"Could be," she noted, "but I can't believe Mitchell would kill Charlotte because they disagreed over who should get tenure."
"Stranger things have happened," he said, looking momentarily past her.
“And Shoop told me that they found out that Charlotte was reading a dissertation on addiction by some guy named Culver on the computer screen when she was murdered.”
“Is that important?”
“I don’t know—it could be, but I can’t figure it out,” she said biting her lip. "I forgot," she said, gleefully, on her knees now, "I forgot this in all the craziness. On the night of the murder, Phineas even stopped me in the hallway and asked about the possibility of a candidate removing his name from consideration for tenure."
"Why?"
"I’ve no idea," she frowned, sliding back down into the water. "I wish I could figure this all out. And I wish I could figure out what was on that disk." She tapped her fingers on the edge of the tub.
"You’d better do whatever you’re going to do out of the tub," said Rocky, standing and walking over to the door, "or you'll be a prune in the morning." He grabbed her night clothes from a hook behind the door and placed them on the sink. Then he pulled a large terrycloth towel from a rack on the wall. "Here," he said, opening the towel, and holding it out for her.
She shimmied off the wayward bubbles and stepped out of the tub, shaking first one leg, then another. She turned her back and allowed Rocky to wrap her gently in the warm folds of the towel. Then he grabbed her night clothes from the back of the door.
"Everything you need," he said, "nightgown, slippers, robe."
"No," she replied, slowly turning towards him and dropping the towel. "I don't need any of those things." She smiled warmly at her husband and held out her arms.
Chapter 20
Sunday afternoon proved perfect for Charlotte’s memorial service. The weather was clear and brisk. The venue was lovely, thought Pamela. The campus chapel was a large red brick edifice with towering white columns and white steps leading up to its imposing entrance. Oak trees branches hung heavy over the entire building, their multi-colored leaves turning the entire scene into a riot of fall shades.
Pamela had arrived early with Rocky at her elbow. Amazingly, Angie had decided to attend also, when she realized that her chauffeur of the previous day, Kent, would probably be in attendance. As the trio entered the lobby of the church, Pamela was surprised by the large turnout. Mitchell was near the door, acting as “official” greeter. The Dean and other members of the administration milled around, speaking with faculty and potential donors. Pamela spied Detective Shoop tucked in a corner, dressed in his standard shabby grey suit. If Shoop was here, she speculated, quite likely other police officers were stationed around the chapel discreetly listening to conversations of potential suspects.
Rocky was soon deep in conversation with a colleague from the English Department. Angie found Kent leaning against one of the tall white pillars, and the two of them were quickly embroiled in animated talk. Kent appeared a bit more dressed up than usual, having donned a purple jacket. Angie had even gone so far as to put on a dress and flats. Both of them, however, were still arrayed primarily in their standard black. Pamela noted that they would always be ready for a funeral—at least as far as their clothing was concerned.
Over her shoulder, Pamela glanced down at the other end of the lobby where she could see Joan and Arliss talking to Bob and Willard. True to his word, Willard was wearing his all black outfit. Joan was bedecked in a subdued flowery suit and Arliss had on a nice pair of gabardine trousers and a simple white silk blouse. She had foregone her standard sneakers for a simple pair of low dark heels. Pamela was unexpectedly surprised; Arliss almost looked feminine. Bob was wearing a nice dark suit with a rich magenta sweater vest. All of her colleagues looked quite presentable, she thought. Too bad it took Charlotte Clark dying to do it. As she strolled over to them, smiling at people along the way, she listened to snippets of conversations from different groups.
She heard two of her graduate students discussing readings that were assigned for one of their classes.
“I just finished it,” said one, “I didn’t have time to decide whether I liked it or not.”
“It didn’t take me any time to decide,” said the other, “It stank!” They guffawed quietly. Typical of students, always complaining, she thought, about assignments, whether undergraduate or graduate.
“Greetings,” she said to her four colleagues, Joan, Arliss, Bob, and Willard, when she reached them. “Arliss, why are you looking so glum?” Arliss did look morose, even annoyed. Maybe it was because she was dressed up—especially wearing heels. She kept shifting from foot to foot as if her shoes were too tight. She looked miserably uncomfortable.
“I’d rather be anywhere other than here,” declared Arliss, “Charlotte was not one of my dearest friends.” She scowled and kicked her foot.
“Now, dear,” said Joan, patting Arliss’ back in a comforting manner, “It’s only for a brief while and then we can be on our way—and free of Charlotte for good!” Pamela always loved how Joan managed to find something pleasant in the most unpleasant of situations.
“Absolutely,” added Willard, “why don’t we all go to the Reardon Coffee Factory afterwards?”
“Great idea,” chimed in Bob, “I’m game.”
“It sounds lovely,” said Pamela, “but I have a husband and daughter in tow.”
“You brought your burly sergeant-major with you?” questioned Joan, obviously delighted. “Where is he?” She looked around the gathering.
“Off analyzing books with one of his cohorts I suppose,” Pamela replied.
“Actually,” added Bob, “despite the gravity of the occasion, I’m surprised to see so many faculty here from around campus. It’s nice to know that our department has this kind of support.”
“Even if it is for Charlotte,” snickered Arliss.
“Arliss,” said Bob, giving his young assistant an eye roll and an elbow nudge.
“Enough of you, Miss Sourpuss,” said Joan to Arliss, tsk-tsking. “Why don’t we go get some good seats?”
“Good seats,” replied Arliss. “Joan, you sound like we’re going to the movies—not a funeral.”
“Wherever I’m going, I want to be able to see what’s going on. Come on, everyone!” She pulled Arliss’ arm and the two women trudged through the entry to the chapel, followed by Willard. Bob remained behind.
“Pamela,” he said, “could I have a quick word with you about the upcoming Tenure Committee meeting? I understand that Mitchell has appointed Joan to replace Charlotte.”
“Yes,” answered Pamela, “he has. What did you want to discuss?”
“You may also have heard that the Dean is pressuring us to select two—not three candidates.”
“I had heard that, Bob.” From almost everyone.
“I think this cutback in candidates is just the start of some nasty news to come. Look at it this way, the Administration believes--rightly or wrongly--that our department has had more than its fair share of funding lately, and I think they’ll try to cut our budget wherever they can. If the Administration gave tenure to all of our candidates—Rex, Phin, and Laura—that would mean that all eligible faculty in our department would have tenure. No other department on campus could say that. If the Administration approved tenure for all three of our candidates, there would be an outcry from other departments who had faculty with terminal degrees who don’t have tenure and who’ve been turned down for tenure more than once.”
“You really think so?” She had never considered tenure from this perspective.
“Yes. Of course, I’m hoping that Mitchell will fight for our candidates, but I have to be honest, Pam, I think he’s more likely to be considering what the situation means for him. He has tenure and it really doesn't make any difference to him if one of our three candidates is denied."
“Bob," said Pamela, "It never crossed my mind that we’d be forced to decide tenure f
or our candidates based on anything other than their own individual merit."
"I know," he said. "It makes the University seem just like a business--way too cut-throat for me. It's just another indication of the administration’s priorities--certainly not education--or I wouldn't be having the hell of a time I am trying to get even a little funding to keep the animal lab afloat, as you know."
"I know, Bob. I'm so sorry about that and about the way Charlotte treated the animal lab," she sighed. "She was horrible to you.”
When she said these words, Pamela was immediately struck with a memory of a recent faculty meeting where Charlotte had verbally attacked Bob in one of her tirades against the animal lab. It had started when Mitchell had informed them that the increased funding they all had expected from the Dean would not be forthcoming:
"No!" Bob had yelled, jumping up, slamming his hands on the table. "Mitchell, you promised you’d fight for us with the Dean. You told me that he knew how serious the situation was in the animal lab and how desperately under-funded we were. I was under the impression that the animal lab was the Dean's highest priority!"
"I know your concerns Bob, and truly, I did plead your case with the Dean, but I'm afraid," Mitchell had replied, trying to avoid looking directly at Goodman, "that the Dean believes—and these are his words, not mine--that the animal lab is more eyesore than necessity. There’s simply no way around it, Bob. I’m afraid he’s not going to be providing us with additional funds for the animal lab—or any other departmental project--this year. I'm really sorry, Bob."
"What?" yelled Arliss, also standing. "This is scandalous! How does anyone expect us to teach animal psychology with that run-down animal lab?"
"Maybe they don't," suggested Charlotte Clark. "This is just a regional university and our small Psychology department can't be expected to do everything. It's better that we concentrate on one thing and do it well than many things and do them poorly."
"Are you suggesting that we do poor work, Charlotte?" demanded Bob Goodman.
Charlotte smiled, shrugging her shoulders, "Just take a look at what areas of our department are being funded, Bob. My work on addiction, of course, Laura's and Joan's studies on educational psychology, Willard's and Pam's work on linguistics, Rex and Phin's stuff on personality. When's the last time any animal research got funded here? Let's face it, agencies want to fund research that relates to people--not animals. Our department is spread too thin as it is. We'd be better off dropping classes and programs related to animal psychology and getting rid of that bottomless money pit you people call an animal laboratory."
"We people!" shouted Bob. "We 'people' are your colleagues, Charlotte!"
"Now, now!" yelled Mitchell Marks, the sweat glistening on his brow. "Can't we have a nice, quiet, professional meeting for once?"
"Not with Charlotte here!” Bob Goodman yelled.
The fury of that encounter still burned in Pamela’s mind. Bob’s presence now reminded her of it and of Charlotte’s ability to goad them all. She pulled herself from her thoughts and continued speaking to Bob: “It makes me feel guilty to use the computer lab at times, Bob. Those of us who have that lab are so lucky compared to you and Arliss over in the animal wing. I swear, I don't know how you and she manage to produce the wonderful research that you do."
"Thank you," Bob said, smiling. "Luckily, our chimp is doing most of that for us. Bailey’s amazing. There's not much that little fellow can't do. To tell the truth, I’m beginning to think that he’s actually more sensitive than most people. Wouldn't that be an amazing finding if Arliss and I could confirm it?"
"Absolutely," Pamela gleamed. "Nothing makes my day more than hearing about someone's research success."
"You’re unique in that respect, Pam. Arliss is right," he noted. "I just wanted you to be prepared and think about how all this might affect your vote." He turned and started for the lobby.
"Thanks," she said. "You've given me a lot to think about." He took her hand in his and looked into her eyes.
"I’m glad you’re part of our department, Pam," he said, holding her hand warmly. "We’re lucky to have you."
"You too," she stammered, not quite certain how to take this unexpected compliment from someone she didn't really know all that well. Then he dropped her hand, turned and scurried off down the center aisle of the chapel to join Joan, Arliss, and Willard. Rocky appeared at her side.
“So, what was that handholding going on between you and the string bean?” he queried.
“Don’t be jealous, that’s just Bob,” she laughed, as they entered the chapel. “Your hands are only ones I want to hold.” As they started down the aisle, she spied Rex and Phineas, head to head near a side column. She slowed down in order to pick up what she could from their conversation.
”Second author!” Phin said, at least Pamela thought he said.
“Agreement…” she thought she caught Rex saying, but she wasn’t sure.
“…promised that on this article…” said Phin.
“… misunderstood…” answered Rex’s garbled voice.
Pamela wondered what the argument was about. She remembered that Joan had said the other day that they were arguing about authorship. It was certainly the most agitated she’d ever seen or heard Phineas. He was usually very docile and subservient to Rex, following him around like Rex’s personal servant. Even so, both men had excellent publication records and churned out numerous articles in top drawer journals each year. Yes, they often co-authored articles, but as far as she could tell, the first author credits had been shared equally between the men. Why were they arguing over what appeared to be authorship? She had slowed to almost a standstill in hopes of overhearing more of the Rex Tyson-Phineas Ottenback feud.
She felt a hand gently on her back and she jumped and turned. It was Rocky smiling at her.
“You ready to go in and find a seat or do you need to do some more snooping?”
“Rocky!” she huffed, “I’m not snooping!”
“Of course not. Let me go get Angie and we’ll go in,” he said.
“No,” she said, stopping him. “Angie won’t want to sit with us. Let’s just go in by ourselves,” she added as she peered around to see where her daughter had disappeared to. Was she still chatting with Kent? As she continued to look around, Kent and Angie sauntered into view from behind a large column.
Rocky turned to see his daughter, now giggling and smiling broadly (something she hardly ever did in front of her parents) at the conversational quips of the remarkable Kent. Kent obviously enjoyed having such an enthusiastic audience.
“Is that the infamous Kent?” Rocky asked, as he spied his daughter hanging on the every word of the strangely outfitted young man. “He looks like a total weirdo.”
“Now, dear,” said Pamela, calming him. “Appearances are deceiving. I told you, Kent is a fine young man.”
“She obviously prefers her present company to ours,” he admitted. “All right. Let’s go get this over with.” They walked down the center aisle and scooted into a pew directly behind Joan, Arliss, Bob, and Willard. Pamela felt a tap on her back and as she turned she recognized one of her graduate students.
“Dr. B,” whispered the girl, “What seminar are you teaching next semester?”
“My goodness, Mary, let me get through this afternoon—this semester. I’m not even certain they have me scheduled to teach a graduate seminar next semester.”
“They have to,” the young woman whined, “You’re the only one who teaches Research Methods other than Dr. Clark, and now that Dr. Clark is—you know—now that she won’t be teaching anything, you’re the only one to teach Methods!”
“Mary, there are other faculty members who can teach Methods,” replied Pamela.
“But, not like you, Dr. Barnes,” she said. “Please, say you’ll teach it.”
“Again,” reiterated Pamela, “It’s not for me to say. We’ll just have to wait and see.” With that, she turned firmly back in the pew and loo
ked ahead as the minister entered from the sacristy.
“My god,” she sighed quietly to her husband.
“I hope he’s listening,” whispered Rocky in her ear, “and I hope he’s telling you to behave yourself.”
At that moment, the chapel’s nondenominational minister climbed the few steps to the side lectern. He was dressed in white and gold satin robes and wore a beautiful golden stole around his neck.
“Good afternoon, my university friends—faculty, students, administration, and sponsors. This is a sad occasion as we must say farewell to one of Grace University’s most gracious and benevolent patrons.”
That, thought Pamela, was laying it on a little thick. But then, the minister was playing to some potentially big donors in the congregation.
“Charlotte Clark was a legend at this school,” continued the preacher, “not only in her own department, but throughout the entire campus. Her fame was worldwide. Her academic credentials were impeccable. Her life was devoted to Grace University. But Dr. Clark’s wonderful contributions—and those we know she would continue to make in the future—have been cut short—cut short by an untimely death. Dr. Clark was not the victim of some horrible disease or accident. No, she was taken from us in her prime by a murderer—someone motivated by selfish and personal goals, someone totally unconcerned by the good works that this amazing woman might have accomplished if she had been allowed to live a full and productive life. Now we will never know what feats Charlotte Clark might have done, because she will never get the chance to do them.”
Pamela twisted in her seat. Was this man describing the Charlotte she knew? She glanced over her shoulder at the assembled congregation. She could see Shoop now standing at the back of the chapel. Several men—obviously police officers were standing in the side aisles near the back of the chapel. They were all keeping a close watch on the behavior and reactions of the members of the congregation—particularly those who were faculty, students, or staff in the Psychology Department. Did they plan on making an arrest during the service? She hoped not. Besides, who would it be? She doubted they had any inkling yet who could have possibly killed Charlotte. She looked around surreptitiously at the people assembled. Mitchell was in the front row with his wife Velma by his side. Jane Marie and her husband were seated in the same pew. Laura and her husband Vittorio were also near the front. Phin and Rex were seated together in a side pew, although they didn’t appear too happy with each other. Neither of their wives had evidently accompanied them. Arliss, Joan, Bob, and Willard—all single--sat together in the pew directly in front of Pamela and her husband in a middle pew.
Sounds of Murder Page 16
