Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Bourne Morris

  “Mr. Howard is waiting for you,” said the slender Asian man who led me to the back of the restaurant to a set of paneled Shoji doors. I entered a small room with a round table and a round sofa curving behind the table. Thank God, no floor pillows. Ben Howard was standing beside the table. He shook my hand. A firm, warm grip. “Delighted to see you,” he said.

  “Mr. Howard, thank you. This looks wonderful.”

  “Please call me Ben. I’d like to call you Meredith. Or do you prefer Red? Wonderful nickname for you.”

  “Red is the name my father gave me,” I said sliding onto the sofa behind the table.

  His knee brushed mine as he seated himself beside me. “I trust you won’t think of me as your father,” he said smiling. The sofa was curved just enough so we could see into each other’s face. But small enough that our knees touched.

  He had ordered an expensive sake. “I hope you like this. I can order some French wine if you prefer.” I love sake. Usually hot. But this one was elegant and served cool.

  The food was delicious and the conversation comfortable. I liked Ben immediately. Over small dumplings stuffed with pork, he told me about his college and how he had first started his business. Over a salad of cold cooked spinach dressed in a sesame sauce, I told him about my graduate education and how Henry had promoted me to his assistant. Over sashimi and a delicate scallop dish, we talked about the special vacations we’d each taken. My favorite was to the French side of St. Martin’s in the Caribbean.

  As we finished the scallops, the conversation turned to the school. “I’m thinking about endowing a chair in Henry’s name,” Ben said.

  “That’s very generous, Ben. Henry would have been honored.”

  “Well, Henry was a very good dean in my opinion and I’d like to do something that will keep his memory fresh in the minds of your sometimes difficult faculty.” He smiled. “Perhaps, if you don’t become the permanent dean, you could become the first occupant of the Henry Brooks Chair in Journalism.”

  “Oh, I doubt I’ll ever be a dean permanently,” I said.

  “You are much too beautiful to be that modest.”

  I blushed but fortunately the waiter opened the shoji paneled door to serve tea so I didn’t have to reply.

  When the waiter left, I felt Ben’s hand on my knee, “I’d like to get to know you better, Red,” he said. His voice had changed to low and intimate. I was acutely aware of his smooth tanned face. A few wrinkles surrounded dark brown eyes. I shifted away slightly but his fingers remained on my knee. Gentle but warm.

  “I hope we can become friends,” I said, inching further away.

  “I would like us to be more than friends,” he said, shifting closer on the couch. I could feel his breath close to my face and his hand was once more on my knee.

  “I’m involved with someone,” I said. I could feel the heat coming off his body.

  “So am I,” he said. “I’ve been married for thirty-six years.”

  I moved to the end of the couch.

  “Red,” he said, smiling and leaning his elbows on the table. “I have a condo on the beach in Mexico just south of Cancun. It’s not St. Martin’s but I have a jet that can get us there in four hours and, after a day or so, back in plenty of time for you to spend Christmas with whoever he is.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said, starting to rise from the couch.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said, leaning back into the couch. “I’d love to see you in a bikini.” And out of one, no doubt. His voice was still low and sensual without a trace of annoyance.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Howard. If this means your offer of a chair in journalism is off, I understand. But I can’t be more than your friend.”

  “Oh, my dear Red. Of course the journalism chair offer is still good. I’m not going to punish you for turning me down. I never negotiate with women I want to sleep with.”

  I was sure he didn’t.

  He got up from the couch and took my hand in both of his and raised it to his lips.

  I could still feel the heat of him. My reaction was Joe’s fault. He had awakened the fire in me, and my unavoidable response to a man’s mouth on the palm of my hand.

  For that moment I was tempted to give in to Ben Howard, married or not. Joe or not.

  “Friends?” he said, smiling.

  “Friends,” I said, “and thank you for dinner.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Dr. Solaris.” He returned to my hand and his lips were hot against my palm. Once again, it produced the desired effect and he knew it. “My office will call you about the chair in journalism. Have a Merry Christmas with your man. I hope he’s good to you.”

  Oh, he’s good to me, my Joe. That’s the sentence I repeated to myself all the way home, trying not to wonder what Ben’s Mexican condo would look like and how Ben’s strong brown hands would feel on my suntanned body. Stop it, I said to myself. Joe Morgan is the best thing that ever happened to you. Slut.

  Whoever said academic deans lived lives of contemplation and scholarship? What naive observer sees us only as elderly, distinguished men and women who commune daily with brilliant faculty and spend evenings at concerts and fund-raisers? Anyone knows a proper academic dean was not supposed to resemble a sweaty redhead driving home on a snowy night with her hands gripping the wheel, tears in her eyes and too much moisture between her legs.

  Damn it, Joe. Be there watching television even though you knew I was dining with another man. Be there even if you’re supposed to be out investigating a lead in Henry’s murder. Be there even though you have good reason not to be there.

  I opened my front door and heard the sound of television and the unmistakable cadence of a sports announcer. Joe was half asleep on the couch, dressed in sweatpants and an old gray t-shirt that was too small and thus stretched across the muscles of his remarkable chest. His beautiful green eyes opened and looked up at me.

  “You look a mite flushed, my dear. I must say pink cheeks suit you.” His voice was low and lazy. “Everything go all right?”

  I collapsed on the couch and told him everything. Everything except the kisses on my hands and my sexual thoughts driving home.

  Joe’s powers of observation are acute. “I think this Howard guy turned you on a little,” he said, smiling. I blushed. He reached over and started unbuttoning my jacket.

  “I was flattered, I admit,” I said, still blushing.

  “Well, I’ll try not to deck him until after he’s given you the chair in journalism. Especially since, whatever feelings he inspired, you were sensible enough to bring home to Papa.”

  And then, right there on the couch and in front of my dog, this incredibly handsome cop gave me exactly what I wanted and more than I deserved.

  Chapter 20

  Christmas was at Elaine’s. She set a beautiful table and her husband, Vince, made a rich, overwhelming eggnog. Sadie brought two apple pies reeking of nutmeg and cinnamon. Joe spent too much money on a Bordeaux that we all agreed was delicious and probably much too subtle for the palates we had ruined with eggnog.

  We didn’t talk about Henry’s death, the lagging investigation, the faculty fight over Coleman, or the politics of the university.

  Joe gave me a jade pendant designed by a local artist I admired and I gave him a green cashmere sweater. The rest of us exchanged books and passes to movie theaters.

  Driving home with Joe, I realized I was happy. Happy as I had been when I was little and could still tell my father everything. I was happy in spite of all the troubles at the school. Joe Morgan had transformed me. I thought as we drove through the snowy streets of Landry back to my comfortable house, that I had finally found a good man and hadn’t messed up. I hadn’t driven him away.

  Making love to Joe that night confirmed my resolve to hold onto him. Afterwards, as he slept beside me, I rose up on my elbow and stared at his s
leeping face.

  Merry Christmas to me.

  The glow lasted through the next day and stayed with me until I walked into the office two days after Christmas. The campus was cold and deserted and the school was empty. Nell was still away visiting her children and not due back until the end of the week. The office felt chilly. I turned on the overhead lights. My desk was clean, but a large FedEx envelope from Alistair Shaw was waiting on the counter in the outer office. Beside it lay another smaller envelope with the return address of a law firm in San Francisco.

  I sat at my lonely desk and felt the glow of the holiday fading away. I opened the letter first, praying it was not about Celeste, or some quirk in Henry’s files.

  It wasn’t. The attorneys represented Ben Howard and the envelope included a short, formal note from Ben and a more detailed letter from his attorney suggesting a meeting to discuss the specifics for the Henry Brooks Chair in Journalism. Ben had been true to his word. I looked at the letter and hoped he had enjoyed a good holiday with his wife of thirty-six years and however many children and grandchildren they had. I had recovered from our dinner meeting and was convinced I was now together with Joe Morgan and not likely to betray him. Maybe I was going to grow up after all.

  Howard’s offer was a generous gift from a famous benefactor. I knew I would enjoy telling Stoddard and Lewis and I would truly enjoy announcing the gift to the faculty at our retreat.

  Some of the Christmas glow returned and then I remembered Shaw’s envelope.

  The pages inside were clearly from a book. Shaw had also included pages from his own manuscript, identified by a different font from that of the plagiarized. The thief, whoever he or she was, had even copied Shaw’s footnotes.

  I suspected whoever had done this, had accessed Shaw’s work electronically and just copied and pasted it into his or her own work. Then, the thief had changed the font to fit his or her own manuscript. A note from Shaw was scrawled on the top of his pages. “Dr. Solaris, thanks for whatever you can do to find this scoundrel. Best, Al Shaw.”

  Shaw’s material was from a book he planned to publish next year on the decline of printed newspapers and the rise of electronic media. Alistair Shaw was nationally renowned for his writing and, chances were, his book would outsell any others. I wondered how the plagiarist intended to get away with it.

  I would have to look through the manuscripts of at least four members of my faculty and, because they were all on winter break, I would have to wait until after they had returned.

  Maybe there was a shortcut. I wrote a note for Nell to find upon her return. “Before he died, did Henry have any faculty manuscripts in his possession?”

  And then I left the cold empty journalism building and tried to focus on my kitchen in my warm home.

  A door closed down the hallway. Who was here? Everyone should be on break. The hallway was dark, just barely lit with the emergency lights that stayed on twenty-four hours. I listened. The hall was carpeted so no footsteps sounded.

  A figure appeared. He stopped when he saw me and stared. He said nothing but his eyes were dark and squinted, and I was intensely aware we were alone.

  “Good evening, Simon.”

  “Nothing good about it, missy.”

  I walked to the elevator and glanced at the stairwell opposite. I hated that stairwell but the exit route might be safer.

  I hesitated. Simon’s bent figure moved toward me.

  We stood probably two feet apart. His head jutted out from between his shoulders. His hands were clenched into fists, his thumbs moving across the knuckles of his forefingers. His mouth curved in a sneer and I could hear his breathing, heavy and uneven.

  “I hope you had a good Christmas, Simon.”

  “I don’t celebrate Christmas.” His voice was low and menacing. “It’s pretentious for anyone with half a brain to believe in it.”

  I stood silent, wondering if I could just walk past him.

  “But then of course, you are pretentious aren’t you, Solaris? An incompetent woman pretending to be a dean.” His eyes flared.

  “That’s enough, Simon. I think we should both go home.”

  “You should go home, Solaris. Leave Nevada and go back to whatever shithole town you come from.”

  I froze.

  I was sure he had written the note and was about to challenge him when he made a sudden turn and headed to the stairwell.

  His footsteps were slow on the concrete stairs, the same stairs that had held Henry’s body. I waited until the sound faded. Then I pushed the elevator button.

  I took out my keys and thrust them between my fingers to form a weapon. I was ready for him. When the doors opened on the ground floor I expected to see Simon waiting for me.

  But the atrium was empty. And mine was the only car in the parking lot.

  Joe showed up two hours after I got home. He was excited about a small break in his investigation of Henry’s death, so I decided to put off telling him about meeting Simon until after I heard his news.

  The police had found a witness who saw a man crossing the parking lot early that Sunday afternoon. The new witness was a groundskeeper who had gone home with the flu and stayed home for a week. He remembered he’d seen a man late that afternoon. The groundskeeper was far down on the list of people to question and, when his illness kept him absent, the policeman checking grounds employees, never went back to the university office where the groundskeepers work.

  Someone gossiping about the possible murder of the dean of journalism jogged the groundskeeper’s memory and he called the police.

  “So, we know now that someone besides Edwin Cartwell may have been in that building the afternoon Henry died.”

  We were sitting in front of the fire in my living room waiting for the stew to finish up in the kitchen.

  “Any idea who the man was?”

  “Not yet, but the groundskeeper said he was tall and he walked quickly. He didn’t see the man’s face, but he’s quite sure the guy went into the journalism school by way of the side door.”

  “That’s the way you get into the school on a Sunday when the rest of the building is locked.”

  “I know,” said Joe, “but doesn’t that also mean the tall man was a faculty member with a building key card?”

  “Probably, but I can think of three tall male faculty—George Weinstein, Max Worthington, plus one adjunct male faculty. But adjuncts don’t have key cards. Did the groundskeeper say any more?”

  “No, he couldn’t see anything but the back of the man. And the guy was dressed for winter and wearing a cap and gloves.”

  I got up and went into the kitchen to stir the stew. Charlie followed at my heels.

  The image of Simon in the hallway flashed. I still hadn’t told Joe about my encounter, but I certainly couldn’t describe Simon as tall or a man who walks quickly. He didn’t fit the description. Much as I would have liked it if he did.

  Joe came into the kitchen. “Anyone outside of faculty who might have access to a campus building. An administrator or a janitor?”

  “Our janitor is a woman.” I tasted the stew. It wanted more salt.

  “As for non-faculty, I’m sure there are a number of people who can access a university building for emergency reasons or maintenance work. Not to mention the people in the offices of the president and provost.”

  “Stoddard’s a big tall guy,” said Joe. Hmm. But what would have been Stoddard’s motive? I wandered into the living room to collect our wine glasses.

  “Do any of the faculty stay home on winter break like you do?” Joe was, at this point, setting the kitchen table.

  “Some do,” I said. “But I’ll bet Weinstein goes south for some warm weather and golf. I know Max and Trudy were planning on visiting her parents. The others might be home but no guarantees. I’m only here because you couldn’t get away and go to the Ca
ribbean with me.”

  He kissed my cheek. “I thought work was your reason for hanging around.”

  Work was my reason, but it came in second. I had been daydreaming about Joe sitting with me on a beach in St. Martin’s ever since my dinner with Ben Howard.

  After dinner, Joe got on his phone to provide the names of possible tall and murderous men to another detective. He was visibly cheered up. At last, a break in the case after all these weeks of dead ends. The last time he had spoken of the investigation he had looked so frustrated. “We just can’t get any hard evidence on anyone. The captain seems ready to dissolve my team and put us all on other cases.”

  “Can you give up on a possible murder?” I had asked. “You told me cases like this are only solved quickly on television.”

  That elicited a wry smile. “I remember. No, we won’t give up entirely, but the problem is that, until today, the trail was getting cold.”

  At last, there was new evidence. A tall man. I eavesdropped on Joe’s call for another minute and then went back to the living room. Telling him about Simon would come later. Joe was happy and I was safe at home.

  For that night anyway.

  I turned my attention to the folders from the suitcase Michael Brooks had given me. Most of what I found were more evaluations of various faculty. Nell had looked for Phyllis and Max’s folders, found one for Phyllis but not for Max. She would have to make a new one. Had he lived, Henry would’ve scheduled meetings with all of us to go over our annual evaluations and tell us whether we were going to get merit raises. Would a bad evaluation have occasioned a fight, even a murder?

  I focused on the papers before me and promised myself to read through more files tomorrow in the office.