Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Bourne Morris

  Unlike Joe and most of my faculty, Sadie had not been pleased when I announced I was applying for the position of permanent dean of journalism. “A dean’s job absorbs your life. Too much.” Sadie’s husband had died two years ago, a few months after she retired. “The hours were long and the work hard, and it kept me from realizing the man I loved needed more from me,” she’d said. They had been planning a long-postponed second honeymoon in France when his heart gave out.

  “You know, Red, failing to get the dean’s job would not be the end of the world. You could go back into teaching.”

  “I know, and I do love teaching.”

  “Of course you love it, and you’re good at it. As a tenured professor, you are free to do your own work, your own way. University teachers share the satisfaction of famous performers and successful politicians. Few other professions pay us decent money to stand up in front of an audience and feel so confident in our own opinions, so sure that what we believe is true.”

  “You’re right, teaching is fun and I miss it. So not getting the dean’s job might not be such a bad thing.”

  Sadie was on a roll. “Think about it, dear Red. Every year in the fall you get to lead a new group of bright, young, unfinished minds into the thickets, through the jungles, and then out to the open vistas of greater understanding.”

  “Assuming they’ve put away their cell phones.”

  She was undeterred. “Come now, who else but a tenured professor can feel so certain her insights will always be valuable, her views still respected, her mind still sharp even when she’s older than dirt?”

  “All right. You can dispense with the rhetoric. I promise if I don’t get the dean’s job I’ll be thrilled. Nell and Joe may be a little disappointed in me, but I will view failure as a blessing.”

  “Which reminds me, how are things with Joe?” Sadie has a way of getting around to her real topic, however circuitous the path. She was worried that if I got the job as dean, it would interfere with my love life.

  “Joe’s fine. We’re fine. And he wants me to be the new dean of journalism.”

  “I’m sure that’s what he says.”

  “And, Sadie, my love, that’s what he means.”

  Sadie leaned back and smiled. “Very well. Have it your way. I know Joe Morgan is too confident a man to feel threatened by a successful woman. I’m just saying, relationships need nourishment and time together. But I’ll shut up about that. So, tell me about your time with the search committee. Is Bridget Thomas behaving herself?”

  “Actually, I think Bridget is moving toward liking me. And I know Bill Verden and at least three others seem favorable. The one who worries me most is the outside guy, Mark Froman.”

  Sadie grunted. “I know Mark Froman. He was a big donor to Liberal Arts before I became dean. Arrogant, self-important son of a bitch, as I recall.”

  “That’s him. He seems to think I am unqualified for this job. Too closely associated with last year’s troubles.”

  “Froman’s a misogynist and a predator.” Sadie resettled her slim body in her chair. “He thinks pretty women are for sex, not management. Certainly not the management of men, and most of your faculty are men.”

  “Oh my God. Did Froman hit on you?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m a good twenty years older than Froman. But he did harass my associate dean. Brought her to tears one time.”

  “Do you think it would help my cause if I went to bed with him?”

  Teasing Sadie was impossible to resist.

  She snorted a laugh. “That would guarantee you Mark Froman would see you simply as a conquest, but never as a leader. Now, what else is on your mind these days?”

  I told her about Jamie.

  Jamie

  Another day gone. No grandfather to the rescue. No weapons. No plan of escape. She was exhausted from housecleaning done late into the night and from worrying. She got little sleep during her daily enforced naps.

  And still there were no clues, much less explanations, from the man who had taken her. She had tried for conversation, especially more about his family. He sat mute and tense at the kitchen table.

  “I’ll tell you more someday,” he had finally said after her third attempt. “For now, more work and fewer inquiries would be appreciated.” He returned his gaze to his plate.

  She had found a paper clip in one of the kitchen drawers and smuggled it into her pocket. For once he hadn’t noticed. She thought she could work on the lock to her bedroom. It was deadbolt lock rather than a padlock. She had heard the bolt slide but not heard any clicking of a padlock every night and morning.

  After the man had locked her in for the night, she had stayed close to her door listening. A few minutes later, she heard the sound of his footsteps coming back upstairs and going down the hall. Then the opening and closing of a door.

  She assumed from the size of the downstairs rooms she had cleaned that there was at least one more bedroom, perhaps two, on the second floor.

  She resolved to work on the lock to her door the next morning after he had left for work. One way or another she was going to figure a way out of the house. Or find a telephone. Or find her handbag and her cell phone wherever he had hidden them. Her grandfather would be frantic. She was convinced he would be looking for her by now. But how was Wynan Congers, or any other policeman, supposed to find her?

  And the terror inside her went unabated. The tall man hadn’t done anything to her, but he could still do whatever he wished. And not knowing what he wanted, what he really wanted, scared the hell out of her.

  She wondered what would happen if she set the house on fire when she was cooking. If she did, the man would have to let them both outside. Wouldn’t he?

  Chapter 13

  The story of my life has been punctuated with violence. When I was nine, my mother got blind drunk, took a header down a flight of wooden stairs, and knocked herself out cold. My mother lived hard and died badly.

  After college, I got a job as a reporter with a metro newspaper and thought the excitement in my life would be derived less from my own adventures and more from the stories of other people’s episodes. About the time I thought my life might calm down and get ordinary, I started dating a man who liked rough sex, and one night, he punched me in the face. I punched back, with a heavy iron lamp base. Broke his nose.

  I fled from the abusive man and the busy newsroom and burrowed into the work of the academic. I got my PhD, became a professor and the associate dean of the school of journalism. Peace at last, I thought, until my dean was killed. After that, I worked like hell to make the school function again.

  That’s why I deeply resented Froman’s insinuations about the scandal at my school. It was over. The problems had been resolved. The university had moved on and all the faculty members at the journalism school were getting over it. Why couldn’t Froman? Why had he thought it so important to dredge up all those memories of death and betrayal?

  As you might imagine, I was not happy when Nell greeted me with: “Good morning. Mark Froman has asked if he can have a meeting with you at eleven this morning. He seemed quite insistent.”

  “Why? I’m done with all my search meetings. What does he want?”

  Nell’s brows rose, reminding me of Sadie’s opinion of Froman. “He didn’t say. Just that he needed time with you at eleven.”

  I wanted to say no. But Froman was an influential member of the search committee. It wasn’t just his vote that worried me. His negative attitude about my involvement in the school’s trouble could infect other’s votes. And I had heard he had the ear of the new provost. So I said to Nell, “Call him back and say eleven is fine.”

  I regretted my decision the moment Froman appeared in the doorway of my office. Not too many men in Landry, Nevada wore suits that must have cost a thousand dollars. He took off his jacket and draped it over one of my chairs as if m
y office was his. His dark silk shirt was tight over his chest and arms. Okay, impressive. He must have spent several hours a day working on those pectorals and deltoids.

  Nell brought in coffee. We exchanged guarded pleasantries.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Solaris.”

  “Happy to oblige, Mr. Froman, but you can call me Red.”

  “And you can call me Mark.” His was an audible inhale and a toothy smile. “Now then, both of us have tight schedules, so I’ll get to the point. I understand you have a new problem in the school of journalism.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I’m told a female student is missing, possibly a kidnapping or a homicide.”

  My turn for an audible inhale. “And where did you hear this?”

  “Let’s say I have friends in the Landry Police department who share my concern for campus safety.”

  That wouldn’t be Joe, but Wynan Congers had spoken to several in the department. All Joe’s colleagues knew that Wynan’s granddaughter was missing.

  “Well, I don’t think we can assume either kidnapping or homicide. The young woman has been away and unaccounted for since Monday, but the police investigating her absence have not yet concluded that any crime has been committed.”

  Froman was too tall for the slender chair that faced the other side of my desk. His legs sprawled out and he seemed uncomfortable. “I hope for everyone’s sake you are right. But perhaps you can tell me what you know so far.”

  “Excuse me, Mark, but how does this matter concern you? I am not sure why you need to hear what I know so far.”

  He frowned. “Because you are a candidate for the leadership of this school, a school that has known considerable trouble and tragedy over the past year. I need to know if you are handling this latest matter effectively.”

  I fought back my rising temper. This was none of his business, and I was damned if I was going to let him interrogate me. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice even. “I am handling this. I am working with the Landry Police. The young woman’s absence is being thoroughly investigated.”

  “And what have you and the police learned so far?”

  I put my hands on my desk and pressed the wood to keep them steady. “Only that she is somewhere off campus. Her car is gone, and she left no word with anyone.”

  “Is this kind of absence commonplace among journalism students?”

  “Mark, back off. You know from your own college days that students take off on little vacations from their classes. We try to treat them as adults rather than children and, as I am sure you know, they are very particular about their privacy.”

  “Indeed. But are there no clues to the girl’s whereabouts? Was anyone seen with her last Monday?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “And you don’t believe she has met with any sort of foul play?”

  “For crying out loud, there’s no evidence of any play, foul or otherwise. She’s not attending her classes, nor is she at her home. But that doesn’t mean something sinister has happened. She may’ve just taken off.” I wondered what would happen to my candidacy if I gave in to my rising rage and ordered Mark Froman to leave my office.

  Froman frowned and gazed at the wall. He seemed to be thinking about something, but clearly not something he was willing to share. “So she’s just gone. Is that it?”

  “That’s all we know so far.” Not a chance in hell I was going to tell Mark Froman about the suspect in muddy boots.

  Froman pushed back his chair. “Well, thank you, Red. I’m sorry more isn’t known, but as you say, these students are adults and we have to be cautious about meddling in their private lives.”

  He picked up his jacket carefully, showing me the elaborate lining. We shook hands and he left me wondering why he had insisted on knowing about Jamie Congers, and whether or not I should be more suspicious of his reasons for inquiring. I made a mental note to find out more about Mark Froman and why he cared so much about the absent Jamie Congers.

  “Maybe you’re the one Mark Froman cares about,” said Sadie, thirty minutes later at lunch at Gormley’s Grill. “Maybe the girl’s absence just provided him an excuse to come to your office and throw his weight around. Impress you. Perhaps he’s planning to hit on you after all.”

  “Damn. Vote against me and then try to lure me into bed, I suppose.”

  “You forget how attractive you are.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t particularly want Mark Froman to notice my looks. I want him to notice my mind and my experience.”

  “I told you before. He’s rich and arrogant and not especially sensitive or modern in his views of women. He’s a throwback.”

  “Where does his money come from?”

  “Froman’s father once owned two gold mines and half the ranchland between here and Reno.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, Mark lives in a big house a few miles outside of town, raises thoroughbred horses, and bullies the board members of any number of non-profits.”

  “And, in his spare time, messes around with university business.”

  “He likes to be asked to serve on university committees. It makes him feel important.”

  “Is he married?”

  “He was married once, some time ago. Beautiful debutante from Texas. She left Mark after a year of marriage, got a generous alimony settlement, and moved back to Dallas.”

  “Does he have a problem with women?”

  “More likely he has a problem with his zipper.”

  Jamie

  Jamie was sweating. The paper clip was slippery in her hand. The lock was stubborn. She’d been working the clip into it for twenty minutes since the man left. She’d waited until she heard his car pull away and then straightened out the clip and wrapped the end in toilet paper to protect her fingers. She worked intently, praying to succeed.

  And then the lower lock clicked open. Cautiously, she grasped the doorknob. She hadn’t heard the deadbolt slide this morning. Maybe, if she was very lucky, he’d forgotten the deadbolt. He’d seemed in a hurry at breakfast and he’d practically dragged her upstairs to lock her in. Hoping he’d been careless, she turned the doorknob. The door opened.

  The upstairs hall stretched out in front of her.

  A door to her left was partially open. She looked inside. An empty crib and a wooden rocking chair were centered on the bare floor. Dark curtains hung at the windows. Against the wall that separated this room from her bathroom was a sink embedded in a counter just large enough to have been a changing table. This must have been a nursery. She explored it quickly, wanting to move on. She found nothing to use as a tool or weapon and no clues about the room’s previous occupant.

  She went back into the hall. Another door was closed at the end. Only one door suggested it led to a suite or a room much larger than hers. Given the size of the house, she presumed a large room, as wide as the house itself, would be behind the door. His room. She had heard him walk down the hall every night and had heard that door open and close.

  She walked tentatively down the hall. Her breathing quickened with excitement. Maybe her handbag would be in that front bedroom. Her heart raced, as if she expected him to return any minute. When she reached the door to what she thought was “his room,” she turned the knob. It was locked. She shook the door. Heavy, immovable. The exteriors of two deadbolt locks stared at her. One was above the doorknob, the other near the top of the door, hard to reach and probably impossible to open with the paperclip. This would take a greater effort that would require more skill and more time. Time she was not sure she had.

  She decided to stop fussing with his bedroom door and take better advantage of the freedom she had gained so far. The rest of the house might be accessible. The possibility of escape drove her down the stairs and into the kitchen. She headed for the knife drawer. The knive
s were gone. He had hidden them somewhere. But the heavy skillet was still on the stove. She could break the glass in a window. She grabbed the skillet and headed into the parlor where the windows were barred but larger. She stared at the window. Even if she broke the glass the bars were too thick and too close together for her to squeeze through. Breaking the window would only make sense if she saw someone outside who could see her and hear her screams. Otherwise, all the broken glass would do was tell him she had escaped from her bedroom.

  There had to be another way. Skillet still in hand, she tested the exterior door in the kitchen. The large coded padlock held it firm. She turned back to the downstairs hall. It was painted dark yellow like the kitchen and led to two other doors. The one on the left led to the parlor. She assumed the door on the right side must lead to another room opposite but similar in size to the parlor.

  At the end of the hall, a massive wooden door looked like it would be the front door of the house. Solid. No windows on either side. She shook it and heard the bang of a heavy lock outside. Another padlock.

  She turned back to the door on the right side. It was closed, but not locked. She entered a completely empty room. Not a trace of furniture. The walls showed patches of lighter paint where pictures may have hung. But no pictures, no paintings. She walked around the empty room, testing the barred window. A small bathroom was off to one side. No towels, no shower curtain. Dust on the sink. The same wooden toilet seat as hers carved with the same word, “Obey.”

  The air was musty and dust was layered on the floor and the windowsills. She had not been asked to clean this room, so perhaps that meant he didn’t use it at all. No footprints in the dust on the floor suggested he didn’t enter it often.

  She explored the walls. The window looked out on the same scene as her bedroom, but the lower view showed what looked like the edge of a lake just barely visible through the trees.