A Body In My Office (The Charles Bentley Mysteries Book 1)

by Glen Ebisch

  He called Amy, and when she answered, he calmly and clearly gave her a summary of his day so far.

  “Well, I realize it was an awful shock to you, but I think it’s wonderful that you’re retiring. Maybe you could move out here and be closer to us,” she said, completely skipping over the fact that he’d found a dead body in his office.

  “Possibly,” he said in a neutral voice, knowing that he didn’t really want to leave Opalsville, and he certainly didn’t want to be any closer to Boston.

  “If it’s keeping your hand in teaching you’re worried about, I’m sure there would be a college around here that would be happy to take you on as an adjunct.”

  “I think perhaps my teaching days are over.”

  “You could always take some time to think about it while visiting Uncle Wally in Florida.”

  His father’s younger brother Walter spent most of his time on his boat, but for Charles, fishing was his idea of having nothing left to do in life. You fish and then you die. Wally, in his early eighties, was proof of that point.

  “I suppose I could. But I think you’re missing something here, Honey. My retirement is unimportant compared to the fact that I’m a murder suspect.”

  “Did you kill him?” she asked bluntly.

  “No, of course not.” He wondered what she really thought of him that she could even ask such a question. Was he really such a mysterious entity, even to his nearest and dearest?

  “Then I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Things may be a little stressful right now, but it sounds like this guy was the sort who would have lots of enemies. I’m sure a more likely suspect will turn up before too long.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Why don’t you come out and visit for a few days? The boys would be thrilled to see you.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been ordered by the police to stay in town until the investigation is complete.”

  That wasn’t precisely true. Thorndike had asked him to notify her if he left town. But he felt it was close enough to being accurate that he could hide behind it to avoid a prolonged visit. He loved his grandsons deeply, but one day with the boys, now that Barbara wasn’t around to share the burden, left him weary and exhausted. Spending more time than that would have him wondering how he had ever been able to raise a child of his own in the first place, and heartily wishing that he hadn’t.

  Putting Amy off with a vague promise to get back to her when the situation had changed, he hung up. As he sat for a minute on the sofa, reflecting on how many changes retirement was going to make in his life, even if he managed to stay out of prison, he realized that he had promised to deliver his retirement letter today, and had not yet done so. He went into his study in the back of the house, turned on his computer, and wrote a simple, unadorned letter stating his retirement. He read it over carefully; making sure that it didn’t contain a hint of either sarcasm or regret. When he was done, he locked up the house and drove over to campus.

  He parked in his usual space behind the English building before realizing that he no longer had an office there. He could go in the department office and say hello, but he wasn’t certain what kind of reception he’d receive. Would his colleagues shrink back at that sight of him as if he were already wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles? Had he been indicted, tried and found guilty by those who knew him best?

  Deciding not to find out, he walked past the English Building, and went directly to the administration offices. Girding up his loins to face any type of reception, he walked into the Dean’s Office and stood before the secretary’s desk. Lois Michaels looked up at him and smiled.

  “How are you today, Charles?” she asked as if she hadn’t already seen him this morning.

  “Pretty good.” He extended the hand holding the letter across her desk. “The Dean wanted my request for retirement by the end of the day.”

  Her face became troubled as she took the letter.

  “Could you wait a few minutes while I run this past the Dean?”

  Charles nodded. In under a minute she was back.

  “Do you have a moment to talk with Dean Carruthers?”

  “I suppose so,” Charles said, not sure what there was left to say. The last meeting had seemed pretty conclusive to him.

  Lois took him to the door of the Dean’s office; Carruthers raced across the room and shook his hand like he was priming a pump.

  “Come in, Charles, have a seat.”

  Charles sat in the same chair as before, but this time the Dean sat right across from him, rather than retreating behind his desk.

  “Now what’s all this about retiring?” Carruthers asked with a smile.

  Charles gave him a puzzled look. “The last time we talked you gave me an ultimatum that either I retire or teach freshman composition for the rest of my professional life,” Charles said with growing anger.

  The Dean flapped a hand as if dispersing a cloud of gnats.

  “Circumstances have changed as I’m sure you can understand. Due to Professor Underwood’s inability to teach, we are sorely in need of someone to cover our American literature courses. We would very much like you to come out of your almost retirement—so to speak—and teach those classes.”

  “Doesn’t it concern you that I am a person of interest in the police investigation into Underwood’s murder?”

  The Dean flinched at the use of the word murder. “You didn’t kill him did you?” he asked.

  “No,” Charles replied loudly, annoyed that once again someone considered him capable of such an act.

  “Well, then, there’s no problem,” the Dean said with a chuckle.

  Apparently, Charles thought, people considered him fully capable of murder, but not of lying to conceal it. He had somehow earned a reputation of being potentially violent but thoroughly honest, an interesting combination.

  Charles sat for a moment looking at the floor. All he had to do was nod agreement, and everything would return to the way it was before. But, of course it wouldn’t, not really. Being so summarily dismissed after thirty-five years of loyal service was a breach of trust that could never be forgotten. Also in the short period of time since this morning, he had quickly grown accustomed to the idea of being retired. He wasn’t certain why, but a small swell of freedom had developed in a part of his mind, and he was reluctant to stifle it.

  “I appreciate your offer, but my retirement stands.”

  “But why?” Carruthers asked, for once apparently anxious to know the answer to one of his questions.

  “Because you were right in saying that I haven’t worked up to my usual standard for the last three years. And whatever the cause might be, I have no reason to believe that the future will be any different. So I think it would be best if I left.”

  “I know your feelings were probably hurt by what happened, but don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”

  Charles smiled at the old fashioned phrase. He couldn’t wait to try it on Yuri, and see how he would mangle it.

  “I’m not. I’m actually trying to save face by leaving before my performance gets any worse.”

  Dean Carruthers paused for a minute; his expression hardened.

  “I will, of course, accept your retirement request, but understand that given the changed circumstances, there will no longer be a severance payment of two years’ salary.”

  “I wouldn’t expect it,” Charles said calmly.

  He and Barbara had always lived rather frugally considering they were a two-income family. He hadn’t needed to travel the world doing research, and she had been paid well for the past eight years as a producer for a local television station across the border in Vermont. Not having had to pay tuition for Amy to attend college, he had a nice nest egg that would easily sustain him for even a lengthy life span.

  Carruthers seemed stunned that his threats had failed.

  “But what will we do with your courses? Who will we get to teach them?”

  “Hire someone else as your star.
”

  “All the stars have already been taken in American literature for this year. Plus there are apparently some problems with using an Opal College Chair to clinch the deal. It would have been fine if Underwood had lived, but now . . .”

  “Everything would have to be renegotiated?”

  Carruthers nodded.

  “You can always give the courses to Ernest Ritter. It was his field in graduate school. He’s been waiting for decades, hoping I’ll kick the bucket, so he can take over my courses.”

  Carruthers shook his head. “You know Ritter never gives a female student a grade above a C no matter how well she does. The only reason we tolerate him at all is that he teaches medieval literature and early English. Those tiny classes are filled with masochists anyway.”

  Charles shrugged. “Then give them to Andrea and hire an underpaid adjunct to teach her courses.”

  “We already have too many adjuncts. Parents see that and wonder why tuition keeps skyrocketing.”

  Charles nodded. “A good question.”

  He got up from his chair, but the Dean remained seated, obviously lost in his calculations on how to rebalance the faculty. He didn’t even notice when Charles nodded and left the office.

  Charles began walking from the administration building to the parking lot that held his car, trying to focus on the beautiful late spring day. He hoped it would distract him from worrying about being a person of interest in a murder investigation.

  Although there were always campus police riding around in their cars searching for parking violators, today he noticed a couple of officers walking a foot patrol on the other side of the campus. No doubt a quick response to the event of the morning.

  It was difficult to comprehend how much had happened in one day. He had gone from employed to involuntarily retired then back to almost employed and voluntarily retired. He’d found himself replaced by a flashy pseudo-scholar, and found the dead body of said scholar in the middle of his office. He’d been almost accused of murder, and had his daughter and Dean act as if it was not outside the range of possibility. He wondered what would come next.

  As he turned the corner to head toward the English Building, who should he see coming his way but Ernest Ritter. The rather short man was dressed in his usual work outfit, a worn, tight, black suit and dark grey tie. He looked like a seedy mortician. Ritter saw Charles coming and planted himself, small legs apart, right in front of him, blocking the sidewalk.

  “I hear that you are retiring,” he said in a challenging tone.

  “Yes, I was being replaced by Garrison Underwood.”

  “But now that he’s dead are you still going to retire or will you be hanging around?” Ritter managed to make it sound like Charles was a pervert loitering by a playground.

  Charles, amazed at the speed with which the story of the murder had travelled around campus, paused, trying to decide whether to tell Ritter the truth. Although it was tempting to give a vague answer and make him sweat for a while, Charles decided that since honesty was apparently his only public virtue, he should stay with it.

  “I am still going to retire.” He smiled at the man. “Otherwise you’d probably kill me to get my courses.”

  Instead of laughing uproariously at the thought, Ritter nodded as if the idea had occurred to him. Charles started to believe that Ritter was like people believed Charles was, honest but dangerous. He began to wonder whether Ritter might have killed Garrison and hoped to frame him for the crime. By getting both of them out of the way, he’d have a clear shot at teaching Charles’ courses. He expressed that idea to Ritter with a smile, as if it were a joke, hoping the man’s expression would give him away.

  Ritter smiled grimly but without obvious signs of guilt. “That would have been a brilliant stroke, but unfortunately I wasn’t aware of what Yuri and the Dean were up to. That’s surprising since Yuri usually leaks information like a colander.”

  “You hadn’t heard about Garrison coming on board?”

  “Not a word. As far as I know, no one in the department had any warning.”

  Charles remembered that Andrea said she knew, so he doubted the truth of what Ritter was saying.

  “When the Dean asked me who should take over my courses, I did mention your name,” Charles said.

  “That’s very decent of you, given that we’ve never exactly been friends.”

  “But when the Dean expressed reluctance, I suggested that Andrea might take them over.”

  “Andrea? That girl is no scholar. Has she even written anything in the field?”

  “Five articles, and a book is on the way.”

  “Everyone has a book on the way. It doesn’t count until you can see and hold it.”

  “And what have you done in American literature?” Charles asked, knowing the answer.

  “That’s hardly a fair question. I’ve spent the last twenty years teaching medieval literature and Beowulf because you’ve had the field of American literature sewed up. All my research has had to be in those areas.”

  “That means the last time you actually studied the scholarship in American was when you were in graduate school two decades ago. A lot has changed since then. Andrea is up to date on all that stuff.”

  “Nonsense. I deserve those courses because of the time I’ve put in here.”

  Charles smiled a bit maliciously. “And I didn’t deserve to be replaced by Garrison after thirty-five years. I wouldn’t have much confidence in the argument from seniority if I were you.”

  Ritter turned red. “We’ll just see about that. I’m going to have a talk with the Dean right now. They can’t treat me shabbily and get away with it.”

  With that he turned on his heel and marched off in the direction of the administration building.

  Charles smiled to himself as he walked back to his car. It wasn’t often that he could ruin both Ritter and the Dean’s day at the same time.

  Chapter Five

  Charles woke up at the sound of the alarm and was surprised to see that it wasn’t pitch black in his bedroom. Daylight was already peeking around the edge of the shade. Greg Wasserman had called him last night to remind him about their scheduled run in the morning. Although Charles wanted to skip it, he couldn’t think of anything else he would be doing at that hour that could serve as an excuse. Sleeping somehow didn’t cut it. Maybe in his heart of hearts, Charles thought, as he searched around for a sweatshirt and running shorts in the bottom of his dresser, he knew this wasn’t a half bad idea. While attending Amherst he’d played on the baseball team, and he recalled those years with pleasure. Perhaps part of the reason for the fond memories was the physical training involved.

  Once dressed, Charles went downstairs and looked out the living room window. Wasserman was already in his driveway doing a series of complicated stretches that Charles hoped he didn’t have to imitate because they would put him in the hospital. Taking a deep breath, he plastered a smiled on his face and went outside.

  “Good morning,” Charles said, dancing from foot to foot as though anxious to get started, although it was really due to the morning chill on his bare legs.

  Greg nodded. “Ready to go?”

  “How many miles are we running?”

  “How long since you ran last?”

  Charles thought back. “Probably forty years.”

  Greg gave him a knowing smile and started to run. Charles ran along next to him, exhilarated in the morning air, the sight of the rising sun, and the slap of his shoes on the concrete. He checked his pace to stay next to Greg, although he could have run faster. How hard can this be? he thought.

  At the end of the fourth block he began to feel a burning in his chest that made him wonder if he was experiencing a heart attack. By the end of block five his lungs were burning like those of a three-pack-a-day smoker walking up five flights of stairs, and by the end of the sixth block he had a stitch in his side that he was sure indicated a ruptured spleen.

  “I can’t go on,” he gasped, stagg
ering to a halt.

  Greg stopped but continued running in place.

  “I’m surprised you made it this far. Conditioning only lasts a short while after you stop exercising, and you’ve been out of shape for years. I’m going to continue on. Why don’t you walk back home? We’ll get together again tomorrow morning. You’ll start to see improvement pretty quickly.”

  Not trusting himself to speak, Charles nodded, and began the walk of shame back to his house. When he played baseball, he recalled, he could run forever. Now he couldn’t have run to catch a bus. Maybe the Dean was wrong and all parts of him were deteriorating at the same rapid pace.

  A car pulled up next to him. It was a nondescript sedan with Lieutenant Thorndike at the wheel. He stopped when she rolled down the window.

  “You don’t look so good. Do you want a ride?”

  “No, thanks. I was out for a run. I’m just cooling down.”

  “How far did you run?”

  “A little too far.”

  She smiled, and Charles felt she saw right through him.

  “Since we’ve happened to meet like this, would you have a few minutes to talk with me? I want to present a new angle on the case to see what you think.”

  “Aren’t I a suspect?”

  “Only a person of interest.”

  “Ah, yes, that subtle distinction. Okay, my house is just up the road.”

  “I know where it is. I’ll meet you there.”

  Five minutes later Charles walked up the driveway of his house. The Lieutenant was parked, leaning against the trunk of her car watching him intently.

  “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  “A cop who eats donuts would never pass up a cup of coffee.”

  Charles smiled. He opened the side door and they went into the kitchen. While Charles put the coffee on and went to change, he heard her wandering around the kitchen and the adjacent living room taking in everything like a potential homebuyer.

  “What a nice home,” she said as he handed her a cup of coffee, “and everything is so neat. You’re not the traditional sloppy bachelor.”

  “I was married for a long time. Domesticity rubbed off on me.”