by Judy Alter
She shook her head. “I’d just shoot myself in the foot. I’ll keep the phone right by the bed.”
He was reluctant, but he kissed her lightly and left.
Jake was barely out of the driveway, when Aunt Jenny turned on her niece and said, “Why don’t you marry that wonderful man?”
“He hasn’t asked me,” Susan said. Then, “I think I’ll do the dishes tonight.” She turned and went into the kitchen.
Aunt Jenny followed her. “Dear,” she said softly, “you mustn’t be impatient with an old woman who just wants to see you happy. And who right now is terribly upset about this mess you’re in.”
Oh, if only you knew, Susan thought. She bit her lip to stop the tears and then went and put her arms around her aunt. “I know that, Aunt Jenny, and I’m sorry I’m so prickly. I just… well, I just always seem to be the worst with people that care about me. Like you and Jake.”
“We know that, dear,” her aunt said, “and we love you anyway.”
Susan attacked the dishes with vigor, but Aunt Jenny said, “Run the sink full of soapy water and let them soak overnight. I’ll do them tomorrow before I cook the chicken and dumplings. And you be sure Jake comes for supper tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Susan said. In spite of her vow to Jake to be alert and watchful, Susan slept better that night than she had since the murder of Missy Jackson.
Chapter Seven
The first thing Susan did at school on Monday was to go in search of Ellen. Not unexpectedly, she found her in her office with her morning cup of coffee. Ellen, too, avoided the English department lounge these days. Whatever camaraderie might once have existed in the department had vanished.
“We’ve got to talk,” Susan said tersely.
“Fine. Sit down.” Ellen yawned up at her, missing the seriousness in Susan’s tone. She was astounded to watch Susan close the door. “Remember,” Susan asked, “when Scott came by just at the wrong time when you were describing that red-haired young man in the student center? I don’t want that to happen again.”
“What’s this all about?” Ellen asked, curiosity making her more alert and awake.
“The red-haired young man. I saw him at The City Restaurant Saturday night. Jake took me there for dinner.”
Ellen failed to grasp the significance of this. “You’ve never even seen him. How do you know it’s the same red-haired man? They’re not that common, but there’s bound to be more than one around.” She was almost smiling, which made Susan angry.
“He met Brandy, Missy Jackson’s roommate,” she said, as though that explained everything.
Now Ellen did really smile. “So? If it was the man I met in the Main, it wouldn’t be impossible for him to know her. What’s wrong with her meeting him for dinner?”
The whole story tumbled out of Susan, about the older man who’d actually had dinner with Brandy and how she was convinced it was a call-girl ring of college students.
“Susan, that’s preposterous! Did you tell Jake this theory?”
“He didn’t think it was preposterous,” Susan said righteously. Then she added, “In fact, he was so intrigued by my theory he drank too much and I had to drive home.”
“And when he was sober again, what did he say?”
“Never mind. I just thought you should know, and you should watch out for that man.”
“Yeah, Susan, thanks. I’ll watch. But I think this whole business is making you paranoid. Leave the detective work to the police.”
“You wouldn’t say that if everyone thought you’d committed a murder,” Susan said angrily.
Ellen shrugged as Susan left her office.
Susan realized she hadn’t even told Ellen about the plants or the kitten, but she doubted if that would have convinced her.
* * *
In spite of the registrar’s office strict compliance to privacy laws, it wasn’t hard for Susan to find Eric Lindler by asking first here, then there. When she found him in the library where he had a work-study job, he was shelving books in the stacks.
She watched silently for a few moments from the end of the row of shelves. Absorbed in his work, he didn’t see her. He was taller than he’d seemed at the memorial service and lankier—maybe it was the jeans instead of a suit and tie. A shock of brown hair kept falling onto his forehead, and he’d swing his head to get it out of the way. She liked the way he handled the books, sometimes tracing his finger along the title on the spine. He was careful with each book, moving others to make room, easing it into place.
Finally she spoke softly, aware that they were in the quiet section of the library. “Eric?”
He gave a little startled jump and turned toward her voice. His voice was louder than he expected because of the suddenness of her appearance. “Yes, ma’am?”
Looking straight at him, Susan knew she’d never seen him except that once from a distance at the service. She also knew he didn’t look like a killer. His politeness was instinctive. Now he stood attentively, waiting for her to speak. Too many young men would have lounged against the shelves, their body language offering a defiant challenge. Not this one.
“I’m Susan Hogan. May I talk to you?”
“Susan Hogan,” he repeated slowly. “Missy was in your car.”
“That’s right.” She walked slowly toward him and was relieved that he showed no inclination to bolt and run. Neither did he look angry at her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been hard for you.”
“Do you think I know anything about it?” Susan stared straight at him.
He ducked his head but there was a certain charm about his gesture, as though he did it from shyness. “Why would you harm Missy? You didn’t even know her, did you?”
“Yes,” Susan said, “she was in one of my classes last spring. Women’s lit.”
“She’s gone from my life,” he said mournfully, as though he hadn’t heard what Susan had said. “She was more than part of my life. She was everything… except school.”
“I’m sure these days are difficult for you.” She felt a rush of sympathy for this young man whom she’d expected to suspect of murder.
“Yes, ma’am,” he lowered his eyes and looked at the floor. “I’m having a pretty hard time getting used to, well, to Missy not being around, and I guess most of all to how it happened. It’s been a week today… tonight.”
Susan took a deep breath. One week! Her life had been turned upside-down in one short week.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Hogan?” He turned back to the books and began peering at the numbers on the spine of one he now held in his hand.
“Tell me about Missy.”
“Oh, you don’t have all day. It would take me that long. Missy… she was the most unusual person I ever met. She and I… we were just perfect together. She was growing every day, finding herself, becoming more sure of herself and, well, of her faith.” He had put the book back on the cart.
Did Missy start from behind in matters of faith? No one had ever said that Missy Jackson was not sure of herself—just the opposite. But “finding her faith”? What did he mean by that?
“She was religious, wasn’t she?” she asked carefully.
“Yes, ma’am, we both were. But I was able to teach her, to help her grow in faith, because mine is so strong.” He said it without self-consciousness or boasting. He was simply stating a fact, but she knew it was a rare college student who would talk openly about something called faith. And yet, he didn’t look like what the kids called a “nerd.” He was wholesome, clean cut, all-American but with a boyishness about him that was charming.
“How long did you know Missy?”
He looked at her and screwed his face up a little bit, as though in pain. “We dated since my, ah, our second year. We met in comparative religion class. We were going to get married. Missy would have made a wonderful minister’s wife. You see, I intend to minister to a great big city church someday, and she, well, she had the manners and all that the wife of such a
man would need.”
“Sophistication,” Susan supplied, remembering that she’d heard that word applied to Missy before.
“Oh, not too much sophistication. Churches want their leaders to be plain folk and yet… well, sophisticated in a way. Missy would have been just right.” A tear slid down his cheek, and he turned his head. “I’ll probably never marry now.”
He was so naive and so straightforward in his answers, so open in his grief that Susan’s heart went out to him. She liked this boy.
“Eric, it’s important to me to solve this, to find out what happened to Missy. I haven’t suffered as you and her parents have, but I’m a suspect according to the police. Somehow Missy’s death has become attached to me.” And I’m a victim. But she didn’t say that aloud. No need to tell this unhappy young man that someone was trying to kill her too—or that his girlfriend might have been a hooker.
He looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment. “But that’s ridiculous, Dr. Hogan. You didn’t have anything to do with it.” He paused and then said quickly, “I mean, it wouldn’t seem likely that you would. I can’t imagine people thinking you are a suspect.”
Susan caught his hesitation. Even he was not putting her completely beyond suspicion. “Eric, you need to help me. You need to tell me everything you think is important.”
“I think it was—how do they say it? A random act of violence?” he said softly. “I’m sure nobody deliberately set out to kill Missy.” He turned quickly back to his books. “And that means we may never know who did it.”
“I hope not,” Susan said fervently, “I hope not.” Then, after a minute, “Do you know Brandy?”
His face clouded. “Brandy was no good for Missy. I think Missy was moving away from Brandy. She and I didn’t get along, and Missy knew I thought she was a bad influence.” His face darkened when he spoke of Missy’s roommate, and he concentrated on his books, moving the cart a space down the shelf, examining the call numbers carefully.
“What about Missy’s other friends?” Susan persisted. She was thinking that if Eric Lindler was any other kind of person Brandy would have every right to be frightened. His anger at her was that great. Trouble was, he just wasn’t a murderer.
“Well, she didn’t have too many. She and I pretty much spent our time together. That’s one thing that’s hard for me now. I don’t… I don’t have a lot of friends.”
“No buddies?” Susan asked, trying to keep her tone light.
“No, ma’am. I’m too busy, and I don’t want to go out drinking on the weekends and stuff like that. My roommate, Tony Baldwin, he’s about the best friend I ever had, next to Missy.”
“Missy’s parents said she earned all her own spending money, yet as far as I can find out Missy had no work-study job.” Did she imagine it or did he flinch?
“Work-study doesn’t earn much.” He shrugged ruefully and pointed to the book cart. Then, slowly, thinking while he spoke, he said, “Missy had a good job in Fort Worth several nights a week. She sold clothes in the women’s department at Neiman Marcus. She said she didn’t mind the commute.”
That, Susan thought cynically, was easily checked. In whispered tones, she said, “Brandy said she liked to shop at Neiman’s, that she had expensive tastes.”
“Huh!” he snorted. “Brandy taught ’em to her. She couldn’t afford to shop at Neiman’s except maybe on that last day sale or whatever they call it, and then with her employee discount.”
Eric put the books down, turned and faced her squarely, and said, “Dr. Hogan, Missy was the only good thing that happened to me ever in my life—except maybe the chance to go to school here at Oak Grove. She meant everything to me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you find out who killed her.”
“Thanks, Eric.” She reached to shake his hand. “I’ve got to go now, but we’ll talk again. And if you think of anything or if you just want to talk, come see me. My office is in the liberal arts building.” She walked away without looking back. Their entire conversation had been carried on in whispered tones, almost furtively, and when she got back to the English department she found herself still whispering.
* * *
Around four o’clock in the afternoon, Susan sat in her office, head drooping over the lecture on F. Scott Fitzgerald she was going to give to the Wednesday seminar. Their papers on The Great Gatsby had been dismal and she knew they had no understanding of Fitzgerald’s importance.
Ernie Westin strolled by and planted himself against the doorframe, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, the kind with a band instead of a collar that was popular more than a few years ago and now looked decidedly dated. His protruding belly ruined the stylishly casual image he apparently wanted to project, but Susan was sure he was unaware of that. In his hand, he held a cup of coffee.
“You’ll never get tenure, Hogan,” he said. “I had a drink with Scott the other night, and I know the inside scoop.”
She heard the smugness in his tone and wanted to ask him what he had told Scott to ensure she didn’t get tenure. “Really?” she asked. “Nice of you to care.” She turned back to her papers, hoping he’d go away.
Instead he came into the tiny office and plopped himself down on the chair across from her desk. “You’ve really ruffled Scott’s feathers with this murder business, and if he doesn’t recommend you, you’re out.” He grinned at her, and she knew he’d been persuading Scott not to recommend her.
“Where do you want to teach next year?” he asked.
“Right here!” Susan snapped. She felt a sudden sinking that began in her throat and ended in her stomach. She’d been too busy worrying about other things to face the fact that denial of tenure automatically meant she would have to move on, look for a job, perhaps even—God forbid!—live with Aunt Jenny until she found another position. And Jake? He couldn’t—wouldn’t—follow her around Texas. And what if she had to move beyond the borders of her home state? She’d never thought about living anywhere but Texas.
Susan drew herself back to the unpleasant present and faced her colleague. “I’ll be right here, Ernie. Don’t get your…” She had been about to use an unpleasant phrase that Jake occasionally used. “Don’t get in an uproar,” she said.
“I sure don’t know how you can say that,” he said. “Me, I’d be worried to death.” He heaved himself out of the chair and left her office.
Susan badly wanted to throw something, anything at him as he left.
Within minutes the phone rang. It was the provost himself in a direct call, not even a secretary saying, “Please hold for Dr. Atwater.”
Susan pulled her heart out of her boots and said as brightly as she could, “Yes, sir?”
“Would you have time to see me for a bit this afternoon, Susan?”
“Yes, sir, of course. At your convenience.” To herself she was thinking, Okay, this is it. He’s going to tell me the school can’t stand a scandal, and I’m suspended until the murder is cleared up. I wonder if he’s like everybody else and really thinks I did it.
“If it would fit your schedule, now would be a good time. I hope you won’t mind coming to my office.”
Her palm was sweaty on the telephone receiver. “That’s fine, sir. I’ll be right there.” Unless I can think of a quick reason to go to the Caribbean or Fiji or someplace far away.
Susan took time to rub some powder on her shiny nose, comb her flyaway hair, and wish she’d dressed better for the day. Navy slacks and a white cotton shirt would have to do. At least she wasn’t wearing jeans and running shoes. Even with her dawdling, she was in the provost’s office within five minutes.
“Susan, nice of you to come so promptly.” The provost was a large man in his mid-fifties. He wore a well-cut suit but had hung the jacket over the back of the chair behind his desk, so now he was casually attired in rolled-up shirtsleeves and a loosened tie. He was courteous, polite, and careful as he showed her to a padded chair in a conversation area in his mahogany-paneled office. A huge contrast to John Scott’s offi
ce.
This was to be no across-the-desk confrontation but an informal talk, Susan saw. She looked at him and realized that he was more casual—and more comfortable with himself—than Dr. Scott ever would be. Then her eyes wandered around the room, this being the first time she’d ever been summoned to the provost’s office. A small arrangement of fresh flowers sat on the coffee table between her and the opposite chair. The upholstery was plaid, the wood dark, the atmosphere expensive and masculine but not, as she had imagined, particularly intimidating. She perched on the edge of her upholstered chair and waited in desperate anticipation for him to speak.
He picked up the phone, said tersely, “No calls, please, Shirley,” and then seated himself across the small table from Susan.
Bad sign, Susan thought. He doesn’t want any interruptions as he tells me I can’t teach and I’m not eligible for tenure.
“It’s been a bad week for you, hasn’t it?” he asked, and there was real kindness in his voice.
Surprised at his sympathy, Susan simply nodded in agreement.
“I want you to know that the university is very concerned about this murder”—at least he hadn’t called it an unfortunate affair—“and we’re doing everything we can to clear it up. I’ve asked Jake Phillips to devote as much attention to it as he possibly can. You know Mr. Phillips, I believe?”
The provost knew perfectly well that Susan and Jake were a couple, and his careful circumlocution would have amused Susan if she hadn’t been too nervous to find anything funny. She simply nodded again. Her tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of her mouth.
Atwater made a tent of his fingers in front of his face and stared at them for a long moment. Then he said, “Dr. Scott has been to see me. He seems to have the, ah, unfortunate”—there was that word again!—“opinion that you were somehow involved in this event and that it should affect your tenure review. I wanted you to know that is not an official university position. We think it was a random act of violence and your car was chosen for no reason, at least no reason that had anything to do with you. The tenure review will concentrate on your teaching record and your publications, as it should. By the time it comes around, I presume this matter will be solved. I’ve told Dr. Scott as much.”
