It was a scene of absolute peace and beauty. Idyllic. Smiling, Annie walked briskly on up the path, enjoying the sound of shells crunching underfoot. She pulled open one of the white double doors and stepped inside, then stopped short, her hearing assaulted by a blare of high-decibel synthesizer music. The noise, which sounded like a machine shop gone mad, emanated from the first door to her left, which was, unfortunately, propped wide open by a tattered orange backpack.
A sign above the door, with a few missing letters, identified the offices of THE CHASTAIN COLLEGE CRIER. Suddenly a stocky, broad-faced young woman with improbably long, black braids appeared in the doorway. She wore an Elton John T-shirt, baggy Levi’s, and work boots. She paused, looked back into the room, and bellowed (the only possible way to be heard over the din), “Hammermill’s a shit, but I’ll try to get the story. Listen, you owe me one for this.” Head poking forward, horn-rims slipping on her nose, she plunged into the hall and swept toward Annie, then jerked to a halt to stare at a hand-lettered poster on a table by the door to Annie’s right. Her long braids quivered like storm-whipped electrical lines as she shook her head irritably. “Oh hell. Double hell,” she groused loudly. Stamping one booted foot, she gave Annie a sharp glance and demanded, “So who gives a damn about mysteries? Crap, I’ve got to get two more hours of electives and that’s the only time that works for my schedule! Oh, shit,” and she swung toward the exit.
Mysteries?
Annie was turning toward the table to see what occasioned that outburst, when the entry door at the far end of the hall banged open. She gave the newcomer scant attention until he began to charge down the hall. For a wild moment, she thought he was bearing down on her.
His appearance wasn’t threatening. He had short, curly brown hair, a snub nose, freckles, and a square chin. His dress would have passed muster at any preppie academy—front-pleated khaki slacks, button-down blue shirt, rep tie, and blue blazer. But the scowl on his face was enough to send Annie backpedaling.
When he careened past her to burst through the open door to The Crier, she took a deep breath of relief.
Her relief increased when the mind-numbing din of the synthesizer ended abruptly in midchord. Welcome, assuaging silence descended.
But she tensed again when a deep voice roared, “Hey, what the hell, jerk. What’re you doing with my tape?”
Stepping nearer the open doorway, she looked into a long room dominated by the glowing green screens of three rows of monitors. Oh, of course. The newsroom for The Crier.
But she was only peripherally aware of the variously dressed students behind some of the monitors or clustered near a desk. Because she expected all hell to break loose any minute.
The fellow who’d charged past her into the newsroom had a wiry, compact build but he wasn’t big or impressive, and he stared up, confronting an infuriated giant, who stood at least six foot six and had neck and chest muscles that would be the envy of a pro football player. Heavy cranial bones made him look like a Neanderthal survivor. The giant glowered down at his small tormentor. “That’s my tape player, Kelly.”
“Sure.” Kelly’s voice quavered just a fraction. “You can play it anywhere you want to—except here. This is a newspaper office. It’s going to be run like a newspaper office. Anybody who’s here is here to work. No music. No loud stuff. No crap, Bernie.”
“So who’s gonna make me,” the giant taunted, reflecting a lifetime of dependence upon size and meanness to get his way.
“I’m going to make you.” The voice was thin, but determined. “I’m the new editor of The Crier and what I say goes. If you turn that music on one more time, I’ll kick you off the staff. And I mean it, Bernie.”
It hung in the balance. Bernie’s face reddened, his meaty fists bunched, but his smaller opponent met his angry gaze unbendingly. Finally, Bernie turned back toward his desk. “Sure gonna be fun to work here,” he complained, but he settled into his chair and yanked a notepad closer.
The editor waited a moment, then glanced around the room. “Okay, everybody, get busy. We’ve got a paper to put out.” He stepped to the doorway, yanked up the backpack, and looked directly at Annie.
He stared at her blankly for an instant, then asked politely, “Can I help you?”
“Oh no, no thank you. I’m looking for the main office of the journalism department.”
“It’s directly across the hall,” he said, then he turned away and the door closed behind him. But not before Annie had seen the tremor of his chin. She wasn’t the only one who’d been scared. And she felt a flash of admiration for a gutsy performance.
But the student newspaper staff was none of her concern. She turned away and looked across the hall. Sure enough, DEPARTMENT OF JOURNALISM was blazoned on the opposite door. But first, she stepped closer to the table with the hand-lettered poster that had excited the wrath of the work-booted young woman with braids.
JOURNALISM 306 (Feature Writing)
CANCELED
Scheduled in its place, TTH 10 AM,
JOURNALISM 308,
a new course by adjunct instructor
Annie Laurance Darling
on THE THREE GRANDE DAMES OF THE MYSTERY
Annie beamed at the poster. What a nice ring the course name had.
Cheered, she reached for the main office doorknob, then impulsively paused to study the chock-full bulletin board on the faded beige wall. Substitute drama announcements for these and she could be back in a hallway at Southern Methodist University. Information on contests, fellowships, scholarships, internships, and the usual offers to word process (fifty cents a page) term papers, etc., with the serrated telephone number slips at the bottom of the page. Tucked here and there were the customary thumbtacked cartoons from The New Yorker, clips from Rolling Stone, requests for roommates (nonsmoker, no cats), and ride queries for the Thanksgiving holiday (requests for Fort Lauderdale predominated).
The office door swung out, and a tall, stooped man in a white suit lurched into her, knocking her folder loose. Annie managed to keep her balance, then turned hastily to scoop up her scattered papers.
“S’sorry, m’dear.” He wavered unsteadily and made disjointed motions to help.
“That’s all right,” she said breathlessly, retrieving the last sheet that was draped over a scuffed wing tip. She rose and smiled.
He gave her a glassy smile in return. A thick shock of snowy hair rose on his bony head like an egret’s crest. Pale blue eyes peered emptily from behind heavy horn-rims. “Hope I didn’t muss your papers.” The words were, with an obvious effort, distinct. An overpowering scent of mouthwash wafted moistly over her. He blinked. “No classes today. ’Rollment—Enrollment’s over.”
“Oh, I’m not a student.” She couldn’t quite suppress the note of satisfaction. “Actually, I’m going to be teaching a class this next quarter.”
The glazed eyes blinked again. “Adjunct faculty.” He nodded heavily. “Course, course. I’m Josh Norden. Teach advertising.” He put out a hand that trembled ever so slightly.
“Annie Laurance Darling.” She shook his hand, which was cool, damp, and limp. She nodded toward the office. “I was going to ask where the faculty meetings are held. Do you know?”
Flaccid lips peeled slowly back in a parody of a smile. “Where the faculty meets? Oh yes, indeed. Let me show you the way, Miss Darling.” With elaborate courtesy, he took her elbow.
“Mrs. Darling,” Annie corrected swiftly.
But her mentor wasn’t listening. He was concentrating on negotiating the long hallway. Just as they reached the foot of the stairs, light steps sounded briskly behind them.
“Josh?” a worried voice called.
The frail, gentle-faced woman who caught up with them flashed an apologetic glance at Annie, then turned to Annie’s escort, who had one hand firmly fastened on the wooden railing.
Drunk as a skunk, her Uncle Ambrose would have observed.
“Josh, let me drive you home,” the woman pleaded. �
�I have my keys right here. You shouldn’t try to go to faculty meetings when—when you aren’t yourself.”
“I beg your pardon, Charlotte,” Josh Norden said with great dignity, enunciating so very carefully. “I am quite all right.” He cleared his throat. “Charlotte, my dear, may I introdushe … introduce Miss Annie Laurance Darling, who shall be joining our happy faculty family for the quarter.” He nodded his snowy head at Annie. “It is a great pleasure to introduce you to Mrs. Charlotte Porter, our dearest and most kindly faculty member.” He gave a deep bow and almost lost his balance. “And our loveliest professor.”
There was a terrible pathos in the tableau before Annie, the royally drunk faculty member paying homage to a woman who might once have been exquisitely lovely. Traces of past beauty lingered in her wide-spaced blue eyes and fine features, but Charlotte Porter was thin almost to the point of emaciation. Her pale pink chambray blouse gaped at the neck. The lace scarf fastened with a cameo couldn’t hide the wrinkled throat. Her too-big blouse drooped over pointed shoulders and only a tightly cinched woven cloth belt held up her sagging gray skirt.
Charlotte Porter shook her head in dismay. “Josh—”
“Time to go,” he said robustly, and he started up the stairs, pulling Annie along. Annie tightened her grasp on her folder, managed to keep in step with her wavering guide, and wondered what all of this augured for her first faculty meeting. A sheet poked out of her hastily regrouped folder. Annie glimpsed one line: Mary Roberts Rinehart is acclaimed for her invention of the Had-I-But-Known school of the mystery.
Had I but known—
Hmm.
Norden picked up speed on the second floor. Annie tried not to look as though she was running on tiptoe, but Norden was so tall his helpful grip on her elbow lifted her almost from the floor. Charlotte Porter was close behind them, still trying to get Norden’s attention.
Outside room 220, a slim and very pretty red-haired young woman stepped forward as the unlikely trio neared. “Mrs. Darling?”
Grateful for an opportunity to break free of her alcoholic companion, Annie nodded eagerly.
The girl lifted a Leica that hung from a leather strap around her neck. “Mr. Burke sent over a notice that you are joining the faculty this next term to teach a mystery class. I’m Georgia Finney, chief photographer for The Crier, our student newspaper. May I get a picture of you?”
“Of course you may,” Norden intervened. “Good policy, welcoming adjunct faculty.”
The young photographer shot him a surprised look, but quickly masked it with another smile. A very self-possessed and perceptive young woman, Annie decided. She was the epitome of the competent professional, her red hair sleekly framing a truly lovely face, her double-blue striped cotton shirt crisp, her brushed cotton blue-and-red plaid skirt wrinkle free.
Charlotte Porter stepped forward. “I’m sure Mrs. Darling will be happy to cooperate.” She looked beseechingly at Annie.
“Certainly, certainly,” Annie replied quickly and realized she was joining in Charlotte Porter’s effort to pretend that Professor Norden was all right, quite all right, thank you.
Without seeming to, Charlotte Porter took charge, separating Norden from Georgia and Annie as neatly as a sheepdog cutting out a lamb.
As Georgia used her light meter and focused, Annie listened to the muffled exchange behind her. Charlotte Porter was still attempting to divert Norden from the upcoming meeting.
The Leica clicked three times in succession, Georgia Finney beamed her thanks, and Annie walked into the classroom.
R.T. Burke welcomed her warmly. “Knew you’d come. Counting on you. Bet your class’ll knock ’em dead.” A hyena cackle. He looked past her, and the laughter cut off abruptly. Irritation flickered in his emerald green eyes. “Tear yourself away from happy hour, Josh?”
“Between quarters,” Norden replied distinctly. “Firsh—first time we’ve ever had a faculty—” he swayed perceptibly “—meeting between quarters.”
“Sure hope it’s not too big a burden,” Burke retorted.
Wordlessly, Charlotte Porter stretched out a blue-veined hand.
Burke’s face softened. “Hello, Charlotte. You’ve met Annie?”
At her nod, he took Annie’s elbow and turned her toward what seemed to be a crowd of people, introducing her in a staccato burst. “Annie Laurance Darling here is our new adjunct, and a mighty knowledgeable young woman about mysteries. She’s going to be a great addition to our staff, no doubt about it.” He rattled off names and titles to Annie, then clapped his hands together briskly. “All right, all right, everybody’s here. Might as well get under way,” and he shooed them to their seats.
Three long tables faced the lectern. Annie grabbed a chair at the far end of the last table and tried to attach names to faces. Sitting at the back right of the room, she had a clear side view of the faculty members.
One name she had no trouble with. She had managed, upon their introduction, not to snarl, “Road hog,” but she had no doubt this was the driver of the yellow Corvette. The sleek black hair and aviator sunglasses were unmistakable. Kurt Diggs. His hibiscus-patterned shirt, open at the throat, revealed lots of curly black hair. Diggs had pouty, full lips and a hot, lingering handshake, and he wore his jeans too tight. She wondered if he knew that could be a sperm inhibitor. As she looked at his profile, he turned. He’d removed the sunglasses, and his eyes locked with hers in a knowing, suggestive gaze. Annie tried hard to make it look as though her glance had moved along that table with no interest in him. But he gave a small, satisfied smile and winked languidly.
Asshole.
Casually, she turned her head and hoped that the irritated flush she felt wasn’t reflected in her cheeks.
All right. Kurt Diggs, the road hog, taught radio-TV and worked as a newscaster on a local channel.
Charlotte Porter, Professor Norden’s champion, sat between Diggs and Norden. She continued to cast worried glances toward a supremely impervious Norden. She taught public relations. Norden slumped a little in his chair, his chin resting on his chest. He breathed so heavily Annie could hear him at the back of the room.
Three men sat at the middle table. The first—yes, that was Professor Garrison. Victor Garrison. Midthirties. Sandy-haired. Baby-faced. Dick Powell as Philip Marlowe in the film version of Farewell, My Lovely. Muscular but civilized, though not her picture of the lean, thin-nosed Chandler hero. A sweet autumn wood scent drifted from the pipe cupped in a well-manicured hand. He eyed Burke with scarcely veiled insolence. He taught general editorial classes.
The second occupant of the middle table lounged comfortably with his beefy arms crossed on his chest. He was a big man with curly blond hair, china blue eyes, and a perpetual half-smile that never changed. Which Annie began to find a little unnerving. His name was Malcolm Moss and he taught advertising.
If she weren’t a married woman, she would have taken some effort with the last man at that table. Another public relations professor, Frank Crandall. Mmmm, yes. A mop of shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes, a self-deprecating smile, a bony, intelligent face. He wasn’t a sexy hunk. No, his appeal was a good deal more subtle than that, though he was definitely a very attractive man. Crandall sort of hunkered over the table as if there weren’t quite room enough for his long legs and arms. He wore a white tennis shirt with a ragged collar, and she glimpsed lean legs in khaki trousers rather haphazardly arranged beneath the table. He was the kind of man women like to mother. Though not, of course, all the time. He lifted his left hand to smooth back the droop of hair from his brow, obviously a habitual gesture, and sunlight from the west windows glistened on a golden wedding band.
Not that she was interested. After all, she was a happily married woman of one month and twenty days. Still, she might be married, but she wasn’t in a cloister.
An empty chair separated her from a blowsy blonde with vivid brown eyes, an armload of gold jewelry, and bright red lipstick that would surely glisten in the dark should the electri
city fail. Sue Tarrant taught general reporting. Annie responded to a friendly grin, and suddenly felt a bit more welcome. At the thought, she realized that she hadn’t felt welcome, not until Sue had smiled. Her own smile slipped sideways and she glanced again around the room. Annie didn’t go in much for sensing nuances. That was more the preserve of her husband and mother-in-law. But there was an aura—oh God, what had brought that word to mind? She hastily substituted ambience, despite its yuppie connotations—an ambience of uneasiness.
Cupping her chin in her hand, she thoughtfully directed her attention to Burke at the lectern. Despite the apparently genial exchange of smiles and nods, Annie decided the atmosphere was decidedly not one of academic bonhomie.
“… know that you are all looking forward to the beginning of our second quarter together—and all the changes we will be making to improve our department.” Burke bared his teeth like a wolf baying at the moon.
Kurt Diggs flicked a silver cigarette lighter and held the flame to a dark brown cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then blew three perfect rings. Charlotte Porter’s thin hands clenched spasmodically. Josh Norden hiccoughed once, loudly. Victor Garrison sucked gently on his pipe. Malcolm Moss’s perpetual half-smile didn’t waver. Frank Crandall shifted in his chair and one knee knocked against a table leg.
Across the empty seat, Sue murmured, “Horse shit.”
Annie shot her a quick glance. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly—
“I’ll open with a call for approval of the minutes of the last meeting.”
“I move the minutes be adopted,” Charlotte said quickly.
“Second,” Norden boomed. Charlotte jumped.
Annie bit her lip to keep from smiling. Norden certainly wasn’t worried about his condition, no matter how any of his colleagues might feel.
“Objection.” Garrison’s voice was mellow, a golden tenor. “Item four is a misrepresentation of the mission of the Curriculum Committee, which I have the honor of serving as chair.” He smiled boyishly. “It is my clear understanding that the committee is charged with the responsibility of evaluating current course offerings and considering possible alterations of some substance. You will note that my emphasis is on the adjective possible.”
A Little Class on Murder Page 3
