Chapter 9
She had barely exited the lab and locked the door when she bumped into Rex and Phineas walking out of Rex's office. The two men had obviously been arguing, but they quieted immediately and turned their attention to her.
"Pamela," greeted Rex, warmly, "Surely, you weren't in the lab? I thought the police had forbidden us to enter." He came towards her, followed by Phineas.
"I just had to check on some data," she mumbled, "I'm running an experiment this week and I need to see where we stand on participants. I didn't think they'd mind." She stopped herself before she babbled on unnecessarily.
"Dr. Barnes," said Phineas, coming closer, "I'm so sorry about what happened. I heard you were the one who found Charlotte in the lab. I wish I'd stayed later last night so I could've been here for you."
"Yes," she nodded at the two men, "That would have been nice." She was starting to go.
"So, what did you find?" asked Rex in a low whispered voice, glancing back at the lab door.
"What?" stammered Pamela, clutching her purse as if it contained gold.
"The lab. Did the police make a mess of it? I assume they probably turned the place upside down," boomed Rex, shaking his head of thick chestnut-colored hair.
"Yes," agreed Phineas, nodding fiercely. "Did they--you know--clean everything up?" He grimaced squeamishly.
"It looks as it always did," offered Pamela. "Feel free to go check for yourselves if you like." She was feeling more and more uncomfortable standing here; the newly burned CD felt warm inside her purse.
"Well, take care, Pamela," said Rex, squeezing her arm, "Personally, I believe I'll wait until the police give their approval before I venture into the lab." He had an uncharacteristically somber look on his face.
She stopped suddenly. "Well, that's very circumspect of you, Rex."
"All I meant was," he replied, "that I'd feel uncomfortable to go in there now." Then he smiled that broad, toothy grin.
"Yes," agreed Phineas, nodding insistently. "I wouldn't want to go in the lab unless I absolutely had to. I can just imagine how terrible it must make you must feel, Dr. Barnes. Just being in the lab probably reminds you of Charlotte, of finding her last night. I just can't believe I was here in the building when it happened." He cringed and his mouth gathered into a little pucker.
"Gentlemen," announced Pamela, straightening herself, "I'm perfectly fine and it doesn't bother me to be in the lab. I'm truly sorry about Charlotte, but I'm not going to let what happened to her prevent me from doing my job, and I assume you won't either." She beamed her most gracious smile at them, turned, and headed down the hall toward the main office.
For almost an instant, Pamela forgot the CD in her purse--the disk with seconds, maybe even minutes of sound that had been recorded at the computer desk where Charlotte had been murdered at a time when the murder probably took place. Pamela was anxious to listen to the CD, but she knew that this would be something she'd have to do in private.
She turned the corner toward the main office. Charlotte's office door was closed and the yellow crime scene tape barred all entrance. The main hallway looked reasonably normal once again. The dim lighting in the hallway was interspersed with the warm glow from large hanging lantern chandeliers and matching wall sconces. The sounds of student voices rang from a side hall. As she passed the door to Laura Delmondo's office, she could see Laura sitting at her desk, her head in her hands. The young professor appeared frozen in this position except for some slight heaves from her thin shoulders. Pamela thought how much she wanted to leave work and get home to listen to the CD in her purse, but the sight of a fellow teacher sitting there so forlornly, touched her heart, so she stopped at the doorway and knocked gently.
"Laura," she said softly.
The young woman raised her head and blinked. "Oh, Pamela," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be sitting here like this. Students could come in at any moment; it's just that..." She heaved a huge sigh, clutching the side of her head again. Pamela quietly entered the office and shut the door.
"It's okay," she said, sitting on a chair opposite Laura's desk. "This has hit all of us. You're allowed to be upset."
"I know," Laura replied, "I feel so terrible. Charlotte and I had a big fight yesterday. It was the last conversation between us and now she's...she's dead. The last thing I said to her was so hateful." This was news, thought Pamela. More than just Mitchell had had a fight with Charlotte yesterday.
"Now, Laura," said Pamela, soothingly, placing her hand on Laura's arm from across the desk, "you and Charlotte were close. I'm sure she knew that you cared for her." Laura's desktop featured a color photograph of Laura and her husband in their wedding attire.
"She knew," said Laura, biting her lower lip, her long golden hair falling around her shoulders in dishevelment. "She knew how much I appreciated her and everything she'd done for me. I mean, I wouldn't be here without Charlotte; she was my mentor. If it hadn't been for her, I never would have considered an academic career or gone on for my doctorate. She was instrumental in my getting the position here at Grace University too. I just can't believe she's gone." Another bout of tears welled up and Laura reached for a handful of tissues from a box on her desk.
"Charlotte cared about you, Laura," said Pamela. "She showed that by her actions. She was just a very-argumentative-person, and yesterday you were on the receiving end. It didn't mean she didn't realize your concern for her."
"I did. I did," stammered the younger woman. "She was concerned, but just about my job--always about the job, and my research, and getting published. Pamela, you're a woman--you're married with a child. You know there's more to life than just your job."
"Absolutely, I do," said Pamela, smiling.
"But Charlotte didn't," insisted Laura. "She was all about work. I guess it was because she didn't have a family. She turned me into her family--sort of like her daughter. I thought at first that might be nice because I'm estranged from my own mother and I'd like to have an 'adopted mother,' but Charlotte didn't want me like most mothers would want a daughter. She wanted me as her protégé--and for that I had to produce. Research! Papers! Whatever I published, it was never enough for Charlotte; she was always demanding more."
"She was hard on you just as she was hard on herself," agreed Pamela. "Without a doubt, she was the most prolific researcher I've ever known. And those grants! How could one person produce so much grant money single-handed, I'll never know."
"Me neither," said Laura, "And she expected everyone to be just like her. But, Pamela, no one can do that and have a life. I have a husband and we-we've been wanting to start a family. We haven't been successful and we were just starting to try in vitro fertilization."
"I see," nodded Pamela.
"It's very expensive," she confided, "And it's very time-consuming. I simply haven't had any time for working on my research or even for regular classes. I've missed some of my office hours because of all these doctor appointments lately. And Charlotte was harassing me about it to make matters worse. She told me the in vitro was all a waste of time and that I needed to forget about being a baby machine."
"Being a baby machine?" asked Pamela delicately.
"Yes," replied Laura, sighing, "Those were her exact words."
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!"