Voice Mail Murder Page 2

  She looked across the hall from Willard’s office and saw that that office was also occupied. Joan Bentley sat at her desk, chatting on her phone, apparently to a student. Joan was explaining why it would be impossible for the student to register for a particular course. Pamela wasn’t certain whether it was one of Joan’s courses or just a course Joan believed the student shouldn’t take and expected the student to follow her advisorly advice. Hmm, thought Pamela. Advisors. They were all advisors to many students. It was their job to give advice—academic advice to these young people, but so much of the time—particularly during the first few days of class—that advice was flaunted and disregarded with impunity.

  Waving briefly at Joan and receiving a wave in return, she moved towards her own office, across the hallway. Several students were seated on the floor next to her door, their arms piled with college catalogs, schedule cards, and newly purchased books. It was truly the first day of class—and a Thursday at that. She felt into her purse and grabbed her keys. Opening her door, she scooted inside as the group of students rose from the floor and followed her.

  She plopped her belongings on the top of her desk, pulled out her chair and sat down.

  “Okay,” she announced. “What can I do for you?”

  The students lined up. They obviously had remembered the order in which they had arrived at her door and they intended to maintain this order as they presented her with their problems. Quickly, she dealt with each academic dilemma—catastrophe—in the students’ eyes. Of course, she noted, none of these problems would have reached the stage of severity that they had if the students had sought out her help earlier—earlier than the first day of class.

  In twenty minutes or so, Pamela had ironed out most of the students’ problems and had sent them on their ways with schedules corrected and approved. As she glanced up at her wall clock, she realized that she now had only a minute or two before her first class. It was a good thing that she was prepared and had gone over her lesson plan the night before although she had taught her first class—‘The Psychology of Language’ —so many times, that she believed she could probably teach it blindfolded without any prep at all. In fact, some of her best teaching was done when she was ill-prepared or, at least, when she veered off her lesson plan for the day. But ‘Psychology of Language’ was one of her special courses. It was a general elective, something that many professors hated to teach, but one that Pamela relished, because she loved to introduce her specialty to new students. She always searched for possible future linguists in this course—and she usually found some. Some students from her earlier ‘Psychology of Language’ courses were now graduate students in the department.

  She grabbed her clipboard. Yes, her notes were here. They were ready as far as she was concerned. The letter from the journal she had received that morning but had forgotten about it in all the activity with the students called to her. She quickly opened the thick envelope. The cover letter fell out first and delineated a response typical of many of her submissions to academic journals. “Revise and resubmit.” the checked box said. She remembered the early days of her career when such a verdict on one of her papers brought her dismay. Now, she took it in stride, realizing it was actually a positive response. She glanced at the accompanying critiques from peer reviewers. They appeared reasonable, requesting changes that she believed she could accomplish fairly easily. Hmm, she thought. Good job, Pamela. This paper will probably get published. With a proud little smile, she grabbed her class notes and headed out the door to her first class, being certain to lock her office behind her.

  The large classroom was just steps away from Pamela’s office, at the end of the second floor hallway. It was immediately above the computer lab and was outfitted with white boards and various types of audio/video equipment. The room had tall ceilings with windows that lined the side walls. The teacher’s podium was at the far end on a slightly raised platform. The students’ desks were arranged in a large semi-circle facing the platform. Pamela strode to the front, easily, greeting students as she passed. Several followed her with schedule cards in their hands.

  “Okay, okay,” she called out to the large room. “This is Psychology of Language 201. I’m Dr. Barnes and this is Blake Hall 232. I’ll be happy to sign add slips for you as long as there is space, so why don’t you all find a seat and let’s see how much room we have.” Quickly, the entire group of students swarmed to find seats as if they were playing a giant-sized game of musical chairs. When all were seated, Pamela looked around, counting heads and desks. She noted that with everyone seated, there were still three or four desks available. She pulled out an enrollment list and began to call names in alphabetical order. Most students responded, and she made a check mark by each name as she heard the student say “here.”

  When she finished roll call, she announced to the students that she would be happy to sign their add slips after class. Then, with no further discussion, she began her introductory lecture, “What can you tell about a person from the language they speak?” she asked the class. She knew that if this were a class of Psychology majors, they’d all be flinging their hands in the air to get her attention. Now, with a group of non-majors, probably with no background in Psychology whatsoever, her question came out of left field. She waited and smiled. When no one responded, she turned and was about to speak, when the door at the back of the classroom flung open.

  A young man stood in the doorway, breathing hard, a look of fear on his face.

  “Hello,” said Pamela to the young man. She could sense his dread, probably because he had arrived late to class and was afraid of antagonizing the professor, she thought. “It’s all right. You can come in. This is ‘Psychology of Language.’ Did you have trouble finding the building?”

  “Uh, no,” responded the student, moving into the room, and slowly down the center aisle towards the front where Pamela stood. “I, I, just heard something on my cell phone while I was on my way here. I, I don’t know if it’s true, but . . .”

  “What?” Pamela asked.

  The young man looked around at his fellow students who glared at him expectantly. “Our coach—Coach Croft.”

  “The football coach?” she asked.

  “Yes,” responded the student, his face contorted, breathing hard. “He was murdered.”

  Chapter Three

  The three women were lounging in Pamela’s office as they often did late in the afternoon on those days when none of them were teaching. Arliss MacGregor-Goodman had confiscated Pamela’s desk and had draped her long, gangly legs over a corner of its top, leaning back in the leather desk chair, where she looked to any newcomer as if she owned this office. She slurped her straw in a large paper cup of raspberry-flavored tea and gesticulated with her free hand. The other two listened attentively. Joan Bentley sat primly in a straight-backed chair by the office door, her hands clasped in a prayerful pose atop her left knee which was crossed neatly over her right knee, her trim grey herringbone skirt pulled sedately over her knee caps. Joan directed her gaze back and forth from Arliss to Pamela who was ensconced on the paisley couch under the window, her shoes resting on the floor and her legs tucked beneath her on the cushions.

  “All I heard was that he was murdered,” Arliss said, arms and beverage cup flailing wildly to punctuate her comment.

  “From whom?” asked Joan, leaning forward at her waist and peering at her younger colleague over the tops of her gold-rimmed glasses. “Students are not known for their accurate conveyance of campus information.”

  “You mean gossip,” added Pamela, reaching for a cup on a side table and sipping.

  “It wasn’t a student,” continued Arliss. “Bob heard it from someone in the Athletic Department. Someone on the faculty.”

  “Bob knows someone in the Athletic Department?” Joan asked, thin grey eyebrows raising a fraction, along with her posture. Pamela giggled. Bob was Arliss’s husband— a sweet man, but hardly one to maintain acquaintances with jocks.

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p; “They serve on the Graduation Committee,” explained Arliss. “They have for several years. He teaches Kinesiology or something and works as the football team’s assistant coach. Bob says he’s reliable.” She plopped her arms down and uttered a snort.

  Pamela and Joan exchanged looks.

  “So,” ventured Pamela, “so, tell us what this assistant coach had to say to Bob.”

  Arliss lifted her thin legs from atop Pamela’s desk and planted her sneaker-clad feet unceremoniously on the floor. Setting her drink on the desk, she scooted the wheeled desk chair across the linoleum floor closer to the two women. “Evidently, they found him in a motel room.”

  “What?” squeaked Joan. She reached behind her and quickly shoved the open office door shut.

  “Joan,” protested Pamela, “I have office hours.”

  “It doesn’t look as if anyone is coming, my dear,” replied Joan, patting Pamela’s hand.

  “It’s the first day of classes!” retorted Pamela.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pamela,” answered Joan, “If anyone knocks, I’ll open it. Go on, Arliss. What did this coach tell Bob again?”

  “He said the police found his body in a motel room,” repeated Arliss, her head of frizzy black hair bouncing as she spoke.

  “How did he hear this?” asked Pamela.

  “According to Bob,” said Arliss, “the guy he knows says the police are questioning everyone in the Athletic Department.”

  “Why?” questioned Joan. “Do they suspect someone over there?”

  “Bob didn’t say any more than that. But, I’m sure he’ll let me know if he finds out any new information.”

  “Yes, dear,” said Joan, smiling. “I’m sure he will. But, of course, it doesn’t matter, really.”

  “What do you mean by that?” sneered Arliss. “A man dies—is murdered—and it doesn’t matter?”

  “I just mean,” replied Joan, her palms raised towards Arliss, “that Pamela will surely solve the crime before the police do anyway.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Joan!” laughed Pamela. “I hardly think I’ll have anything to do with this investigation.”

  “My dear,” continued Joan, “you always seem to come to the aid of our local constabulary who somehow tend to mangle most murder investigations in Reardon. I’m sure they’ll be seeking you out to solve this one too.”

  “I’m sure they won’t,” protested Pamela, sitting upright, and scooting forward on her comfortable sofa. “The only reason I ever got involved in those other murders is because there were sounds that were clues to the killer and that’s my area of expertise. Just how often is that going to happen with a murder investigation?”

  “Twice,” responded the older woman, rising gently and rearranging her skirt.

  “Joan, you are maddening,” said Pamela. “You know those deaths were flukes. It’s completely unlikely that that will ever happen again.”

  “You never know,” said Arliss, joining Joan in needling Pamela. “Sherlock Barnes may soon be on the trail again.” She leaned over and punched Pamela in the arm.

  “Never!” said Pamela, drawing back. “My detecting days are over. That local rube Shoop is quite capable of solving any murder that is committed without any help from me.”

  “Just listen to yourself, my dear!” exclaimed Joan. “’Local rube’! It doesn’t sound to me as if you have much confidence in our law enforcement.”

  “They’re just fine, Joan,” said Pamela, “I’m exaggerating. Besides, what acoustic clue could there be? Arliss said they found him in a motel room. It doesn’t appear as if anyone recorded the murder—at least this time. And if no one recorded the murder, then there’s no reason for me to become involved.”

  “You’re probably right,” agreed Joan, sliding back in her chair, gnawing on her lower lip.

  “It would be more fun if you were involved, Pam,” added Arliss, checking for approval from Joan.

  “Arliss!” shouted Pamela, “Murder is not fun. A murder investigation is not fun—nor should it be.”

  “It could be,” suggested Joan, leaning forward and straightening the lace collar of her blouse. “It’s not as if we have any personal connection with this man.”

  “Good grief, Joan!” yelled Pamela. “He’s the university’s football coach! He’s a hero to most of the student body--even those of us who don’t know him personally. Most students know who he is. Without him, who knows what will happen to the football team?”

  “You mean they might lose?” suggested Arliss, with a sigh.

  “I see that would upset you,” cackled Joan.

  “Horribly,” responded Arliss, weaving back and forth on the rolling chair. “Football is my life!”

  “You two!” exclaimed Pamela. “A man is dead and you’re making jokes.”

  “Pamela, you have to be able to find humor in the mundane,” observed Joan. “Since when were you ever a football fan?”

  “I’m not a football fan, but this coach, what’s his name? Croft? Coach Croft. He’s also a member of this faculty. He’s one of us. He was murdered. That’s horrible.”

  “That’s the problem, as I see it,” said Joan, standing now and pacing around the small office.

  “What problem?” asked Arliss, who had rolled backwards and again placed her legs on the desktop. Pamela had originally cringed when Arliss started to take over her desk in this fashion, but eventually got used to it, and now simply kept a clear space on the lower left corner so that her friend would have a space to stretch her long legs comfortably when she visited.

  “The problem is that none of us like football, so none of us know anything about this fellow or the football team or any of the people in the Athletic Department—other than Bob and that one person he knows on that committee.” Joan continued pacing. “It would help if we had some sources over there.”

  “I’ll ask Bob to see if he can grill his friend on the Graduation Committee,” said Arliss.

  “Grill?” asked Pamela. “Why? Why do we have to find out anything?”

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Pamela. “I’m sure we’ll find out when everyone else does--when it’s revealed in the newspapers.”

  “Pam,” exclaimed Arliss, “This is just not like you! You are usually so eager to find out, so curious! Don’t you want to know who murdered the coach?”

  “Of course, I do,” maintained Pamela, “but it’s not my responsibility to find out.”

  “No, but we’re all researchers,” suggested Joan, arms folded, “and we can surely do a little research.”

  “I suppose,” concluded Pamela.

  “Besides,” added Joan, “I can use something to distract me from Jack.”

  “Now what?” questioned Arliss.

  “He has totally disrupted my life,” replied Joan, sitting back down on her perch, and pulling her chair even closer to the two women. “I have no privacy. He’s taken over my little house. My lifestyle has been forced to change.” She sniffed with just a tinge of self-pity.

  “Joan,” said Pamela, shaking her head. She had heard this complaint from Joan daily since Joan’s youngest of two adult sons had moved in with her after losing his job. “Can’t you get him busy job hunting? If he’d spend more time . . . .”

  “He’s tried,” moaned Joan. “There simply aren’t any jobs in graphic design.”

  “Tell him to apply at McDonald’s,” suggested Arliss. “We’ve all had to work at places we didn’t want to work at some point in our lives.” She eyed her fast food cup and gave the side of it a little tap.

  “Remember,” she prompted them, “he got that warehouse job several months ago, but after one day, he was sneezing so horribly and all that lifting aggravated his bad knee so much that he had to quit. It just seems like less hassle for him to do nothing.”

  “Yes, but when he does nothing,” noted Pamela, “then he’s moping around your house driving you crazy.”

  “Right,” agreed Jo
an. “How did I go so quickly from being a content, widowed professor living a satisfying single life to slave Mom working to motivate an adult child?” She gave the women an exaggerated eye roll.

  “You let this happen, Joan,” admonished Arliss.

  “So you keep telling me,” Joan sighed. “At least you seem to have finally found your bliss, Miss ‘I reject traditional marriage and all conventional values.’ How is life on that little farm of yours?”

  “Excellent,” said Arliss, smiling proudly. “Two horses and a few chickens now.”

  “What about cows?” queried Pamela.

  “Not yet,” said Arliss. “Of course, we have quite a few dogs, and so many cats that I couldn’t even begin to count them. But, if you know of any stray animals that need a home, we can fit in a few more.” Pamela realized that Arliss was truly in her element. The young assistant lab technician had unexpectedly found her life’s dream when she was courted and wed by shy associate professor of animal psychology Bob Goodman several years ago. The couple had recently purchased a farm on the edge of Reardon which the two animal lovers had quickly turned into an animal refuge.

  Pamela glanced at both of her best friends—each so different from the other, yet each so full of the energy and enthusiasm that Pamela herself possessed and admired in others. Joan and Arliss wanted to know about the murder of the football coach. Pamela knew that their curiosity was the same curiosity that she possessed—that of a researcher. They all wanted to know how and why someone could do something like commit murder. And when murder happened so close to home, the desire to know was even stronger.

  Chapter Four

  Luckily, the topic of the football coach’s murder had not consumed Pamela’s thoughts because she had taught two more classes and dealt with a line—yes, an actual line—of students outside of her door during her office hours who were trying to get in or out of various courses at the last minute. She mused that she had sat at her desk during her office hours for several days before the first day of class and had seen very few students. Now, that classes had finally started, students were all frantic to solve their registration problems and, of course, they all assumed that they were the only ones experiencing any problems. She sighed, knowing that it was par for the course, and that schedules would eventually iron themselves out and classes would eventually get down to the business of learning. But for the next day or two, it would be chaos.