Josie Tucker Mysteries Box Set 2

by E M Kaplan

  “Well, yeah, but that’s not the same thing. You weren’t there when I got back.”

  And it was different, of course. He’d left for work, possibly to save someone’s life, while she…

  Well, she was on a job, too. And theoretically, she might be saving someone as well. One annoying, turquoise-eyed, morally ambiguous professor. But still, she was preventing violence and harm… while living in a freshman dorm.

  Why did she feel like the world’s biggest idiot sitting on her brand new designer bedspread?

  “We need to finish our conversation,” he said. The tightness in his voice came across the phone line plain and clear. “Face to face would be best. I can never tell what you’re thinking even when I’m in the same room as you. It’ll be worse over the phone or, God forbid, text.”

  “We seem to reserve texting for important things, like food,” she said in agreement. “But there’s a slight problem. Greta brought me here, so I don’t have a car.”

  Josie owned a ‘75 Lincoln Continental, which was long and olive green. She called her car the Green Giant even though it coughed noxious fumes and was impossible to park—not from lack of skill on her part, but because the car was enormous. Right now, the Green Giant sat in her assigned parking spot at her apartment like a corpulent, split-pea-colored Jabba the Hutt.

  Not that she would ever say it within listening range of the car. The Lincoln was a hand-me-down from her Uncle Jack in Arizona and it had gotten her through college. The first time—college, the first time.

  “I have a day off on Thursday,” he said, which meant she’d have to stew about it for three more days. It, meaning The Kiss. That brazen Lisa doctor-woman plastering her lips all over Josie’s man.

  “Okay,” she said. “Three days. I can handle that.” Could she? If she kept herself busy and stopped obsessing about the details. What were Lisa First’s lips like? Thin and dry, Josie imagined. Was the lady doctor a Chapstick fiend? Did she have bad breath? A snaggletooth? Josie hoped so, with a vicious, jealous heat that burned hotter than the sun.

  “Do you want to video chat?”

  She paused and considered the phone in her hand. She was so not good with figuring out the little icons and apps.

  He chuckled. “By your silence, I can tell you’re panicking about your phone. What about your computer?” As if a bigger screen would make things easier for her. “Surely you can get one of those kindergarteners on your dorm floor to help you figure it out?”

  She groaned, recalling her ancient laptop was still at their apartment. “I don’t even have my lap—” Her gaze drifted across the room to the sturdy but scarred desk on top of which sat a black zippered computer backpack. Which looked brand new. “Huh. I guess I do have a laptop. How about tomorrow?”

  She and Drew determined a good time to video chat the next day, presumably while she was between classes, if she remembered her schedule correctly. If not, well…who cared? And wasn’t that an extremely liberating thought?

  Not long after they ended their conversation, Josie sat at her student desk, starting up the laptop that Greta had loaned her. While the computer started up—which, incidentally, was lightyears faster than her old, cranky machine back in her apartment—she ran her finger over the scratches of graffiti on the desktop. Some kind of drawing of a plant…

  She tipped her head to the side. Or a… She tipped her head the other way. Oh. Well, the penis certainly was an age-old standby in terms of doodle subject matter. Probably even Cro-Magnon men had painted phallic symbols in their caves. No need to break with tradition.

  She leaned half off her chair to grab the stack of stalker letters from the night table—the room was cramped enough that even she, vertically challenged and with a short wing-span, could reach across the entire room.

  The outsides of the envelopes all said the same thing, just “Professor Sanborn” in block letters in tight, cramped handwriting that didn’t hint as to its writer’s gender. A lot of females Josie’s age and younger had bubbly, rounded penmanship that made her cringe. Her boss, Julieanne, wrote as if she might dissolve into dotting her letter I’s with hearts at any given time, which was disconcerting when she was the same woman who signed Josie’s paychecks.

  But handwriting didn’t always reveal the character of the person who wrote it. Or did it?

  As Josie slipped the first stalker note out of its envelope, she noticed it was the same handwriting. Which she found odd. Not that she’d been expecting cut-out letters haphazardly glued to the paper, but seriously, who in this day and age hand-wrote their harassment? She rubbed her forehead in thought. Were digital footprints now easier to trace than individual handwriting? With printers, distinctive paper flaws, identifiable ink, and computer login records, maybe so.

  She smoothed out the paper, which said:

  Dear Professor Sanborn,

  I really admire you. I just wanted to say this anonymously without signing my name because I’m embarassed to tell you. Also I wouldn’t want you to think I want a better grade. And its not just because I think your handsome, which you are, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? Anyway, I think your smart, honest, and a good role model for anyone.

  From,

  An Admirer

  Josie read the note again. On the whole, it was non-threatening. Kind of cute, honestly, on a crush-level, if taken on its own. No silly hearts for the dotting the I’s. A couple of grammatical errors, but nothing out of the ordinary for a kid. An older student, however, who didn’t know a “your” from a “you’re” needed to cut that crap out. Mistakes like that weren’t going to fly in a senior thesis. Plus, there was a clue—the writer seemed to be one of Professor Sanborn’s current students—an excellent development. Josie would pick up the class lists as soon as possible.

  Okay, so this letter didn’t scream for further investigation into the matter. She spread out the five letters. They would have to escalate in their threatening nature quickly, otherwise Josie wouldn’t have been brought on campus.

  She glanced at a super, deluxe-looking alarm clock—way too many buttons and dials and…was that a phone charging dock on it? Really, she was going to have a talk with Greta—all this stuff was way overboard for a week-long stay in the dorm. Ten days, tops.

  She looked around more thoroughly now, taking in the canvas-mounted paintings in muted tones. Big box store specials or originals? Josie didn’t want to look too closely because, egad. The woman wouldn’t know a clearance sale bargain if it fell into her personal assistant’s shopping cart…

  Even though it was only 3:30, Josie’s growling stomach told her it was time to eat—she’d only picked over the nasty, cheese-filled lunch with Greta and the dean. Josie was supposed to be avoiding dairy products due to her chronic digestive problems, a dietary restriction her boyfriend-slash-doctor watchdogged. It was very hush hush—a dairy intolerance could pretty much destroy her life as a food blogger if word got out. Though she had her share of fans on the blog, she also had a decent amount of haters, Internet trolls who delighted in correcting her at every turn. Even when she was positive she was correct, they never failed to point out her failings and announce them publicly or send her scathing private messages.

  Ignoring her stomach, though she’d located her meal card, which was attached to a heavy brass keychain (also compliments of Greta), Josie read the next anonymous letter.

  Dear Joshua,

  I hope you don’t mind we’re on a first-name basis now. I love your name so much. Its so intelligent. I can imagine you calling me by my first name too, although I’m not ready to reveal that yet. Soon, though.

  Honestly, I just learned that you are getting a divorce from your wife. This is upsetting. But only because I didn’t realize you were married. But I’m glad that problem is getting fixed. I’m not an adulterer. I think that’s vile and disgusting.

  So anyway, Joshua, I hope you’re having a wonderful day. Think of me (even though you don’t know who I am). (Yet.)

  Fro
m your admirer

  Definitely higher on the creepy scale, this message reeked of value judgments—the writer had called things “intelligent,” “upsetting,” “vile,” and “disgusting.” Pretty strong words, which maybe spoke of increased emotion, Josie figured. Otherwise, not a whole lot of clues in this note. Same printer paper. Same handwriting.

  Josie sniffed the paper on a whim—maybe her imagination, but it smelled like candy or fake berries. Like a scented pen or some kind of lip gloss. She took another whiff, but the smell was gone.

  Yeah, now she was imagining things.

  Chapter 8

  A brisk rap on Josie’s dorm room door had her shoving all the letters off the desk and into the drawer.

  “Hey, New Girl,” a female voice came, along with more pounding. “I know you’re hiding in there. We all saw some weird Renfield character bringing stuff into your room—”

  Josie opened the door to find a tall, brown-haired girl with her hand still poised to knock. “Oh. Hi.” The girl peered into the room. “Where’s the new girl? Are you her mom?”

  “Are you kidding me? Again with the mom stuff. I’m not anyone’s mother, okay? There’s no way I’m old enough to be the new girl’s mom. I’m the new girl.” Well, crap. As she stood, panting with her pique, she realized she’d just blown her cover protesting so much. Some private detective she was.

  “Touchy—I mean, sorry. I wasn’t implying that you’re old. Just older, you know. Way too old to be living in this lame place. I mean, seriously? They could have put you in graduate housing with the other responsible-looking people who have jobs and salaries. Although, I’m not sure if there’s a whole lot of showering going on there. Not a whole lot of people paying attention to hygiene, right? Which is totally not you. You smell lovely, I’m sure. Not that I’m going to sniff your hair or anything. But it looks like it would smell good.”

  Josie waited for the verbal cascade to abate.

  Big white teeth appeared behind a broad smile. “I’m Leah and I wanted to tell you that we have a hall meeting in the common room tonight. It’s about self-defense. There’s going to be a demo. Then you can sign up for the class that Victor teaches at the student health center—that’s the gym. I work there, too. But just at the desk. Like a work-study job. Mostly I work not to study, but sometimes I stare at hot guys. Job perk, you know?”

  “O—” was all Josie got in.

  “So I’m inviting you to the meeting tonight because our RA should be doing it. That is, letting everyone know what’s going on here every week. But mostly, she smokes pot in her room with the window open like we’re not going to smell it just walking outside her window, right? And then there’s her disgusting boyfriend, who’s like, thirty or something—gross—who stays in her bed over the weekend. Check the showers before you go in there Sunday morning. Just saying. Maybe you could be our RA? Our resident advisor. Not because you’re older or anything. You just seem wise.”

  “—K,” Josie finished.

  “You will? That’s great. I’ll let everyone know.”

  “Wait. You’ll let everyone know what?” Josie had agreed only to attend the hall meeting, as far as she knew.

  “I’ll see you later tonight,” Leah said with a cheerful wave. “Eight o’clock in the common room.”

  #

  “What just happened?” Josie asked herself, standing in the hallway, watching Leah’s retreating back.

  The door across from her room popped open and the boy Tarzan—what was his name?—stumbled out of the darkened room behind him, hair tousled, mouth shiny. A cute little Asian girl in a bathrobe and smoky, heavy eye makeup shoved him out of her room and shut the door.

  “Criminey, you work fast,” Josie said to him as he stood there looking dazed and, well, sated. Which was kind of like finding out the kid you used to babysit was into adult-themed cosplay. Just ew.

  “Gotta get while the gettin’s good.” He shrugged and sauntered off with a dopey, satisfied smile.

  “I hope you’re being safe,” she called after him. She hoped she wasn’t going to have to start handing out condoms. That was definitely not in her job description.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said over his shoulder.

  Josie rolled her eyes and retreated back into her own room, ignoring the increasing howls and gurgles from her midsection. Maybe Greta had thought to furnish the room with snacks, too.

  Josie grabbed the stack of stalker letters from the desk drawer and started to open the other drawers as well, hoping for a bag of pretzels. Some chips. A packet of Saltines. Anything that would tide her over until the dining halls started serving the next meal.

  Did that woman have any idea how hard it was going to be for me to live without a kitchen? Without a fridge? Food was Josie’s life. So what if it felt like what she ate was trying to kill her now and then. She needed constant access to snacks—she needed countertop space. Without it, she felt empty. Without her stuff and her dog-boy Bert, who was she?

  She checked the closet—and heeeey, there were her other four pairs of serviceable jeans and a row of her favorite tees hanging with more care than she’d ever shown them. In the medicine closet, she found her toothbrush, paste, and other toiletries. Only slightly uncomfortable with the thought of Mr. Peepers handling her personal stuff, she continued her quest for snacks but came up empty-handed. Which was disappointing. What kind of dorm room didn’t have delicious, starchy, calorie-ridden munchies? She would have to remedy that as soon as possible.

  She’d forgotten what it was like not to have her own kitchen and fridge, even if she neglected to keep hers well-stocked. Here, she was at the mercy of an institutional meal schedule. Which sucked. This was so not cool.

  “Shut up, you,” she told her stomach when it moaned again. “Don’t blame me. We’re in this together.”

  With a grumpy huff, she opened the third letter. This message didn’t have a standard greeting. Josie flipped over the page to see if she’d started on the wrong side, but no, she hadn’t.

  I hate you (not really). I love you (maybe).

  I just found out about your other girl. The one the university had to pay so she would leave you. I don’t blame you. It’s her fault for wanting you. A lot of girls want you. I can tell by the way they watch you.

  I don’t blame you even though you should have waited for me. I know when you give us a chance, you'll see we’re perfect for each other.

  Don’t let any other girls get close to you Joshua. I’m warning you I can get possessive. Its one of my most powerful qualities. Once your mine, you wont need anyone else.

  The letter ended without a signature—but the writer had mentioned love and hate, right in the first lines, and those were strong expressions. She’d hit a turning point with this letter. This one was more raw, more visceral. Although the letters didn’t bear any dates or postmarks—because they were hand-delivered—Professor Sanborn had mentioned that they’d arrived about a day apart, with the exception of a two-week gap in the middle.

  The last two letters in the bunch had had a long delay before their arrival. He’d thought the writer had stopped sending them.

  Not a chance.

  But what had caused the writer to pause?

  Josie slid into her desk chair. Pulling open her laptop, she counted back two weeks to the time Prof. Sanborn had received the fourth letter and searched the local suburb’s newspaper archives. The Northam Newsflash—a fantastic retro name for a local rag which evoked fedoras, ticker tape, and reporters who talked fast and out of the corners of their mouths like Cary Grant—boasted a surprisingly robust website. No food columnist, Josie noted, but an archive that went back into the 1980s. Some poor intern had paid dearly with hours in front of a scanner, no doubt.

  Scrolling through the last few weeks’ worth of headlines, a couple of items sparked Josie’s interest as possible leads. The first was a bit about the body of a homeless man that had been found floating facedown in the Chatham River, which ran through the local
town not too far from the university. Witnesses had reported seeing the man on a bridge earlier that day, which led to speculation that he had committed suicide. A member of the clergy who ran a shelter, also in Northam, was able to identify the dead man as Martin Blanksma, a regular visitor to the shelter at the Immaculate Heart Catholic Church.

  Maybe nothing. Could be completely unrelated, but who knew? Still, Josie bookmarked the article using her laptop’s browser just in case.

  The second news item concerned the university itself. Students and faculty alike had protested the upcoming appearance of a controversial speaker, Ida Mae Rubens, whose fiercely conservative views on women in the workplace rubbed the mostly liberal faculty and student body the wrong way. A graduate of Bader some three decades ago, Miss Rubens had written a post that was counterpoint to popular opinion. The whole back-and-forth interchange, including some nasty personal-attack tweets, was hosted on a pop culture website. The debacle had then gone viral.

  Josie clicked on the post and settled down to read, still wishing she had some chips. Or popcorn. Or even a lumpy pasta dish, which she suspected she was getting for supper at the student dining hall. If what she remembered of her college years still held true, this week of institutional eating was going to push her patience to the limit—her notoriously low-threshold patience.

  She rubbed her upset belly in commiseration and turned back to skimming the column. Ida Mae’s article was short—probably excerpted—and summarized by the website’s host in bullet points—five salient slogans in total, the basics of which were:

  1. Men and women can’t function together in the workplace.

  2. Men are more aggressive and therefore naturally suited for competition.

  3. Women are biologically suited for homemaking.

  4. Even more aggressive women who are good at business shouldn’t be in the workplace because they cause strife.

  5. Women should be paid less to discourage them from attempting to be in the workplace.

  Lovely.