The Perfect Coed (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

“Probably,” he said nastily, “because you spend too much time with that Jake Phillips. You could do better than a cop.”

Susan considered decking him with a well-placed fist. For an instant, his snide reference to Jake made her wonder about Ernie’s sexual orientation, but she figured that was none of her business. As far as she knew, Ernie lived alone in a one-room apartment in a house in town, and any sort of nasty comment would, she thought, be beneath her.

But cross me one more time, Ernie Westin, and I’ll give you something to whine about.

“Ernie,” she said, “I just don’t have time to talk about your book or tenure or anything right now. There’s a problem with my car—”

“Oh, well,” he said loftily. “That beat-up car you drive… I’m sure it has many problems.” Ernie drove a dull Chevrolet with no character.

“Leave my car out of this,” she said angrily.
Why, am I arguing with Ernie Westin when Jake’s breaking into the trunk of my car?

Her cell phone startled her. It was Jake. “Susan, get over here now. To your car.” He spoke in the low, measured tones that Susan knew indicated a major problem, not just the impatience she’d heard in his voice a few minutes ago.

“Jake, I was—”

“Susan, for God’s sake, would you just do what I tell you for once?”

Jake’s tone alarmed her. She bolted down the three flights of the liberal arts hall, grateful that she had decided on jeans and Reeboks that day, in spite of Ernie Westin’s disapproving looks. Jogging toward her car, she saw a crowd of people in the parking lot.

They were mostly students, and they stood behind an area roped off with yellow police-scene tape. Her car stood in the middle of the tape. Around her she could hear voices, “What’s happened? What’s in that car? Whose car is it?”

Just then two city police cars roared into the parking lot, sirens blaring. An ambulance followed them. Susan saw a knot of men gathered about her car. The battered trunk lid was raised, and they were all staring inside.

She lifted the tape to scoot under it.

“Pardon, ma’am, but no one can go past. This is a crime scene.”

She didn’t know if she was angrier at being stopped or being called “ma’am” by a deputy who was at best five years younger than she was. “It’s my car,” she shouted. “They told me to get over here right away. Ask Jake Phillips.”

“No need, ma’am,” he said, holding the tape for her. “Phillips told us you’d be coming. I just… well, I expected a teacher.”

Susan looked down at her jeans and running shoes and ignored the deputy.

As she started toward the car, Jake came toward her. “Stop here, Susan. Don’t go up there.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “First you tell me to get over here—then you stop me.” She started to pull away from him, but he held firmly to her arm.

“We found the missing coed,” he said. “In the trunk of your car. Someone beat her to death, really bashed in her head.”

For a moment, Susan staggered. Her mind’s eye saw another body, a young girl, curled in a ball on a cold, tile floor. But that was a long time ago, something she’d worked hard to put behind her—the death, the murder accusation, the anger. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, but she felt momentarily remote, removed from whatever was happening around her.
This can’t happen to me twice. At least I didn’t know this girl well. I knew Shelley—oh, boy, did I know Shelley.

“You okay, Susan?” Jake asked. His voice jerked her back to reality. “Did you hear me? Someone put a body in your car. When did you first notice that dent in the trunk?”

“Night before last,” she muttered. “I was in the library, doing research on Zane Grey, and when I came out I thought I saw a dent that hadn’t been there before.”

“But you didn’t do anything about it?” Jake asked, his tone angry again. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I was going to. I just hadn’t had time. Besides, it’s not the only dent in my car.”

She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was going to break down and cry.

And right there, in front of everyone, Jake Phillips put his arms around her and held her tightly, pulling her head down onto his shoulder and running his hands through her hair, as though he were comforting a child. He was tall enough that she fit easily against him and found comfort.

“I just want to go home,” Susan said, tears running down her face. “Can you take me home?”

“Not yet,” Jake said softly.

* * *

Neither of them noticed Brandy Perkins standing on the edge of the crowd. Her face was strained, and her hands were clenched into tight fists. When the buzz went from one person to the next that a body had been found in the trunk of a teacher’s car, she asked of no one in particular, “A guy?”

“Nah,” came the answer, “a girl.”

A small sound escaped her mouth. And then Brandy Perkins turned and ran. Only one student, a dark-haired, good-looking boy about twenty-one, turned away from the scene at the car to watch Brandy run away. And he watched with an intense, brooding expression on his face that would have added to Brandy’s terror if she had seen it. When she was out of sight, he turned slowly toward the car.

Brandy ran past Baker, the building she’d just left,
and the business school and the administration building, headed for the patio outside the student center. She slowed when she found the patio empty and sat down on one of the iron chairs that were bolted to the textured concrete patio. With shaking hands she pulled out a cell phone and punched in numbers.

“They found Missy,” she whispered. A pause and then, “In the trunk of a car. Dr. Hogan’s car. She’s dead.”

Another pause. “Of course, that’s what I think. We have to be sure not to tell anyone, not anyone.” She tried to be firm but there was a quaver in her voice.

Then, “Oh, God, will I have to talk to the police?” Whoever was on the other end of the line must have said she would, because Brandy said, “I don’t know if I can do it.”

One last pause, and Brandy whispered partly into the phone and partly to herself, “I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

She hit the “end” button, put the phone in her book bag, and ran into the union. Only once she was safely locked into a stall in the restroom did she give in to the tears that had been building. Then she sobbed and sobbed, not even trying to muffle her cries.

* * *

A plainclothes policeman approached Susan, who still stood clutching Jake’s arm. “Dr. Hogan? If you’ll just come with me…”

With horror Susan realized he meant to take her away from Jake. She sent a look of panic toward Jake, who said to the officer, “Listen, Jordan, that’s not necessary. I’ll take responsibility for her and bring her downtown.”

Jordan, whoever he was, did not look like a man who bent the rules. “It’s irregular,” he said. “We need to question her. At this point, she’s not under arrest.”

Susan thought he stressed the “at this point” a little too heavily. Later she found out his first name was Dirk. It rhymed with jerk.

“Come on,” Jake protested. “I know you have to question her, but Susan’s upset, and you and I both know she didn’t do this.”

“I don’t know any such thing,” Jordan said. “It’ll take me about another hour out here. I’ll send an officer to escort her downtown. You can come on your own. And get your people to do something about this crowd.” He stalked away.

Jake looked amused, whereas Susan thought he should be angry. “He giving you orders,” she protested.

“He just thinks he is,” Jake said wryly. “Not much we can do about the crowd, except keep ’em at a good distance, and we’re doing that.”

As the officer arrived to escort her downtown, Susan said, “Jake, my purse, my books… in my office.”

He nodded.

* * *

Susan huddled in the back seat of the squad car, as much as she could, sure that every student was staring at her. The day had warmed considerably, but she was shaking and chilled. Above all, she was scared. All thoughts of tenure and classes and John Scott flew out of her mind as she relived the past, the day she’d found Shelley’s body and ended up at the police station, accused of murder.

Questions raced through her mind.
Why my car? It must be Missy Jackson, Brandy Perkins’ roommate.
“Who is she?” she asked the officer, though she knew all along it would be Missy Jackson. She harbored a faint hope it was someone else, though she didn’t know how that would make the situation better.

The officer drove, eyes straight ahead. “Not at liberty to tell you, ma’am.”

Susan considered throwing something at him, but she had nothing to throw. And wouldn’t really have done it anyway. It was just a comforting thought. She shivered again.

* * *

Brandy Perkins lay on the bed in her room at the sorority house, but sleep was the last thing on her mind. She had finally pulled herself together in that bathroom stall, splashed water on her face, and hurried to her room—the room she had shared with Missy. Bolting up the stairs, she ignored the girls who sat in the lounge and nearly knocked one girl down the steps in her blind haste. Now she tossed and turned and her thoughts raced. Missy’s face appeared in front of her, and then that of a young man with outrageous red hair. Every time she saw him, she covered her eyes to make the image disappear. She couldn’t bear to look at Missy’s half of the room, and questions about Missy’s family haunted her. Would they come to Oak Grove? Would they expect her to know something?

When the phone rang, she almost didn’t answer it. When she did, her fingers tightened around it. “Kenny?”

Whatever he asked, she turned pale. “No, Kenny, not tonight. I can’t.”

A little anger crept into her voice. “I can’t, Kenny. I’m worried about Missy.” Then she had a thought and added, “She’s sick. She’s real sick.”

Kenny either didn’t know about Missy’s death or was pretending not to know, because he asked Brandy to have Missy call him. “Okay, I’ll tell her.”

A pause and then Brandy said, “Yeah, sure, Kenny, next time.”

She hung up the phone and began to sob again. Two hours later, when she woke up from a drug-like sleep, she thought, “I’ve got to get out of here. NOW!” Applying a hasty dab of lipstick and running a comb through her hair, she headed downstairs.

News of Missy’s death had reached the sorority house. Girls stood in clusters in the hall and the lounge. For a moment when Brandy rounded the last landing on the staircase, all eyes turned toward her, but no one said a word and no one moved. Then, one by one, they came over to hug her, tears on their faces, empty words coming from their mouths. Brandy tried to thank them and to hug back, and suddenly it hit her again.

“I’ve got to get out of here!” She bolted for the door, and the next thing she knew she was at the Green Lizard Lounge, an off-campus and supposedly off-limits place where students hung out. A smoky bar, the place catered to old men from the town in the daytime and the college crowd at night—high school kids too if they could sneak in. Nobody much checked IDs, just as they didn’t count how many beers any old man drank during the morning.

Kids were just beginning to arrive, and Brandy chose a booth in the back where she could watch. She ordered a Coors Light and sat sipping it, trying not to think.

Suddenly a young man appeared at the booth. He was tall and thin, with dark brown hair that hung in a shank over his eyes. “Hey, Brandy,” he said.

Startled, she barely managed to answer, “Hey, Eric.”

Uninvited he sat down. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I guess. I think I’m numb. Are you?”

He shrugged. “I can’t believe it. Nobody told me. I just heard it on the radio. I can’t believe no one told me.” He didn’t mention that he’d been in the crowd around Susan Hogan’s car or that he’d watched Brandy bolt from the scene. His hand fingered a gold ring on a chain around his neck. It was the promise ring that Missy had given him.

“Oh, God,” Brandy said. Then, with desperation, she realized she had to put on an act for Missy’s boyfriend. “I… I don’t know why anyone would do this to Missy. It had to be mistaken identity… or a random act. Nobody could be that mad at Missy.” She thought she might cry again.

“And why Dr. Hogan’s car?” Eric asked, an intense look making his eyes shine. “I feel like I’m supposed to solve this.”

Brandy shrugged. “Dr. Hogan’s a great teacher, nice person. Who would do that to her?”

“I hear she’s sort of, well, a feminist and all that,” Eric said. “I never had her for class. Missy used to talk about what she learned in her… what was it? Women’s lit class?”

“Yeah,” Brandy said. “Missy was impressed with her. I’m taking her women’s lit class now, and I like her a lot.”

Eric rose suddenly. “I got to go. Missy’s parents are supposed to arrive early in the morning. Got to get myself together so I can help them.”

“See you,” Brandy said and took a long pull at her beer. She hoped Kenny wouldn’t come looking for her.

Chapter Two

Susan’s interview with Dirk Jordan was predictable. He thought she was hiding something—and was probably guilty—and she resented that he assumed she was guilty when she was a victim. She slowly realized that the only way she could convince this detective that she was innocent was to find the real killer herself.

The non-speaking officer had delivered her to the basement police headquarters. All she saw were cubicles with the liberal use of wallboard and small rooms with closed doors. Susan knew the jail was upstairs. A few uniformed police officers wandered in and out of various cubbyhole offices, their faces serious. Some clutched sheaves of paper, and others looked like they didn’t know what to do with their empty hands.

She glimpsed at least four desperate criminals, until she reminded herself that desperate criminals were fairly rare in a quiet town like Oak Grove. But in the narrow hall she had brushed against a man in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him. Her already testy stomach lurched at the smell of him.

The policeman escorted her to a small room badly in need of new paint and fresh air. The smell of stale smoke mixed with the mustiness that hung over the whole area. The room validated every detective show she’d ever seen on TV. A scarred, wooden table with four metal chairs around it. A window that made her wish she’d tried to look in from the outside to see if it was one-way glass.