A Little Class on Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Annie glanced down at the mimeographed sheet in front of her.

  DEPARTMENT OF JOURNALISM

  MINUTES OF FACULTY MEETING OCTOBER 7

  Present: Burke (chair), Tarrant, Diggs, Garrison, Crandall, Porter, Moss.

  Absent: Norden.

  Quorum declared.

  Minutes of meeting September 2 approved.

  Tarrant moved, Crandall seconded:

  The inclusion in internal unit review procedures of guidelines mandating equal consideration of professional attainment with scholarly publications. Objections voiced by Garrison, Moss. Professor Garrison stressed his dismay at according commercial acceptance equality with scholarly publication in a refereed journal. Passed, 5-2.

  4. Garrison moved, Moss seconded:

  Interim acceptance of Curriculum Committee Advisory Report, pending—

  Annie skimmed the headings of the other items, all as laboriously presented as the foregoing. The minutes reminded her why she’d always embraced the dictum of famed jurist Augustus N. Hand: Join no clubs and have no slogans. The consideration of minutes had always struck her as one of life’s least interesting exercises. Annie willed away a yawn and felt the beginnings of a letdown. She’d really looked forward to this meeting: her introduction to the world of scholarship and academic excitement. She was eager to share her love of the mystery and her fervent conviction that the mystery serves as the twentieth-century version of the medieval morality play. Surely those involved in transmitting knowledge and values would understand her theme. Instead, it looked as though this meeting was merely another in a long line of sessions dominated by Roberts’ Rules of Order and very little else. Who the hell was Roberts, anyway? And why did every gathering in the English-speaking world have to degenerate into Will the chair rule? and Someone has to second the motion!

  Garrison’s voice rolled on sonorously. The man obviously took great pleasure in hearing it. Even looking like Dick Powell couldn’t excuse that. “My objection, of course, as my colleagues will appreciate, is with the unfortunate inclusion of the modifying term advisory.” He pointed with his pipe stem at the offending agenda.

  The classroom door opened.

  Garrison paused.

  Every eye swung toward the young man poised on the threshold. Annie recognized the young editor who had faced down the giant. She sat forward, the beginnings of boredom forgotten. As he stood, the moment lengthening, the tension growing, Annie felt a sudden sharp bond, the underdog against insuperable odds, the gladiator facing a snarling, pacing lion. He stood stiffly, facing them, his young face almost stern, his gray eyes determined. But he was pale and the freckles spattered across his face seemed to stand out. Then, like a diver plunging into a cauldron, he strode purposefully toward the back of the room.

  Garrison waggled his pipe. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Kelly.”

  The editor stopped, one hand gripping the back of Annie’s chair. “Yes, Professor Garrison?” Once again Annie thought she detected a slight, ever so slight, quaver in his voice.

  “Mr. Kelly. This is a faculty meeting.” Garrison’s measured tone placed it right on a level with a National Security Council conclave.

  “Yes, sir. I know.” Kelly squeezed behind Annie’s chair and slipped into the empty seat between her and Sue. Placing a fresh steno pad on the table, he pulled a ballpoint from a pocket of his blazer.

  “Mr. Kelly, faculty meetings are closed to students.” Garrison’s tone was pleasant, but firm.

  Moss nodded in agreement, still with that same half-smile. Annie decided he was creepy. Crandall scratched his cheek and frowned.

  Kelly’s gray eyes turned attentively toward Garrison. “I understand that, Professor. But I’m not here as a student. I’m here as editor of The Crier. We’re putting out our first issue tomorrow. I intend to provide the most in-depth coverage of the college that has ever been achieved by a Crier staff.” As he talked the telltale quaver lessened, though his voice remained thin. “That coverage will include detailed reporting of faculty meetings. As you’ve pointed out many times in class, South Carolina has an open-meeting law. You’ve always stressed the importance of this law to the healthy functioning of society. And, of course, as you’ve taught us, any exception to that rule constitutes a muzzling of the press.”

  Garrison stiffened. A tiny flush stained his cheeks. “Mr. Kelly, you must leave.”

  “No, sir,” Kelly responded respectfully. “Any meeting of any entity receiving at least sixty percent of its funding from the community is open to the public. By law, Professor.” He gazed determinedly at the infuriated academic, but the fingers holding the pen were shaking.

  Garrison faced the lectern, his face flaming. “Mr. Burke, this is an intolerable and unwarranted intrusion into the private deliberations of the faculty.” He had forgotten his posture of geniality, his smooth face twisting with anger.

  Burke’s raucous laugh exploded. “By God, Kelly’s right. Good thinking, young man. Sure. You can cover us. I like for our young people to show initiative. All right, Victor. Back to your complaint with the minutes. Let’s get this settled and get under way.”

  Garrison glared at Burke. “I wish to make clear,” he said icily, “that I deeply resent the intrusion of a student into the arena of faculty consultations. I continue participation under duress.” He paused. A muscle twitched in his smooth jaw. “I wish forcefully to state my objection to the minutes of the last meeting as they now stand. The Curriculum Committee has never been considered merely an advisory body. Its deliberations have always been accorded full weight.” Garrison took a deep breath and modified his tone, once again parading his mellow tenor. “As chair of the Curriculum Committee, I have understood our mission to be the most effective utilization of the department’s resources to create course work which will demand the utmost in effort from our students and which most appropriately demonstrates the academic integrity of our institution.”

  “Academic crap,” Sue murmured.

  The hand poised over the steno pad started to write. Sue reached out and clasped the young man’s wrist. “Down, Geraldo.”

  Geraldo, Annie thought in confusion. It seemed an unlikely name for a guy named Kelly.

  “Furthermore, I feel it imperative once again to remonstrate with my colleagues.” Garrison’s voice rose, but retained its creamy tone. “Such unseemly haste in approving basic—yes, fundamental—revision of course work merely to curry favor during what I understand to be a temporary shift in leadership surely reflects poorly upon their commitment to academic excellence, which we have long sought in this collegial community, feeling quite strongly that scholarship is not to be solely the function of the major institutions. As a faculty member with some seniority, I find it incumbent upon me to steadfastly reiterate my devotion to this commitment.” He drew deeply on his pipe.

  Kelly scrawled: G. anti-trade schl. pitch.

  Clearly, Annie thought, deep waters swirled here and she apparently didn’t speak the language.

  “Objection noted, Victor,” Burke said impatiently. “Now, let’s vote on the minutes. Charlotte moved—”

  Malcolm Moss drawled, “For the record, Professor Garrison is correct. The committee has not heretofore been designated as advisory in its capacity.”

  A taut silence ensued. Annie glanced from one grim face to another. She reran Moss’s innocuous—to her—statement in her mind. Who cared whether a committee was designated as advisory?

  A lot of people, apparently. Kurt Diggs’s sensuous mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. Charlotte Porter nervously creased and recreased the mimeographed agenda sheet between her thin fingers. Josh Norden swung his head toward Burke and his crest of white hair quivered. Victor Garrison nodded portentously. Malcolm Moss’s half-smile never wavered. Frank Crandall sighed. Sue Tarrant’s lips tightened in disgust.

  Burke’s bright green eyes glistened with the joy of battle. “Have to hand it to you boys. Never give up must be carved on your ass.”

  Garrison
drew his breath in sharply, and Moss’s smile finally fled. Burke grinned at their discomfiture.

  “Semantics aren’t going to change one basic reality—the buck stops at my desk. I made it clear when I came in August that I intend to reshape the course offerings. I’ve welcomed everybody’s suggestions.” He glanced at Garrison. “Input, you call it. Okay. Everybody’s inputed. Of course, the Curriculum Committee has backed and filled and insisted that further deliberations are essential. Fine. You deliberate all you want to. But I’ve finished deliberating. Next week I’m presenting my plans for new course requirements to the academic vice president.”

  “Next week!” In a woman it would have been a scream. Garrison lunged to his feet. “Next week! That’s absurd. We can’t possibly have completed our survey and correlated our data—”

  “Damn shame,” Burke replied.

  “So you intend to ignore the faculty’s efforts?” Moss said heavily.

  Burke feigned surprise. “Who, me? Ignore the faculty? Perish the thought, Malcolm. I have sought faculty input. I have also set a deadline. After all, that’s what we are teaching our students, isn’t it? To meet deadlines? If some material isn’t available at that time, I scarcely see it as my fault. Now, the vote on Charlotte’s motion.”

  It was, Annie thought, like coming into a darkened auditorium during the second act. Although she could hear the words, she couldn’t be sure of their meaning. She was certain of one thing only: nobody liked anybody very much.

  The rest of the meeting didn’t alter her conclusion, even though there were exchanges of exaggerated courtesy. Professor Tarrant reported for the Library Committee, Professor Moss for the Scholarship Committee, Professor Garrison for the Personnel and Planning Committee, and Professor Diggs for the Alumni Affairs Committee. Barbed comments flew in a discussion of a proposed reduction in management theory courses for the master’s program, Burke insisting that the business of writing is writing, not business, and Garrison vehemently countering that the focus of communications education across the country was on mass media management. “Look at Northwestern!” he exclaimed.

  “You look at it!” Burke retorted. Annie’s head swung from side to side, following the verbal sallies. But finally, they reached new business.

  “Delighted today to announce the addition of yet another outstanding adjunct to our faculty, Mrs. Annie Laurance Darling, proprietor of the famed mystery bookstore, Death on Demand, on Broward’s Rock Island.”

  Annie tried to look modest, intelligent, and mysterious.

  Burke smiled. “This young lady knows her mysteries, and she’s going to share her knowledge with our students.”

  “Mysteries?” Garrison repeated.

  A method actor couldn’t have freighted the word with more and varied emotions: astonishment, disdain, incredulity, aversion, and disgust.

  Sue’s small gasp of pleasure and the student editor’s “Good stuff!” didn’t quite compensate.

  “Mysteries,” Burke repeated firmly.

  “When is this class scheduled?” Moss asked. “I thought we had only one adjunct slated for the next term.”

  “That’s right. Room two-oh-six. Ten A.M. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “Bob Puckett was hired for that slot. To teach feature writing.” Moss’s face looked like a chunk out of Mount Rushmore.

  “I fired him,” Burke said crisply. “Sorry bastard faked a story. Supposed to’ve interviewed people in a bar on pros-cons death penalty. Made it up!”

  Slowly, Moss pushed back his chair and stood. He was damned imposing, topping six feet and built, again as Annie’s Uncle Ambrose would have observed, like a bull moose. A vein pulsed in his temple. “I saw that story. A good read. He presented all the views.”

  “Jesus Christ, Moss. Did you hear me? The fucker made it all up! He sat on his ass in his apartment and created that story. I know it for a fact. The city editor told me. Now, I’m not going to have a sorry bastard like that within a mile of this place.”

  Moss’s massive shoulders hunched. “He was one of my best students.”

  “If that’s true,” Burke shot back, “this department’s in worse shape than I thought.”

  “You had no right to fire him.” Moss’s deep voice was thick in his throat.

  “Oh, yes,” Burke replied, “I had the right. I have the right. Remember, Moss, I’m the S-O-B-I-C.” He punctuated this enigmatic pronouncement with a brusque nod. “Meeting adjourned.”

  As she picked up her folder, Annie leaned past the student editor, who was scribbling furiously in his fresh pad. Annie looked inquiringly at Sue Tarrant. “S-O-B-I-C?”

  Sue enunciated very clearly and with evident satisfaction. The words rolled across the room. “Son of a bitch in charge.”

  Annie was deeply immersed in the second edition of John M. Reilly’s Twentieth Century Crime and Mystery Writers. Yes, there it was. Christie’s play about the Egyptian pharaoh Akhnaton was published in 1973. She frowned, puzzled. But wasn’t it written in 1937 when she was working on Death on the Nile? She pawed through a stack of books—

  “Mrs. Darling?” The accent was familiar, liquid, rolling, genteel South Carolina, but it took an instant for her to place the woman smiling shyly at her. Then Annie jumped up. “Hello, Mrs. Porter. How are you?”

  The painfully thin woman with the once-beautiful face held out a folded tabloid. “I just happened to be on your island and I thought I would take the opportunity to drop by and see your wonderful bookstore and bring you a copy of Friday’s Crier. Georgia’s picture came out beautifully. Let me show you.”

  Charlotte Porter opened the paper to page six. The two-column photograph was excellent, showing a smiling Annie. The cutline read: Annie Laurance Darling, mystery expert, visits Brevard Hall. Darling will teach a two-credit course, THE THREE GRANDE DAMES OF THE MYSTERY, during the winter quarter. Department Director R.T. Burke predicts the class will be very popular.

  “That’s terrific publicity,” Annie said happily. “It should increase enrollment.”

  “Oh, I’ve already heard students talking about it,” Mrs. Porter replied. “They are very excited.”

  There was the slightest of awkward pauses.

  The academic looked brightly around the coffee area. “I’m just so excited to have a chance to visit your store.”

  This was right down Annie’s alley. “Let me give you my deluxe tour.”

  They ended up at the coffee bar, Charlotte Porter clutching two Juanita Sheridan books. (“I just love Janice Cameron and the Hawaiian background.”)

  Pouring coffee in mugs respectively inscribed The Silent Bullet and The Case of the Sulky Girl, Annie continued to shine as a hostess and wonder, with more than a little curiosity, what had brought Charlotte Porter to see her. The possibility that she had actually just been in the neighborhood (on an island thirteen miles away by land and two by sea on a misty November Saturday) seemed just a trifle farfetched.

  “It was really very nice of you to bring The Crier,” Annie said finally, as she took a last sip of her magnificent (if she did say so herself) Colombian coffee.

  “Oh, it was no trouble,” Mrs. Porter assured her earnestly. She didn’t look quite as worn today; her faded blue eyes sparkled as she talked about one of her favorite authors, Kathleen Moore Knight. A spot of color touched her almost cavernous cheeks and the thick weave of her wool cardigan hid the thinness of her upper body. “We do so enjoy the delights of getting to know our adjunct faculty members. Really, our faculty has always, historically, been one to be very proud of, even though we are such a small college. Mr. Burke is a prime example of the college’s willingness to go outside the narrowness of academia to seek out wonderfully accomplished professionals. You may know that he has won many awards over the years for his excellence in reporting.” She nodded, her gray head bobbing energetically. “And, of course, our regular faculty has had so many, many outstanding members. Joshua Norden, for example.” The blue eyes regarded Annie steadily. “Why, for
many years he served as an advertising consultant to the Chastain National Bank and to the State Bar Association, and he is a past chairman of the American Academy of Advertising. When he worked in advertising, he was a winner of Addys at four different times.”

  “I’m sure he is very outstanding,” Annie said gently.

  There was more, of course—references to other faculty, to their achievements—but, as Annie walked her new friend to the front door of Death on Demand, she knew why Charlotte Porter had come.

  Annie watched as the thin figure disappeared into the November mist. What a gallant effort to preserve the reputation of an old friend—and how deeply Charlotte Porter must identify her own life with the needs and objectives of the Chastain College journalism department.

  Annie walked slowly back to the coffee area and began to straighten up. She checked the coffee pot, which was almost empty, but decided against brewing more. There wouldn’t be many people in today. It was too gray and dank and there weren’t any tourists, in November, to clog the aisles with disappointed sun worshippers.

  She picked up The Crier, thinking she must be sure and thank the young photographer, and closed it, then stared at the boldface announcement at the top left of page one.

  A NEW DIRECTION

  THE CRIER will offer a new dimension in its coverage of Chastain College with the publication today of the first issue under the editorship of Bradley M. Kelly.

  Kelly promises to report all the facts of interest and concern to students, faculty, and administration.

  Today’s issue contains complete coverage (lead story, page one) of an unannounced meeting of the journalism faculty on Thursday. During that meeting, factions supporting and opposing more professionalism and less academicism in the school clashed.