Voice Mail Murder Read online

  “Oh, and, Claire,” said Pamela, retreating to her desk, “don’t forget about our subjects for the deceptive vocal cues study.”

  “Uh, tomorrow,” mumbled the girl, “I think we’ve got a few people coming in. I’ll check the sign-up sheet in the lab and e-mail you. Okay?”

  “Sure,” said Pamela, and the girl was gone. Yes, Kent was definitely a more worthy assistant. Still, Claire had always come through for her and had completed all the tasks that she’d given her. Claire just didn’t seem to have much interest in research and certainly little joy—in much of anything.

  At her desk, she poured herself a fresh cup of blackberry tea from her thermos that Rocky had packed for her and glanced out her window on the lovely fall day below. Joan and Willard were in class, she knew and she reveled in this moment of privacy before plunging back to work. The ringing telephone drew her back to reality.

  “Dr. Barnes.” It was Jane Marie. She hadn’t spoken to her since the excitement this morning and she was curious to find out if Jane Marie had discovered what was up with their illustrious leader. Why was he so grouchy this morning? And why was he even in the building so early? He’d looked like he’d been on an all-nighter as her students would say.

  “Jane Marie, whatever is going on with Dr. Marks?”

  “I’ve been investigating, Dr. Barnes,” replied the secretary. “Just like you. You’ll be surprised all that I’ve found out. Are you out of class?”

  “Yes,” said Pamela, intrigued.

  “It appears he and Velma had a huge fight.”

  “But we saw them at the football game,” argued Pamela. “They seemed fine. Although Velma is always very quiet. I’m never really sure about her.”

  “I know,” agreed Jane Marie, “a strange bird, that one, if you ask me. But anyway, Dr. Marks wouldn’t say directly, but, you know me, I can usually finagle any tidbit of information I need—or want—from him. I know how to get him to—well, I know how to manipulate him . . .”

  “I’m sure you do . . .”

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “The Coach!”

  “The Coach? Why?”

  “Now, this is where this becomes an assumption on my part, but I was sort of tiptoeing around after you left. I got him his coffee like he asked—which I never do, you know. Dr. Marks is always so women’s lib, even though I would never mind making him a cup of coffee. For heaven’s sake, I make a pot for myself every morning and bringing him a cup is no great imposition! Anyway, after I brought him his coffee, I was in his office, just standing there at his desk. He was sitting there, drinking it, rubbing his hands through his hair like he was lost. And, Dr. Barnes, I could smell him. He had not showered. You saw him! He was a mess! I know he’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday! It’s horrible! And he has a five o’clock shadow! I mean, what if he has a meeting with Dean?”

  “Did you say any of this to him?” asked Pamela through the receiver, now becoming totally immersed in the woman’s story.

  “Of course not!” replied Jane Marie, aghast. “That’s not how I do things. I . . . I handle Dr. Marks in a more. . . subtle way. . .”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Pamela, chuckling to herself.

  “All of a sudden,” said Jane Marie, “he started on this tirade about women. Mind you, I’m standing right there. He’s never done that before.”

  “You mean, spoken disparagingly about women?” asked Pamela.

  “No!” she countered, “opened up to me at all! He was furious. I don’t think he even knew—or cared—that he was speaking to a woman. He was mad at women—or I dare say—a woman. And who would that woman probably be?”

  “Velma,” supplied Pamela, perfectly.

  “Yes,” agreed Jane Marie, “then in the midst of this huge speech about the horribleness of womankind, he says it’s all the Coach’s fault!”

  “How could it be the Coach’s fault?” queried Pamela. “I’d think it would be the other way around. I mean, he’s the one cheating on his wife with three—possibly more—women.”

  “Evidently,” said Jane Marie, pointedly, “Mrs. Marks—Velma—sees this whole episode with the Coach and his mistresses, particularly because of his invalid wife—as an indictment of all men! The Coach, according to Velma, is just the poster boy for what’s wrong with the men of the world!”

  “Oh-oh,” said Pamela, “it sounds as if Velma was already chomping at the bit and that the Coach’s murder—and his escapades—were just the catalyst to set her off. Maybe Dr. Marks is up to his old tricks again. . . .”

  “You mean another affair?” asked Jane Marie, and then quickly answered her own question. “No, I don’t think so. He really learned his lesson the last time. That episode with Evelyn Carrier about did him in. It almost ended their marriage too. He’s worked so hard to make it up to her.”

  “Maybe not hard enough,” suggested Pamela.

  “I see it from his point of view, I guess,” said Jane Marie, “I don’t know what Mrs. Marks goes through. I do know he spends a lot of time on campus.”

  “Even more last night,” responded Pamela, and the two women giggled together with apparent relish. “So, what did he do? Did he go home to clean up? Or what?”

  “No, he stayed,” said Jane Marie. “He evidently had a razor in his desk and tried to shave and wash up in the first floor men’s rest room.”

  “That must have been amusing,” remarked Pamela.

  “Definitely,” agreed the secretary, “unfortunately, he still smells, but I won’t tell him. He went to Admin for a meeting. That’s why I’m calling now.”

  “Not with the Dean?”

  “Lord, I hope not!” said Jane Marie. “Anyway, he never really told me that he spent the night in his office, but I obviously figured it out and he didn’t say anything to try to dissuade me. I just tried to be sympathetic and helpful—you know, like I always am—and I figured eventually I’d find out what happened.”

  “You are a super sleuth,” said Pamela.

  “Not as super as you, though,” noted Jane Marie. “I talked to Rosemary and tried to get some more dirt from her, but she’s not talking. She said that you were in her office when that detective found out about the identity of the Coach’s mistresses.”

  “I was,” said Pamela. “We were playing the recording of the mistresses’ voices for her when one of the members of the football team walked in and recognized the voice as his mother’s!”

  “His mother! Oh my God!” she said. “That must have been awful!”

  “For the student,” agreed Pamela, “yes. For the detective, a major break in the case. It showed us that the women we’re searching for are apparently mothers of football team members.”

  “So, where do you stand now in your investigation?” asked Jane Marie.

  “It’s not my investigation, Jane Marie,” noted Pamela, “but now with one of the three apparent mistresses dead, I’m sure Detective Shoop will be re-questioning the other two mistresses. I’m sure he’ll be re-questioning everyone who has any involvement with the Coach. Two murders in just a few days. And obviously connected. “

  “I’ll let you get back to your investigation, Dr. Barnes. Oh, I know, I know. You’re just helping. But we’re so proud of you! You’re the Department’s very own Sherlock Holmes!” With a few pleasant good-byes and a fervent denial on Pamela’s part that her involvement in the Coach Croft murder case was totally peripheral, the two women ended their phone conversation.

  Pamela mused on her entanglement in the events of the last few days. She had managed to be right in the thick of things—especially being there when Ricky Terlinger recognized his mother’s voice as one of the three women on the recording. How auspicious was that! Would they have ever tumbled to the fact that Croft was canoodling team mothers in the afternoon if the young man had not walked in just at that moment? She thought they probably would have, but it would have taken longer. And the recent murder of Skye Davis—obviously the third
mistress and probably the one who was with the Coach in the motel room the day of the murder. Could she have killed him? And if she did, then who would have killed her? Or did some other person kill them both? And why? She didn’t know, but she knew that she could possibly provide the police with information they didn’t have if she could uncover some new information about the three mistresses. Yes, they now knew who the women were, so it wouldn’t be a matter of identification or recognition. But she could continue her profiling as Shoop had originally requested. She could listen to the voices of the three women—even the dead woman—and see if she could determine any new traits that she might have missed. Willard had figured out that Abigail Prescott was from Boston. Maybe if she did some more intense analysis, she could find some little nugget that could assist them in tracking down this killer.

  She popped open her acoustic analysis software and loaded the voices of the three mistresses. It sounded like a fairy tale—The Three Mistresses. But not funny—not funny at all, she thought. With her headphones in place, she played the voices over and over, listening each time for some tell-tale feature that might single that speaker out as unique. Could she detect any jealousy in any of the voices? That might certainly be a factor, although she wasn’t exactly certain how jealousy would be displayed in a voice. All three women sounded excited and anxious in their messages—some more than others. After all, they were meeting a lover in a motel room. They would all probably sound anxious and excited. Some sounded scared; some didn’t. None of them sounded deceptive, but then, she realized that it was very difficult to detect deception from vocal cues alone. It might, however, be possible to detect a speaker’s genuine feelings if they were trying to mask those feelings with a false statement. Again, she couldn’t detect that any of the three women were not genuinely anxious to meet Croft. What was she missing?

  A young man dressed in business attire and an overcoat, pulling a rolling suitcase ambled past her doorway. He appeared lost as he looked in various open doorways, eventually stopping at hers.

  “Excuse me,” he said, tentatively, glancing at the nameplate on her open door, “Dr. Barnes, I’m Jack Bentley. I believe you might know my mother, Joan.”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes!” exclaimed Pamela, “You’re Joan’s son! I’ve heard so much about you!” She leaped from behind her desk and motioned the young man to enter and have a seat. “Your mother’s in class now, but she should be out in a half hour or so. You can wait here if you like.”

  “Don’t think I’ll have time,” he responded, pulling back his coat sleeve to check his wristwatch, “I’ve got a plane to catch in less than an hour and a taxi is waiting downstairs for me. I just wanted to say ‘good-bye’ to Mom before I took off.”

  “Oh, my!” replied Pamela, “Does she know you’re leaving? Should I try to get her out of class?”

  “Uh, no . . . and no,” responded the man, with a blush, pushing back a lock of golden brown hair in a manner that reminded Pamela so much of Joan that she was stunned. “Actually, it all happened so fast. I’ve been looking for work here. Nothing. I know Mom was beginning to wonder if I’d ever find a job . . . and so was I. But, I just heard from this buddy of mine back in Seattle. A new position opened up at my old firm quite unexpectedly. Not quite as much money as I was making before, but it looks good and they want me, which is the main thing.“

  “That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Pamela. “I really could get your mother from class, Jack. . .”

  “No, no, please!” he said, holding up his hand as she started to rise. “It’s not like I won’t be back to visit. I’m not going to Siberia—just Seattle! I just have to leave today—now, actually!” He rose and bent over her desk to shake her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Barnes. Mom talks about you all the time. You’re the detective, right?”

  “Oh, not really,” laughed Pamela. “I just dabble.”

  “Well, be careful,” suggested the young man, grabbing the handle of his suitcase and heading for the door. “And, please tell Mom I’m sorry I missed her—and tell her I love her.”

  “I’ll do that,” agreed Pamela. Then running quickly to the doorway, she embraced the man with a tight hug. “This is from your Mom! Congratulations—and good luck!”

  “Thanks!” he smiled, and headed jauntily down the hallway.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  She was pondering Joan’s son and their brief meeting as she drove her little Civic home along Jackson, the main thoroughfare of Reardon. When Joan finally returned from class, Pamela was just heading out and her explanation of the encounter was brief. Joan was understandably confused and delighted. She’d be getting her apartment back, but she’d be losing the companionship of her son that Pamela knew she was enjoying—a mixed blessing. She and Joan would have much to discuss, she thought as she drove past the fringes of campus and headed out along the long stretch of road that led towards her house. It would probably call for one of their outings to Who-Who’s.

  Nearing an intersection, she put her foot on her brake pedal and discovered to her dismay that her brakes were not responding. Strange. She gave the pedal a few short taps, trying to loosen what she figured must be a jammed pedal. No response. Looking ahead, she saw a white van stopped at the upcoming red light on Hilliard. If she couldn’t get her brakes to function quickly she was going to ram right into the rear of that van. Slamming furiously hard on her brakes, she quickly pulled her steering wheel rapidly to the right. Her Civic jutted suddenly at a right angle and slammed head-on into a metal lamp post on the side of the road. She was only going about twenty miles an hour, but even so, the strength of the collision slapped her backwards and then forwards. Her airbag exploded with a pop and smacked her in the face. The noise of the crash and the airbag expulsion were followed by total silence.

  The only thing she could hear for what seemed like hours was the sound of her own breathing. Then, from a distance, a man’s voice called out:

  “Lady, are you okay? Hey! Lady, are you okay in there?”

  She twisted her head to the left which caused her a horrible throbbing sensation in her forehead. A man’s nose was pressed against her window, a look of alarm covering his face. She reached carefully to her left and pressed the unlock button. The man quickly opened the door.

  “Are you okay?” he continued to ask her. He touched her face, examining her carefully and looking into her eyes. From his pocket he retrieved a cell phone and dialed a few digits. “Hey, yeah, 911? Yeah, there’s an accident at the corner of Jackson and Hilliard. Yeah. Yeah. No, just one vehicle. Slammed into a lamppost. No, just the driver. I’m here with her now. She appears to be conscious, but she’s pretty banged up. Me? I’m Jeremy Potter. I’m a tech for MacMillan Air Conditioning. I was right in front of her. I think she swerved to avoid hitting me in the rear. Okay. Will do.”

  He slid the phone back into his pocket.

  “Don’t worry. There’s an ambulance on the way . . .”

  “No,” moaned Pamela. “I’m fine. Just a little shook up.” She put her hand to her forehead. She could feel a gash over her right eye. Liquid was dripping from the gash into her eye. She wiped it away and looked at her hand. It was red.

  “You’re not fine,” declared the man. “Wait here a minute. I’m going to get my van out of traffic.” He disappeared. As she cautiously glanced over her left shoulder—a move which all of a sudden was very painful—she could see that he had driven his white van into the parking lot of a strip mall on the right side of the road. Several other cars that had slowed to gawk were now continuing on their way, obviously convinced that there were no serious injuries. Jeremy, the air conditioning specialist, returned to her open door and knelt down beside her.

  “Hey, how ya doin’?” he asked, with an encouraging smile. “Hang in there.”

  “I’m fine,” repeated Pamela, now looking around tenuously. She had to get out of her car, she thought. She tried to unbuckle her seat belt but couldn’t. Suddenly, a wave of nausea overwhelmed he
r and she froze. Maybe not.

  “Now, lady,” said Jeremy, steadying her. “Let’s not try anything foolish. You just wait here until the paramedics check you out. I’d feel a lot better.”

  Pamela obeyed the young man. Soon, she could hear sirens and almost immediately thereafter, a rotund, middle-aged police officer poked his head in and asked how she was doing. She reassured him. He collected her personal information and was on his intercom with his superiors when two paramedics appeared and nuzzled in front of him. One began examining her, looking in her eyes with a small light, feeling her neck, and listening to her heart with his stethoscope. Assured that her vitals were sound, the two medics carefully removed her seat belt and slid her out of the car and onto a waiting gurney.

  “Really,” exclaimed Pamela, “I’m fine.”

  “Lady,” said one of the men, “you might have a concussion. You should be checked out at the hospital.”

  “I don’t have a concussion,” she declared. “I never blacked out. I just have a bump on my head. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you refuse medical treatment,” he continued, “you’ll have to sign a release form.”

  “Not a good idea, Dr. Barnes,” said a voice that she recognized from behind her. She turned abruptly—and waves of pain shot through her head. Shoop was standing behind the paramedics, arms folded, a look of disdain on his already scornful face. “I’d suggest you get yourself checked out by a physician—just like these gentlemen suggest.”

  “What do they suggest?” asked another familiar voice. Behind Shoop she recognized—although he was disturbingly fuzzy—Rocky. “Pamela, honey, are you all right?” Her husband pushed in front of the men surrounding her and collected her in his arms.

  “Rocky,” she asked, squinting. Why does everyone look so blurry? “Rocky, what are you doing here?”

  “Your Detective Shoop called me,” he said.

  “Yes, Dr. Barnes,” explained the tall detective, his overcoat hanging open by his sides. “I heard the call about the accident and when the officer called in your name and license number, I figured you might be up to something—and I called your husband.”