Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Bourne Morris

  Poor Nell.

  She was beside herself with concern. This was her school, her responsibility, and there were cops all over and faculty calling my office every five minutes demanding to know what was going on.

  “Nell, I can handle this. Why don’t you go home and get some rest,” I said.

  “Oh, I can’t go home. No one can go home.” She was frantic again. “The police were very firm about that. Everyone has to stay and be interviewed. There was no way to warn you about all this.”

  “You could have called my cellphone. I was at lunch with Dean Hawkins at Gormley’s.”

  “They were very specific about that. No outside calls.”

  No outside calls. No going home. What the hell was going on? Joe had said they were concerned about the cause of death, not sure of anything. Had they found more evidence? Had Henry been murdered? Christ. I practically ran to my office. No outside calls indeed. No one told me that. This was my school, now. How dare Morgan and his gang just take command?

  I picked up the phone to call Stoddard. Or Lewis if need be. This was an unwarranted invasion.

  Joe appeared in my doorway. I hung up.

  “What the hell is going on?” I said.

  “An investigation of a possible homicide. I told you last night.”

  “But did you have to quarantine the whole journalism school? You can’t do that.”

  “I’m sorry, Red. I’m afraid I can do what I need to do. We need to move expeditiously to preserve evidence that might be destroyed if we wait.”

  A woman appeared in the doorway behind Joe. The blonde, disinterested detective who had interviewed me. She had loosened her hair since the morning and the top button of her blouse. Because she was working with Morgan? She was wearing gloves and holding a carved glass award in her hand. “We found this in a box of books behind his desk,” she said to Joe.

  “Red, do you recognize this?”

  The chunk of polished glass was about eight inches high on a solid base. It was a large rough triangle with a sharp pointed top. A university symbol was etched in the center of the triangle. The base was engraved with Henry’s name.

  “It’s an award Henry got from the alumni association at his alma mater. He kept it on his desk,” I said. “It’s been there for several years.”

  “It wasn’t on his desk when I found it,” said the woman detective, still speaking only to Joe. “It was under some books in a box.”

  “Nell may have put it there,” I said. “She’s been packing Henry’s things up to give to his children.”

  “Let’s check it out,” said Joe to the woman, who slid the glass award into a large plastic bag in her other hand. “See what the forensics guys think.”

  The blonde detective turned away and almost ran into George Weinstein who pushed his way past Joe and stood in front of my desk.

  “This is outrageous. I am told I can’t leave the building until some cop talks to me at 4:30. That’s too late. Margaret and I are driving to Reno. We have dinner reservations and theater tickets. I have to leave now.” George was in full bluster.

  “Detective Morgan, do you know Dr. George Weinstein?”

  Joe nodded. “Yes, Dr. Weinstein. I appreciate this is an inconvenience. I will get to you as soon as possible but I do have others to interview.”

  “Well, I can tell you right now I did not have a goddamned thing to do with Henry’s death and I don’t know anything more than what was in the papers. So your appointment is a stupid waste of time.” George’s face was reddening and he glared at Joe.

  “Nonetheless, I will see you in your office at four thirty,” said Joe, who I noticed with pleasure, was taller than George.

  George wheeled around and headed for the door. “This outrage gets reported to President Lewis, Red. You can be certain of that.”

  Max Worthington’s was the next face in the door. He leaned in. “Detective Morgan, I have a 3:30 appointment with you but I wonder if you could see me earlier. I’ve just gotten a text from my wife who isn’t feeling well.”

  Joe looked at his notebook. “I’ll see if I can get to you earlier, Dr. Worthington. I’m seeing Dr. Cartwell in ten minutes, perhaps he’ll swap with you.”

  “Not likely,” said Max.

  After Max left, I slammed the door closed.

  I exploded. “What is all this high-handed crap? Earlier today, you wake up an old lady to ask her a bunch of questions about me when I had already told you everything I could. Now you insist people stay in the building. No outside calls. Apparently you have trust issues, Detective Morgan. Or, do you just have some kind of hard-on for academics?”

  The moment I spoke the last words, I turned away from him, knowing he was smiling. I put my hands over my face. Then I felt him near me. I could hear the amusement in his voice. “That depends, Dean Solaris. Are we still on for dinner?”

  There was a knock at the door. We turned as Nell opened it. “Detective, Dr. Cartwell seems very anxious you not be late for his appointment,” she said.

  “On my way,” said Joe, stepping away from me. “Cartwell is the one person we know was in the building the day Henry died. I need to talk to him again. I’m sorry about the ruckus here, Red. Really. But investigating a possible homicide is...”

  I took a deep breath. “I know. Just your job.”

  His head cocked to one side. “Listen Red, I really appreciate your insights into the faculty disputes and all the academic processes. I want you to know that. It does help us.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Wait, Joe, I may have an idea about Cartwell that could be useful. I need to talk to his wife.”

  “Unofficially?” His eyes narrowed.

  “Unofficially, but soon.”

  He looked doubtful. “If it’s about this case, may I remind you that you’re not a cop.”

  “I know and I won’t try to be one. But I think I could get some of that insight you need into Henry’s relationships.”

  Again, eyes narrowed. “Relationships with someone’s wife?”

  “She won’t talk to you about it. And I’m not even sure I know what I think I know.”

  “Okay. But I want you to tell me whatever you find out tonight at dinner.”

  Tonight at dinner.

  Mary Cartwell was exquisite to look at. And she looked at herself often. Mirrors decorated the house. She was fifty and looked thirty. Full-lipped, full-breasted, long-legged. Perfect. She’d agreed to let me in, but she was not happy about it. However, I knew it was the best time to talk. Edwin would be out until late evening after talking to Joe and then teaching his graduate seminar.

  We settled at her kitchen table over cups of coffee.

  “What’s up?” She looked down at her cup and then up at the ceiling.

  “I am thinking of a poem,” I said, “part of a poem by T. Cole Rachel: ‘we are governed by rules of avoidance, narrowly scraping past, unavoidable pains’...”

  “You didn’t come here to recite poetry,” she said. She pushed back her hair.

  “No, but I did come to talk about something you would probably like to avoid talking about.”

  “Like?”

  “You and Henry Brooks.”

  She rose from the table and walked over to the kitchen sink. She turned on the water full blast and splashed her face.

  “What do you mean?” She patted her face with a dishtowel. Creamy skin, gorgeous with no make-up.

  “One afternoon last summer,” I said. “I was buying garden supplies at the nursery and I saw you coming out of a room at the motel next door. Two minutes later, I saw Henry come out of the same room. You left in separate cars.”

  She leaned against the sink, her hands gripping the edge of the tile on the counter. “Does everyone on the faculty know?”

  “No, I honestly think I’m the only one.”

/>   She let out a deep breath.

  “And you have kept it to yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But now I need you to talk about it,” I said.

  “Why? He’s dead. Who cares anymore?”

  “The police care. They are investigating Henry’s death and I offered to help. I thought it might be easier for you to talk to me.”

  She opened her mouth but only a sigh came out.

  “Mary, didn’t Edwin call you about all the interviews at school today?”

  “No. Edwin and I don’t talk much anymore.”

  “Did he know about you and Henry?”

  “No. He didn’t.” She said this with emphasis and a shake of her head. “Edwin and I live in the same house and occasionally pass each other like ships in a harbor. We eat together. We sleep in the same bed. Once in a while, we have sex. Usually after we’ve both had a lot to drink.”

  She sat down again. She rubbed her eyes.

  “The police are bound to find out about you and Henry. I have a friend who’s the detective on the case and I persuaded him to let me talk to you first.”

  She folded her hands and gazed out the kitchen window. Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped the tears away and took a deep breath. After what felt like five minutes, she started. At first just minimal information, but then, perhaps to justify her affair with Henry, I got the story of her life.

  Cartwell had never been enough for her. Not at graduate school before they were married. Not at Georgia where he taught a full load of courses and worked nights on his research, while she lay naked with one of his grad students in the spare room over the garage. Not in Illinois where Cartwell hoped to get tenure and Mary hoped to get pregnant, if not by her husband then by the lean-limbed instructor from her art class.

  But Cartwell did not get tenure and Mary did not get pregnant. They moved west, hoping this place would satisfy both their ambitions.

  As she grew older, Mary came to accept her infertility, kept her body slim, and decided the yearnings of her lovers would be her fulfillment. According to Mary, Edwin Cartwell, consumed with his teaching career and his research, remained oblivious to her sexual adventures. By the time she was forty-nine, Mary had engaged in several affairs, but none had lasted more than a few months.

  She told me she knew passion but not love. “Until Henry,” she said, her voice catching. With Henry, she was painfully in love, but frustrated by not being able to see him on weekends. She always had to wait until Monday afternoon. That was their rule. Even though Henry was widowed and lived alone, they had to keep their affair a secret. Monday, late in the afternoon at the motel, they would meet and he would make her laugh and kiss her and she would tell him not to worry about the troubles at school. Mary ached for Mondays.

  “How did it begin?”

  “One night a year or so ago, at that fall party Lewis gives for faculty at the beginning of the semester. It was stuffy in the alumni hall, so I went out for some air. On the terrace, I ran into Henry. He was alone. He always complimented me about something whenever we met. I looked forward to seeing him. That night, he just watched me. I walked down the steps onto the lawn and kept on going toward the trees at the edge of the lake. I knew he was following me without even turning my head.”

  Mary paused and sipped coffee. “I was looking at the lake and I felt him come up behind me. He didn’t say anything. He just put his arms around me. He kissed the side of my cheek and said, ‘you have been unhappy long enough.’ That’s how it began,” her voice caught again.

  “Over a year ago?”

  She nodded. “As soon as he touched me, I knew that was exactly what I wanted him to do.”

  “By now, were you considering a divorce?”

  “Oh,” she almost laughed. “Let me tell you, I was ready to divorce Edwin the first time Henry made love to me. But Henry said we had to wait. He didn’t want a scandal. We had to keep it a secret until we could figure out a plan. He didn’t want people to know.”

  That would be Henry, I thought. Dean Henry Brooks wouldn’t want to be caught seducing a faculty member’s wife. Especially the wife of a faculty member who fought with him.

  “And you’re sure Edwin never knew?”

  “Never. Edwin never knew about Henry and me. Believe me, if he had, I would’ve heard about that. That we would have talked about.”

  I was no longer sure how much I could expect of her, but I worried about how she’d handle the police inquiry. We both stared at the table and the coffee cups. After some moments of silence, I said, “Mary did you and Henry ever make a plan to be together permanently?”

  “Not really, Henry wanted to wait until summer. He didn’t want school to be in session when I told Edwin I was leaving.”

  “And you’re certain your husband doesn’t know.”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “One last question.”

  Mary got up again and leaned against the kitchen counter, stretching her elegant legs. “Where was I on Sunday?”

  I nodded.

  “I was here alone, cooking supper for Edwin and thinking about next summer.” Her pale cheeks colored. She turned to me, her remarkable face now taut, her eyes flooded. “If I had been with Henry or anywhere near him last Sunday, he would be alive. If he had a heart attack I would have gotten him to the hospital. I would have done anything to save him—anything.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  “Will the police?”

  “I hope so.”

  Chapter 8

  That night, Joe Morgan arrived on my doorstep promptly at 6:30, dressed in dark wool pants with a pale blue cashmere sweater over a shirt. He looked almost professorial. He drove me in his newly washed car to the best restaurant in Landry and ordered an excellent wine with dinner.

  The restaurant was dark and crowded, but Joe had reserved a small table in the corner where it was quiet and no one was within earshot. I sipped on the wine, wishing I had not promised to tell him about my conversation with Mary Cartwell.

  I must have looked tense. Joe leaned across the table. He spoke softly: “A college professor goes to the doctor’s office. The nurse asks him what’s wrong and the professor says, ‘I think I am disappearing.’ So a few minutes later, the nurse comes back and says: ‘the doctor can’t see you now.’”

  Okay, a cop who tells corny jokes. I pretended I hadn’t heard it before. But I was grateful for his sensitivity. Clearly he was going to let me avoid discussing Mary for a while. The conversation got easier after that. Joe talked about his love of basketball and his time playing on the team at Mountain West.

  “NBA ambitions?” I asked.

  No, he said he wasn’t NBA material and Mountain West is too small to make it to the top of college ball. He studied hard and graduated. “Pre-law.”

  “But you didn’t become a lawyer?”

  “No. I went to Chicago to go to law school but left after the first year and joined the police force.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in law school?”

  “Too cerebral, I guess. I liked action. I liked the men and women on the force. I liked the training. I loved getting bad guys. Also, I’d rather investigate than prosecute. And I’m sure I’d rather investigate than defend.”

  “What brought you back here?”

  “A suspect in a murder case in Chicago took off and ended up here. I was sent because I know the area. The chief here liked the way I worked and recruited me away from the big city with the offer of an enormous fortune and the chance to save my hometown from criminals and terrorists.”

  Okay. I relaxed.

  “Do you miss Chicago?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Surely they have women in Chicago.”

  “Not women with red hair like yours.”

 
That felt good. It had been a while since a man had flirted with me. Joe had a wide smile that made me feel warm and he had strong, long-fingered hands that made me want his touch. Basketball player, ah yes, he could hold the ball forever in one of those hands.

  Over coffee, I learned Joe had a shelf of books on China and Russia. “The cultures fascinate me,” he said.

  Also a shelf of poetry. “Fredenson, followed by Gerard Manley Hopkins are my favorites.”

  “Yeats?”

  “Absolutely. ‘And pluck ’til time and times are done, the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun.’”

  He said he went to San Francisco for the opera if it’s Rossini or Puccini. He liked Dvorak’s New World Symphony. And, of course, read The New York Times online.

  “I thought cops were mainly interested in sports,” I said.

  “College basketball,” he said. “When North Carolina is in the Final Four, you can’t get me out of the house. I take unpaid leave if I have to.”

  “How do you feel about dogs?”

  “I had a dog in Chicago, up until two years ago. But after he died, I’ve had a hard time thinking about a new dog.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Big beautiful shepherd. Best dog I’ve ever had. Died of cancer when he was twelve.”

  “It’s so hard to lose them,” I said.

  “What’s your golden’s name?”

  Oh dear. My first weakness showed up. “I haven’t been able to give him a name,” I said. “I tried a few times, but nothing stuck. He didn’t answer to any of them. So now I just call him ‘Dog’ and whistle for him.”

  “What name did you try?”

  “Thaddeus. My dad’s name.”

  “Good name for a dad. Lousy name for a dog. No wonder he ignored you. Dogs need short two syllable names. The best ones end in y or ie. My dog’s name was Smiley.”

  I laughed out loud. “Smiley. What a great name.”

  Joe laughed, too. “He had a funny expression he used to get around his mouth—like a grin—when he was hungry. Ergo, Smiley. Also George Smiley is my favorite literary spy.”

  By then we were both laughing. His fingers were near enough to the back of my hand to touch me. But he didn’t. Neatly trimmed fingernails. Hands browner than his face. Hands that worked outdoors and played indoors. Oh my.