by Liz Bradbury
“Ah, thank you Connie.” Bouchet raised his voice and said expansively, “Here are the beverages you all enjoy.” He sounded condescendingly Lord of the Manor. He was back to the Mr. President persona. Was he trying to hook these folks with free sodas?
He turned a little and watched Connie come in again with a plate of cookies, which she put on the table in front of us. They were Pepperidge Farm! Wow, top dollar. Hey, I’m a ho for good cookies. I was hooked. I scooped up a Bordeaux and a dark chocolate Milano.
The two women and four men already seated got up and went to the back table to get their soft drinks. Bouchet, Miranda, and I stayed in our places. There was quite an array of drinks but just one per person. There was a bit of soft-drink gridlock, because the space near the back table wasn’t very roomy. After each of the folks had finally snagged their pleasure, remaining on the table were, a can of diet cola, and bottles each of iced tea, Cafalatte, Lifeline Organic Juice, and spring water. Bouchet turned to me and asked if I wanted anything. Of the things left on the table, I chose the water. But when Bouchet called my order to Connie, she brought me a water from the reception area. I guessed the water on the back table was for someone else.
“Still a little early,” said Bouchet. “Whom are we waiting for?”
Miranda Juarez, ever the efficient assistant said, “Dr. Georgia Smith and Prof. Daniel Cohen.”
“And Kathryn, I believe,” said a precise-voiced, older woman sitting to my left. She looked sharply at me. I’d seen her many times before in the Mews. She had long gray hair pinned up in a coil at the back of her neck and skin tanned from years of outdoor exposure.
“Kathryn did make it back in time, but she had to rush to Harrisburg, so she won’t be attending,” said the President. Someone exhaled. I couldn’t tell whom.
A man with flaming red hair, sat just beyond the imposing woman on the left side. I recognized him now as Jimmy Harmon, Irwin’s one nationally famous professor. Even at the young age of 42, he had an amazing body of successes to his credit. He’d created two classic Broadway shows that were destined to be performed in high schools and little theater forever, but could pull in crowds on Broadway with each revival. He’d written a pop TV theme and composed a rock opera. He had also recorded some of the greatest collections of American folk music to date and written about them in an engaging yet scholarly way. He was dressed in wild mismatched clothes, including bright orange overalls that echoed his “I Love Lucy” hair color.
He said excitedly, “To Harrisburg? Has the satellite grant gone through?”
“Yes, yes it has. Kathryn is helping the Governor with the press release,” said Bouchet.
Everyone seemed pleased. I heard someone say, “Well, that is wonderful news.”
I took out my small laptop computer and opened it on the table. I put the list of people Miranda Juarez had given me on top of it and quickly typed the names into a spreadsheet.
A man and woman entered the room. Miranda had indicated the late people were Georgia Smith and Daniel Cohen, so I checked off their names.
There were now eleven people at the table counting me. Bouchet didn’t pull any punches as he began the meeting, “There has been a very serious development regarding Carl Rasmus’s tragic death.”
Heads shot up. Bouchet had everyone’s full attention. He explained in a general way that the autopsy did not fit well with the original presumption of suicide. He added that information from the coroner’s inquest would be made public sometime next week.
“We have planned a memorial service for Carl on Sunday, in the College Chapel along with the regular service at 11:00 AM. It will help the students... and the rest of us deal with the shock of Carl’s death by celebrating his life. I hope you will all attend.” He made it clear that absence was not an option.
“And there is something else as well,” said Bouchet. He turned to Miranda and she handed him a sheaf of papers that he passed around to everyone. “This is a copy of Carl’s suicide note. It may be made public as part of the inquest evidence. As you can see, everyone on the Tenure Committee is named and Carl blames us all and himself for his unhappy life and untimely death.”
As everyone scanned the note, I heard the words, “Slander, libel, obscene, preposterous, ridiculous, and crap,” said with various intonations and emphasis.
An expensively dressed man at the end of the table said, “Max, this is really too much,” in a pompous way. Georgia Smith’s eyes glistened.
Bouchet said, “Yes, I know, what Carl says here is unfounded and untrue. And what he says about himself is... odd. That coupled with the facts of the autopsy has brought me to a decision.” He indicated me. “This is Maggie Gale. She is a private investigator who comes highly recommended. I have hired her to get to the truth of this matter. She will be...”
A black-haired woman in round-rimmed glasses sitting at the far right end of the table stood up. According to the list she had to be either Dr. Amanda Knightbridge or Dr. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann. She interrupted angrily with a German accent, “Max, really, of this you cannot be serious,” she eyed me. “This is not the cops and robbers. Carl killed himself, there is no mystery. He was an unfortunate young man with demons. He could not...”
“Rowlina, please hear me out,” Bouchet commanded in a semi-roar. Dr. Rolina Roth-Holtzman bit back the rest of her words and flopped back into her seat.
Bouchet resumed in a quieter yet still commanding rumble, “Yes, there are many reasons to believe that Carl’s death was exactly as it seemed, but there is now room for doubt. There must be a very careful investigation, more careful than the police are willing to undertake.”
“May I ask,” said the imposing woman to my far left whom I could now identify as Dr. Amanda Knightbridge, “has the Board approved this investigation?”
“Yes, Amanda, you may ask and no, they have not. I have hired Ms. Gale on my own and will be paying her fee personally. In some ways that may not be the correct procedure, but the Board will not meet for another month and a half and that is too long to wait. I believe if you all think back carefully you will remember that Ms. Gale worked on a case here at the college a few years ago. She solved the problem of the thefts from the technology department. She was a police lieutenant at the time.” He stopped speaking and looked around the room.
Amanda Knightbridge nodded, “So, this is Ms. Gale? I was on sabbatical at the time but I remember some very glowing accounts of her success. I can see why you are putting this in her hands.”
Bouchet nodded gratefully to Dr. Knightbridge, “I appreciate your cooperation. Ms. Gale will be interviewing each of you,” he said, “please introduce yourself and briefly explain your position at the college,” he gestured to me to continue.
I said before anyone could express further shock, “I’d like to speak to each of you in person over the next two days. My time is flexible so if you can tell me now when I may come to see you, that would help.”
“Very well,” said Bouchet, “I’ve already introduced myself so we’ll go on to Miranda.” He looked to his right. Miranda Juarez gave her name and title. She mentioned that she was not on the Tenure Committee but I wanted to speak with her anyway, so we agreed on 9:00 AM the next day.
Next around the table was Daniel Cohen the Head of the Fire and Safety Engineering Department. He was tall, about fifty-five, and had curly gray hair. He wasn’t fat, but he’d have to be careful counting the carbs. His intelligent ruddy face was noncommittal. He seemed comfortable and casual in sport jacket, tie, and khaki pants. He’d taken off his overcoat when he came in and hung it on the back of his chair. He explained the function of his department, making it clear, in an understated but slightly long winded way, that it was a significant part of the College that impacted fire and safety codes throughout the Country. Cohen checked his list of appointments. He suggested 2:00 PM, Wednesday and explained that his office was across the street.
Next up was Bart Edgar who seemed to have forgotten we’d just met min
utes before. At the time, I’d labeled Edgar a nerd. The label still fit but I was appending, inefficient, and incompetent to the description. I couldn’t believe anybody could be such a dolt. Maybe it was an act, covering up the wry intellect of a Shakespearian fool? Yeah, right.
Edgar explained at length that he was not on the Tenure Committee, then attempted an explanation of his job. He did this all in unfinished sentences, with the logic of a frictionless puck. The more uncomfortable he felt, the more he giggled. While Edgar snickered his way through his narrative, I looked around the room and noticed several of the men tugging their collars. The women were doing the female equivalent; they were looking at their nails.
Sparking universal relief, I interrupted Edgar myself, “Do you have any time free to speak with me?”
Edgar began shaking his head, "Time... um, there’s a meeting...”
I asked, “Before or after the meeting?”
He looked at his calendar, then said, “I could email you?”
I said, “You mean you have no time before or after your meeting?”
He stared at me. Then he looked down. “2:00 PM?” he suggested. That was the time Daniel Cohen had just arranged. I glanced at Cohen who had his hand over his eyes and was gently shaking his head.
I said to Edgar, “How about 3:30?”
“3:30 PM?” he asked.
Resisting the urge to scream, No, you idiot, 3:30 in the morning! I just nodded. 3:30 seemed to be OK, because he began to bob his head and mumble affirmative noises.
Cutting to the chase, Miranda Juarez turned to me and said rapidly, “Bart’s Office is on the third floor of this building, room 310.” I nodded and typed it into my schedule. People around the room sighed quietly in relief.
The last person seated on the right side of the table tersely introduced herself as Dr. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann. The Germanic accent was still strong but less strident. Her hairstyle was Edith Head, complete with bangs and a jet-black dye job. Nobody her age, which was mid-fifties, has hair that color. In fact nobody of any age has hair that color. It looked like the tip of a black magic marker. Her face was powdered white and she was thin as a stick and hunched up like a crab. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann looked like the kind of person who’d always feel cold. She was still wearing her coat, though it was unbuttoned. It was very dark gray wool and way too big for her.
“Between 4:00 PM and 5:00 PM tomorrow I have time. I am not free after 5:00 PM. My office is in the Architectural Design building, of which department I am the Chair. The building is called also Fenton Hall.”
While everyone was looking at Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann, I stole a look at Jimmy Harmon. I’d heard he was a kind, sweet and a bit wacky guy. But at this minute he had an expression that would sour chocolate milk and it was aimed at me. Scowling there in his odd clothing and flaming red hair he looked like a bad dream circus clown. Since no one was watching me but him, I stuck my tongue out at him. His demeanor changed immediately into a silent horse laugh, which was charming, but a dramatic mood swing.
Jimmy Harmon’s pale skin would sunburn in a second, even faster than mine. His black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses looked cool on him, but his nose was runny. He didn’t seem sick though. I wondered if Harmon was a nose candy connoisseur.
He sniffed and said unnecessarily, “I’m James Harmon, the Head of Music History. My office is in the Music History Building. You’ll probably want to see Carl’s office, so let’s go over there after this meeting. We can talk and you can see the scene of the cri...” He stopped, looking sincerely shocked. He shook his head mumbling, “Shit, I’m sorry.”
I said, “OK, Mr. Harmon, we can do that. Thank you.”
Dr. Amanda Knightbridge was next around the table from Jimmy Harmon, watching him with obvious maternal concern. Yet there was a transcendental depth in her eyes. As her expression faded into polite attention I flashed on seeing her in the summer, tending the Mews’ Rose Garden, decked out in an elaborate gardening hat and smock. I’d imagined she was just a neighborhood character who didn’t have anything better to do than pick Japanese beetles off American Beauties, but according to the list, Dr. Amanda Knightbridge was the Chair of Irwin College’s Art and Architecture History Department.
She said simply, “Thursday at 10:30 AM? My office is in Clymer Hall, that’s 320 College Street.” But there was an intensity about her that briefly filled the room. She nodded once, then focused on Georgia Smith, who was next along the table.
In her mid-30s, Dr. Smith was younger than the others. She’d slipped off her winter jacket and put it in the chair next to her, then taken off a wool hat and patted her Dorothy Hamill wedge hairstyle into place. She was wearing a functional beige colored wash-n-go polyester suit, which contrasted in style to the yin-yang pendant and woven feather Indian necklace she was wearing around her neck. She also had uncut crystal earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders.
Up until this moment, Georgia Smith had been intently reading over the copy of Carl Rasmus’s suicide note. When she felt the attention in the room shift to her, she looked up. Her eyes were shining. “Karmetic sign...” she murmured touching her feather necklace. Not everyone was close enough to hear her; Amanda Knightbridge put her hand on the young woman’s arm. Georgia Smith focused, said she was the Assistant Dean who coordinated Freshman Studies, then flipped open her electronic calendar and offered Thursday at 10:00 AM as the first time she had free.
“I have freshman conferences every half hour,” she explained. “I’m sorry I don’t have an earlier time... and I don’t know if I can give you any information.” As attention shifted along the table to the next person, Dr. Georgia Smith picked up Carl’s note to read it again, touching her necklace absently.
“I’m Leo Getty, Dean of Students,” piped the next person. His tone was far less formal than all the others. He was wearing a baseball cap with the College’s name on it, and a bright orange knit shirt. He said with an open hand gesture, “I’m free almost anytime tomorrow. My office is one floor below this, next to Bart’s. Room 308. I liked Carl a lot. I’ll help anyway I can.”
Dr. Leo Getty was the first one to say he liked Carl and wanted to help. Everyone who’d already spoken realized they should have said that too, and probably now felt like crap. Getty had a classic Pennsylvania Dutch face, big hands, and a load of pent-up energy. I figured him to be about two years from retirement, but not wanting to go. He fiddled with his empty soda can and the papers in front of him as he spoke.
“11:00 AM tomorrow then?” I suggested.
Leo Getty smiled and said, “I remember the work you did when you were here before.” He said to everyone, “This gal and the rest of the cops really pulled the College’s you know what out of the fire,” he turned back to me, “it’s too bad you left the police force, the city needs good cops. Yeah, 11:00 will be fine, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sitting between me and Dr. Leo Getty was Dr. Skylar Carvelle. What a total suck up. He faced Bouchet and said pompously, “And of course Max, I cared a great deal for Carl and will help you, the College and, uh, Miss Gale, in every way possible...” At about 45 Carvelle was something of a dandy. Definitely designer from collar to socks. His skin was so evenly tanned, it must have been airbrush. His hair and carefully trimmed mustache were tightly styled. He was wearing a full-length soft black leather overcoat which probably cost more than every article of clothing I’d bought in the last decade. He smoothly stood up to take it off, as though modeling.
Topping off the presentation was affected speech. Carvelle sounded English but wasn’t, in a William F. Buckley or Madonna kind of way. Oddly, he also reeked of cheap aftershave, which didn’t really go with his image. Maybe it was coming from Leo Getty or Jimmy Harmon. It was so strong it filled my nostrils like the laundry detergent aisle at the supermarket.
He turned to me and said unctuously, “I’ll certainly have several inside pieces of information to share,” and then he actually winked at me. Carvelle insisted he couldn’t meet unti
l Thursday because he had to be in Philadelphia all day. “I’m the head of the Art Department,” he said by way of explanation. How that explained being in Philly, I couldn’t figure. He indicated 9:00 AM and made a point of saying he would have to come right over from the gym.
I looked at my full calendar for the next two days. Plenty to do. First I’d go with Jimmy Harmon to see Rasmus’s office, then I’d go back to my office and do some preliminary checking on all these people before I met up with them in their own lairs.
President Bouchet stood and said sincerely, “Well, thank you all for coming, I deeply appreciate your cooperation.”
Most of the people moved slowly to the door. It was a little after 3:00 PM. Not too long for a meeting of academics. There was still work time left in the day.
Leo Getty stopped in the reception area to talk to Skylar Carvelle, but Carvelle seemed in a hurry to go. Daniel Cohen was standing near Miranda Juarez’s office door talking to her and President Bouchet about some kind of new State safety requirements. Georgia Smith was still sitting in the conference room staring at the copy of Carl Rasmus’s note.
Getty and Carvelle moved apart. Carvelle seemed ready to bolt for the elevator but then I saw him duck into the men’s rest room. Amanda Knightbridge and Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann had pressed the elevator button. Jimmy Harmon was with them. The elevator dinged. The three of them got on and the doors closed. Getty missed the elevator, shrugged, and took the stairs.
Bart Edgar came out of the restroom in a hurry, darting back across the reception area. Georgia Smith finally stopped reading Carl’s note, gathered up her things and was nearing the door when Edgar ducked past her, speeding back into the conference room.
Georgia Smith was standing in the conference room doorway, looking toward the President, Miranda, and Daniel. She seemed lost in thought. Over Georgia Smith’s shoulder I could see Bart Edgar at the far end of the conference room. He bumped into a chair and then kneeled on it, straining to reach over the chair’s back for something on the rear table. And then it happened.
