareth it is folly and shame to him.’” She turned to Dathan Hormah. “In case you don’t recognize the quotation, sir, it’s from the Book of Proverbs.”

  That turned Dean-Dean’s attention back to her. “The evidence shows that you gave Professor Fortier cause for jealousy, and that resulted in a confrontation with threats of violence.”

  “That never happened.” Mara’s face flushed with anger. “Neither the cause nor the confrontation.”

  “In view of these actions,” Dean-Dean said, “you are both placed on suspension from the faculty pending action by the Faculty Hearing Committee.”

  “You know what happened last time,” I said, reminding him that his false accusations last fall had blown up in his face when the students held a mass demonstration for Mara and the chairman of the Faculty Hearing Committee was indicted for murder.

  “Nevertheless,” Dean-Dean said, “you are both placed on suspension. You will be notified later when the hearing will take place.”

  “Okay,” I said, and rose to leave.

  Mara followed my example.

  “Before you go,” Dathan Hormah said to Mara, “I need to know what to do about your classes.”

  Mara’s face flushed full red. “I can’t help you, Professor Hormah. That is a faculty action, and I’ve been suspended.” She spun on her heel and strode out of the office.

  As I followed, Dathan Hormah said to Dean-Dean, “You forgot to bar them from the campus.”

  I don’t know what Dean-Dean said then because I slammed the door behind me. Mara and I grabbed our coats and hurried outside before anyone could say anything further.

  “I have things to tell you, Press,” Mara said, suddenly calm. “Someone left a warning note under my office door this morning.”

  “I found one of those in my house. And I think a car followed me home the other night.”

  Mara frowned. “I think someone followed me, too. We have a lot to talk about. At Dr. Sheldon’s?”

  I nodded. “He’ll love it. Maybe he has results from his research.”

  “I’ll see you there,” she said.

  “One other thing,” I said. “I think there may be hope for your ... uh ... computer problem. I’ll explain at Dr. Sheldon’s.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I won’t even hope until you explain.”

  We headed out in different directions. The thought that both of us had been followed worried me. That suggested organized crime involvement, but nothing in the Mitra Fortier murder or Clyde Staggart’s slanders could account for that. Our student convoys had apparently moved the stalkers off-campus, but someone still had put that note under Mara’s office door.

  As I descended the walkway to my home, I used my cell phone to call Ron Spencer about the CD Bruno Pinkle had planted in my desk. His wife answered again.

  “I still haven’t seen him,” she said. “I called the police station, but all they knew was that someone saw him yesterday afternoon talking to Steven Drisko’s wife.”

  “Brill Drisko?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “and while I was on the phone, some guy laughed in the background like he’d heard a dirty joke. So I asked for Duggan Hahn, one of the detectives Ron had worked with before, but they said he’d gone on emergency leave.” She gave something close to a sob. “Ron’s going off and leaving me and the children—it isn’t like the man I married. Professor Barclay, I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “I don’t know, either,” I said. “If I see Ron, I’ll tell him to call home.”

  She thanked me, and we hung up.

  My heart sank deeper in despair. My suspension cut me off from teaching history, which I’d long ago declared the only life left to me, and I had no idea how to combat the forces aligned against me. Mara’s plight seemed even worse. She could do prison time as well as lose her job.

  There seemed to be no substance to that Renaissance emblem’s claim that Truth was The Daughter of Time. The more time passed, the deeper we became buried under falsehoods.

  I didn’t go inside my house but climbed into my Honda for the cross-city ride to Dr. Sheldon’s. The car cranked instantly despite the cold morning, and I silently thanked Manny Clampett for keeping it dependable despite its age. I promised myself again that I’d replace it a year or two after Cindy graduated.

  If she graduated. Her suspension hung like a lead coating on my heart. My anger rose again that anyone so young and sincere had to battle a powerful and corrupt system that masked its tyranny under the façade of virtue.

  By this time, I was spinning along through Overton City on one of the main streets that had few traffic lights and a speed limit of forty-five miles per hour. There was a sizeable dump truck ahead of me, but it moved along smartly.

  Things went well until the truck slowed in anticipation
of a red light. When I slowed in response, my brakes felt a little mushy. Then the traffic light changed to red and the truck’s brake light glowed full bright. I slammed on my own brakes. They began to take, but then my foot carried the brake pedal to the floor.

  Complete brake failure.

  My Honda sped onward, and the rear of the truck loomed huge before me.

  It’s strange how much detail can be compressed into a few split-seconds. The body of the truck was high enough that my Honda’s hood would pass under it. The truck’s first impact would be against my windshield. Its second impact would be against my head. I couldn’t dodge to the left because of oncoming traffic nor to the right because of a car paralleling me on that side.

  Without thinking, I seized the parking brake handle between the Honda’s front seats and yanked as hard as I could. Maybe the knowledge resided somewhere in my mind that the parking brake had a mechanical linkage rather than hydraulic. I only know that I reacted that way. But even as those brakes took hold, I knew it was too late. The truck grew greater before me, and I watched the Honda’s hood pass underneath it. I threw my body flat across the parking brake and the passenger seat.

  My last impression of the collision was the sound of the truck’s body crashing into the Honda’s windshield and a tremendous jolt that shot pain through my entire body.

  My cerebral pianist responded with a mechanical performance of Schumann’s “The Happy Farmer.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Pain flared through my body, so intense I wanted to scream. Then came a deadening sense of deep bodily violation. For a few moments, I lay there trying to decide which parts of me were broken. Dully, moving only my head, I looked around to see about getting out of the wreck.

  It wasn’t going to be easy. Though I was lying on my side with the hand brake handle gouging my ribs, my feet remained under the steering wheel. I’d slipped out of the shoulder strap of the seat belt, but the lap belt still held. And the truck bed had penetrated the windshield and bent the steering wheel down over my hips.

  As the babble of bystanders increased outside, I got a hand under my body and released the seat belt. The door handle on the passenger door didn’t work. The door itself had been bent too much to open. I felt along the door-side of the passenger seat and searched for the seat controls while my internal pianist kept banging away at “The Happy Farmer.” If Schumann had been present, I would have committed mayhem. But then he also suffered musical hallucinations, so maybe that should have earned him amnesty.