Sounds of Murder (21 page)

"I was laying low," she protested, "I was
having drinks with my friends."

"That's not what he meant," he scolded her,
"He was talking about making that damn disk." He rubbed harder on
her foot.

"Hey!" she shrieked, "If you're annoyed with
me, don't take it out on my toes."

"Sorry, Babe," he apologized. "I only want to
help you—really."

"I know, honest," she said, feeling a cold
shiver move from her spine through the water. "I don't know if what
I'm doing is right or wrong--foolish or smart. I really don't
know."

"Then, just don't do anything," he urged,
"Let the police do their job. It's their job to investigate
murders--not yours."

"But, Rocky," she cried, "I found her.
Charlotte was a colleague. No, I wasn't crazy about her--but I
found her body. I feel I owe it to her to do what I can to find her
killer. And, don't you see? The main clue--if there is a clue in
all of this--is sound. Sound. That's my specialty. If anybody in
all this mess should be able to figure out the sounds on that
recording--it should be me. It's as if fate is telling me to plunge
ahead, saying 'You found her body. Now, you find her killer.'"

"You're a crazy woman," said Rocky, shaking
his head, "but you're my crazy woman." He gently put down the foot
he’d been massaging and reached over and lifted her other foot, and
began his ministrations on that appendage. She let him rub her foot
and enjoyed anew the tingling sensations on this part of her body.
She began to relax again, the bubbly water calming her.

"So, what did Shoop say when you told him
about the driver who followed me from the restaurant?" she
asked.

"He said there wasn't much they could do."
Rocky seemed deflated. "But he did say they’d send a patrol car to
drive by our house and check to make certain no one was bothering
us."

"That was nice," she answered.

"Yeah," he grumbled, "nice. A murderer
follows you home and you say nice."

"Rocky," she repeated, "It was probably just
some drunken teenager. It’s Friday night, for heaven’s sake."

"Anyway," he announced, "you have the entire
weekend to relax and take it easy. No thinking about murder."

“Not the entire weekend,” she noted, “I have
to go to Charlotte’s memorial service on Sunday afternoon.”

“You’ll be getting an escort for that,” he
said, with a pointed glare, “Me.”

“That will be lovely, dear,” she smiled back
at him. “You won't mind then," she asked, tentatively, "if I listen
to the disk, will you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No," she said sweetly, rubbing her free foot
against the inside of his knee.

"Not fair," he said.

"Anyway," she continued, "I really need to be
able to discuss what I hear with you. There is obviously
Charlotte's choking. But there are a lot of other odd
noises--bumps, scratches, clicks, scrapes. If I could identify some
of the noises, maybe I could figure out something about the
killer."

"How?" he asked.

"I don’t know," she responded. "Maybe one or
more of the noises might be connected to someone or something. I
just have no idea."

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded, expecting the next
remark, "you're a scientist. You have to follow the data."

"Right!"

"I do have some other tidbits for you to
savor," she teased.

"As a cook," he noted warmly, "I’m all for
savoring."

She told him about the big fight and the
mysterious photo and then added, “Oh, and that's not all. There's
the Tenure Committee. We have three candidates up for tenure this
year--but, the Dean apparently wants to restrict our department to
two."

"That hardly seems fair," he mused.

"I know," she added, the bubbles dripping off
her shoulders. "Mitchell was pushing, I think, for Rex and Phineas.
Charlotte was probably behind Laura because she was her
protégé."

"Maybe," he suggested, "that was the subject
of the big fight."

"Could be," she noted, "but I can't believe
Mitchell would kill Charlotte because they disagreed over who
should get tenure."

"Stranger things have happened," he said,
looking momentarily past her.

“And Shoop told me that they found out that
Charlotte was reading a dissertation on addiction by some guy named
Culver on the computer screen when she was murdered.”

“Is that important?”

“I don’t know—it could be, but I can’t figure
it out,” she said biting her lip. "I forgot," she said, gleefully,
on her knees now, "I forgot this in all the craziness. On the night
of the murder, Phineas even stopped me in the hallway and asked
about the possibility of a candidate removing his name from
consideration for tenure."

"Why?"

"I’ve no idea," she frowned, sliding back
down into the water. "I wish I could figure this all out. And I
wish I could figure out what was on that disk." She tapped her
fingers on the edge of the tub.

"You’d better do whatever you’re going to do
out of the tub," said Rocky, standing and walking over to the door,
"or you'll be a prune in the morning." He grabbed her night clothes
from a hook behind the door and placed them on the sink. Then he
pulled a large terrycloth towel from a rack on the wall. "Here," he
said, opening the towel, and holding it out for her.

She shimmied off the wayward bubbles and
stepped out of the tub, shaking first one leg, then another. She
turned her back and allowed Rocky to wrap her gently in the warm
folds of the towel. Then he grabbed her night clothes from the back
of the door.

"Everything you need," he said, "nightgown,
slippers, robe."

"No," she replied, slowly turning towards him
and dropping the towel. "I don't need any of those things." She
smiled warmly at her husband and held out her arms.

Chapter 20

Sunday afternoon proved perfect for
Charlotte’s memorial service. The weather was clear and brisk. The
venue was lovely, thought Pamela. The campus chapel was a large red
brick edifice with towering white columns and white steps leading
up to its imposing entrance. Oak trees branches hung heavy over the
entire building, their multi-colored leaves turning the entire
scene into a riot of fall shades.

Pamela had arrived early with Rocky at her
elbow. Amazingly, Angie had decided to attend also, when she
realized that her chauffeur of the previous day, Kent, would
probably be in attendance. As the trio entered the lobby of the
church, Pamela was surprised by the large turnout. Mitchell was
near the door, acting as “official” greeter. The Dean and other
members of the administration milled around, speaking with faculty
and potential donors. Pamela spied Detective Shoop tucked in a
corner, dressed in his standard shabby grey suit. If Shoop was
here, she speculated, quite likely other police officers were
stationed around the chapel discreetly listening to conversations
of potential suspects.

Rocky was soon deep in conversation with a
colleague from the English Department. Angie found Kent leaning
against one of the tall white pillars, and the two of them were
quickly embroiled in animated talk. Kent appeared a bit more
dressed up than usual, having donned a purple jacket. Angie had
even gone so far as to put on a dress and flats. Both of them,
however, were still arrayed primarily in their standard black.
Pamela noted that they would always be ready for a funeral—at least
as far as their clothing was concerned.

Over her shoulder, Pamela glanced down at the
other end of the lobby where she could see Joan and Arliss talking
to Bob and Willard. True to his word, Willard was wearing his all
black outfit. Joan was bedecked in a subdued flowery suit and
Arliss had on a nice pair of gabardine trousers and a simple white
silk blouse. She had foregone her standard sneakers for a simple
pair of low dark heels. Pamela was unexpectedly surprised; Arliss
almost looked feminine. Bob was wearing a nice dark suit with a
rich magenta sweater vest. All of her colleagues looked quite
presentable, she thought. Too bad it took Charlotte Clark dying to
do it. As she strolled over to them, smiling at people along the
way, she listened to snippets of conversations from different
groups.

She heard two of her graduate students
discussing readings that were assigned for one of their
classes.

“I just finished it,” said one, “I didn’t
have time to decide whether I liked it or not.”

“It didn’t take me any time to decide,” said
the other, “It stank!” They guffawed quietly. Typical of students,
always complaining, she thought, about assignments, whether
undergraduate or graduate.

“Greetings,” she said to her four colleagues,
Joan, Arliss, Bob, and Willard, when she reached them. “Arliss, why
are you looking so glum?” Arliss did look morose, even annoyed.
Maybe it was because she was dressed up—especially wearing heels.
She kept shifting from foot to foot as if her shoes were too tight.
She looked miserably uncomfortable.

“I’d rather be anywhere other than here,”
declared Arliss, “Charlotte was not one of my dearest friends.” She
scowled and kicked her foot.

“Now, dear,” said Joan, patting Arliss’ back
in a comforting manner, “It’s only for a brief while and then we
can be on our way—and free of Charlotte for good!” Pamela always
loved how Joan managed to find something pleasant in the most
unpleasant of situations.

“Absolutely,” added Willard, “why don’t we
all go to the Reardon Coffee Factory afterwards?”

“Great idea,” chimed in Bob, “I’m game.”

“It sounds lovely,” said Pamela, “but I have
a husband and daughter in tow.”

“You brought your burly sergeant-major with
you?” questioned Joan, obviously delighted. “Where is he?” She
looked around the gathering.

“Off analyzing books with one of his cohorts
I suppose,” Pamela replied.

“Actually,” added Bob, “despite the gravity
of the occasion, I’m surprised to see so many faculty here from
around campus. It’s nice to know that our department has this kind
of support.”

“Even if it is for Charlotte,” snickered
Arliss.

“Arliss,” said Bob, giving his young
assistant an eye roll and an elbow nudge.

“Enough of you, Miss Sourpuss,” said Joan to
Arliss, tsk-tsking. “Why don’t we go get some good seats?”

“Good seats,” replied Arliss. “Joan, you
sound like we’re going to the movies—not a funeral.”

“Wherever I’m going, I want to be able to see
what’s going on. Come on, everyone!” She pulled Arliss’ arm and the
two women trudged through the entry to the chapel, followed by
Willard. Bob remained behind.

“Pamela,” he said, “could I have a quick word
with you about the upcoming Tenure Committee meeting? I understand
that Mitchell has appointed Joan to replace Charlotte.”

“Yes,” answered Pamela, “he has. What did you
want to discuss?”

“You may also have heard that the Dean is
pressuring us to select two—not three candidates.”

“I had heard that, Bob.” From almost
everyone.

“I think this cutback in candidates is just
the start of some nasty news to come. Look at it this way, the
Administration believes--rightly or wrongly--that our department
has had more than its fair share of funding lately, and I think
they’ll try to cut our budget wherever they can. If the
Administration gave tenure to all of our candidates—Rex, Phin, and
Laura—that would mean that all eligible faculty in our department
would have tenure. No other department on campus could say that. If
the Administration approved tenure for all three of our candidates,
there would be an outcry from other departments who had faculty
with terminal degrees who don’t have tenure and who’ve been turned
down for tenure more than once.”

“You really think so?” She had never
considered tenure from this perspective.

“Yes. Of course, I’m hoping that Mitchell
will fight for our candidates, but I have to be honest, Pam, I
think he’s more likely to be considering what the situation means
for him. He has tenure and it really doesn't make any difference to
him if one of our three candidates is denied."

“Bob," said Pamela, "It never crossed my mind
that we’d be forced to decide tenure for our candidates based on
anything other than their own individual merit."

"I know," he said. "It makes the University
seem just like a business--way too cut-throat for me. It's just
another indication of the administration’s priorities--certainly
not education--or I wouldn't be having the hell of a time I am
trying to get even a little funding to keep the animal lab afloat,
as you know."

"I know, Bob. I'm so sorry about that and
about the way Charlotte treated the animal lab," she sighed. "She
was horrible to you.”

When she said these words, Pamela was
immediately struck with a memory of a recent faculty meeting where
Charlotte had verbally attacked Bob in one of her tirades against
the animal lab. It had started when Mitchell had informed them that
the increased funding they all had expected from the Dean would not
be forthcoming:

"No!" Bob had yelled, jumping up, slamming
his hands on the table. "Mitchell, you promised you’d fight for us
with the Dean. You told me that he knew how serious the situation
was in the animal lab and how desperately under-funded we were. I
was under the impression that the animal lab was the Dean's highest
priority!"

"I know your concerns Bob, and truly, I did
plead your case with the Dean, but I'm afraid," Mitchell had
replied, trying to avoid looking directly at Goodman, "that the
Dean believes—and these are his words, not mine--that the animal
lab is more eyesore than necessity. There’s simply no way around
it, Bob. I’m afraid he’s not going to be providing us with
additional funds for the animal lab—or any other departmental
project--this year. I'm really sorry, Bob."