1 Picking Lemons

by J. T. Toman

  His less computer savvy congregants had been writing their prayers for Jefferson on the two prayer chalkboards that stood outside the church doors. Normally, the prayers ranged from “my sobriety” and “a job” to “peace on earth” and “my family” and, occasionally, “this wonderful church,” though Tayshon didn’t see the latter very often. He noticed that praying tended to be a self-focused activity. But now, the boards were covered with “For the Prof,” “The guy who gave food on Saturdays,” “Jefferson, one of our great Jazz singers,” “Our brother in Christ,” “With the Lord now,” “That I may show forgiveness to the person who took Jefferson from us,” and “To our brother.”

  With a sigh, Reverend Jackson went to the front doors of the church and opened them wide. There were already small groups of people milling around on the street, dressed in their finest. It was his time to provide comfort and to show the Lord’s healing.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us celebrate the life of Brother Daniels.”

  *****

  When C.J. and Betsy arrived at the church at four-thirty, the place was already rocking. The contrast to the funeral of Edmund DeBeyer could not help but be noticed. Now, instead of economists and administrators somberly in attendance, it appeared most of Elm Grove’s townsfolk were out in force. Men, women and children were standing in the pews singing and clapping, while a jazz band crooned the music up front. An African-American man, who appeared to be the leader of the church, interrupted occasionally, and asked for an “Amen” to celebrate the life of Brother Daniels. As one, the congregation swelled with a joyous and heartfelt “Amen,” full of love for Jefferson.

  “Oh my,” said Betsy, surveying the scene.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked C.J., dragging her friend by the hand. “Let’s celebrate Jefferson!”

  *****

  As the person who discovered the body, Mary Beth figured she would have a special role at the funeral. Perhaps the minister would mention her in his speech. Or people would want to take pictures of her next to the casket. Either way, a special outfit was clearly required.

  Despite having only hours to prepare, Mary Beth managed eleven conversations with her best friend Annabelle, two shopping trips, and one bloated credit card. She was ready to mourn.

  Atop Mary Beth’s head was a black pillbox hat with a black netting veil. Sprouting out the top of the hat were three black ostrich feathers, dyed orange around the edges. Her body was encased, like an overstuffed sausage, in a short, skin-tight, black dress with orange panels down the sides. Unfortunately, also like a sausage, little bits of Mary Beth were bursting out at the seams. Mary Beth teetered on five-inch, orange, leopard-print pumps and she had carefully selected a manicure of black nails with orange tear drops. The outfit was completed with a bright orange, feather boa. Mary Beth was extremely pleased with the ensemble–– distinctive, sexy, and clearly grieving. To the rest of the world, the decision of black with orange accent colors, and the choice of clothes themselves, regrettably lent the outfit a Halloweenish feel.

  Mary Beth arrived at the church at just before five o’clock. The perfect time to be photographed ascending the steps into the church. But, owing to a 22 car pile-up in a flash fog on I-95 that afternoon and a hurricane taking an unexpected turn towards the east coast, there was not a photographer or reporter in sight. The only people who cared about the life and death of Jefferson Daniels were already inside the church.

  Mary Beth hung around outside for another ten minutes, but then gave up and went inside. The church was full of people! And not Eaton University people. Like, people people. And they were singing and stomping their feet and playing the saxophone. This was not like the funeral for Professor DeBeyer. Mary Beth spotted one woman who was sitting quietly and who looked sort of familiar. She went over and sat next to her.

  “Hi! I’m Mary Beth. I discovered the body,” Mary Beth introduced herself.

  The woman, who already looked quite pale, went a ghostly shade of white. “Oh. How...ghastly. I’m Lisa DeBeyer.”

  “Oh right! Professor DeBeyer’s wife. Well, I guess widow now. We met at your husband’s funeral. Fancy, us meeting again. And at another funeral.”

  “Yes. Fancy,” said the other woman, though she did not sound like she fancied it at all.

  “Do you want me to tell you about the body?” chirped Mary Beth, trying to restart the conversation.

  “God, no!” said Lisa, looking positively green at the thought.

  Mary Beth looked crushed. She had such a pivotal role in a crime, and no one wanted to know about it. “What do you do, for, you know, a job?” asked Mary Beth, at one last attempt to make conversation.

  “I’m run an art gallery, in New York,” replied Lisa.

  “New York?” enthused Mary Beth. “Oh, that is so cool. I am, like, so jealous. I would love to live in New York. I, like, go there all the time.”

  Lisa nodded, without much enthusiasm.

  “Don’t you love New York?” asked Mary Beth.

  “Well, I was thinking of moving, but now with all that has happened, I guess I’ll stay.” Lisa excused herself quietly, walked to the pew three rows back and sat down again.

  *****

  “What a great service,” sighed C.J. contentedly. “I’m a little sad I didn’t know Jeffie did so much for the community. He seems a little like a stranger now. Why is it that everyone has to have a secret in life?”

  “I don’t have any secrets,” said Betsy, virtuously.

  “None at all? Not a single one?”

  Betsy thought for a moment, and remembered the new and rather expensive sewing machine she had bought last year without telling her husband. “Well, almost none.”

  C.J., now curious, was about to press Betsy on her secret, when Walter stumbled towards them. “Dear God!” he exclaimed. “I am going home to immerse myself in a bath of disinfectant. I have been touched by at least four homeless people, and I swear one of them was trying to steal my wallet. And just now, some pasty lady who needed to go on a diet fifteen dress sizes ago tried to offer me a casserole. Do I look like the type of man who eats casseroles?”

  “Oh! Are they serving the food now?” cried C.J., ignoring Walter’s complaints. “I am so darn excited. I don’t mean that I’m not sad about Jeffie. But I am as hungry as a pig at dawn, and I spied some good ole mac‘n’cheese and green beans‘n’fried onions and something with marshmallow fluff on top. Just like the potlucks back home. Y’all excuse me, I got to grab a plate before it’s all gone.”

  C.J. found herself in the food line behind the Reverend Jackson. She tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. When the Reverend spotted the hot pink cowboy boots accenting the black mourning dress, he certainly couldn’t help but notice C.J.

  “Excuse me, Reverend. I’m a work colleague of Jefferson’s. C.J. Whitmore is the name.” With this, C.J. stuck out her hand, and Tayshon shook it firmly. “I just wanted to thank you for today. I really liked Jeffie, and that was a mighty fine way to remember him,” said C.J.

  “Well, thank you, Ms. Whitmore,” said Tayshon, oozing politeness.

  “Professor,” corrected C.J. automatically. C.J. didn’t know if Tayshon had mistaken her for a secretary or just hadn’t thought to use her title. But C.J. wished she hadn’t corrected the earnest, young minister. It sounded so pedantic and officious to care about her title outside the world of academia. Especially as she didn’t know if she was using his title correctly. Did he prefer Reverend Jackson? Just plain Reverend? She had no idea.

  “Sorry?” asked Tayshon, confused.

  “It’s nothing. Please, call me C.J.”

  “Of course. C.J. it is.”

  C.J., terrible at small talk, was now stuck for something to say. The problem with meeting someone at a funeral is that the one person you have in common is, unfortunately, dead. “So, you knew Jeffie well it seems.”

  “Yes. He was a regular here at St. Andrews.”

  C.J. searched the recesses of
her mind for another topic of conversation. She could bring up the homeless who seemed to be wandering about the church, but C.J. had become an economist so she didn’t have to experience poverty. God wasn’t going to be a conversation starter, as C.J. and the Lord weren’t on speaking terms. It seemed Jefferson was the safest bet. “Did you know Jeffie was planning to move to New Mexico?”

  The Reverend Jackson looked thoughtful. “Yes. I did.”

  C.J. looked at him. “You look so serious about it. I mean, I wouldn’t choose alpaca farming, either. I know what it’s like to ranch animals. That’s what I grew up doing. You know, I said to my friend Betsy, ‘I’ll bet you ten dollars that he doesn’t even last one year out there.’ But,” C.J. looked sad, “now we’ll never know.”

  Tayshon looked at her sadly. “I counseled him not to go. Perhaps that is why he changed his...” The Reverend stopped in mid-sentence.

  “Why he changed his what?” asked C.J., confused. “His mind? He wasn’t planning on going after all?”

  “It is of no importance. The Lord will always provide.”

  C.J. gave the Reverend a long look. “You know, I like a mystery as much as a chicken likes an axe. The Lord will always provide what? Money? Had Jeffie told you that he was leaving money to your church in his will?”

  Tayshon looked uncomfortable. “Well, yes. We had talked about it at length. He had no family and wanted to leave the church as his sole beneficiary.”

  “Well, that makes sense. I wonder when he changed his mind. What did you say when you counseled him to not go to New Mexico?”

  Tayshon looked C.J. straight in the eyes. “I said that happiness cannot be built on pain.”

  *****

  As C.J. and Betsy were sitting enjoying their mac and cheese, Mary Beth came up and joined them.

  C.J. took one glance at the Halloween apparition before her and exploded. “Oh, Mother of Gooseberries, what is on your head, girl? And take that damn veil off. You aren’t his widow of fifty years. You were his secretary. Keep it in perspective.”

  Betsy kept her napkin to her lips, trying to suppress the giggles.

  Mary Beth looked huffy. “I took extra care with my outfit. I am, after all, the Discoverer of the Body. I was a little surprised that I wasn’t mentioned in the service.”

  C.J. stared at her. “Yeah. Me too. Darn. Maybe next time.”

  Mary Beth perked up. “You’re right, Professor Whitmore. You always look on the bright side. Maybe next time.”

  Betsy knew C.J. was about to point out in none-too-kind words that if there were a next time it was likely to be Mary Beth who was killed. By her. So she piped up. “You know, Mary Beth, there were so many people here. It’s so wonderful to see Jefferson loved by so many. C.J. and I were trying to work out who we saw from the department. We saw Walter, and we think we glimpsed Peter cowering at the back of the church. I am sure I saw Charles and Mildred in the middle of the action, and C.J. swears she saw the President of the College doing a butt bump with a hefty African-American woman, but I think she’s pulling my leg. Did you see anyone?”

  “Not from the department. But I did see Edmund’s wife. Well, I guess she’s his widow now.”

  “Lisa is here?” asked C.J. “I am sorry I missed her. How is she doing?”

  “You know, it’s funny. She looked pretty upset. And when I offered to tell her about the body to distract her, she looked like she was going to puke. Anyway, I don’t know why she’s so worked up. Her husband died, like, days ago. And she didn’t even live with him. She lives in New York. And you know what? She told me she had been thinking of leaving New York. I guess to come up here and live with Professor DeBeyer. And now she doesn’t have to. She can stay in New York. If I was her, I wouldn’t be crying. I would be, like, so happy.”

  MONDAY

  No longer a media darling, Knollwood Place was once again a calm memorial to grander times. The oak trees were gracefully losing their leaves. The grand houses of yesteryear stood proudly, only slightly marred by the signs that stood before them announcing the likes of “Economics Department” and “Microeconomics Research Center.” Those waiting in line for the chili truck were now only the hung-over and hungry, instead of the people hungry for those who would be hung.

  Charles Covington III ambled down the street to his small office at 41 Knollwood. No, he thought, I don’t know if anyone would think this is the most magnificent street in America any more. But, it sure is beautiful to me.

  Charles was feeling much more relaxed since attending young Jefferson’s funeral the day before. As he and Mildred were getting ready to leave the rather lively affair, they had run into C.J.

  “Charles, can I speak to you a moment?”

  Truth be told, Charles had been rather tired and ready to head home, but, of course, he didn’t like to refuse a lady. He excused himself from Mildred and stepped outside with C.J. where they could hear themselves talk.

  “You should tell Mildred everything,” C.J. said, meaningfully. “And the sooner the better.”

  Charles looked at her in surprise. “You mean, you know?”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “About…”

  “Yes. And Mildred needs to know, too. It will be fine. Trust me.”

  Charles whistled a little ditty to himself as he walked towards his office. That little Texas rose had been right. He should have told Mildred years ago. No good keeping secrets. It lands you in all sorts of trouble.

  When he arrived at his office, Charles eased himself into his desk chair and opened his email. Such a fascinating concept, email. Little letters being sent instantly across the world.

  Charles still remembered the time of no computers, followed by the years when the faculty had all used one central computer, booking time to use it. In those days, he used punch cards to write code, and (though he didn’t tell very many people this story), he published a paper with completely erroneous results as he had entered the punch cards backwards into the computer. Charles hadn’t realized the error until years later. Now, everything was at his desk––the computer, the printer and the scanner. It was so very, very clever.

  Charles perused his inbox. Oh…the pumpkin carving competition sounded interesting. He and Mildred should go. And there was a message from C.J. What did she want?

  Charles opened the email.

  FROM: C.J. Whitmore

  TO: All faculty, All staff, All graduate students

  SUBJECT: Seminar today ... who dunnit?

  Good morning!

  As you know, we have lost two of our colleagues recently to murder. I now know who killed both Edmund and Jefferson and will explain everything at the start of Peter’s seminar this afternoon at two o’clock, if he will kindly indulge me a few minutes.

  C.J.

  Well, well. He wasn’t surprised that C.J. had worked things out. She was a bright one. And gentle on the eyes to boot. Charles changed his afternoon plans. He was definitely going to the seminar. This was going to be very interesting.

  *****

  The graduate students in Jefferson’s class were sitting around, waiting for whoever was going to come and teach them.

  “Please, don’t let it be Professor Scovill,” said one student.

  “What’s wrong with Walt Wit-less?” asked another, dryly.

  “Maybe there’s still time to accept the offer I got from Cornell,” joked Jose.

  Snickers broke out around the room. It would take a natural disaster on a gargantuan scale to get any of these self-assured graduate students to set foot inside Cornell. They were, after all, Eaton-quality.

  “Oh, my God!” Annika exclaimed loudly, breaking the mood. She was staring wide-eyed at her smart phone.

  The room fell silent. It was unlike Annika to make a fuss.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jose.

  “This email, from Professor Whitmore. She says she knows who the murderer is, and she is going to tell all at Professor Johansson’s seminar this afternoon.”


  A cacophony of commentaries flooded this announcement.

  “She does not.”

  “Maybe I’ll finally win the betting pool.”

  “I reckon it’s been Professor Choi the whole time.”

  “Who’s willing to take an even money bet on Professor Scovill?”

  “Well, I’m going to seminar. Try and stop me.”

  Annika looked over at Jose. He was sitting silently in his chair, looking very thoughtful.

  *****

  Yesterday’s memorial service did not remind Walter that life was short. It reminded him that a large portion of the population lived in poverty, hence the invention of gated communities. Despite showering twice the previous night and once again this morning, Walter was still applying generous amounts of Purell. He did not want to catch the poverty virus.

  Walter opened his email, saw that he had 56 new messages and so closed it again. Whatever the complaining masses wanted, it would have to wait. He couldn’t deal with the whims of the fretting minions now. He had to go and teach Jefferson’s class.

  *****

  Mary Beth was disappointed with the funeral for Professor Daniels. There had been, like, no focus on her. She might as well have not found his body, for all it was worth. And, to make matters worse, there was no rich husband material in sight at that church. It was swarming with poor people, ugly people, old people and gay people. No one she needed to waste her time on. At least Professor DeBeyer had attracted a small, select group of elite mourners. That’s what you really wanted at a funeral.

  Mary Beth attacked the computer keys with unusual vigor. She had waxed, plucked, dyed and dermed every pore of her body and just buried the best chance she had of Mr. Rich. It would be a foolish person who asked for a large photocopy job today. Pretending to do work, Mary Beth clicked on her email.

  Nordstrom’s sale.

  “And so they should. It’ll bring their prices down to reasonable.”