by J. T. Toman
PICKING LEMONS
A C.J. Whitmore Mystery
by
J.T. Toman
Acknowledgements
I am forever indebted to the economics faculty and staff at the University of Sydney, Yale University and Stanford University. Thank you for all that you taught me.
A big thank you to Patricia Rockwell for believing in the book.
Finally, I could not have written this book without the love and support of Donald, Bryce and Shana. Love you!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
MONDAY
TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY
THURSDAY
FRIDAY
SATURDAY
SUNDAY
MONDAY
EPILOGUE
MONDAY
When people looked at Edmund DeBeyer, they saw the remnants of a handsome, affable man. At just over six feet with unruly, black hair and intense, blue eyes, Edmund DeBeyer had been considered the most eligible bachelor in the Ivy league when a student. The young Edmund had started a promising career in pre-med, with the idea of curing cancer or vaccinating the poor in Africa. But with a quick analysis of the hours worked to dollars earned ratio, he became an economics major instead.
On this Monday, the first day of the first week of the fall semester, Edmund DeBeyer, now a rich and renowned Eaton University economics professor, unbuttoned his tweed jacket and scanned his nine a.m. class of Econ 101 with an icy stare of distaste. Fall was his least favorite time of year. He loathed spiced pumpkin lattes, saw no beauty in dying leaves, and knew the chill in the air signaled the return of students.
This was the nation’s finest? Hardly encouraging news. It appeared the future presidents, CEOs and would-be Steve Jobs’s shared the IQ of a flea between them. Snippets of conversations floated unavoidably by him as the class settled into their seats.
“I just heard econ sucks majorly, dude. There’s like, math, in it. We should have taken geography.”
“I don’t know why I’m even here. My dad gives major moolah to the school to make sure I get an A.”
“What is economics exactly?”
Edmund sighed. Was this Eaton University or Elm Grove Community College?
The Chair of the department, Walter Scovill, had assigned Edmund to teach Econ 101 this fall, saying it would be “refreshing to get back to basics.” Of course, it was only a coincidence that Econ 101 was everyone’s least favorite course to teach, and Edmund had actively and unsuccessfully campaigned against the re-election of Walter as the Department Chair.
Really, thought Edmund. Just like a Princeton-trained economist to be irrational and emotional.
Princeton was, at least according to Edmund, one of the “lesser Ivies,” a fact he was apt to say with a sigh of regret, just as one comments about an aged cat you know needs putting down. Edmund was touted to win the Nobel Prize in economics. Therefore, his valuable time, his $2000-per-hour consulting-rate time, was best spent on research (and consulting, of course). Not teaching a classroom of over-indulged children of semi-famous politicians over-simplified economic principles that they had no interest in learning.
Edmund sighed again. In his best, professorial monotone, he addressed the class of students whose education was the lowest priority in his life–– professional or personal. He hadn’t bothered to prepare a lecture for today or even pretended to glance at the textbook while walking over. The fact that each student’s family was paying hundreds of dollars for every class and expecting the finest education money could buy had no impact on Edmund’s attitude. The parents weren’t writing the checks to him; they were writing them to Eaton, the one and same institution that had hired him as a tenured professor. So, Eaton University couldn’t fire him, no matter how awful his teaching was.
“This is Econ 101. I am Professor DeBeyer. I don’t care about you or who your parents are. Do not email me your excuses for poor exam grades or late assignments as I do not care if you fail. I get paid either way.”
*****
At just after nine o’clock that Monday, Charles Covington III was walking down Knollwood Place, enjoying the changing leaves and the industrial-cinnamon scent that is peculiar to southern Connecticut in the fall. Knollwood Place was one of Elm Grove’s more famous streets, having once been described by someone important (whose name no one could quite remember) as the most magnificent street in America. At that time, the street had been a majestic esplanade of stately nineteenth-century homes canopied with a verdant archway of elm trees. Though many of the trees had succumbed to Dutch elm disease during the intervening years and their lesser cousins, the oaks, had grown up in their place, the stately homes remained. The street, to this day, was often admired for its unique architecture and shady sidewalks. That being said, no one, important or otherwise, would have been quite so quick to bestow the “most magnificent street” title on the modern Knollwood. Ever hungry parking meters were interspersed among the trees, food trucks served try-your-luck chili to bleary-eyed, tattooed students, and, of course, Eaton University academics such as Professor Covington ambled towards their overstuffed offices that occupied the former homes of Connecticut’s finest. The street had certainly lost a little of its panache.
Eighty-seven years old with a Muppet-like shock of white hair, a mustache in constant need of trimming, and two over-sized hearing aids, Charles was a distinctive figure on Eaton’s campus. He favored wearing bright red suspenders, a green polka dot bow tie, dark blue trousers and a faded pink shirt stained with many past breakfasts. Charles had taught the economic history classes at Eaton University for fifty-two years and was going to teach them, avec red suspenders and green polka dot bow tie, until his Lord and Creator told him otherwise.
Charles’s colleague, Edmund DeBeyer, found the Lord’s timetable too slow for his liking. So, for the previous semester, Edmund had been gathering a petition to remove Charles Covington III from the faculty. As Edmund pointed out to the rest of the department when making his case, tenure was a career appointment, not an eternal one.
The amount of time Edmund devoted to his campaign to oust Charles was somewhat puzzling as Charles and Edmund rarely met during the course of a work day. The economics department at Eaton University was divided among four buildings. The main building, 40 Knollwood, was a cheerful red brick affair. It was here that the administrative assistant could be found, graduate classes were taught, seminars were held, and a select group of professors, with an extremely elevated view of the global interest in their research, had their offices.
The adjoining building, 42 Knollwood, was an imposing Gothic structure of grey stone. This building housed the Howard Foundation, an elite but rather dull club of microeconomists and statisticians whose existence refuted the claim of Google’s chief economist that “the sexy job in the next ten years will be statisticians.” It was also home to professors who were making a name for themselves but couldn’t yet get office space in 40 Knollwood. Additionally and importantly for those whose research was quagmired by pedantic referees and absent coauthors, 42 Knollwood was where the faculty lounge was.
The two buildings, 40 and 42 Knollwood, were connected in the basement by the Smythe Lounge, named after John Smythe, an alumni with an abysmal GPA but an uncanny ability to invest astutely, both in the stock market and in influence. This was a place for underfunded graduate students to scrounge free coffee and the uneaten egg salad sandwiches from the previous day’s catered faculty events. It was also a handy way for the faculty of 40 and 42 Knollwood to move between the two buildings without having to inconvenience themselves by going outside.
The other two economics buildings located on the opposite side of the street, 41 and 43 Knollwood, were for the “others.” Such offices were assigned to professo
rs studying the minor, less influential fields, such as economic history, development or environmental economics. One could also expect to find the professors not meeting publishing expectations on that side of the street. The dead wood, as it were. Such faculty would not only have to step outside but also cross the road if they wished to teach a class, attend a seminar, or be present at a faculty meeting. Which was a shame, given the amount of ice, snow and sleet Elm Grove experienced in any given winter.
Charles had a small office at the back of 41 Knollwood. Edmund had a resplendent suite with working fireplace and university views atop number 40. Clearly, Edmund wanted to remove his colleague from the faculty as he was troubled by the idea of Charles, not by Charles himself.
This morning, as Charles made his way to his small, cramped office, he paused and looked across the road to the main economics building, peering upwards. A frown crossed his face. “Well, that won’t do,” he muttered irritably. “That won’t do at all.” And, hooking his thumbs under his suspenders with a look of determination, Charles Covington III turned around and started to shuffle home.
*****
Jefferson Daniels, heading down from his top floor office in 40 Knollwood to the basement classroom below, was wondering what Econ 101 was thinking of its new professor. Jefferson’s office was next to Edmund’s, and, judging by the door-slam he heard as Edmund left to teach that morning, Jefferson did not think his treasured co-worker was embracing his new teaching assignment. Not that this was a surprise. Edmund DeBeyer was the department ego.
Jefferson should know. He and Edmund collaborated on their research, and they had done so since Jefferson was a graduate student. Though sometimes it seemed that Edmund saw the partnership not so much as a collaboration, but more as a master––errand boy arrangement. However, despite Edmund’s… grandiloquent...personality, the research partnership was a net positive. Jefferson and Edmund’s work in macroeconomics had been given a lot of credit for ending the recent recession and lowering the unemployment rate to a respectable level. As the hardworking Jefferson liked to say to friends outside the department, “He’s the ego to my mania.”
Jefferson walked into his own classroom, late as usual. He was teaching a small class of graduate students, having been much more politic over the re-election of Walter Scovill. In truth, it wouldn’t have mattered how much he opposed Walter’s appointment. As the only African-American faculty member in the economics department at Eaton, Jefferson was never going to get the worst teaching assignments. No Chair ever wanted to get accused of treating Jefferson like a slave.
His students were chatting amongst themselves but fell quiet when he walked in the door. After eight years of teaching, Jefferson still loved how important he felt when a room full of students fell silent because of his mere presence. And so they should, thought Jefferson only partly in jest. Everyone knew Jefferson’s story, but no one knew it better than Jefferson himself. Grew up in the projects of New Jersey. Received his Ph.D. from Eaton University in three years, at age 22. Made a splash at UPenn as a new professor. Three years ago, aged 27, Eaton University and Professor DeBeyer lured him back to be the youngest ever tenured professor at Eaton University. Or Ee-ah-ton, as it was pronounced by Professor Daniels. Five letters. Three syllables. No chance of someone not quite catching the name.
*****
Jose Grimaldo had been trying very hard to convince the blonde, tall and alarmingly intelligent Annika Jonsdottir to form a study group with him when Professor Daniels walked in the door. Damn it.
In Jose’s opinion, graduate school was like an irritating mosquito, relentlessly buzzing in his ear. Bzzz bzzz bzzz…annoying him with endless classes, problem sets and papers. And all of them about economics. But Jose was willing to pretend he liked economics in order to earn a million dollars on Wall Street when he graduated. A pretense, he suspected, that all of his classmates faked daily. Economics was way too dull for anyone to actually love it.
Jose sighed. He thought he would have had at least ten more minutes to work his magic on Annika today. Jefferson Daniels may be young and brilliant, but he was always late, infamous for spending hours in the gym or getting waylaid in corridors chatting up the secretary and students alike. What was the hurry today? It was barely ten minutes past nine.
Jose scrawled a quick note and passed it to Annika. One thirty in the Smythe Lounge. Macro foundations and….?
Annika read the note, blushed, and looked back at Jose. “Maybe,” she whispered with a smile.
*****
Walter Scovill leaned back in his black leather desk chair, waiting for the complaints to start rolling in. It was nine-fifteen in the morning on the first day of a new semester, and faculty and students alike were going to be knocking on the door to his second floor office at 42 Knollwood Place any moment now. The only time he loathed more was exam period. How was it there were so many sick grandmothers and students with the stomach flu during the week of exams?
The reason Walter endured the hassles of being the Chair of the department (besides the obvious benefit of the $50,000 bump in pay) was that the only thing worse than listening to people complain about his decisions was not being the decision maker himself. In a department bristling with control-freaks, Walter Scovill stood above the crowd. Edmund, of course, was always challenging for the role, like a young buck eager to take over the herd.
But, of course, he is out of his league, thought Walter with a smile, imagining Edmund teaching Econ 101 at that very moment.
There were, of course, other advantages to being Department Chair. Walter exhaled deeply, thinking with satisfaction of the pretty, young, undergraduate girls with their swishing ponytails and low rise yoga pants that had been arriving on campus for the last few days. With luck, a position of power could erase 30 years, a balding head, 40 pounds of cellulite and a wedding ring. If not, expensive gifts always helped. Walter closed his eyes and relaxed into his fantasies.
Walter was jolted back to reality by a loud knock at the door. The first complainer of the day. People were so predictable.
*****
No one knew how old Betsy Williams was or how much she weighed, but those fluent in statistics considered that both numbers were high enough to make every breath she took an actuarial anomaly. Betsy was an adjunct instructor for the economics department and had been for at least thirty years. During those years, Betsy had watched junior professors come and go, students become senators, and had endured the growing egos of the tenured faculty.
Betsy had never been offered tenure. She had never asked for tenure. In fact, had anyone bothered to consider her feelings, that person would have realized she liked not being in the club of tenured professors. Betsy fully occupied her non-teaching time loving a family of one husband, five children and sixteen grandchildren that no one in the economics department had ever met or asked to meet. Betsy was so busy watching school plays and soccer games and knitting sweaters and scarves it never occurred to her to worry about who was going to win the next Nobel Prize in economics, or who was ahead in the Journal of Political Economics publications race in the department this year. She simply did not care.
*****
C.J. Whitmore was the first woman to be granted tenure in the economics department at Eaton University. C.J. wasn’t the first female junior professor, but the first to play the tenure game successfully. She taught econometrics, the mathematics of economics, and had analyzed the data to increase the probability of getting tenure. Junior faculty of all races, genders and backgrounds worked like demons, taught their classes, published and did committee work. However, most often it was the childless, white men from the Northeast United States who were granted tenure.
C.J. didn’t actually need a Ph.D. to realize the odds of her receiving tenure from an elite school steeped in New England boy’s club tradition weren’t in her favor. In fact, the only positive seemed to be that she was white. However, while she couldn’t change her gender or where she grew up, she could make them
less noticeable.
C.J. dressed in conservative suits, wore her hair tied back, and sure didn’t have any kids. Hell, the only time she used the ladies’ bathroom at work was after a bad shrimp taco when there was simply no choice. C.J. muted her Texas drawl and certainly made no reference to the Mom and Pop cattle ranch where she had spent her childhood. She worked 16 to 18 hours a day, only leaving her office atop 42 Knollwood for coffee hour (a.k.a. networking with the boys), and made sure her publication record was exemplary. She didn’t date anyone and certainly didn’t date faculty, not that she was tempted by the dried-up old meat on that smorgasbord. She taught her classes well, but not exceptionally. Everyone knew that the exceptional teachers were neglecting their research and research is king. She took the crappy committee work without complaint. And after only four years, she had tenure.
On the first day with tenure, the real C.J. arrived at work. She dressed in her hot pink cowboy boots, favorite turquoise skirt, and spangled cowgirl shirt. Her wrists clinked with bangles, and her long blonde hair swung loose. She strode into a faculty meeting and watched her colleagues’ mouths hang open. “Hi, ya’ll,” she drawled in her natural Texas twang. “Don’t let me stop you from telling your stories. You know I just love a good ball-scratcher first thing in the morning.”
Walter Scovill looked as if he was going into cardiac arrest. But the tenure paperwork was signed. They were stuck with her.
The other big change C.J. made after getting tenure was she stopped going to the faculty coffee hour. “I’d prefer to be run over by a herd of buffalo,” she told her friend Betsy. “At least that’s over quickly. Coffee hour in the econ department? Long-winded, egotistical, old men, trying to one-up each other by talking economic balderdash. Tempting, but I’ll miss.”
So instead, Betsy Williams and C.J. Whitmore had coffee at Wallaby’s coffee shop every morning at eleven, teaching schedules permitting. Today at coffee, C.J. was on a rant about an advertisement she had seen in The Pug Post, the student newspaper (whose ludicrous name only made sense if you knew the school mascot was Adorable Don the Pug). “Thirty-five thousand dollars for eggs? Have you seen the undergraduate girls? Underfed, leggy chicklets with too much makeup and not enough clothing. Would you pay thirty-five thousand dollars for any of their eggs?”