Chapter 18
Joan was already holding court in their favorite booth at Who-Who's when Arliss scooted in beside her, and Pamela took up her position on the other side of the table. The cheerful Latin American rhythms pulsating through the sound system and the colorful maracas decorating the walls provided just the ambiance the three women needed to begin unwinding from probably one of the most harrowing weeks their department had ever experienced.
"Did you order?" Pamela asked Joan, removing her jacket and noticeably relaxing. Arliss stowed her backpack under the table and leaned her lanky body across it.
"What!" declared Joan, "You don't trust me to order for you?"
Just then a waiter arrived with three frosty large inverted bell-shaped glasses, each with a lemon wedge neatly upended over the side. He started placing the drinks on the table.
"Margaritas for all!" sang Joan. "My treat!"
"You ladies are celebrating?" asked the efficient waiter.
"No, dear boy," Joan replied, her flirtatious eyes scanning the man's torso quickly up and down. She took a cleansing sip of her Margarita and said, "we're in mourning." She lifted the glass in the air and swung her hips from side to side.
"Joan," grimaced Pamela. The waiter looked confused, but handed each woman a napkin and then took his leave. "You are bad," added Pamela.
"If we're in mourning," asked Arliss, joining in the game. "Then this is the wake, right?"
"Now, you've got the spirit," said Joan, nudging Arliss lightly on the shoulder. Pamela shook her head. Her two friends were angels to try to cheer her up and make her forget the trauma she'd been through. She resolved to put the events of the last few days out of her mind and enjoy herself.
"Hear! Hear!" she saluted them. "Bottoms up!" All three women gulped their drinks. "To Charlotte!" she offered, lifting her glass again. They all clicked their glasses together.
"To Charlotte!" said Arliss, joining in.
"To Charlotte!" added Joan, "wherever she may be!" Then she raised her eyebrows quickly up and down knowingly and they all laughed.
"We're terrible," said Pamela, laughing in spite of herself.
"We'll be the pictures of decorum at the official memorial on Sunday," contributed Joan.
Suddenly, Pamela set her glass down and looked at her friends. "I don't know if I can do this," she said, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Do what?" asked Joan, soothingly, "Have a drink with two good friends? Come, come, my dear." She set down her drink and placed her hand over Pamela's.
"Pam," added Arliss, "we're just trying to cheer you up. I'm sorry if we're making you uncomfortable."
"It's not you," she spoke to Arliss, "or you," she turned to Joan, "but since I found her-her--in the lab--I just haven't been able to think of anything else."
"I know," agreed Arliss, "God, I don't know what I'd have done. I sure didn't like the woman, but I never imagined anyone would kill her."
"Me neither," agreed Pam.
"It doesn't surprise me," said Joan. "That woman was more than just annoying. Maybe you two weren't aware of all her machinations--but, believe me, I've been at Grace University a lot longer than either of you, and I know things you don't."
"Such as?" asked Arliss.
"Let's just say that over the years, Charlotte Clark has been instrumental in the demise of more than one academic career," admitted Joan.
"You don't mean in our department?" asked Pamela.
"My dear," continued Joan, "I've served on many committees with that woman--student thesis committees, service committees, nationally appointed committees, all sorts--and she had her way of getting what she wanted. If she couldn't get it above board, she was not beneath using underhanded methods."
"Why haven't I ever heard about this?" asked Pamela.
"Or me?" chimed in Arliss.
"The woman," explained Joan, "was a master at covering her tracks. To tell the truth, I wouldn't be surprised if some--if not all--of her grants were secured through devious means."
"Such as?" wondered Arliss, turning insistently towards Joan in the booth.
"Such as blackmail," said Joan, suggestively.
"Joan," laughed Pamela, "you must be kidding. Surely, those grant proposals were scrutinized from here to Sunday. How could Charlotte possibly blackmail someone for grant money?"
"I don't know the specifics," explained Joan, "that's why I never would have said anything. And, Lord knows, our department benefited so much from her grants that it would be like cutting off my nose to spite my face to question them." Joan's eye brows rose to hairline height and her upper lip jutted out like a sudden overbite. She returned to her drink.
The women sipped their drinks and sighed, and thought.
"So?" said Joan, breaking the ice, "The most important question."
"What?" asked Arliss, leaning in to her.
"Do you think Mitchell will still go ahead with the Chili Cook-Off?" she wondered aloud. The other two women broke up laughing.
"Maybe we can talk him out of it," suggested Arliss, "in deference to Charlotte, of course." She lowered her head in mock sympathy.
"No," provided Pamela with a new twist, "we must go ahead with the Cook-Off---in honor of Charlotte. We should call it the Charlotte Clark Memorial Chili Cook-Off! Seeing as how Charlotte loved the cook-off so much!" The other two women were laughing uproariously. Arliss was pounding her fist on the leather seat in their booth.
"As Charlotte told us--in private--you recall--so many times!" Joan was elaborating, "She simply loved chili!"
"Yes," agreed Arliss, "If the three of us go in to Mitchell and present this idea, I'm sure he'd go along! I mean you know how much he admired Charlotte!"
"So much!"
"He adored her!" They were cackling now--the margaritas obviously doing their work.
The waiter returned and the women placed their dinner orders. The mood subsided somewhat.
"Really, Pam," said Arliss, "how are you doing? And please don't say 'fine.' It's me--and Joan. You can talk to us."
"I know," she said, finally feeling relaxed enough to speak. "I'm glad I have both of you here. There are some things I'd like to talk to you about. However, most everything I want to say must--I mean must--remain between us three. When I tell you, you'll see why."
"Of course, my dear," said Joan, warmly, "You feel free to tell us whatever you want--or don't want, whatever you need to do. All we want to do is help you cope."
"Right," agreed Arliss, "just help you cope, Pam." The two women looked at her keenly. Pamela took a deep breath.
"I think you know," she began, "what happened when we--I mean-when my grad assistant Kent and I found Charlotte. You don't know some other things--things I haven't discussed but need to discuss. Maybe I shouldn't discuss." She bit her lower lip.
"My lips are sealed," said Arliss, performing the locked key gesture with her fingers in front of her lips.
"Mine too," mimicked Joan.
"First," started Pamela, "yesterday, after the police had finished examining the lab and we were free to go back in, I went down there and looked around."
"Did you find a clue?" asked Arliss, excited.
"Sort of," said Pamela, "but not the way you mean. I was looking at the booths in the front row where Charlotte was strangled--you know, Joan, how the control panel is configured there."
"Vaguely," answered Joan, "I really don't pay much attention to it, since I don't ever use it in my research."
"I don't know if you've ever noticed it before," continued Pamela, "but the toggle switch on the first row computers-is on the right, placed about where your elbow might rest if you were seated there with your arms stretched out. As you know, the master console panel makes back-up recordings of anything recorded by any computer in the first row."
"Again," said Joan, "I never use that function, so I really don't pay much attention to it."
"That's what happens," said Pamela, "So, if the toggle switch is bumped accidentally, a back-up recording would be made, even if the person sitting at the computer did not intend to record."
"My God," said Arliss, her mouth open, "I think I know where this is going."
"Then tell me," added Joan, "because I'm in the dark."
"What if?" questioned Pamela, "What if Charlotte had accidentally bumped the toggle while she was being strangled?"
"Wouldn't the police have seen it and downloaded it?" asked Joan.
"Not if she then accidentally turned off the toggle switch while she was thrashing around," contributed Pamela.
"Wouldn't the killer see what was happening?" asked Arliss.
"If you were strangling someone, would you be concerned about whether or not their elbow accidentally bumped a toggle switch?" queried Pamela.
"I suppose not," said Arliss, thoughtfully.
"Anyway," continued Pamela, "on the off-chance that Charlotte had accidentally bumped the toggle switch on and then maybe off, I went to the back-up storage in the master control console and brought up all data recorded for the first row of computers on Tuesday and guess what?"
"My God," said Arliss, her mouth even wider now. "You found it!"
"Yes," confirmed Pamela, "For a brief period of about two minutes on Tuesday night, a back-up recording was made in Carrel #4--the carrel where Charlotte was found dead."
"Did you listen to it?" asked Joan, with great anticipation.
"I did," she answered.
"And?"
"There is a recording of what sounds like a person choking and various other bumps, slams, clicks, knocks--non-human sounds," she declared.
"Pam," said Arliss, "What I don't understand, is, what good does it do to have a recording of Charlotte being strangled? Does she say who the killer is? Does she give any hint at all?"
"No," said Pamela, deflated, "you wouldn't expect it to be that simple, would you?"
"So, let me get this straight," said Joan, carefully, "you have a recording of Charlotte being murdered, but it doesn't really help us find the killer."
"Us?" exclaimed Arliss, aghast. "What us? This isn't something we--or Pam--should be involved in."
"And," Pamela quickly added, "I took the recording to the police the next day."
"That's good," said Arliss. "Maybe they can find something in it that will help find the killer."
"I doubt it," mused Pamela, looking pensive.
"Why?" asked Arliss.
"Really," said Pamela, "not to sound conceited, but I do have extensive experience in analyzing sound waves--human and non-human. If anyone can make sense of the sound on that recording, it should be me."
"Pamela," said Joan, intending to be the voice of reason, "this is not a matter of who has the most expertise. This is a matter of safety."
"Joan," moaned Pamela, "now you sound like Rocky."
"Please don't say I sound like that big, soldier boy of yours!" she shrieked.
"Not your voice, your complaint."
"Joan is right," chimed in Arliss, "I'm so glad you don't have that recording. I mean if it got out that you did, the killer-whoever he or she is--might target you. Oh, God, Pam."
"Then," she sighed. "I guess you'll have to keep on worrying."
"I thought you said you gave it to the police."
"Not before I made a copy for myself," she answered, reaching down under the table, into her purse and bringing out the notorious disk, showing them a glimpse of it, then quickly returning it to her purse. "Look, I found Charlotte. I feel a sense of responsibility for what happened to her. I know I can find something in that recording if I just have enough time to work on it."
"I think," said Joan, shaking her head, "that it's very unwise. I think you're simply asking for trouble, my dear."
Their dinners arrived and for a while there was silence as the three colleagues scarfed up their enchiladas, burritos, and tortillas--along with buckets of salsa and chips.
"Yum," intoned Pamela, "Wonderful!"
"How does this compare to what that gourmet general of yours makes?" asked Joan.
"Different," she answered, "It's nice for a change. And, of course, the company cannot be beat." She smiled at her two friends who returned her warm expression.
"Pam," said Arliss, slowing down on her enchiladas, "Didn't you say you had several things to tell us?"
"I did," she replied.
"You mean, there's more than--" Joan bent in close, and whispered, pointing discreetly to the disk under the table, "the audio recording of the actual killing that could get you killed?"
"This is probably not so dramatic," she tossed out, "just more like some juicy gossip, which you may already have heard."
"Speak! Speak!" said Arliss, encouraging with hand gestures, hot sauce dripping out of her mouth.
"I have this in confidence from Jane Marie, so you have her to thank for it, but, please, don't accredit it to her--you might get her in trouble,"
"Jane Marie who?" asked Arliss, shrugging.
"Don't know the woman," agreed Joan, munching a tortilla chip.
"The night of the murder, right before my seminar, Charlotte and Mitchell had a horrible row in his office-I heard them."
"Do you know what it was about?" asked Arliss.
"Not really," said Pamela, shaking her head, "just that it was loud. Then, here's a follow-up. The next day, Jane Marie found an unaddressed envelope in Mitchell's mailbox that was not there the night before when Jane Marie left. Jane Marie suspected it was from Charlotte because she recognized Charlotte's personal stationery. She opened the envelope and discovered a photograph of a woman."
"A photograph of whom?" asked Joan.
"Jane Marie didn't know," said Pamela, "There was just a photo. No note. She had no idea who it was, but she thought it might be a former student and so she went through some old yearbooks and found this woman's picture in an annual from about ten years ago. Her name is Evelyn Carrier."
"That's weird," said Arliss, "Why would Charlotte put a former student's photo in Mitchell's box without a note?"
"Yes," agreed Pamela, "why? Anyway, there's more. This afternoon, the woman shows up and asks to see Mitchell. She goes in his office and stays there for about an hour. All this according to Jane Marie. When this Evelyn left Mitchell's office, she was traumatized, said Jane Marie. She'd been crying and her eyes were bloodshot."
"Maybe," suggested Arliss, "she didn't know about Charlotte's death, and Mitchell told her. She could have been one of Charlotte's former students or something."
"Yes," said Pamela, "that's possible, but why the subterfuge on Charlotte's part? Why not just give him the photo? Why not attach a note? Why put just a photo in his mailbox with nothing attached? And why would Mitchell keep that from Jane Marie? He tells her everything. He hasn't said a word to her about any of this."
"It's a mystery," said Joan, looking puzzled. "Do you think it's connected to Charlotte's murder?"
"I don't know. Maybe," said Pamela.
"It does seem like a possibility," said Arliss. She took a deep breath. "Do you think, whatever it is, that it was so horrible that it gave Mitchell a motive to murder Charlotte?"
"Mitchell murder Charlotte," said Joan. "That's ridiculous. They may have yelled at each other, but he's Casper Milktoast; I can't see him physically attacking anyone."
"Joan," said Pamela, "can you see anyone in the department attacking her?"
"No," said Joan, "but if the killer is someone who had a personal grudge against Charlotte, it could be anyone. There must be hundreds of people who fit that bill."
"Maybe it was this Evelyn," suggested Arliss.
"The police seem to think it's someone in the department," suggested Pamela, carefully.
"Why?" asked Arliss.
"First," responded Pamela, "look at access. Anyone in the department could have done it. We all have keys to the lab. Charlotte was alone in the lab; she probably locked the door after herself. Only faculty members and grad students who had checked out lab keys could have gotten in. That limits the pool of suspects quite a bit."
"But the door was open when you found her, you said," argued Joan.
"The killer probably left it open when he-or she-left," responded Pamela, "but that doesn't mean that Charlotte was working in the lab alone at night with the door open. I'm sure she probably locked herself in. She was fanatical about lab security. Remember what Mitchell said at the meeting."
"So," said Arliss, looking worried, "the police really do think the killer is one of us."
"Yes, because we have keys," said Pamela, "I know it wasn't me, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't either of you. So who does that leave?"
"Mitchell, Willard, Rex, Laura, Phin, Jane Marie, and Bob," listed Joan, counting on her fingers.
"It wouldn't be Bob," said Arliss, quickly.
"Dear," answered Joan, "I was just listing the faculty members who didn't happen to be sitting here."
"That does narrow the field, doesn't it?" said Pamela. "But, we know all these people. Truly, I can't imagine any of them killing anyone."
"Maybe the police are wrong, Pamela," said Joan, firmly, "maybe it is someone from the outside."
"And speaking of someone from outside, have either of you ever heard of a researcher named John Pierce Culver? Who did research on addiction?" queried Pamela.
"That would be in Charlotte's domain," answered Arliss.
"Joan?"
"The name doesn't ring a bell. Why do you ask?"
"Because Charlotte was reading his dissertation online when she was killed," responded Pamela. "Shoop told me when I dropped off the disk yesterday."
"So? Does it matter what she was reading?" asked Arliss.
"Normally, I'd say not," answered Pamela, thinking, "but when she left Mitchell's office that night she was in a fury. I just can't see her toddling down to the lab and suddenly focusing on her addiction research. I think there's a possibility she was working on something that led to her murder." She felt a sudden shiver roll up her spine as she realized she hadn't mentioned-and didn't intend to mention to the two women-the secret notebook that Shoop had showed her. "Oh, my," she added, looking at both of their faces, "I've totally monopolized this evening. I haven't even asked either of you about what's going on in your lives."
"My dear," sighed Joan, "what excitement is there for a widow whose children live thousands of miles away? I live vicariously through you."
"And you, Arliss?" asked Pamela, turning to her more laid back friend.
"Same 'ol, same 'ol," shrugged Arliss.
It was getting late. The women had finished their meals--and several Margaritas. Discussing a murder that had recently been committed in their department had had a sobering effect on their behavior. They decided that it was time to go, so they gathered their belongings, divided up the check three ways, and headed out of Who-Who's. After farewell hugs, Arliss slid into Joan's car, as Joan had promised, and the two women took off.
Pamela got in her car, switched on her ignition and her headlights, and exited Who-Who's' lot onto Jackson Drive toward her home. It was fairly busy for a Friday night, but Who-Who's was on her edge of town and wasn't too far from her house. Soon she was in the country, a non-populated area, and the number of cars diminished.
One car behind her was particularly bothersome, its headlights on bright. The driver was, as far as Pamela was concerned, following much too close. How infuriating! She squinted and tried to turn away from the glare shining at her in her rear view mirror. As she looked up, checking, she noticed that the vehicle behind her was getting even closer to her car, as if the driver was trying to annoy her. Should she speed up or would that encourage the driver to chase her? If she slowed down, the driver might take advantage and taunt her.
It was probably some teenage joy rider out on a Friday night, she thought, up to no good. She sped up a bit to test the waters, and the vehicle behind followed suit, getting progressively closer and closer. As she watched the actions of the car in her mirror, she realized that within a few more seconds, the car would slam into her if she didn't do something immediately. She increased her speed. Her turn was coming up quickly. If she could just make it to her turn, maybe by turning onto it abruptly, the vehicle behind her would keep going straight and leave her alone. Here it came, her turn. Quickly she jerked the steering wheel to the right and her car swerved down the side street. The car behind her sped beyond her down Jackson Drive.
Struggling to maintain control of her vehicle, Pamela drove as fast as she could, winding through the streets she knew so well to her home, before the crazed driver could figure out what had happened, turn around, and follow her into her sub-division. She saw her house. Quickly, she pressed her garage door opener, willing the door to open immediately, but it groaned slowing upward. As fast as possible, she drove inside her garage and immediately hit the button to drop the garage door. Only then, did she get out of her car.
Now, she thought, panting with fear, was that a coincidence? Or was someone out to get her?