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

by Glen Ebisch

  “About what?”

  Amy sighed. “About dating again.”

  “I’ll definitely give it some thought.”

  After Amy left, Charles went out to sit on the patio, thinking it might not be bad to die by one clean shot. At least it was better than being hunted down by a lioness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning he ran with Greg and when they reached a corner a few blocks further than he’d ever made it before, Greg stopped.

  “This is the half-mile point,” Greg said. “I would suggest that you trying running back home from here and see how far you get. You probably won’t make it today, but you will in a couple more days. After that we can see about increasing your distance.”

  “How far do you run?” Charles asked.

  “Three miles a day during the week and ten on Saturday. I take Sunday off to recuperate. But remember, I’m at least fifteen years younger than you,” Greg said with a small smile. “You might not want to run as much.”

  Annoyed by the remark about his age, Charles promised himself he would keep running and extend his distance.

  Giving Charles a brief wave, Greg set off on the rest of his run. Charles started running back towards home, and although he ran with a newfound determination to improve his endurance, he had to resort to walking before he was halfway back. He regretted that he wasn’t still running at top speed when he got home and found Lieutenant Thorndike sitting on the front porch.

  “Still sticking with it, I see,” Thorndike said, standing as Charles came up the walk.

  “Nothing great is accomplished without discipline,” he replied, sounding sententious even to himself.

  The Lieutenant smiled. “So I keep telling my men. I knocked on your door, and when no one answered I figured you were out running.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early to be around disturbing the citizenry?”

  “I figured that if you were asleep, you’d come to the door to tell me to get lost, and we could still have our little chat,” she said, unperturbed.

  Charles sat down on the top porch step and she sat beside him. It seemed oddly domestic to Charles, as if they were an old married couple watching the world go by. He felt himself relaxing into the scenario.

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “It appears that Sylvia died from one shot to the heart.”

  “That’s pretty impressive. Someone knew how to shoot.”

  Thorndike shrugged. “It isn’t that hard to do at close range.”

  “Still, it shows that the killer had a cool head. Their hand didn’t shake and the gun didn’t jerk high.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Is that why you came to see me? To tell me this?”

  “I just thought you’d want to know.”

  Charles thought that maybe Nora was right, and the Lieutenant was interested in him. She seemed to be taking every opportunity to see him, so she either thought he was far guiltier than he was or she liked his company. Charles hoped it was the latter.

  “I have some fresh coffee inside. Would you like some? Say yes, because there’s a couple of things I’d like to tell you.”

  Thorndike nodded, and they went inside. Pretty soon they were settled around the kitchen table with mugs of coffee in front of them.

  “Would you like a piece of Bundt cake?” Charles asked.

  “A little early for cake, isn’t it?”

  “Any time is right for dessert,” Charles replied grandly.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Charles got the cake out of the refrigerator and cut off two large slices. For a while the two of them ate contentedly, neither one speaking.

  “I haven’t had breakfast yet. This hits the spot,” the Lieutenant said. “Did you bake it?”

  “No, a friend brought it around.”

  Thorndike looked like she wanted to ask who the friend was, but restrained herself.

  “What did you want to tell me?” she asked.

  “Well, first is a piece of information I found out a couple of days ago and should have told you last time we spoke.”

  Charles went on to tell her about Greg Wasserman and the Opal Chair.

  “So this Wasserman had a reason to want Underwood dead?”

  “That may be somewhat extreme. But he definitely had something to lose by Underwood being here.”

  “You’re right. You should have told me sooner,” she said with asperity. “Why did you conceal it?”

  Charles picked up the last crumbs of cake with his fork and frowned.

  “Greg’s been kind to me in his own distant way by taking me running. And I would have felt like a snitch running to the police with something he sort of told me in confidence.”

  “In a murder case there’s a narrow line between a snitch and a responsible citizen.”

  Charles shook his head sadly. “I know. I was wrong. I should have told you. But partly, too, it was because Greg volunteered the information to me as though it never occurred to him that it might make him look guilty of murder. If he were the murderer, why would he even have mentioned it?”

  “To make himself look innocent. We’ll look into his exact whereabouts at the time of the murder. We know he was in the area because he was talking to you in the parking lot within the right time frame.”

  “The other item I wanted to discuss with you is based on the fact that Underwood taught in the States once before, about ten years ago at Yale.”

  “His wife Sylvia mentioned that to us.”

  “What she probably didn’t tell you is that he was fired because of improper behaviour with female students.”

  Thorndike rubbed her chin. “She did neglect to mention that.”

  “It’s possible that Underwood never told her or made up some other reason. Or maybe she was just protecting her husband’s memory.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Charles told her about his conversation with Clive Bishop.

  The Lieutenant took out her notebook and jotted down his name.

  “We’ll have a conversation with Professor Bishop, just to make sure there isn’t anything he left out. I’ll also get in touch with the New Haven police department to see if they have any record of charges being brought against Garrison Underwood.”

  “Probably Yale handled it in-house, but it’s worth a try.”

  They sat and sipped their coffees in silence for a moment.

  “I had another thought,” Charles said.

  The Lieutenant raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “I was going to do this today, even if I didn’t see you. I was planning to go on the computer and check out the Opal College catalogue to see if any faculty were at Yale around the time Underwood was there.”

  Thorndike pursed her lips. “You mean in case a former student from Yale who harboured a grudge against him was working here.”

  “I know it’s kind of a long shot that someone would act on a grudge from ten years ago.”

  “I’ve seen stranger things happen. Why don’t we engage in a little research right now?”

  Charles nodded and led the Lieutenant from the kitchen across the hall into his study.

  “So this is where all the magic happens?” she said, gazing at the book-lined walls.

  “It used to, but not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t been able to write much since my wife died. It’s a problem of focus.”

  “Maybe you need someone to write for—a special reader.”

  Charles thought for a moment. “You could be right. She did read everything I wrote and commented on it. She wasn’t an expert, but she was intelligent.”

  Charles turned on his computer. When the screen was up, he went to the Opal College catalogue.

  “The faculty are listed by department, so we’ll have to go through all the departments. We won’t be able to tell who might have been a student at Yale ten years ago, but we can find out if anyone teaching here got a degree from
Yale.”

  “Sounds like a start,” Thorndike said, pulling a chair over so she could look over his shoulder.

  They went through the faculty. Charles wrote down the names of anyone who had gone to Yale. When he had done, he showed the list to Joanna.

  “Only three. Not much quantity, let’s hope there’s quality.”

  Charles put a line through the top name on the list.

  “Why are you crossing him out?”

  “Ralph Condon in political science is in his early forties, and I know him pretty well. He was already teaching here ten years ago. In fact, I was on the search committee that recommended him. He’s also probably the wrong sex, unless Underwood swung both ways.”

  The Lieutenant shrugged. “Hard to tell today.”

  “There’s a Deborah Gould in biology,” Charles said, pointing to the next name on the list. “She’s only an assistant professor so she’s probably in her late twenties or early thirties. That would be the right age, but I don’t know how much contact someone in biology would have with an English professor.”

  “Maybe they met at a party.”

  “Possible. Yale is a pretty large school, but you don’t know what the pattern of interaction might be. We’ll definitely keep her on the list.”

  “This last person, Jessica Rhyser, is in the theatre arts. She might have something to do with an English teacher, right?” asked the Lieutenant.

  “That might be a different departments, but definitely closer to the same field. She is the most likely candidate. I served on a committee with her once. She’s a rather attractive young woman.”

  “Are you supposed to notice such things about your colleagues?” Thorndike said with a teasing smile.

  “You can still notice a woman’s looks, but nowadays you can’t comment on them—at least not in public.”

  “So we have two people worth talking to,” the Lieutenant said. “Would you be willing to speak to them first? You might get more out of them than I would.”

  Charles nodded. It fit in nicely with his newfound commitment to find the killer. “What excuse could I give for prying into their past lives?”

  “You could say that Underwood was murdered in your office and the police have been questioning you. So you’re interested in finding out whatever you can about Underwood’s background.”

  “That’s sounds pretty weak.”

  “You’ll be surprise how willing people are to talk about someone once they’re dead.”

  Charles looked across his office at the shadows in the far corner. A part of him wanted to remain secluded here, cut off from contact with the outside world, so he could continue to think about the past and what his current life might have been.

  “You could be a big help,” Thorndike said, touching his arm.

  “I guess I could call them at their offices or get their home numbers from the Dean’s office, and give them a ring at home.”

  “By all means give them a call and say how you are linked to the murder, but ask to talk to them in person. The eyes are the most important sense when it comes to judging whether a person is being truthful or not.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” he grudgingly admitted. “I guess I have nothing to lose. I’m not on the faculty anyway.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “But I’m a bit surprised that you would want me to take such an active part in your investigation. Especially since I’m a person of interest.”

  She paused. “You’re not a person of interest anymore.”

  “What am I now?”

  “Just an interesting person,” she said with a small smile.

  Charles nodded. “Glad to hear it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  When Charles went to the soup kitchen later that day, his mind was still filled with his conversation with Thorndike. He reprimanded himself for being infatuated based upon such a short acquaintance. He thought that not having been involved in the dating game for such a long time left his emotions close to the surface, so he was susceptible to any kindness or expression of interest. But he changed his mind quickly when he walked across the cellar, blueberry crunch pan in hand, and thanked Karen. She provoked a feeling of emotional claustrophobia in him that came close to pure anxiety. Why did he respond so much differently to the Lieutenant’s expression of interest? Maybe because she seemed less needy and used a lighter touch. Somehow Karen seemed to have read his mind because after saying that she had enjoyed meeting Amy, she paused.

  “I’m sorry if I seemed to be coming on too strong the other day. I always do that with the men I meet who are single and seem nice.”

  Charles waved his hand casually and mumbled something indistinct. He felt embarrassed and hoped that somewhere in all that she would discern that he wasn’t exactly angry.

  “Maybe we could start out by just being friends?” she asked.

  “Of course, that would be best,” he agreed quickly

  “We’ll still be working with each other three times a week, so we can see what develops.”

  Charles managed to nod, but felt a sharp wave of concern sweep over him at the idea of anything developing. He didn’t want to leave the soup kitchen, but perhaps he would have to in order to avoid this relationship.

  After setting up the tables with John, who now remained completely silent, making it seem as if a pair of mechanical arms was lifting the other side of the table, Charles and Karen worked side by side in a comradely fashion. Over lunch she told him about her stint as a guide in an historic home in Opalsville. She was supposed to play an historical character, but tourists kept trying to force her out of character so frequently that she eventually quit and took on the soup kitchen.

  “I feel that public service is an important part of any life, don’t you?”

  Before Charles could mull that over long enough to answer, she went on, “Of course, you do or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Not completely sure of his position on serving the public, Charles merely smiled.

  After leaving the soup kitchen, he went to his office at the college still wearing jeans and a knit shirt, the most casual attire he could recall ever wearing on campus. He looked up Jessica Rhyser’s number in the school phone directory and called her office, only to get directed to voice mail. He needed her home phone or cell number. He decided that since it was such a nice day, he’d walk over to the Dean’s office rather than just making a call.

  Lois, the Dean’s secretary, gave him a long look as he made his request for Rhyser’s number. For a moment he thought she was going to refuse because he was no longer technically on the faculty. Then she smiled.

  “You look different in jeans,” she said.

  “Sloppy,” Charles said apologetically.

  She shook her head. “I was going to say younger.”

  She gave him a slow once over and he wondered for the second time in as many days if she would go out with him if he asked. He had a feeling she would, but again he wondered whether this was something in which he wanted to get involved. Going out with anyone who worked at the College opened up a whole new set of possible issues.

  “Thank you,” he said when she wrote down the number and handed it to him.

  “Any time,” she said, flashing him a smile.

  Charles walked down the hall and found a secluded alcove. Since it was summer, the normally busy hallway was empty, so he felt free to use his cell phone to call Rhyser.

  “This is Charles Bentley,” he said when she answered the phone. “I used to teach in the English department.”

  “Yes, Charles,” a business-like voice said.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but Garrison Underwood was found dead in my office, and I’m sort of helping the police in their investigations. I believe you were at Yale around the same time Underwood taught there about ten years ago, and I was wondering if you knew him.”

  There was a prolonged silence. Charles thought Jessica might be about to question his authority
to work with the police. It sounded weak even to him. Then he wondered if her failure to speak was based on the need to hide something about her relationship with Underwood. After what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed longer, she came back on the line.

  “I knew him because he used to attend the theatre productions, and I acted in some of them. But I wouldn’t say I knew him well.”

  “You may remember more than you think,” Charles said. “Is there a time when we can get together to talk about him?”

  “I’ll be in my office in half an hour. Meet me there.”

  Charles said he would and tried to thank her, but she had already hung up.

  Not having anything to do for a half hour, Charles walked back to the English building and went up to the department office. Sheila, the student assistant was sitting behind her computer. As usual she stared intently at the screen as if it were a window onto a reality she only dimly comprehended.

  “Hi Professor Bentley,” she called. “That was a really terrible thing that happened to Professor Underwood, wasn’t it?”

  “Depends on who you talk to,” Charles was tempted to say. But he kept quiet because he didn’t want to further confuse a student whose ethics were probably already overly subjective.

  “Yes, a terrible thing,” he mumbled, getting his mail from the faculty mailbox: promos for textbooks, ads for new teaching technologies, and a request to review a book. He happily deposited them all in the trashcan. Being retired can be very liberating, he thought.

  “And then somebody murdered his wife. That makes it like a crime wave,” Sheila continued.

  “I’m not sure how many murders you need to make an official crime wave,” Charles said. “But it certainly is shocking, especially in a town like Opalsville, which is usually pretty peaceful.”

  “You said it. It’s positively boring here most of the time.” Sheila returned to starting at the computer screen, and Charles quickly made his escape.

  Once back in his office, he settled in behind his desk, waiting until it was time to journey upstairs to Jessica’s office. He found his mind drifting from Sheila’s comment about a crime wave to the Lieutenant. He realized that, although she didn’t show it, Thorndike must be under considerable pressure to solve the two murders as quickly as possible. Charles resolved that he would do his amateur best to help her arrive at a solution. With that thought in mind, he walked down the hall and up the stairs to talk to Jessica Rhyser.