The Perfect Coed (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

“What about Missy’s other friends?” Susan persisted. She was thinking that if Eric Lindler was any other kind of person Brandy would have every right to be frightened. His anger at her was that great. Trouble was, he just wasn’t a murderer.

“Well, she didn’t have too many. She and I pretty much spent our time together. That’s one thing that’s hard for me now. I don’t… I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“No buddies?” Susan asked, trying to keep her tone light.

“No, ma’am. I’m too busy, and I don’t want to go out drinking on the weekends and stuff like that. My roommate, Tony Baldwin, he’s about the best friend I ever had, next to Missy.”

“Missy’s parents said she earned all her own spending money, yet as far as I can find out Missy had no work-study job.” Did she imagine it or did he flinch?

“Work-study doesn’t earn much.” He shrugged ruefully and pointed to the book cart. Then, slowly, thinking while he spoke, he said, “Missy had a good job in Fort Worth several nights a week. She sold clothes in the women’s department at Neiman Marcus. She said she didn’t mind the commute.”

That, Susan thought cynically, was easily checked. In whispered tones, she said, “Brandy said she liked to shop at Neiman’s, that she had expensive tastes.”

“Huh!” he snorted. “Brandy taught ’em to her. She couldn’t afford to shop at Neiman’s except maybe on that last day sale or whatever they call it, and then with her employee discount.”

Eric put the books down, turned and faced her squarely, and said, “Dr. Hogan, Missy was the only good thing that happened to me ever in my life—except maybe the chance to go to school here at Oak Grove. She meant everything to me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you find out who killed her.”

“Thanks, Eric.” She reached to shake his hand. “I’ve got to go now, but we’ll talk again. And if you think of anything or if you just want to talk, come see me. My office is in the liberal arts building.” She walked away without looking back. Their entire conversation had been carried on in whispered tones, almost furtively, and when she got back to the English department she found herself still whispering.

* * *

Around four o’clock in the afternoon, Susan sat in her office, head drooping over the lecture on F. Scott Fitzgerald she was going to give to the Wednesday seminar. Their papers on
The Great Gatsby
had been dismal and she knew they had no understanding of Fitzgerald’s importance.

Ernie Westin strolled by and planted himself against the doorframe, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, the kind with a band instead of a collar that was popular more than a few years ago and now looked decidedly dated. His protruding belly ruined the stylishly casual image he apparently wanted to project, but Susan was sure he was unaware of that. In his hand, he held a cup of coffee.

“You’ll never get tenure, Hogan,” he said. “I had a drink with Scott the other night, and I know the inside scoop.”

She heard the smugness in his tone and wanted to ask him what he had told Scott to ensure she didn’t get tenure. “Really?” she asked. “Nice of you to care.” She turned back to her papers, hoping he’d go away.

Instead he came into the tiny office and plopped himself down on the chair across from her desk. “You’ve really ruffled Scott’s feathers with this murder business, and if he doesn’t recommend you, you’re out.” He grinned at her, and she knew he’d been persuading Scott not to recommend her.

“Where do you want to teach next year?” he asked.

“Right here!” Susan snapped. She felt a sudden sinking that began in her throat and ended in her stomach. She’d been too busy worrying about other things to face the fact that denial of tenure automatically meant she would have to move on, look for a job, perhaps even—God forbid!—live with Aunt Jenny until she found another position. And Jake? He couldn’t—wouldn’t—follow her around Texas. And what if she had to move beyond the borders of her home state? She’d never thought about living anywhere but Texas.

Susan drew herself back to the unpleasant present and faced her colleague. “I’ll be right here, Ernie. Don’t get your…” She had been about to use an unpleasant phrase that Jake occasionally used. “Don’t get in an uproar,” she said.

“I sure don’t know how you can say that,” he said. “Me, I’d be worried to death.” He heaved himself out of the chair and left her office.

Susan badly wanted to throw something, anything at him as he left.

Within minutes the phone rang. It was the provost himself in a direct call, not even a secretary saying, “Please hold for Dr. Atwater.”

Susan pulled her heart out of her boots and said as brightly as she could, “Yes, sir?”

“Would you have time to see me for a bit this afternoon, Susan?”

“Yes, sir, of course. At your convenience.” To herself she was thinking, Okay, this is it. He’s going to tell me the school can’t stand a scandal, and I’m suspended until the murder is cleared up. I wonder if he’s like everybody else and really thinks I did it.

“If it would fit your schedule, now would be a good time. I hope you won’t mind coming to my office.”

Her palm was sweaty on the telephone receiver. “That’s fine, sir. I’ll be right there.”
Unless I can think of a quick reason to go to the Caribbean or Fiji or someplace far away.

Susan took time to rub some powder on her shiny nose, comb her flyaway hair, and wish she’d dressed better for the day. Navy slacks and a white cotton shirt would have to do. At least she wasn’t wearing jeans and running shoes. Even with her dawdling, she was in the provost’s office within five minutes.

“Susan, nice of you to come so promptly.” The provost was a large man in his mid-fifties. He wore a well-cut suit but had hung the jacket over the back of the chair behind his desk, so now he was casually attired in rolled-up shirtsleeves and a loosened tie. He was courteous, polite, and careful as he showed her to a padded chair in a conversation area in his mahogany-paneled office. A huge contrast to John Scott’s office.

This was to be no across-the-desk confrontation but an informal talk, Susan saw. She looked at him and realized that he was more casual—and more comfortable with himself—than Dr. Scott ever would be. Then her eyes wandered around the room, this being the first time she’d ever been summoned to the provost’s office. A small arrangement of fresh flowers sat on the coffee table between her and the opposite chair. The upholstery was plaid, the wood dark, the atmosphere expensive and masculine but not, as she had imagined, particularly intimidating. She perched on the edge of her upholstered chair and waited in desperate anticipation for him to speak.

He picked up the phone, said tersely, “No calls, please, Shirley,” and then seated himself across the small table from Susan.

Bad sign, Susan thought. He doesn’t want any interruptions as he tells me I can’t teach and I’m not eligible for tenure.

“It’s been a bad week for you, hasn’t it?” he asked, and there was real kindness in his voice.

Surprised at his sympathy, Susan simply nodded in agreement.

“I want you to know that the university is very concerned about this murder”—at least he hadn’t called it
an unfortunate affair
—“and we’re doing everything we can to clear it up. I’ve asked Jake Phillips to devote as much attention to it as he possibly can. You know Mr. Phillips, I believe?”

The provost knew perfectly well that Susan and Jake were a couple, and his careful circumlocution would have amused Susan if she hadn’t been too nervous to find anything funny. She simply nodded again. Her tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of her mouth.

Atwater made a tent of his fingers in front of his face and stared at them for a long moment. Then he said, “Dr. Scott has been to see me. He seems to have the, ah, unfortunate”—there was that word again!—“opinion that you were somehow involved in this event and that it should affect your tenure review. I wanted you to know that is not an official university position. We think it was a random act of violence and your car was chosen for no reason, at least no reason that had anything to do with you. The tenure review will concentrate on your teaching record and your publications, as it should. By the time it comes around, I presume this matter will be solved. I’ve told Dr. Scott as much.”

Susan nodded again. This time she managed a weak, “Thank you, sir.” But she wanted to ask what Scott’s reaction had been.

The interview, which had been exceptionally one-sided, was over. Atwater opened the door for her, shook her hand, thanked her for coming. But as she crossed in front of Shirley’s desk, he said, “Susan? I do hope you’re more talkative in class.” His eyes were laughing.

Outside his office, she collapsed against the wall and stayed there for several minutes, until two secretaries walked by and their curious looks prompted her to move on.

* * *

When she got home that evening about five-thirty, Jake was already there, sharing a drink on the deck with Aunt Jenny. Jake was drinking bourbon, and Aunt Jenny was knitting.

“What’re you making?” Susan asked her.

Aunt Jenny shook her head. “Afghan squares. I’ll never get enough of them, and I hate piecing them. But it keeps me busy.”

Jake and Susan exchanged amused looks over her head, and Jake stood to give Susan a quick kiss on the cheek. Aunt Jenny watched them and beamed happily.

Jake brought Susan a glass of Chardonnay and when she was settled in a chair said, “So how was your day? I hear you went to see Atwater.”

She stared at him. “How do you know?”

“He called me in earlier. Said to give the Missy Jackson case as much attention as I could. And told me you had his full support. I think what he said was, ‘I believe you know Dr. Hogan?’”

Susan, her terror over the interview now behind her, laughed aloud. “He said almost the same thing to me. He’s sly; not much gets past him. I was grateful that he seemed to believe in me.”

Jake took her hand and played with her fingers. “Why shouldn’t he?” His crooked smile testified to his own belief in her.

Susan hadn’t meant to tell him about Eric Lindler. She knew he’d disapprove. But it was a sharing kind of moment, and she opened her mouth before she thought. The story of her interview came tumbling out. “I like him,” she ended lamely. “He’s… he’s not a murderer. And I’m going to try to keep tabs on him, make sure he’s all right.”

Jake started with a stern “Susan!” but Susan interrupted him. “He says she had a job at Neiman’s in Fort Worth. That ought to be easy to check.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll get right on it.” He looked thoughtfully at her. “You think that’ll prove your theory, don’t you?”

Susan nodded.

Aunt Jenny interrupted them in a loud and clear voice. Without ever looking up from her knitting, she said, “He killed her.” After a minute, she said, “Reminds you of Shelley North, doesn’t it, Susan?”

They both whirled to stare at the older woman.

* * *

Jake Phillips knew that Susan didn’t always tell him the whole truth about some of the things she did. Like her lunch with Brandy Perkins. But he didn’t think that she knew that he too could skirt the truth. He certainly didn’t intend to tell her that he’d invited—ordered?—Brandy to his office for a conversation.

Jake had thought long and hard about Susan’s wild assumption that Oak Grove coeds were involved in a call-girl ring. And he wouldn’t have told her, at least not yet, but it made sense to him. Especially after he found out that Missy Jackson most definitely had not worked at Neiman’s. He hadn’t told Susan yet that the Fort Worth branch of the upscale store reported no record of any employee by that name. So what was Missy doing when she told Eric she was going to Fort Worth to work?

He should, he thought, take his information and his suspicions—all right, Susan’s suspicions—right to Dirk Jordan. Indeed, that was what Susan expected of him, he was sure. But if he did that, all of this would soon become public knowledge. As far as Jake could see that had two disadvantages: first, it would expose the school to scandal, and he had as much as promised Atwater he wouldn’t let that happen. Second, and more important, if these suspicions became public, the red-haired man and whoever else was involved would be on the alert—and Susan could be in more danger than she already was.

No, Jake had decided he’d best do some quiet sleuthing himself. He recognized the irony: he was doing what he’d forbidden Susan to do.

Jake sent his administrative assistant Barbara, a middle-aged woman who could have been anything from a full professor to a secretary, to wait for Brandy outside Susan’s class. He supplied a fairly detailed description of the girl’s appearance, based on the night at The City Restaurant but allowing for the casualness of classroom attire. Barbara said she thought she could do it. The challenge was that Barbara had to follow Brandy far enough from the classroom to talk to her without Susan seeing them. Susan knew Barbara well and would have instantly smelled a rat named Jake Phillips. And would have tried to horn in on the interview.

Barbara had to wait outside the classroom twice, first on Monday and then on Wednesday. Brandy was apparently absent the first time, which made Jake wish he could check her attendance and academic achievement records. Damn the privacy of information laws anyway!

The second time, Barbara confronted the girl, and Brandy replied, “I don’t have to talk to anyone I don’t want to.”

“No,” Barbara had told her reasonably, “but Mr. Phillips will go to the Oak Grove police if you don’t cooperate with him.”

Brandy stared at the woman, trying to judge how serious this threat was. Finally, she said, “Okay. But not today. I’ve got a lot to do. I’ll be there at eight tomorrow morning.”

Jake groaned when Barbara reported this. He didn’t normally get to the office until at least eight-thirty. But Thursday morning he was there at eight sharp, clutching a third cup of coffee in the hope that it would wake him up. Brandy appeared at almost nine o’clock, and it was hard for him to keep from making a smart, sarcastic remark.

“I’m late,” she said, sinking into an upholstered chair in his office, “because I almost decided not to come. You couldn’t do anything if I didn’t.” Belligerence stuck out like a bristle brush.