Red Queen's Run

by Morris, Bourne

  I kept still. Clearly Joe was lost in his story.

  “That night I told him about the day my mother died and how I found my dad lying on the kitchen floor after we came home from the hospital, just staring at the ceiling and refusing to get up until the next morning.” Joe took a sip from his wine glass.

  I kept still.

  “He was supposed to be my best man. And he was the one friend I went to when I needed to vent.”

  Joe picked up the spoon, turned to the stove and resumed stirring the sauce. “Until I met you,” he said to the wall behind the stove, “I didn’t think I would ever find another person I could really talk to.”

  That picked me up. I resolved to learn how to shut up more often.

  After dinner, Joe went into my living room to watch a game on television and I went into my home office. In preparation for the meeting Stoddard and I planned to have with George, Edwin, and Simon, I had taken home the still unopened suitcase Michael Brooks had left in my office. Maybe there was something in Henry’s papers that would help me.

  To my surprise, when I opened the suitcase at home, I discovered copies of the school’s personnel files. Several had notes scribbled in the margins, Brooks’ own private musings about his faculty, irreverent and in some cases irrelevant. Such as “Ardith is too uptight—needs to get laid.” Really, Henry. One cryptic note on Edwin Cartwell’s file read, “Get Sterling at Arkansas to recruit him for chair.” So that had been Brooks’ plan. Get Edwin to accept another more prestigious position at a university back east, and then steal the man’s wife. Mary hadn’t mentioned this plot.

  Simon Gorshak’s file was the first one I read thoroughly. Under marital status he had checked “single” and no one was listed as an emergency contact. There was no written reference to Henry’s request for Simon’s resignation. The comments about Simon’s teaching were milder than I expected, given what I knew of Henry’s true opinion. As I read though the draft of Simon’s annual evaluation, I suspected Henry had caved into Simon’s threats and was planning to give Simon a satisfactory rating. I put the file to one side so I could show it to Joe.

  My file was at the bottom of the pile and offered a provocative note. Near the end of the marginal scribbles, I read, “If it weren’t for M, I would like to have a go at R.” What a sexy beast Henry had been. I was glad his children had left these files for me to examine. Phyllis and Max’s files were missing and I made a note to ask Nell about them.

  The folders had piled up on my couch and, by midnight, I had read as much as I wanted to for one evening. As I started to put the folders back in the small suitcase Michael Brooks had given me, I noticed a yellow slip of paper on the bottom, with the scrawled words, “Fucking thief. This warrants punishment. Call Shaw tomorrow.” It was Henry’s writing, but who was it about? Had it fallen out of one of the files? And, who was Shaw?

  I showed the slip to Joe.

  He stared at it. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know, but Henry wrote it and must have been angry with someone. Maybe this is a motive for someone.”

  “Someone on the faculty?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure.”

  “Could it be Mary Cartwell?” Joe turned off the television. “I dated a lady in Chicago who stole from me.”

  “You haven’t mentioned her before. Were you serious about her?”

  “Not after money went missing from my wallet and some credit card problems turned up.”

  “What did you do?”

  Joe gave me one of his long looks. He was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and looked very appetizing. I wondered if I really wanted a long conversation about another woman.

  “I turned her in,” he said quietly. “My partner arrested her.”

  “Josiah Morgan. What a rat. Did she love you?”

  “I doubt it. Turns out my wallet wasn’t her first theft.”

  “Did you love her?” My view of Joe was taking on a new dimension. Some tough emotional muscle inside this man.

  “No, I liked her a lot. But she was, as Henry Brooks might have said, a fucking thief.”

  Chapter 18

  Three days before winter break we held the morning meeting with Stoddard and the three faculty members who had maligned Larry Coleman.

  My objective was to persuade George, Edwin, and Simon to formally apologize to Larry in front of the whole faculty at the last meeting of the semester. I wasn’t sure it would stop the grievance proceeding but it might stop the gossip.

  It also might convince President Lewis to hold off on further thoughts of receivership.

  Stoddard arrived first, bundled in an enormous camel hair coat and pale blue scarf. His big cheeks were bright with cold. “Coffee?” he gasped.

  Nell was right behind him with a tray of mugs and milk. “Dr. Cartwell says he’s running late,” said Nell, putting the tray down on my round table. Nell wasn’t good at concealing her contempt. “Do you want me to see if the others will be on time?”

  “Tell them the provost has another meeting this morning and will be very disappointed if they miss this one,” I said.

  “Passive aggression. The hallmark of the dysfunctional group,” said Stoddard, sitting down at the table and pouring milk into his coffee.

  A cough from the doorway announced Simon.

  He stared at Stoddard, his gray eyes as cold as the morning outside. “So you think we’re dysfunctional,” he said, taking a chair for himself.

  “I do,” Stoddard replied. “Also self-destructive.”

  The predictable stomach pain started. This was not going the way I had hoped.

  If Stoddard antagonized Simon further, the likelihood of an apology to Larry Coleman seemed remote.

  George entered, silent for once. He poured himself coffee, took a sip and looked steadily at the provost. “What brings you here to our little journalism school this frosty morning?”

  Before Stoddard could reply, I stood up and said, as calmly as possible, “We are here to discuss the unfortunate campaign you two, along with Edwin, have been waging against Larry Coleman.”

  “He should not be tenured. We asked for your support on this,” said Simon.

  “And you did not get my support,” I said. “You will recall, I said if you did anything to subvert the process, which you seem to have done, that Larry Coleman would file a grievance, which he has done.”

  “I look forward to making our case to a university grievance committee,” said Simon.

  “And if the media gets curious, I would be happy to accommodate them,” said George.

  Silence. Edwin entered while we were all contemplating the next step. “Sorry to be late,” he said.

  “You are here in time to hear the most important part,” I said. “The president and the provost are considering putting the school of journalism into receivership.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” asked George, as usual uninformed and uncertain about academic procedures.

  The pain sharpened. “It means we would lose our status as an independent school and be put under the management of the College of Liberal Arts.”

  “That’s preposterous,” boomed George. “We would lose all our benefactors, starting with me.”

  “You’re being silly, Meredith,” said Edwin. “Philip Lewis would never think of doing such a thing.”

  “Never,” echoed Simon.

  Stoddard remained silent with his hand under his chin as if forcing himself to remain quiet. As had happened before, the pain eased. I was beginning to believe that if I was willing to confront my opponents, my digestive system would cooperate. Maybe courage was returning.

  I took a deep breath. “President Lewis has told me he would indeed do such a thing. I am the one trying to talk him out of it.”

  The three of them swiveled to the provost. “Your dean is right
,” Stoddard said.

  “On what grounds would we be put into receivership?” asked Edwin.

  Stoddard leaned in. “On the grounds that journalism can no longer justify its independence. Your fighting has spilled out into your classrooms. You have made the atmosphere so toxic the school is veering toward the unmanageable.”

  “It’s our business,” said George. “No one else’s.”

  Stoddard barely glanced at him. “Not exclusively your business, since you were stupid enough to give an interview to the student paper. Not since your comments about Coleman have occasioned malicious and unprofessional gossip and involved his grad students. Now, thanks to you, it’s everyone’s business. Particularly since you three are facing a grievance hearing that will spread the gossip, further discredit the school and, quite probably, all of you.”

  Edwin sighed. “And how do we avoid these unhappy prospects?”

  “I would start by listening to the advice of your dean,” said Stoddard. “She’s trying to make peace among you and she’s facing a major re-accreditation visit next fall. Believe me, if you lose your accreditation, there’s not much sympathy for this school maintaining its independence.”

  Stoddard rose and walked over to the coat rack. “Meredith’s fighting for the school. Consider helping her.” Simon and Edwin followed Stoddard to the elevator. I could hear their voices protesting to the provost.

  After the others had left, George Weinstein lingered in the doorway and then came in and closed the door behind him.

  “The meeting’s over, George,” I said. “I have another appointment.”

  “Cancel it,” he said, standing in the middle of my office with his big hands clasped in front of him. His face was red and his eyes were beady with anger. “Now then, sit down and be very quiet while I acquaint you with a little reality.”

  He looked enraged and I was nervous about the closed door. Should I shout for Nell or tough it out with him?

  “For starters, remember you are the interim dean, not the elected dean.”

  “I know that, George.” I was trying very hard not to sound angry or frightened.

  “Well, act like you know it. You can’t go running to Stoddard and Lewis every time someone disagrees with you.” George leaned on the chair that faced my desk. Sweat beads had broken out on his face. “You can’t keep giving the administration the impression that the school is dysfunctional just so you can get your own way.”

  “I don’t think I’m the one giving the impression, George...”

  “Indeed you are. You are creating problems. You are behaving like a whining teenager and it’s doing harm to the school.” George’s voice had risen and I wondered if Nell could hear.

  “Lady, no one harms this school. Not while I can prevent it. No one puts us into receivership. No one. I’m not going to work in some pissant school that’s just a department of a larger college. I came here to work in an independent school of journalism. And, that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

  “George, stop yelling at me.”

  “Then stop interrupting and listen. Meredith, I’m close to two members of the board of regents who govern this university and I am a personal friend of the governor’s. I can get you fired. I know a lot of important people in this state and, if need be, I’ll call on them. You may have won this round, but I will mow you down if you ever pull another stunt like this.”

  “Mow me down?”

  “You bet your sweet ass, I’ll mow you down. Remember that.”

  He wheeled and went out the door before I could think of what to say in response. I sat down, deep-breathing to calm myself down.

  “Dean Solaris?” Nell was standing in the door. “May I have a minute?”

  “Sure, Nell, come on in.” I was grateful to see her solemn face. “Please call me Red,” I said for the tenth time since she had become my assistant.

  Nell took a deep breath. “Red, I heard George. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but...”

  “Sorry you had to put up with that, Nell. But you know as well as anyone how difficult George can be.”

  “More than difficult.” Another deep breath. “I think there’s something you should know about him.”

  “Oh?”

  Nell cast her eyes down. Then she looked directly at me, and pulled a chair close to my desk. She smoothed her gray curls with her fingers. “I heard something about George years ago before you came,” she said.

  “Let’s have it, Nell. This seems to be my day for difficult information.”

  “My sister’s a nurse, you know.”

  I nodded.

  “She told me one night some years ago that George’s father-in-law had been admitted to her ward.” Third deep breath. “The man was in his eighties and had been severely beaten. Bruises all over, two black eyes and a broken nose.”

  “Good Lord. Beaten? By whom?”

  “Well, the father-in-law was living with George and his wife. I guess he had moved in after the mother-in-law died.”

  “Did he say George had beaten him?”

  “Not exactly. And, a day or so later, when he was able to talk to the police, the old man told them it had been an intruder. But he couldn’t describe the intruder.”

  “Maybe it was the truth.”

  “My sister didn’t believe it. She said the day George came to collect his father-in-law and take him home, the old man wept and pleaded with her not to let George in the room. But the doctor said the old man was suffering from dementia and to ignore him and let George take him home.”

  “Did she ever see George’s father-in-law again?”

  Back to the fussing with her hair. “No. The old man died a month later.”

  “And you and your sister think George beat him?”

  “My sister does. And, Red, I tell you this only to make you careful of George. I’ve seen him angry. You must not be alone with him and you must not trust him.”

  When Joe telephoned that evening, I greeted him with, “Any chance you can get evidence against George Weinstein for Henry’s murder?”

  I poured myself a second glass of wine and told him about my scene with George and his threat to “mow me down.”

  “Sorry, Red. I don’t have any strong evidence pointing to George. But, I’d be happy to go punch him in the nose if that would help.”

  “George was so loud and so threatening, all I could think of afterward was what he might have done to Henry.”

  “Regrettably he has an alibi for that Sunday. He and his wife were at a dinner party in Reno and arrived at six o’clock according to their host. The medical examiner estimates Henry died between five and five thirty.”

  I inhaled and took another sip. “So George would’ve had to kill Henry and then jump into a car and drive incredibly fast to get to Reno by six.”

  “Drive to Reno through a snowstorm if you recall,” said Joe. “But cheer up, alibis sometimes fall apart. The host who provided the alibi was his old college roommate and may have a faulty memory, or Henry may have been killed sooner. We won’t take George off the list just yet, especially since he’s been such a bastard to you.”

  “Why am I not more relieved?”

  “Because he threatened you, Red. And, you’re right, anyone who threatens you may have threatened Henry and may have killed Henry.”

  “There’s more,” I said, and I told Joe about George’s father-in-law.

  “Jesus. Be careful of him.”

  “Looks like we have Simon and George both as suspects?”

  “And Edwin. And maybe someone we haven’t considered yet.”

  “I thought Edwin was off the list.”

  “No one is off the list. Henry was sleeping with Edwin’s wife and we only have her word that he didn’t know. The fact that he reported the death could be due more to cleverness than innocence. Simon was wor
ried Henry would find a way to fire him and refuses to tell us where he was that Sunday. And George...well, he has a bad temper and may be violent.”

  I hung up and decided I wasn’t hungry for supper. I poured a glass of wine and went upstairs to take a shower. When I was putting on my robe, the doorbell rang. Who the hell? It was after nine. My hands shook as I opened my bedroom window and looked down at the front door. It was Joe.

  “I thought I would come over and make sure you’re okay,” he said and walked in and went straight into my kitchen. He was wearing a dark green sweatshirt and jeans and carrying a large padded bag.

  “I cooked lasagna and thought you could use some nourishment.” He produced a flat covered dish from the bag.

  My kitchen is small but efficient. Pale marble countertops and maple cabinets. I keep it neat.

  As I watched, he turned on my oven to three hundred degrees, opened the cupboard and got out a baking sheet to warm up a loaf of French bread.

  “You amaze me sometimes. You actually know how to find whatever you need in my kitchen.”

  “I’m a detective,” he said.

  “I should dry my hair.”

  “Don’t spend too much time on your hair.” His voice was husky.

  I hurried upstairs, rapidly scrubbed my teeth and damp dried my hair and pulled it back off my face. The dinner was ready when I returned.

  We ate in silence.

  Then he said, “A professor goes duck hunting.”

  Here we go. I started to smile as he continued.

  “The professor shoots a duck and it falls on the other side of a fence. So, the professor climbs the fence and goes to pick up the duck. But then a farmer appears and says, ‘This is my land and that’s my duck.’ So the professor says, ‘But I shot the duck.’ And the farmer, who is big and beefy, stares down the professor and says, ‘This is my land and that’s my duck. But I tell you how we’ll decide who gets the duck. We’ll take turns. I’ll kick you in the balls. Then you kick me in the balls and whoever lasts longest owns the duck.’”