Sounds of Murder (10 page)

For almost an instant, Pamela forgot the CD
in her purse--the disk with seconds, maybe even minutes of sound
that had been recorded at the computer desk where Charlotte had
been murdered at a time when the murder probably took place. Pamela
was anxious to listen to the CD, but she knew that this would be
something she’d have to do in private.

She turned the corner toward the main office.
Charlotte's office door was closed and the yellow crime scene tape
barred all entrance. The main hallway looked reasonably normal once
again. The dim lighting in the hallway was interspersed with the
warm glow from large hanging lantern chandeliers and matching wall
sconces. The sounds of student voices rang from a side hall. As she
passed the door to Laura Delmondo's office, she could see Laura
sitting at her desk, her head in her hands. The young professor
appeared frozen in this position except for some slight heaves from
her thin shoulders. Pamela thought how much she wanted to leave
work and get home to listen to the CD in her purse, but the sight
of a fellow teacher sitting there so forlornly, touched her heart,
so she stopped at the doorway and knocked gently.

"Laura," she said softly.

The young woman raised her head and blinked.
"Oh, Pamela," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand,
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be sitting here like this. Students could
come in at any moment; it's just that..." She heaved a huge sigh,
clutching the side of her head again. Pamela quietly entered the
office and shut the door.

"It's okay," she said, sitting on a chair
opposite Laura's desk. "This has hit all of us. You’re allowed to
be upset."

"I know," Laura replied, "I feel so terrible.
Charlotte and I had a big fight yesterday. It was the last
conversation between us and now she's...she's dead. The last thing
I said to her was so hateful." This was news, thought Pamela. More
than just Mitchell had had a fight with Charlotte yesterday.

"Now, Laura," said Pamela, soothingly,
placing her hand on Laura's arm from across the desk, "you and
Charlotte were close. I'm sure she knew that you cared for her."
Laura’s desktop featured a color photograph of Laura and her
husband in their wedding attire.

"She knew," said Laura, biting her lower lip,
her long golden hair falling around her shoulders in dishevelment.
"She knew how much I appreciated her and everything she’d done for
me. I mean, I wouldn't be here without Charlotte; she was my
mentor. If it hadn’t been for her, I never would have considered an
academic career or gone on for my doctorate. She was instrumental
in my getting the position here at Grace University too. I just
can't believe she's gone." Another bout of tears welled up and
Laura reached for a handful of tissues from a box on her desk.

"Charlotte cared about you, Laura," said
Pamela. "She showed that by her actions. She was just a
very—argumentative—person, and yesterday you were on the receiving
end. It didn't mean she didn't realize your concern for her."

"I did. I did," stammered the younger woman.
"She was concerned, but just about my job--always about the job,
and my research, and getting published. Pamela, you're a
woman--you're married with a child. You know there’s more to life
than just your job."

"Absolutely, I do," said Pamela, smiling.

"But Charlotte didn't," insisted Laura. "She
was all about work. I guess it was because she didn't have a
family. She turned me into her family--sort of like her daughter. I
thought at first that might be nice because I'm estranged from my
own mother and I’d like to have an ‘adopted mother,’ but Charlotte
didn't want me like most mothers would want a daughter. She wanted
me as her protégé--and for that I had to produce. Research! Papers!
Whatever I published, it was never enough for Charlotte; she was
always demanding more."

"She was hard on you just as she was hard on
herself," agreed Pamela. "Without a doubt, she was the most
prolific researcher I’ve ever known. And those grants! How could
one person produce so much grant money single-handed, I’ll never
know."

"Me neither," said Laura, "And she expected
everyone to be just like her. But, Pamela, no one can do that and
have a life. I have a husband and we—we’ve been wanting to start a
family. We haven't been successful and we were just starting to try
in vitro
fertilization."

"I see," nodded Pamela.

"It's very expensive," she confided, "And
it's very time-consuming. I simply haven't had any time for working
on my research or even for regular classes. I’ve missed some of my
office hours because of all these doctor appointments lately. And
Charlotte was harassing me about it to make matters worse. She told
me the
in vitro
was all a waste of time and that I needed to
forget about being a baby machine."

"Being a baby machine?" asked Pamela
delicately.

"Yes," replied Laura, sighing, “Those were
her exact words.”

Pamela patted Laura's arm again. "It sounds
like the insensitive thing Charlotte would say. I feel such
sympathy for you."

"Thank you, Pamela," Laura said, smiling
demurely. "It really helps to be able to discuss this. I don't have
anyone to talk to now that Charlotte is...."

"Listen to me, Laura," Pamela added firmly,
"You’re better off confiding your personal problems, if you feel
the need to do so, to someone—anyone--who’ll be more empathetic
than Charlotte ever could be."

"Yes, I see that," said Laura, wiping a final
tear aside and smiling a much broader grin now.

"Will you be okay?" asked Pamela.

"Yes, thank you," added Laura, "thank you for
stopping to talk to me. I really appreciate it." Pamela squeezed
Laura's hands with hers, smiling back and then rose to go. She
turned at the door.

"Good luck with the
in vitro
," she
whispered. "I have tremendous faith in modern science." Then she
was off down the hall. She’d forgotten, for the brief duration of
her conversation with Laura Delmondo, her original goal. Now, she
was doubly motivated to get home.

She pushed through a crowd of students and
turned into the main office, quickly grabbing her mail from her
slot, and then glanced around the corner into Jane Marie's smaller
office. Jane Marie was typing furiously, a ray of sunlight from an
outside window piercing through orange and black crepe paper
bunting and striking her hair.

"Is he in?" she whispered to Jane Marie,
pointing at the Department Head's door.

"Dr. Bentley’s in there now," answered Jane
Marie, looking up. "She's been in there for at least 20 minutes.
He's been looking for you."

"Oh, no," Pamela scowled, "since when?"

"Just a bit ago," she assured Pamela. "He
spent most of the morning with that Shoop, and then with the Dean
trying to deal with the fall-out from Charlotte’s murder, and then
this afternoon that woman reporter from local KRDN was here
interviewing him and ....”

"He didn't tell her that I was the one who
discovered the body, did he?" Pamela asked.

"I don't think so," she said. "I really think
they’re trying to keep this low key and keep your name and the name
of the grad assistant...."

"Kent."

"Yes, Kent. Keep both of your names out of
it. But, Dr. Barnes, I wouldn't count on that working. That
reporter’s a barracuda. She was trying to finagle information from
me."

"And?"

"And, of course, she didn't get any,"
announced Jane Marie, smiling coyly, faking polishing her nails on
her chest.

"Thanks."

"No problem," said Jane Marie.

Just then, the door to the Department Head's
office opened and Mitchell Marks and Joan Bentley entered the small
ante-chamber.

"Pamela!" called out Marks, spying her.
"Good, you're here. Can you come in for a moment?"

"I was--," she stammered, desperately hoping
to be on her way.

"Don't worry, my dear," tossed out Joan,
"He's under duress but he won't bite you. I promise." She stepped
lively out of the office and on her way.

"For a moment, then," said Pamela, looking
back at Joan, disappearing around the corner, and at Jane Marie,
who smiled sheepishly and sorrowfully at the same time.

Mitchell held open the door to his office and
escorted Pamela into the vast space, decorated in antique guns,
hunting trophies and awards from Mitchell's many years of
publishing articles and books in psychology. Her Department Head
was tall, medium built, and could, in some circles, be considered
attractive, with his wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, and delicate
features. A former faculty member had once compared him to the
Ashley Wilkes character in “Gone With the Wind.” Unfortunately,
thought Pamela, Wilkes was ineffectual—as Mitchell often was—at
least in his inability to stand up to Charlotte. Pamela found
Mitchell’s type too effete and far preferred a more macho man—like
her Rocky.

"My God," Mitchell sighed, leaning back in
his comfortable desk chair. Pamela seated herself on one of the
three or four chairs situated in front of his desk. "What a
disaster! And here I haven't even had a second to talk to you. I
wish you’d called me last night." Mitchell always spoke in a deep
whispered monotone. No wonder he had trouble leading the
department.

"Mitchell," she started to apologize, "The
detectives were interrogating me so long, I didn't have a free
second. When I finally got home it was so late and...."

"Stop! Stop!" he said, holding up his hand,
"It's not a criticism. I can only imagine how terrible the whole
thing was for you. I just wish I’d been here to help you. That's
what I meant. No one should have to go through such an ordeal
alone." Mitchell leaned way back in his leather desk chair and
formed a tent of his fingers. He rocked his chair slowly back and
forth as he looked at her with cloudy blue eyes that hid—what? Did
he know more than he had revealed about the murder?

"Thank you, Mitchell," she said. "Actually,
it's over now. The sooner things get back to normal, the
better."

"It’s certainly not over," he said,
harrumphing and crossing his legs, "The cops will be on this until
they find who did it. The press will be plastered all over everyone
in the department. Listen, I tried to keep your name out of it and
so did the Dean. But I can't guarantee that some clever reporter
won't tumble to the fact that you were the one who discovered the
body. You’re news, Pamela, and reporters will want to talk to you.
I've already spoken to Kent and told him in no uncertain terms not
to discuss this with anyone except the police if he values his
assistantship."

"Mitchell, I don't think we can require that
of him," she said, quizzically. "I mean, if he wishes to talk to
the press, he’s a free agent."

"You're probably right," he sighed, "but I
tried. I just hope the police find the culprit sooner rather than
later and we can go about our business."

She relaxed noticeably. Mitchell certainly
didn’t seem to be acting guilty. If he was the one who had murdered
Charlotte, he didn’t act like it. Or he could just be a good actor.
Mitchell had never seen particularly hypocritical to her; he was,
in fact, usually very straightforward.

"Do they have any suspects?" she asked,
carefully. "I mean, Jane Marie said you’d spoken to the police this
afternoon."

"Right," he said, "That big, tall fellow.
With the eyebrows. Shoop. Didn't get the feeling that they had any
clues, but maybe that's just their way."

Now that she was here, talking to her boss,
she figured she might as well test the waters. "It doesn't seem it
was a thief or anyone from the outside, I understand,” she
ventured. “They seem to think it was someone--local."

"Local." He smirked, his eyelids suddenly
lifting, shoulders becoming concave. "You mean someone in the
department."

"Yes," she agreed, keeping her eyes firmly
glued to his.

"Ten faculty members, fifteen graduate
students, one secretary, and a few custodians," he said, in a
calculated manner. "A fairly small pool."

"Yes," she answered. "But surely not everyone
in the pool would have a motive."

"Hmmph," snorted Mitchell, leaning back in
his chair again and gnawing a pencil. "Motive to kill the most
obnoxious, overbearing, self-centered person I’ve ever known.” He
removed the pencil and twirled it between his fingers. “Seems to me
like the entire pool would have a motive." He clenched his teeth,
and suddenly broke the pencil in half. “Well, I hope you’re ready
for a damn interesting faculty meeting tomorrow!”

Chapter 10

She couldn't get his words out of her mind.
Mitchell's words. He’d said that every one in the department had a
motive to murder Charlotte. That was extreme, she knew, but the
ramifications of her department head thinking such a thing were
staggering. If the police didn't find the killer soon, the
investigation would expand, and all of them would be implicated.
She couldn't help but be worried. Mitchell had been in the building
before the murder and he’d argued with Charlotte. Phineas was also
in the building. Laura had fought with Charlotte recently. How many
other colleagues could feasibly be listed as possible suspects? Of
course, she and Kent were probably considered suspects, she
realized, because we were the ones who’d found Charlotte’s
body.

Pamela thought of the CD she’d made and that
was still tucked safely in her purse, even now, on Wednesday
evening, as she lounged in her favorite chair in her bedroom,
reading student papers and listening to soothing music on cable
television. Although she was incredibly anxious to listen to the
CD, she knew she didn't dare open it now. Rocky and Angela were in
other rooms. She’d have to use the family computer in the study
and, even though they probably would ignore her, she couldn't be
sure that one or both of them wouldn't ask what she was working on.
She just didn't feel she could comfortably lie her way out of that
situation.