by Glen Ebisch
Chapter Twenty-One
The door was open to Jessica’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, apparently engrossed in a book. Charles rapped on the doorframe, and she looked up.
“Oh, come right in, Charles.” She carefully placed a slip of paper between the pages of her book. She stood up and reached across the desk to shake his hand, then gestured to the chair in front of the desk.
Charles settled as comfortably as he could into the hard wooden chair and looked across the desk at Jessica. She was quite short, only a couple of inches above five feet, and very petite. But he had attended a lecture she had given once on dramatization, and he recalled that she was very lithe and dynamic. So even though the large desk seemed to overpower her, making her look waiflike, he warned himself not to underestimate her.
She, in turn, was examining him. A thin smile played across her lips.
“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you in casual clothes.”
“Sorry, I came right over from working at the soup kitchen,” he answered automatically.
“You’ve adjusted quickly to retirement, already into volunteering.”
“You knew I’d retired?”
“Things get around.”
Charles shrugged. “Just giving voluntarism a try.”
“So you want to know about Garrison Underwood?”
“I thought that the more I knew about the man’s past, the more likely I’d be to find out who killed him. And if I discovered his identity, the police would be less likely to consider me a suspect.” He knew he was exaggerating his suspect status, but he hoped it would soften Jessica’s heart to his endeavour.
“If he always acted the way he did during his time at Yale, knowing his past will probably provide you with a superabundance of suspects.”
“What did he do?”
“Garrison was a real hound of the most predatory sort. He would start out using his charm as the great young man of letters, and try to flatter the woman into falling into bed with him. If that didn’t work, he tried to evoke pity with the old line that his wife didn’t understand him. This was even though they had just gotten married, and she was living right in New Haven with him. If his victim didn’t buy that one, the gloves came off, and he would warn her that her grades might suffer if she didn’t succumb to his charms.”
“Did his approach work?”
“Maybe at first with a few of the weaker minded undergrads, but those of us in graduate school pretty much knew better. Before long the word had gotten around the English Department, and female students avoided being alone with him. Finally he tried it on with the wrong woman, and she secretly tape-recorded his threats. She brought it to her faculty adviser, and from there it went to the faculty ethics committee. Underwood resigned rather than be brought up on charges, even though he had two years to go on his contract.”
“Would any of the women victimized by him have held a grudge?”
“Long enough to bash him over the head ten years later?” she said with a smile. “I doubt it. That’s a long time to hold such a big grudge. Most people would have moved on by now. I didn’t know he had been hired here until after he was dead or I certainly would have gone to Yuri and Dean Carruthers to complain.”
Charles thought about that. He knew faculty at the College who had held grudges for thirty years or more. He wondered whether the younger generation, along with their shorter attention span, also got over things quicker. That would be one benefit of the media age.
“Was there anyone special—someone who might have been abused longer or more intensely than the others?”
Jessica pursed her lips. “I did hear that there was one woman who became his virtual sex slave for quite some time, but I have no idea who it was.”
“Why would a woman want to do that?”
“Speaking hypothetically, since it’s never had any appeal for me, I would guess that she might have been into a daddy thing or enjoyed being humiliated.”
Charles shook his head in wonder.
Jessica gave him the patronizing glance youth often assigns to age. “People are different, Charles. Sexual desire can be linked to all sort of unconventional behaviour. Surely you’re aware of that.”
“Theoretically rather than practically.”
She grinned. “I guess that’s pretty much true of me as well.”
Liking her better for her honesty, Charles continued, “Deborah Gould was at Yale the same time as you. Did you know her?”
“I didn’t know her while I was there. People in theatre didn’t mix much with the scientists. But we’ve become friends since we’ve been here. Being women of around the same age has brought us together. Opal College is still, well, you know . . .”
“Old and male. Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Anyway, as the only two women who were at Yale then, we get together to talk about the so-called good old days.”
Charles smiled at the idea that a decade was a long time. It was a third of your life when you were thirty, but only a sixth when you hit sixty. It shrank in proportion, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.
“Did Deborah know Underwood?”
“I doubt it. Like I said, the scientists pretty much stick to their own.”
“Do you know if she’s around this summer?”
Jessica nodded. “We had lunch last week. She’s involved in some big project that’s keeping her on campus all summer. If she isn’t in her office, she’s probably in the biology lab.”
Charles thanked her for her time and headed toward the door.
“Do the police really suspect you of killing Underwood?” she asked with an incredulous smile.
Charles turned back. “I’m a person of interest. Do you find that so hard to believe?”
“I just find it hard to imagine you killing anyone. You seem so gentle and proper, I guess.”
“I have my rough edges,” Charles said mysteriously, and left the office feeling unduly annoyed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charles walked across the left side of the quadrangle to the science building. In his many years at the College, he had been in the building only a handful of times but had always admired its Corinthian architecture. He went up the steps between the two front columns. In the lobby was a surprisingly up to date looking electronic list of office assignments. He saw that Deborah Gould’s office was on the third floor. When he made his way there, noting with satisfaction that a climb which would have put him out of breath a mere week ago was now an easy accomplishment since the start of his running program, he found the door locked. Since the Biology Department Office was only three doors down the hall, he headed there. The secretary sitting behind the computer there told him the biology lab was one floor up.
He found the room and walked between several rows of tables until he spotted a woman at the end of the aisle staring into a microscope.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Although he hadn’t spoken loudly, the large room made his voice echo. The woman jumped, flung her hand out, and a glass slide skittered along the counter top in Charles’ direction. He reached out and caught it just before it would have fallen to the floor.
“I’m sorry for startling you,” Charles said, walking up to her and returning the slide.
She was a tall and thin with dark hair that reached down to the middle of her back. She smiled a little nervously as she took the slide from his hand.
“Who are you?” she asked a shade abruptly.
“I’m Charles Bentley. I teach English literature here,” he said, deciding not to get into the whole retirement issue.
She smiled and a look of relief passed over her face.
“Sorry to sound so unfriendly, but I get skittish working in this building during the summer. I’m pretty much alone, and I always imagine that just anyone could wander in.”
“I’m sure you’re also particularly nervous because there have been two violent deaths on campus recently.”
Charles couldn’t be sure but he thought her expression suddenly closed, shutting him out.
“Yes, I’ve heard about that. Fortunately, it has nothing to do with me.”
“Actually, I’m here to ask you if you knew Garrison Underwood.”
“He had just come on campus, hadn’t he? I doubt that I would have met him.”
“You’re right, you wouldn’t have had a chance to meet him here, but he taught at Yale when you were there. Did you by any chance know him then?”
She paused and gave the question far too much thought. Charles even thought he saw her blush slightly.
“You know,” she said, “now that I think about it, I believe I had him as a professor in my sophomore English class. It was only for one semester, so I had pretty much forgotten him.”
Charles nodded. In his experience even after fifty years students rarely forgot their college professors, for good or ill.
“What did you think of him?”
The woman smiled. “Being a teacher myself I don’t like to be too hard on him, but he tended to ramble and went off on a lot of digressions about his achievements. Basically he seemed a bit full of himself.”
“I’d heard he could be quite charismatic.”
“I recall that some of the girls especially those who majored in English were quite taken with him.”
“Did you ever see him outside of class?” Charles asked.
She gave him a level stare.
“I mean about a paper or an exam grade,” he hastily added.
“Not at all. I got an “A” without any difficulty. I’ve always done just as well in the humanities as I have in the sciences.”
“I’m sure. I was talking to Jessica Rhyser a bit earlier. I gather the two of you get together some times to talk about the good old days.”
Deborah made a face. “These are the good old days. Now I can pursue my own research and not have to work on some project my professor wants me to contribute to that will advance his career. But Jessica and I do get together to share war stories, although we didn’t know each other at Yale.”
“Jessica said that Underwood was forced out because of inappropriate behaviour with his female students. Were you aware of that when you were at Yale?”
She shook her head. “We science people keep pretty much to ourselves.”
“But that must have been the year you had him for a teacher. Weren’t there any rumours?”
“I had his class in the fall semester. I remember hearing that he didn’t show up to teach in the spring. I do vaguely remember something being said about his having been fired now that you mention it, but I never knew what it was all about.”
Charles smiled faintly. “Yes, I can see how you might have forgotten the whole incident since you were in biology, and he taught literature.”
She stared at him hard to see if he was being sarcastic, then she held up the slide in her hand. “If there’s nothing else, I really should get back to this.”
“Don’t let me delay you. And thank you for your time.”
As Charles walked back to the parking lot behind the English building, he tried to imagine Deborah Gould as Underwood’s sex slave, but he had to admit that the whole concept of a sex slave was so contrary to his understanding that his imagination was overwhelmed. He had felt more sexual energy coming from Jessica Rhyser, but that may have said more about himself than about her. And neither Jessica nor Deborah struck him as women who would be in any rush to debase themselves. But maybe sexual slavery was a sort of guilty pleasure, like the literature professor who reads graphic novels, and it doesn’t necessarily bleed over into the rest of the individual’s personality. He was still thinking along these lines when he heard a voice call his name.
Chapter Twenty-Three
He turned to his left and watched as Andrea walked quickly toward him.
“I called three times. I thought you’d never hear me. Are you becoming a truly eccentric professor in your retirement?” she asked laughing.
“I was concentrating on something and was oblivious to the world around me.”
“Is that wise?” Andrea asked, her face turning serious. “There might be somebody out there trying to kill you. Do you have any more information on who shot at you?”
Charles shook his head. “The police are pretty much convinced that was a diversion and that the murder had everything to do about Underwood and nothing to do about me.”
“So it’s just a coincidence that you happen to turn up wherever the bodies are? I heard about you finding Sylvia Underwood shortly after she was killed.”
“I was just accompanying Nora Chapman. That’s the woman who is supposedly carrying Underwood’s child. She wanted to talk to Sylvia about child support, and that’s how we found the body. Of course, now that Sylvia is dead and Underwood didn’t have any family, I guess Nora’s in a good position to get all of Underwood’s money for her little unborn girl.”
“That gives her quite a motive for murder,” Andrea pointed out.
“Unfortunately, she was flying over the Atlantic at the time Underwood was done in, although it is possible she killed Sylvia.”
“Under the circumstances I wouldn’t have blamed her for killing Underwood. It takes a special man to leave his country just to avoid child support.”
“Apparently Underwood made a habit of mistreating women. He had quite a record at Yale.”
“What did he do there?” Andrea asked.
Charles told her about Underwood’s predatory history at Yale. He went on to tell her about his conversations with Jessica Rhyser and Deborah Gould.
“Why did you talk to them?” she asked.
“Well, I got to thinking that maybe someone from those days still had a grudge against Underwood.”
“Ten years is a long time to hold a grudge.”
“Everyone says that, but if you were going to find yourself teaching at the same institution with him, you might not be happy about it.”
Andrea nodded. “But it doesn’t sound like Jessica or Deborah knew him that well back in the day.”
“At least they don’t admit to it. One of them could be lying.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“I keep trying to think of some way to really find out what went on back then. I’ve got to dig deeper.”
“Have you been doing anything else other than playing at detective?”
Hurt at her dismissive tone, Charles paused. “Well, I’m still working at the local soup kitchen.”
“So you’re staying with it.”
“I may be the Scrooge of Opalsville, but when I start something, I stick with it.”
“If it’s something you enjoy doing, I’m sure it’s very worthwhile. It might even be better than teaching because at least you’ll come into contact with people more your own age.”
Charles frowned. “That seems to be the problem,” he said, and went on to explain about Karen Melrose.
“She’s probably just a lonely woman looking for a nice guy like yourself. Maybe she isn’t the right one for you, but don’t give up on love. I know what a wonderful person Barbara was, but somebody will come along who is wonderful in a different way. You just have to be open to it.”
“I suppose you’re right. Although sometimes I think that the right match is about as likely as winning the lottery.”
Andrea smiled. “I’m sure your chances are better than that. Someone will come along.”
Charles nodded, a bit disappointed that she didn’t see herself as that someone. Then the thought came to him that he wasn’t much different from Underwood who thought his appeal was universal. A few long honest minutes looking in the mirror would disabuse me of that, Charles thought.
“Well, I’ll give you a call about that lunch,” Andrea said, giving him a quick hug.
Charles nodded and watched as she walked to her car and pulled out of the lot. As he walked to his own car, he wondered what he was going to do about his personal life, and h
ow he was going to find out more about Underwood’s murder.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Later that afternoon, Charles was sitting on the back patio peacefully dozing. He would wake up occasionally, hear the buzzing of the insects and feel the heat of the unusually warm late June afternoon, then slowly drift back into a twilight state between sleep and wakefulness. Nothing was on his mind, although he had a slightly guilty feeling that what he was doing was sinfully lazy. It was almost with a sense of relief that he heard the front doorbell ring, jarring him into complete wakefulness.
He opened the door to find Lieutenant Thorndike on the porch. He invited her inside. His offer of iced tea or a soft drink was refused, but she did accept a glass of ice water. When they were settled around the kitchen table, he looked at her expectantly.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
She smiled. “Just an update from your friendly police department. I wanted to let you know that Nora Chapman has an alibi for the hour before she showed up at the English Department Office yesterday, which is roughly when Sylvia Underwood was murdered.”
“What sort of alibi?”
“She was in a local lawyer’s office trying to find out how she could get a share of Underwood’s estate for her unborn baby. The lawyer says she was in his office for over an hour, and he remembers the time very clearly because she spent most of it raging.”
“Raging about what?”
“Garrison Underwood, Sylvia, the American legal system, and whatever else came to mind. Apparently she caused quite a scene. I’m afraid it pretty much lets her off the hook for shooting Sylvia.”
Charles nodded. “Like I told you, I found it hard to imagine her shooting someone. She’d be more inclined to bash them over the head.”
“Like what happened to Underwood.”