Sounds of Murder

Chapter 9

Pamela patted Laura's arm again. "It sounds like the insensitive thing Charlotte would say. I feel such sympathy for you."

"Thank you, Pamela," Laura said, smiling demurely. "It really helps to be able to discuss this. I don't have anyone to talk to now that Charlotte is...."

"Listen to me, Laura," Pamela added firmly, "You're better off confiding your personal problems, if you feel the need to do so, to someone-anyone--who'll be more empathetic than Charlotte ever could be."

"Yes, I see that," said Laura, wiping a final tear aside and smiling a much broader grin now.

"Will you be okay?" asked Pamela.

"Yes, thank you," added Laura, "thank you for stopping to talk to me. I really appreciate it." Pamela squeezed Laura's hands with hers, smiling back and then rose to go. She turned at the door.

"Good luck with the in vitro," she whispered. "I have tremendous faith in modern science." Then she was off down the hall. She'd forgotten, for the brief duration of her conversation with Laura Delmondo, her original goal. Now, she was doubly motivated to get home.

She pushed through a crowd of students and turned into the main office, quickly grabbing her mail from her slot, and then glanced around the corner into Jane Marie's smaller office. Jane Marie was typing furiously, a ray of sunlight from an outside window piercing through orange and black crepe paper bunting and striking her hair.

"Is he in?" she whispered to Jane Marie, pointing at the Department Head's door.

"Dr. Bentley's in there now," answered Jane Marie, looking up. "She's been in there for at least 20 minutes. He's been looking for you."

"Oh, no," Pamela scowled, "since when?"

"Just a bit ago," she assured Pamela. "He spent most of the morning with that Shoop, and then with the Dean trying to deal with the fall-out from Charlotte's murder, and then this afternoon that woman reporter from local KRDN was here interviewing him and ...."

"He didn't tell her that I was the one who discovered the body, did he?" Pamela asked.

"I don't think so," she said. "I really think they're trying to keep this low key and keep your name and the name of the grad assistant...."

"Kent."

"Yes, Kent. Keep both of your names out of it. But, Dr. Barnes, I wouldn't count on that working. That reporter's a barracuda. She was trying to finagle information from me."

"And?"

"And, of course, she didn't get any," announced Jane Marie, smiling coyly, faking polishing her nails on her chest.

"Thanks."

"No problem," said Jane Marie.

Just then, the door to the Department Head's office opened and Mitchell Marks and Joan Bentley entered the small ante-chamber.

"Pamela!" called out Marks, spying her. "Good, you're here. Can you come in for a moment?"

"I was--," she stammered, desperately hoping to be on her way.

"Don't worry, my dear," tossed out Joan, "He's under duress but he won't bite you. I promise." She stepped lively out of the office and on her way.

"For a moment, then," said Pamela, looking back at Joan, disappearing around the corner, and at Jane Marie, who smiled sheepishly and sorrowfully at the same time.

Mitchell held open the door to his office and escorted Pamela into the vast space, decorated in antique guns, hunting trophies and awards from Mitchell's many years of publishing articles and books in psychology. Her Department Head was tall, medium built, and could, in some circles, be considered attractive, with his wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, and delicate features. A former faculty member had once compared him to the Ashley Wilkes character in "Gone With the Wind." Unfortunately, thought Pamela, Wilkes was ineffectual-as Mitchell often was-at least in his inability to stand up to Charlotte. Pamela found Mitchell's type too effete and far preferred a more macho man-like her Rocky.

"My God," Mitchell sighed, leaning back in his comfortable desk chair. Pamela seated herself on one of the three or four chairs situated in front of his desk. "What a disaster! And here I haven't even had a second to talk to you. I wish you'd called me last night." Mitchell always spoke in a deep whispered monotone. No wonder he had trouble leading the department.

"Mitchell," she started to apologize, "The detectives were interrogating me so long, I didn't have a free second. When I finally got home it was so late and...."

"Stop! Stop!" he said, holding up his hand, "It's not a criticism. I can only imagine how terrible the whole thing was for you. I just wish I'd been here to help you. That's what I meant. No one should have to go through such an ordeal alone." Mitchell leaned way back in his leather desk chair and formed a tent of his fingers. He rocked his chair slowly back and forth as he looked at her with cloudy blue eyes that hid-what? Did he know more than he had revealed about the murder?

"Thank you, Mitchell," she said. "Actually, it's over now. The sooner things get back to normal, the better."

"It's certainly not over," he said, harrumphing and crossing his legs, "The cops will be on this until they find who did it. The press will be plastered all over everyone in the department. Listen, I tried to keep your name out of it and so did the Dean. But I can't guarantee that some clever reporter won't tumble to the fact that you were the one who discovered the body. You're news, Pamela, and reporters will want to talk to you. I've already spoken to Kent and told him in no uncertain terms not to discuss this with anyone except the police if he values his assistantship."

"Mitchell, I don't think we can require that of him," she said, quizzically. "I mean, if he wishes to talk to the press, he's a free agent."

"You're probably right," he sighed, "but I tried. I just hope the police find the culprit sooner rather than later and we can go about our business."

She relaxed noticeably. Mitchell certainly didn't seem to be acting guilty. If he was the one who had murdered Charlotte, he didn't act like it. Or he could just be a good actor. Mitchell had never seen particularly hypocritical to her; he was, in fact, usually very straightforward.

"Do they have any suspects?" she asked, carefully. "I mean, Jane Marie said you'd spoken to the police this afternoon."

"Right," he said, "That big, tall fellow. With the eyebrows. Shoop. Didn't get the feeling that they had any clues, but maybe that's just their way."

Now that she was here, talking to her boss, she figured she might as well test the waters. "It doesn't seem it was a thief or anyone from the outside, I understand," she ventured. "They seem to think it was someone--local."

"Local." He smirked, his eyelids suddenly lifting, shoulders becoming concave. "You mean someone in the department."

"Yes," she agreed, keeping her eyes firmly glued to his.

"Ten faculty members, fifteen graduate students, one secretary, and a few custodians," he said, in a calculated manner. "A fairly small pool."

"Yes," she answered. "But surely not everyone in the pool would have a motive."

"Hmmph," snorted Mitchell, leaning back in his chair again and gnawing a pencil. "Motive to kill the most obnoxious, overbearing, self-centered person I've ever known." He removed the pencil and twirled it between his fingers. "Seems to me like the entire pool would have a motive." He clenched his teeth, and suddenly broke the pencil in half. "Well, I hope you're ready for a damn interesting faculty meeting tomorrow!"