by Dean James
He thanked me, then explained that I would have to come to the campus police office, if I was willing, to sign my statement and have my fingerprints taken for purpose of elimination. I assured him I would be delighted to cooperate. With that, he dismissed me.
The air in the hallway was noticeably cooler, and I felt my head ease a little. I went to the bathroom and wiped my face with some cold, wet paper towels. Peering nearsightedly into the mirror, I assessed my features from the point of view of a homicide cop considering a suspect. After deciding that I could do a better job with my glasses on, I took another look. Average face, no real distinguishing characteristics; thick, short, dark blond hair; matching beard; brown horn-rimmed glasses, slightly oversized, through which gleamed sea-blue eyes. I felt I was entitled to one poetic touch in what was otherwise a catalog of sadly ordinary attributes.
Whether or not I looked like a homicide suspect was another question. As I well knew from the hundreds of murder mysteries I had read, the person who discovered the body was often high on the list of suspects. But was real life—or real crime—anything like a book by one of my favorite mystery authors?
The men’s bathroom in the history department, I decided, was not the place to contemplate such philosophical matters—although some madcap persisted in writing graffiti in Russian on the walls of the stalls.
Out in the hallway, I almost knocked down Elspeth Farrar, the professor whose lecture I had attended the previous night. The poor woman tottered as if she was about to fall, and I reached out to steady her.
Dr. Farrar brushed my apologies aside, along with my hand, insisting that she was okay. Then, peering up at me, she asked, “Whatever is going on down the hall, Andy? I do believe I saw someone in a police uniform milling about.”
I was surprised she asked, because usually she ignored what went on around her. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be observant when she wanted, but most of the time her head was stuck in the nineteenth century.
“Well,” I said, not wanting to be the bearer of ill tidings yet again, “I’m afraid something pretty bad happened here last night.” I hesitated for a moment. “Somebody killed Charlie Harper in the grad lounge.”
Dr. Farrar responded with nothing I had expected to hear. “I must say, it’s about time someone put that vermin in its place.”
Then she turned and walked away.
Chapter Six
What an epitaph for Charlie! “Vermin” was probably as close as Dr. Farrar would come to a four-letter word in conversation. Much of the time she talked like a character in a Victorian novel, and I wasn’t sure her vocabulary included many words outside a Victorian dictionary, despite her bizarre notions about Queen Victoria’s secret writings. Charlie hadn’t always been discreet when expressing his opinions, particularly about what he viewed as professorial incompetence. I was sure word had gotten back to Dr. Farrar, somehow. My money was on Azalea Westover.
Home, I decided, was the place I most wanted to be. I had plenty of work waiting for me, not counting the two books sequestered in the grad lounge, and if I hung around, people would pester me for information. The grapevines on campus were as efficient as those at any university, and with Azalea as the Head Grape, it wouldn’t be long before the whole campus had the story. I could catch up with Maggie later and talk more about the situation.
Downstairs, I flashed a smile at Mary Catlin, who, in lieu of an electronic surveillance system, checked backpacks and purses for purloined library materials. She waved me through with a friendly smile, the same way she did when I had an armload of books she didn’t take time to examine. Such faith she had in me and my innocuously innocent face; it paid to know people in the right places.
During the short drive home, I unwillingly thought about Rob. Though it pained me to admit it, I was worried about how he would react to the news. As far as I knew, Rob was Charlie’s only real friend and the one who would feel the loss most deeply. Charlie was just too hard to get to know, too prickly to allow anyone to get close to him. I was angry over the unfairness of his death, and regretful for the denial of promise yet to be fulfilled, but I would not grieve for him.
I didn’t want to break the news to Rob; I quailed at the thought of confrontation with Lieutenant Herrera after he found out what I had done. But since I had known Rob practically all my life, I felt I should do something for him in this instance, even though I still harbored feelings of resentment toward him for actions and omissions in the past. The tragedy of Charlie’s murder made me realize that some of my own perceived grievances were not so compelling after all.
When I pulled into the driveway on my side of the duplex, I saw Rob’s car on his side. What am I going to do? I wondered as I got out of the car. Do I tell him or don't I?
Just then another car pulled up in front of the house, resolving my dilemma. Lieutenant Herrera had come to question Rob. That seemed rather fast. I would have thought they’d spend more time on campus, getting the lay of the land first.
My stomach again performing gymnastic maneuvers worthy of Houston’s own Mary Lou Retton, I unlocked my front door and nodded at Herrera and his companion. As I closed the door behind me, the lieutenant was waiting for a response to his knock.
I flashed back on what I had seen in the grad lounge that morning. My head started throbbing. I headed for the refrigerator to get a Diet Coke and some aspirin, then I returned the living room and settled in my favorite chair.
Sipping the Coke helped quiet my stomach but did nothing for my head. The aspirin needed time to work. The mid-morning sunlight streaming through the front window made the whole room feel warm and humid. I wanted to get up and turn the air-conditioner down a few degrees, but the electric bill would be high enough without that. I sat still and tried to cool off, while my mind hopped around like a Chihuahua on speed.
I worried about Rob and his reaction to the news. I also wondered what the police would think about his relationship to Charlie. I didn’t know for sure, but I thought Charlie was gay. I was open with him about my sexuality, but he had never said anything to me about it. The fact that he hadn’t used it as an opportunity to deride me made me think I was right. Would Herrera draw conclusions about Rob and Charlie because they shared an apartment and lived in Montrose? He might even think Rob killed Charlie for some reason. If he thought they were lovers, that is. Rob probably wouldn’t waste any time letting Herrera know how hetero he was. At least, that’s what I would have thought before seeing him in the gay bookstore. Now I wasn’t so sure.
The phone rang then, and I welcomed the distraction to my paranoia. “Hello,” I said, a little wary.
“Hi, Andy. It’s Dan.”
“Hi, Dan. What’s up?” This was the first time he’d ever called me. What on earth could he want?
“I should be asking you that.” He laughed nervously. “I just heard about what happened this morning, and I thought I’d check on you.”
“Well, it wasn’t an experience I’d necessarily like to repeat,” I said, “but I guess I’m all right now.” But I’m a little nonplussed, I added silently, because I never figured you, Dan, for the kind of guy who goes in for ghoulish details. I mean, you don’t even read mysteries!
Living in Texas for several years had taken some of the Boston twang off Dan’s voice, but not all of it, especially in times of stress. That was evident now. “I’m glad to hear you’re okay, because finding something like that would be rather disturbing, I should think.”
I took a sip of Coke before replying. “It was disturbing, but I think Charlie was more disturbed than I.” I didn’t mean to sound waspish, but I couldn’t quite figure out what he wanted to know. To tell the truth, Dan was a bit on the pushy side. Though friendly, he was always pretty determined to get what he wanted.
“I should be feeling more regretful, for Charlie’s sake,” he said hurriedly, alert to the tone of my voice. “But, geez, the guy could be such a prick. If you’d been around him longer, you d know what I mean. Still,”
he went on, more reflectively, “that’s no reason for bashing him on the head. If it were, half the faculty would be dead by now.”
“I can’t argue with that.” I tried to keep the distaste from my voice. “People kill for the damnedest reasons sometimes, and I’m sure the police can sort this one out.” I hope, I added to myself.
“You’re right,” Dan said. “Guess I’d better let you go. I’ve got to get back to work. I have some last-minute details to tie up before I hand in my dissertation to the committee.”
He sounded reluctant, as if he’d like to pump me for further details, but I didn’t offer him any encouragement to linger on the line. I wished him good luck with his dissertation. I hadn’t even taken my hand off the receiver before the phone rang again.
“Hello,” I said, more warily than before. As soon as I heard the caller’s voice, I knew I should have just let it ring.
“Heavens, Andy, why’d you bash his head in?”
I groaned; I should’ve unplugged the thing right then.
“Well, Bella,” I replied, trying to keep my rapidly fraying temper under control, “I suppose I could ask you the same thing.”
Bella Gordon—history graduate student, former fashion model, and daughter of the Honorable Frank Gordon, mayor of Houston—snorted. “Charlie was a creep most of the time, but I didn’t have any reason to do it.”
“Right,” I replied, loading as much sarcasm into my voice as I could, “so you got your tame commando to do it for you.”
It never paid to be subtle with Bella. The woman had the tact of a cactus. There wasn’t much of the dumb blonde about her, though, except perhaps her penchant for seemingly endless conversations about any subject under the sun. She had never met a silence she couldn’t fill. Despite her semi-constant yammering about inconsequential things, she had what it took to be a good historian. She snorted at me again. “Bruce wouldn’t dirty his hands like that.”
Bruce Tindall, Bella’s “tame commando”—that was Charlie’s epithet, by the way—had been hired by Bella’s father to protect the light (or scourge, depending on your point of view) of his life. The Honorable Frank had run a successful election campaign on his promise to curtail drug trafficking in Houston, and despite the spectacular lack of success of his program, he insisted that his nearest and dearest needed twenty-four-hour protection from the drug lords he supposedly had offended. “Killer Bruce”—yet another of Charlie’s epithets—was the man on the job.
Bruce seemed to be a nice guy, considering that he had to put up with Bella all the time. He was about my height and had similar coloring, but there the resemblance ended. A thirty-five-year-old ex-Marine, he was solid muscle and looked like the star of a martial arts movie. Maggie had more than once told me how gorgeous he was, and I had to concede that I wouldn’t mind trading bodies—but not jobs—with him. I also, as the saying goes, wouldn’t kick him out of bed, though he wasn’t my type.
“What do you want, Bella?” I sighed loudly into the receiver. Maybe she’d take a hint. I should have known better. Nothing ever seemed to faze the woman.
“Details, of course, you idiot,” she replied. I could hear the affection in her tone. “I wanted to make sure you were all right, Andy,” she continued, her voice all honeyed concern.
“Well, I’m fine,” I said. Then I sighed again; I might as well give in, or she’d come over and sit on me till I told her what she wanted to know. If, somehow, Lieutenant Herrera found out, then I’d let him deal with Bella.
I rapidly sketched the pertinent information, and at the end she seemed satisfied. She expressed concern again when I told her about being pushed by the mysterious stranger in the grad lounge. Finally, after promising to call her the minute—ten years from now, maybe—I knew more, I hung up and switched on the answering machine. For once it might prove useful; they did tend to work better when you actually turned them on.
I went to the front window and peeked out. Herrera’s car, still in the street, meant I wouldn’t find out anything more for a while. I refused to think about what another talk with him might entail. Instead, I went to the kitchen and began cleaning up a couple days’ worth of dirty dishes. I couldn’t concentrate on reading now, despite my earlier plans.
My thoughts were jumbled as I cleaned. Now that the horror of my morning discovery had retreated somewhat, I was becoming intrigued by the puzzle of it. Who could have hated Charlie enough to kill him? Maybe treating the whole thing as a game would keep those memories of the dead body at bay. I could only sit on the sidelines and speculate, though. I didn’t think Lieutenant Herrera would welcome any attempts on my part to play Jessica Fletcher.
Nearly an hour later, after I had dropped into my chair for a brief respite from cleaning, the doorbell rang. Again I peeked out the window; Herrera’s car was gone. I opened the door to admit Rob.
He looked awful. He was pale, and his eyes were suspiciously red. He walked into my living room and collapsed onto the couch.
“Come in,” I said sarcastically and pushed the door shut. This was the first time Rob had ever come next door. In the past, I had taken such great pains to let him know how unwelcome he’d be, I was surprised to see him, even now. I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Looks like it was pretty bad with the police,” I said alter a moment, using my great gift for stating the obvious.
He gave me a funny look. “You don’t know the half of it.”
He rubbed a hand across his face, then suddenly started laughing. Alarmed, I made a move toward him, thinking he might be going into hysterics, but he just waved at me to stay where I was.
Rob inhaled deeply before he spoke again. “Looks like I’m gonna be number one on the Suspect Hit Parade.”
“Why?” I asked, genuinely surprised. “What possible motive could you have for murdering Charlie?”
The words sounded harsh, even to me, but Rob barely winced. He stared at me, and I found it impossible to tear my eyes away from him.
“Apparently someone told the police that Charlie was my lover.”
I laughed scornfully. “And they believed it? You—Mr. Straight Arrow—and Charlie? You gotta be kidding!”
Rob sat there, frozen.
“Now, if someone told me you had beat him up because he was gay, that I might believe. But his lover, no way.” I watched his face. “Is that it, then? Did you bash his head in because he tried to seduce you?”
Rob flushed. “Okay, I deserved that, I guess. I owe you that much.” His face twisted in pain. “Andy, please sit down, and let me talk to you. This is important, and you’ve got to let me explain.”
“Where the hell do you get off!” I shouted. “I don’t have to let you do anything, after what you did to me.” I could feel my fists clenching. I wanted to hit him, to strike out physically, the way he once had.
The doorbell rang.
Chapter Seven
I took a deep breath and backed away from Rob. He watched, frustrated in his need to unburden himself to me. The doorbell rang again. I continued to the door, ready to tell whoever it was to go away.
Maggie had her hand at the buzzer when I pulled the door open. “Hi, Andy. I hope you don’t mind my coming over like this,” she said as she walked inside, not having noticed my glower, “but the minute I finished my class, I thought I’d check on you.” She paused when she saw Rob, obviously upset, sitting on the couch. “My goodness, Rob, are you okay?” She looked back at me, realizing that I, too, was upset. “What’s going on?”
I wanted to throw up. I didn’t want to face dragging out my dirty laundry, even in front of someone as sympathetic and understanding as Maggie. Not here, not now. But I seemed to have no choice.
I collapsed into my chair, watching both of them. “Rob told me, just now,” I said, my voice flat, “that the police may suspect him because he was supposed to be Charlie’s lover. I said it was more likely that he bashed him on the head because Charlie tried to seduce him.” I snorted derisively. “Like anybody woul
d really think Rob’s gay, despite the fact that he visits gay bookstores.”
His head snapped up at that, and he started to speak, but Maggie beat him to the punch. “And why are you so surprised, Andy? You didn’t realize Rob is gay?” She laughed. “Didn’t your gaydar go ping?”
In other circumstances, involving someone else, Maggie’s honest incredulity and my own blindness might have been funny.
I watched Rob’s face and said, “It did once, about ten years ago. On that occasion, I was informed in no uncertain terms that I was wrong. And, moreover, that I was disgusting and perverted and filthy and that I should stay the hell away from him. Plus, I got a few bruises as a souvenir.”
“Geez!” Maggie whispered, and she sank down onto the floor, right where she had been standing, and looked at us.
Rob faced me. “I doubt there’s anything I could ever do,” he said, his eyes compelling me to listen, “to make you understand how profoundly sorry I am for what I did to you. I have no excuse. All I can say is that I reacted out of ignorance and fear. The blame is mine. You dared me to be honest about how I really felt, who I really was, and I couldn’t face it. I freaked out on you.”
For an uncomfortable moment, I saw not my living room of the present, but the old hay barn on my father’s farm. An afternoon ten years earlier, when I was sixteen and Rob, seventeen. Wrestling in the hay after a long day’s work, playing the way we had since we were toddlers. Suddenly, the touch of flesh on flesh held a different meaning, no longer playful, but charged with a new and breathtaking electricity. A long, lingering kiss, shared in surprised understanding. Then, horribly, the naked fear and panic in his eyes. Finally, the hateful, corrosive words and the physical blows.
“So you’ve finally come out of the closet?” I said venomously, snapping into the present. “And now that’s supposed to make everything hunky-dory? You’re queer, at long last, and I’m supposed to be happy about that?” The nausea had passed, and I felt possessed by a cold, clear rage.
