by Joanne Fluke
Not bad, the logical part of her mind praised her. Now what if Doc Knight’s vehicle is gone and your mother’s car is in the garage?
“I’ll go in because she’s there alone … unless, of course, the lights are off,” Hannah answered aloud, feeling a bit silly to be talking to herself. “That means she went to bed and I wouldn’t want to wake her.”
Very good! the logical part of her mind said. And what will you do then?
“I’ll drive home and call her in the morning. I can wait a few hours to find out what Nancy knows about the assistant professorship at the college English department.”
The logic problem had occupied her through most of the trip. Hannah turned the corner and drove down her mother’s street. It was deserted. Doc Knight’s vehicle wasn’t there, but the lights were on.
Check the garage, Hannah’s logical mind insisted. It’s possible she left the lights on and they went somewhere else together after they left the school.
“I understand. But since Doc’s car isn’t there, I can just ring the doorbell,” Hannah argued. “If nobody’s home, nobody will answer.”
True, but you’re going to be really embarrassed if Doc Knight didn’t use his car at all. Say your mother picked him up at the hospital and she hasn’t taken him back yet. They could be in there engaging in activities that you don’t really want to …
“I don’t want to hear it!” Hannah yelled, getting out of the truck and into the muggy heat of the summer night. The mosquitoes found her almost immediately, descending like a hungry cloud on her bare arm. Why hadn’t she worn mosquito repellent?
Several slaps and two brushes with the palm of her hand, and she arrived at the door. Her finger was poised to ring the bell, when her logical mind spoke again.
You’re not thinking this through, Hannah. Doc could be there with your mother. What if they’re on the couch, and …
“Shut up!” Hannah yelled. But before she could press the doorbell, the porch light went on, and the door opened.
“Hannah?’ Delores stared at her daughter in complete confusion. “Who are you talking to?”
“No one, Mother.”
“But I heard you tell someone to be quiet.”
Hannah smiled. Delores wouldn’t use the phrase shut up even to repeat what her daughter had actually said. There was no way she wanted to tell her mother that she’d been having an argument with herself, so she settled for the first excuse that popped into her mind. “I was just talking on my cell phone.”
“And you told the person on the other end of the line to … to be quiet?”
“Yes. It was a telemarketer. Is it okay if I come in for a couple of minutes?”
“Of course.” Delores stepped back so Hannah could enter, and then she led her into the living room. “Would you like coffee?” she asked.
“Only if it’s made.”
“It is. Doc just left a few minutes ago and I still have half a pot. Just sit for a minute and I’ll get it.”
Hannah sat. And then she had a completely silent, no-holds-barred conversation with her logical mind. By the time Delores came in with a tray from the kitchen, Hannah had thoroughly cowed the logical part of her brain and elicited a promise never to interfere in her life again … unless she called on it, of course.
“Have a cookie, dear,” Delores said, serving Hannah’s coffee and cookie. “Florence is carrying a new brand at the Red Owl and I think they’re better than the cookies I used to buy.”
“They look good,” Hannah said, looking down at the perfectly round, perfectly baked cookie. “Oatmeal-cranberry?”
“Yes, but with coconut. They’re nice and moist, and chewy. You don’t make anything like that, do you, dear?”
“No.” Hannah took a sip of her coffee. It was time to address the reason she’d come to her mother’s house. “Did Nancy call you?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid it’s bad news for poor Mr. Pearson.”
“He didn’t get the job?”
“No, dear. Nancy talked to John Sidwell. He’s the head of the English department. He was quite forthcoming when she asked him about the meeting of the selection committee.”
Hannah took another sip of her coffee. It wasn’t very good and she made a mental note to get her mother some from the Cookie Jar. “What did Professor Sidwell tell Nancy about it?”
“He said he was upset at the way things had gone, because the other four members of the committee were swayed by Professor Ramsey’s recommendation.”
“But I thought he was recommending Tim Pearson.”
“That’s what John thought, but Professor Ramsey changed his mind at the last minute. He told the committee that he’d found a much better candidate and that he thought they should hire his other research assistant, Tiffany Barkley.”
Let me guess, Hannah thought. Tiffany Barkley is young, gorgeous, and willing to get personal with her boss. “So they hired Tiffany instead of Tim?” Hannah asked.
“That’s right. Professor Sidwell was the only one to vote for Mr. Pearson. Nancy said he was really upset. He told her that he thought the committee had been swayed entirely by Professor Ramsey’s recommendation, and he didn’t think that recommendation was based entirely on academic qualifications.”
“I understand,” Hannah said. It was clear to her that Professor Sidwell had known Bradford quite well.
“Try the cookie, dear. Tell me what you think.”
Hannah took another swallow of coffee and bit into the cookie. It wasn’t wonderful, but she did admire the texture. The oatmeal cranberry cookies they baked at The Cookie Jar were crisp and they didn’t have coconut. This cookie was soft. Perhaps their customers would like a cookie with a texture like this.
“I like the texture a lot,” she said. “I think I’ll try to make something that’s as soft and chewy as this.”
“Wonderful! I’ll be happy to taste test them for you. Will you try to bake them tonight?”
“Perhaps,” Hannah said. She’d gotten very little sleep, but she wasn’t all that tired.
“Nancy told me that the results of the selection committee were made public late Wednesday afternoon,” De-lores said, answering the question Hannah had been about to ask. “Professor Sidwell told Nancy that he called Mr. Pearson personally to give him the news and tell him that he didn’t agree with the decision of the committee.”
“Did he tell Tim that Professor Ramsey had changed his mind and recommended Tiffany Barkley for the job?”
“Yes. Nancy mentioned that specifically.” Delores took a sip of coffee and looked at Hannah over the rim of the cup. “Does this help, dear?”
“Very much, Mother.”
“Does this mean that Mr. Pearson is a suspect in Professor Ramsey’s murder?”
“Oh, yes.” Hannah took her steno pad out of her purse and retrieved a pen from the outside pocket. She made a note, and then she looked up at her mother. “Is it all right if I call Nancy to see if she has any other information?”
“Of course, dear. I suggested that myself. Nancy’s perfectly willing to speak to you about anything at all.”
“I have only one other question, Mother. It’s important.”
“Ask away, dear.”
“Did you see Stephanie Bascomb during the intermission of the talent show?”
Delores looked a bit startled at the question. “Why yes, I did. She came over to talk to us for a minute or two. She was very interested in the grave art that Bud just installed on the outside of the Henderson tomb. As a matter of fact, she asked him if he could make a metal sculpture of an open book for her.”
“You mean for her family’s mausoleum?”
“No, for the community library. She thought it would make a nice decoration.”
“Did you happen to notice if she stayed in the lobby for the entire intermission?”
“Yes, I did. Her outfit was so striking, I couldn’t help but glance at her every few minutes. It was a white lace suit and she looked marvelous. I asked her
about it, and she said it was entirely handmade. I’m sure it must have cost a fortune!”
“Thank you, Mother,” Hannah said, now convinced that Stephanie had told them the truth. There was no way a clotheshorse like Stephanie Bascomb would stab Bradford while she was wearing an expensive white lace suit!
“Why did you want to know about Stephanie, dear?”
“I just needed to check her alibi.”
“Her … alibi? Then you must think she had some reason to kill Professor Ramsey! And the only reason I can think of that would make her do something like this is …” Delores gave a little chuckle. “Never mind, dear. I get the picture. Ricky-Ticky’s had his share of flirtations and I can’t say I blame Stephanie one bit.”
It was almost eleven by the time Hannah unlocked the door to her condo. Even though it was late, Moishe hurtled into her arms and she nuzzled him as she carried him in to the couch and gave him a salmon-shaped treat.
“Oh, good. You’re home,” Michelle said, coming out of the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Not really. I just had some at Mother’s.”
“That can turn you off coffee for life!” Michelle laughed, and then she must have realized what Hannah said because she asked, “What were you doing at Mother’s?”
“Finding out about your friend Tim Pearson. He didn’t get the job.”
“Oh, no! Does he know?”
“Professor Sidwell from the English department called to tell him on Wednesday afternoon. Bradford didn’t keep his promise about the recommendation.”
“That’s just awful, Hannah! Tim really wanted that job. He was going to get married this fall and Judy was already looking for a job here. I just don’t understand why Bradford didn’t recommend Tim when he said he would.”
“Professor Sidwell said he changed his mind and recommended Tiffany Barkley instead.”
Michelle looked dazed. “That’s ridiculous! Tiffany doesn’t have even half the qualifications that Tim does. I’ll bet Tim was steaming when he heard that, especially after he did all that work. He probably wanted to strangle Bradford.”
Hannah watched as Michelle’s mind replayed her own words, and their effect was reflected on her face. “No! I refuse to believe it!” she said. “He might have wanted to and I can’t blame him, but there’s no way Tim would actually kill Bradford!”
Hannah just sat there, waiting for Michelle to calm down. It took a minute or two before her breathing returned to normal and she leaned back in her chair again.
“You need to know where he was on Wednesday night … right?” Michelle asked.
“That would be helpful.”
“Okay, I’ll find out. But I’m almost certain that Tim didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Hannah took the steno pad that she used as a murder book out of her purse and flipped to the suspect page. “I’ll write your initials next to Tim’s name,” she said. “That means you’re going to investigate his alibi if he has one.”
“Right.” Michelle leaned closer as Hannah wrote the name of another suspect on her list. “Stephanie Bascomb?” she asked.
“Yes.” Hannah added her own initials next to Stephanie’s name. And then she crossed Stephanie off her list.
“Why did you cross her off?” Michelle asked.
“Her alibi checks out. Mother saw her in the lobby during the talent show intermission.”
“But … why did you write her down in the first place if you were going to just cross her out?”
“So I could feel as if I accomplished something tonight.”
Michelle gave a little laugh. “I must be tired, because that makes perfect sense to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hannah had just said goodnight to Michelle and was heading down the hall toward her bedroom when the phone rang. She glanced at her watch. It was ten past eleven. No one who knew her schedule would call her this late. That meant it was an emergency, a telemarketer working much too late, or a wrong number. She thought about letting the answer machine get it, but her curiosity won out. It could be important. Maybe.
She leaned over the back of the couch to reach the phone and plucked it from its cradle. “Hello?” she said, petting Moishe with her free hand.
“I didn’t wake you, did I, Hannah?”
It was Norman and Hannah had half a notion to hang up. He’d left her high and dry at Casino Night. But perhaps his cell phone summons had been a dental emergency. Right now, as she sprawled over the back of the couch holding the phone with the cord that was far too short and petting a cat who was purring louder than an outboard motor, some Lake Edenite with a numbed mouth had been relieved of his pain from a tooth that had broken off in an auto accident. “It’s okay. I’m still up,” she said.
“Good. I wasn’t sure if I should call, but I decided that I could leave the information on the answer machine if you didn’t pick up.”
“What information?”
“The name of the student that Professor Ramsey flunked. There was only one, and it was spectacular. A second-year student named Kyle Williamson flunked out of his Introduction to Poetry class.”
“Hold on,” Hannah said, setting the phone back down on the end table and walking around the couch to sit down and pick it up again. “What made this student’s failure so spectacular?”
“He got three percent correct on the midterm, and two percent on the final. His poetry project was late, and it received a “U” for “unsatisfactory.” There was also a note in his file that said he cut over three-quarters of the class sessions.”
“That is spectacular,” Hannah agreed. “Is this student still in school?”
“Yes. He’s got a three-point eight grade average. Professor Ramsey’s course is the only one he hasn’t completely aced.”
“But why? I mean … was there some sort of personal issue?”
“I don’t know, but I think we ought to find out. Do you want me to go out to the college tomorrow and talk to him?”
“That would be great. Do you think you can get him to tell you where he was on Wednesday night?”
“I’ll try. I’m really curious about him, especially since this sort of thing didn’t happen in any of his other classes. I want to find out what Professor Ramsey did or said to turn him off so completely.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
There was a long silence before Norman spoke again. “I think I might do better alone. From what I’ve read of his academic records and college application, he sounds like a loner. I can identify with that. You don’t mind if I go by myself, do you?”
“No. Of course not,” Hannah said. “Good luck tomorrow, and let me know what you find out.”
“You’ll be the first to know.” There was another long silence, and then Norman cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was husky. “Goodnight, Hannah. I do love you, you know.”
“I know,” Hannah said And then she hung up the phone. But she didn’t know, not really.
“Norman?” Michelle asked, coming into the living room in her robe and slippers.
“Yes. He’s going to go out and interview a student who flunked out of Bradford’s Introduction to Poetry class.”
“But Bradford never flunked anyone.” Michelle looked puzzled. “He was very proud of that fact. He said that poetry should be accessible to everyone and it was a reflection on him if any of his students didn’t develop an appreciation for the genre by the end of his introductory course.”
“Well, this student flunked,” Hannah said. “Norman looked up his grades on the computer.”
“What’s his name?”
“Kyle Williamson.”
Michelle sat down on the couch next to Hannah. “Kyle Williamson. That’s vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure why.”
“Norman’s going out to talk to him tomorrow. Maybe he’ll come back with something that’ll jog your mem …” Hannah stopped speaking as the phone rang again.
“Do you want me
to get it?” Michelle asked.
“I’m closer,” Hannah said, reaching out for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, Hannah.”
It was Mike. Hannah gave a fleeting thought to other women and how they seemed to receive calls at normal hours of the day and night. Someday, when she had a few minutes, she’d have to figure out why her boyfriends always called her in the hour before and the hour after the witching hour. “Hi, Mike,” she said, deciding not to address the issue right now.
“Will you be up for another forty-five minutes or so? I’m driving back from Fergus Falls, and I should be there by midnight. I just met with Professor Ramsey’s first wife and I wanted to run a couple of things past you.”
“I’ll put the coffee on,” Hannah said, not even considering the option of refusal. For the first time since they’d met, over two years ago, they were fairly close to working together. She wasn’t about to throw a wrench into the works.
“Let me guess,” Michelle said, after Hannah had hung up the phone. “Mike’s coming over.”
“Right. You can go to bed if you want to. I had a nap at the shop today, so I’m fine.”
“So am I. I had sleep instead of food during my lunch hour. Mother’s got a great four-poster up on the second floor and it’s very comfortable. I just hope she doesn’t sell it before we catch Bradford’s killer.”
“We’re narrowing the field,” Hannah told her. “When Mother cleared Stephanie Bascomb, she cleared the mayor, too. They were together all through intermission, and they sat together when they went back inside the auditorium.”
“I didn’t know the mayor was a suspect!”
“Of course he was. Even though Stephanie insisted her relationship with Bradford was all business, the mayor must have noticed that his wife was spending quite a bit of time at the college.”
“But maybe he assumed it was payback time, and he was okay with that.”
Hannah shook her head. “Not a chance! The mayor’s very territorial. What’s good for the gander is definitely not good for the goose.”
“That’s not exactly fair,” Michelle pointed out.
