Chapter 13
She moved over to her couch where she could relax. The couch was very soft and comfortable--as Detective Shoop had discovered. The afternoon was waning, and as she looked out her window, she could see the beautiful reds and yellows of autumn in the south. She was still in her office, waiting for her office hours to end so she could take the controversial disk to the police.
As she poured herself another cup of Rocky's home brewed tea from her thermos, Kent appeared at her door. Oh, God! She'd forgotten the young man again. How unconscionable of her, when it was Kent who'd discovered Charlotte's body. Good grief, she thought, he'd undergone as much interrogation as she had and was probably suffering as much emotional trauma. She should have checked up on him to see how he was coping. It was reneging on her responsibilities as his advisor and supervisor and here he was at her door, probably upset.
"Kent," she said, rising and inviting him in. "Please, have a seat." She indicated the chair, but the young man remained standing.
"That's okay, Dr. Barnes," he said, anxiously. "I just wanted to touch base with you." He looked down in hesitation. "I just stopped by to let you know that I contacted our research subjects for this week and rescheduled them all for next week." He wrapped the cord from a set of headphones that hung around his shoulders like a totem around his fingers. "You know, I thought they might be upset about Dr. Clark's death and...also, I wasn't absolutely sure when the police would be out of the lab."
"That's a good idea, Kent," said Pamela, "Thank you. The police should be finished in the lab soon, if they aren't already."
"I was just down there, Dr. B," he reported enthusiastically, "and they're gone. The tape is down."
"Great. So, when do we start collecting again?"
"Monday," he replied, "We'll have to double up, but it's not a problem 'cause we have plenty of space in the lab and there aren't any other studies scheduled in there for the next two weeks. I checked."
"Great," she said, smiling. "I'm relieved that you took it upon yourself and did that."
Suddenly, Angela meandered into the doorway.
"Hey," greeted Kent, "I bet you're looking for the sign-up sheet for Dr. Barnes' experiment."
"Uh, no," responded Angela, shyly, "I was looking for my...for Dr. Barnes."
"She's here; you're in luck," he quipped.
At that, Angela spotted her mother seated on her blue and pink sofa and her mother spotted her.
"Sweetie! What are you doing here?" she asked. "Kent, this is my daughter, Angela. She's a freshman here at Grace University. Angie, this is Kent Drummond, my top graduate assistant."
"Gee, Dr. B, I'm honored," he beamed, "Hello, Angie. Dr. B talks about you all the time, so I feel like I know you already."
"Mom," cringed Angela, "I wish you wouldn't talk about me to your students."
"Hey, Angie, "continued Kent, "Don't worry. She only says nice things. You sound like a great girl from what I can tell."
Angela beamed and blushed. Pamela felt like an unwelcome intruder at this moment.
"Listen, honey," Pamela began, "Did you want a ride home? I can't leave right this minute. Do you want to stick around and wait for me?"
"I ...uh..." stammered Angela.
"I know, Dr. B," said Kent, cutting in, obviously in a hurry to get going. "I'm free now that we've cancelled our subjects for the day. I was heading out. I'll be happy to give you a ride home, Angie. If you don't mind riding in my old clunker." He grinned sheepishly, the purple highlights in his prickly-looking hair gleaming.
"I guess. Is it okay, Mom?" asked Angela
"It's fine with me, Kent, if you're sure you're not too busy."
"Not a problem! Let's go, Angie!" With that, and swinging the headphones back over his shoulder, he turned abruptly and skated off on his sneaker-clad feet, Angela following in his tracks.
Pamela watched her daughter go off with the young man. Seeing the headphones draped around his shoulders, Pamela suddenly pictured Charlotte, dead in the lab with a set of similar headphones wrapped around her neck. She thought, could Kent possibly be the killer? Oh, she was being ridiculous! She realized that she often saw Kent in the building carrying headphone units-just like the set that had strangled Charlotte. But, he worked in the lab. He fixed defective equipment; he was probably repairing that set of headphones that he was wearing around his neck. But, Charlotte was strangled with a headphone set and certainly Kent had access to those; he was also in the building the night of the murder. Was it possible? Could Kent have killed Charlotte? And here she'd sent her daughter off with him. Oh, for heaven's sake. This was truly ridiculous! Kent was in her class all Tuesday night. If he had murdered Charlotte, he would have had to leave her class, run to the lab, murder Charlotte, and then run back to get her-all in the space of just a few minutes. He simply wasn't gone long enough to do all of that. And, besides, why? Why would he kill Charlotte? He had no motive. She was letting her mind run crazy.
Pamela breathed deeply. Back to reality, she told herself. Kent was a wonderful assistant; she was lucky. As she considered her recent conversation with the young man, she realized suddenly that the lab was now totally empty. No other faculty members were collecting data there as Kent had informed her, the police were done with their work, and subjects for Pamela's study wouldn't be in there until next week. The lab was locked for now--with all its secrets of Charlotte's demise. Probably all for the best, she thought. Allow some time to pass and maybe people won't be uncomfortable about having to go in there. Of course, Mitchell had warned the faculty about working alone in the lab-but he said at night, and it was the middle of the afternoon.
Glancing at her watch, she realized that it was past her office hours. She was free to leave. She gathered her belongings together and headed out. Willard's door was closed but Joan, she noticed, was sitting at her desk, typing, and sipping a cup of tea, the stringed label from her tea bag hanging over the edge of her porcelain cup. Pamela stopped at her door.
"Oh, my," said Joan, looking up, smiling, the light reflecting on her rimless reading glasses, "I was so engrossed, I didn't see you standing there." Pamela came into her office and perched on the edge of Joan's upholstered arm chair. She and Joan must look as if they were vying for "most comfy office" honors. Joan's husband had died over five years ago and Joan's two sons had been on their own for years-in distant states, much to Joan's everlasting dismay. There were photographs of several grandchildren festooning Joan's desk.
"So," Pamela said to her friend, "back at work?"
"Not that I ever stopped," chuckled Joan, her buoyant good humor rippling out. She sipped her tea.
"We're allowed some time to mourn for Charlotte," noted Pamela, not totally facetiously, giving Joan a biting glance.
"Have a cookie," Joan said, offering Pamela a delicate frosted biscuit from a tray of goodies.
"Joan," chided Pamela, "you know I'm trying to diet." She tapped her tummy.
"You're always trying to diet," responded Joan, "and it's totally unnecessary. Come now, one little cookie. See how small they are."
"I really shouldn't," Pamela hesitated, "I need to get home."
"Now, if you're worried about your diet," said Joan broadly, "that's just the place not to go. You know that military man of yours will feed you some of his Army chow the minute you walk in the door." Joan knew that Rocky never prepared "chow." In fact, she knew that Rocky would be horrified at her use of that term. He was a gourmet cook-and no one better forget it. Pamela selected a little pink wafer.
"Right," answered Pamela, "I swear he's determined to make me a blimp."
"Are we still on for our girls' night out on Friday?" Joan asked, looking down to double check something she'd written on her computer. All Pamela could see was the top of her well-coiffed white hair.
"As far as I know," said Pamela, "I'll double check with Arliss. Yum." She popped the remaining piece of cookie into her mouth.
"I hope," said Joan, "that you were joking about taking time out to mourn for Charlotte. I believe the only mourning we should do is a good toast to her soul at Who-Who's. And, of course, a eulogy or two at her memorial on Sunday."
"Joan," said Pamela, scowling. "You sound as if you're happy she's dead."
"Heavens' no," laughed Joan, "Charlotte may have driven most of the department crazy, but she didn't bother me at all. I understood her."
"You did?" asked Pamela, "How so?" She reached for another cookie.
"Well," whispered Joan, inclining her head towards Pamela, "It may have appeared at times that Charlotte was running roughshod over Mitchell--and she certainly was trying to--but that doesn't necessarily mean that she was successful. Although, I'll admit I did cheer some of her efforts in skewering our chief--or any of our male faculty members--if truth be told." Joan looked back at her monitor, leaving Pamela to decipher her cryptic words.
"What are you talking about Joan?"
"Pamela," continued Joan, "there were--are--things going on in this department of which you're probably not aware."
"Such as?"
"Dear, dear," whispered Joan, "I'm really not at liberty to discuss them, but suffice it to say, there is small battle of the sexes in progress."
"What do you mean 'battle of the sexes'?"
"My understanding is that it centers on this tenure thing," said Joan. "Rumor has it that the Dean has restricted our department to two--not three candidates."
"Yes," nodded Pamela. "I've heard as much. So, what is it? Mitchell and Charlotte were feuding about which two?"
"Among other things," said Joan, mysteriously. "He wants me to take over as Tenure Committee Chair." She rolled her eyes.
"Congratulations! Lucky you," said Pamela.
"Thank you," replied Joan, biting her lip, "I just hope I don't end up the same as Charlotte did." Pamela frowned at her.
"The Tenure Committee--do you think that's why she was murdered?" questioned Pamela.
"She certainly was consumed by it. At least making sure Laura got tenure. If the Dean truly was forcing her to restrict our department to two candidates, that would put Charlotte in a very awkward position," reasoned Joan.
"I always assumed that Charlotte thought highly of Laura. Surely she would fight for her to get tenure."
"Maybe," said Joan, "but, did you hear Charlotte and Laura going at it earlier this week?"
"No," said Pamela, moving closer to her friend.
"It was awful!" explained Joan. "I've heard Charlotte rage like that before, but usually to a student. Laura is so sweet."
"Why would she do that?" questioned Pamela.
"Charlotte has invested so much time and effort into making Laura--as Charlotte saw it--what Laura is today. Now, Laura is spending all her time, or what Charlotte evidently saw as 'all her time,'" and here Joan looked around before she leaned close to Pamela and whispered, "trying to get pregnant rather than trying to get published."
"And trying to get published is ever so much more important?" concluded Pamela, facetiously.
"In Charlotte's eyes," stated Joan. "Why wouldn't it be? That's all Charlotte lived for? Her career. She had no husband, no family. Laura was like a daughter to her."
"It doesn't sound like she treated her like a daughter," said Pamela.
"I agree," nodded Joan. "If Laura were my daughter I'd be giving her all the moral support she needed for this baby enterprise. My goodness, she shouldn't need much encouragement. With that sexy hunk Vittorio for a husband, I'd think getting pregnant would be relatively easy."
"But, I've been hearing that Laura was using in vitro to get pregnant," noted Pamela. In fact, she'd heard it from Laura herself.
"Yes, I've heard that," answered Joan. "Poor dear. Rumor has it that she and Vittorio have been trying this in vitro thing for several rounds now. So far, no success. Laura is a darling, and she does top-notch research. She didn't deserve a dressing down from Charlotte."
"I know," responded Pamela. "I just don't get it."
"It must have been because of the upcoming tenure meeting," added Joan. "Something tells me that Charlotte, as Chair, knew something that we committee members don't. Probably this business with the cut-back in the number of candidates the Dean is willing to accept. Charlotte may just have been trying to prepare Laura for a letdown. I mean, with all the baby making efforts, Laura's publication output has slipped this year. At least, it's definitely less than Rex's and Phin's. That may be why Charlotte was demanding that all three candidates include their dissertations in their portfolios."
"That's ridiculous!" snorted Pamela. "No one on the Committee has time to read one, let alone three, dissertations."
"No, of course not," agreed Joan, "It was all just for show. And to provide Charlotte a way to demonstrate her clout."
"You won't make the committee read the dissertations, will you?"
"Never!" replied Joan.
"You don't think that Charlotte pushed Laura so far that Laura just pushed back?" asked Pamela, peeking out of the corner of her eye for Joan's reaction.
"I don't think Laura could hurt a fly," responded Joan. "Charlotte annoyed so many people, Pamela. I wouldn't put it past her to have antagonized someone--anyone--not even necessarily someone on campus--so badly that that person followed her into the lab and 'offed' her."
"Joan!" cried Pamela, "offed?"
"I'm just trying out the appropriate lingo," responded Joan, brushing a few cookie crumbs from the front of her lace blouse.
"So you don't think the killer could be someone in the department like Mitchell said?" asked Pamela carefully.
"Of course not," responded Joan, "I can't imagine anyone in our department doing such a thing. It's probably an irate student who got an 'F' or a clerk in a store Charlotte browbeat--or even," she bent her head low and whispered, "even a scorned lover."
"Joan," laughed Pamela, "you read too many mysteries. Charlotte was married to her job. Besides, she'd emasculate any man who attempted to have sex with her."
"My dear you are delicious," smirked Joan.
"Not as delicious as your cookies," said Pamela lifting her eyebrows and joining in the hearty laughter. The chuckling of the two women could be heard up and down the hallway.
The tell-tale computer voice on Joan's PC announced "You've got mail!" and Joan clicked on the envelope icon.
"Wonderful!" she scowled, reading the new email message.
"What?" asked Pamela.
"The Charlotte Clark memorial service is scheduled for this Sunday afternoon at 2:00 p.m..at the campus chapel." She drummed her fingers on her keyboard. "I'm almost tempted to send my regrets." She placed her fingers in a keyboard-ready position.
"Now, Joan," warned Pamela, reaching out her hand and placing it on Joan's keyboard fingers, "You know Mitchell expects us all there. It won't be so bad. We can sit together." Joan removed her hands from her computer, resignedly.
"At least we have Who-Who's to look forward to!" she added, cheerfully.
When Pamela finally left Joan's office it was getting late. Pamela realized that Rocky would be wondering where she was. She headed down the side staircase and onto the main floor, noticing immediately that the side hallway leading to the lab appeared deserted. Rex's, Phin's, and the grad students' offices were all closed. The building seemed empty.
Pamela quickly slipped down the hallway toward the lab. Just as Kent had said, the police tape had been removed. Unlocking the door, she moved inside, and closed the door behind her. As she looked around, she realized she was alone--as she expected she would be--given what Kent had told her about rescheduling her subjects for next week. She went to the master console and reached into the side drawer from which she withdrew a blank CD.
She moved carefully to the first row of computers--scrupulously avoiding #4--where Charlotte Clark had died. She stopped at #10, the furthest away from #4, in the first row. She pulled out the chair and sat down. Here she could see much of what Charlotte probably saw two nights ago. Not much. The acoustic battening walls of the carrel surrounded her. She reached inside her purse for the infamous computer disk. After powering up the computer, she opened a CD drawer, inserted her disk, and placed the blank disk in a second drawer. On the start up screen, she clicked on "copy disk" and pressed "enter." It was possible to burn disks on her office computer, but she knew the administration was able to (and probably did) keep a record of all faculty activity on their office computers. It was much safer to make duplicate copies (particularly this one) in the lab. The computer whirred and spun and the lights on the two drawers flickered. She was entranced watching the duplication process when she heard the door to the lab open.