1 Picking Lemons

by J. T. Toman

  There was still no answer, so Mary Beth entered Jefferson’s office. She walked over to the desk and started to search for a blank piece of paper when something caught her eye. Was that Professor Daniels’s sneaker sticking out from the left side of the desk?

  *****

  At 42 Knollwood, any calming effects of C.J.’s hike had evaporated. She was currently composing a reply to Walter’s email. She had wanted to write something along the lines of

  FROM: C.J. Whitmore

  TO: Walter Scovill

  SUBJECT: RE: Econ history course

  Walter,

  Go screw yourself!

  C.J.

  Or

  FROM: C.J. Whitmore

  TO: Walter Scovill

  SUBJECT: RE: Econ history course

  Walter,

  If I have to teach Economic History, then I will make sure you are history.

  C.J.

  Or

  FROM: C.J. Whitmore

  TO: Walter Scovill

  SUBJECT: RE: Econ history course

  Walter,

  Sure, I would love to teach another course. But, of course, I would need the students to lick my shoes clean first. Could you take care of that?

  Thanks!

  C.J.

  However, C.J. refrained. As her daddy would say, any mule can deliver a kick. But only the finest racehorses keep their heads down and last the distance. She was just starting to work on a somewhat more civil reply when she heard Mary Beth screaming.

  C.J. paused. It sounded like Mary Beth was yelling, “He’s dead! He’s dead!”

  SUNDAY

  It was nine in the morning, and Walter sat stiffly in an uncomfortable leather chair that he suspected had great historical importance. Probably belonged to Eli Whitney’s grandfather, if Walter had to guess by the lack of padding supporting his butt. Walter grimaced a smile at the three men who sat in front of him. He was feeling far too cranky about Jefferson dying to experience any sense of submissiveness. “So, here we are again,” he joked.

  No one laughed.

  This is going to be a long day, thought Walter, wearily. Murder is such a time-suck.

  “Professor Scovill.” The President of Eaton University announced Walter’s name like an irate headmaster calling a recalcitrant child into the office. “I am missing my tee time at the Elm Grove Country Club. Clearly, I am not happy.”

  Walter noticed he had been demoted from Walt to Professor Scovill. Never a good sign if one is hoping for promotion.

  “Under your tenure as Chair of the economics department, two, I repeat TWO,” the President was beginning to get worked up and had turned a disconcerting shade of puce, “potential Nobel prize winners have been killed. First one was strangled. And yesterday afternoon, the second one was found by a secretary dead on his office floor. Cause of death is still to be determined. Those Nobel Prizes are lost to us forever. Forever!”

  Hmmm, thought Walter, unimpressed that his own Sunday had been disrupted to listen to this tirade, not my problem.

  “As I am sure you know,” continued the President, without apparently stopping for breath, “a person can only be awarded the Nobel Prize if they are alive. A key quality that your faculty seems to be lacking these days. Perhaps, Professor Scovill, you didn’t realize that Harvard was already up by one in the Nobel Prize race. I know, as Harvard’s President is merciless in reminding me of the fact every time we meet.”

  The President paused for air and glared at Walter. Walter stared back with unblinking eyes.

  The Dean of Arts and Sciences and the Provost, who were also in the room, studied their Italian loafer shoes with intense interest. They did not want the President to shift his rage their direction. It was best he believed that Walter Scovill was solely responsible for letting a murderer run rampant through the economics department. After all, what was Walter doing with his time? Surely, as Chair, he was supposed to keep the faculty in line.

  Walter had not slept well since C.J. had walked in on the shoe polishing scene in his office. He was tired. He was frustrated. And now, just because Jefferson Daniels, an overrated faculty member in Walter’s opinion, had been murdered, through no fault of Walter’s, he was being treated like the whipping boy of an arrogant old man. Walter did not see any irony in this situation. Instead, feeling the uncontrollable anger of a powerful person made powerless, Walter met the President’s angry gaze defiantly.

  “Are you honestly asking me why I didn’t foresee the murder of two of my faculty? Why I am not omnipresent and all knowing?” Walter’s voice was getting louder, and he was gradually rising from his chair to match it. The Dean and the Provost were looking up now. The meeting had taken a distinct turn. “I’ll tell you why I couldn’t see what was going on. Because my head spends most of the day buried deep in your butt, and it’s damn dark up there!”

  With the three administrators staring at him open-mouthed, Walter turned and left with a resounding slam of the heavy oak door.

  *****

  Mary Beth was standing on the steps of 40 Knollwood, dressed in her “person who discovered the body” outfit. After careful consultation with her friends, Mary Beth decided against all black. She needed to distinguish herself from the mourners. Vulture-like reporters, scavenging for someone with first-hand details, were confronted with a young woman in a tight black mini-skirt, a fitted red top with plunging neckline and more footage than they planned of a black, lace, push-up bra. Mary Beth completed the ensemble with five inches of heels and a manicure that spelled out DEATH on each hand.

  “I was sitting at brunch with my BFFs, eating my French Toast, and a shiver ran up my spine,” Mary Beth explained, her false eyelashes wide with imagined fright. “It was like a ghost was walking over my grave. Somehow, I knew that something was wrong with our dearest Professor Daniels.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Sanders, are you saying you knew it was Professor Daniels who had died before you even found the body?”

  “Well,” Mary Beth hesitated, torn between the truth and a really good story, “I had a really, really strong feeling. It was like Professor Daniels was trying to, like …let me know. And I was right. Because when I went by the department after brunch...” Here, Mary Beth stopped and delicately dabbed at her eyes.

  Another reporter raised her hand. “Why did you finish brunch when you thought Professor Daniels was in danger? Why not just go and make sure he was okay?”

  Mary Beth looked confused for a moment. “Oh, well, I didn’t want to look silly if I was, like, wrong. But,” Mary Beth hung her head, paused dramatically, and tried to look desperately sad, “but I wasn’t wrong. Someone had taken dear Professor Daniels from us.”

  The questions continued, Mary Beth kept making up answers, and the reporters kept writing them down. The death of one professor was a story that had come and gone. The death of two…a serial killer on the loose in the economics department at Eaton University. That was not worth inches in the paper, but yards.

  *****

  Of course, the unintended victim of the second murder was Charles. He found himself released from Elm Grove City Jail at ten o’clock that morning, despite his protestations of guilt. “I killed the man. Why don’t you believe me? It was me, I tell you, me!”

  The uniformed officer who was walking with Charles looked at him sadly. Old age, what a bitch. This one was clearly a loony. Must be that Old Timer’s disease. The one that causes you to lose your mind. There was no way it was this dude. He was safely locked up when the second murder occurred. His story just didn’t check out. Crazy…that’s what you had to be to confess to a murder do. Crazy.

  *****

  FROM: C.J. Whitmore

  TO: Walter Scovill

  SUBJECT: RE: Econ history course

  Walter,

  Thank you for acknowledging my work in supporting the department. It is so nice to have one’s efforts recognized. Until your email, I had been considering the position at UT Austin, but after your kind words, I simply co
uldn’t leave Eaton University. You have made me feel part of the Eaton family.

  Of course, I would have been very willing to pitch in and teach Charles’s class. However, now that Charles has been released, thankfully, there will be no need.

  Of course, we are now faced with the sad task of finding a teacher for Jefferson’s class. Sadly, I am unable to assist, as it occurs at the same time as Edmund’s class. But I believe you have that time slot free and are so knowledgeable in the subject Jefferson was teaching. As you say, we all have to do our bit.

  C.J.

  Mildred had called C.J. early in the morning with the good news that Charles was coming home that day, and C.J., thankful that she hadn’t had time to reply to Walter’s email yesterday, had been perfecting her response ever since. Just as C.J. pressed send and was getting ready to meet Betsy for a rare Sunday coffee (Betsy was letting her detective work a.k.a curiosity impact her weekends now), there was a knock at her office door. C.J. checked her watch. Just before eleven. Damn. She would be late. “Come in,” she called out.

  A tired, unsmiling detective walked in. “Professor Whitmore?” he asked.

  “The one and only,” said C.J. “Take a load off.” C.J. indicated the chairs opposite her desk. “You are here about dear Jeffie, I am guessing.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I do have a few questions.”

  C.J. nodded her head. “I think we all do. How did Jeffie die?”

  The policeman sized her up. “He was poisoned. It looks like cyanide poisoning.”

  “Poisoned? Like a rat? Any chance it was suicide?”

  The policeman raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s an interesting question. Was Professor Daniels a depressed person?”

  “No. Not at all. He had too much energy. The man ran miles every day and flirted more than he should have. But he was very sad about Professor DeBeyer’s death. I wouldn’t have thought he would have…but I just wondered…” C.J. petered out and fidgeted nervously.

  “Ma’am, am I right in thinking you wondered if he might have committed suicide because he felt so guilty for killing Professor DeBeyer?”

  C.J. looked pained. “No. Maybe. Well, yes. The thought did cross my mind.”

  “Well, rest easy, if that is the right thing to say. It was not suicide. Professor Daniels was murdered. Cyanide was found in his protein powder. If he was going to commit suicide, he would have just stirred it into his drink. The poison was deliberately placed there, a deadly powdery weapon.”

  “Oh my God! Where do you buy cyanide?”

  “Well, frankly, you can buy anything on the web these days. But, you don’t have to buy cyanide. If you are smart enough, you can make it from almonds.”

  “So, there is someone out there who has killed two of the professors in this department?”

  “It looks that way. So, what did you see yesterday afternoon?”

  C.J. tried very hard to remember. “Well, I was in my office working from about one, after I got back from my hike. As you realize, my office is not in the same building as Jefferson’s. But Jeffie dropped by my office shortly after one. He had been convinced that Walter killed Edmund ever since Walter lost his temper in the faculty lounge. Jeffie wanted to tell me that Walter tried to make nice that morning, but he didn’t believe a word of it. Jeffie was ranting that he was going to ensure Walter went down for the murder of Edmund. He didn’t care that Charles had confessed. He thought that Charles was just losing it because he was so old.”

  The detective nodded and made some notes. “What did you say?”

  “I told Jeffie to go for a run and clear his head, which is what he did. Well, he said he was going to. I didn’t actually see him running. But he was in running clothes when I saw him…you know.”

  “Yes. I am sorry you had to see that. Was there anything else that happened that afternoon?”

  “Not that I can think of. The department was quiet because it was the weekend. Most people were at home or working with their doors closed. But then at about three-ish, Mary Beth started screaming. I could hear her in my office, and that’s one building over. So I ran across and saw Jeffie lying on the floor behind his desk, dead.”

  “That’s very clear. Now, Professor Whitmore…” the detective cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  C.J. looked at him with interest. What was it he didn’t want to say? She waited him out.

  “Do you have any thoughts on why a young secretary was in the office of Professor Daniels on a Saturday?”

  C.J. let out a snort of laughter, causing the detective to raise his eyebrows. “Mary Beth was in search of a bank balance to marry, if you get what I mean. She had fastened her talons into Jeffie, and he didn’t help matters as he was born a-flirtin’.”

  The detective nodded. An old plot line.

  “I am guessing she came in yesterday to bat her eyelash extensions at Jeffie, in hopes of scoring a Saturday night dinner date.”

  The detective nodded again. “One other question,” he asked. “It has struck me as somewhat strange, but am I right in thinking Mary Beth is the only administrative assistant for the entire economics department? Surely, there should be more for a department this size.”

  C.J. smiled wryly. “Oh, there are more, but you just can’t find ‘em. It’s so awful working around Walter and his merry men that, over the years, they’ve migrated to the Business School building or even across to the math department. They always have a water tight excuse… usually citing some OSHA code that is being broken. The University lets it happen as it’s better than some sexual harassment lawsuit. It’s not so bad now that most work is done via email. Mary Beth sticks it out because she, of course, is trying to land one of the econ profs as a husband.”

  The detective tried to look unfazed by this explanation of complete dysfunction, but his face said, “Why have only two of you people been murdered so far?”

  “Well,” he said with false cheer, “I appreciate your time.”

  As the detective rose to go, C.J. stopped him. “I have one question.”

  “Yes?” The detective looked at her, uncertain if he was going to humor her curiosity.

  “Was the cyanide found in a container of protein powder that was full or partly empty?”

  “It was quite full. Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess more data is always better than less. Thanks.”

  *****

  Walter was wondering if the President would revoke his tenure due to issues of professionalism. Almost two hours had passed and still no word. Perhaps he was going to get away with his little temper tantrum. Walter admonished himself. It was an amateur mistake to allow himself to be bothered by administrators.

  Some policemen would be “stopping by” in a few minutes. Walter knew they would want to talk about the fight he had with Jefferson. He could anticipate the conversation.

  “It seems you didn’t like either of the dead men.”

  Well, that was true enough. But then, Walter didn’t really like anyone but himself.

  “You were heard threatening the life of Professor Daniels.”

  Yeah well, sticks and stones and all that.

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  Killing Professor Daniels. Not.

  In my office, just like now, of course. Walter looked under the desk and smiled. “Tutoring an undergraduate.” Just like now.

  There was a sharp knock at the door.

  “Come in,” called out Walter, who waved in the two policemen with more graciousness than they were expecting.

  “Please, take a seat,” said Walter expansively. “I’m in no hurry.”

  *****

  Betsy was waiting in Wallaby’s coffee shop. She knew that C.J. might be late, if she showed at all. The economics department was a hive of police officers and reporters. As the second person on the scene, and the first person of any notable intelligence, there were many questions only C.J. could answer.

  Betsy sipped her double mocha and pulled out her
crochet work. She was willing to wait.

  “Betsy?” a voice asked, questioningly.

  Betsy looked up.

  “Professor Covington,” Betsy cried, “well, it is really wonderful to see you. Please, take a seat.”

  Charles, turning his hearing aids on as he eased himself into a seat, grunting as he sat down. “It’s always good to sit down,” he explained to Betsy. “The legs aren’t what they used to be.”

  Betsy laughed. “You don’t have to explain that to me. Between the arthritic right knee, the plantar fasciitis in the left foot, the achy left hip and the bunions, it is a wonder I am ambulatory.”

  “When did this happen?” asked Charles, somewhat absently. “I still feel like a young man, my body just isn’t keeping pace.”

  Betsy patted Charles on the knee. “Don’t worry yourself over it. If you feel young, then that’s all that matters. Now, why aren’t you at home with your beautiful wife today?”

  Charles grimaced. “It’s the Sunday Quilting Bee. The ladies of the church gather after the service to stitch blanket things for the homeless. And, trust me, nothing would stop that. Not even my release from incarceration. I stopped home briefly this morning to shower and change, but thought it best if I step out of the house for awhile, so they could gossip about me and my little stay in jail in peace.”

  Betsy nodded understandingly. That was the thoughtfulness of a man who had been married a long, long time. “Charles, you have known me since I was a fresh-faced graduate student. Since you’ve brought it up, what were you thinking, confessing to a murder?”

  Charles looked down at the table in front of him. “Well, now, that’s mighty complicated.”

  “What’s so complicated? I can’t believe you killed the man.”

  Charles looked sheepish. “Well, maybe I didn’t. But,” he added with a lot more passion, “they were all asking so many questions.”