Dead Soldiers (2 page)

While Burns could negotiate the stairs fairly easily, however, not everyone could. There was no way that anyone with even the mildest physical disability could get to the third floor classrooms. There had been a couple of “nontraditional“ (translation: older) students, very out-of-shape, who had been forced to spend several minutes panting on the landings before proceeding upward to the next floor. One of them had even threatened to file suit against the college, and he was incensed when Burns, in a move that did not endear him to the administration, suggested that the student might either start for class somewhat earlier or work out on the college track every day until his endurance increased.

Maybe the student
had
filed suit. Maybe that was it. Burns tried to remember his name, but failed. It was getting harder every year for him to remember student names. He had convinced himself that his failure was not a function of age. It had more to do with the fact that by now he had taught something like four thousand students at HGC. He couldn’t be expected to remember
all
their names, could he?

When he got to the first floor and started to open the door, he saw that Rose, the woman who cleaned the building, had taped a note to it. The note said:

Please!
 
Do not!!
 
Throw!!

Alunimum
Cans in trash!

Please use!! Recycle Bin!!!!

Rose’s spelling and capitalization were a little weak, but she made up for that fault with her fondness for exclamation points. No matter how many of them she used, however, she never seemed to be able to get everyone to behave in a satisfactory manner. Burns thought guiltily of the Dr Pepper can sitting on his desk. He promised himself that he’d put it in the recycle bin as soon as he got back.

That is, he would
if
he got back. For all he knew, Partridge might fire him on the spot and have him escorted off the premises by Dirty Harry, the school’s security guard. Or have him dragged to the football field for summary execution. For some reason or another, Burns wasn’t one of the dean’s favorite people.

He was pretty sure he knew why, but while some of the things resulting from the late Tom Henderson’s murder had an adverse affect on Dean Partridge, none of them had been
Burns’s
fault.

And while he had been involved in several other harrowing episodes during his tenure at HGC, Burns liked to think he’d been instrumental in solving problems rather than in creating them. Besides, Partridge hadn’t even been here when those other things had happened.

But Burns had discovered through long and difficult experience that deans didn’t always look at things the same way that he did.

That was one of the things that was wrong with them.

B
urns walked under the tall pecan trees that surrounded Old Main (or HGC I as a former president who was fond of numbering things had called it) and entered the Administration Building (HGC II). The college’s current president had asked that the buildings be referred to by their names, not their numbers, which Burns thought was a fine idea. But for some reason he couldn’t get the numbers out of his head.

By-passing the elevator, Burns walked up the stairs to Dr. Partridge’s office.
Melva
Jeans, the dean’s secretary, greeted him when he entered. Then
Melva
, whose blonde hair was at least half a hive high smiled and said, “You can have a seat, Dr. Burns. Dr. Partridge will be with you in just a sec.“

So that’s the way it is, Burns thought. After asking for him to come immediately, the dean was going to make him wait. It was a cheap trick, but it didn’t surprise Burns. Maybe Partridge held it against him because he’d been the person more or less responsible for her introduction to Boss Napier, the Pecan City chief of police.

It had all come about during the investigation of Thomas Henderson’s murder, when Burns had discovered that Partridge collected toy soldiers and Lincoln Logs. He’d known at once that Partridge and Napier were kindred souls.

Not in every way, of course.

Napier was a manly man whose idea of political correctness was tithing to the National Rifle Association, whereas Partridge had introduced and tried to enforce strict rules of Politically Correct conduct for the HGC community.

And of course there was the fact that Napier, as a representative of the law, was just the kind of person that Partridge, former member of what at one time was known as the counter-culture, had spent years distrusting.

Finally there was the fact that Napier’s tastes in women ran to green-eyed redheads, like Elaine Tanner, the HGC librarian. As a matter of fact,
Burns’s
tastes ran in precisely the same direction, which was one reason he’d been so eager to tell Napier about Partridge’s collection. Partridge wasn’t a redhead, nor did she have green eyes. She was attractive in her ageing-hippie way, but Napier hadn’t been interested, not until he heard about the soldiers. And the Lincoln Logs.

The last Burns had heard, the two of them were quite an item. His spies had spotted them at the movies one evening, and several times they had been seen eating at the Pizza Delight, one of Pecan City’s fine dining establishments.

As far as Burns was concerned, it was a match made in heaven. He hoped nothing had happened to break it up. He didn’t relish the idea of having Napier back in competition for Elaine. Not that Napier had a chance with her with Burns in the field, of course.

Burns sat in an uncomfortable red leather chair across from
Melva’s
desk and looked through the stack of magazines sitting on an end table. There wasn’t anything really interesting, so Burns picked up an old copy of
The Chronicle of Higher Education
. There were no articles he wanted to read, but he had to do something. He couldn’t just sit there and stare at
Melva’s
hair.

He was halfway through an article on tenure policy when Dean Gwendolyn Partridge opened the door of her office and looked out. She wore rimless glasses, and her straight brown hair had more gray in it than Burns had remembered.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Dr. Burns,“ she said. “I was discussing a curriculum change with Dr. Miller, and I lost track of the time.“

Dr. Miller was the college president, and Burns was pretty sure that he had no interest at all in curriculum changes. But he thought he might as well give Partridge the benefit of the doubt.

“I didn’t mind waiting,“ he said, holding up
The Chronicle
as he stood. “I was reading.“

“Ah,“ Partridge said. “You weren’t looking at the job vacancies, were you?“

“No,“ Burns said, though he had glanced at several of the advertisements. He wasn’t planning to leave HGC, though there were probably plenty of reasons for doing so. “I’m happy where I am.“

 
“Good,“ Partridge said. She looked at
Melva
Jeans. “Hold my calls while Dr. Burns and I will be in conference.“

In conference? Burns thought. What does that mean?

“Please come in, Dr. Burns,“ Partridge said, standing aside so that he could pass by her and into the office.

Other administrative offices on the HGC campus, notably the president’s, were hung with photos of famous people. Dean Partridge, on the other hand, preferred prints of Georgia O’Keefe paintings. Burns had to admit they were colorful, but he would have hated having to explain to a psychiatrist what they seemed to him to resemble.

Partridge went behind her desk and told Burns to have a seat, which he did in another uncomfortable leather chair, gray instead of red.

“How are things going in the English Department this fall?“ Partridge asked when Burns was seated.

Burns wasn’t sure just exactly what she was asking. Did she want to know about the student who had written a paper on
The Scarlet Letter
and said that Hester Prynne wondered about
Chillingworth’s
“where-abbots“?
 

Maybe, in the interests of Political Correctness, she’d like to hear about the student in Clem Nelson’s class who had described Othello as “an African-American.“

Or maybe, considering last spring’s Thomas Henderson affair, she just wanted him to say that so far no one had been murdered.

On the other hand, it would probably be much safer simply to say, “Things are going very well this semester. No problems at all so far.“

So that’s what Burns did.

Partridge said, “That’s wonderful. And how is the new technology working out?“

Ah-ha! Burns thought. The new technology. Over the Christmas break, computers had been installed in all the faculty offices. This was a big breakthrough for a perennially cash-strapped school like HGC. Everyone now had access to the Internet and to e-mail, and there was a lot of exploration going on as people discovered the capabilities of the electronic marvels.

Burns had a suspicion that quite a few people were using their new equipment to do something other than engage in scholarly debate with faculty members from other institutions or to do research that aided in their class preparation. So maybe that was all there was to this little visit. The dean was simply checking up.

Burns began to relax. “The computers are really great. I’ve joined an English composition discussion list, and the two
Darryls
have become real computer nerds. They’ve put up an English Department home page that’ll knock your eye out.“

“I’ll have to look at it
some day
,“ Partridge said trying to sound enthusiastic, but Burns could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

That was too bad since the homepage really did look good. It provided a virtual tour of the department, with photos of each instructor in his or her office.
Bunni
was included as well, and there was a shot of Burns standing in front of his American literature class, waxing eloquent on some abstruse topic or other, probably the dates of spring break.

“Miss Darling and Miss Nelson are learning fast, too,“ Burns went on. “Miss Darling didn’t even want the computer in her office, but when she found that quilting page—“

Burns stopped. The not-so-tangy taste of shoe leather filled his mouth. The last thing he’d wanted to imply was that someone was using the computer for personal purposes.

Dean Partridge, however, didn’t seem to have noticed the gaffe. She was looking vaguely at one of the O’Keefe prints. Burns looked too. He thought it was supposed to be a flower, but that wasn’t what it looked like to him. He wondered if he was becoming a clichéd sex-obsessed English teacher like the ones that populated certain kinds of genre fiction.

He started guiltily. Maybe Partridge had brought him in here for some sort of bizarre Rorschach test.

But the dean didn’t appear interested in his reactions to the print. For all the notice she was paying him, he might as well not have been in the room.

“Is something wrong, Dean Partridge?“ he asked.

“What?
 
Wrong?“
 
She looked down at her unpainted fingernails. After a second or two she said, “Yes. You’re exactly right. There’s something wrong.“

“Is there some problem in the English Department?
 
Something you need to talk to me about?“

“No, that’s not it. It’s . . . personal.“

Oh, lord
, Burns thought.
It
is
about Boss Napier
.

“I hesitated to discuss this with you,“ Partridge said. “It’s not easy for me to talk about my personal life with—“

Underlings
, Burns thought.

“—faculty members. At least on school time. Maybe we should continue this discussion later.“

Discussion?
Burns thought. They hadn’t discussed anything as far as he could tell.

He said, “I’ve already taught my classes and held my regular office hours today. I think it would be all right if we discussed your, um, personal life.“

Now why did I say that?
He wondered.
I don’t want to discuss her personal life at all. I want to get out of here.

But he didn’t make a move to leave.

Partridge said, “All right. I hope you’ll keep everything we say confidential.“

“I certainly will,“ Burns promised.
God, Boss Napier would beat me to a pulp with a battery cable if he knew. Why didn’t I just get up and go?

“You’ve solved mysteries before, haven’t you. Dr. Burns?“

Burns nodded, wondering where she was headed. What kind of mysteries could she have in her personal life?
 
Maybe Boss Napier needed help on something and was too proud to ask Burns himself.

“I’ve helped the police out a few times,“ he said.
As you know very well
.

“Yes. R. M. speaks highly of you.“

R. M.?
 
So she was on a first-name basis with Boss Napier. Or a first-initial basis.
Though Burns didn’t like it at all when Elaine referred to Napier that way, he thought it was perfectly appropriate when Dean Partridge did. Most satisfactory, to tell the truth. Burns began to relax again.