1 Picking Lemons

by J. T. Toman

  *****

  It was after eight p.m. on Friday night, and C.J. Whitmore was still at work. Between the extra classes she was teaching and the needy people wandering into her office “needing to talk,” C.J. was behind on her research agenda. Ever the professional, she was staying back late to ensure she met the deadlines of her upcoming conferences and journal revisions. Walter emailed, asking if they could “catch up for a cup of coffee.” C.J. just pressed delete. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with that issue.

  Tired, but wanting to put in a few more hours at her desk, C.J. wandered down to the Smythe Lounge. The coffee was stale, burnt and distinctly unappetizing. Faced with the choice of walking down the street to get a well-made latte or making mediocre coffee herself, C.J. decided to brew another pot. It was the option with the least people contact.

  While she was listening to the gurgles and gargles of Mr. Coffee, Annika Jonsdottir came into the room.

  “Hello Annika,” said C.J., laughing to herself. She was clearly a people-magnet today. Actually, C.J. wasn’t surprised to see the girl here so late. Annika was one of the elite, hard-working graduate students.

  “Professor Whitmore,” Annika bowed her head and stood a respectful distance, waiting for coffee.

  C.J. looked over at Annika. What had Betsy said? There was something wrong with the girl? The girl was stressed. That was it. Looking at her, C.J. could see she looked a little tired and….flighty? Now that C.J. thought about it, she realized Annika looked like a rabbit that would jump at the slightest sound.

  C.J. went back to making coffee and made two cups. “White or black?” she asked Annika.

  “Oh. Me? Just black. Thanks.”

  C.J. doubted that was true, but figured the girl was asking for the coffee of least trouble. Well, she couldn’t help that. She handed Annika her coffee and suggested they sit down.

  Annika froze.

  “You know, I don’t bite after dark. You’ll be quite safe,” C.J. assured, laughing.

  Annika smiled and followed her professor over to the blue couches.

  “So,” C.J. said, “I do heart to hearts like a bull does ballet. Something’s troubling you. What’s up?”

  Annika stared silently at the black depths of her Styrofoam coffee cup.

  “Is it a boy?”

  “No. No,” Annika paused. She clearly had something to say, and C.J. waited her out. “It’s a man.”

  Mmmm, this is interesting, thought C.J. Professors and their pickled peckers.

  “Oh, yes?” said C.J., feigning indifference. “A man? Any man in particular?”

  “Yes,” said Annika unhappily. “Professor Scovill.”

  Caught by surprise, C.J. snorted coffee out her nose. Walter? Somehow, C.J. had not thought Annika was Walter’s type. Too…mature. “Sorry,” C.J. said, “I seemed to have swallowed my coffee the wrong way. Professor Scovill, you said?”

  “Yes,” said Annika. “But not how you are thinking. He is not troubling me in a…intimate…way.”

  “Oh, good,” C.J. sighed in partial relief. “So, what is the trouble?”

  “I have a trouble of conscience.”

  C.J. raised an eyebrow.

  “On the day Professor DeBeyer was killed, I was sitting here in the Smythe Lounge at lunchtime. I was sitting over there,” Annika pointed to a secluded seat in the back corner, “waiting for Jose. He was supposed to meet me at one-thirty, but he never showed.” The girl sighed, sad at the memory of waiting for the boy who did not show.

  “At about one-fifteen, I am not exactly sure of the time, Professor Scovill comes into the Smythe Lounge from the 42 Knollwood side and goes across to the 40 Knollwood side. He returns about ten minutes later, or maybe fifteen minutes, I am not too sure as I did not think it was so important at the time.”

  “I see,” said C.J., and she did see.

  “I was in the Smythe Lounge for another ten minutes, maybe, until about one-forty. But I didn’t see him again. But I overhear you say in Wallaby’s that he says he was in his office the whole hour from one until two,” said Annika forlornly. “So I do not know what to do. He is a professor. I am a graduate student. I do not want to make trouble.”

  C.J. patted the young woman on the arm, as you would a horse on the back of the neck. “You did the right thing. I will take care of it from here.”

  SATURDAY

  Walter was thinking of apologizing, and it was actually causing him physical pain. His right eye was twitching, and he was developing a rather itchy rash under his left arm pit. It did not even help that he had spent some “quality time” that morning with an undergraduate possessing perfect skin and an ass like a baby’s. Walter was just not the apologizing type.

  However, he had calculated the costs and benefits of saying sorry to Jefferson Daniels for his temper tantrum yesterday and decided it was worth the effort. At least, the effort of feigning being sorry.

  His outburst of yesterday had been too public. Clearly. As Walter had been forced to answer inane police questions because of it. More to the point, he had wasted a lot of time yesterday answering these questions, as it turned out that Charles had confessed to the crime.

  “When you said you crushed Professor DeBeyer like a bug, what did you mean?”

  Walter had tried not to sneer at the young policeman when he asked this question. If he was guilty, he wasn’t about to say, “Oh yeah. What I meant was I strangled the bastard with his Harvard hoodie.” So they were going to get the same answer either way. “I meant it figuratively. That I used my power as Chair of the department to play friendly tit-for-tat games with Professor DeBeyer, such as asking him to teach Econ 101. Obviously I regret my temper outburst. I think we are all feeling stressed by the loss of our dear colleague.”

  “It sounded like you made a threat on the life of Professor Daniels.”

  Again Walter wondered if such questioning ever caught a criminal. “Oh yes. That’s right. I am planning to kill Jefferson Tuesday at eight. You might want to put that in your calendar.”

  Of course no one would admit that.

  “My goodness! No! Professor Daniels is a very dear friend. I have known him both as a student and colleague. Heavens, I have no plans to kill anyone. As I said, I was just worked up over Edmund’s death.”

  “It sounded like Professor Daniels’s comment about paying him forty acres and a mule sparked your loss of temper. Are you in financial distress, Professor Scovill?”

  Walter laughed inwardly. That is what these clowns concluded it was all about…financial distress. Well, thank God. “No. I am a very fortunate man. I experience no ‘financial distress.’”

  Walter walked into the faculty lounge at just before eleven in the morning on Saturday, trying to look repentant and not show his annoyance at having wasted hours with the police the day before. The net effect was closer to constipation than contrition.

  Even though it was the weekend, Walter knew he would find people there. Whether it was because the faculty loved their jobs too much or their wives didn’t love them enough wasn’t always clear. Jefferson was drinking a smoothie and talking with Peter. It was still early and no one else was there yet. Both men looked up when Walter entered the room. An awkward silence fell over the room. Walter cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. I hope no one took what I said yesterday seriously. Just het up over something unrelated to the department.”

  Ever gracious, Jefferson smiled. “I can’t even remember what you said yesterday, Walter. Why don’t you join us? We were just discussing the news that Charles admitted to killing Edmund. Is this true?”

  Walter nodded. “Yes. It is. Doesn’t seem quite right, somehow. Young Stephen. Now he seemed to have the temper. Those Orientals. You can never tell. I would have thought C.J. had it in her, at the right time of the month. But Charles? I wouldn’t have guessed he even had the strength. He’s gotten so frail over the last year.”

  Jefferson looked sad. “I know. I know. But if Charles says he did it, and the police fin
d the evidence to support it…I think there are cases where elderly people with dementia can do extraordinary, sometimes violent, things.”

  Peter nodded. “I’ve heard something about that too. It is so sad to think of Charles ending his career this way. What will Mildred do?”

  “We, meaning the department, will have to make sure she is taken care of,” said Jefferson gravely. “It is only right. She is part of the economics family.”

  Walter listened to this last comment with alarm. What was Jefferson thinking? As Chair, he didn’t want to make any sort of financial commitment to the old woman. God himself didn’t know how long she would live. But give her an annuity and she sure as hell would never die. The department would be celebrating Mildred’s 100th birthday in the Smythe Lounge before you could say “budget deficit.” Maybe a one-time grant of $1000. Maybe.

  Walter realized that Jefferson was still talking to him. “What?” he asked, ungraciously. Clearly the need to humble himself had passed.

  “I said, who is covering his economic history class for the rest of semester?”

  “God damn,” Walter said, summarizing the situation succinctly for everyone. Obviously, that small detail had not been taken care of. “Um, does anyone else on the faculty know any economic history? It’s such a load of crap.”

  “I hate to suggest it,” said Peter rubbing a hand over his head distractedly. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Suggest it,” ordered Walter.

  “Well, she doesn’t do anything with it these days, but I was on the hiring committee for C.J. Whitmore …” Peter faltered out. While he hated to drop C.J. in it, one must put self-preservation ahead of kindness. His work was done. He could guarantee he wasn’t teaching that dreadful history course.

  Jefferson looked at him. “Peter, are you telling us that C.J., the numbers queen, has a second field area in economic history?”

  “Well, yes. Actually, she published a few articles in the area in grad school. But it really isn’t fair. She’s already teaching an overload by taking Edmund’s class and I believe she’s now taking on Edmund’s Memorial Foundation Committee work.”

  Walter’s eyes sparkled. This was the best news he had heard all morning. Oh. He was going to enjoy telling that pink-booted cow girl that she was now teaching economic history as well. She was going to have that application into UT Austin before the end of the day.

  *****

  Thank God it is the weekend, thought C.J.

  C.J. loved the weekend as she could work uninterrupted by students and teaching. She also indulged herself with a few hours away from the department, such as now. C.J. was almost giddy with delight as she locked her office door behind her in the late morning and headed out to East Elm Park for a hike. The wooded, hilly park, just to the east of the campus, was beginning to turn a splash of red, yellow and orange with the start of fall. With all that was going on, C.J. was eager to scuff her way through the leaves along the hiking trails and clear her thoughts.

  As C.J. hurried down the steps of 42 Knollwood, she bumped right into Jose, who was making his way into the building. “Oh. I am so sorry, Jose,” C.J. apologized, as she steadied herself against the young graduate student. “You’d think I’d use the eyes God gave me.”

  Jose murmured that he was fine, and, trying not to look at Professor Whitmore, he started to make his way into the building.

  But C.J. was too strong a force. “Wait one moment, will ya?” C.J. requested. “Come walk with me. Don’t you just love this time of year, Jose? There was a chill in the air when I got up this morning. The sky is a brilliant blue today, without the haze of summer. The leaves are starting to turn. I swear on my horse’s bridle I smell cinnamon everywhere I go.”

  With the skill of a horsewoman turning a reluctant colt, C.J. maneuvered Jose down the steps and onto Knollwood Place. The young graduate student had managed to evade C.J. yesterday. But he could only escape her for so long. “You know I used to live on a ranch, don’t you, Jose?” asked C.J.

  Jose nodded silently, but inwardly he was writhing in agony. He was sure that Professor Whitmore was going to lecture him about the incident with Professor Scovill. Perhaps even kick him out of the program.

  “Yep. It was a great ranch. Out in Texas. We had all sorts of animals. Cattle of course. Horses. Ducks. Geese. Chickens. A goat. I liked her. Her name was Gertrude.”

  Jose nodded again, feeling a faint glimmer of hope. “That sounds wonderful. You must miss it.”

  “Sure do. Not the smell. It sure don’t smell like cinnamon on a ranch. But the rest of it I miss.

  “Anyway, for awhile, we had a real mean, ole dog. Named him Tex, ‘cause he thought he was as important as the whole damn state. And Tex controlled all the other dogs. Wouldn’t let them eat unless they did stuff for him. Like, ladies had to…you know…if he wanted it, before they got a meal. And all the other dogs had to bring bones and raid the hen house for Tex. It was something.”

  “What happened to Tex?”

  “We shot that bastard of a dog. Right between the eyes.” C.J. kept walking, not looking over at Jose.

  “Professor Whitmore,” asked Jose, trying to poke holes in her story, “how’d you know what Tex was up to? I don’t think the other dogs came and told you.”

  C.J. smiled, despite herself. Jose Grimaldo was a smart young man. “Actually, Jose,” C.J. said in a conspiratorial whisper, as she turned and faced the young graduate student, “one of the dogs sent me an anonymous email in the middle of the night. Knocked me for a loop. Didn’t realize the little fellow had his own laptop.”

  *****

  It was lunchtime, and Walter was licking the last of his pastrami-on-rye off his fingers as he hovered over his computer keyboard in anticipation. He couldn’t stop smiling. Oh, he was going to enjoy writing this email to C.J. Whitmore.

  FROM: Walter Scovill

  TO: C.J. Whitmore

  SUBJECT: Yep! I am screwing you.

  C.J.

  It’s your lucky day! As of right now, you will now be teaching...

  Walter stopped typing. Perhaps a touch too nasty and a little…tyrannical. Maybe, he should start by saying something nice.

  FROM: Walter Scovill

  TO: C.J. Whitmore

  SUBJECT: Great news! Another teaching

  assignment!

  C.J.

  Thanks for pitching in and teaching Edmund’s class. Now teach Charles’s class.

  Walter

  Walter reread the email. Again, the ending was too abrupt. What did he really want to say? You, my little Texas rose, are the thorn that is causing a pestilent and gangrenous wound in my otherwise happy existence. I hate having you in the department, and I am trying to make your life so miserable that you will resign. So here is yet another odious task for you. Walter sighed. Emails could come back and haunt you like ghosts of dead lovers. He couldn’t put that in writing.

  FROM: Walter Scovill

  TO: C.J. Whitmore

  SUBJECT: Econ history course

  C.J.

  Thanks for being such a great faculty member. I appreciate your teaching Edmund’s class and serving on the Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation Committee. Your commitment to the department in these trying times has not gone unnoticed.

  With Charles out of action, we all have to do our bit, and I must turn to you again. Economic history is such a narrow specialty, and you are the only other faculty member with the knowledge and skills to teach his course. For the remainder of the semester, I will need you to teach his economic history class, which is on Tuesday and Thursdays, 10:40 - 11:50. Please let me know what teaching assistants you need to make this task easier.

  Walter

  Walter reread the email once more. Much better. That was an email that the Dean could read, and Walter would look both civil and conciliatory. Offering teaching assistants? What more could the woman want?

  With an evil grin, he pressed send.

  *****

  Mary Beth had met a g
roup of girlfriends at Bindi’s for a late brunch to tell them all about “Life in the Shadow of a Murderer.” There is no point in being almost murdered if you can’t be the center of attention.

  But even Mary Beth had to admit, there is good attention and bad attention. Unlike today, yesterday was bad attention. She had to talk to the police. Again. Telling your story to the police is only cool, like, the first time. Not the fourth and fifth and sixth retellings. As Mary Beth told the policeman yesterday, “No offence, but I’d prefer to get a Brazilian than sit here and talk with you. Are we, like, almost done?”

  And then it turned out that Professor Covington was the killer, not Professor Choi. Which made no sense at all. That’s like your sweet old grandpa suddenly becoming an axe murderer. But, whatever.

  And if it wasn’t bad enough that she had been working with not one but two murderers, Mary Beth was quite peeved that Jefferson Daniels had not been his flirty self yesterday.

  “What am I, a big hair dye job from Trenton?” she vented angrily to her friends. It did not occur to Mary Beth that Jefferson could be upset or distracted because of his colleague’s confession, or the death of his friend.

  Well, maybe I should just do something about that, thought Mary Beth impulsively as she left Bindi’s, with a confidence that should probably be attributed to the three pitchers of sangrias that Mary Beth and her friends had consumed over brunch. So, after popping a tic tac and checking that she was attired in appropriately skimpy underclothing, Mary Beth ventured into the department on a Saturday and knocked on Jefferson Daniels’s door.

  No answer.

  Mary Beth knocked again, this time a little louder. Still no answer.

  Mary Beth tried the door handle to see if the door was locked. If it wasn’t, she would write him a cute note and hope for a better day on Monday. The handle turned, and she cautiously opened the door, calling out as she did, “Yoo hoo. Professor Daniels. It’s me. Mary Beth.”