1 Picking Lemons (19 page)

“On the day of the murder, Edmund was
methodically enacting his revenge. He was sending out letters to the Nobel committee saying Jefferson had only being a research assistant and all their work was Edmund’s alone. When they left morning coffee together, I can guarantee Edmund took great pleasure in telling Jefferson his plans. Jefferson left for his run but couldn’t stop thinking about it. At just after one o’clock, Jefferson stopped his run short and went up to Edmund’s office to reason with him. Mary Beth overheard their argument. Edmund told Jefferson that he was ‘finished.’ I think we can extrapolate to the type of threats that went along with this. Jefferson was never going to have Lisa. He was going to kill both of them first. Jefferson’s career was over. And other such pleasantries. Jefferson, consumed with rage and the need to protect Lisa and everything he had worked for, strangled Edmund. It was, indeed, a crime of passion.”

The room was silent.

Finally, Charles spoke up. “That poor bugger, Jefferson. And then he killed himself. That bastard Edmund has a lot to answer for.”

“Well, maybe more than you think. The tearful Jefferson we saw around the department was indeed grieving. He was d
evastated by what he had done and full of remorse. But neither I nor the police think he killed himself. If he wanted to commit suicide, he would have just added the cyanide directly to his drink.”

Again, C.J. was met with wide-eyed stares of shock and disbelief. This
drama was a little too English department for her colleagues’ tastes.

“Edmund DeBeyer killed Jefferson
Daniels. While everyone had the opportunity, he is the only person who had both the capability and desire to kill Jefferson. Edmund DeBeyer placed the cyanide powder in the protein mix before he was killed himself, I would say sometime on the morning he was killed. As a former medical student, he had the skill to make cyanide powder if he didn’t want to order it off the internet. Only one person had a motive to kill Jefferson Daniels and that was Edmund. Edmund would never have stood by and allowed someone to take away one of his beloved possessions.”

Walter
Scovill stood up at the back of the room, his face distorted with anger and contempt. “This is a lovely story, Professor Whitmore, but what proof do you have? I would have thought as a data person, you would have understood that without corroborating evidence this is just cheap talk. Personally, I find the story that
you
are the killer
very
convincing. It is no secret that you despised Edmund. No one saw you collecting your parking meter data at one-fifteen. You say you have data for that time, but you would not be the first academic to make data up. You could have snuck into 40 Knollwood, argued with Edmund, killed him, and gone out again. And, as you have so cleverly pointed out, put poison in Jefferson’s protein powder at any time.”

Walter smirked at C.J.
This is just the beginning of my revenge, Annie Oakley,
he thought bitterly. From the open door behind him, Walter heard a refined voice.

“
I thought it was just my husband who was a self-serving jerk. But it seems to almost be a job requirement around here.” Lisa DeBeyer had walked into the seminar room. She was impeccably dressed in an Ann Taylor black suit, and her long strawberry-blond hair was pulled back into a French twist. Despite her brash words, her face was pale with grief.

C.J. gave her a
smile.

“Please excuse me for eavesdropping on your meeting. But I was hoping that I
would not have to make an appearance. A rather foolish hope, I realize. Why would you accept the only logical explanation offered, when you can search around for another one that is esoteric and unlikely?”

Betsy sighed happily. This day was much more than she could have ever hoped for. It was like actually living an episode of
Law and Order
.

C.J. interjected with a small introduction.
“For those of you who haven’t met Edmund’s widow, this is Lisa DeBeyer. I appreciate her coming today. It isn’t easy to talk about very personal details of your life with a group of strangers.”

Lisa gave a wry smile.
“No, it isn’t. But it seems that my life has unsettled all of yours. When C.J. called me last night, I agreed to hover in the background today. I said I would speak up if I thought anyone was stupid enough not to see the obvious truth, despite the corroborating details.”

Walter had the decency to blush.

“I can confirm most of the details C.J. shared with you. Jeffie and I were having an affair. I told Edmund about it and our plans to move away a few days before he was killed, and it set in motion what followed.” Lisa paused to compose herself. Her tearless, pale blue eyes scanned the crowd. “On the day Edmund was killed, he and Jefferson argued. Edmund told Jefferson he was going to ruin our careers and kill us both. Jefferson killed Edmund to save me. He called me distraught, to tell me about the fight and what he had done. He should have confessed, but we panicked and decided to see if we could get away with it. Instead of doing the right thing, we decided to move away to New Mexico right away and run away from the problem.

“
Unfortunately, we weren’t quick enough. Edmund had already planted the poison. So it seems we paid the ultimate price for our cowardice.” Lisa, now with tears running down her cheeks, stopped speaking.

C.J. gingerly put a hand on Lisa’
s shoulder and guided her over in the direction of Betsy. This level of grief counseling was beyond C.J.’s skill set.

As her colleagues shifted uncomfortably in their seat
s, uncertain how to react to this extraordinary tale of love and jealousy that had occurred in their midst, C.J. turned and faced them. “So you see, in the end, there were two lemons. But I think we can agree that one was much more sour than the other.”

Betsy Williams, caramel whip double latte in hand, eased herself into a couch chair at Wallaby’s coffee shop. It was just before eleven, and she knew her friend, C.J. Whitmore, would be arriving any minute. It was a cold morning in mid-November, and the first snow of the season had just started. The arrival of snow never filled Betsy with an intense excitement, the way it did her friends that skied. But it didn’t make her sad or depressed either. As far as Betsy was concerned, it was just weather. If you gave it a day or two, it would change.

Truth be told, Betsy had had a hard time getting excited about anything since the murders in the department about two months ago. Since then, everything had seemed a little...well...blah. Some might have described the last few months as calm, or even restful. The routine of Eaton had quickly been restored
––classes were taught, research was discussed, and egos were stroked. But to Betsy, her life of teaching and knitting and family potlucks just didn’t hold the same thrill it once did.  

Betsy turned her head when she heard the familiar clack of cowboy heels approaching. Now, C.J. Whitmore was a woman who seemed to have no trouble adjusting to life post-murder. Despite her heavy teaching load this semester, she had already squeezed in a conference in Banff and was heading to the Bahamas over Thanksgiving break to purportedly discuss the usefulness of Monte Carlo simulations when modeling micro-financial decision points. Or something like that.

“Well, I reckon this is a genuine Goldilocks snowfall,” declared C.J. with satisfaction as she sat down next to Betsy, coffee cup in hand. “Not too early, not too late. Probably hit the median start date for the season on the nose.”

Betsy smiled
, despite herself. C.J. could see data anywhere.

C.J. plunked her feet
––and therefore her cowboy boots––up on the coffee table with a comfortable sigh. “Well, I’ve got news today that would leave a pig open-mouthed at a full trough. You’ll never guess who emailed me.”

Betsy took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Is this anything to do with your classes?”

“No,” scoffed C.J. “My only thought about teaching right now is ‘thank goodness Thanksgiving is only a week away.’ You know, just because I solved the murders, it didn’t absolve me of having to teach Edmund’s class. This semester had been a professional waste of time.”

Betsy, who
only
taught classes, didn’t comment on this less-than-flattering summary of her life’s work. Or the fact that C.J.’s definition of “professional waste of time” was a semester in which she attended not one, but two conferences. Instead, she refocused on the original question. “Did Stephen Choi email you?” she finally asked.

C.J. laughed. “Nope. But I do have news about him, now that you mention it. He posts on Facebook all the time. A real social media hussy...putting out for everyone. Anyway, he’s doing great out in Hawaii... never been happier, if you can believe what you read on the internet. You should really get on Facebook, Betsy. The pics of Stephen in his fireman gear are too cute for words. But that isn’t who I was thinking of.”

“I don’t know about Facebook. I wouldn’t know what to write...” Betsy petered out. Maybe she should try Facebook. Her older grandchildren were always talking about it. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? “Well, I might try Facebook. But who are you talking about? Charles? Is he finally retiring?”

C.J. shook her head. “No…wrong again. You know, Charles reminds me of an old horse my father owned. Old Mac
––that’s the horse––happily sat out in the pasture day after day, and didn’t even notice the cars whizzing by on the road next to him. I reckon Charles will be with us, out in the pasture, until he chews his last bite of grass. And that man won’t notice the progress that flies right by him while he’s here.”

Betsy drank some more of her coffee, and looked out the window. “You know, we might get a few inches of snow today.”

“Could do, but we aren’t changing the topic yet. You really can’t guess who I have news about?”

“Well, surely it’s too early for Walter to be back.”

“Dear Lord yes. And for that I am as thankful as a pig at Hanukkah. Though I can’t believe we have to have him back at all. After what he did? And he only had to take a one semester sabbatical at a health farm? The power of tenure. But I’m sure Jose is relieved that he has one semester free of Walter.”

Betsy nodded in agreement. She hadn’t been surprised that Walter Scovill had escaped any long-term consequences. Eaton closed in around its own. But she had been surprised when Peter Johansson was elected interim
Department Chair. Such a mouse of a man. But while the cat’s away...

“You still have no idea?”

“None. You’ll have to tell me.”

“You were just asking about her the other day.”

“Her?”

“Uh huh.”

“Oh my. You heard from...”

“Yep. Lisa DeBeyer.”

“How is she? Where is she?”

“Well, after the police decided not to press any charges, she left New York and went to New Mexico after all.”

“Really. To start her art gallery?”

“You’d think so, right? But no. She’s...and you aren’t going to believe this...this is the show-stopper...she’s an alpaca farmer!”

Betsy snorted coffee. “Miss ‘Ann Taylor with Manicure’?”

“I know. I can’t see it lasting. But you never can tell what crazy something a person will do for someone they love. Even a dead someone.”

“Talking of crazy...” said Betsy, her voice trailing off as she looked towards the door where Mary Beth had walked in.

C.J. turned to see Mary Beth dressed in red crocodile
-skin pumps, skinny-fit jeans, a t-shirt several sizes too small with a garish “Foster’s Beer” logo across her chest, and little stuffed koala earrings dangling from each ear. Closer inspection revealed that her nails had been painted with teeny-tiny kangaroos.

C.J. and Betsy just stared.

“G’day mates!” called Mary Beth, waving over to C.J. and Betsy.

C.J. turned to Betsy. “Well, that’s as subtle as a barn cat in heat. I had been enjoying the peace and quiet in the department for the last few months. But I think any tranquility is officially over.”

“What on earth has gotten into that girl now?” asked Betsy.

“I can only guess that Mary Beth has seen dear Jeffie’s replacement,” replied C.J. “The rather attractive and extremely single man from Australia. Poor guy. I hope he survives!
”

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J.T. Toman lives in Boulder, Colorado. She received her Ph.D. in economics from Yale University and has taught econometrics at the University of Sydney and the University of Colorado at Boulder. She also has a degree in zookeeping from Pikes Peak Community College and has cared for everything from butterflies to elephants.  She now teaches math at Front Range Community College, and truly believes fractions are useful in everyday life.

In her spare time, J.T. Toman joins the rest of Colorado hiking, biking and skiing. However, much like her cats, she finds food more inspiring than scenery. J.T. particularly loves home-grown tomatoes, udon noodles and tall glasses of chocolate milk, though not at the same time.

Picking Lemons
is her first novel.