1 Picking Lemons

by J. T. Toman

  Lisa watched Walter retreat with relief. No wonder Edmund had hated the man so much. He really was insufferable. As she caught her breath, the most spectacular-looking woman in hot pink cowboy boots stepped into her line of vision.

  “Well, it sure does suck sour eggs we have to meet like this. I’m C.J. Whitmore. I worked with your husband. And I sure am sorry for your loss. I haven’t even found a husband, so I won’t even pretend to know what it’s like to lose one.”

  “Thank you. For coming, I mean. I’m sure Edmund would have appreciated it.”

  “Well now, I’m not too sure about that. Your husband and I, we got along like two tom cats in a small barn. Lots of yowling, some scratching, occasional biting. But I respected him. It pains me to say it, but he was a damn fine economist.”

  Lisa smiled for the first time. “Two tom cats in a small barn, huh. That might describe Edmund with a lot of his colleagues, don’t you think?”

  C.J. grinned. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. But of course, it doesn’t stop me. By the way, I’d like you to meet my friend Betsy. She teaches some of the courses for the department.”

  With this, C.J. turned behind her and tapped Betsy on the shoulder, stopping her from telling more stories about her grandchildren to Charles, who was just nodding, smiling and drinking, in blissful, deaf ignorance.

  Betsy came up and shook hands with Lisa. “I am so, so sorry my dear. To be so young and without a husband. What a terrible shock.”

  Lisa turned her tearless blue eyes on Betsy. “That, if nothing else,” she said quietly, “is the truth.”

  THURSDAY

  FROM: Walter Scovill

  TO: All faculty

  SUBJECT: Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation

  Dear Colleagues,

  Thank you all for your attendance at Professor DeBeyer’s funeral service yesterday evening. I think I speak on behalf of the entire department when I say that it was a lugubrious, but fitting tribute to our departed friend.

  Now is the time to move forward, and our thoughts must turn to the Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation. This fine institution, granted to us through Edmund’s magnanimous generosity, will be housed here in the economics department on the top floor of 40 Knollwood. Its mission will be to further the distinguished research that Edmund began during his lifetime.

  At this stage, I am seeking faculty to form a committee. The initial function of this committee will be to recruit a board of directors to ensure the smooth running of the Memorial Foundation.

  I am looking forward to hearing from you, expressing your interest in making Edmund’s vision a reality.

  Walter

  *****

  FROM: C.J. Whitmore

  TO: All faculty

  SUBJECT: RE: Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation

  Dear Walter,

  Thank you for the opportunity to work on dearest Edmund’s Memorial Foundation. However, I regret to inform you that I already have a full-time job. In the economics department. At Eaton University. This position requires that I spend 40% of my time teaching, 40% of my time on research, and 20% of my time doing service activities for the university. I am already overloaded on my teaching requirement, picking up Professor DeBeyer’s class. If you would like to reduce some of my current service activities, such as the Faculty Handbook Committee or the Student Code of Conduct Committee, then I would gladly serve on the Foundation Committee. Until this occurs, however, my time is fully committed, and as Edmund’s Foundation is not strictly University work, I cannot find additional time for it. I am sure, as Department Chair, you appreciate my desire to prioritize faculty work.

  Regards,

  C.J. Whitmore

  *****

  It was Thursday morning and C.J. had just finished teaching her graduate econometrics class. She had arrived to class in what she called a rather growly mood, mostly owing to Walter’s email, though it certainly hadn’t helped that the rain from the night before had left the air heavy with humidity. That was just what she needed today. Frizzy, humidity hair.

  C.J. had festered over Walter’s email since reading it at eight that morning. Did she want to volunteer for Edmund’s Foundation? Does a pack mule want to carry an extra fifty pounds? Sure, she would love to do extra administrative work on top of teaching an extra class. Not. Lord and the Almighty. Edmund was as much of a pain in the patootie dead as he was alive. Sensing her mood, no one in the class had suggested they form a crime fighting unit. Rather, the students had quietly and studiously written notes, silently praying for the class to end before they became the object of C.J.’s wrath.

  An hour and twenty minutes of regression analysis hadn’t changed C.J.’s outlook. As she strode heavily up to Mary Beth’s desk after class, eyes narrowed and lips tightly pursed, Mary Beth didn’t think of C.J. as “growly.” The phrase that came to Mary Beth’s mind was “bitch-witch.”

  “You know,” Mary Beth would often say, “you can tell when a girlfriend is having one of those days. The bitch-witch just oozes out of every enlarged pore.”

  C.J. grabbed some paperwork from her satchel and slammed it on Mary-Beth’s desk. “Mary Beth,” she snapped, glaring at the secretary, “these grant papers need to go off to the Contracts Office. ASAP.”

  Mary Beth took the papers calmly. “You got it, Professor Whitmore. You know, you look a little stressed out today. But you, like, don’t have to stress about this. I’ve got it.”

  C.J. took a large breath in and exhaled slowly. Inwardly, she admonished herself. Why was she making her bad morning Mary Beth’s bad morning? What was wrong with her today? She forced a smile. “Thank you, Mary Beth.”

  “No. Really. I don’t want to be an assistant for life, but I’ve got this whole assisting thing down. Like Professor Edmund? He had me type up letters for him just before he died. I had to wear the Dictaphone headphones and everything. But,” Mary Beth paused, looking sad, “he never got the letters anyway. I still got them here. See?”

  Mary Beth swiveled in her chair, took some papers out of a tray on her desk and handed them to C.J. “Do you think they’re important? I spent a long time typing them. Should I send them anyway or give them to Professor Scovill?”

  C.J. scanned the letters. A selection of refusals… without even pretending regret. Edmund would not be attending two conferences, serving on an editorial board, nor acting as a referee for a journal he frequently published in. (Really, thought C.J. dryly, did the man not know how to use email? Or, for that matter, understand that ‘College’ stems from ‘Collegial?’) And …what was this letter to Professor Brustad? C.J. read the letter closely and then looked up at Mary Beth.

  “Don’t worry about these letters, Mary Beth,” C.J. assured the young secretary, with only a slight twinge of her conscience. “They’re just boring correspondence to journals and conferences. Why don’t I take them and let the people know what has happened with Edmund?”

  “Great!” agreed Mary Beth, glad to have some paper shift off her desk.

  “By the way, Mary Beth,” C.J. asked offhandedly as she was walking away, “I know you saw Stephen going downtown about one o'clock on the day Edmund was murdered. Did you see anyone else out and about that day?”

  Mary Beth, eager to keep Professor Whitmore in her improved humor, was glad the question was so easy. “I know! It’s like, OMG! Can you believe I saw a murderer? I was telling my mother last night, I am so lucky he didn’t kill me.

  “I also saw Jefferson,” Mary Beth added, trying to be as helpful as she could be. “At ten past one. Here. In the department.”

  “Ten past one?” asked C.J. questioningly.

  “Oh. No. Maybe that’s not right. My new watch is so confusing. Maybe it was when the big hand was at the ten. That’s not the same time, is it?”

  “Not exactly,” said C.J. slowly. Not for the first time, C.J. wondered what it was like to have an I.Q. below 175. She didn’t see a lot of difference between Mary Beth’s intelligence and that of her cat.
>
  “Well, I saw him at the end of his run,” said Mary Beth, trying to clear up the confusion. “He’s a really good runner. But, it was before the seminar, which started at two. And it was before I saw that graduate student, what’s her name…Antiga…no, that’s not right …well, whatever. She left here crying her eyes out something awful just before two. I guess economics isn’t, like, happy, smiley faces all the time.”

  “Thanks for your help today, Mary Beth,” said C.J., as she left the secretary’s office looking thoughtful.

  *****

  FROM: Charles Covington III

  TO: All faculty

  SUBJECT: RE: Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation

  Walter,

  I never liked the bugger. I’m not serving on any committee to help his egotistical, self-serving foundation. I think it is a travesty the thing is getting precious department space.

  You can absolutely count on me to give you zero support on this.

  Charles Covington III

  *****

  Betsy recognized the young woman from the economics department. The girl looked sad. No, not sad. Worried. It had been many years since Betsy Williams had been a young, slender graduate student. So long, that only Charles Covington III had been in the department when Betsy was studying for her Ph.D. at Eaton University. But Betsy still remembered the life of a graduate student. There had been so much stress and so many expectations.

  Betsy picked up her coffee order and eased her large frame next to the young girl. “Do you mind if I share the table?”

  Annika looked up, startled. “Oh. No, no. No. I don’t mind.” Politeness dictated her answer, though her body language indicated she would much rather not share her table with this hulking mass of cellulite that was expanding and perspiring in the most unflattering manner due to the humidity.

  Betsy pushed the conversation. “My name is Betsy Williams. I teach for the econ department.”

  “Oh. You are a professor?” Annika’s tone changed immediately. Good-bye melancholy loner. Hello friendly professional. This woman could be the reference that landed the job that would start her career. “I am Annika Jonsdottir. I am a graduate student for econ.”

  “Nice to meet you Annika. But no, I’m not a professor. I’m an adjunct instructor. I just teach classes.”

  “Oh. Okay.” The slump was beginning to return to the young woman’s shoulders. There was no need to fake cheer and enthusiasm for an adjunct. An adjunct could do nothing for her.

  “Yes. It is okay. I like my job.” Betsy thought it was good to start this message early with graduate students. Too often, she had seen them take the jobs that they were expected to take, rather than the ones they wanted. “But are you okay? I couldn’t help noticing you looked a little worried or upset.”

  Annika shook her head and looked intently at her cup of coffee.

  “Yoo-hoo, Betsy!” A loud call echoed across the coffee shop.

  Both Betsy and Annika looked up and saw C.J. across the room, waving at Betsy.

  Betsy turned to Annika. “Well, obviously and not very quietly, my friend has arrived. But if you ever need to talk, you can find me. I was a graduate student myself once. I know if you don’t learn to lever the expectations, they can crush you.”

  Betsy hefted herself out of the chair and patted Annika on the arm. As she walked away, tears began to slide down Annika’s cheeks.

  *****

  “That poor girl,” Betsy said to C.J. “She is not coping. What are you doing to those dear graduate students?”

  C.J. glanced over Betsy’s shoulder to look at Annika, but the young girl was packing up and leaving. Troubled souls weren’t C.J.’s strong suit. “I don’t know what’s going on. Boy troubles maybe? I think Jose stood her up last week. But really, Betsy, we have bigger issues to worry about right now.”

  “Of course. Of course. How is your lemon hunt going?”

  “Well, as sure as chickens come from eggs, I know Stephen is not the lemon. Maybe instead,” C.J. paused, searching for the right words, “a slightly bruised apple. But that is all.”

  “So how do you know for certain he didn’t do it?” asked Betsy. “There must be a reason he’s sitting in Elm Grove City Jail at this very moment.”

  “Well,” hesitated C.J., “that’s a little awkward. The bruise on Stephen’s apple is his alibi and that is why he won’t mention it. I’m going to visit the boy this afternoon to see if I can’t talk some sense into him.”

  Betsy sipped her coffee through pursed lips. Really, C.J. could be so infuriating. If she knew something, why didn’t she just come out and say it? Betsy’s lengthy marriage had given her many years practice in ignoring those who were frustrating her, so she placed her coffee cup down gently and got out her latest project. Today, she was crocheting a baby blanket for grandchild number seventeen, expected in only four months.

  Betsy was busy stitching her foundation chain, oblivious to those around her, muttering thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four...when something C.J. said caused her to look up and lose count.

  “...so I was thinking that you might be right, and Jefferson might be the murderer,” concluded C.J.

  “What?” asked Betsy blankly, her crochet hook hanging limply in one hand, and the yarn collapsed in her lap like a disheartened snake.

  “Bet-sy Will-iams,” C.J. elongated her friend’s name in exasperation. Her growly mood of the morning was clearly not completely eradicated. “I just explained why I thought Jefferson could have murdered Edmund.”

  “But, but,” stammered Betsy, “the other day, I didn’t really think that was true. It was just that on all the T.V. shows, it’s always the least likely person. Why would Jefferson kill Edmund?”

  “Revenge. Mary Beth showed me a letter today she had to type for Edmund. Here, read it for yourself.” C.J. pulled the letter to Professor Brustad out of her satchel. “I would say Edmund was a swine, but I actually like pigs.”

  Betsy looked over the letter, still looking confused.

  “Do you realize what this means? Edmund was ruining Jefferson’s reputation…saying all their joint work was really Edmund’s work. Please. Edmund had been riding Jefferson’s coat tails for years. I think it was because the Nobel (and its more than one million dollars in prize money) was in the offing. Edmund didn’t want to share the glory or the cash.”

  “But to kill? Over a letter?”

  “This isn’t just a letter, Betsy. This is a career. And a brilliant, very public one at that.”

  Betsy picked up her crocheting again. She had completely lost count of the number of stitches in the chain and felt too befuddled to recount them. This poor grandchild was going to have some very uneven squares in his or her blanket. “So…how do you think Jefferson killed Edmund?” asked Betsy as she tried to come to terms with the new theory.

  “Well, that is interesting,” said C.J. “The police say the time of death was after one and before two. So Edmund was alive at noon when Jefferson says he left for his run. And Jefferson says he ran around campus twice. When Jeffie came into seminar at two, he was out of breath and in running clothes, which backs up his story. I think, if he is our lemon, the highest probability event is that Jefferson stopped off in the econ building between laps, went up to Edmund’s office and strangled him.”

  “He could have,” said Betsy uncertainly, “but surely someone would have seen him.”

  “I’m not convinced that someone didn’t. Mary Beth, God love her for trying to wear an analog watch, is very confused about the time she saw Jefferson that afternoon. First, it was ten past one. Then, it was ten to two. If she did in fact see him at ten past one, he could have ducked up to Edmund’s office, been the person that Edmund argued with, killed him, and then continued on with his run. Jefferson sure had the motive to kill Edmund.”

  Betsy looked down at the trapezoidal, baby-blue shape she had crocheted and frowned. “Well, I think you’re wrong. I really like Jefferson, and he’s been really upset that
Edmund died. You can’t fake that. I don’t think he could be our lemon.”

  *****

  FROM: Peter Johansson

  TO: All faculty

  SUBJECT: RE: Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation

  Walter,

  I appreciate the importance of the DeBeyer Foundation project to the faculty and the University. I look forward to being able to contribute my time and expertise at some stage in the future. However, at the moment, my time is committed with my role as Chair of the Hiring Committee. I am sure you understand.

  Peter

  *****

  C.J. sat on the grey plastic bucket chair in the visitors’ room of the Elm Grove City Jail, anxiously tapping a tuneless song with the heels of her cowboy boots. Really. Did PETA ever visit jails? They were so against cattle ranches, but the local jail had by-passed their attention? This was inhumane. Everything was so grey, so sterile. Not to mention invasive.

  Five minutes earlier, C.J. had held her arms out in a giant T shape, allowing a guard to wand, scan or pat down every possible body part that could possibly carry contraband. The guards had been very clear at the reception desk. No guns. No knives. No food. No cell phones. No letters. No hard cover books. No pens. No pencils. C.J. got the message. In a jail, anything was a potential weapon.

  Now, cleared of being a smuggler, C.J. sat uncomfortable and irritated. Her growly mood of earlier was back with a vengeance. She continued to tap out a rhythm with her shoes, which only served to annoy her further. What was that song she was tip-tapping with her feet? The theme to M*A*S*H? No, that wasn’t it, though it would have been apt.

  Just then, another guard showed Stephen into the room, bringing an end to C.J.’s game of “guess this tune.” Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, Stephen looked small, disheveled, and in need of a long, hot shower.