Death by Dissertation

by Dean James

  Death by Dissertation

  A Deep South Mystery (#3)

  Dean James

  Copyright

  This e-book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This e-book may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Death by Dissertation

  Copyright © 2004 by Dean James

  E-book ISBN: 9781625173225

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Dedication

  This book is most humbly dedicated with respect, gratitude, and affection to Professor Katherine F. Drew, whose example of professionalism and integrity I shall always strive to emulate.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to take this opportunity to offer my thanks to a number of people who contributed in important ways to this book. First, to the fine folk of The Overmountain Press who were willing to give it a chance, especially to Beth Wright and Sherry “Eagle Eye” Lewis; second, to my dear friends Megan Bladen- Blinkoff and Patricia R. Orr, who suffered through far too many drafts of the manuscript but never complained; third, to Chief William E Taylor of the Rice University Police Department for cheerfully answering my questions about his department; fourth, and finally, to the history department of Rice University, circa 1981-1985, which gave me the opportunity to realize my dream. I can only hope that setting a mystery in a fictionalized version of the department won’t cause them to regret it!

  Chapter One

  I was convinced graduate school was the lowest circle of Hell in the Inferno, but Dante discarded it as too terrifying for his readers. My particular corner of hell was a seminar room half full of dedicated medievalists; and slouching in a stuffy seminar room on a beautiful October afternoon, even for a nonathletic slug like me, was hard work. Especially when I was having to listen to Dan Erickson babble on and on about the absolutely riveting number of horses Charles Martel had had in his army when he defeated the Muslim invaders at Poitiers in A.D. 732. That was a heck of a long way away from 1991.

  Dan was one of those intense, incredibly focused students that professors enthused over publicly but secretly wished to throw to a pack of salivating, feral dogs. And that would be definitely mild in comparison to the fates devised by fellow students. Everyone has had a “Dan” in class: the earnest face that follows the professor’s every word, every gesture; the neatly word-processed papers, always a few pages over the maximum, turned in a week early; the hand ready to fly, the moment his brain has formed a question. Was Dan the reason I was spending all this time in graduate school? Was I going to spend the rest of my life, post-Ph.D., teaching Dan-clones, or, worse maybe, the ones who didn’t care? Perhaps, being a college professor might approximate Dante’s view of Purgatory. Lord only knew, then, what Paradise might be.

  I listened to Dan burble on about the eighth-century French climate, the physiology of the horse, and something about horses’ diets, then promptly tuned out. This was one day in Professor Julian Whitelock’s seminar on the early Middle Ages that I wouldn’t have a question to pose after the reading. It was Whitelock’s fault, forcing Dan to present a paper so close to the date of his dissertation defense. To pay the professor back, I’m sure he found his most boring one.

  I avoided the eye of one of my fellow students as Dan waxed ever more enthusiastic. Maggie McLendon, sitting across the table from me, had her lips clamped together, trying not to laugh. Her expression dared me to keep a straight face. If she so much as winked or smirked at me, I wouldn’t be able to resist laughing myself.

  Sitting next to Maggie was Rob Hayward, whom I had known since childhood. He cast an amused glance my way. I was probably glowering at him. Most of the time I affected bored disinterest when he was around, though he was as handsome and charming as ever. I didn’t have as much control of my wayward hormones as I thought. Which, of course, made me even angrier at him, and at myself.

  Nearly two months into the semester, I still found it hard to believe that Rob was here. I had thought—and prayed—that he was out of my life forever. My worst nightmare had been realized that day in late August when I walked into the history office and saw him chatting casually with the department head.

  Maggie had caught on to the tension between me and Rob, but even though Maggie and I were good friends, I wasn’t ready to confide the history of my tangled relationship with Rob, nor the depth of my feelings of betrayal and anger. My stomach clenched, and I ground my teeth. I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax. I couldn’t let him do this to me every time I saw him or thought about him.

  Maggie frowned, eyes on me, and I smiled at her, even as Dan babbled on toward the blessed conclusion of his paper. I glanced around the table to see how others were reacting.

  Charlie Harper, Rob’s roommate, sat next to me, and he shifted in his chair as Dan finished and looked expectantly around the room for questions and praise. Charlie had the most acid tongue of anyone I’d ever known, and I waited, with some relish, for him to unleash it on Dan.

  But Julian Whitelock well knew Charlie’s proclivities and was out of his chair before Charlie or anyone else could frame a question. “Thank you, Daniel,” he drawled. “That was a most fascinating examination of a researched aspect of the life of Charles Martel. I do believe I have a new appreciation for the horse after hearing your paper. And we all appreciate your taking the time to contribute to this seminar when you are so busy preparing for your dissertation defense.” Whitelock’s cultured South Carolina accent remained carefully neutral. Judging from the glazed look in his eyes, he was exerting every vestige of Southern charm he could muster.

  The quirky thing was, Dan was apparently a favorite of Whitelock’s. If he put work onto his favorites, I was glad to be one of the students he merely tolerated. I knew I was damned already to a “B” for the course, no matter what I did, and I saved myself a lot of sweat and heartache by not toadying to the professor.

  “I’m afraid, Daniel,” Whitelock continued, “that we won’t have time to entertain questions for your paper today.”

  Dan seemed as relieved as the rest of us, and he grinned slightly as he put his paper away. Smiling, Whitelock urged the group to give Dan a round of applause. Amidst the half-hearted clapping, the professor cast a venomous glance around the table.

  A fit and fierce sixty years old, he had a patrician face and long, thick white hair, which gave him the air of a Southern grandee. He never wore white linen suits or panama hats to class, but it didn’t take much imagination to see him that way. His accent, I was certain, he exaggerated simply because he knew it annoyed everyone. The ever-present dollop of venom in his voice didn’t help much either.

  “Now,” Whitelock announced, “Charles is going to read us a short paper, a preliminary to the work he’ll present in full to the seminar in two weeks.”

  I looked across at Maggie and rolled my eyes slightly. She responded with a wry smile, then settled her face into an expression of intent interest. She was so adorable when she was serious, and I could have easily fallen in love with her, except for one problem. She was straight, and I was gay. If only she were a man, s
he would’ve been perfect. Though I didn’t dare tell her that. Oh, well. I wasn’t in graduate school to fall in love and have a mad, passionate affair, anyway. I avoided looking at Rob.

  Beside me, Charlie cleared his throat noisily, opened his file folder, and began to read. I glanced down to see how many pages he had and found only a thin stack. Good, I thought. Maybe this won't take too long, after all.

  Charlie Harper was a very good historian. His problem, though, was that he didn’t write well. His sentences were long and complex, which wasn’t so bad if you were reading them. Listening to them, however, and following Charlie’s logic required an effort of concentration that I simply couldn’t make at the time. He had a deep and pleasant voice, though, and I let the sounds flow by without taking in the meaning of the words.

  Instead, I continued my survey of the room. The other two attending the seminar were women, and one of them was a stranger whom Whitelock had not bothered to introduce. An attractive blonde of about forty, dressed in an expensive business suit, she had watched the proceedings with a face schooled to hide her thoughts. I noticed something familiar about her, but my memory refused to track down the resemblance.

  The woman seated next to her I did know, though not all that well. Selena Bradbury, also blonde and maybe five years younger than the other woman wasn’t enrolled in our seminar either. She had finished her courses several years earlier and was now completing her dissertation. I thought I’d heard that she was to defend the coming week, but I couldn’t remember.

  Frankly, Selena could be a tad intimidating. Her nickname among the older grad students was the “Ice Queen,” and, true to form, she had made no move to warm toward Maggie or me. Whitelock was the only person for whom she manifested any regard, and her attitude toward him was hard to fathom. She had attended our weekly seminar three times, and she asked excellent questions. Most of the time she sat quietly, watching, with those ice-blue eyes that could freeze you, like the ninth circle of Dante’s Hell.

  Evidently I had been woolgathering during Charlie’s brief presentation, because I caught only one sentence before he turned over the final page and looked around at his audience.

  All at once I felt an air of tension in the room. Rob’s face had scrunched up into a question mark, and Maggie’s face had gone completely blank, but Whitelock’s face had turned the shade of a ripe tomato. What had I missed? For the next seminar I was going to have to bring a Diet Coke so the caffeine would keep my mind working.

  I watched Charlie. Through his dark beard and moustache I could see him grin, seeming to offer a challenge of some sort. What had he done now? I waited and wondered. No one spoke.

  Whitelock struggled to his feet, the color in his face subsiding. “That’s all for today.” For a moment he sounded like he came from New York City instead of Charleston. From his place at the head of the long table, he turned and stalked toward the door. Over his shoulder, he threw the words, “Mr. Harper. My office.”

  Once the professor was gone, Charlie looked around the room and laughed. “The master calls. Excuse me, folks.” With a casual air, he bundled his papers into the folder and left.

  A few seconds later we all heard the slamming door of Whitelock’s office just down the hall. Heads together and whispering, Selena and the oddly familiar stranger walked out together. Dan trailed forlornly in their wake.

  “What gives with Charlie and Whitelock?” I asked Maggie, trying to ignore Rob. “I wasn’t paying any attention to what Charlie was saying, so what’s going on?”

  “Andy Carpenter,” Maggie said, grinning at me, “how could you not have been listening to one of Charlie’s magnificent orations on Frankish history?”

  “It’s all Dan’s fault," I retorted. “He destroyed whatever powers of concentration I might have had, with that paper on medieval Frankish horseshit, or whatever it was.”

  Rob snorted. “It was horseshit, all right.”

  “It’s exactly the kind of academic research that makes the Republicans in Congress want to cut funding for higher education,” I said.

  “I think even the Democrats would have trouble justifying this,” Maggie laughed.

  “I suppose,” Rob said with a sly smile, “Whitelock is so politically neutered— or do I mean neutral?—that it doesn’t matter to him.”

  It pained me to have to agree, so I just ignored him. I asked my question about Charlie’s paper again. “What about it made Whitelock so angry, Maggie?”

  “As well as I could follow Charlie,” she replied, “I think he was trying to show that Whitelock was misguided, at best, in that article he wrote a few years ago on kingship in Merovingian Gaul.”

  For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what the professor had said about kingship in Merovingian Gaul, though I had waded through the article twice the previous month, trying to make sense of it. Whitelock’s prose was no better than Charlie’s.

  Rob sighed. “I don’t know why, but Charlie seems to have it in for Whitelock lately. I mean, today he practically called the guy a fool in front of all of us. How does he expect to get the man to direct his dissertation?”

  “Well, he’s your roommate!” I said rudely. “If you don’t know, then how the heck should any of us know?”

  Charlie had been in the program for a year longer than we had, though he and Rob had known each other in their undergraduate days. Having Rob in the same program with me was bad enough, but when he moved in next door with Charlie at the start of school, I was almost ready to head back to Mississippi and trash my dream of getting a Ph.D. in history.

  “I don’t know exactly what Charlie is doing,” Rob answered, with heavy patience. “You might have noticed, Charlie doesn’t listen to anyone. He follows his own drummer.”

  Rob was right about that. Charlie wouldn’t be beaten into submission by Julian Whitelock. Charlie came from a wealthy family, and our professor respected nothing so much as money.

  “Well,” I said, standing up, “no doubt, Charlie will come out the better. Some people have a talent for treating other people like shit and walking away clean.” I looked straight at Rob as I said it.

  He stood so quickly, his chair overturned and fell with a loud bang. “And some people can’t seem to do anything but act like jerks all the time, no matter—” He stopped in mid-sentence and looked at me with a weary expression, his anger cooling suddenly. “Oh, just forget it.” He grabbed his backpack and stalked out.

  Maggie frowned at me. “Are you happy with yourself now?” The ice in her tone would have chilled the Sahara. “You finally got a reaction out of him, after taunting him for two months. Was it what you wanted?”

  I looked at her defiantly. “You don’t know him the way I do. He has a temper like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “You’re right, Andy,” Maggie observed as she stood up. “I don’t know Rob all that well, but I do know you. And I think you’re acting like a jerk, whatever he may have done in the past.”

  That really stung, and I had nothing to say as I followed Maggie out of the seminar room. I was about to offer a conciliatory remark, but as we neared Whitelock’s office, we could hear raised voices inside.

  Abruptly Whitelock’s door opened, and a smiling Charlie appeared. “You’ll see whose ass is in a bind, believe me,” he said before pulling the door shut with an emphatic click.

  Then Charlie saw us, and, not a bit bothered that we had overheard him, his grin widened. “Somebody’s going to murder that bastard one of these days.” He marched off down the hall, laughing to himself.

  Chapter Two

  The disagreement with Maggie left me feeling out of sorts. I didn’t want to admit that she was right, because I had been deliberately baiting Rob to see how he would react. I didn’t want to examine my motives, because I’d have to think more about how I really felt. Not something I was ready to get into.

  As Maggie and I walked down the stairs one flight to the floor where our carrels were located, she didn’t seem to want to talk abou
t Charlie’s nasty comment. I retrieved what I wanted from my carrel, right next to Maggie’s, and bade her good-bye. She nodded in response and settled down in her own carrel, busying herself with a book. I wandered off, knowing that by the next time I saw her, a thaw would have set in.

  On the way home I decided to make a couple of stops. The first was at a trendy deli on Montrose where all the yuppies, guppies, and buppies gathered to eat. At four in the afternoon, the place wasn’t busy, and I was able to get my sandwich and potato salad without having to wait as long as usual. I stuck my food on the floorboard, out of the sun, and swung the car on down Montrose toward Westheimer and my second stop.

  On a graduate student’s budget, I had to take my entertainment where I could find it. Sometimes I felt like I spent my entire life in two places: my apartment and the library. Every great once in a while, I splurged and went to a movie. Occasionally I visited Houston’s Museum of Fine Arts, when admission was free, or the Menil Collection, where they just asked for donations. Bookstore crawls were the best, though. I often lusted over books I couldn’t afford, but wandering through a bookstore was a good, free way to break the monotony of my daily routine.

  I found a parking place alongside the building that housed Houston’s biggest gay and lesbian bookstore. I hadn’t been by since the semester started, and I was in the mood to browse. Not to mention the fact that there were always some good-looking guys cruising the shelves. I wasn’t in the market, but I sure didn’t mind surveying the produce.

  A quick glance through the magazines convinced me I hadn’t missed much in the previous two months. No interesting fellow browsers, either. I moved on to check out the nonfiction section, with the same results.