The Perfect Coed (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1)

by Judy Alter

  “Such as?” Jordan asked.

  “Someone planted it there. Seems obvious to me.”

  “You mind if I ask your client a few questions?” Jordan asked, fixing the elderly judge with a look of distaste.

  Jackson shrugged, and Jordan turned to Susan. “Have you ever played baseball?”

  “Nope. Too clumsy,” she said. Immediately she thought of Jake and his warning not to be flip. Nerves were making her silly. “No,” she said more evenly. “I’m not very athletic. Never was. You can ask my aunt.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jordan said dryly. “If you aren’t athletic, why did you have a baseball bat in your closet?”

  “I didn’t!” Susan’s voice rose in anger. “I never saw that bat before, and I sure never put it in my closet. Someone’s trying to frame me!”

  “Frame you?” Jordan’s voice rose with interest. “And why would someone try to frame you?”

  Just as Susan said, “Beats me,” Jackson held up his hand. “Jordan, you know you can’t ask my client questions for which she can’t possibly have an answer.” His tone was patronizingly familiar, and that irritated the investigative officer even more.

  Susan’s thoughts tangled in confusion. If Brandy Perkins had told the young man with red hair that Susan was nosing into Missy’s murder, then he was probably the one who was trying to scare and frame her—maybe if he could get her convicted of murder, he wouldn’t have to kill her. That thought made her giddy for a brief second. The young man didn’t know where she lived, but how hard could it be for him to find out? He could have left the kitten and killed the plants, but when could he have put the bat there? With Aunt Jenny visiting, her house was almost never empty. An eerie question popped into her mind: If he put it there the night of the murder, before I got home, then he did pick my car deliberately. Why? The thought scared her, but not badly enough that she wanted to tell Jordan about the redheaded stranger. She agreed with Jake: if Jordan knew about that, he’d bulldoze over the entire situation and they’d never get to the truth. And it wouldn’t keep Jordan from accusing her of murder.

  “Dr. Hogan,” Jordan said evenly, “let’s go back to the homicide investigation you were involved in fifteen years ago. Why didn’t you tell me when I first asked? Surely you didn’t forget.”

  Forget? I’ll never forget Shelley lying on that bathroom floor! She wanted to lash out at him for even suggesting that. “I didn’t forget, but it wasn’t a homicide. We’ve already been over this.”

  “But this is an official interrogation. You were considered a suspect, weren’t you?”

  Susan looked him straight in the eye. “For about five minutes,” she said. “I was never… what’s the word you used? Booked? Or charged? Or anything. I went voluntarily to talk to the police and tell them what I knew about Shelley’s drug use.” A part of her wanted to cry out all over again with the agony of that telling all those years ago.

  “Still,” Jordan said relentlessly, “you initially withheld information from me.”

  “Jordan,” the judge said impatiently, “try to be reasonable. You are not interrogating a crack cocaine dealer or a mass murderer here. You are intimidating a woman you’ve mistakenly accused of murder.”

  The officer threw him a disgusted look, asked Susan a few more questions, and said in a tired voice, “I’m booking you on suspicion of murder. You’ll go before a judge this afternoon”—he looked at Jackson and was tempted to add—“a real judge,” but he didn’t. “Bail will be set. I’m sure it will be reasonable.”

  “You’re arresting me?” Susan asked incredulously. Her thoughts whirled again. This kind of thing didn’t happen to people like her. It was… well, it was what you read about in books or maybe the newspaper. But it didn’t happen to ordinary, everyday people.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am,” the detective said wearily.

  Officer O’Donnell, already embarrassed by the whole thing, took her to an office where she was read her rights—what did they call that? Mirandizing? Bastard English if she ever heard it—and subjected to the indignities of being fingerprinted and photographed. Susan submitted to it all in kind of a daze.

  She had not been allowed to see Jake or Aunt Jenny or Ellen again, and when she asked about them, O’Donnell told her, “They’ve left.”

  “Left?” Susan had never felt more alone in her life. She didn’t know why, but it would have made her feel safer or something to think they were still somewhere in police headquarters. Where had they gone? What were they doing?

  * * *

  What Jake and Ellen were trying to do was comfort Aunt Jenny. The three of them were back at Susan’s house, sitting in the living area, and Aunt Jenny was sobbing loudly, her chest heaving, her face once again alarmingly red. Ellen was more worried about her right now than she was about Susan.

  Jake went to the kitchen, and Ellen followed him to whisper, “I almost want to throw cold water on her. You know, shock her out of it.”

  “Not a good idea,” he said grimly, reaching for the bourbon bottle. “This is for medicinal purposes,” he said. “You go get a cold rag for her face.” Then he poured just a small bit of bourbon into a juice glass and took it to Aunt Jenny with the order: “Sip this.”

  She stopped sobbing long enough to smell it and make a face. “I don’t like spirits,” she said, her voice coming with great heaves of her chest that seemed to leave her breathless.

  “It’s medicine,” Jake said, and his tone made it clear he would tolerate no disagreement.

  Aunt Jenny sipped, screwing up her face in distaste.

  Ellen returned with a cold washrag, which she pressed to the older woman’s head.

  The sobs subsided, though now the silence between the three of them was punctuated by an occasional hiccup—the aftermath of heavy crying. “I’m so sorry,” Aunt Jenny said brokenly. “We need to be worrying about Susan, and I’ve caused all this fuss. Such a baby”—the word set her off again into tears—“she’s my baby. I just can’t bear the thought of her in a jail cell.”

  “She’s probably not in a cell at all, Aunt Jenny, and Judge Jackson has gone to arrange bail. He’ll need some money…” Jake thought he’d just post the bail himself, but then he wondered if it would help Aunt Jenny to be involved.

  “My life savings!” she said dramatically. “Whatever it takes, whatever I have… it’s hers.”

  “It won’t be that much,” Jake said kindly. “Probably a thousand dollars. I thought perhaps the two of us—”

  “No, no! Susan’s my responsibility. I insist.” She grabbed her purse and with shaking hands signed a check, the signature barely legible. “Here, you fill out the rest of this. I can’t… I simply can’t.”

  Ellen stared out the window. “Scott will suspend her now, for sure,” she said.

  “Suspend?” Aunt Jenny’s voice rose as if this were another unexpected blow. “Why would he do that?”

  “If she’s officially charged with a crime—it’s in the faculty handbook or whatever,” Ellen said. “But Scott will take such delight in doing it. And Ernie Westin will do a victory dance.”

  Jake nodded. Then, suddenly, he rose and went down the hall to the bedroom. Ellen could hear him talking softly on the phone. When he came back, he said, “I called Atwater. It’s… well, it’s my duty, sort of, to keep him informed.” He paused. “He’s coming by to see Susan tonight. I’m to call him at home when she’s released.”

  Ellen nodded. She hoped Susan realized how lucky she was to have Jake on her side.

  “Aunt Jenny,” Jake said, “what’s for dinner tonight?”

  Flustered, the older woman ran her right hand through her hair, making it stand on end. “Dinner? Oh, Jake, I can’t think about dinner.”

  “Be the best thing you could do for Susan,” he said. In truth, he thought cooking dinner would distract Aunt Jenny.

  She seemed to be thinking. Then, suddenly, she burst out with, “Pot roast! That’s it. I was going to cook pot roast befor
e all this happened.”

  “Why don’t you cook it now?” he asked gently.

  Aunt Jenny pushed herself up from the couch and headed for the kitchen, where she donned an apron and was soon flouring a good-sized piece of beef. As she worked, she hummed a little to herself. She was so busy, she didn’t see Jake wink conspiratorially at Ellen.

  Still, Ellen and Jake heard her say, “I wonder what poor Susan is doing right now?”

  * * *

  “Poor Susan” was actually in what Officer O’Donnell called a “holding tank” when he led her there. It was a huge wire cage in an even larger room. There were three such cages in what almost looked like a gym or a temporary building—one cage held two men who looked to be homeless and seedy and undesirable, the next held a sullen, disheveled woman who refused to look up as Susan approached, and the third was empty. Susan was grateful that O’Donnell chose that one. He opened the gate, helped her inside, and pointed to a bench where she could sit. Her leg ached fiercely, and she longed to have something to prop it on as the doctor had ordered, but she refused to ask O’Donnell. He must have seen pain in the expression on her face, because he returned with a straight wooden chair.

  “Here, prop your foot on this,” he said.

  If Susan had been herself, she’d have recognized that he was a really kind man. Now, all she could do was mutter, “Thanks.”

  She sat staring into space, trying to sort out what had happened to her in the last few hours. She had been sitting in her own home, quietly tending a broken leg, and now here she was—an accused criminal booked on suspicion of murder. At least, she thought with irony, nobody can kill me in here.

  “What’s somebody like you doin’ here?” The sullen woman in the next cage had come close and was staring at her belligerently. Susan was glad wire walls, no matter how flimsy, separated them.

  “You’d never believe it,” Susan told her.

  “They said I beat my kid,” the woman said in a monotone. “Took her to the hospital and brought me in here. It ain’t right, I tell you. I never hit that child.” Fumes of alcohol drifted toward Susan, and she realized that even before noon the woman was drunk.

  A thousand questions raced through Susan’s mind. How old was the child? Boy or girl? How badly hurt? Don’t, she told herself, get involved in someone else’s troubles. You’ve got enough of your own. “Sorry,” she muttered and turned her back.

  It was the longest four hours of Susan Hogan’s life, and she knew now why you saw movies with people frantically shaking the bars of their jail cell. It was all she could do to keep from pressing her face against the wire cage, getting as close to freedom as she could. Panic seemed to lurk just beneath the surface of her consciousness, and she had to remind herself sternly that she was not claustrophobic—at least not much.

  People came and went from the area all the time, every single one of them staring at her in curiosity. No one spoke. The men in the far cage could be heard muttering, even shouting at each other occasionally, and the woman closer to Susan moaned, groaned, and finally threw up on the floor. The stink wafted Susan’s way, making her almost as nauseated as she’d been when she’d felt the bone in her leg break. Eventually the mess was cleaned up, but Susan thought the odor lingered.

  At noon, they gave Susan a small carton of milk, a bologna sandwich (which she could not eat), and an apple. At two, O’Donnell came for her. “Judge’s ready for you, Dr. Hogan.”

  “Doctor?” screeched the woman in the other cage.

  Susan hobbled out of the cage, with O’Donnell carefully helping her.

  Judge Jackson acted as her appointed counsel. Obviously he knew the judge on the bench, for there was a familiarity between them, even given the protocol of the courtroom. Susan sat behind a table, facing the judge. Behind her, in the spectator seats—is that what you’d call them?—she saw Jake, Ellen and Aunt Jenny, the latter wearing the most worried look Susan had ever seen.

  When the judge asked her how she pled, she raised her head and said clearly, “Not guilty.” In spite of the strength of her answer, she felt detached, as though this were all happening to someone else, and she, Susan Hogan, was watching it from a distance. She opened her mouth, thinking maybe she should explain to the judge why she couldn’t have murdered Missy Jackson, but Judge Jackson laid a firm hand on her arm, signaling her to be quiet. Jake would have said, “Shut up, Susan!”

  Beginning with “Your Honor,” Judge Jackson launched into a litany of Susan’s virtues, her position at the university, the fact that her aged aunt—did he really dare say that?—was living with her, all of which made her unlikely to flee the court’s jurisdiction.

  The judge, a bespectacled man of sixty or so in a dull gray suit, asked, “Dr. Hogan, are you planning to leave this county any time soon?”

  Dumb, Susan thought. If I were, would I tell you? Aloud she said, “No, sir, I have to stay here and prove that I did not murder Missy Jackson.”

  The judge pounded his gavel, announced bail set at $100,000 and said, “Next?”

  Absolutely overwhelmed, Susan sank back down in her chair. Knowing she could never come up with $100,000, she envisioned herself sitting forever in that wire cage. But Judge Jackson handed her the crutches and said, “Let’s go home.”

  “Home?” she echoed vaguely.

  “Home,” he said. “Your aunt has already arranged bail.”

  Susan’s voice squeaked. “She doesn’t have a hundred thousand. I… she can’t do that.”

  Patiently the judge explained how bail bondsmen worked. “She only had to put down a fraction of the money, and you can only cost her money if you run. I know you won’t do that.”

  When she passed through the swinging half-door that separated the court participants from the spectators, Susan found herself in Jake’s arms. And the next thing she knew, she was sobbing harder—and louder—than she ever had in her life.

  As they left the courtroom, they passed Dirk Jordan, who looked none too happy. Susan was sure he wanted her locked up, with the key thrown away. But Jake held out his hand to Jordan and said, “Dirk, anything you can do to soft-pedal this in the newspaper will be appreciated.”

  “You know I have no control over them,” Jordan muttered. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  When they got back to Susan’s, Jake settled her on the couch and said, “I have to go make a call. I’ll be right back.”

  Knowing that he was going to call Dr. Atwater, Ellen said, “I better be going. I’ve… well, I’ve missed the whole day.”

  “Yeah, you have,” Susan said, “my classes and yours both. Scott’ll be fit to be tied. But, thanks, Ellen, for being with me today. You’re a good friend.”

  Ellen came over and gave her a hug. “Sure, Susan. I wouldn’t have done anything else, Dr. Scott be darned.”

  “Do two more things for me?” Susan asked, and when Ellen nodded, she said, “Check on Brandy Perkins. I don’t care if she’s not coming to class—well, I do but I don’t—but I want to be sure she’s all right.” She didn’t add, “And not missing mysteriously.” Then she said, “And tell Scott I really will take my classes over tomorrow.”

  Ellen’s mouth flew open in alarm at Susan’s last words, but she managed to say calmly, “Sure, Susan.” Then she left in a hurry.

  Jake came back into the room to announce, “Dr. Atwater’s on his way over. All right if I give him some of my bourbon?”

  Susan’s stomach drew itself into a knot. The provost didn’t visit faculty at their homes, and she could think of only one reason for his coming here. “You told him, didn’t you?” It was an accusation, and there was almost a tone of bitterness about it.

  Jake met her gaze steadily. “Yes, Susan, I told him. I wanted him to know before Dr. Scott found out. I thought it was in your best interest. If I’m wrong, I apologize.”

  Susan put her head in her hands. “Sorry, Jake,” she mumbled. “I’m so touchy, so scared.”

  He was beside
her on the couch in an instant, his arms strong around her. “Susan, Susan, you mustn’t be scared.” He stroked her hair and murmured, “I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

  But you may not be able to stop it, she thought. She wouldn’t have said that aloud for anything.

  From the kitchen, Aunt Jenny watched them and tears slid down her cheeks.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dr. Atwater arrived about five o’clock. “Susan,” he said, approaching the couch where she still sat, “so good of you to let me come by at a time like this.”

  Susan was taken back. He had the shoe on the wrong foot. It was good of him to come by, but she didn’t know how to say that. And she was afraid, knowing what he’d come to say, she’d break down and cry any minute. “Jake wants to share some of his bourbon with you,” she said as lightly as she could.

  Jake made the introductions between Dr. Atwater and Aunt Jenny, who eyed him with suspicion. Then Jake poured shots of bourbon neat for himself and the provost and Chardonnay for Susan. “Aunt Jenny?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Jake Phillips, you’re trying to make an alcoholic of me. Bourbon in the middle of the day.”

  Dr. Atwater looked startled, and Susan, upset as she was, giggled. “Did you really, Jake?”

  He nodded to indicate he really had given the older woman bourbon in the middle of the day. But he didn’t add that it had helped calm her down.

  Atwater pulled the footstool close to the couch, so that he could look directly at Susan. “You know what I’ve got to tell you, don’t you?”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Do you also know how difficult this is for me? How much I want to make it happen some other way.”

  “I think so,” she managed to quaver.

  “The suspension is only until this… this damn mess is cleared up. Then you’ll be reinstated at your same rank. Meantime, you’ll continue to receive your pay. And, Susan, by my authority, I’m postponing your tenure review one year.”

  Her voice was shaky. “Can you do that?”

  He pretended offense. “Of course I can. I’m the provost.” Then, more seriously, he said, “This whole thing is out of control, and I want it cleared up as soon as possible. You’re one of our best teachers, and I want you back in the classroom. I trust Jake here to help me accomplish that.”