by Judy Alter
As Eric rose, held out his hand to introduce himself, Aunt Jenny fluttered, “This is Eric Lindler. Susan and I have adopted him, sort of.”
“Eric Lindler.” The judge rolled the name on his tongue and considered for only a second. “You’re the boyfriend of the murdered girl.”
He doesn’t miss a trick, Susan thought.
Eric looked appropriately upset. “Yessir, I’m afraid I am… er, was.”
“And Dr. Hogan has adopted you?” Disbelief was in the judge’s voice.
“Well, actually, Miss Hogan has been feeding me regular, says I need fattening up. But I came this morning just like you, to check on Dr. Hogan.”
Clever, Susan thought, he’s placed himself in the same category of caring friend as the judge.
“I got to go to class now, though,” Eric said. “Dr. Hogan, if I can run any errands for you, you just let me know. Pleasure to meet you, sir. And, Miss Hogan, thanks much for the breakfast.”
After he left at a dead run, Aunt Jenny said, “He didn’t even finish his breakfast.”
“No,” Susan said, “he didn’t. Maybe the judge made him nervous. Aunt Jenny, tell the judge what you think about Eric.”
“Why,” Aunt Jenny fluttered her hands in the air, “I think he murdered that poor girl and put her in the trunk of Susan’s car.”
“You do?” The judge was incredulous. “Then why,” he asked, “do you keep feeding him?”
“Well, partly because he keeps showing up here to check on Susan… and partly because if he stays around here long enough and gets comfortable enough, he’ll let something slip.”
“Jenny Hogan,” the judge said, “I wish I’d had you on the bench with me sometimes. You’d have out-tricked most lawyers I know.”
“Go on with you,” she said, going back to the kitchen. “Can I give you some breakfast?”
“Just coffee, thanks. Never could stomach breakfast before about ten o’clock. Now, Susan, tell me about last night.”
Susan told him every detail she could think of, from Ellen’s first approach to Kenny to their time in the emergency room.
“Jake’s right,” the judge said, “Jordan will want to see you. And with good reason. I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to bother…” Susan began.
“Bother? An old man like me hasn’t had this much fun in years,” he said with a laugh. “Jenny, where’s that coffee? Does a man have to serve himself around here?”
“Oh, no, coming right up, John.”
Susan noticed that her aunt said “John” and not “Judge.”
* * *
Jake called about nine-thirty, by which time Susan had talked to Ellen on the phone. The hospital wasn’t sure when they were releasing her—maybe not until the next day. Her first comment to Susan was, “Scott will have a hissy. Now he’s got two faculty members out—from suspicious causes.”
“I hope he has to teach the classes himself,” Susan said, “but he’ll probably give them to Ernie, who can’t wait to tell everyone what happened.” She couldn’t help laughing at the idea of Ernie Westin teaching women’s lit.
“Yeah,” Ellen said. And then, “My car?”
Susan told her it was towed to a garage and quipped, “I know where you can borrow a good moped.”
“Don’t,” Ellen said. “It hurts to laugh.”
“I don’t feel much like laughing anyway,” Susan muttered. “I’ll call you later today.”
Susan breathed a sigh of relief when Jake called, since she had been putting off calling him in spite of Aunt Jenny’s urgings. She simply didn’t know what to say to him.
He was not at a loss for words. “Sorry, we had a heck of a night on campus after I left you. Seems a coed got hysterical in her room—still don’t know why, but she began throwing things and screaming. Paramedics had to medicate her on the spot, and she’s in the hospital now.”
“What’s the girl’s name?” Susan asked, even as she was thinking that there was something different about Jake’s voice, something clipped and businesslike.
“Lawson, Vicky Lawson. You know her?”
“No. What’s she look like?” Foolish question—as if she could tell one coed from the other by a telephone description!
“Hard to tell, state she was in. But I’d say she’s part African-American, probably good-looking when she’s not going bonkers.”
“Jake! She was at The City Restaurant last night. She really was!” Susan gripped the phone intently.
“Susan, are you sure?” His voice was very controlled now.
“I am. She was with Brandy—and she looked scared to death.”
“Might go along with your theory,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll keep you posted on what happens.” He hung up without asking how she was or saying anything about coming to see her.
Aunt Jenny’s right. I’ve pushed him too far.
Dirk Jordan called in the late morning. “I need to talk to you.”
Judge Jackson sensed who it was and grabbed the phone, “Jordan, this is John Jackson. You want to talk to this girl, you’ll do it in my presence… and not over the phone, where you could, for God’s sake, be running a secret tape.”
“That’s illegal,” the officer said clearly.
“Wouldn’t stop most cops I know,” Judge Jackson said. “What time do you want me to bring her downtown?”
They settled on two in the afternoon, which led the judge to say, “Lunch at Subie’s Café, my treat.”
“Oooh,” Aunt Jenny said.
“What’s the matter, Jenny? Don’t you like the café?” His voice was almost disapproving.
“Oh, my, yes. They have wonderful pie. It’s just… well, I could cook something here.” Aunt Jenny did not want to face Margie again.
“Nonsense. It’s settled. Susan, you call Jake and have him meet us there.”
“I’m sure he’s busy,” Susan said testily.
The judge gave her a wry look. “Then I’ll call him. Most officers, even private duty kinds, are seldom too busy for a judge… maybe for an English teacher but not a judge.” He winked at her.
Susan left the room to get dressed. As she dressed slowly and carefully—how can you pick clothes out of the closet while balancing yourself on crutches?—she heard peals of laughter from Aunt Jenny and an occasional deep chuckle from the judge.
“I was just telling Jenny some courtroom stories,” the judge explained when she came back into the room.
At lunch—where Jake did not join them—Susan thought she caught the two older people holding hands under the table. She wanted to be happy for them, but she was too distracted by her troubles. And, she grudgingly admitted to herself, she was jealous. She wanted Jake to be sitting next to her.
* * *
Dirk Jordan was not disposed to be either kind or understanding. “Dr. Hogan, you seem to be Johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to being around serious incidents—a body in your car, a moped wreck, a car run off the road. That’s an amazing record for an educated woman in—what? Slightly over two weeks? Can you explain it? Plus, of course, that… ah, earlier incident.”
Susan looked at the lieutenant, staring at her so insolently, and shook her head. “No, I can’t. I’m very tired of it myself. I wish you’d do your job and find out what’s happening.”
“Do my job?” His voice rose almost an octave in indignation. “How can I do my job when you hide things from me and sneak off to do your own detective work? Who knows what else you’ve done?”
Susan knew then that Jake had talked to him and told him about Kenny Thomas. There was no use dissembling, not that she’d meant to, but she was tired of the way the officer kept playing cat and mouse with her. “What do you want to know about Kenny Thomas?” she asked.
He almost jumped. Susan saw the impulse race through him and knew that he’d worked hard for years to control any visible expression of surprise. “Everything you know,” he said tersely.
So Susan repeated, mostly tell
ing him what she’d told the judge earlier in the day. She was, as a matter of fact, getting tired of telling this story over and again. Jordan was relentless, pressing her for details she didn’t know, couldn’t know. “How does Brandy Perkins know this Kenny Thomas?” “What was his connection to Missy Jackson?” “Why were those girls there last night at The City Restaurant?”
Susan wanted to tell him to use his imagination, but the judge put a gentling hand on her arm. “I can only tell you what I suspect,” she said for the third time. “I have no definite knowledge, no proof of anything.”
Then the subject turned to Eric. “Why do you befriend him?”
“I really don’t. My aunt does.”
“Why?”
“She’d befriend you. She’s pretty all-encompassing in the people she adopts.” Susan didn’t feel like sharing Aunt Jenny’s convoluted logic at that moment.
Judge Jackson coughed, and Susan managed a small laugh. “Doesn’t include you, Judge.”
“Do you think Eric Lindler killed Missy Jackson?”
“What does it matter what I think? What matters is what you can prove. No, I probably don’t think he’s capable of murder, but something about him makes me nervous. Do I think Kenny Thomas is capable of murder? Yes, I’m quite sure of it.”
It seemed to Susan that she was in the sheriff’s office for a day and a half. When she and the judge emerged into daylight, she blinked, expecting it to be dead night. But they had only been there two hours.
And Jake never even showed up, she thought unhappily. I suppose the judge told him he’d take care of everything, but still—I wanted Jake there, even though I would have told him not to come. She realized she was being contradictory and probably unfair to Jake.
“You did well, Susan,” the judge said. “But he still thinks you know more than you’re telling him.”
* * *
Jake didn’t come for dinner that night. By nine o’clock, he still hadn’t called, and she called him at home.
“Susan? Yeah. I’m just drinking a beer, hanging back.”
“Aunt Jenny expected you for dinner. She made smothered steak, says it’s better than chicken-fried.”
“Tell her I’m sorry I missed it. I… well, I just had a long day.”
“It’s okay. The judge ate your helping.”
“Oh… good.” There was a long pause. “Susan, I just had to have some time away, some time to think.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, and I’m more worried about your safety right now than I can make you believe. But I… I don’t know how much you care about me if you’ll lie to me and do the one thing I asked you not to do.”
At a loss how to tell him how scared she was, how much she needed him, Susan was silent.
Jake Phillips put the phone down and stared into space, his beer growing stale and warm. He knew he was attracted neither by Susan’s intellect nor her beauty but by the fact that she insisted on swimming upstream. If there was a difficult way to do something, Susan Hogan would stubbornly find it. Not that Jake didn’t find Susan attractive. Tall and thin, she wore her light blonde hair—he had seen the dark roots—in a boyishly short cut. Her smile was wide and quick and her eyes were brown under incredibly dark eyebrows. At thirty-five, Susan could still make heads turn, and Jake was proud to be seen with her.
But now, she’d stepped over some kind of line in his mind. She refused to listen to reason, to his concern for her safety. She kept taking off on her own, swimming upstream again. Could he live his life with this? Yet, he couldn’t imagine his life without her.
At the other end of the line, Susan hung up the phone, grabbed her crutches, and clomped to the bedroom without a word to Aunt Jenny and the judge, who both stared after her in dismay. In her bedroom, she peeled off the outer layer of clothes, threw herself on the bed, and cried herself to sleep.
* * *
Brandy Perkins had been doing some hard thinking. Wednesday night, when Vicky went bananas in her room, Brandy had done everything she knew to calm the girl down, mostly because she couldn’t stand to see anyone so upset but partly because she was afraid the reason for Vicky’s screaming hysteria might become public.
At first, Vicky had tried to run, but Kenny barred the door and threatened her with physical violence. Brandy heard him, and it wasn’t pretty. After that, Vicky had managed to make it through dinner with the airline pilots. The guy who was her date, Stan, was a nice enough guy, but Vicky acted like she was a statue made of stone.
When Brandy went down to the hotel lobby, hours later, she found Vicky sitting quietly in one of the plush chairs. On the way home she refused to talk about what happened, and Brandy didn’t push her. But when they got back to the sorority house and in Brandy’s room, the girl fell into hysterics.
Sallie left the room in disgust. “She’s a whiner, and I don’t want any part of this.”
“How can you just walk away from her? We did this to her.”
“Not we, Brandy, you. And I can walk away easy, ’cause I’ve got two hundred in my pocket, and I think she’s stupid.”
Brandy only stared after her a second because her attention was called back to Vicky, who was screaming, “My daddy, my daddy! He’s gonna beat me within an inch of my life.”
“Vicky,” she whispered soothingly, “he’s not going to know. Nobody’s going to know.” Brandy tried hugging, holding the girl tight so that she wouldn’t thrash about—but the screaming kept on.
It was a girl down the hall who called the campus cops. When they got there, they called the ambulance, and Vicky was sedated before she left the room on the stretcher.
Foggily, Vicky mumbled, “Brandy?”
“I’m right here, Vicky.” She reached for the girl’s hand and squeezed it.
“Don’t tell anybody, pullease.”
“I won’t, Vicky, I won’t.” This means she won’t tell, unless they give her so much sedation that she talks in her sleep. She was grateful that the paramedics were so busy taking care of Vicky that they didn’t hear her desperate plea.
Brandy spent a long, mostly sleepless night. When sleep did come, she fought major battles—yelling at Kenny, trying to save Missy, who mysteriously came back from the dead, hugging a sobbing Vicky. During all those battles, she thought she was awake and only realized she wasn’t when she awoke in a drenching sweat. But by morning she’d made a decision.
She went to Dr. Hogan’s contemporary lit class the next afternoon, expecting to find Dr. Hogan returned as she’d promised. Brandy had counted on a private word with her. She wanted to confess, as it were, what she knew and tell her of the decision she’d made. It had taken four cups of coffee to give her the strength—though her hands shook from the caffeine and the lack of sleep.
But instead of Dr. Hogan or even Dr. Peck, she found a note on the board that said simply, “Class cancelled.”
With a need to know that went beyond curiosity, Brandy went to the English office. “How come Dr. Hogan’s class was cancelled?” she asked Mildred.
Mildred looked at her from her privileged position as the secretary to the chair of the English department and said, “Surely you’ve heard.”
“Heard what? No, I guess I haven’t.” A sinking feeling started in Brandy’s stomach and worked its way upward, making her think she might throw up.
“Drs. Hogan and Peck were in a bad automobile accident last night. Dr. Hogan is all right, but Dr. Peck is hospitalized.”
Nobody had to tell Brandy that they’d been run off the road. She knew it without hearing.
But Mildred told her—or repeated Dr. Scott’s version. “They say they were run off the road by another car,” she said, her voice clearly suggesting doubt.
“That son of a bitch!” Brandy exploded, leaving the office on a run.
Mildred stared after her in surprise and then picked up the phone to dial Ernie Westin. He’d love to hear that, she knew, even if what the girl said didn’t make sense.
Wearing the sweatshirt and jeans
she’d gone to class in, Brandy got in her car and headed for The City Restaurant. By four-thirty, she was drinking a beer.
Kenny Thomas came into the bar early, close to five.
Brandy saw him and stood up.
“Brandy, sweet,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “What are you doing here tonight… ah, dressed like that?”
“Don’t sweet-talk me, Kenny. I have business on my mind.”
“So do I, my sweet, always.”
“Not that kind. I want out, now! I know what happened to Missy, and I don’t intend to be next. I’m not going out with your pilots ever again. And I’m not going to have anything to do with you. You cause me any trouble, and I’ll tell the cops everything I know. Believe me, it’s a lot.” She didn’t realize she was raising her voice.
“Shhh, baby, you’re upset. I heard about that Vicky girl’s problem—believe me, I heard from Stan—but it won’t happen again. Let’s go upstairs and talk.” He took her arm and all but dragged her up the stairs.
Upstairs, he punched the button and said, “Bring Brandy a martini, and a Glenlivet straight for me” Then, turning to lean over her, “You look like terrific, baby, even in jeans. I want you for myself.”
She hadn’t thought of that possibility, but she didn’t like it any better. Kenny Thomas was the man she was afraid of. “No.” She backed away.
When the drinks arrived, he pulled a chair up so that Brandy was almost sitting in his lap, “Now, baby, tell Kenny what’s the matter.”
Maybe it was the three beers she’d consumed in rapid order, nervously waiting for him to appear, but something made Brandy bold—and foolish. “I think you killed Missy,” she said, “and I don’t want to end up like her. I don’t want to work for you anymore.” She took a swallow, too big a swallow, of the martini and nearly choked.
Kenny patted her on the back. “You okay?” he asked solicitously.
“Went down the wrong pipe,” she said, taking another swallow to ease the tickle in her throat.
“Baby, I’m not into killing, ’specially not beautiful women. They’re my stock in trade. I swear to you, I did not kill Missy Jackson, Boy Scout’s honor.” He raised his right hand in the traditional Boy Scout sign of a pledge. “Besides,” and now he grinned charmingly at her, “how would you buy all those pretties if you quit letting me help you.” Kenny preferred not to think that the girls were “working for” him.
