A Body In My Office (The Charles Bentley Mysteries Book 1)

by Glen Ebisch

  Thorndike leaned against the kitchen counter and studied him.

  “When did your wife die?”

  “Three years and two months ago.”

  “What was the cause?”

  “A car accident on a snowy evening coming back from her job in Vermont.”

  She nodded as if this somehow made sense.

  “Are you married?” Charles asked.

  She shook her head. “Divorced. I have two grown children living in different parts of the country.”

  “I have a daughter near Boston.”

  She took another sip of coffee and smiled like she found the place comforting. Charles could believe it. He always did.

  Finally she sighed as if coming back to reality.

  “What I wanted to run by you is whether the murderer could have been intending to kill you rather than Underwood? After all, he was in your office. Your name was still on the door.”

  “You mean someone who didn’t know me by sight wanted to kill me?”

  “It’s possible if someone was hired to do the job.”

  Charles laughed. “Who would hire a professional killer to murder an English professor?”

  “Given any bad grades lately?” she asked with a smile. Then she went on more seriously. “Do you have any real enemies?”

  Charles gave the question some thought.

  “As a man gets older, he’s more inclined to wonder if he has any real friends who would help him in a time of need. Enemies are more a younger man’s luxury. I’m sure there are some people who dislike me more than others, but I doubt anyone feels strongly enough about it to want to take my life.”

  “Who would gain by your death?”

  “My daughter inherits, of course. Someone on the faculty would have moved into my slot and gotten to teach my American literature courses.”

  She smiled. “That doesn’t seem like much of a motive.”

  “That’s because you don’t teach college. Ernest Ritter has been waiting twenty years to teach my courses. He’s a cold, calculating little man—”

  “But he knows who you are.”

  “However, it’s more complicated than that. What if he heard about Underwood coming? Underwood is younger than I am by twenty-five years and younger than Ritter by fifteen. Ritter might outlast me, but he’d most likely never outlast Underwood. So he decides to kill Underwood in such a way as to put the blame on me. In one stroke he gets my courses.”

  The Lieutenant thought about it. “Possible. But it seems awfully complicated.”

  “And when I accused him of it, he didn’t look guilty.”

  “You told him your theory?”

  “Sure. I thought if I watched his face I might know if he had done it.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s usually better to gather a little evidence before accusing someone.”

  Charles blushed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “But I will check into Ritter’s whereabouts at the time of Underwood’s death.

  “Thanks.” He didn’t know if the Lieutenant was just saying that to make him feel better, but he appreciated it.

  Is there anyone else who would want you dead?”

  Charles shook his head.

  They stood there in the kitchen silently drinking their coffee, and Charles realized how nice it was to have a woman in the house, even if it was someone who considered him a person of interest only in a non-romantic sense.

  “Were there any other faculty in their offices on the fourth floor at the time of Underwood’s death?” he asked.

  The Lieutenant took out her notebook.

  “Andrea Boyd was in her office with the door closed and didn’t hear anything. Otherwise the floor was empty. Dean Carruthers offered me my job back.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Did you take it?”

  Charles shook his head. “I turned him down.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not completely sure. I guess I’ve gotten comfortable with the idea of being retired.”

  “That happened fast.”

  Charles sipped his coffee. “I guess I didn’t realize how tired I’ve gotten of teaching. I think I’ve gradually been losing my enthusiasm for it since Barbara died.”

  Thorndike nodded. “Trying something new can’t hurt. At least it won’t have all the old associations.”

  The Lieutenant finished her coffee, rinsed out her cup, and put it on the drain board next to the sink.

  “Am I still a person of interest?” Charles asked.

  She smiled. “Not as much as you would have been if you took back your old job. Then it would have looked as though you killed Underwood to get his job. Not taking it weakens the case against you or else it proves that you’re one very smart murderer who’s playing some kind of deep game.”

  “Is that really likely?”

  “I don’t know, Charles. You’re not easy to figure.”

  “I’ve recently learned that I’m somewhat inscrutable even to my daughter.”

  “Everybody hides things, even from their nearest and dearest. But the good news for now is that you can remove your personal effects from your old office. We’ve gone through everything. And if you do think of anyone who might be out to get you, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  With a smile and a nod, Thorndike walked out the side door.

  Charles remained standing in the kitchen for a moment, realizing that he had experienced a real sense of loss when Thorndike left the house. He wasn’t sure what attracted him to her. Maybe it was her sense of humour or her strong physical presence. Was that just a fancy way of saying he liked her body? Charles wondered, always wanting to be honest with himself about things like that.

  He poured himself a bowl of cereal and, managing to balance that and his coffee in one hand; he opened the back door and went out on the patio to eat. He looked at the pool that his wife had always enjoyed, which he now religiously maintained although he never went in it. He thought about how he didn’t want to move nearer his daughter or go back to teaching. But a life spent sitting around the house after the habitual morning run sounded lonely and limited. He could, of course, read The New York Times carefully from front to back, but having too much time and being fully informed was what he thought made most seniors cranky. He wondered if he was lonely already and wasn’t sure he was. He was alone, but being lonely required a desire for the company of others. He wasn’t confident that he was willing to disturb the still waters of his life by allowing someone else into it.

  After finishing his breakfast, he decided to go into the College and pick up his possessions from the office. He went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror and saw his face was covered with dark stubble mixed with flecks of grey. He wondered what the Lieutenant had made of that. Probably not much, he decided. When you’re thirty, stubble is sexy; when you’re over sixty, it just makes you look homeless, he thought, lathering up.

  Chapter Six

  As Charles climbed up the flights of stairs to his office, using the back staircase as usual, he thought about having had the same office for over thirty-five years, of all the articles and the two critically acclaimed books he’d written there, of the time when he and Barbara has finished a couple of bottles of wine there while celebrating his promotion to full professor and gotten amorous. The realization came, like a sharp pain in his side, that he would miss the place, even the smell of dust and old wood that permeated the air.

  When he reached his office, he noticed right away that the door was ajar. Was there any truth to the notion that murderers return to the scenes of their crimes? For a moment he considered going to the English Department office and asking Sheila to accompany him. But that sounded awfully craven, and since he was a person of interest, she probably wouldn’t be willing to go anywhere with him alone.

  He slowly opened the door, thankful that he had oiled the hinges a few weeks ago. A woman was standing with her back to him,
surveying the room. He cleared his throat, and she spun around, pressing a hand to her ample chest. Charles estimated she was in her late thirties.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m Charles Bentley and this is my office. Or at least it used to be.”

  She nodded matter-of-factly. “You’re the one they say killed my husband. Over a job.”

  “Not really. I mean, I didn’t kill him.”

  She reached out her hand and Charles shook it briefly. He was amazed at how civilized she was being. Perhaps the British really were different, he thought, admiring her stylish clothes and erect stance.

  “I’m Sylvia Underwood. And I wouldn’t blame you if you had killed Garrison. He could be a thoroughgoing bastard at times. He cheated on me from when we were first married. I should have known that he would. After all he slept with me when I was his graduate assistant, and he was still married to his first wife. Why should I have believed that he’d be any more faithful to me?” She gave a short laugh. “Women always have high hopes that they can reform a serial philanderer. Foolish optimism.”

  “Who do you think killed him?” Charles asked, slowly recovering from the barrage of information given in a plummy accent.

  “I’d put my money on that last girlfriend of his. She was stupid enough to get pregnant, and was suing him for alimony and child support. That’s why Garrison took off for the States, to try to get away from her. I told him it wouldn’t work. I saw her once and you could see the tenacity etched into her cute little face. You know, it’s ironic; Garrison and I wanted to get pregnant and never had any luck. Then this tart comes along and all he has to do it look at her.”

  “I’m sure he did more than that,” Charles observed.

  Sylvia grinned slyly. “I’m sure he did.”

  “Is this latest girlfriend in this country?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. She fixed on Garrison like a limpet. Like I said, that was the only reason he came over here. Garrison really didn’t like the States. We were here for a while about ten years ago, right after we got married, but it didn’t work out very well.”

  “Why not?”

  “There were several reasons, but I think the fundamental reason was that he didn’t like it here: too much competition. The field of English scholarship is much smaller back in the U.K. Everyone more or less knows everyone, and it’s easy to establish a reputation. The pool over here is many times larger, and I think Garrison liked being a larger fish in a smaller pond.”

  “You mentioned that his girlfriend might have killed him. Wouldn’t that be counterproductive for her? She wouldn’t be able to sue a dead man.”

  “Oh, she’ll still try to get something from his estate, I’m sure. And you’re assuming she’s rational. The one time I met her she was insane with anger towards him. She’s capable of anything.”

  “Is there anyone else who might be a suspect?”

  Sylvia Underwood smiled and seemed to stand even taller. “I’m probably a likely candidate; after all, I get to inherit. The royalties from his books together with his life insurance should add up to a tidy sum. Plus I’ll have my freedom. To be honest it feels like the end of a twelve year prison sentence.”

  “Couldn’t you have gotten quite a bit of money and your freedom by just divorcing him?”

  “He’d have fought me tooth and nail simply on the principle of the thing. He didn’t like to give up anything that belonged to him. And he knew a lot of solicitors, former students of his, who would have represented him for free. He’d have managed to throw me out with nothing.”

  “And now you have it all. That does give you a motive.”

  “Yes. I have lots of motive, but no opportunity. I spent all of yesterday with a realtor looking for a place where we could live. That female police lieutenant has already checked it out.”

  “I hope you haven’t had a lot of possessions shipped over already,” Charles said.

  “No, mostly clothes and some things Garrison wanted in his office. In fact that’s why I’m here. The police said I could gather up the items Garrison left behind. Would you help me sort them out, so I don’t take anything that belongs to you?”

  Charles nodded at the box on the floor.

  “Your husband had already disposed of my things.”

  Sylvia Underwood smiled grimly. “Garrison was always quick to take over wherever he went.”

  With Charles’ help they soon had her late husband’s pictures off the walls and the desk emptied. They packed it all in a cardboard box Sylvia had brought with her.

  “Not much to show for a man’s life,” she said, hefting the box.

  “I’m sure his real legacy is in his books and the minds of his students.”

  She nodded and Charles thought he detected a tear in the corner of her eye.

  “For all the bad qualities Garrison had, he could be magical at times. He had a truly fine mind.”

  Charles nodded, reserving his own opinion.

  She shook his hand and thanked him for his help.

  “I’ll probably see you again. The police don’t want me to go home just yet.”

  With a final smile she lifted up the box and left the room.

  Charles gave her a few minutes’ head start. He picked up his own box, gave his office one last long sentimental look, then carefully locked the office door and went down the back stairs.

  As he put the box in the trunk of his car, Charles noticed a streak of dirt on the side that had survived the car wash of two days ago and used his handkerchief to rub it off.

  “Don’t give in to your O.C.D.,” a voice said behind him.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Andrea Boyd grinning at him.

  “Obsessive compulsives do most of the world’s great work. They’re the only ones who care enough to get it right,” Charles responded.

  Andrea laughed in that free and open way that made Charles’ heart skip a beat. Fool! Old fool! He warned himself.

  “Have you heard anything from the Dean about teaching my courses?” he asked.

  “I got a call from Yuri this morning. Apparently he and the Dean discussed it, and I’ll be doing your seventeenth century American literature course. Ernest will have eighteenth.”

  “You should have gotten them both.”

  Andrea shrugged. “At least I have one less freshmen composition.”

  “I’m sure Ritter will be livid that he didn’t get both of them.”

  “I just ran into him. He accused me of using my feminine wiles to influence the Dean and Yuri to give me that course. Even if I had any wiles to use, I think they’d be wasted on those two. Ritter, like most misogynists, is fixated on women’s sexuality and greatly exaggerates its power.”

  “Couldn’t you talk to the Dean and get him to let you teach the course he gave to Ritter? I hate the thought of having him ruin the minds of young people, particularly for American literature. The Dean offered me my old job back, but I refused.”

  “Why did you do that?” she asked, aghast.

  Charles looked across the parking lot to the row of spruce trees beyond. He dug deeper to see if he could give Andrea a more accurate answer than he had given Lieutenant Thorndike.

  “I think that Barbara’s death put a punctuation mark to one period of my life. I didn’t realize it at the time and carried on in a listless way with my previous activities. Being forced to retire suddenly made me realize that I want to do something different with my life. I don’t want to drift into old age merely following familiar habits.”

  “But you could teach one course and still do other things. The Dean would probably be happy to take that course away from Ritter and give it to you.”

  “Once you leave the party, you don’t slip back in again by the rear door.”

  “I don’t know why not,” she said, obviously annoyed. “I hate the idea of not having you on the faculty anymore. You’re one of the few people I can relate to.”

  “We can still see each other.” />
  “But it won’t be the same.”

  Charles shrugged. “I’m starting to realize that nothing stays the same, even those things that you think have.”

  “Has the police investigation of Underwood’s death revealed anything so far?”

  “I don’t think so. The Lieutenant said you’d been questioned because you were in your office at the approximate time of Underwood’s death.”

  “Unfortunately, I had my door closed and didn’t see or hear anything. I wish I could give you an alibi for at least part of that fifteen minutes when you were alone.”

  “No problem. I may be off the hook anyway. Lieutenant Thorndike is now speculating that I might have been the intended victim. But the hired goon—if that’s what you’d call him—killed the wrong person by mistake.”

  Andrea looked concerned. “You don’t have any enemies that would put a contract out on you, do you?”

  “I doubt that anyone cares for me so strongly either way, except for Amy.”

  He heard how pathetic that sounded and immediately regretted his words.

  “C’mon, Charles, I care for you.”

  “Thank you. And I wasn’t fishing for emotional support. I’m afraid I sometimes give in to feeling sorry for myself.”

  “We all do,” Andrea said seriously.

  “The other thing I just found out is that Underwood’s wife is in town. Sylvia Underwood was just up in my office picking up her husband’s things. She would have gained a great deal by killing him, but apparently she has an alibi for the time of his death.”

  “Interesting. Well I guess I’d better get going,” Andrea said abruptly. “I have some grocery shopping to do on my way home. We’ll have to get together for that dinner. I’ll give you a call.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Charles watched her walk away, moving quickly with the bouncy step of what seemed to him like youth. And he reminded himself once again that some dreams just aren’t meant to be.

  Chapter Seven

  Back home Charles ate a tuna fish sandwich and heated up the morning coffee. Since Barbara died, he found he had lost weight, probably because his own cooking was somewhat rudimentary, but more likely because dinner times were no longer cheerful occasions for sharing the events of the day. Fortunately, he hadn’t turned to alcohol as a substitute for food, the way he’d heard some other widowed and divorced men of his age did. He knew what he needed was a new life, not just a temporary anesthetizing.