Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  Following three middle-aged suit-and-tie-men who had just jaywalked across the street from the courthouse, Z stepped up on the stoop, the four of them pushing their way through the door and into the people-packed eating establishment.

  Inside, a glance showed that the place's decor featured items that recalled the building's past, one wall of the twenty-foot-tall anteroom still having its original ceiling-to-floor pull-out drawers, an item of hardware wired to the front of each ancient, wooden bin. Screws. Chisels. Ole-timey garden tools. Drill bits for brace and bit, red devil scraper, wood-handled screwdriver, rat tail file, eye hooks, hinges, hasps, key-and-combination-Yale locks, nuts, and bolts.

  A dark wood ladder was still hooked to a metal track above, wheels fixed laterally to the ladder's bottom legs so the ladder could be rolled to any location on the wall, a "long ago" clerk climbing the rungs to extract the proper hardware item from its repository.

  The restaurant's dining room was a long, narrow area featuring small, closely packed, walnut-stained tables down the center, these tables flanked by cramped, purple-carpeted aisles. To the outside, were deep, high-backed, black oak booths.

  On the anteroom's right, stairs rose between polished brass banisters. Climbing to the gift shop above, was Z's guess.

  The foyer was so jammed with people it was difficult to move, older folks sitting on straight chairs around the area's edges, stylish young men and women standing, conversing quietly while waiting their turn to be seated after earlier diners had vacated their tables.

  Doing as Calder had instructed him, Z sidled past clumps of polite people -- a high percentage of men in ties, older ladies in frilled-up luncheon dresses -- arriving at the keypunch relic of a register, a pretty, dark-haired girl behind the counter taking names, jotting them on a waiting list.

  "I'm Bob Zapolska," he said when the girl looked up to ask his name. "A Dr. Calder said to meet him here."

  "Oh, yes," she said, brightening. "Dr. Calder said to look out for you."

  It was clear that the young woman knew Calder; remarkable considering the restaurant's large clientele, Z thought. "I had his gen psych course last semester," the girl explained.

  No one needing to be cashed out at the moment, the dressed-up young lady came around the "distressed glass" display counter to lead Z past the screen into the dining room.

  Squeezing past waitresses in the narrow passageway, not finding Calder, the girl began peering into booths as she led Z toward the back.

  A busy place, the Hardware Cafe, servers in identical green tops above long, faded denim dresses, one balancing a "temptation tray" of dessert delicacies.

  Guiding Z down the left aisle, crossing carefully at the busily swinging doors that gave waitresses access to the kitchen, the young woman made a U-turn at the far end of the people-packed center tables, to go up the right aisle.

  Halfway back through the generalized gloom of the restaurant's "atmosphere," Z thought he recognized Calder in a booth to the left, the doctor on the outside, someone beside him next to the wall, another man across the table.

  Coming abreast of the booth, Z was able to identify the lone man seated on the near side of the table as Fritz Furlwangler. American history. Z had met the gangly instructor once before, Z and Professor Calder having a "business" lunch at the (now-defunct) Golden Corral on Oak, Dr. Furlwangler joining them on that occasion.

  "Here he is, Dr. Calder," the round-faced check-out girl said.

  "Thank you, Janet," the doctor said, recognizing the girl with one of his big grins, the young lady smiling adoringly before gliding off toward the front to attend to her receptionist's responsibilities.

  "Mr. Zapolska," Calder said, now grinning up at Z, motioning Z to sit across the table, Z having to wait while Professor Furlwangler slid over.

  With Z seated at last, Calder indicated the man to the professor's right. "This is Jeffrey Carloss, political science." Carloss was a mostly bald young man with quick eyes and a sharp nose. "And this is ..."

  "Dr. Furlwangler," Z said, nodding first to the new man, then to the historian.

  "What did I tell you, Fritz?" Calder said with a chuckle. "Mind like a steel trap. Only met you once and still remembers a handle like yours."

  "A household name in Austria," Furlwangler growled, pretending to frown.

  The men were ... joking ... always a surprise to Z to find professional men behaving like real people. No reason, he supposed, that intellectuals should be serious all the time. It was just that he expected people who knew weighty things, to be "weighed" down by them.

  Like Z, the others were in their shirt sleeves, Dr. Calder wearing a white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, Professor Furlwangler, a brown shirt and green vest, the other man wearing what looked like a checkered golf shirt, red suspenders over the shoulders. Another thing Z noticed, was that Z was the only one wearing a tie.

  The men were about finished with their dinner, the table comfortably littered with food-crusted dishes, plates and salad bowls, wadded-up, dark green cloth napkins, and dirty silverware.

  "How about joining us for dessert?" Calder asked.

  "No," Z said. Z wasn't hungry. Was never hungry in the company of his betters.

  "Me, either," the historian rumbled, rolling his wrist to look at his watch, "though they make an apple cobbler to die for. I've got to be shoving off if I'm going to make my two o'clock meeting." Z had only seen Dr. Furlwangler once before. Remembered that the tall, deep-voiced prof was rushing off that time, too.

  "Plenty of time," said the third man, the man introduced as Professor Carloss. "But I'm going to pass, too. Middle-age spread isn't the joke it used to be when I was young." A man in his late thirties, he wasn't that old, Z thought. For a college professor.

  "I'm the nervous type," was Furlwangler's gravelly response. "I've always got to be ridiculously early to feel comfortable."

  "Right," Calder agreed, using a pudgy hand to brush back the shock of limp blond hair wisping his forehead. When he nodded, light flashed from the flat, highly polished lenses of his over-sized horn rim glasses, the thick glass magnifying Calder's blue eyes.

  The doctor wanting to leave, Z slipped out, standing awkwardly in the constricted passageway, Professor Furlwangler sliding out, unfolding his long legs to tower over Z.

  Bending down, sorting through the checks on the end of the table, picking up his own, the gangly professor turned to Z. Blinking his large brown eyes, the doctor took Z's hand with a surprisingly strong grip, like the last time they'd shaken.

  "Nice to see you," the prof said politely, releasing Z's hand after a quick pump.

  Z nodded back.

  A wave to them all, and the tall man was striding off down the aisle, headed for the check-out counter in front.

  Z sat down again.

  "You don't mind if we have a little shop talk, first?" Calder asked Z, indicating the remaining prof. "Before we have our talk?"

  "No."

  "It's just that I never get to see Jeff anymore, now that he's switched to an afternoon schedule."

  With that, Z caught Dr. Carloss giving Calder a quick look that asked, do I talk in front of this stranger?

  "In confidence, of course," Calder said, grinning over at Z.

  "Sure," Z promised.

  "Mr. Zapolska had been on campus a number of times. He was instrumental in solving the case where the janitor was murdered last year."

  "Really?" The single word sounded like new respect from the political scientist -- whatever a political scientist was. Something to do with politics, Z guessed. "Zapolska? Interesting name. Sounds eastern European."

  "Polish. Just call me Z."

  Carloss nodded.

  "Sometimes, I think I ought to get a real job, a man's job like Z, here," Calder said sadly, the plump professor picking up his spoon and stirring what was left of his tea, absentmindedly. "Not much adventure in lecturing on psychology." He turned to Professor Carloss. "I'd never broken into a building before I met Z."
/>
  "Broken into a ..!?"

  "Not really," Calder said quickly. "Just entered Bateman Hall after-hours. In the dead of night, actually, when someone left the front door open. I was helping Z to investigate the 'ghost light.'"

  "Ghost light ...?"

  "I'll have to tell you about it sometime. For now, take my word for it that the life of a P.I. is considerably more adventurous than ours."

  There was a moment of silence.

  "On that other matter," Professor Carloss said, picking up the conversation where it had apparently broken off at Z's arrival, "What I've got is a rumor, and you know what rumor is worth."

  "Right."

  "I think it's common knowledge that something -- someone -- is blocking your promotion to full professor."

  "So it seems," Calder said, sadly.

  "What happens in the Council of Deans is secret, of course, meaning only that no one can guarantee the leaks are accurate." Calder nodded, busying himself by poking his tea spoon into the crushed ice that remained in his nearly empty glass, his eyes down as if afraid that looking at Carloss would stop his colleague from talking. "But the latest rumor, as I've said, is that, while you're well-respected, you've made an enemy who's stopping your promotion."

  "Ashlock. I know, I've heard the same rumor."

  "Then there's nothing new I can add." Professor Carloss took a deep, slow drink of coffee, tipping his head back to drain the cup.

  "What puzzles me," the psychologist said with a shrug, "is trying to figure out what I've done to draw the dean's fire. I've never even been on a committee with him. Barely know the man." Suddenly, Calder looked up, directly across the table where Z was huddled down, Z trying not to listen by attempting to focus on a conversation from the table across the aisle. Lawyers, he thought. Discussing a case. "Sorry to be taking up your time with this, Z. Just a personal problem." Calder brightened. "On the other hand, your being a detective, this may be more in your line than mine. In fact, now that I think of it, you know the dean in question. Cecil Ashlock. Vice Chancellor of Incremental Augmentation Services."

  Professor Carloss snorted. "Academia is fast catching up with the government in the obfuscation of the language. Administrative happiness is maximized when no one has the slightest idea of what anyone else is saying."

  "Immersing yourself in governmental studies is making you cynical, Jeff," Calder said, smiling. "It's just that titles impress some people -- the flashier the better.

  The conversation derailed, Calder put it back on track. "You've met the dean in question." He was addressing Z again. "Dean Ashlock. He's the one I sent you to. The one who hired you for that little matter earlier in the summer."

  "Right," Z said. Z remembered Ashlock. Remembered that Ashlock was interested in hiring Z because Ashlock thought Z would perform an illegal act for the dean. Ashlock was a crook, and Z had treated him as such. Truth be told, Z had found a way to frustrate Ashlock's ambition as thoroughly as Z had stopped Scherer's political advance in the Betterton case.

  "Dean Ashlock, if rumor is correct, is blocking my promotion. All by himself. At this college -- for reasons that go back to the dark ages when the school was founded by old Bateman -- all the deans must vote in favor of faculty promotion. Apparently, Ashlock is blackballing me. Why the man would hold a grudge against me, I can't figure. Any ideas?"

  Of course Z had ideas. Ashlock was mad at Calder for recommending Z, Z having royally fouled Ashlock up.

  "No," Z said.

  Z could feel himself getting upset again. (Without proper sleep, everything seemed to irritate him.) Z liked Calder. Didn't want to see a fine man like that mistreated by a prick like Ashlock.

  "Well, that's it for me," Professor Carloss said after a pause. "I know you two want to talk. And I've got some housecleaning to do for the new semester."

  Carloss's exit line delivered, Calder slid out to give the political science professor access to the aisle.

  Scooting down the seat, standing, Dr. Carloss picked up his check. As Calder sat down again, Carloss turned. "Nice to meet you ... Z." The expected cliche spoken, he looked thoughtful. "Now that I think about it, I'm sure I have heard of you before. Probably from that time you were on campus. Helping the police."

  Z nodded.

  With a half salute to Calder, pausing before edging past a waitress with water glasses on a tray, Carloss sauntered off toward the front screen.

  Leaving Z and Calder alone.

  As alone as you could be in a crowded restaurant. Probably, Z thought, more alone -- everyone else engaged in dinner conversation -- than he and Professor Calder would have been in the depths of a Siberian forest.

  Unfortunately, now that Z had Calder to himself, Z didn't know how to start.

  "I've missed talking to you," Calder said into the painful silence, brushing back his lank hair like he did periodically; a reflex that did no good, his fine hair immediately clouding his broad forehead.

  "Oh?"

  "And wondering if you'd thought some more about taking a college course."

  "Some."

  "You should. If only to prove to yourself you can."

  "Maybe," Z said.

  Rather than consider what Professor Calder was saying, Z was trying to think how to start.

  "About why I wanted to talk to you ...."

  "Go on."

  "I wanted to ask .... In the first place, when I talk to you, is what I say held ... in secret?"

  "Sure."

  "Like a ... priest?"

  "You mean, if you were to become my client, would I keep what you said confidential?"

  "Yes."

  "The answer is, I would. I'm not sure of the legal implications. I suspect that a psychologist, particularly in criminal matters, wouldn't have quite the same standing as a priest. But in my case, my clients can tell me anything without fear of my revealing it. I don't take notes, so there's nothing to indicate what I know and what I don't. If push came to shove, I would simply be unable to remember anything incriminating about a client's confidences."

  Calder grinned. Wide enough for Z to believe him.

  "To become a ... client ... I can pay ... something."

  "Ridiculous," Calder scoffed. "After what you've done for me, and practically for nothing ...." Calder raised his hands, palm up.

  "OK," Z said. "What I want to ask about is ... dreams."

  "Dreams? What about them?"

  "Been having nightmares."

  "Perhaps a bit of beef?" Calder smiled.

  "What?"

  "You remember Dickens' Christmas Carol? Scrooge thought the ghost he was seeing might have been 'an undigested bit of beef.'"

  "Oh."

  "But, you're ... serious," Calder said, sobering. "You're having trouble sleeping. Because of dreams."

  "Right."

  "Most people don't remember their dreams. Or, on waking, quickly forget them."

  "I wish ... I did. Forget them."

  "Give me an example."

  "Of ...?"

  "A dream."

  "Oh." Should Z tell the psychologist about last night's nightmare? ...... Might as well. It couldn't get any worst for the telling. "I was ... strapped down," he began slowly. "To a bed. Wide bands across my chest. My wrists at my sides. In iron clamps. No matter what I did, I couldn't move. I wanted to scream, but nothing would come out. There was a bright light in my eyes, so that I couldn't see past it. But there were others in the room. Doctors, I think. About to operate on me." Across the table, Calder nodded encouragement. "I was hot and growing hotter, until I thought I would melt. Then, the doctors were beside me. They were ...." It was too weird. No way he could tell Dr. Calder that.

  "Go on," the psychologist said, when Z hesitated. "I've heard it all. Believe me. Nothing shocks a psychologist. I assure you, I've got a strong stomach."

  Seeing the speed at which Dr. Calder ate, Z could believe it.

  "They had ... worms ... and spiders." Z shuddered at the recollection. Was glad to be surrou
nded by real people, rather than dream people. "They pulled my mouth open. Clamped it so I couldn't close it. Coming closer, closer, they began to drop worms in my mouth. I could feel them squirm. In my mouth. Crawl down my throat. I was gagging, croaking. Then, they put spiders up my nose. Crawling spiders. Crawling up. I couldn't breathe ...." Again, Z shuddered.

  "And ...?" Calder seemed calm enough. It hadn't been his dream, after all.

  "And ... nothing. That's when I woke up."

  Z was sweating. Exhausted from the telling. "What I want to ask is, what's causing dreams like these?" Z's life going to pot anyway, if Calder couldn't help him, Z took some comfort in knowing that, as a last resort, there was one way to keep from dreaming. Making Calder Z's next-to-the-last option.

  "Freud would have said you were trying to work out a solution to hidden difficulties in your dreams." Calder was sitting back now. Relaxed. On familiar ground. "He's famous for saying that dreams are the 'royal road' to the unconscious mind." Calder grinned, then glanced at the high, dimly lighted, hunter green ceiling for inspiration. "Freud believed that dreams were coded messages of ourselves to ourselves. Specifically, Freud thought that the conflicts of childhood were of particular importance." Calder waved one hand, airily. "Few psychologists think that way anymore."

  "How do you ... get rid of bad dreams?"

  "That depends. Going back to Freud again, he believed that dreams were quite specific. That certain symbolism, for instance, always stood for the same thing. For instance, if you dreamed of snakes, you were thinking of sex. Specifically, of your penis. If you dreamed of entering a house -- any building -- the enclosure symbolizes the vagina. But then, again, Freud thought that much of what we think has a sexual basis." Calder shook his head, then shrugged. "You can imagine how that kind of talk went over at the turn of the century." He cleared his throat.

  "I don't agree that sex plays such a big part in our unconscious life -- and neither does anyone else anymore. At the same time, I don't want to say that you can't learn something from your dreams. While dreams are illusory or hallucinatory experiences, they do seem to be the product of our concerns, wishes, interests, fears."

  "How do you ... get rid of them?" Nothing Calder had said had helped, so far.