Chapter 17
Pamela's reverie was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. It was Jane Marie, speaking in an anxious whisper.
"Dr. Barnes," she squeaked. "Are you alone?"
"Yes," replied Pamela, suddenly intent on her receiver. "What's up?"
"I didn't know if I should call you, but I'm worried about Dr. Marks. He's been in his office for almost an hour with the door shut."
"Jane Marie," said Pamela, thinking that Jane Marie's concern was probably misplaced, "that doesn't sound like anything to worry about."
"Yes," she said, "but not after what just happened." Pamela was puzzled. It was not like Jane Marie to cry wolf.
"What just happened?"
"That woman was here," she announced, in her whispered voice.
"What woman?"
"That Evelyn Carrier. You know, the one in the photograph. She showed up several hours ago and asked to see Dr. Marks. When he saw her, he looked startled. He invited her back into his office and I didn't hear a peep out of them for a good hour. I almost called you then, but I was afraid to. Then she left and he went back in his office and closed the door. I'll have to hang up if he comes out."
Pamela was intrigued. The mystery woman had made an appearance.
"When did she leave? Did she say anything?" she quizzed Jane Marie, "What did he say to you? Anything?"
"No, and Dr. Barnes, when she left, I could swear she was crying. Her face was red; her eyes were tear-stained. You know, it looked like she'd been crying. Dr. Marks just sort of said a quick good-bye and then excused himself and shut his door and I haven't heard anything from him since. I tell you, I'm worried. What if this is connected to Dr. Clark's death? I mean, what if--what if--this woman killed Dr. Clark? Do you think she could have threatened Dr. Marks?"
"Jane Marie," said Pamela, in her most reassuring voice, "I think it's highly unlikely that any of this is connected to Dr. Clark's death. If this woman-this Evelyn Carrier were at all involved, I'm sure Dr. Marks would have contacted the police. But, just so you know, I did mention her-and the photo and the big fight--to Detective Shoop yesterday, just in case."
"What did he say?" asked Jane Marie.
"Not surprisingly--nothing," she answered, "I guess that's the detective's motto: ask questions-don't give answers. But, Jane Marie, don't worry about Mitchell. He can take care of himself." Pamela said this, but she herself wasn't totally convinced. She wished she could have seen this Evelyn Carrier or been a fly on the wall during her meeting with Mitchell Marks.
"I've got to go, Dr. Barnes," said Jane Marie, "He may come out any time and I don't want him to catch me gossiping on the phone. I'll see you at the memorial on Sunday, okay?"
"Sure," Pamela answered, but the departmental secretary had already hung up.
Pamela looked at her watch. It was past 4:30 p.m. and if she was going to get Arliss from the animal lab and drive the two of them to Who-Who's by five, she'd probably better get going. There was just one thing she wanted to check on her computer before she left. She clicked onto Google Scholar and typed in "John Pierce Culver," Nothing. Mr. Culver may have written a dissertation of interest to Charlotte, she thought, but he obviously hadn't produced anything of enough importance to have been picked up by Google's academic search engine. This only meant that Culver never published anything in any reputable journal. So, what was Charlotte doing reading his dissertation the night she was murdered? It was probably not related to her death at all. She closed down her computer and headed out. Joan and Willard had already left, as had most faculty members. It was, after all, late on a Friday afternoon.
Pamela zipped down the corner staircase and onto the main floor. Complete silence. Fridays will do that, she thought. The old building seemed almost haunted, with each of her steps making a creaking noise on the wooden floor boards. Then she saw the lab at the end of the side hallway. Just a brief glance, she thought to herself. This time, as she walked to the lab, she paid close attention to the offices in this wing. She tried to imagine how the killer might have entered the lab, from which direction he--or she--must have come. Had the killer been hiding in an office? The men's restroom was on the other side of the graduate students' office. That's where Willard had said he'd been yesterday when she bumped into him when she exited the lab. The killer could have hidden there and waited until the hallway was clear.
Or maybe the killer had entered from the parking lot? It was a short walk from there to the lab. But if so, how had the killer even known that Charlotte would be there? If, of course, the killer was even looking for Charlotte. So many questions.
She walked quickly towards the lab and unlocked the door. Hardly anyone had even been inside the lab since the murder. Maybe it was because they were frightened. Of course, she--or rather Kent--had cancelled her data collection this week. Next week, there would be more activity. All the more reason to check on things now--when there was little traffic.
As she entered, she flipped on the overhead lights. This time she left the door open. She walked slowly around the lab, looking at all the rows of computers. Was it possible for someone to hide in the lab itself, she wondered? She looked everywhere.
Rocky was right. She was getting herself involved in things she had no business getting involved in. As she quickly left the lab, locking the door, she looked around behind her immediately, almost expecting Willard Swinton to pop up out of nowhere as he had the other day. No one was in sight. This made the third time she'd secretly visited the lab since the murder. Was she tempting fate? Taking too many chances?
As she passed the main office, she noticed the door was closed--and as she pulled it-discovered it was also locked. That meant that Jane Marie had left. It was possible that Mitchell was still here but, officially, the Department of Psychology was closed for business for the week. She wondered if Mitchell was still in his office brooding about the appearance of the mysterious Evelyn Carrier.
Heading further down the hallway into the opposite wing of the building--where she seldom went--she entered the animal psychology section of her department. She felt a cold shiver--as if someone were watching her. It was no doubt her imagination working over time--or possibly the strangeness of this wing compared to hers. This part of the building was noticeably dirtier and there were sounds of creatures in the distance.
She reached the end of the main hallway, turned left, and continued down the side hallway to the animal lab at the end. The animal lab was in a mirror position to the computer lab--on the other side of the building. It seemed unusual to enter this lab and not see the computers she was so familiar with. As she opened the lab door, she could see Arliss in a white lab coat, with her dilapidated trousers and scuffed up shoes, bent down next to a large cage.
"That's a good fellow, Bailey," Arliss said, coaxing a large chimpanzee. "Hey, Pam!" she called to her friend. "Come meet my buddy."
Pamela strode quickly to the back of the lab. She was not all that taken with animals--her poodle, yes--other animals--not so much. But she feigned enthusiasm because she really liked Arliss, and Arliss was a genuine animal lover.
"Ready to go?" she asked "It's almost five and Joan will probably beat us."
"Yep," nodded Arliss, checking a clipboard that was hanging from the side of the cage. "Hey, there bud, be a pal and let me have a night out with my friends." The chimp whimpered and pulled pitifully on her lab coat.
"Ohhh," said Pamela, sadly. "He doesn't want you to leave." This was another reason she avoided animals. She was a sucker for a sad face and this chimp had a really sad face.
"He's fine," announced Arliss, standing and whipping off her lab coat as she grabbed her back pack from a lab table. "Let's go party!"
Pamela headed out the lab door, with Arliss loping behind. Arliss locked up behind herself and the two women strode down the main hallway of Blake Hall, laughing and talking.
"Just thought you'd like to know," said Pamela to Arliss, "Since I'm bringing you, Joan will be taking you home--as she's closer to you, and Who-Who's is closer to me."
"Limousine service!" chuckled Arliss.
"And don't you forget it," said Pamela, shaking her finger at Arliss. "Joan and I expect some payback."
"I'm a great dog-sitter," announced Arliss, "and I know you have a super little poodle, don't you?" Pamela knew that Arliss lived alone in an apartment complex where no pets were allowed; it was probably torture for her, loving "critters" the way she did. They exited Blake Hall and into the small parking lot. Pamela unlocked her car and she and Arliss slid inside.
"Believe me," confided Pamela, "the poodle doesn't need sitting. It's the teenager that needs sitting. Do you want to try your hand at that?" She shook her head hopelessly.
"The perils of motherhood," bemoaned Arliss in a mock serious voice.
"The joys of being single," intoned Pamela. "Believe me, animals are much easier to raise than children."
They were laughing and chatting and having an otherwise relaxing Friday night out. Pamela pulled carefully out of the parking lot-after all, she did have a passenger. They didn't notice the person sitting in a nearby car, watching their every move.