At Risk

by Judith E. French

  He longed to look deep into the professor’s eyes at the moment of her death, had imagined killing her in so many delicious ways, but he could wait. Patience made his appetite keener and his ultimate prize greater. He promised himself that when the time came, he would deny himself nothing. He would taste and feast on her blood and flesh. He would consume her bit by bit, and he would keep the spark of life in her sweet body for a long, long time.

  These little toys would serve twofold—frighten her, and let him fully enjoy each move of the game. He would know what she was thinking—planning—perhaps even before she did. And he would savor each bite of her terror until the moment of his triumph.

  He glanced at his watch, then turned to glance at the old-fashioned iron bed. It was covered with a floral spread, not expensive, probably from some mail-order house. He wondered when she’d last changed her sheets and if they would retain her scent.

  He went back to the bed, lifted the coverlet and bent to sniff a pillowcase. Percale. Not new, but acceptable. But she didn’t hang her sheets on the line to dry. No, these had been dried in a dryer, probably with one of those little white sheets of fabric softener. Women today were so slothful, unwilling to take the time to properly care for a home.

  He fluffed the pillow and smoothed the bedspread over it. “Sleep well,” he said softly. “Enjoy your bed while you can. Your next bed will be somewhat colder.” He smiled at his own joke. “And damper,” he added with a chuckle. “Much, much damper.”

  “Are you reading my mail?” Liz flung her briefcase on a chair and advanced on Cameron. Administration had assigned her a space in this glorified storage room while her office was being painted and new carpet laid, but the worst part was that she had to share the area with Cameron Whitaker. “Have you lost your mind? What gives you the right to—”

  “A simple thank-you would do,” he said. “You don’t have to bite my head off.” He looked around at the stacked chairs lining one wall. “I could have let you set up your own computer.”

  “Please get out of my chair.” She glanced at the screen, scanning the screen names and the ever-present advertisements for enhanced sexual organs and weight loss.

  “Your filing cabinet’s over there.” He gestured toward a corner of the room. “They dented it up moving it in here.”

  “Have you been snooping in that as well?” She glared at him. “Did you send flowers to Katie?”

  “Katie who?”

  “You know damned well what Katie. My daughter. In Dublin. Was it your idea of a sick joke?”

  “Look, Liz. I know you’re upset about what happened to Tracy, but there’s no need to make absurd accusations. We’re colleagues—friends.”

  “Friends? Hardly. Now, get out of my chair and away from my computer before I file a formal complaint against you for violating my privacy. And I’d prefer that you address me as Dr. Clarke.”

  “Pulling rank? Considering that we are more than acquaintances, I think—”

  “That’s it, Cameron. That’s all we are.”

  “Funny, I’d say that you showed more interest than that. You went out with me.”

  “Shared dinner in a public restaurant,” she said. “Nothing more. I met you there, if you recall, and I paid for my own meal.”

  “I offered.” He scrolled down and tapped a key. “Look at that. Weird, isn’t it?”

  Liz stared at the screen. The image of an oyster knife revolved from left to right. Under it, written in red, were the words Your move, Professor.

  “Oh, God,” she murmured. “Look at—”

  “Want me to—”

  The screen went to blue.

  “Oops.”

  “Did you delete that?” she demanded.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you see it—right in front of you?”

  “See what?” Cameron asked smugly.

  “Damn it.” Liz’s heart thudded against her ribs. “You deleted it. Bring it back. What was the screen name?”

  “It was spam. You wanted spam?”

  “Am I interrupting something here?” Amelia stuck her head in the open doorway. “What’s up? Are you two—”

  “There was an e-mail,” Liz said. “And a picture. Of a knife.”

  Cameron stood up. “I didn’t see any knife.”

  “There was a knife,” Liz repeated. “An oyster knife.”

  “I think she’s imagining things,” Cameron said.

  “You had to see it,” Liz insisted. “There was a message, in red. You saw that, didn’t you? It read, ‘Your move, Professor.’ ” She glanced at Amelia. “He deleted it. But it’s got to be in the hard drive, doesn’t it? I’m going to call security.”

  Cameron backed away from the computer. “There was some junk, the usual stuff. It might have been red. I think you’re losing it, Liz.”

  She sat down and ran the mouse over recently deleted mail. “Wait, it’s got to be here,” she said. “I’ll prove it to you.”

  Amelia approached the chair and put her hand on Liz’s shoulder. “I think your class is waiting for you, Cameron,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, Roman Pottery Along Hadrian’s Wall.”

  “I can’t find it,” Liz said. “Where could it have gone?”

  “I told you, I didn’t see—”

  “I think you’d better get to your students before Liz makes you the second victim in this wing,” Amelia said.

  “I’d get her to a therapist if I were you,” Cameron said as he headed for the doorway. “She should be on different medication.”

  Liz swore between clenched teeth. “I’m telling you, I saw it. I’m not losing my mind.”

  “Probably just another of Cameron’s attempts at humor,” her friend said. “You know what a computer whiz the prick is. If there was some twisted message, he probably sent it to you.”

  “Maybe,” Liz said. “I think he sent flowers to Katie. Funeral flowers.”

  “To Katie?” Amelia glanced at her watch. “I’ve got two hours before my next class. Why don’t you cancel your morning lecture and come home with me for some real coffee and you can tell me all about it.”

  “I shouldn’t. My kids—”

  “Your kids will be delighted. Come on, Liz. What is the administration going to do? Discipline you? You shouldn’t even be back to work this soon after what’s happened.” Amelia’s beautiful, chocolate features creased with genuine concern. “What do you say? Coffee, Irish cream, and a shoulder to cry on. What more could you ask for?”

  Chapter Six

  “I’ve got the house to myself for a few days,” Amelia said as she poured coffee into bright orange pottery mugs adorned with stylized African wildlife. “Thomas left for Virginia Beach this morning.” She ran slender fingers through her close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Bad timing, but we had some repairs done to the deck, and he wants to be certain the contractor completes the work before he writes the check. The same contractor who built the place for us—the man Thomas brags is so reasonable, the man we’ve never had a minute’s trouble with. But . . . you know how anal-retentive Thomas is. He has to check up on everything.”

  Liz smiled in sympathy and then glanced out the window at Amelia’s elegant back yard with its marble bench and fountain, and beyond that at the greenhouse where Amelia’s husband grew prizewinning orchids. “You said you’d lost some shingles in that March storm.”

  Amelia took a chair across from her at the small breakfast table. “One of the joys of owning property a block from the ocean.”

  The coffee was rich and dark, too hot to drink, but Liz lifted the gazelle cup to inhale the aroma. “Mmm, trust Thomas to buy the best.” Amelia’s husband did all of the shopping and most of the cooking. Liz knew that Thomas was particular about his coffee, buying only organically grown beans and grinding them himself. “Will your nieces be coming for the summer again?”

  “Not Natasha, but Regina will. Natasha got an internship in Washington. Regina’s coming, and she’s bringing her roo
mmate, Yejide. Lovely girl. You’ve got to come down while she’s with us. She’s Nigerian, but she grew up in Cape Town. Pre-med.” Amelia chuckled. “It should be an interesting ten weeks. According to Regina’s e-mails, Yejide’s had quite a time adjusting to American life. Yejide’s parents had numerous household servants, and the girl had no idea how to make her bed or wash her clothes. Regina said Yejide drowned the dorm laundry in suds and ruined two loads of her good clothing with bleach.”

  “Should keep you and Thomas from getting bored.”

  Amelia toyed with a gold hoop earring. “His idea. On the plus side, Yejide doesn’t date and attends church twice a week.” She stirred cream and artificial sweetener into her coffee. “However, Regina claims that Yejide’s half of the room looks like the aftermath of a hurricane. I’m giving Yejide the crow’s nest, the attic room with all the windows on the third floor, a view of the ocean, and her own whirlpool bath. Thomas doesn’t need to see the mess until September, and by then the Merry Maids will have worked wonders.”

  “Sounds like a plan. So long as she doesn’t do laundry.”

  Amelia’s liquid brown eyes grew thoughtful. “It’s you I’m worried about. I can only imagine how you must feel. No one should have to go through what you did. Why don’t you stay here for a week—for as long as you want? There’s no need for you to be out there all alone, not when you’re being stalked by some nutcase.”

  “Thanks, but . . .” Liz cradled her mug with both hands, met her friend’s gaze, and exhaled. “Amelia, I think it’s Cameron.”

  Amelia sat back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. “I know he’s an annoying prick, but funeral flowers and threatening e-mails? If he’s guilty, he could go to jail. He’d certainly lose his slot at Somerville and probably any hope of working for anyone else in the academic world.”

  “I’ve thought of all that, but I can’t come to any other conclusion.” She placed the cup deliberately on the striped tablecloth and gazed at it.

  “You don’t believe he murdered Tracy Fleming, do you?”

  Liz looked up from her musing and smiled. “Hardly. He may be taking advantage of the situation, but I don’t believe it’s in Cameron’s nature to be violent. And to give the devil his due, I’ve never seen Cameron speak to any of the girls outside class. I think he reserves his lechery for older women.”

  “Well, if he didn’t kill her, who did?”

  “Jack says it was her boyfriend Wayne . . . who may well be dead himself, now.”

  “Jack. The just-released-from-prison Jack? The drug runner ex-item?”

  For a minute, Liz was sorry she’d revealed so much of her past to Sydney and Amelia that night at dinner. “It was Jack on the motorcycle that we saw coming out of the parking lot that morning.”

  “Any chance he could be the murderer?”

  “No-o-o.” Liz felt her cheeks grow warm. “At least, I don’t want to think he could be. Jack’s a little rough around the edges, but . . .”

  “Still hung up on him, aren’t you? Why is it women never get over their first lay?”

  Liz nibbled her lower lip. “He wasn’t, actually. He wanted it. I wanted it. But I didn’t completely trust him, and I was scared that giving in would mean an end to my dreams.”

  “So you didn’t trust him then, but suddenly he’s worthy of your trust now?” Amelia asked.

  “Jack can be a real bastard, but I can’t believe he’d murder Tracy—or any woman, for that matter.”

  “But he’s capable of killing a man?”

  Liz sighed. “You don’t know watermen. It’s hard to explain. They’re a breed apart. They make their own laws and live by a code that’s almost archaic. It’s a macho thing, tied up with honor and loyalty. If you haven’t grown up with them, it’s difficult to understand.”

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  “Yes, I suppose that under the right circumstances, Jack could kill someone,” Liz said. “But, given extraordinary conditions, any of us could.” She paused and asked, “If it was life or death, don’t you think . . .”

  “No, Liz, I don’t. I can’t imagine any circumstance that would force me to take a life. And I don’t think you could either.”

  “You couldn’t kill someone to save Thomas?”

  Amelia shook her head. “You’re losing your perspective, Liz. You should talk to someone.”

  “The police? I’ve—”

  “No. Professional help, a counselor. You’ve had a terrible shock. You may not be thinking logically.” Amelia arched a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “This isn’t something you just get over, Liz. Finding a murdered girl in your office . . .”

  “You think I’m losing it?”

  Amelia tasted her coffee, then added another spoonful of dark honey and stirred. “It’s only been a week. Seven days. You need to seek help.”

  “All right, I’ll think about it. But I’ll be honest. I don’t have much respect for shrinks. The doctor I saw when Russell and I were in the process of divorce was useless. She kept suggesting that I be more sympathetic to Russell’s gambling addiction. Easy for her to say. He put us thirty thousand dollars in debt and took a second mortgage on the house. And he cheated on me. Repeatedly. Once, Katie came home from school and found her father and his receptionist in our . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Russell is history.” She finished her coffee and stood up. “We should get back to school.” She leaned over and hugged her friend. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and Sydney.”

  “You know we’re here for you. If you need anything, or if you just want to talk, don’t hesitate to call me, day or night.”

  Liz sighed and nodded. “Okay.”

  “And you’re in no shape to teach. Take the rest of the week off.”

  “It’s too close to the end of the term.”

  “Then take a few days.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “No maybe about it. I’m right. No one in administration will give you any hassle.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “No, promise me that you’ll do it. Three days, at least.”

  “Yes, Mother. I’ll take a few days off.”

  “Three,” Amelia insisted. “You can load the kids up with work for the weekend.”

  “They’ll love me for it.”

  Amelia dumped her purse on the table, opened a compact, and freshened her coral lipstick. “It’s not a popularity contest. And they adore you.”

  “Not all of them. Someone’s threatening me.”

  “You said it was Cameron.”

  “I said I thought it was Cameron.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Amelia squeezed her lips together. “Either him or a disgruntled student. Are you failing anyone?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Any students who look capable of building a bomb?”

  “Thanks a lot.” Liz grimaced. “Now I should worry about being blown up every time I start my car?”

  “Why not? You’re a fan of the Sopranos. Isn’t that how Tony gets rid of his enemies?”

  “Michael and Jack both think that Tracy was killed by her ex-boyfriend. And now it looks as though he might have committed suicide. I doubt I have a murderer stalking me.”

  “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you? All this is probably some moron’s idea of fun. They’ll soon tire of the game and find someone else to pester.”

  “But they broke into my house! How would you feel if—”

  Amelia rose. “I promised you scones and I never even offered them—”

  “No, thanks. Honestly. The coffee and the shoulder to cry on were what I needed. Your scones are fabulous, but I’m not hungry.”

  “All right, but I’m not letting you off. Call Dean Pollett’s secretary and tell them you won’t be in for the rest of the week.”

  “Two days,” Liz offered.

  “Three.”

  Liz chuckled. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “I know. Tho
mas says that all the time.” She poured herself another half cup of coffee. “More?” Liz shook her head. Amelia crossed to a wall phone, punched in the number of the dean’s office, and handed the receiver to Liz.

  When she’d finished with the call and assured the secretary that she would return on Friday, Liz passed the phone back to Amelia, who hung it up.

  “Now, wasn’t that easy?” Amelia asked.

  “I suppose, but I feel like a shirker.”

  “Don’t. Go shopping. Buy shoes. I’ll give you the number of that counselor, and I want you to make an appointment as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Liz said.

  “Good, and think about visiting us at the beach house. Any time, for as long as you’d like.”

  “That, I’ll gladly accept. I’m looking forward to it.” She stood and picked up her briefcase. “I’ve already bought a new bathing suit in Ocean City. That shop I was telling you about—where they make the suits to fit you? It’s a blue and green leafy print, two-piece.”

  “Great. Buy another one. You’ll need it. I’m a beach fanatic. I toast on one side, then oil, and bake on the other.” Amelia chuckled. “As if my tan needs it.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I’m serious about you coming to stay here in this house for a few days. I want you to consider it.”

  Liz shook her head. “I can’t. People have been trying to drive my family off Clarke’s Purchase for hundreds of years. I ran away when I was seventeen. I won’t do it again, not if it kills me.”

  “That’s comforting, considering what just happened.”

  “Michael’s loaned me one of his guard dogs. And he’s just down the road. He says I have nothing to worry about, no matter who killed Tracy. If the murderer had wanted to cut my throat, he could have found me there any morning. I can deal with slimy Cameron, but—”

  Liz broke off in mid sentence as her cell phone rang. She checked to see who was calling before answering. “Russell? How did you . . . ? Never mind. What is it?”