by J. T. Toman
Charles was grumpy about not being home to watch Wheel of Fortune with Mildred and he wasn’t bothering to hide the fact. Ah well, at least he wasn’t going to miss his fivesies. Mildred, what a wonderful wife, had dropped off his gin and tonic in a little thermos. Might as well make the best of it and enjoy his cocktail hour and the legs of that nice C.J., if she came.
C.J. made the scene just before Walter’s deadline expired. Walter rolled his eyes at the sight of those dreadful cowboy boots. Surely it was only a matter of time before she got married to some cowboy hick and left to bake muffins. Please. Though, Walter admitted, it was tough to imagine the type of man who would be willing to take on a woman like that.
C.J. grabbed an empty Styrofoam coffee cup from the back of the room, went straight to Charles, and yelled in his left ear so he could hear, “Mama’s well is dry. Fill ‘er up, Pops.”
Too shocked to object, Charles poured half his G & T into C.J.’s coffee cup and was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek and a stolen glimpse down her blouse.
“Thanks, darling. The drink was worth the price,” she said.
C.J. settled into a seat on the right side of the horseshoe, towards the middle, took a satisfied swallow from the Styrofoam cup, and placed her long legs up on the desk in front of her, causing several of her colleagues to re-adjust uncomfortably in their seats. “Thanks for leaving that info about the position at UT Austin in my mailbox, Walt. But, you know, I love you more than a hog loves mud. So I guess I’ll just have to stay here.”
Professor Walter Scovill closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He wasn’t picky. These were modern times. She didn’t have to marry anyone. He’d settle for the respite of maternity leave. Walter opened his eyes and gave his most ingratiating smile to the faculty. “Thank you for coming. I realize that your time is valuable,” he lied. Given the departmental publication rate for the last two years, Walter thought the time of about one-quarter of the people in front of him was valuable-ish, and the rest were disposable goods, but this wasn’t the time to get into that.
Walter knew the only thing these people were interested in was Edmund’s murder. Heck, that’s the only reason why half of them were here. He knew they had off-loaded their first week of teaching onto their graduate students. “Just hand out the syllabus and show the kids the website.” Which didn’t actually worry Walter that much. Most of the students didn’t start class on the first day either, finding their flights “unavoidably delayed” in Belize or St Lucia or Tahiti. But, intrigued by the death of Edmund, it appeared his faculty had hurried, even rushed, back from their exotic vacations or “conferences,” a.k.a. university paid speed dating sessions. But Walter wasn’t going to pander to such weakness. He didn’t want to start by talking about Edmund. He was sick of talking about Edmund. Walter had an agenda, and he was going to stick to it. “The first item on today’s agenda is the hiring committee. They are going to give a report on their preliminary progress.”
The room fell completely and uncomfortably silent. There wasn’t even the clicking of a keyboard. No one looked at Stephen. Everyone knew they were talking about hiring his replacement. Then the murmurings began.
C.J. just cut her eyes at Walter. Jerk. This matter could, and should, be handled at a meeting of the tenured faculty, out of Stephen’s hearing.
Walter tried to regain control. Condescension to his colleagues was his favored method, though he was never above yelling. “Jefferson, I couldn’t hear you. Did you say something you wished to share?”
“I was just saying that I was glad that I wasn’t on the hiring committee, as their workload has doubled. I assume we are going to hire a replacement for Edmund’s position.”
Chatter broke out among the room again.
“Do you think the killer will strike again?”
“Are we all at risk?”
“Do you think we could get that guy from Harvard, if we got him a bodyguard as well?”
“I think there is an up and coming grad student at Stanford we should look at.”
C.J. said a silent thank-you to Jefferson for drawing the attention away from Stephen.
Peter Johansson stood up and finally quieted the room with a series of restrained coughs. Peter Johansson was a graying man in his early fifties, with a disconcerting habit of rubbing his balding head as if searching for his lost follicles. His befuddled demeanor often gave the impression of a kindly soul. However, like most economists, Peter Johansson viewed kindness as an input, a means of achieving his own agenda.
“Umm. So, for those of you who don’t know, I am Chair of the Hiring Committee. Despite having met several times over the summer, we have only just begun the process of the search for the new junior faculty member. It seems industrial organization professors just study organization. I don’t seem to have the quality of organization myself.”
Peter chuckled at his little joke. No one else did. Peter massaged his scalp but finding no hair continued self-consciously. “Umm. Yes. Well, as I was saying, there isn’t much to report. As for a second position, clearly, we have to see what the budget is for Edmund’s position and, umm, the risk averseness of the candidate.”
Again, Peter gave a little chuckle.
Snickers of laughter reluctantly broke out around the room. It wasn’t clear if they were laughing at the appalling microeconomics joke or the idea that the next hire would also die. Though, it soon became apparent where the focus of the room was.
People threw out suggestions of colleagues whom they didn’t like who should be offered the position. One person asked if the department could offer the position to his wife, as his divorce was costing him a packet. Others, irritated by the graduate students they had to supervise, offered them up as bait. Jefferson observed dryly that his sympathy for the hiring committee was perhaps misplaced. It seemed there were plenty of candidates.
Walter banged his fist on the desk, trying to call the meeting back to order. “Let’s hope the hiring committee has more progress to report next time,” Walter said acidly. “I am sure they don’t want to have to increase their teaching loads to cover the shortfall. The second agenda item is who is going to teach the Econ 101 class, which is now unexpectedly without a professor. The class takes place on Mondays and Wednesdays at nine a.m. Any volunteers?”
Now the room was deathly quiet. No one berated Walter for not mentioning that the class was without a professor because that professor had been murdered. To do so might draw unwanted attention and, therefore, the responsibility of teaching the class. Instead, people looked intently at their computer screens, studied their cuticles, seemed fascinated to discover they had shoelaces, and were amazed by the number of wrinkles on the backs of their hands.
After a minute or so of very uncomfortable silence, Walter smiled. “Well, C.J.,” Walter said in an overly cheery tone, “since you love me as much a...what was the phrase exactly...‘hog loves mud’ I think...I am quite sure you won’t mind doing me this little favor. Would you?”
C.J. had not climbed this high in a male dominated profession for no reason. She did not display her emotions, regardless of how she felt. And right now she was furious. Edmund’s class was on Mondays and Wednesdays. Her class was on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Now she would be teaching all four days, with little time for research. “Oh Walt. You just go and sign me right up, sugar.”
Walter smiled victoriously. He would needle that Tex Mex disaster into resigning one of these days. If it was the last thing he did.
Walter then peered down at his notes, unsure how to introduce the third agenda item. Now he couldn’t avoid the topic of Edmund dying so inconveniently in the department. “As you know, our dear friend and colleague Edmund DeBeyer has...passed on.”
People looked up from their computer screens. It was a bit late in the meeting to start expressing sympathy now. What was Walter up to?
“His funeral will be tomorrow night at the Triunity Church on the Square. Seven o’clock start.”
C.J.
wondered how the body had been released from autopsy so quickly. Maybe the forensic lab had liked spending time with Edmund as much as his work colleagues had. Or, perhaps more likely, The Ego had jumped the queue, thanks to the Eaton University powers that be.
Walter looked down at his notes again and shuffled his papers awkwardly. “Also, the Provost and the college,” Walter stopped. That didn’t sound right. That sounded like he was doing the bidding of others.
Walter continued, speaking slowly and deliberately, “I am concerned about how the...passing...of Edmund is affecting your…” Walter paused, searching for the right word, “mental equilibrium.”
C.J. snorted with laughter. A few other chuckles and snickers were also heard.
Walter glared the room back into silence. “I am here to discuss the options available to you to ensure your… wellbeing. Um. I am going to make available someone for you to talk to...and a...a...dog.”
The room stared back at Walter.
Finally C.J. broke the silence. “Walt,” she said casually, “I don’t need a shrink or a puppy, for that matter, to help me deal with the fact that I don’t have to work with our beloved Edmund anymore. I shed that tear at the celebration party I threw. What I do need help with is how you expect me to be a happy, productive, clucky chicken in this darling little hen house when I know that the fox is still lurking amongst us.”
Murmurs of assent broke out among the room. A few people banged on the desks to show their support. A “Here, here!” came from a junior faculty at the back, who promptly slid down in his seat from the shame of being so bold.
Charles, sensing something exciting was finally happening by the attitudes of those around him, the fist banging and the look on Walter’s face, turned on his hearing aids. If there was gossip on the agenda, he didn’t want to miss it. Mildred loved a good, department gossip story. He asked his neighbor loudly, so loudly the entire room could hear, “Hey, what’s this? What’s the fuss?”
Before his neighbor could answer, C.J. called out from across the room. “I’m causing the fuss, Charles. I want to know if one of us is the murderer. It would make it so much more enjoyable to come to faculty meetings, don’t you think, if you weren’t worried about being strangled?”
A few faculty laughed. Others started to glance around the room, sizing up their fellow workers as potential stranglers. More than one was condemned.
Charles, his tongue loosened by his fivesie, replied with great enthusiasm, “It’s the money, my dear C.J. Follow the money and you’ll find your strangler. Happens all the time, people killing for money. There was that Lizzie Borden, though she got away with it. And look at those Menendez brothers out in California. Couldn’t wait a week to start spending their parents’ money on flashy cars and clothes which made it all rather obvious. Brains the size of peas, if you ask me. Our Lord and Creator, for whatever reason, blessed Edmund with a rather sizeable fortune. You should be asking, ‘Who benefitted from the will?’”
Walter smiled. As Edmund’s quest for power and control rivaled his own, the two men had worked together as well as two bull elephants in musth. He was going to enjoy this announcement. “Thanks for raising that, Charles,” Walter said generously. “The issue of Edmund’s will is our final agenda item today. Edmund left his fortune to…himself.”
Jefferson looked pale. “Does he want to be frozen and brought back to life?”
“Thank God, no,” Water reassured him. “Though I am sure the idea crossed his mind. But I think even Edmund realized that in 50 years, or 100, or whenever they brought him back, he would no longer be the leading researcher in his field, and that would be unbearable. No. But I have spoken to his wife, Lisa, today, and interestingly, his will doesn’t leave a penny to her, but instead sets up the Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation. The foundation’s mission is to preserve his intellectual legacy, rather than his body.”
C.J. interjected. “Well, his wife might not have had a motive to kill him while he was alive. But she sure has a motive to kill him now that he’s dead.”
Walter continued, ignoring C.J., “The foundation will set up a library, featuring Edmund’s works and others who cite Edmund’s work. There is also to be a research foundation for promising scholars who will continue to further Edmund’s research. The scholars must be graduate students or junior professors, so,” Walter turned and looked at Jefferson, “even though your research is so closely aligned with Edmund’s, I am afraid you can’t benefit from the funds, Jefferson.”
Jefferson just nodded his head in acknowledgment.
The new, confident Stephen, who had been rather quiet until now, could no longer contain himself. “Good God! The man has set up his will to inflate his citation count, even after he’s dead.”
“Well, think how much fun we can have at the Christmas party,” soothed C.J., “playing ‘Guess how many citations Edmund has now?’ But Walter, dear, you are bringing this up because, why? My guess is there is a clause saying it has to be housed here.”
“Well...yes. In fact, it states it has to be housed in 40 Knollwood. At the moment, the obvious choice is Edmund and Jefferson’s offices as they are next to each other and the only offices on the top floor of 40 Knollwood. It would be an easy renovation.”
Jefferson looked up, aghast. “Do we have to accept this…thing?” asked Jefferson, obviously deeply disturbed at the idea of losing his office for a foundation from which he could not gain.
“No, not technically,” said Walter. “But it is unlikely we would turn down that much research money for our graduate students and junior faculty.”
Just at that moment, the doors to the conference room opened, and two Elm Grove policemen walked in.
Walter didn’t look impressed. This was his faculty meeting. Pompously he turned to the officers. “Gentleman, we are discussing matters critical to the economics department of Eaton University. If you would like to question any one of us to gather further information, we will, of course, cooperate. We will be concluding our business in approximately ten minutes, and then we can turn our attention to yours.”
The policemen didn’t even acknowledge Walter, but instead walked straight up to Stephen. “Stephen Choi. You are under arrest for the murder of Edmund DeBeyer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?”
Stephen, his new-found bravado replaced with shock and fright, looked wildly around the room as the cuffs were placed on his wrists. “What? I didn’t do this!” he cried. “I didn’t murder Edmund. This isn’t true!”
WEDNESDAY
Despite professing feelings of porcine delight to Walter only the day before, nothing about C.J.’s demeanor on Wednesday morning resembled a happy pig in mud. Rather, she approached the Economics 101 classroom like an irritated bull at an overcrowded rodeo. Pity the eighteen-year-old fool who thought he could get the better of her that day, even for eight seconds. Lack of sleep did that to a girl. Edmund had prepared nothing for the course. Zilch. Nada. Consequently, C.J., who had not yet developed a complete professorial indifference to her students, had been up until the small hours writing a syllabus, lecture and problem set.
The only saving grace in the whole damn fiasco was the fact that Jose was the teaching assistant for the course. That boy at least had some brains and wasn’t afraid of a little work. Which was good, as C.J. wasn’t going to get carried away with her teaching obligations and grade an undergraduate essay herself. Would a five-star chef dice an onion?
C.J. did not want to think about how old and haggard she looked, thanks to her late night Econ 101 prep session. C.J. realized that in the eyes of her eighteen-year-old students, she looked fifty on a good day. Today she would be fortunate to escape without being asked if she needed assistance crossing the road.
What a shame Edmund is already dead, C.J. t
hought bitterly as she tried to blink life into her gritty, tired eyes. I would so enjoy killing him myself this morning.
No matter. It was still open season on Walter Scovill.
C.J. strode purposefully to the front of the lecture hall with her pink cowboy boots clicking loudly and hair flying wildly behind her.
“I am Professor Whitmore. As I am sure you all know, Professor DeBeyer is not teaching the rest of the semester for the obvious reason that he is dead. I encourage each and every one of you, as you process your grief, to see the head of the econ department, Professor Walter Scovill. He has assured me he would love to talk with every one of you, individually, about this at length. His room number, phone number, website and email are on the syllabus I am passing out to you.”
C.J. paused and scanned the room. One face looked vaguely familiar, but C.J. couldn’t place where she had seen the girl. Probably in Wallaby’s. More notable was that despite the fact their professor had just been murdered, no one appeared upset or grieving, unless the youth of today grieved by flirting with their neighbors. C.J. hoped this small detail wouldn’t keep down the number of students stopping by Walter’s office. Her revenge enacted, C.J. started the lecture for the day.
Less than a minute later, she stopped and stared stone-faced at the class. The whole time she had been enlightening them on the delights of the demand curve, C.J. was aware she had not had their full attention. Single girls in low cut tank tops batted their eyelash extensions at the tattooed biceps sitting next to them. Other students clustered like mushrooms around small screens indiscreetly hidden under desks, exchanging morning gossip.
“Did she really?”
“I heard he wanted it.”
“But what about Aimee??”
The classroom valentines were connected by common ear buds and, disconcertingly, hands and tongues. For most, the learning of economics seemed to be of secondary or, in some cases, tertiary, importance.
