by Glen Ebisch
About The Author
Glen Ebisch taught philosophy at university level for over thirty years, and for the same period of time has been writing mysteries, first for young people, then for adults. He has been fortunate enough to have over twenty published. He lives with his wife in western Massachusetts, frequently going on holiday to the coast of Maine and to Cape May, New Jersey.
Glen was born in Passaic, New Jersey and grew up in nearby Clifton, New Jersey. He received his B.A. in political science from Rutgers University, an M.A. in government from Cornell University; and, after a tour of duty with the United States Army in Vietnam, he attended Columbia University where he earned an M.A. and Ph.D. in philosophy. A few years later, he started on a career in teaching and scholarship.
Since his mid-thirties, Glen has been writing mystery novels. The first five he had published were for young adults. The over fifteen since then have been for adults, and have encompassed a couple of different series. His novels frequently have younger women as the protagonists, and along with a crime there is also relationship issues involved. Hopefully they combine some humour along with philosophical musings, while maintaining a spare, fast-paced plot.
Glen is a long-time member of Mystery Writers of America, Romance Writers of America, and an associate member of Sisters in Crime. He occasionally speaks at gatherings of writers’ organizations and in bookstores on writing crime fiction, combining mystery with romance, and on the history of the crime novel. Now that Glen is largely retired from teaching, he devotes much of his time to writing, reading, exercise, and travel.
The Body
In My Office
Glen Ebisch
Williams & Whiting
Copyright© Glen Ebisch
First published in Great Britain in 2017
by Williams & Whiting
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior permission in writing of the
publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of
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and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 9781911266785
Williams & Whiting (Publishers)
15 Chestnut Grove, Hurstpierpoint,
West Sussex, BN6 9SS
Also by Glen Ebisch
from Williams & Whiting
The Accident
For information about these and other books published by Williams & Whiting go to: www.williamsandwhiting.com
Chapter One
“This is the last day of the rest of your life,” Yuri said with a benign smile.
Charles Bentley glanced at him in some alarm; then comprehension dawned.
“You mean this is the first day of the rest of my life.”
Yuri, looking stricken, fumbled a small spiral notebook out of his shirt pocket and began to write a note to himself. Although Yuri was from somewhere in the former Soviet bloc, his field of specialization was twentieth century English literature, and if the rumours that Charles had heard around the College were true, he was amazingly capable at explaining the most thorny passages of James Joyce so that even freshmen could understand and appreciate them. All that being said, however, he had terrible difficulties with American colloquialisms, and every time he got one wrong he would carefully correct himself in his notebook. Charles imagined that his desk must be filled with piles of them. But none of this self-criticism seemed to help, and he continued to make the same old errors and add new ones.
“Why would you say that?” Charles asked. “That phrase implies that somehow today is a major turning point for me.”
Yuri answered with another smile. As far as Charles knew, he and Yuri were waiting outside the Dean’s office to meet with him to discuss the course offerings in American literature for the next five years. Yuri’s words, now properly interpreted, suggested that something else was afoot. Treachery and deceit were not unknown at Opal College, a highly respected four-year liberal arts college in Opalsville, Massachusetts, with a campus sprawling across several hillsides in the Berkshires. Charles suspected they had not been unknown even in the mid-eighteenth century when Rickford Opal, a prosperous fur trader and politician, founded the institution. The methods may have been polished and refined over time, but the consequences could still be devastating to the victim.
The door to the Dean’s office opened and Walter Carruthers stepped out into the anteroom. He looked at the two men and gave an affable chuckle, which to Charles’ mind was only a short step away from the sadistic cackle Robespierre would have made at the sweet sound of the tumbrel passing by. Carruthers’ pudgy hand, attached to a similar body, motioned for them to come into the office. Charles stumbled slightly on the smooth carpet, which he took as a sign from the universe that this was going to be a bad day.
Carruthers’ cavernous office had two walls lined with books, most on sociology, his purported field of study, although he had been an administrator for so long no one could remember the last time he had taught a student. A vanity wall behind his desk was covered with rows of diplomas and certificates. Charles often suspected they went back far enough in time that his election to his high school honour society was probably among them. Yuri and Charles were seated in front of the Dean’s desk like two unruly schoolboys about to be reprimanded. Carruthers put his elbows on the desktop, steepled his fingers, and frowned as if he felt either indigestion or an idea coming on.
“As you both know, colleges today, especially on our level, are faced with the problem of maintaining our high standards. One of the ways we do this is by accepting only a miniscule percentage of our applicants. But equally important, we must be able to show parents and the public alike that the very best of scholarship is being done here, and that we are equal, if not superior to, the other schools with which we are competing for the crème de la crème. We must, in short, justify charges for tuition, room and board that equal the mortgage payments on a small mansion.”
“We must prove we are the tip of the heap,” Yuri said enthusiastically.
Carruthers looked at him in puzzlement.
“That’s ‘top of the heap,’” Charles said softly. Yuri quickly whipped out his notebook.
“Anyway,” Carruthers went on, “in order to do this, we must guarantee that every department has the requisite number of outstanding scholars. Stars—if I may use such a meretricious term with regard to academic accomplishment. And my overview of humanities has revealed that we are somewhat deficient in stars in the area of English literature.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. We still have Rawlings in nineteenth century and Mercer is starting to make a name for himself in twentieth century poetry,” Charles objected, offering a defense of the department that Yuri should be vigorously seconding instead of scribbling in his damned notebook.
Carruthers shrugged, clearly unimpressed. “And what about in American literature?”
“There’s only Andrea Boyd and myself. She’s coming along well with five articles in the last four years, and hopefully will have a book out in a couple more years.”
“I really meant, what about you?” Carruthers sat back and stared hard at Charles.
“What about me? I think my credentials speak for themselves.”
“Perhaps they did at one time, Charles, but what have you produced in the last three years?”
Charles sat silently. In the three years since his wife Ba
rbara had died, he hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than the bare requirements to teach his courses. Whenever he tried to return to an unfinished article or book chapter, his mind would drift back to what he had been doing with Barbara at the time it had been started, and after several hours had passed, he’d find he hadn’t written a thing.
“I’m aware that your wife’s sudden death—”
“Let’s not go down that road,” Charles said so sharply that Carruthers blinked.
“Very well, but you have to admit that you have not attended any conferences, given any presentations or had anything published in the past three years.”
“I certainly did plenty before that.”
“A good scholar cannot rest on his laurels.”
“You haven’t even written anything recently on that guy Hawk,” the traitorous Yuri said. “The fellow you wrote a book about.”
“His name is Bird, Robert Montgomery Bird,” Charles said, correcting him. “And my book was considered definitive, so I think there is very little more for me to say.”
Carruthers paused and spoke carefully. “There is also the matter of your age. I believe you recently turned sixty-five. People age differently. In fact different parts of them age at different rates. Do you think your failure to pursue scholarship is a function of your age? You look vigorous enough physically, but perhaps your mind has simply outstripped other parts of your body in the process of inevitable decline.”
Charles felt the heat rise to his face. “It’s illegal to force me to retire because of my age. We shouldn’t even be having this discussion.”
“Perhaps not. And it is certainly not my intention to force you into retirement. However, my plans for the future of the department will necessitate some rearrangement of resources. Instead of teaching your usual courses in American literature, I’m afraid you will be required instead to teach courses in freshmen composition.”
Everyone in English considered freshman composition to be the Sahara of courses, where you trudged from dry paper to dry paper making innumerable corrections and meeting frequently and personally with every student to correct the errors of their writing ways. Meetings not anticipated with pleasure by either the giver or receiver.
“Full professors never teach English comp,” Charles pointed out.
“That was true in the past. But as an attempt to elevate the importance of writing in the curriculum we are going to try a little experiment and have a senior faculty member take on that responsibility. Because of your obvious writing skills, you have been selected to be the pioneer in that endeavour.”
“And who will be teaching my American literature courses?”
“We are bringing over a fellow from England, a real comer in the field of whom I’m sure you’ve heard: Garrison Underwood.”
Charles clenched his teeth at the recollection of the one time over ten years ago that he’d heard Underwood speak at a conference. He must have mentioned a work of fiction somewhere along the way, but his presentation was so filled with jargon and references to higher criticism that Charles had never grasped his point. If that was typical of Underwood’s thinking, he’d be a disaster in the classroom.
“Don’t you think it’s rather ironic hiring a Brit to teach American literature?” Charles asked.
“Garrison says American literature is too important to be left to Americans,” Yuri answered.
“Very clever.” Charles gave the Dean a grim smile. “So are you saying that either I retire or I will be teaching only freshmen composition for the rest of my career?”
“I have spoken to the provost, and we are willing to be generous. You will receive two years of your salary as a retirement incentive.”
Charles took a deep breath and gave some thought to his options. He really didn’t want to give up teaching. What would he do with himself all year? Maybe he could agree to teach freshmen composition and call their bluff. If he didn’t vacate his position, there might not be the funds to hire Underwood. He’d hate teaching composition, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of foiling the administration’s plans. Then Carruthers spoke. It was as if he’d been reading Charles’ mind.
“Underwood will be granted an Opal College Endowed Chair, so he won’t be exactly taking over your position. And that way we don’t need your salary to pay him. It will come from the special endowment fund.”
That meant that even if he continued to teach, they could still hire Underwood, and steal away his courses.
“We would, of course, prefer to have your position vacant, so we can further strengthen the English department with a new hire.”
Charles glanced over at Yuri, who suddenly pretended to be interested in the weave of the carpet. So that was why you went along with this, Charles thought. English would get an endowed chair and not lose his position. It was a clear case of academic bribery, but what could he do about it?
“Very well,” Charles said softly. “You’ll have my letter of retirement by the end of the day.”
Carruthers sprang to his feet and extended a hand across his desk.
“Don’t be so down about this, Charles. It’s a great big world out there. I’m sure you’ll find things you enjoy doing other than teaching.”
Charles remained silent as he perfunctorily shook Carruthers’ hand.
When they were once again out in the waiting room, Yuri turned to Charles and said, “Remember, it’s always darkest just before dawn.”
Charles shook his head. “No, it’s always darkest just before it goes black.”
“I’m sure I’ve got that saying right,” Yuri protested.
“Not this time,” Charles replied.
Yuri remained silent for a moment, not certain what to believe.
“I hate to bring this up, but you’ll have to clear out your office by the end of today. Garrison Underwood is already in town, and he would like to get settled in.”
“So he gets my office and my job?”
“You know we’re short of offices in the English building, Charles. I really had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Yuri. There’s always a choice,” Charles said grimly.
Chapter Two
Charles and Yuri walked into the department office on the fourth floor of the English building. They hadn’t spoken during the walk over from the Dean’s office. Charles was lost in his own murky thoughts about the future, and feeling far from cordial to Yuri, who had stabbed him in the back. Yuri immediately disappeared into his office, while Charles stopped to pick up his mail.
“Professor Bentley,” said Sheila, the student who was replacing the regular secretary while she was out on vacation for a few days.
Charles looked up from his mail. Sheila stood there staring at the ceiling as if trying to remember why she had spoken to him. Charles waited patiently. There seemed to be frequent gaps in Sheila’s thought processes. He wondered whether it was due to the after effects of excessive drug use, the extremely early onset of dementia, or just Sheila being Sheila.
“Oh, yes,” she said brightly. “I’m supposed to tell you that Professor Underwood is already here, and he is in your office.”
“In my office. How did he get in without a key?” Charles asked.
“Umm. I guess I gave him one. He said that he was taking over your office, so I thought it would be all right.”
Charles was about to snap back that it damn well wasn’t all right, but he controlled himself. He didn’t like to get angry with students. Between hormones and being bossed around by their elders, they were rarely responsible for what they did. Instead he nodded, and with his mail in one hand, he left and headed down the hall to his office. The door was closed, but not locked. When he opened it and went inside, he immediately saw that the top of his desk had been cleaned off. A man with his back toward him was busily replacing the pictures on the wall.
“What’s going on here?” Charles demanded.
The man turned around. Charles recognized him as Gar
rison Underwood, but he had changed dramatically since Charles had heard him speak. Then he had been the picture of vigorous early middle age: handsome, trim, and bright eyed. Although what he had said may have been unintelligible to Charles, he presented it with charm and enthusiasm. The man who faced Charles today had coarsened features, a paunchy waist, and bloodshot eyes. He looked like a Hogarth painting on what a life of dissipation could lead to.
“I’m preparing my office, if it’s any of your business,” Underwood snapped.
“I’m Charles Bentley, and as far as I know, this is still my office.”
Underwood opened his mouth to speak, then apparently thought better of it. He walked across the room and put his hand out to Charles.
“Sorry to seem a bit precipitate, Bentley, but the old order changeth and all that. I’m scheduled to teach a summer course, so I need to hit the ground running.”
Reluctantly Charles took his hand. “I’ll need the office for today. I have to get my affairs in order.”
That makes it sound like I’m dying, Charles thought, not wanting to be melodramatic, but in a way I suppose I am. Ending a career of almost thirty-five years is a kind of small death.
Underwood reached into a box and took out a large trophy. He placed it on the desk.
“I got that for being best batman on my indoor cricket team at Oxford.”
He looked at Charles as if expecting him to be impressed by his excellence at a game that Charles found incomprehensible. When he got no answering look of admiration, Underwood went on quickly, “I’ve already cleaned your stuff out of the desk. It’s all over there,” he said, pointing to a small box on the floor.
Charles walked over and glanced in the box. Right on top was the picture of Barbara that still graced his desk. The glass in the frame had been shattered.
“You broke my picture,” Charles said softly.
