1 Picking Lemons (4 page)

“Had you scheduled any maintenance work for the building that day?”

Walter shook his head and cursed inwardly. That damn ladder. What was the deal with that damn ladder?

“No,” Walter replied dryly. “There should not have been a ladder outside Edmund’s window.”

“
Isn’t that a rather strange place for a ladder?”

Walter looked blankly at the policemen in front of him. “You mean,
up against a building, serving its intended purpose of allowing people to easily ascend walls?” Walter said icily. “No, I cannot agree. I don’t think it is all that strange for a ladder to be leaning against a wall. Perhaps, instead, you want to find who was using it for its intended purpose. A gang member? A burglar? This is Elm Grove after all. Rated the fourteenth most dangerous city in America. Not a statistic that Eaton University puts in its glossy brochures.”

The police seemed nonplussed by his suggestion. Apparently
Elm Grove’s street element strongly favored guns. There wasn’t a single gang known to crime enforcement at the moment that used strangling via academic gown as their method of killing. And as for burglars, characteristically they stole things. The fact that nothing was missing from Edmund’s office strongly pointed away from Walter’s burglar theory. Walter couldn’t help but agree. You didn’t have to be Einstein to work this out. He knew the stranger theory was a long shot, but a more comforting idea than the alternative. That one of them...a Pug…

“Was there a member of your faculty
who disliked Edmund DeBeyer?”

Walter snorted with laughter at the two policemen sitting on the other side of his desk. They hadn’t worked this out already? He was lowering their IQ estimate to 60.

No. There was not “a member” of the faculty who disliked Edmund DeBeyer. However, there was “a faculty” that disliked Edmund DeBeyer. The closest thing he had to a friend was Jefferson Daniels. As he said before, they worked together.

“How much did the faculty dislike Edmund DeBeyer?”

Walter paused, trying to select an Edmund story that would make the situation clear.

“Five years ago,” began Walter, “before Jefferson joined the faculty,
Edmund ran for the position of Chair of the department unopposed. I was on sabbatical, in case you were wondering. Even without an opponent, Edmund lost. The by-laws state you have to get a vote to be appointed, and Edmund DeBeyer didn’t get a single one.”

Walter could see the policemen had many more questions, but he escorted them rather impolitely out of his office. He did not have the time or inclination to provide the answers.

Walter had been summoned to the office of the President of the University. Under any circumstances, Walter Scovill did not enjoy the company of men with more power than he. When he was on the defensive, it was intolerable.

*****

Stephen Choi spent the morning pacing back and forth in his small cupboard of an office. He was so confused. Yesterday was so confusing. He thought it would make everything better, but it had just muddled things in his brain. His friends had told him “confront your nemesis” and “face your troubles head on,” but it hadn’t worked out as he thought it would. Now he simply didn’t know what to do.

Perhaps he should leave. Disappear. But that didn’t seem right somehow. He was sure running away would be frowned upon. What if he left a letter? Explaining everything. Then he could leave with a clear conscience. Better, but still...
an apology. Multiple apologies. To everyone in the department. Stephen was beginning to feel like he had struck on a plan. That would atone for his actions. Then he could go.

*****

The President’s secretary gave Walter a pitying look. Her phone buzzed and she said “You can go in now, Professor Scovill.” Her look said, “You poor, poor thing.”

Walter squared his shoulders. He had nothing to apologize for. A colleague had unfortunately been killed. It was a tragedy. He could talk to the President about it, man to man.

Walter opened the heavy oak door of the President’s office and saw not one man, but three. Sitting in the office was the President, the Provost and the Dean of Arts and Sciences.

“Walt! Take a seat!” boomed the President.

Walter sat on the edge of a leather armchair. He hated being called Walt. Especially by someone he knew about as well as an airline ticketing agent on the phone in Bangalore. He grimaced at the President, trying to exude the required air of collegiality that he was incapable of feeling. To be fair, none of the other men in the room were invested in collaboration or team-building either, but they had perfected the art of faking it, hence their rise to prominent administrative positions within the college.

This meeting had been called for one reason and one reason only. The death of Edmund DeBeyer had upset the administrative equilibrium at
Eaton University, and all three men waiting for Walter were determined to ensure it was set right. The questions and instructions began to ricochet around the room.

The Dean wanted to know Walter’s plan for having someone teach Edmund’s class for the rest of semester. “And what form of counseling are you offering the faculty and students
, Walter? It is so important to be seen as caring, even if the therapy is crap. Get therapy dogs in for all I care. They look great on camera and everyone loves a dog-healing story.”

The Provost was concerned about the impact on student recruitment and the faculty hiring they had planned in January. “What are your plans to overcome these issues
, Walter? We need to get in a replacement for Edmund ASAP. Someone equally as notable and likely to win the Nobel. Harvard is ahead in the count, you know.”

The President didn’t want there to be any negative impact on fundraising, or stu
dents being withdrawn by overly-concerned parents. “Now, Walt, how are we going to ensure this little incident that you have let happen doesn’t affect the bottom line for the university? Think of the endowment, son. Harvard’s still up on us by $10 billion, and, by God, I plan to overtake them during my reign.”

Walter smiled, nodded, and murmured such phrases as “I’ll work up a plan” and “I’ll send you a memo” and “I’m so glad you asked.” All the time thinking “How can it be that you
get paid five times more than I do?”

*****

Mary Beth went down to New York after the police allowed her to leave the office the previous night to have a special “mourning mani” done on her nails. Gone was the cheerful red of autumn. Now she was displaying a jet black, with Professor DeBeyer’s initials (P.D.) in electric pink on each nail surrounded by a heart of white tears.

Paired with her out
fit of black, knee high, shiny, vinyl boots and a Ross Dress for Less, Imitation-Designer, black mini, Mary Beth felt that today was the day that her efforts would comfort Professor Daniels into a marriage proposal.

True to form, Jefferson stopped by just before eleven, protein shake in hand, on his way to coffee time in the faculty lounge. While Jefferson
Daniels made nice with his colleagues (and their influence in getting grant money) during coffee time, caffeine never polluted his body. The rest of the faculty was happy to wash down Dunkin’ Donuts with Mary Beth’s finest brew. But Jefferson only drank protein shakes, herbal teas or wheatgrass smoothies.

“Oh, Professor,” Mary Beth gushed, “I am so, so, so sorry. Such a dear friend. Such a great man.”

Jefferson bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Thanks
, Mary Beth,” he said somberly.

“And it’s not like he just died, natural like. He was murdered. And we don’t know by who. Maybe, like, one of us. It’s so creepy.”

Jefferson looked pained, but it wasn’t clear if that was from grief or Mary Beth. He patted her hand. “I’m sure it was just an Elm Grove gang thug. No one we knew or that will bother us again.”

“The police don’t seem to think so. I guess Edmund wasn’t really a gang type. Though he could be kinda mean sometimes.”

Jefferson, not his usual flirty self, was moving away from Mary Beth’s desk.

“Were you questioned by the police?” asked Mary Beth, desperate to keep Jefferson a few minutes longer. “I was.
They were, like, so interested. I told them that I took my lunch at noon, as usual. I walked down to Bruegger's Bagels and took the latest Stephanie Plum novel with me. I just love those books. Maybe I should be a bounty hunter. What do you think?”

Jefferson looked like he thought he had spent too much time listening to Mary Beth.

Unaware that reliving the events of yesterday was not the best way to console the man, Mary Beth continued recounting her tales with the police. “I told them that, just as I was finishing lunch, I saw Stephen walking towards downtown. I was sitting in Bruegger's at, like just before one. He looked so darn secretive I reckon he has a paid ‘lunch date’ at the Motel 6. I mean, the man has been here six years, and we’ve never seen a girlfriend. It’s unnatural to go that long without some nooky.”

Jefferson interrupted the girl, suddenly interested.
“What did you say about Stephen?”

“I saw him yesterday, going downtown, at about one o‘clock.”

“And you told this to the police?”

“Of course. Why?”

“No reason,” said Jefferson, thinking back to Stephen telling everyone he was in his office yesterday at one. “Please. Carry on.” He smiled an encouraging smile at Mary Beth.

Giggling, Mary Beth continued.
“Well, then I went back to my desk, as my lunch ends at one, you know. I can see, like, so much from my desk, as the window looks out onto the street, and I can see out the door too. I don’t think people realize. I saw C.J. sitting outside in a lawn chair from, like, noon, when I left for lunch, until two. I mean, I didn’t see her the whole time, because I was off eating lunch for some of it. But she kept getting up and writing down stuff that was on the parking meters and sitting back down. Totally weird. Is that, like, really research?”

Jefferson made consoling mutterings. Yes, some research was outrageous. And
clearly useless. No, he had no idea why it was funded either.

“O
f course, I told them that I saw you,” said Mary Beth.

Jefferson looked up. “Sorry?”

“Going out for your run, silly. Just before I left for lunch. And I did mention that you were getting much faster, because normally it takes you like two hours to run the two loops around campus you do, but yesterday, you got back by, like, one-ten. So I said to the nice policemen, ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Professor Daniels is wonderful at everything he does. I bet he is going to become an Olympic marathon runner as well.’”

Jefferson looked confused
and then caught sight of the watch on Mary Beth’s wrist.

Analog.

He flashed his best smile and asked, “Mary Beth, sweetie, does the big hand point here at 1:10?” as he pointed to the ten on her watch face.

Mary Beth scrunched up her face. “Umm. I think that’s right. Yeah. Did I do something wrong? Numbers are so darn confusing.”

Jefferson patted her on the hand again. “No, not at all. But I’ll let the police know that I’m not trying out for the Olympic squad any time soon.”

*****

By one that afternoon, Walter was back at his desk, looking across at Charles Covington III. After all of this was over, Walter would appeal to the Dean for a pay increase. An extra fifty thousand dollars a year was insufficient to deal with all the hassles of being Chair. Walter knew that Charles had not turned up his hearing aids, and he was not going to spend the next forty minutes yelling at the man.

Silently, Walter got out a piece of paper and wrote in large letters “TURN ON YOUR HEARING AIDS. WE NEED TO TALK.” He slid the paper across the desk and waited.

Charles read the message, scowled, and finally relented.

“Good,” said Walter. “Conversations are so much easier when both sides can hear.”

“I’m not retiring,” Charles retorted truculently.

“Fine. You teach economic history. It’s a meaningless subject
that no one cares about. If you want to teach it, that saves me the hassle of hiring someone new. That’s not why I asked you here today.”

Charles’s scowl deepened.

“Charles. I need to know about the ladder,” Walter said simply.

“What about it? It’s my ladder. It’s not hurting you.”

“Did you bring it to work yesterday?”

“Sure did. I
f you did your job properly, I wouldn’t’ve had to.”

“What did you do with it?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“It was leaning against the window of a murdered man
’s office. The man was murdered in
my
department. Now, unfortunately, because of that small detail,
your
ladder is
my
problem.”

Charles harrumphed into his mustache.
“Well, since you put it like that, I was cleaning out the leaves in the gutters. They were terribly over-full. Could’a damaged the gutters or the drains or worse still, the roof.”

Walter stared at Charles. Leaves? There was a ladder up against the window of a murdered man
’s office because of leaves? There was no point in arguing that leaves in the gutters were the job for the maintenance men. “When were you on the roof?”