Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Bourne Morris

  “Good evening, Dr. Thomas,” I said, standing behind my chair.

  She looked up, her mouth narrow and turned down at the corners. Bridget was what we charitably called a heavy-set woman. Not so much fat as bulky. Her clothes never fit her, usually a size too small for her large frame. Her lipstick was too dark and her eyeliner too thick. She responded with a slight frown. “Please sit down, Dr. Solaris.”

  I smiled. Just try to irritate me into saying anything that kills my chances, my inner voice said to her frown. “This looks like a nice restaurant. I don’t think I’ve been here before.”

  Bridget had chosen a restaurant in Reno, where she had a home. No point inconveniencing herself. I was the candidate, no doubt the supplicant in her mind, so it fell to me to drive the hour from Landry.

  “Place just opened last month.” Her eyes cast down at the papers. “I thought we might give it a try.”

  “I hope I’m not late.” I kept my tone buttery. I knew I was five minutes early.

  “You’re on time. I always get to appointments a few minutes early,” she said with a trace of petulance.

  “Well, I know you have an incredible schedule these days, Dr. Thomas. Running a dean search is very time-consuming, and it’s good of you to have taken this one on.”

  C’mon, Bridget, soften up. I’m trying to make friends here.

  The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Well, I think it’s the responsibility of those of us who are established deans to lead the search for new colleagues.”

  She ordered bourbon, neat. I ordered sparkling water. She ordered steak with fries. I ordered fish and salad.

  She asked me about my background as a professional journalist. How long had I worked for a metro newspaper? What did I think of the department head at my old university or the professors who had guided me through my doctoral thesis?

  Between her questions I learned she was divorced and the mother of two sons, both in boarding schools back east. “Their father’s decree,” she said bitterly.

  After each inquiry, I tried to segue into my accomplishments as a dean.

  “Well now.” She tapped her mouth with her napkin and spread her hands on the table. “I know you’ve been very careful in the search committee interviews to tell us what you have done as interim dean of journalism and why you want the job permanently.”

  But.

  “But I wonder if you have given thought to the lightness of your experience?”

  Lightness?

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Dr. Thomas. Much of what we have been through in journalism this past semester has required a fair amount of heavy lifting on my part.”

  “Well, yes. It’s been very difficult, I’m sure. What with the awful circumstances of the dean’s death and the arrest of a faculty colleague. That degree of scandal can be very time-consuming.”

  “I had more than scandal to deal with. I had to get new courses approved and prepare us to be reaccredited as a school.”

  “Of course. But what I mean is, you have been an interim dean for less than a year. Your overall university experience is…well…less than what might be expected of a permanent dean.”

  Take a deep breath. Try again. “Dr. Thomas, I am applying for this position at the urging of the faculty. It would seem I have gained their confidence. I assure you, I know I am not as experienced as you or the other deans on campus, but I learn quickly and I know where to go to ask for advice when I need it.”

  She clasped her hands and leaned forward. “Dr. Solaris, I understand you did wonders, and I’m sure you’re an adept student, but I continue to think you need more. Perhaps I can suggest an activity that would broaden your view of the university, give you a chance to engage in policy discussions, prepare you better for a top job like dean.”

  Oh, that’s what this is about. She has a chore for me.

  “I would welcome your suggestions, Dr. Thomas.” Much more of this and my nose would start to elongate.

  A small, satisfied smile appeared. “I am currently one of only two women on a university committee tasked with developing a policy on sexual assault. You know about that problem, I presume.”

  I did. Sexual assault on university campuses had been a major news item for over a year. The media had carried story after story about colleges and universities trying to improve the ways in which sexual assault was reported and investigated. The federal government had weighed in with mandates and law professors debated protections for victims versus due process for perpetrators.

  “We had a preliminary meeting last week,” Bridget continued, “and, frankly, I was appalled that there were a dozen of us around the table and the Director of Student Services and I were the only women.”

  I opened my mouth to comment, but Bridget was gaining steam and continued before I could say anything.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to join us?” she asked. “You could replace one of the male members, one of the athletic coaches. There are three members of the athletic department on the committee and that’s too many, in my opinion.” She smiled, her first smile of the evening. “Participation in the design of a major university policy would provide useful insight for a new dean. What do you think?”

  I returned her smile. “I think if we’re going to be fellow committee members, you should call me Red. And I should call you…”

  “Bridget, of course.” She reached across the table and shook my hand.

  Jamie

  The man allowed her to remain untied to the bed as long as she made no attempt to escape. He brought her food twice a day, the first early in the morning, the other late at night. Scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. Then, at night, a slice of warmed ham and some spinach—all nourishing but bland. She had taken one shower, yesterday, while he stood in the doorway watching the shower curtain as she moved. She’d refused at first, terrified of removing all her clothes and making it easy for him. But he’d threatened to undress her himself, and that frightened her even more. As she emerged, he handed her the towel. He scanned her body, then averted his eyes. He made no move to touch her.

  What did he want? If not sex, ransom? Why would he think she came from a family that would have enough money to pay a sum worth the crime of kidnapping? And didn’t he figure someone in her family would demand to know she was still alive? She was sure her grandfather would insist upon speaking to her on the phone, or seeing her on a computer screen. And none of that had happened.

  An hour later, she lay in her bed looking at the night sky outside of the barred window. Marilyn would be frantic by now. Her roommate had probably told her grandfather, who would have jumped on a plane from Las Vegas and come up north to Landry look for her. She reminded herself that Wynan Congers was a good cop. He would know what to do, how to hunt for her. She just had to keep herself safe until he found her.

  At daybreak, she stood by the window. She saw nothing but trees and what seemed to be water beyond. No people. No animals. Only the chirp and chatter of birds on the branches nearby.

  Where was she?

  Why was he keeping her?

  The man had refused to answer any of her questions. He’d just said, “Don’t try to escape. All the doors are locked and the windows sealed and barred. I’ll punish you severely if I discover you have made any effort to leave.”

  On the second evening, he brought a pile of new clothing with her supper. Jeans, a pale blue denim shirt, two pairs of underpants and two cotton bras, simple with no lace or ornamentation. No shoes or socks. When he had left she examined the clothes. They were her size. Even the bras. How did he know her size just from looking at her? Had he examined her clothes while she showered? No, he’d stayed by the door. Another mystery.

  During the day, she had examined every square inch of the bedroom and bathroom, looking for weak spots, looking for ways her physical strength could help h
er escape. Jamie had been a star athlete in high school: track, basketball, and a state champion Lacrosse player. She had good muscles and strong reflexes. She could outsmart this man. She just wasn’t sure she could take him out in a fight. He was bigger and stronger. He might be armed.

  She looked for potential weapons: towel racks she could pry away, mirror and window glass she could break into shards, a heavy lamp base she could pull from the wall socket. She examined everything—the wires, the towels, the sheets—as potential weapons or aids to escape.

  She worried about time. She still had no clue as to what he wanted of her.

  The lock clicked and the door opened.

  “You haven’t changed into your clean clothes,” he said.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “No questions. Just change now.”

  He stood and watched. He made no move toward her as she undressed and dressed.

  “Pick up the dirty clothes and come with me.”

  He was going to let her out of the room. She should have created a weapon sooner.

  He led her by the hand down a narrow flight of uncarpeted stairs that squeaked under her feet. The stairs led to a long hallway and then into a kitchen. The plaster walls were painted a dull yellow. Two larger but heavily barred windows flanked a double ceramic sink. An electric stove that looked as if it had been purchased in the fifties was matched by an equally outdated refrigerator. Pine cabinets ran the length of the wall. Beyond the kitchen was an alcove with a washer and dryer that seemed slightly newer than the other appliances.

  “Put your dirty clothes in the washer.”

  Above the washer, nailed into the wall, was a large framed document that looked like parchment. Letters similar to those carved into the toilet seat upstairs read: Ephesians 5:22-6:9. Wives be in subjection unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife.

  She knew Bible verses from her Sunday school days. She knew there was more to the chapter than what was written. Whoever created the document must have wanted a simpler message to be read.

  “Pay attention to that,” he said. He stood about two feet away, looking at her and then at the parchment.

  Husband? Wife? Oh, God, what was he planning? She put her dirty clothes in the washer.

  The man moved back into the kitchen, opened a bottom cupboard, and brought out a large saucepan and an iron skillet. “Do you know how to cook?”

  “A little.”

  “There’s food in the icebox. Prepare dinner.”

  Icebox? What century did this man live in? Never mind. She was out of the prison of her upstairs bedroom and now in a kitchen, where the search for escape or weapons might be easier. She opened the refrigerator door. Not much inside. A package of chicken breasts. Two potatoes. A container of green bean salad. A quart of milk. Butter, eggs, half a loaf of bread. The cupboard above the sink revealed basics: salt, pepper, mustard, no spices.

  Did he live here or was this just the house where he kept her?

  She opened a drawer next to the stove. Two knives. She pulled the larger one out. A good eight-inch blade. He was beside her in an instant. “If anything needs to be cut, I’ll do it,” he said, taking the knife from her hand.

  The kitchen was a larger, newer place for her, and Jamie planned to explore it as thoroughly as she had the upstairs room. A kitchen should offer better opportunity for finding a weapon. The man must’ve read her mind, because he watched her every move, especially when she touched the knife drawer or maneuvered the heavy skillet.

  He stood, arms folded across his chest, his back braced against the wall, watching.

  He spoke hardly at all, and then only to give orders. “Scrub out the sink with scouring powder,” or “mop the floor starting by the back door.”

  The back door. It was heavy, solid, no windows. Locked with a dead bolt. And above that, a hasp with a padlock. The padlock had a keyboard with nine numbered buttons. No point looking for a key. She assumed the other downstairs doors were also padlocked.

  When she finished mopping, he leaned against the wall by the door. “Now wipe off the table with a damp sponge.”

  She snapped. “Why the hell should I?”

  He pushed off the wall and moved toward her. “Because you are here to do exactly what I want when I want it.”

  Pinpricks in the back of her neck. She wiped off the table.

  Back in her room, Jamie wondered what would happen if she tried to attack him first. Chances were he wouldn’t expect it. But then, the few moves her grandfather had taught her in Las Vegas might only work if they were unexpected.

  The quick chop to the bridge of his nose, preferably executed with her elbow. “People don’t realize how strong the elbow can be,” Wynan Congers had said during one of their training sessions. A sharp stomp to the top of his foot. No good when he was wearing boots. Knock the air out of him with a hard jab to his solar plexus. With what weapon? And finally, what if whatever she tried didn’t work? How would she break the padlocks while he lay moaning on the floor? What would he do when he recovered from the blow?

  She shuddered. She would have to wait for a moment when he was vulnerable, or asleep.

  Asleep. God, no. Not that.

  Chapter 10

  Driving home to Landry through the dark Nevada night along a highway with few houses, under a sky full of stars, my thoughts alternated between my conversation with Bridget Thomas and the puzzle that was the whereabouts of Jamie Congers.

  The offer Bridget made to me was not as onerous as she might have thought. The more I thought about the Mountain West committee on sexual assault policy, the better I liked the idea. Serving on a university committee dedicated to dealing with a major campus issue would give me exposure and experience. Besides, I was privately annoyed with Mountain West for taking so long to formulate a firm policy that protected the students, female and male. Maybe I could hurry things up. Other colleges and universities across the country were way ahead of us.

  Charlie met me at the door, jumping and running back and forth. He was hungry and I was late with his dinner. I should have asked Joe to come over and feed him while I was with the calculating Dean of the College of Economics.

  I gave Charlie his food and telephoned Joe.

  “Did Dean Thomas eat you alive?”

  “Actually, instead of me she had steak, rare. Almost bloody.”

  “Hardass, is she?”

  “It turned out better than I thought. I suspect she’s still not completely on my side for the dean’s job, but she needs me to help her on the committee to figure out our sexual assault policy.”

  “You’ll be good at that. You have a good mind for legal problems.” Joe had a sixth sense about when I could use a boost to my ego. Another one of the reasons I dated the guy. That, and besides The New York Times he read every morning, the man kept books of poetry on the bedside table in his apartment. “Helps me sleep when I have to sleep alone,” he’d said without a trace of sarcasm. I loved the idea he led an interior intellectual life. I also loved the idea that when he wasn’t with me, he slept alone. Or so I hoped.

  “How was your day, Detective Morgan?”

  “Long. I spent half of it tracking down the students in Jamie Congers’ classes who had been absent the first time I inquired. Then I went through the files my team had come up with on the man with the boots, and finally spent an hour observing two of my detectives testify in court against a local embezzler.”

  “Oh, I want to hear about the embezzler.” Joe’s job as chief of detectives in Landry was every bit as interesting as mine.

  “You will. I’ll tell you all about him.”

  “You’re amazing. Most cops never tell their dates anything about their work. Isn’t it against some rule or other?”

  “Not really. The press covers most trials so what I might say to you is
hardly confidential. And even if some of it were, I don’t mind telling you, because I trust you to keep your mouth shut when I ask.”

  My, how that warmed me up.

  Joe continued, “I also don’t mind telling you because you really want to hear about my work. Usually the women in a cop’s life don’t want to hear about police work—or the cop thinks they don’t want to hear. Most of what we do all day is either too grisly or too boring to interest women.”

  “Well, I do want to hear. Any other news on Jamie Congers?”

  “Not really. Essentially confirmation that she was nice, very pretty, a good student, and she didn’t have a boyfriend anyone knows about.”

  “Hmm. I kept hoping for a boyfriend.”

  “You’re a romantic, Red. Nice girls don’t let their grandfathers and roommates worry this much.”

  “Speaking of romantic…”

  “I’d love to. But I have another hour and a half to put in on a case report and I’m beat. How about I come over tomorrow night and make filet of sole Meuniere followed by awe-inspiring sex for dessert?”

  “You do know the way to a woman’s heart.”

  Joe and I discovered our attraction for one another soon after he was appointed case detective on the police investigation of the death of Henry Brooks. Our friendship transformed to romance and was great for a while, but complicated. We broke up when Joe thought he was losing his detective’s objectivity trying to solve Henry’s death.

  Well, that’s not quite all the truth. We broke up because he thought I was in love with someone else, but after a month or so of miserable separation, we got back together. Since then, we had been sort of dating and sort of circling each other. Some days I thought Joe would cave into his feelings for me and ask if he could move out of his small apartment into my much larger house. Other days, I wasn’t all that sure.

  At least Joe was not a cynic. When I needed him, Joe was the kindest and most considerate man I knew. Last summer, when I thought my father might be dying, Joe took an unofficial leave so he could accompany me back to the nursing home in Ohio. Thaddeus Solaris had suffered from Alzheimer’s for several years, a disease that had started soon after my mother drove her car into a tree and died. I was sure Dad blamed himself for her death, although he had tried everything possible to get my mother help for her drinking.