This is ridiculous, she thought. I can’t get away from this case, even in my dreams. She watched helplessly as the group of strange mer-creatures knelt before the man. One stroked his head. One took his hand and squeezed it. All of them looked miserable and sad. Eventually, one of the creatures indicated to the others that they should take the man, and all of the mermaids gathered together and lifted him. Moving the large man underwater would have been difficult for a group of men, but it was almost impossible for a group of women—especially women with no legs to stand on. However, working together, the band of fish women eventually managed to lift the man and carry him away.
When they had disappeared, Shoop waved to her to follow him and he swam upwards. She could feel the water temperature starting to rise. As they reached the surface of the water, she relished how much warmer it was above than below in the murky depths where Shoop had shown her the body. Now Shoop was . . . . Wait a minute. Where had Shoop gone? She glanced around the surface of the tropical island where Shoop had deposited her, but the man in the overcoat was nowhere to be seen. She felt herself relax on the warm sand of a beach, the waves gently nipping at her toes. The sunlight warmed her. The waves at her toes tickled. They tickled. Stop that.
Opening her eyes, she found herself in her own bed. It was morning and sunlight was streaming into her bedroom window. She had thrown off her comforter and Candide was at the foot of her bed nibbling on her feet.
Yawning luxuriously, she grabbed her little poodle and squeezed him tight.
“So it’s you tickling my toes, Candide!” she said to the dog. “And I thought I was on vacation.”
“Are you up?” yelled Rocky from their kitchen. “I thought I heard you.”
“You did,” she called back. “Talking to my buddy!”
Rocky rounded the corner of their bedroom and plopped down beside her. “I thought I was your buddy.”
“You’re more than just a buddy,” she responded, reaching out to nuzzle his unshaven face. “What did you put in that milk drink you poured down me last night?”
“Why? Didn’t it set well with your stomach?” he answered, standing and heading for the bathroom.
“No,” she replied. “It gave me the strangest dream!”
He popped his head back into their bedroom. “How strange?” he asked with a leer.
“Not that kind of strange,” she said. “Alice in Wonderland kind of strange.”
“Oh, you mean, you think I put some sort of hallucinogen in it.”
“I dreamt that Shoop took me for an underwater adventure complete with a dead body, an entire football team, and a troop—is it troop?—of mermaids.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to solve that coach’s murder in your sleep,” said Rocky, now starting his morning shaving ritual. He came back to the bed where she was still reclining. His face was covered with shaving cream.
“Ooo, you look all whipped creamy!” she exclaimed as he sat next to her on the bed.
“Now why couldn’t you have said that last night and not this morning when I have forty minutes to get to class?” He headed back to the sink and started in on his left cheek.
“Sorry,” she pouted. “Yesterday was a marathon. I pooped out on you.”
“Do you feel rested?” he asked in an altered voice as he ran the razor around his upper lip.
“Actually, I feel fantastic!” She stretched cat-like and smiled.
“Then the milk ambrosia worked,” he concluded, rubbing toner briskly onto his face. “Weird dreams must just be one of its side effects.”
“I guess,” she agreed. “But don’t lose that recipe.” She smiled and leaned back on the headboard. Her lethargy was interrupted by the jarring ring of the bedside telephone. “Barnes’ residence,” she answered.
“Dr. Barnes,” intoned the familiar voice of Detective Shoop, “I see you’re awake.”
“Detective,” she replied, as Rocky sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his trousers, “it seems like only yesterday. Oh, wait a minute, it was only yesterday.” She yawned.
“We’ve run into a glitch in questioning the mothers of the team members,” he informed her.
“How so?” she asked, “You couldn’t find the third speaker?”
“Oh, we found her all right,” he snarled, “but so did our killer. She’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shoop had informed her that they’d discovered Skye Davis’s body on the ground next to her Lexus, outside of her real estate office in a trendy section of Reardon. The woman had been stabbed in the back with an instrument that appeared similar, if not identical to, the one that had caused the death of Coach Croft. Pamela learned that Skye Davis was a forty-two year old single mother who had climbed her way to the top of her profession through hard work and determination and was considered one of the top five agents in the area. Her son, Demetrius, was the team’s star running back. She had given birth to the boy when she was twenty and since then had single-handed turned her life around and never looked back. Now that life was over—thanks to a fling with the local football coach.
Pamela mused with some trepidation how strangely this whole murder investigation was developing as she entered Blake Hall the next morning. As she strode down the old hallway to the Psychology Department’s main office, she couldn’t help but remember her involvement with the investigation of another campus murder victim—Charlotte Clark of their own department. Charlotte’s old office was on the right as she walked by. Now, a new professor, Derrick Sumpter, had replaced Charlotte and taken up residence in her office. The new guy was not in today. Pamela continued on down the hallway to the main office where she found Laura Delmondo standing in the doorway. The young woman glanced up as Pamela entered.
“Did you enjoy the game, Dr. Barnes?” she asked.
Pamela halted, grasping Laura’s arm, “Actually, Laura, don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, “but it was my first football game!”
“No!” exclaimed Laura. “I never miss one. Vito tries to come with me too, but we can’t always get a babysitter.”
“Don’t worry,” suggested Pamela, “that baby will be old enough to join the team soon enough!”
“Never!” exclaimed Laura, shaking her hands back and forth. “Too dangerous!”
“It was for the coach,” offered Pamela, walking with Laura further into the office, then thinking better, added, “I really shouldn’t have said that.”
“Pamela, it’s all right,” said Laura, reaching into the faculty mailboxes for her mail, “everyone is aghast about the Coach. Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know yet,” Pamela replied, grabbing a pile of envelopes and flyers from her own cubby hole.
“Yet?” cried the young professor. “Pamela, are you involved in this murder case too?”
“What?” a voice chimed in behind them. The two women turned and noticed Jane Marie Mira neatly ensconced behind her computer in her alcove, a coffee cup at her lips. “What’s this about the murder case, Dr. Barnes? Are you involved in this one too? I didn’t know they had a recording of Coach Croft’s murder?”
“They don’t,” said Pamela, standing in front of the secretary’s desk. Laura moved inside the smaller office and the three women bent their heads together over Jane Marie’s desk. “Please, don’t discuss this, you two. I’m not supposed to be talking about it. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything, really.” She put a finger to her lips in classic “shhh” mode.
“I promise I’ll never say anything to anyone,” said Laura, quickly, giving the “cross your heart” gesture in an enthusiastic child-like fashion.
“Dr. Barnes,” added Jane Marie, “you know you can count on me for discretion. After all, didn’t I know all about . . . . Well, you can count on me to keep my mouth shut.” She produced the age-old key-turning in front of the mouth routine.
“We’re a bunch of mimes!” declared Pamela looking from one woman to another and the three of them broke out laughing. �
��Truly, there’s not much to tell.”
“So, tell it,” demanded Jane Marie, with a sweet smile.
“The police requested my assistance,” she began, with a bit of a flounce to her sweater and a toss of her hair. “It seems that,” she said and bent closer to the two women, forcing them to come closer to hear, “it seems that Coach Croft kept his old voice mail messages on his cell phone.”
“And?” asked Laura.
“And,” filled in Jane Marie quickly, “these messages were not from his wife.”
“His invalid wife,” added Laura.
“Correct,” said Pamela, pointing her finger at each woman as they scored points.
“Wait a minute,” said Jane Marie, pushing away from her desk and standing up. “You said ‘messages’ not ‘message.’ Does that mean that he received several messages from one mistress or that—oh, my God—don’t tell me—there was more than just one mistress?”
“That’s what the newspapers are hinting,” said Laura to Jane Marie.
“What are they saying?” asked Pamela.
“They’re saying, or rather suggesting that Coach Croft had a mistress. Some people think the mistress stabbed him,” contributed Laura, nodding furiously.
“I haven’t really been following what the press is speculating,” said Pamela, “but I know for a fact that there are three different women who left a total of seven different messages on the Coach’s cell phone. I know because I listened to all of these messages and determined the number of speakers myself.” The two women gasped.
“Well, with a little help from Willard Swinton,” she added.
“Dr. Swinton is helping with the investigation too?” asked Laura.
“We both are,” said Pamela, “but please, don’t mention this. I shouldn’t have said anything to anyone. I’m sorry now I even brought it up.” And she was sorry. There was no reason for her to tell Jane Marie or Laura the specifics about the murder other than to look important. It was one thing to tell Willard Swinton because he was able to help her evaluate the voice mail voices—but now she was regretting saying anything to these female colleagues. If she was going to tell anyone, she should have at least told her best friends Joan and Arliss. On the other hand, it would only be a matter of hours before the local media became aware of the new homicide of Skye Davis and its possible relationship to the Croft murder. They would quickly put two and two together—mother of football team member killed shortly after coach is killed in sleazy motel. Hmm. Is there a connection?
“Dr. Barnes, are you saying that these three women on the Coach’s voice mail are the main suspects in his murder?” asked Jane Marie, sitting back down at her desk and resuming sipping her coffee.
“I would have said so,” explained Pamela to the two women, “but this morning Detective Shoop—he’s the investigating officer on this case, just as he was on Charlotte’s case, if you remember—well, anyway—this morning he called me at the crack of dawn. We’d been working on trying to identify the three women. We had figured out two of them—based on their accents—and other things...” She didn’t indicate that it was one woman’s son hearing his mother’s voice that provided the original clue. “...but we were able to identify two of the women and both admitted—or seemed to admit—to affairs with Croft. We were unable to identify the third mistress, but we had it narrowed down to a short list based on certain characteristics...” She didn’t mention that the main characteristic was race for the third woman. “...when one of the women on this list was found murdered this morning.”
Both women gasped again.
“Yes,” said Pamela. “That was my reaction. There’s no guarantee that this recent murder is connected to the Coach’s murder, but I’m betting it is!”
At that, the connecting door to Mitchell Marks’ office opened and the Department Head stuck his face out.
“What are you women babbling about? It’s not even nine yet,” he growled. The man’s head of thick blond hair was thoroughly mussed and his eyes looked swollen.
“Dr. Marks!” exclaimed Jane Marie, “I didn’t know you were here! You never get in this . . . . Uh, you didn’t sleep in your office all night, did you?”
“Jane Marie,” snapped Marks, “get me some coffee.” He slammed the door, leaving the startled women staring at each other in dismay.
“He never asks me to make him coffee,” whispered the secretary. “This is way too early for him to be here. I didn’t even know he was in there!”
“You don’t think he actually slept in his office all night, do you?” questioned Laura.
“I don’t know,” said Jane Marie. “But look at him! He looks awful!”
Pamela personally didn’t think that her boss looked any worse than he normally did, but she did believe that he seemed more than unusually gruff. He was typically of a fairly moderate disposition.
“He seems upset,” she offered. “Is he? I mean, is he getting along with Velma? I saw them at the football game—remember? They seemed okay to me.”
“To me too,” agreed Jane Marie.
“I’d better get going before I get in trouble,” said Laura in a quiet voice. She gave a gentle wave to the two women and tip-toed carefully out of the office.
“I’d probably better follow her lead,” said Pamela to Jane Marie.
“Just a minute,” said the secretary, grabbing Pamela’s jacket sleeve. “You’re embroiled in this murder investigation and you didn’t tell me about it . . .”
“Jane Marie,” said Pamela, “there’s nothing to tell, really. Besides, Shoop ordered me to keep quiet about my involvement. It’s police business.”
“That didn’t stop you with Charlotte’s murder, Dr. Barnes,” noted Jane Marie.
“I know,” agreed Pamela. It was true. Jane Marie had been an amazing accomplice in her first investigation, aiding and abetting her in tracking down Charlotte’s killer and a variety of additional departmental mysteries along the way. Jane Marie had campus sources and techniques for gathering information that were unknown in police circles, she was sure. “All right, Jane Marie. You’re in. I’m sorry I kept you out of the loop, but you have to promise . . .”
“I already did all that, Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, motioning away Pamela’s worries with her gesture. “You can trust me—just like you did before. I can help you solve this.”
“You think we can solve it? Truly?” asked Pamela, marveling at the possibility that she and Jane Marie, pooling their skills, might be able to identify the Coach’s killer—and now possibly the killer of one of his mistresses.
“How hard can it be?” asked Jane Marie. “You say there were three women who left voice mail messages—three women who must have been his mistresses. One of them is now dead. Don’t you think that she was probably killed by one of the other two? You know. A jealous rage sort of thing?”
“I don’t know, Jane Marie,” said Pamela, thinking. “I heard the other two women and they didn’t sound like they even knew that any other mistresses existed.”
“They’re not going to let on to you what they knew. Maybe they suspected!” cried Jane Marie.
“I guess if they could kill the coach, they could kill one of his mistresses. My God! It could be!” Pamela shouted.
The inner door popped out and Mitchell Marks was again highlighted in the entrance, hanging against the door frame as if he might collapse on the floor.
“What?” he whined. “What’s all the ruckus about? Tell me now, and it better be good or I’ll see to it that you both regret it when I write your yearly performance evaluations. And where is that coffee?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
She had taught her one class for the day and had spent a pleasant hour with her graduate assistant, Claire, going over the young student’s data from her thesis research project. She typically did a lot of hand-holding—in the figurative sense—with her graduate students who generally struggled with the data analysis portion of their thesis research. Why wouldn’t they
? She remembered her own doctoral program and the mountains of computer printouts she’d had to wade through for her own studies. It was so much easier today with online statistical analysis programs. Graduate students could run their t-tests and multivariate analyses right on their own laptops in their own dingy apartments. They didn’t have to take up residence in some central computer lab as she’d had to do many years ago when she was running data. Claire was a conscientious young woman and diligent, but not nearly as enthusiastic about research in general as her former assistant, Kent Drummond, had been. Yes, the same Kent Drummond who now vied for—and apparently appeared to be winning—the race for top man in her daughter Angela’s heart. Strange, she thought, how lives are interwoven.
“Dr. Barnes,” said Claire, seated beside Pamela on her couch, “did you say that I should rerun the data for both Hypothesis Two and Three or just Two?”
“What?” responded Pamela. Their laps were filled with reams of statistical print-outs. A typed rough draft of the student’s thesis lay to Pamela’s right side. “Sorry, Claire, I must have drifted.”
“It’s okay, Dr. Barnes,” said the thin girl, long brown hair draped over her face, “I do that too after staring at rows and rows of numbers for hours on end.” She gave a weak laugh. Pamela placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder.
“Maybe it’s time we wrapped up for the day,” she suggested. “Let’s take a look at your data tomorrow, with a fresh eye. I’ll be thinking about what to do about your two hypotheses. Maybe we could combine them.”
“That would be great!” replied the student and noticeably sparkling.
“Good,” said Pamela, gathering the papers, standing, and stretching. My goodness, I have been seated hunched over that project for far too long. Claire grabbed her backpack from the floor and shoved the pile of print-outs inside. Quickly zipping up the bag, she stood and headed for the door.
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