1 Picking Lemons

by J. T. Toman

  “Who? Who was asking questions?”

  “The police. And people in the department. They were asking Mildred, too. I wanted to make all the questions stop. Isn’t a man entitled to any privacy these days?”

  “Well, of course you are,” Betsy assured the obviously stressed Charles, and allowing her commonsense to override her curiosity, Betsy deftly changed the topic and began to talk about her grandchildren.

  *****

  In an unprecedented move, on the Sunday afternoon following Jefferson’s death, the economics department gathered for a faculty meeting. Faculty meetings did not occur on weekend days. But, the death of a second colleague made for exceptional times.

  Walter, as Chair of the department, had called the meeting. It was apparent by the outrageous number of emails in his inbox that there was a high level of interest among the faculty as to what was going on. An interest that Walter did not have the time nor desire to deal with on a one-on-one level. If Walter had bothered to read any of these emails, he would have also known there was a high level of irritation amongst the ranks with the intrusive questioning from the police and the media. Of note, it was not clear that there was an overwhelming sense of grief, but at least one or two junior faculty had shown the courtesy of expressing words of condolence.

  Well, for people who wanted some answers, they sure are taking their time in arriving, thought Walter sourly, noting that it was well after the planned start time of two o’clock and less than a quarter of the expected faculty was present. What’s more, those who were present were junior faculty and so of little consequence.

  Peter came rushing in at ten after two with an insincere and hurried, “Sorry I’m late,” and promptly opened his laptop and started taking care of his daily influx of emails.

  Walter was surprised to see Charles arrive next, resplendent in his red suspenders and green polka dot bow tie. Surely the old boy would want to take some time off. Maybe consult with a doctor, preferably a psychiatrist. “Charles,” Walter greeted his colleague without much enthusiasm, “not confessing to any crimes today I see. Well, don’t just stand there. Take a seat. This meeting was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago.”

  Charles walked slowly and a little unsteadily towards the front. His teetering was due partly to his aging legs and partly to the three gin and tonics he had drunk just prior to his arrival. Anything to make spending time with Walter bearable.

  Just as Charles was easing himself into his seat, the room fell silent and seemed to take a collective inhale. C.J. had walked in with Stephen Choi by her side. C.J. glanced around the room with a smile and broke the silence. “My goodness. It’s quieter in here than a graveyard in winter. Were you all just talking about me? ‘Cause if so, I hope it was something nice. My birthday is coming up, and I would just love one of those bull riding belt buckles, if y'all are stuck for a gift.”

  C.J. strode confidently toward the front half of the room, dragging Stephen with her and leaving open-mouthed colleagues in her wake. “Honey,” she whispered to him, “if they think you are a murderer, where you place your patootie isn’t going to change that fact. Might as well take the A-reserve seating.”

  Stephen, who had flown back into town on a red-eye, after his girlfriend had discovered she really only wanted to be “just friends” now that Stephen wasn’t going to be an Eaton University professor, just sighed. He wasn’t strong enough to take the politics of academia today, and he told C.J. as much.

  C.J. just laughed. “What is that great quote by Kissinger? Something about the reason university politics are so vicious is because the stakes are so small. Stephen, sweetie, nothing we do here really matters, but we make each other miserable doing it. That’s the definition of a ‘dot edu.’ If you want kumbaya, you want a ‘dot org’.”

  Stephen stared at C.J. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Of course. I’m just here for my own mental pleasuring. And because I like to have the summers off. If I really wanted to change the world, I would get a real job.”

  “Do you think that’s why Jefferson was resigning?”

  C.J. looked at Stephen with a start. She had completely forgotten that Jefferson was resigning. With all the fuss over the murders and Charles confessing, it had slipped her mind that Jefferson had decided academia wasn’t for him. What was he going to do again? Oh. That’s right. Be an alpaca farmer. In Colorado. No. Not Colorado. Close to Colorado, but more exotic. New Mexico? Could that be right? Please. Someone as urban as Jeffie wouldn’t have lasted a week ranching in New Mexico.

  Stephen interrupted her musings. “C.J.? Are you alright? You look completely lost in thought.”

  C.J. refocused on Stephen with a start. “Sorry. I had just forgotten that Jeffie was planning to live his dream. What a darn shame he wasn’t able to. The whole thing is just too darn sad for words.”

  Stephen looked like he wanted to console C.J., but was unsure of the appropriate words. Before he could stumble through some awkward, but well-meant phrases, Walter interrupted. “Thank you for coming, even if you have once again shown an astonishing inability to tell time. The only agenda item for today’s meeting is the death of Professor Jefferson Daniels. I have received your many, many emails. I realize you want details. I will share the few I have.”

  Murmurs rippled around the room like waves washing ashore, ebbing in and out. This did not sound satisfactory. C.J., not expecting to hear anything she didn’t already know, opened her laptop and began to check her email. Time was, after all, a scarce resource. Charles, sitting in the front row, had his hearing aids turned up high. Meetings about murder were worth his attention. Peter had stopped checking his email and closed his laptop about half-way. A sign of interest but he wasn’t fully committing to Walter. Stephen sat, eyes downcast, fiddling with his ball point pen. He had timed his return terribly. Did people realize that he had come back into town after Jefferson had died? He would have to make sure they knew somehow.

  Walter looked down at his notes. “This is what I have learned from the police. You may have read some of this in the paper already. Professor Jefferson Daniels was murdered. Cyanide was added to his protein powder, which he consumed after his run yesterday. This method is in contrast to Professor DeBeyer, who was strangled. However, I think it is safe to assume they were killed by the same person.”

  Here Walter was interrupted by a junior professor sitting towards the back. “So, are we all going to be systematically picked off, one-by-one, until no economics faculty remain at Eaton University? Is that the idea? The murderer hates Eaton University economists?”

  “The motive is not transparently clear. But as Edmund and Jefferson did the same research and that research received a lot of public attention, including from the Nobel committee, then I think a safe assumption is that the motive relates to their work.”

  Another faculty, an intense young environmental economist, raised a hand. “So you are guaranteeing our safety? No one else is going to be killed?”

  Walter looked over his glasses and glared at the young economist. Where were the intellects of today? The thinkers. The scholars. “Of course I am not guaranteeing your safety. What an absurd concept. You could walk across Knollwood to your office and get hit by a car. I have no control over that. Likewise, the murderer could meet you, be as irritated as I am now, and decide to do the world a favor by killing you. I, also, cannot control that. All I am merely saying is that, given the two victims thus far were pre-eminent economists doing cutting-edge, life-altering research, I think the probability that you, an economist of little value, will be murdered is low.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Walter,” said C.J., looking up from her computer. “You are always such a comfort.”

  Walter, missing the sarcasm, nodded his head in thanks. “Because we would all like to have the killer behind bars,” Walter continued, “we must endure the questioning by the police.”

  Everyone broke into chatter at this. Stories of policemen and women in
terrupting their days and their precious research time. Tales of intrusive questions, having to tell of “private study sessions” with students. It was embarrassing and, frankly, unnecessary. They had Ph.D.’s. Their word should be enough.

  Walter cleared his throat and brought the room to silence. “You just told me you would like to know who the killer is. So, ergo, answer their questions.”

  Charles spoke up, his speech a little slurred from pre-loading before the meeting. “Oh, it’s easy to work out the killer. Follow the money. History shows money leads you to the killer every time. Follow the money, damn it.”

  Walter cleared his throat again. Edmund had been right. It was time for Charles to retire––past time. Obviously the old man needed psychiatric help. First he confessed to a murder he didn’t commit, and now he was ranting about money being the answer to the crimes, which made no sense when Edmund had started a foundation, and...

  “Where did Jefferson leave his money?” Charles demanded belligerently.

  Walter knew this information, having had a call that morning from Edmund’s widow, of all people, explaining Jefferson’s will. He wondered briefly if he should keep the facts to himself, but then decided if you shared information with one person, you were sharing it with the world. Unless, of course, the secret was his. “As you might have known, Jefferson didn’t have any family. The aunt who had raised him passed away several years ago, and there was no other family to speak of. Jefferson looked up to Edmund, almost like a father. So he left everything in his will to Edmund and his wife. Lisa called me today to see how to transfer the funds to Edmund’s foundation, since that is where all of Edmund’s money is being invested. She didn’t think it was right to profit from Edmund and Jefferson’s friendship.”

  Several faculty stared stiffly ahead, distraught at the thought of all that money being funneled into Edmund’s useless foundation. It was heartbreaking, but economists don’t cry.

  Charles pursed his lips together. He was still trying to puzzle out the mystery.

  Walter looked at him. “I am afraid history has let you down. Money isn’t the answer. No one benefits. It’s all in the foundation.”

  Throughout all of this, C.J. had been busy deleting emails from her computer. No, she did not want to join the Eaton University Scrapbookers Club. It was very nice of the IT department to tell her they were updating the computer server at three on Sunday morning. But she had tenure now, so she was going to be asleep then. It was a new and very pleasant luxury. It looked like Eaton was going to be playing a football game against some equally untalented team this weekend. C.J. had gone to one game and seen the mascot, the little pug dog named Adorable Don, run onto the field. The poor little mite. Looked so confused. But he was doing better than Don the First, who was stuffed and mounted in a glass case in one of the reception halls on campus. That was just plain creepy. No, thought C.J., she would pass on watching both the substandard football and the undergraduates drink until they threw up. Limited entertainment value there. Oh wait, here was an email from Charlotte, her star undergraduate student. Charlotte, as usual, had a very intelligent question about the class material. Today she was making excellent connections to examples of demand and supply in other markets, such as the markets for slaves.

  Walter was still droning on up front. There would be counseling available. C.J. rolled her eyes. Like anyone would go to that. Walter would be accepting ideas for a fitting memorial for the next two weeks. C.J. laughed inwardly. Clearly, Walter had been badgered by the Dean or the Provost or even the President. No more trying to hide the murders under the proverbial rug. Obviously the Eaton Media Machine now wanted to turn this into a PR event to build unity.

  C.J. googled the The Pug Post to see the latest coverage.

  DAILY DOUBLE: TWO MURDERS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE!

  What your parents didn’t know their tuition dollar would buy. As the economists at Eaton University continue to be picked off, questions should be asked. Is being exposed to this type of violent crime what Eatonians should expect?

  I approached the Eaton University President with this question. Is murder now a weekly or daily expectation on the Eaton University campus? Should we expect other violent crime to increase?

  The president was not willing to accept that crime was increasing. “The deaths of these two wonderful scholars were isolated incidents, and I hope the perpetrator will be brought to justice soon. In the meantime, I believe this is a time for the Eaton University community to come together to mourn our lost Eatonians, remember their contributions, and move forward as a school.”

  The article continued, but C.J. stopped reading. Her email alerted her to a new message.

  Jose? That was unexpected. C.J. hadn’t heard a word from him since yesterday when she had cornered him outside the department. She had begun to think she had been too forward with him. C.J. opened the email, quickly closed it and refocused her attention on Walter.

  “Finally,” wound up Walter, “it turns out that Jefferson was a member of a church here in Elm Grove. Who knew?” asked Walter in a way that suggested that if Walter did not know, then no one would. “So this means that the funeral will not be at one of the churches on the Square. Rather there will be a memorial service tonight at five o’clock at,” Walter paused to look at his notes, “St. Andrews. In case you are unfamiliar with this church, St. Andrews is an Episcopal church. But, it is, um, well, it’s on the other side of Main Street.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Everyone knew what Walter was trying to say. This was not an Eaton University church. This was an Elm Grove church, where black people, poor people, and, God forbid, even homeless people would be in attendance. This was a church where women would be moved to cry out “Hallelujah” during the service, and men might mumble, “Praise the Lord.” And in such a church, the choirs would sing loudly and in tune and sound as if they really did believe in and love their Christ and Savior.

  To the Walters of this world, such a place was very disconcerting and seemed quite uncalled for.

  *****

  The Episcopal church of St. Andrews was indeed, as Walter so delicately phrased it, on “the other side” of Main Street. It was located in the Elm Grove South neighborhood, an area famous for Jimmy’s Pizza (the best pizza in Elm Grove, unless you were a fan of the pepperoni at Sal’s Diner), an abundance of cannoli bakeries, and, somewhat out of character, a cherry blossom festival. Elm Grove South was also close to the Amtrak station and, consequently, was a favorite hang out for the homeless, the hungry and the high in Elm Grove.

  Although the building of St. Andrews could be considered as beautiful as any church found on the Elm Grove Town Square, with its rising stone spire, stained glass windows and aged wood pews, that is where the similarity ended. St. Andrews prided itself on communicating with God through the fusion of Jazz and Soul. The ten commandments did not say anything about having to sing the Lord’s hymns out of tune and in a monotone that would convince the strongest believer that God was yesterday’s news. This church rocked, with its congregants clapping, and saxophones wailing. The Lord was indeed lifted up, often with a little impov along the way.

  St. Andrews also had the disconcerting habit of opening its doors to everyone. The wealthy and the poor. Black and white. Gay and straight. Housed and homeless. Sober, high, recovering, teetotaler, relapsed and sponsor. All were welcome, indeed encouraged, to think of St. Andrews as home.

  St. Andrews tried valiantly to cater to every aspect of community life. The Reverend Tayshon Jackson blessed the pets of the congregation once a month and kept his phobias to himself when the snakes and tarantulas were brought to the steps of the church. After all, he thought to himself as he breathed in deeply, they are God’s creatures, too, and the serpent was just a metaphor. The church held Loaves and Fishes every Saturday, offering food and clothing to those in need. Tayshon had always known he could rely on Jefferson Daniels to take the early morning shift, helping out, offering both food and compan
y. Tayshon had so hoped Jefferson would find a nice girl from the church to marry. He encouraged Jefferson to come to Thursday Vespers, a relaxed evening of Jazz, scriptures, and, often, flirting. The congregants were, after all, human. But while Jefferson was charming to all the ladies, he didn’t seek anyone out.

  Today St. Andrews was going to provide a place for the community to grieve. Reverend Jackson looked somberly around the church. He knew that the memorial service for Professor Daniels was going to pull a huge crowd. He couldn’t actually call it a funeral, as the body wasn’t going to be released by the State for quite awhile. But the parishioners wanted to celebrate Jefferson’s life now.

  Extra seating had already been set up at the back of the church. The ladies of the parish had been stopping by with their best casseroles, home-baked breads, pies, and cakes all day for the celebration of life. The kitchen at the church was overloaded with crockpots, Pyrex and Tupperware. For Brother Daniels, no recipe was too difficult. No cream of mushroom soup, Velveeta cheese or Redi-whip was spared. Another, very select group of women had been arranging flowers. The flower committee was a coveted job and one Reverend Tayshon left to his wife to sort out. He did not understand why everyone couldn’t lend a hand in these things. When he said this, his wife just rolled her eyes. Scanning the church, Tayshon had to admit that however it was done, it worked. The sprays of lilies and whatever those little flowers with them were called looked very nice. Very nice indeed.

  His flock had been expressing their sorrow and their prayers on the church’s Facebook page. Sometimes he wondered if anyone read the damn site. Was he just posting prayers to please God and the Archbishop, who liked to see that the church was keeping up with technology? The Archbishop himself tweeted his prayers (a practice that kept them, thankfully, short.) But when Tayshon had posted the announcement about Jefferson’s death, the website had gone into overload with prayers, memories and outreach to other parishioners. Making sure the ones in AA stayed sober. Keeping the ones prone to overdose company. All the things a church should do.