FM for Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  Just forget the whole thing, she told herself. Let life get back to normal. She probably wouldn’t hear any more about it except on the news. Just as well. She had more than enough to do with her job. She had classes to teach, papers to grade, research projects to complete, and articles to publish.

  “The last thing I need is another murder,” she said out loud as she rolled up her paper lunch bag and scored two points as she landed it squarely in the middle of her waste basket on the other side of her desk.

  “Another murder?” called out a friendly voice, as a woman’s head peeped around the door frame. Her neat white bob and stylish glasses framed a lively face, sparkling with good humor. “Don’t tell me you’re investigating again?” asked the woman as she rounded the door and entered the room. She remained standing in the doorway, one hand pressed against the frame.

  “Joan,” replied Pamela, as she raised her arm and motioned the woman into her office. “You heard me thinking out loud.”

  Joan Bentley strode into her office a few steps and stood with her hands on her hips.

  “I certainly hope you’re not thinking of getting involved in this disc jockey murder,” said the older woman, her eyes glaring at Pamela, her brows raised, suspiciously.

  “Of course not,” said Pamela, “that’s the furthest thing from my mind.” She leaned back on her blue and pink paisley couch and sipped from her thermos.

  “Bravo,” said Joan, with a curt nod, as she sat primly on the straight back chair by the door. Joan Bentley’s outfits always seemed to match her demeanor—today’s was a colorful suit, a subtle mixture of greens and yellows, with a trim white blouse and respectable low-heeled shoes. She placed her grade book and her pen on her lap.

  “Although…”

  “Although what?” asked Joan, leaning towards Pamela, her arms suddenly crossed firmly.

  “Although Rocky knew the victim.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do. He was a doctoral student in English—one of Trudi Muldoon’s advisees. Rocky’s office is across the hall from Trudi’s.”

  “So Rocky had spoken with this fellow who was shot?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. He just recognized the name when they reported it on the news. Then, yesterday, Trudi called and we went over to Silverton and sat with her while the police went through this Ballard guy’s office. She had to wait because the police wanted to question her more.”

  “My goodness, my dear,” said Joan sitting up straighter, “you just seem to run into crime wherever you go.” She made that “tsk-tsk” sound with her tongue.

  “You’re not kidding,” said Pamela, bending closer to her friend and whispering, “guess who’s the lead investigator on this case?”

  “Not your old friend?”

  “Yup,” said Pamela, nodding, “Detective Shoop. Maybe he’s Reardon’s only homicide detective for all I know.” She laughed and Joan joined in. As they were giggling together, another woman stomped into the room.

  “What’s so funny?” asked the tall, lanky young woman, her thick, curly, black hair flopping in her eyes as she looked from Joan to Pamela. “I obviously missed a great joke.”

  “Pamela’s embroiled in another murder mystery,” said Joan, in a secretive whisper to the newcomer.

  “Joan,” chided Pamela, “I am no such thing. Hi, Arliss. I assume you’ve heard about the disc jockey who was killed at KRDN?”

  “I heard. How does that concern you, Pam?” she asked as she rounded Pamela’s desk, pulled out the rolling chair, and plopped herself down and her feet up on the desk.

  “It doesn’t,” responded Pamela, sipping her tea. “Rocky knew him. He was a doctoral candidate in English.”

  “No kidding?” asked Arliss, leaning back as the rolling chair moved back and forth from the desk. “Hmm. Not good.” She crossed her arms and appeared to ponder the news.

  “Arliss?” questioned Joan.

  “What?”

  “You’re very quiet,” answered Joan. This was an understatement, thought Pamela, as Arliss MacGregor was usually the most outspoken and opinionated friend she had. Joan and Pamela spent a good portion of their time trying to calm Arliss down when she was in one of her frenzies—usually about the state of the Psychology Department’s animal lab, of which Arliss was director.

  “Trying to make a decision,” responded the young instructor, swaying back and forth on the desk chair, her feet planted firmly on the desk top. Pamela always was careful to clear her desk top of important papers before she moved to the couch to eat lunch because she knew Arliss liked to relax in this position and Pamela did not want Arliss’ feet to damage any of her research. Of course, Pamela could have lunched at her own desk, but she far preferred sitting on her couch, which she did most of the time—unless she was working on her computer.

  “All right,” said Pamela, setting down her thermos on her end table by her sofa, “what decision?”

  “What to do about Bob,” answered Arliss. Bob Goodman was the department’s animal psychology director and Arliss’s immediate supervisor. They worked together closely. Just how closely, Pamela discovered last year during her “investigation” of Charlotte Clark’s murder when she overhead Bob and Arliss in a romantic tete-a-tete under the central stairwell. The couple had been involved for quite some time but had kept their relationship secret until that point. Pamela had “outed” them. Ever since, Joan and Pamela had teased Arliss mercilessly about Bob, but Arliss remained discreet. The fact that today she was even mentioning the name of her paramour was a shock to both women.

  “What about Bob?” asked Joan. Both Joan and Pamela leaned towards Arliss, in eager anticipation.

  “He---he—asked me—he asked me,” said Arliss, flinging her feet back on the floor, and attempting to swallow.

  The other women waited for her to complete her sentence.

  “He asked me to….,” said Arliss, kicking her loafers back and forth on the linoleum under the desk and scrunching her brow.

  “For God’s sake,” said Joan, finally, “What?”

  “To marry him,” squeaked Arliss, deflated, staring at her shoes.

  “To marry him?” asked Pamela, “My God, Arliss, you sound as if he asked you to dig ditches with him.”

  “He asked you to marry him?” repeated Joan. “Like—get married, have a wedding, go on a honeymoon, marry him?” With each phrase from Joan’s mouth Arliss’ face fell noticeably and her shoulders drooped.

  “Is there any other kind?” she asked, with a look of complete dejection.

  “Okay,” said Pamela, nodding slowly, “I hear you, but I’m not understanding. I’m sensing that you think marrying Bob is not a good idea. Is that it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Arliss, still sitting with her body crumpled, staring at the ground.

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Joan. “You never discuss this—your relationship with Bob—with us. You always say you don’t want to talk about it. Does this mean, you want our advice, or what?”

  “I don’t know,” repeated Arliss.

  “Joan,” said Pamela, turning to her friend, “whether she wants our advice or not, I think we need to help her. I mean, look at her. Have you ever seen her like this?”

  “No,” said Joan, “she looks like one of her rats—a scared little rat.”

  “My rats are not scared!” piped up Arliss, now in fight mode as the subject turned to one on which she felt more at home.

  “So,” said Pamela, stretching out her left index finger and pressing it with her right index finger, “let me get this straight. Bob proposed to you and you said ‘I don’t know’?”

  “Sort of,” responded Arliss, swishing her feet back and forth under the desk.

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Joan, “stop dancing around over there, and concentrate.” Arliss looked at Joan with a start and quickly brought her feet together, her entire body straightening. “Now, how long have you and Bob been—dating?”

  “I don�
��t know,” Arliss started to reply, then added, “several years.”

  “Several years?” asked Pamela, “surely you know by now if you want to marry him or not. Do you love him?”

  “Of course, I love him,” said Arliss. “but, why should that matter? Lots of people who love each other don’t get married.”

  “True,” said Joan, nodding wisely, “but, I suspect Bob isn’t one of those. He always strikes me as very traditional.”

  “He is,” said Arliss, pouting.

  “So,” continued Joan, “you would prefer to live in sin indefinitely?”

  “Joan!” gasped Pamela, shocked at her older friend’s lack of delicacy with their younger colleague.

  “Is that so horrible?” Arliss peeked up and looked back and forth between her two friends.

  “It’s certainly fine with me,” answered Joan. Joan was probably the more “liberated” of the three of them, Pamela realized. She did not let being a widow stand in the way of her enjoyment of life.

  “It’s fine with me too,” said Pamela, “but we’re not the ones who matter, Arliss. Bob is the one who matters. He obviously wants to get married or else he wouldn’t have asked you.”

  “I know,” said Arliss, “he’s so…so….. He gave me this.” She scrounged around in the pocket of her loose trousers and brought out her fist, which she held out in front of the two women and then opened abruptly.

  “My God! It’s the Hope Diamond,” exclaimed Joan, as she admired the beautiful and very large stone on the delicate gold band. “You’re carrying it around in your pocket?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable wearing jewelry,” said Arliss. A watch is all I really need.

  “Believe me, Arliss,” said Pamela, “no one needs a diamond ring. But many of us enjoy getting them, just the same. I have one. Joan has one. Does that make either of us any less of a liberated woman in your eyes?”

  “No, of course not,” said Arliss, “I’m not opposed to rings or weddings or marriage in principle—just not for me.”

  “All right,” said Joan, “we can discuss this; we can, dear. But first, please, put that rock away somewhere safer than your pocket or put it on your finger.”

  “Okay,” said Arliss, reluctantly, placing the ring on her finger, “just until I decide what to do with it.” She put the ring on her right thumb and folded her other fingers over it.

  “Arliss,” said Pamela, “let me ask you this. Do you anticipate this living in sin relationship with Bob to continue indefinitely?”

  “I’d be happy if it did,” she replied.

  “Do you think that’s fair to Bob?” asked Pamela. “He obviously loves you and wants the two of you to be together permanently. If you reject him…”

  “I’m not rejecting him,” whined Arliss.

  “Maybe not,” added Joan, “but I’m sure it feels that way to him.”

  “What horrible catastrophe would occur if you married Bob?” asked Pamela.

  “I don’t know,” said Arliss. “But what good could come from it?”

  “Where are you living?” asked Pamela, glaring at Arliss.

  “You know where I live, Pam,” said Arliss, scowling, “you’ve been to my apartment enough times.”

  “You don’t live with Bob?” asked Joan, aghast.

  “No,” responded Arliss, “I have an apartment. You know that.”

  “And in your apartment you are not allowed to have pets,” said Pamela, ignoring Joan, “if I recall correctly.”

  “So?” replied Arliss defiantly.

  “Just a thought,” said Pamela, casually, “but if you and Bob were married, if you lived together, you might consider purchasing a house—maybe even a farmhouse—there are some nice ones on the outskirts of Reardon—where pets are not only allowed, they are encouraged—lots of pets.”

  “I’m thinking,” said Arliss, biting her lip and pushing her unruly hair out of her eyes again.

  “Just a possibility,” said Pamela.

  “Right, my dear,” chimed in Joan, “don’t throw the baby out with the bath water. Haven’t you always wanted some larger animals—not just a dog and some cats? I know you’ve discussed horses.”

  “Stop,” said Arliss. “This is cruel. I need to think.”

  “Thinking,” said Detective Shoop, appearing suddenly in the doorway, obviously having overheard the three women talking.

  “My, my!” exclaimed Pamela, “Detective Shoop! What brings you all the way over to my office. I thought you and your men would still be digging through clues at Silverton Hall or at the radio station.”

  “My dear, Dr. Barnes,” he said politely to the professor on the couch, as he gave her a sweeping bow, “we have completed our collection of evidence at the station, at Ballard’s office, and at his apartment, and are now hard at work going over the clues. I stopped by your office because I have a favor to ask.”

  “Do tell, Detective,” said Pamela, smiling, “and what favor could I possibly do for you?” She crossed her legs, swinging her top leg back and forth coyly.

  “Actually, Dr. Barnes,” continued the tall, gangly man, his overcoat swinging as he spoke, “it occurred to me yesterday when I saw you in Dr. Muldoon’s office that the two murders—that of this Ted Ballard and that of Charlotte Clark last year have certain similarities.”

  “Really, Detective?” said Pamela, blinking quizzically, “what similarities would those be?” She ceased the swinging leg and planted her feet on the ground.

  “Both murders were recorded,” responded Shoop. “Charlotte Clark’s murder, of course, was recorded accidentally and was only retrievable by your department, but Ted Ballard’s murder was heard by a live audience and was recorded automatically by the radio station where it occurred.”

  “That is an astounding observation, Detective,” answered Pamela. Joan and Arliss were listening and watching the charged interchange between their friend and the austere looking policeman. The more Pamela sparkled, the more distressed it seemed the detective appeared.

  “I just happen to have a copy of the recording of Ballard’s murder that was made at KRDN,” said Shoop as he removed a CD box from his inside pocket. “Possibly, you might enjoy analyzing it as you did the recording made of Charlotte Clark’s murder.”

  “Detective Shoop,” said Pamela, beaming, “are you asking me to help with your investigation?”

  “My dear, Dr. Barnes,” replied Shoop, giving her a curt bow, “I’m no fool. I will take all the help I can get—and as it appears unlikely that Ballard’s killer will be coming forth and confessing in the near future, if you are able to supply us with any clues regarding his identity from the sounds on this tape, I would be forever in your debt.”

  “My goodness, Detective,” said Pamela, “of course, I will be happy to listen to the recording. I can’t promise anything, but I will give it my best try.”

  “That’s all I ask, Dr. Barnes,” said the man, handing her the CD. “That’s all I ask.”

  Chapter 10

  Previous week--Wednesday, late, December 12

  Amy Shuster turned off her little portable television set on which she had been watching the local news in her small living room and shuffled into her even smaller bedroom to get ready for bed. She set her alarm clock for six a.m., knowing she was working the early shift the next day at the diner. Giving her cat Tinkerbell a quick shove off of her quilt, she pulled down the coverlet, removed her toasty robe and slippers, and scooted under the sheets. Tinkerbell howled in annoyance but marched off with her typical haughty attitude to her own bed in Amy’s small kitchen.

  “Not tonight, Tink,” said Amy to the departing feline. “I’m way too tired for your shenanigans.” It was true. She was exhausted. The diner had been packed, but she was glad to have kept busy because Daniel had not been there today. She’d heard some of the plant workers who were eating there talking about a broken piece of machinery that was slowing down production. She figured that was what was keeping him busy—that and his dying
father and trying to track down David. Oh, well, she thought, I can’t see him every day. Even so, she missed him, badly.

  She turned out the lamp on her nightstand and the little room was plunged into darkness, except for the light from some of the downtown businesses. Amy’s apartment was above a hardware store in Compton and some stores kept their signs lit—even at night. She had tried nightshades, curtains, Venetians blinds—but nothing kept out all the ambient light. Just adjust. Her mother had always said that’s what people did. If you couldn’t solve a problem—maybe it wasn’t that bad of a problem and you could learn to live with it. All in all, a little outside light coming through her window at night wasn’t really the worst of problems—and she had learned to adjust. She was very much like her mother—very practical. She wished her mother were alive now. She had a lot she wanted to discuss with the wise woman. Just how practical was she being? Amy wondered.

  Along with the outdoor lights came the noises—cars, a stray dog, people yelling at each other every so often—downtown sounds. Amy had learned to tune them out—just like the light. She had learned to focus on what mattered—and when she focused on something—there wasn’t much that could distract her. It was hard to clear her mind for sleep; she kept contemplating the concerns that faced her—Daniel, his father, Daniel’s determination to find David, their relationship. Daniel intended to solve each problem in a particular order—David first, then his father, and finally their relationship. Amy understood his reasoning but she wasn’t certain she agreed with his reasons.

  Tinkerbell jumped back on her bed. It was hopeless. “Tink, are you lonely too?” The big calico purred and snuggled against her body, then—bored—leaped down and headed out into the front room. Amy reached for the long gold chain around her neck and followed it down to the small bauble at the end. She sighed as she touched the delicate keepsake in the dark, running her finger around the small circle she now had grown to know so well. She was so used to how it felt but not very used to what it looked like as she touched it more often than she looked at it. It was almost as if, bringing it out to look at it was bad luck—so she kept it tucked away on the chain where she could feel it always with her.