1 Picking Lemons (14 page)

“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.”

“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 interrupting 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.