Sounds of Murder (14 page)

She moved over to her couch where she could
relax. The couch was very soft and comfortable--as Detective Shoop
had discovered. The afternoon was waning, and as she looked out her
window, she could see the beautiful reds and yellows of autumn in
the south. She was still in her office, waiting for her office
hours to end so she could take the controversial disk to the
police.

As she poured herself another cup of Rocky's
home brewed tea from her thermos, Kent appeared at her door. Oh,
God! She’d forgotten the young man again. How unconscionable of
her, when it was Kent who’d discovered Charlotte's body. Good
grief, she thought, he’d undergone as much interrogation as she had
and was probably suffering as much emotional trauma. She should
have checked up on him to see how he was coping. It was reneging on
her responsibilities as his advisor and supervisor and here he was
at her door, probably upset.

"Kent," she said, rising and inviting him in.
"Please, have a seat." She indicated the chair, but the young man
remained standing.

"That's okay, Dr. Barnes," he said,
anxiously. "I just wanted to touch base with you." He looked down
in hesitation. "I just stopped by to let you know that I contacted
our research subjects for this week and rescheduled them all for
next week." He wrapped the cord from a set of headphones that hung
around his shoulders like a totem around his fingers. "You know, I
thought they might be upset about Dr. Clark's death and...also, I
wasn't absolutely sure when the police would be out of the
lab."

"That’s a good idea, Kent," said Pamela,
"Thank you. The police should be finished in the lab soon, if they
aren’t already.”

“I was just down there, Dr. B,” he reported
enthusiastically, “and they’re gone. The tape is down.”

“Great. So, when do we start collecting
again?"

"Monday," he replied, "We'll have to double
up, but it's not a problem ‘cause we have plenty of space in the
lab and there aren't any other studies scheduled in there for the
next two weeks. I checked."

"Great," she said, smiling. "I’m relieved
that you took it upon yourself and did that."

Suddenly, Angela meandered into the
doorway.

“Hey,” greeted Kent, “I bet you’re looking
for the sign-up sheet for Dr. Barnes’ experiment.”

“Uh, no,” responded Angela, shyly, “I was
looking for my…for Dr. Barnes.”

“She’s here; you’re in luck,” he quipped.

At that, Angela spotted her mother seated on
her blue and pink sofa and her mother spotted her.

“Sweetie! What are you doing here?” she
asked. “Kent, this is my daughter, Angela. She’s a freshman here at
Grace University. Angie, this is Kent Drummond, my top graduate
assistant.”

“Gee, Dr. B, I’m honored,” he beamed, “Hello,
Angie. Dr. B talks about you all the time, so I feel like I know
you already.”

“Mom,” cringed Angela, “I wish you wouldn’t
talk about me to your students.”

“Hey, Angie, “continued Kent, “Don’t worry.
She only says nice things. You sound like a great girl from what I
can tell.”

Angela beamed and blushed. Pamela felt like
an unwelcome intruder at this moment.

“Listen, honey,” Pamela began, “Did you want
a ride home? I can’t leave right this minute. Do you want to stick
around and wait for me?”

“I ...uh…” stammered Angela.

"I know, Dr. B," said Kent, cutting in,
obviously in a hurry to get going. "I’m free now that we’ve
cancelled our subjects for the day. I was heading out. I’ll be
happy to give you a ride home, Angie. If you don’t mind riding in
my old clunker." He grinned sheepishly, the purple highlights in
his prickly-looking hair gleaming.

“I guess. Is it okay, Mom?” asked Angela

“It’s fine with me, Kent, if you’re sure
you’re not too busy.”

“Not a problem! Let’s go, Angie!” With that,
and swinging the headphones back over his shoulder, he turned
abruptly and skated off on his sneaker-clad feet, Angela following
in his tracks.

Pamela watched her daughter go off with the
young man. Seeing the headphones draped around his shoulders,
Pamela suddenly pictured Charlotte, dead in the lab with a set of
similar headphones wrapped around her neck. She thought, could Kent
possibly be the killer? Oh, she was being ridiculous! She realized
that she often saw Kent in the building carrying headphone
units—just like the set that had strangled Charlotte. But, he
worked in the lab. He fixed defective equipment; he was probably
repairing that set of headphones that he was wearing around his
neck. But, Charlotte was strangled with a headphone set and
certainly Kent had access to those; he was also in the building the
night of the murder. Was it possible? Could Kent have killed
Charlotte? And here she’d sent her daughter off with him. Oh, for
heaven’s sake. This was truly ridiculous! Kent was in her class all
Tuesday night. If he had murdered Charlotte, he would have had to
leave her class, run to the lab, murder Charlotte, and then run
back to get her—all in the space of just a few minutes. He simply
wasn’t gone long enough to do all of that. And, besides, why? Why
would he kill Charlotte? He had no motive. She was letting her mind
run crazy.

Pamela breathed deeply. Back to reality, she
told herself. Kent was a wonderful assistant; she was lucky. As she
considered her recent conversation with the young man, she realized
suddenly that the lab was now totally empty. No other faculty
members were collecting data there as Kent had informed her, the
police were done with their work, and subjects for Pamela’s study
wouldn’t be in there until next week. The lab was locked for
now--with all its secrets of Charlotte's demise. Probably all for
the best, she thought. Allow some time to pass and maybe people
won't be uncomfortable about having to go in there. Of course,
Mitchell had warned the faculty about working alone in the lab—but
he said at night, and it was the middle of the afternoon.

Glancing at her watch, she realized that it
was past her office hours. She was free to leave. She gathered her
belongings together and headed out. Willard's door was closed but
Joan, she noticed, was sitting at her desk, typing, and sipping a
cup of tea, the stringed label from her tea bag hanging over the
edge of her porcelain cup. Pamela stopped at her door.

"Oh, my," said Joan, looking up, smiling, the
light reflecting on her rimless reading glasses, "I was so
engrossed, I didn't see you standing there." Pamela came into her
office and perched on the edge of Joan's upholstered arm chair. She
and Joan must look as if they were vying for "most comfy office"
honors. Joan’s husband had died over five years ago and Joan’s two
sons had been on their own for years—in distant states, much to
Joan’s everlasting dismay. There were photographs of several
grandchildren festooning Joan’s desk.

"So," Pamela said to her friend, "back at
work?"

"Not that I ever stopped," chuckled Joan, her
buoyant good humor rippling out. She sipped her tea.

"We’re allowed some time to mourn for
Charlotte," noted Pamela, not totally facetiously, giving Joan a
biting glance.

"Have a cookie," Joan said, offering Pamela a
delicate frosted biscuit from a tray of goodies.

"Joan," chided Pamela, "you know I’m trying
to diet." She tapped her tummy.

"You’re always trying to diet," responded
Joan, "and it's totally unnecessary. Come now, one little cookie.
See how small they are."

"I really shouldn't," Pamela hesitated, "I
need to get home."

"Now, if you’re worried about your diet,"
said Joan broadly, "that's just the place not to go. You know that
military man of yours will feed you some of his Army chow the
minute you walk in the door." Joan knew that Rocky never prepared
“chow.” In fact, she knew that Rocky would be horrified at her use
of that term. He was a gourmet cook—and no one better forget it.
Pamela selected a little pink wafer.

"Right," answered Pamela, “I swear he’s
determined to make me a blimp.”

"Are we still on for our girls' night out on
Friday?" Joan asked, looking down to double check something she’d
written on her computer. All Pamela could see was the top of her
well-coiffed white hair.

"As far as I know," said Pamela, "I'll double
check with Arliss. Yum." She popped the remaining piece of cookie
into her mouth.

"I hope," said Joan, "that you were joking
about taking time out to mourn for Charlotte. I believe the only
mourning we should do is a good toast to her soul at
Who-Who's
. And, of course, a eulogy or two at her memorial
on Sunday."

"Joan," said Pamela, scowling. "You sound as
if you’re happy she’s dead."

"Heavens' no," laughed Joan, "Charlotte may
have driven most of the department crazy, but she didn't bother me
at all. I understood her."

"You did?" asked Pamela, "How so?" She
reached for another cookie.

"Well," whispered Joan, inclining her head
towards Pamela, "It may have appeared at times that Charlotte was
running roughshod over Mitchell--and she certainly was trying
to--but that doesn't necessarily mean that she was successful.
Although, I’ll admit I did cheer some of her efforts in skewering
our chief--or any of our male faculty members--if truth be told."
Joan looked back at her monitor, leaving Pamela to decipher her
cryptic words.

"What are you talking about Joan?"

"Pamela," continued Joan, "there
were--are--things going on in this department of which you’re
probably not aware."

"Such as?"

"Dear, dear," whispered Joan, "I'm really not
at liberty to discuss them, but suffice it to say, there is small
battle of the sexes in progress."

"What do you mean 'battle of the sexes'?"

"My understanding is that it centers on this
tenure thing," said Joan. "Rumor has it that the Dean has
restricted our department to two--not three candidates."

"Yes," nodded Pamela. "I've heard as much.
So, what is it? Mitchell and Charlotte were feuding about which
two?"

"Among other things," said Joan,
mysteriously. “He wants me to take over as Tenure Committee Chair.”
She rolled her eyes.

"Congratulations! Lucky you," said
Pamela.

"Thank you," replied Joan, biting her lip, "I
just hope I don’t end up the same as Charlotte did." Pamela frowned
at her.

"The Tenure Committee--do you think that's
why she was murdered?" questioned Pamela.

“She certainly was consumed by it. At least
making sure Laura got tenure. If the Dean truly was forcing her to
restrict our department to two candidates, that would put Charlotte
in a very awkward position,” reasoned Joan.

“I always assumed that Charlotte thought
highly of Laura. Surely she would fight for her to get tenure.”

“Maybe,” said Joan, “but, did you hear
Charlotte and Laura going at it earlier this week?”

"No," said Pamela, moving closer to her
friend.

"It was awful!” explained Joan. “I’ve heard
Charlotte rage like that before, but usually to a student. Laura is
so sweet.”

“Why would she do that?” questioned
Pamela.

“Charlotte has invested so much time and
effort into making Laura--as Charlotte saw it--what Laura is today.
Now, Laura is spending all her time, or what Charlotte evidently
saw as 'all her time,’” and here Joan looked around before she
leaned close to Pamela and whispered, “trying to get pregnant
rather than trying to get published."

"And trying to get published is ever so much
more important?" concluded Pamela, facetiously.

"In Charlotte's eyes," stated Joan. "Why
wouldn't it be? That's all Charlotte lived for? Her career. She had
no husband, no family. Laura was like a daughter to her."

"It doesn’t sound like she treated her like a
daughter," said Pamela.

"I agree," nodded Joan. "If Laura were my
daughter I’d be giving her all the moral support she needed for
this baby enterprise. My goodness, she shouldn’t need much
encouragement. With that sexy hunk Vittorio for a husband, I’d
think getting pregnant would be relatively easy."

"But, I’ve been hearing that Laura was using
in vitro
to get pregnant,” noted Pamela. In fact, she’d
heard it from Laura herself.

"Yes, I’ve heard that," answered Joan. "Poor
dear. Rumor has it that she and Vittorio have been trying this
in vitro
thing for several rounds now. So far, no success.
Laura is a darling, and she does top-notch research. She didn’t
deserve a dressing down from Charlotte."

"I know," responded Pamela. "I just don't get
it."

"It must have been because of the upcoming
tenure meeting," added Joan. "Something tells me that Charlotte, as
Chair, knew something that we committee members don’t. Probably
this business with the cut-back in the number of candidates the
Dean is willing to accept. Charlotte may just have been trying to
prepare Laura for a letdown. I mean, with all the baby making
efforts, Laura’s publication output has slipped this year. At
least, it's definitely less than Rex’s and Phin's. That may be why
Charlotte was demanding that all three candidates include their
dissertations in their portfolios."

"That's ridiculous!" snorted Pamela. "No one
on the Committee has time to read one, let alone three,
dissertations."

"No, of course not," agreed Joan, "It was all
just for show. And to provide Charlotte a way to demonstrate her
clout."

“You won’t make the committee read the
dissertations, will you?”

“Never!” replied Joan.

“You don’t think that Charlotte pushed Laura
so far that Laura just pushed back?” asked Pamela, peeking out of
the corner of her eye for Joan’s reaction.

"I don't think Laura could hurt a fly,"
responded Joan. "Charlotte annoyed so many people, Pamela. I
wouldn't put it past her to have antagonized someone--anyone--not
even necessarily someone on campus--so badly that that person
followed her into the lab and 'offed' her."