Sounds of Murder (20 page)

"I think," said Joan, shaking her head, "that
it's very unwise. I think you’re simply asking for trouble, my
dear."

Their dinners arrived and for a while there
was silence as the three colleagues scarfed up their enchiladas,
burritos, and tortillas--along with buckets of salsa and chips.

"Yum," intoned Pamela, "Wonderful!"

"How does this compare to what that gourmet
general of yours makes?" asked Joan.

"Different," she answered, "It's nice for a
change. And, of course, the company cannot be beat." She smiled at
her two friends who returned her warm expression.

"Pam," said Arliss, slowing down on her
enchiladas, "Didn't you say you had several things to tell us?"

"I did," she replied.

"You mean, there's more than--" Joan bent in
close, and whispered, pointing discreetly to the disk under the
table, "the audio recording of the actual killing that could get
you killed?"

"This is probably not so dramatic," she
tossed out, "just more like some juicy gossip, which you may
already have heard."

"Speak! Speak!" said Arliss, encouraging with
hand gestures, hot sauce dripping out of her mouth.

"I have this in confidence from Jane Marie,
so you have her to thank for it, but, please, don't accredit it to
her--you might get her in trouble,"

"Jane Marie who?" asked Arliss,
shrugging.

"Don't know the woman," agreed Joan, munching
a tortilla chip.

"The night of the murder, right before my
seminar, Charlotte and Mitchell had a horrible row in his office—I
heard them.”

"Do you know what it was about?" asked
Arliss.

"Not really," said Pamela, shaking her head,
"just that it was loud. Then, here's a follow-up. The next day,
Jane Marie found an unaddressed envelope in Mitchell’s mailbox that
was not there the night before when Jane Marie left. Jane Marie
suspected it was from Charlotte because she recognized Charlotte’s
personal stationery. She opened the envelope and discovered a
photograph of a woman."

"A photograph of whom?" asked Joan.

"Jane Marie didn’t know," said Pamela, "There
was just a photo. No note. She had no idea who it was, but she
thought it might be a former student and so she went through some
old yearbooks and found this woman's picture in an annual from
about ten years ago. Her name is Evelyn Carrier."

"That’s weird," said Arliss, "Why would
Charlotte put a former student's photo in Mitchell's box without a
note?"

"Yes," agreed Pamela, "why? Anyway, there's
more. This afternoon, the woman shows up and asks to see Mitchell.
She goes in his office and stays there for about an hour. All this
according to Jane Marie. When this Evelyn left Mitchell’s office,
she was traumatized, said Jane Marie. She’d been crying and her
eyes were bloodshot."

"Maybe," suggested Arliss, "she didn't know
about Charlotte's death, and Mitchell told her. She could have been
one of Charlotte's former students or something."

"Yes," said Pamela, "that's possible, but why
the subterfuge on Charlotte’s part? Why not just give him the
photo? Why not attach a note? Why put just a photo in his mailbox
with nothing attached? And why would Mitchell keep that from Jane
Marie? He tells her everything. He hasn’t said a word to her about
any of this."

"It’s a mystery," said Joan, looking puzzled.
"Do you think it’s connected to Charlotte's murder?"

"I don't know. Maybe," said Pamela.

"It does seem like a possibility," said
Arliss. She took a deep breath. "Do you think, whatever it is, that
it was so horrible that it gave Mitchell a motive to murder
Charlotte?"

"Mitchell murder Charlotte," said Joan.
"That's ridiculous. They may have yelled at each other, but he’s
Casper Milktoast; I can't see him physically attacking anyone."

"Joan," said Pamela, "can you see anyone in
the department attacking her?"

"No," said Joan, "but if the killer is
someone who had a personal grudge against Charlotte, it could be
anyone. There must be hundreds of people who fit that bill."

“Maybe it was this Evelyn,” suggested
Arliss.

"The police seem to think it's someone in the
department," suggested Pamela, carefully.

"Why?" asked Arliss.

"First," responded Pamela, "look at access.
Anyone in the department could have done it. We all have keys to
the lab. Charlotte was alone in the lab; she probably locked the
door after herself. Only faculty members and grad students who had
checked out lab keys could have gotten in. That limits the pool of
suspects quite a bit."

“But the door was open when you found her,
you said,” argued Joan.

“The killer probably left it open when he—or
she—left,” responded Pamela, “but that doesn’t mean that Charlotte
was working in the lab alone at night with the door open. I’m sure
she probably locked herself in. She was fanatical about lab
security. Remember what Mitchell said at the meeting.”

"So," said Arliss, looking worried, "the
police really do think the killer is one of us."

"Yes, because we have keys," said Pamela, "I
know it wasn't me, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't either of you. So
who does that leave?"

"Mitchell, Willard, Rex, Laura, Phin, Jane
Marie, and Bob," listed Joan, counting on her fingers.

"It wouldn't be Bob," said Arliss,
quickly.

"Dear," answered Joan, "I was just listing
the faculty members who didn't happen to be sitting here."

"That does narrow the field, doesn't it?"
said Pamela. "But, we know all these people. Truly, I can't imagine
any of them killing anyone."

"Maybe the police are wrong, Pamela," said
Joan, firmly, "maybe it is someone from the outside.”

“And speaking of someone from outside, have
either of you ever heard of a researcher named John Pierce Culver?
Who did research on addiction?” queried Pamela.

"That would be in Charlotte’s domain,”
answered Arliss.

“Joan?”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell. Why do you
ask?”

“Because Charlotte was reading his
dissertation online when she was killed,” responded Pamela. “Shoop
told me when I dropped off the disk yesterday.”

“So? Does it matter what she was reading?”
asked Arliss.

“Normally, I’d say not,” answered Pamela,
thinking, “but when she left Mitchell’s office that night she was
in a fury. I just can’t see her toddling down to the lab and
suddenly focusing on her addiction research. I think there’s a
possibility she was working on something that led to her murder.”
She felt a sudden shiver roll up her spine as she realized she
hadn’t mentioned—and didn’t intend to mention to the two women—the
secret notebook that Shoop had showed her. "Oh, my," she added,
looking at both of their faces, "I’ve totally monopolized this
evening. I haven't even asked either of you about what's going on
in your lives."

"My dear," sighed Joan, "what excitement is
there for a widow whose children live thousands of miles away? I
live vicariously through you."

"And you, Arliss?" asked Pamela, turning to
her more laid back friend.

"Same 'ol, same 'ol," shrugged Arliss.

It was getting late. The women had finished
their meals--and several Margaritas. Discussing a murder that had
recently been committed in their department had had a sobering
effect on their behavior. They decided that it was time to go, so
they gathered their belongings, divided up the check three ways,
and headed out of
Who-Who's
. After farewell hugs, Arliss
slid into Joan’s car, as Joan had promised, and the two women took
off.

Pamela got in her car, switched on her
ignition and her headlights, and exited
Who-Who's
' lot onto
Jackson Drive toward her home. It was fairly busy for a Friday
night, but Who-Who's was on her edge of town and wasn't too far
from her house. Soon she was in the country, a non-populated area,
and the number of cars diminished.

One car behind her was particularly
bothersome, its headlights on bright. The driver was, as far as
Pamela was concerned, following much too close. How infuriating!
She squinted and tried to turn away from the glare shining at her
in her rear view mirror. As she looked up, checking, she noticed
that the vehicle behind her was getting even closer to her car, as
if the driver was trying to annoy her. Should she speed up or would
that encourage the driver to chase her? If she slowed down, the
driver might take advantage and taunt her.

It was probably some teenage joy rider out on
a Friday night, she thought, up to no good. She sped up a bit to
test the waters, and the vehicle behind followed suit, getting
progressively closer and closer. As she watched the actions of the
car in her mirror, she realized that within a few more seconds, the
car would slam into her if she didn't do something immediately. She
increased her speed. Her turn was coming up quickly. If she could
just make it to her turn, maybe by turning onto it abruptly, the
vehicle behind her would keep going straight and leave her alone.
Here it came, her turn. Quickly she jerked the steering wheel to
the right and her car swerved down the side street. The car behind
her sped beyond her down Jackson Drive.

Struggling to maintain control of her
vehicle, Pamela drove as fast as she could, winding through the
streets she knew so well to her home, before the crazed driver
could figure out what had happened, turn around, and follow her
into her sub-division. She saw her house. Quickly, she pressed her
garage door opener, willing the door to open immediately, but it
groaned slowing upward. As fast as possible, she drove inside her
garage and immediately hit the button to drop the garage door. Only
then, did she get out of her car.

Now, she thought, panting with fear, was that
a coincidence? Or was someone out to get her?

Chapter 19

Rocky, of course, was waiting for her. When
she told him of her encounter with the crazed driver, he became
even more incensed than usual, insisting that she call the police
immediately. She sat on the edge of their bed, still clutching her
purse and books.

"Rocky, no!" she pleaded, "I just need to
calm down for a moment. I can't take anymore police right now." She
looked at him soulfully.

"All right," he demurred, "but, just until
you relax a bit, then we're contacting them."

"Fine," she agreed, and set her belongings
aside and removed her jacket. "Is Angie here?"

"No, she's spending the night at Tina's. Did
you get anything to eat?" he asked.

"Yes," she responded, "Plenty of
Who-Who's
' burritos and several of their margaritas."

"Are you sure this guy in the car wasn't some
alcohol-induced figment of your imagination?"

"Definitely not!" she said, with
irritation.

"Okay, Babe," he said, "just wait here a
minute. I know what you need."

She leaned back on the bed, her head feeling
like a throbbing tomato on the pillow. Oh, my God, she wondered.
How much did I drink? I know what I experienced, and I was chased
by a crazy driver. It did happen.

Rocky was gone for a while. When he returned,
he handed her one of his famous cups of hot cocoa.

"Work on this," he said. She sipped slowly on
the luscious liquid, the foam top coating her upper lip. Her
husband disappeared into their bathroom and soon she could hear
water running in their tub. When he returned later, he grabbed her
hand and led her to the bathroom.

"Let's get those clothes off," he
ordered.

“Yes, sir!” She gave him a wobbly salute.

She saw that he’d filled the tub and put in
her favorite bubble bath. He’d lit a vanilla candle and set it on
the sink, the aroma from the wax filling the room. She stripped off
her blouse and skirt and then slid out of her underwear. Carefully
she lifted a leg over the edge and lowered herself into the
tub.

Rocky dimmed the lights until only the
flickering candlelight remained. He sat at the end of the tub near
her feet and pressed the Jacuzzi button. Immediately soft foam
churned into large billows. Sliding lower in the tub, Pamela leaned
her head back.

"Give me your foot," he ordered. She lifted
her right leg and placed her heel in his palm. Using firm but
consistent movements he massaged the bottom of her foot, being
careful to manipulate each toe. Pamela experienced relaxation move
throughout her body, her worries seeping slowly away, as if passing
out of her foot and into Rocky's strong hands.

"So," he spoke softly, "do you feel like
talking or should I just rub?"

"Rub," she mumbled.

"You must’ve had a great time with your
girlfriends," he noted, smiling.

"Yup," she agreed.

"The three of you probably were in gossip
heaven," he added.

She opened her eyes, somewhat annoyed.
"Gossip? Never!" she declared. "We’re scientists. We analyze. We
evaluate."

"Yeah," he said, nodding perceptively, "It
looks like you've analyzed yourself into a drunken stupor. I'm
surprised you made it home."

"And with a maniac following me," she added,
waving her arms around.

"Well," he observed, "you won't have to worry
about that this weekend."

"Why?" she asked, sitting up a bit, the tub
water sloshing around.

"Because I called the police when I got your
cocoa and told them what had happened," he told her. "I actually
spoke with your Detective Shoop."

She realized she should be mad at him for
calling Shoop, but she was just too tired.

"My Detective Shoop? He was there working on
Friday night?"

"Amazing," he said, "Your local law
enforcement hard at work. He seemed reasonable enough--and
concerned about you. He said--and these were his words---‘I told
your wife to lay low.’"