1 Picking Lemons (16 page)

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.”

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 Coving
ton 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, pluc
ked, 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.”

Ten percent off at Macy’s
.  

“Not exciting. Every day
is sale day at Macy’s”

Shoe sale at Bergdorf
’s
.

“O
h, now that’s interesting. A pair of fall boots would lift the spirits.”

Mary Beth was planning her shopping trip to New York when she clicked open C.J.’s email. Why would C.J. send her an email about a seminar? She was
, like, totally not interested in economics. “Oh!” cried Mary Beth, to no one in particular. “C.J. knows who the murderer is!”

*****

Stephen sat at his desk. Not that it was going to be his desk for much longer. He had emailed the Dean his letter of resignation that morning. He had no intention of dragging out his time at Eaton University, like an aging football star past his prime. This way, Stephen thought, he could at least leave quickly and not suffer through the surreptitious glances, the veiled questions about his “plans,” and the humiliation of sitting through job market seminars for his job.

Stephen knew he was done with academia. One arrest, however false, would besmirch a reputation forever. No. Stephen Choi was going to turn his life upside down. Live where he wanted. Do what he wanted. In fact, do something he dreamed of doing as a child. Expectations be damned.

He googled “Fireman Training Hawaii.” His search returned “Honolulu Community College.”

“What exactly is a community
college?” wondered Stephen. Such institutions were mentioned frequently in State of the Union addresses when presidents were trying to bolster faltering education policies, but Stephen could never remember meeting anyone who attended one. He searched around the website of Honolulu Community College. Small class sizes. Specialized curriculum.

Hmmm
, thought Stephen.
It sounds rather elite. I hope I get in.
As Stephen started working up an elaborate, pre-application letter, he noticed he had new mail in his inbox.

*****

“Is it true?” Betsy asked breathlessly, as she arrived at Wallaby’s coffee shop. She had clearly been walking faster than was comfortable––her face was flushed red and her chest was heaving.

“Betsy!” exclaimed C.J. “Please, you need to take a seat.”

Betsy lowered her bulk into a seat but wasn’t to be distracted. “Is it true?” she asked again, her tone more urgent.

“Is what true?” asked C.J
., rather cruelly, as she knew exactly what Betsy was referring to.

“I just read your email. Do you know who the murderer is?”

“I do,” said C.J., enjoying the feeling of stringing out her friend. “I finally worked it out last night.”

“Well, don’t just sit there. Tell me! Who is it?”

C.J. placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I thought the email was clear. I am going to explain it to everyone at the start of Peter’s seminar at two o’clock today.”

Betsy groaned. “You are the most infuriating woman, you know that? You aren’t Hercule Poirot, waiting for the great unveiling. Just spill it.”

“Actually,” said C.J. “I do feel a bit like Hercule. Though not as stylish or foreign. But now I understand why he called everyone together and told his story so dramatically. He didn’t want to have to keep repeating himself, and neither do I. Two o’clock.”

Betsy looked
crushed. Then she asked quietly, “Is it someone we know?”

“Betsy!” reprimanded C.J. “You can’t get the information that way. But
, yes. It is someone you know.”

“I knew it!” cried Betsy excitedly. She waited for a moment.
“Is it an economist?”

“Betsy,” C.J.’s voice
held a strong tone of warning. Then, after a few seconds she said, “Yes.”

“Hah!” Betsy was triumphant. The large woman was quiet for a long time, thinking how to formulate her next question.
“Is the murderer a male?”

C.J. looked at
her friend in surprise. “Betsy, if you are trying to ask if I, the lone tenured female on staff, killed Edmund and Jefferson, the answer is no. So thus, yes, the killer is a male.”

Betsy looked sheepish. “Sorry. Just had to check.”

The pair was quiet again. C.J. was enjoying her coffee. Betsy was deep in thought.

Suddenly, Betsy looked up. “Oh my God. It’s Walter, isn’t it. Walter is the killer. I have always thought there was something off about that man. There’s just something a littl
e...odd about him. It is, isn’t it? You can tell me. It’s Walter...isn’t it?”

C.J. finished her coffee, gathered her purse and looked Betsy straight in the face. “I hope you can come to seminar at two. Because I will reveal who is responsible for the murders then.”

“But, but...what if the killer murders you in the meantime? To stop you from talking. Shouldn’t you tell someone as an insurance policy?”

C.J. smiled. “I’m from Texas. I can look after myself just fine.”

*****

For once, there were no stragglers i
nto the seminar room. On this Monday, at least, research into people’s preferences for blue cars over red cars or the optimal number of Starbuck stores in New York City had not been deemed too urgent to prevent the faculty from attending the seminar. The room was full to the point of overflowing. Most of the graduate students, including Annika and Jose, were wedged into the back of the room. The faculty from 41 and 43 Knollwood had crossed the road for the event, and the esteemed colleagues from 40 and 42 Knollwood were on time, with their laptops closed.

Walter
, having finally condescended to read his email after the morning graduate class, was pacing up and down in front of the room. That Texan…hussy. She didn’t have the right to call a faculty meeting or muscle in on a seminar. By Article Seven of the by-laws, only the Chair of the department could do that. He was going to tell her what he thought of her high-handed ways. Maybe this was a sufficient violation to get her tenure revoked.

But
, Walter thought grimly,
that was highly unlikely. Affirmative action and women’s rights and all that.

Regardless, he wasn’t going to stand for this. He, Walter, controlled this department.

Charles was sitting at the front, hearing aids turned up high. No doubt about it. This was going to be a humdinger of a show. Mildred, God bless her, was waiting at home with the G&T’s on ice, ready to hear all about it.

Stephen was skulking at the back of the room
, hidden amongst the graduate students. He didn’t get a Ph.D. for nothing. He understood that a fair number of his colleagues thought he had killed both men, even though he was out of the state when Jefferson had died. Did C.J. really know who the killer was? He sure hoped so.