by Bill Crider
“Because Coy was sleeping in that building illegally, that’s why,” A. B. D. said.
“What?” Sally said, though she wasn’t surprised, considering what Douglas Young had told her the day before.
“It’s true,” Troy said. “I’ve known for a week.”
Sally looked at Coy, who looked away, but not before he nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sally asked Troy.
“I didn’t think it was that important. There are some things that a division chair shouldn’t be bothered about.”
“Coy?” Sally said. “Since I’m already being bothered, why don’t you tell me what was going on?”
Coy still didn’t look in her direction, preferring to stare at the nearly colorless toes of his shoes.
“I’ve separated from my wife,” he said. “I didn’t have enough money to stay in a motel, so I thought I might find a place somewhere around here. There’s no one in those art labs at night, so I stayed there. I didn’t bother anyone or touch any of the art equipment. I’ve been showering in the gym in the mornings.”
“But what about your other teaching jobs?” Sally asked.
“This is a sort of central location,” Coy said. “I’ve been able to get to them more easily than when I was at home, actually.”
“Who cares about how he gets to his jobs?” A. B. D. asked. “What does that have to do with anything? He killed Val, and now he’s trying to blame me.”
“You were there in his office,” Coy said. “You were yelling.”
A. B. D. twisted out of Troy’s grasp and grabbed the mail-basket. He raised it over his head, prepared to strike.
“All right, I was there. I was trying to get Val to admit that he didn’t need that new chair! And he didn’t!”
Troy made a grab for the basket, but A. B. D. danced away. Troy banged his knee against the table and hopped around holding it. Just then, Eric Desmond came through the door. It didn’t take him long to size things up.
“Drop the basket, Johnson,” he said.
A. B. D. obeyed immediately. The basket clonked on the floor at his feet.
“I had three instructors and five students beating down my door about a fight in here,” Desmond said. “What the hell’s going on?”
Sally explained as quickly as she could. A. B. D. scowled at her the whole time, while Coy stared at his shoes.
“I think we’d better go down to my office,” Desmond said.
Troy stopped hopping around and limped over to join them.
“Not you, Beauchamp,” Desmond said. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”
“As a matter of fact,” Troy said, “I don’t.”
“Well, go translate some Chaucer then,” Desmond said. “The rest of you, come with me.”
Sally was the last one out of the mailroom. She looked back over her shoulder at Troy, who was clearly crushed at being excluded from the juiciest session of the year. Nothing pained him more than to think that there was something going on that he didn’t know about.
“Tell me what happens,” he called after Sally, who smiled, shrugged, and let the door swing shut behind her.
25
“I don’t think there’s any law against sleeping in the campus buildings,” Desmond said after both A. B. D. and Webster had told their stories and he had asked them a number of questions. “As long as it doesn’t happen again, we’ll overlook it. And as for what just went on in the mailroom, I think we can just forget it ever happened, unless Mr. Webster wants to file some kind of complaint, which I’m sure he doesn’t. Right, Mr. Webster?”
Coy nodded vigorously. “Right.”
“And I’m sure Mr. Johnson regrets what happened and will make sure nothing like it ever happens again. Right, Mr. Johnson?”
A. B. D. wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as Coy had been. In fact, he looked downright recalcitrant, and it didn’t appear that he was going to answer.
Desmond said again, “Right, Mr. Johnson?” in a tone implying that recalcitrance would not be tolerated.
A. B. D. took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and finally answered, “Right.”
“Good.” Desmond said, with a smile that didn’t show even a hint of teeth. “Now, why don’t we all get back to our jobs and quit frightening the students? They might get the idea that it’s not safe to go to school here, and we wouldn’t want that. After all, they pay our salaries.”
Coy and A. B. D. stood up. Sally, who couldn’t believe what was happening, didn’t move.
“You two go on and get out of here,” Desmond said to Coy and A. B. D. “I want to talk to Dr. Good.”
Coy hung back until A. B. D. had cleared the doorway; then he followed him reluctantly.
When they were gone, Sally said to Desmond, “Would you mind telling me what’s going on here?”
“Problem solving,” Desmond replied with another of his thin smiles. “Those two had a problem, and I solved it. They might not be the best of friends, but you can be sure there won’t be any more fighting.”
Sally had seen the word flabbergasted in print numerous times, but she’d never truly understood what it meant until that moment.
“Fighting? You’re worried about fighting? What about murder? Those two were admittedly in the art gallery late yesterday afternoon. A. B. D. was yelling at Val, and there was an angry scene. Don’t you think you should investigate a little more thoroughly?”
Desmond leaned back in his chair. He didn’t appear to have a worry in the world. It was as if Val’s murder had never happened, or, if it had, it was now solved and there was no need to discuss it further.
“You heard what Webster said. There was a commotion, sure, but after that, Johnson left the building. There was no scuffle, no noise of any other kind. Johnson didn’t kill Hurley.”
“Did Coy check to see?” Sally asked. Then she answered herself. “He says he didn’t. So how do you know what happened in that office?”
“I don’t know,” Desmond said, unconcerned. “But I can draw an inference. No noise, no scuffle, equals no dead man.”
“A. B. D. could have come back later, when Coy wasn’t there,” Sally said. “For that matter, what about Coy? He could have killed Val to keep Val from telling anyone that Coy was sleeping in the building.”
“We don’t even know that Hurley knew what Coy was doing. And if he did, it would be crazy to kill someone to keep it a secret. Webster’s a little weird, I’ll give you that, and his clothes are terrible, but he’s not crazy. And, as I’ve said before, this isn’t my investigation. It’s Weems’s job now.”
Desmond smiled his thin smile as if to say there was no use in continuing the conversation.
But Sally wasn’t going to give up that easily. She had a lot more to say.
“What if Coy knows more than he’s telling? What if someone else was in that building and Coy knows it?”
Desmond sighed. “He just sat right here and told us his story. You heard him. He says that he had an evening class on another campus last night. He left around four-thirty so he could get a hamburger on the way.”
“Someone went into that building and took the painting of the goat,” Sally said. “Have you forgotten about that?”
“I told you earlier today not to worry about the painting. We don’t know that anyone took it, but even if someone did, there’s no connection with Val’s death.”
Sally didn’t try to conceal her amazement. “You can’t be sure of that. The murder might be Weems’s job, but the painting’s yours.”
Desmond leaned forward, no longer relaxed. He wasn’t smiling now.
“Are you trying to tell me that I don’t know how to do my job?” he asked.
“No,” Sally said. “I’m sure you’re very good at your job. But I don’t understand how you can just ignore what Coy’s told you about A. B. D. And I don’t see how you can say that the painting doesn’t have anything to do with Val’s murder. It seems to me that it most certainly does, and I think you should
report it to Detective Weems. If it’s his job, he should have this new information.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Desmond said.
Sally thought that you didn’t have to be an English teacher to hear the ambiguity in that statement.
“Especially the part about the painting,” she said.
“Why?” Desmond asked.
“Well,” Sally said, and then she paused, because she really didn’t have an answer.
Desmond relaxed again. “You see what I mean? If the painting’s gone, and I’m not saying that it is, anyone could have taken it. A faculty member who admired it, a student who thought it would look good in his apartment, anybody.”
Sally thought about it. Desmond had a point, but there were some possibilities he hadn’t mentioned.
What about an administrator who didn’t want the painting to cause any more trouble?
What about a certain car dealer who suddenly changed his mind and decided the jury picked to decide the artwork’s fate would not be fair? What if he then thought he’d show the painting to his own handpicked jury?
What might have happened if either the administrator or the car dealer had gotten into an argument with Val? Would someone have lost his temper?
It seemed likely to Sally, but it was obvious that, other than she herself, no one cared.
Well, if Desmond wouldn’t investigate, she’d just have to do something about it on her own. She wasn’t afraid of Roy Don Talon, no matter how much money he paid in taxes, and she didn’t want to see Ralph Thompson take the blame for the murders of Val and Tammi if he wasn’t the killer. Everyone else seemed quite happy to do that, however.
Desmond looked at her as if he were reading her mind.
“You wouldn’t be considering doing any more meddling, would you?” he said. “You’ve already caused enough trouble around here. Stumbling over dead bodies isn’t exactly the way to get in good with the administration.”
“I’m not trying to get in good with anyone,” Sally said. “I’m just trying to get people to do their jobs.”
“I’ll do my job,” Desmond said. He stood up. “Weems will do his. You do yours, and we’ll all be happy.”
Sally didn’t like being dismissed, but she didn’t see any point in talking to Desmond any longer. He wasn’t going to listen. She stood up and smiled at him.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
Desmond didn’t look as if he believed her, but he said, “That’s good. I’m sure that’s the way Dr. Fieldstone would want it.”
Sally saw that as an implied threat, but she didn’t say anything. She just turned and left the office.
She could feel Desmond’s eyes on her back all the way out.
26
Sally went to her office, sat down, and stared glumly at the student papers strewn over her desk. She really needed to grade them. Her students were beginning to wonder if they were ever going to get them back.
But Sally couldn’t get her mind off the murders. She could understand the way Weems and Desmond were thinking; Ralph Thompson, enraged by what had happened, killed his wife and then went to the school and killed Val.
Or vice versa.
That was the simple answer. It tied everything up in a neat package and gave the investigation one person to concentrate on. But it bothered Sally that Weems and Desmond were ignoring all kinds of important things, of which the missing painting was only one.
Some of them she hadn’t even mentioned to Desmond.
There was the forged purchase order, for example. She hadn’t wanted to tell Weems about it, but she had.
Then there were those signatures showing that Ellen Baldree and Jorge Rodriguez had visited the art gallery. Either one of them could have gotten into an argument with Val, Ellen over past grievances or Jorge over current ones. And the argument could have gotten out of hand.
Coy Webster might know. Sally was almost sure he was hiding something, though she had no idea what it was.
Not that she blamed him for not wanting to talk about it. His position at HCC was far from secure, just like his position in the rest of his life. He was probably regretting ever having said anything to Troy Beauchamp, but he shouldn’t blame himself for that. Troy was a master of worming information out of people, even those with more gumption than Coy.
Sally was about to reach for a Hershey bar when the telephone rang. She picked it up and answered.
“Please hold for Dr. Fieldstone,” said Eva Dillon.
“Shit,” Sally said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry, Eva. I didn’t mean anything personal.”
Eva laughed quietly. “I know. I’ll put Dr. Fieldstone on.”
There was a short wait, and Dr. Fieldstone said, “Dr. Good?”
A bad sign, of course. Fieldstone wasn’t in a good mood. Sally was having a strong feeling of déjà vu.
“Yes?” she said.
“Could you please come over to my office for a moment?”
The feeling of déjà vu got stronger. After the two meetings in Desmond’s office, Sally was beginning to feel like the soldier in Catch-22, the one who saw everything twice.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Fieldstone said, and hung up.
“Shit,” Sally said again.
* * *
This time, there was no one else in Fieldstone’s office. He stood up when Sally came in and asked her to take a seat.
“And then we can have a talk,” he said.
Sally didn’t like the way he was avoiding her eyes, but she sat down and waited to see what he had to say.
Instead of sitting down himself, Fieldstone walked around to the front of his desk and sat on the edge of it. The casual approach. He didn’t look comfortable, but Sally couldn’t tell whether that was because of his position or because of what he wanted to talk to her about.
“I believe you have some idea that our police department isn’t up to the job of investigating Val Hurley’s murder,” he said finally.
Sally wasn’t sure which police department he meant.
“Local or campus?” she asked.
“I’m referring to Eric Desmond.”
So now Sally knew who’d ratted her out.
She said, “As I understand it, they aren’t part of the investigation. That’s up to the local police.”
“But I also have reason to believe you suspect that Detective Weems is on the wrong track.”
Sally didn’t know what to say, so she just kept her mouth shut.
Fieldstone tried to wait her out, but he didn’t have a chance. Sally had waited out students for much longer periods of silence than Fieldstone could ever tolerate.
“Desmond and Weems know what they’re doing,” Fieldstone finally said. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood in front of her. “They’re accomplished professionals, and they have access to certain … facts that you don’t know. So I hope you’ll let them do their jobs and not interfere.”
Why was everyone so sure she would interfere? Sally wondered. Did they all think of her as some dangerously meddlesome woman?
“I know that some things seem hard to understand right now,” Fieldstone went on. “But I’m sure that later on they’ll all become clear.”
Sally didn’t get it. Was Fieldstone implying that there was some complicated plot that she didn’t know about?
Fieldstone tried perching on the desk again, but the casual look didn’t suit him at all.
“There are certain … matters that could have some effect on the school’s reputation,” he said. “I’m sure you understand what I mean.”
Sally thought it was time to say something, so she told him that she didn’t understand at all.
“I’m sure you don’t,” Fieldstone said, contradicting what he’d said five seconds before. Maybe he’d been secretly reading Walt Whitman. “But whet
her you understand or not doesn’t matter. You can be sure that everything is under control. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
This time Sally thought she did. “You’re saying that I shouldn’t be questioning things.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your freedom of speech. I hope you don’t think that.”
Sally certainly did think that, and she was determined not to make things easy on Fieldstone.
“It sounds that way to me,” she said.
“Well, it shouldn’t. I wish I could say more, but at the moment I really can’t. You do know that you can trust me, don’t you?”
Sally smiled, knowing what someone like A. B. D. Johnson would think about trusting an administrator.
“Of course I trust you,” she lied.
Fieldstone looked relieved. “Fine. Fine. I knew you’d understand. I’m glad we had this little talk.”
Sally had lost count of how many times Fieldstone had reversed his field, but she knew it didn’t matter. Their “little talk” had done the opposite of what Fieldstone had hoped. It had made her even more certain than ever that something funny was going on. She just wished she could figure out what it was.
She started to get up, but Fieldstone waved her back to her chair.
“We’re not finished,” he said. “Someone else is going to join us.”
He picked up his phone, pressed a button, and said, “Ms. Dillon, could you send Ms. Willis and Dean Naylor in?”
Shit, Sally thought.
27
Dean Naylor ushered Amy Willis into Fieldstone’s office.
While Naylor looked as calm and suave as ever, Amy looked even worse than she had the last time Sally had seen her. She was a bundle of twitches, and her hair was wild. Her clothes looked as if she might have put them on after washing them and then giving them no more than a couple of minutes in the “air fluff” cycle.
Naylor got Amy into a chair, where she crossed and uncrossed her legs four times before Naylor even had time to greet Sally. Sally didn’t blame Amy for her nervousness. She was about to get scorched, if she hadn’t been already, for the five-thousand-dollar purchase order.
Fieldstone didn’t go for the casual approach this time. He sat behind his desk, looking as serious as a federal judge, and took the P.O. from a desk drawer.
