1 Picking Lemons (6 page)

After a minute or so of very uncomfortable silence, Walter smiled.
“Well, C.J.,” Walter said in an overly cheery tone, “since you love me as much a...what was the phrase exactly...‘hog loves mud’ I think...I am quite sure you won’t mind doing me this little favor. Would you?”

C.J. had not climbed this high in a male dominated profession for no reason. She did not display her emotions, regardless of how she felt. And right now she was furious. Edmund’s class was on Mondays and Wednesdays. Her class was on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Now she would be teaching all four days, with little time for research.
“Oh Walt. You just go and sign me right up, sugar.”

Walter smiled victoriously
. He would needle that Tex Mex disaster into resigning one of these days. If it was the last thing he did.

Walter then
peered down at his notes, unsure how to introduce the third agenda item. Now he couldn’t avoid the topic of Edmund dying so inconveniently in the department. “As you know, our dear friend and colleague Edmund DeBeyer has...passed on.”

People looked up from their computer screens. It was a bit late in the meeting to start expressing sympathy now. What was Walter up to?

“His funeral will be tomorrow night at the Triunity Church on the Square. Seven o’clock start.”

C.J. wondered how the body had been released from autopsy so quickly.
Maybe the forensic lab had liked spending time with Edmund as much as his work colleagues had. Or, perhaps more likely, The Ego had jumped the queue, thanks to the Eaton University powers that be.

Walter looked down at his
notes again and shuffled his papers awkwardly. “Also, the Provost and the college,” Walter stopped. That didn’t sound right. That sounded like he was doing the bidding of others.

Walter continued, s
peaking slowly and deliberately, “I am concerned about how the...passing...of Edmund is affecting your…” Walter paused, searching for the right word, “mental equilibrium.”

C.J. snorted with laughter. A few other chuckles and snickers were also heard.

Walter glared the room back into silence. “I am here to discuss the options available to you to ensure your… wellbeing. Um. I am going to make available someone for you to talk to...and a...a...dog.”

The room stared back at Walter.

Finally C.J. broke the silence. “Walt,” she said casually, “I don’t need a shrink or a puppy, for that matter, to help me deal with the fact that I don’t have to work with our beloved Edmund anymore. I shed that tear at the celebration party I threw. What I do need help with is how you expect me to be a happy, productive, clucky chicken in this darling little hen house when I know that the fox is still lurking amongst us.”

Murmurs of assent broke out among the room. A few people banged on the d
esks to show their support. A “Here, here!” came from a junior faculty at the back, who promptly slid down in his seat from the shame of being so bold.

Charles, sensing something exciting was finally happening by the attitudes of those around him, the fist banging and the look on Walter’s face, turned on his hearing aids. If there was gossip on the agenda, he didn’t want to miss it. Mildred loved a good
, department gossip story. He asked his neighbor loudly, so loudly the entire room could hear, “Hey, what’s this? What’s the fuss?”

Before his neighbor could answer, C.J. called out from across the room.
“I’m causing the fuss, Charles. I want to know if one of us is the murderer. It would make it so much more enjoyable to come to faculty meetings, don’t you think, if you weren’t worried about being strangled?”

A few faculty laughed.
Others started to glance around the room, sizing up their fellow workers as potential stranglers. More than one was condemned.

Charles, his tongue loos
ened by his fivesie, replied with great enthusiasm, “It’s the money, my dear C.J. Follow the money and you’ll find your strangler. Happens all the time, people killing for money. There was that Lizzie Borden, though she got away with it. And look at those Menendez brothers out in California. Couldn’t wait a week to start spending their parents’ money on flashy cars and clothes which made it all rather obvious. Brains the size of peas, if you ask me. Our Lord and Creator, for whatever reason, blessed Edmund with a rather sizeable fortune. You should be asking, ‘Who benefitted from the will?’”

Walter smiled. As Edmund’s quest for power and control rivaled his own, the two men had worked together as well as two bull elephants in musth. He was going to enjoy this announcement.
“Thanks for raising that, Charles,” Walter said generously. “The issue of Edmund’s will is our final agenda item today. Edmund left his fortune to…himself.”

Jefferson looked p
ale. “Does he want to be frozen and brought back to life?”

“Thank G
od, no,” Water reassured him. “Though I am sure the idea crossed his mind. But I think even Edmund realized that in 50 years, or 100, or whenever they brought him back, he would no longer be the leading researcher in his field, and that would be unbearable. No. But I have spoken to his wife, Lisa, today, and interestingly, his will doesn’t leave a penny to her, but instead sets up the Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation. The foundation’s mission is to preserve his intellectual legacy, rather than his body.”

C.J. interjected.
“Well, his wife might not have had a motive to kill him while he was alive. But she sure has a motive to kill him now that he’s dead.”

Walter continued, ignoring C.J.,
“The foundation will set up a library, featuring Edmund’s works and others who cite Edmund’s work. There is also to be a research foundation for promising scholars who will continue to further Edmund’s research. The scholars must be graduate students or junior professors, so,” Walter turned and looked at Jefferson, “even though your research is so closely aligned with Edmund’s, I am afraid you can’t benefit from the funds, Jefferson.”

Jefferson just nodded his head in acknowledgment.

The new, confident Stephen, who had been rather quiet until now, could no longer contain himself. “Good God! The man has set up his will to inflate his citation count, even after he’s dead.”

“Well, think how much fun we can have at the Christmas party,” soothed C.J.
, “playing ‘Guess how many citations Edmund has now?’ But Walter, dear, you are bringing this up because, why? My guess is there is a clause saying it has to be housed here.”

“Well...yes. In fact, it
states it has to be housed in 40 Knollwood. At the moment, the obvious choice is Edmund and Jefferson’s offices as they are next to each other and the only offices on the top floor of 40 Knollwood. It would be an easy renovation.”

Jefferson looked up, aghast.
“Do we have to accept this…thing?” asked Jefferson, obviously deeply disturbed at the idea of losing his office for a foundation from which he could not gain.

“No, not technically
,” said Walter. “But it is unlikely we would turn down that much research money for our graduate students and junior faculty.”

Just at that moment, the doors to the co
nference room opened, and two Elm Grove policemen walked in.

Walter didn’t look impressed. This was his faculty meeting. Pompously he turned
to the officers. “Gentleman, we are discussing matters critical to the economics department of Eaton University. If you would like to question any one of us to gather further information, we will, of course, cooperate. We will be concluding our business in approximately ten minutes, and then we can turn our attention to yours.”

The policemen
didn’t even acknowledge Walter, but instead walked straight up to Stephen. “Stephen Choi. You are under arrest for the murder of Edmund DeBeyer. You have the right to remain silent.
Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?”

Stephen, his new-found bravado replaced with shock and fright, looked wildly around the room as the cuffs were placed on his wrists.
“What? I didn’t do this!” he cried. “I didn’t murder Edmund. This isn’t true!”

Despite professing feelings of porcine delight to Walter only the day before, nothing about C.J.’s demeanor on Wednesday morning resembled a happy pig in mud. Rather, she approached the Economics 101 classroom like an irritated bull at an overcrowde
d rodeo. Pity the eighteen-year-old fool who thought he could get the better of her that day, even for eight seconds. Lack of sleep did that to a girl. Edmund had prepared nothing for the course. Zilch. Nada. Consequently, C.J., who had not yet developed a complete professorial indifference to her students, had been up until the small hours writing a syllabus, lecture and problem set.

The only saving grace
in the whole damn fiasco was the fact that Jose was the teaching assistant for the course. That boy at least had some brains and wasn’t afraid of a little work. Which was good, as C.J. wasn’t going to get carried away with her teaching obligations and grade an undergraduate essay herself. Would a five-star chef dice an onion?

C.J. did not want to think about how old and haggard she looked
, thanks to her late night Econ 101 prep session. C.J. realized that in the eyes of her eighteen-year-old students, she looked fifty on a good day. Today she would be fortunate to escape without being asked if she needed assistance crossing the road.

What a sh
ame Edmund is already dead
, C.J. thought bitterly as she tried to blink life into her gritty, tired eyes.
I would so enjoy killing him myself this morning
.

No matter. I
t was still open season on Walter Scovill.

C.J. st
rode purposefully to the front of the lecture hall with her pink cowboy boots clicking loudly and hair flying wildly behind her.

“I am Professor Whitmore. As I am sure you all know, Professor DeBeyer is not teaching the rest of
the semester for the obvious reason that he is dead. I encourage each and every one of you, as you process your grief, to see the head of the econ department, Professor Walter Scovill. He has
assured
me he would
love
to talk with every one of you,
individually
, about this
at length
. His room number, phone number, website and email are on the syllabus I am passing out to you.”

C.J. paused and scanned the room. One face looked vaguely familiar, but C.J. couldn’t place where she had seen
the girl. Probably in Wallaby’s. More notable was that despite the fact their professor had just been murdered, no one appeared upset or grieving, unless the youth of today grieved by flirting with their neighbors. C.J. hoped this small detail wouldn’t keep down the number of students stopping by Walter’s office. Her revenge enacted, C.J. started the lecture for the day.

Less than a minute later, she
stopped and stared stone-faced at the class. The whole time she had been enlightening them on the delights of the demand curve, C.J. was aware she had not had their full attention. Single girls in low cut tank tops batted their eyelash extensions at the tattooed biceps sitting next to them. Other students clustered like mushrooms around small screens indiscreetly hidden under desks, exchanging morning gossip.

“Did she really?”

“I heard he wanted it.”

“But what about Aimee??”

The classroom valentines were connected by common ear buds and, disconcertingly, hands and tongues. For most, the learning of economics seemed to be of secondary or, in some cases, tertiary, importance.

C.J. waited the class out for their attention. She waited until the whispering and giggling and fondling died down. She waited until
all the ear buds were removed. She waited until the last students looked up from their iPhones. Then, she waited some more. She had not had their attention before, but she sure did now. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This strange lady in her pink cowboy boots looked pissed.

“You know,” C.J. drawled benignly in her full Texas twang, eventual
ly breaking the painful silence, “I get a pretty good view of y’all from here at the podium. Not great. But pretty good. For instance, I can see when your hands are in your lap and you get that happy, little smile on your face.”

C.J. paused
and looked around from student to student. Most students were looking puzzled, not sure where she was going with this speech. Some were clearly annoyed. C.J. was wasting their valuable, trust-fund time.

“But the view isn’t that great,” C.J. continued, in the tone of one telling a quaint Texa
s folktale. “For example, I can’t tell what your sweet little hands are doing. When someone’s hands are in their lap and they’re smiling all happy like, I got two guesses. They’re textin’ or they’re masturbatin’.”

Students gasped. Had the professor really just said the m-word? OMG! Who was this woman?

“Now, I got to say, it don’t really matter which one you’re doing, because neither are okay in an Eaton University lecture hall. So, let’s be real clear. If your hands are below the desk, you will be asked to leave. And if I have to discuss why you were asked to leave class with your fine parents who are paying cold, hard cash for you to sit here and learn, I will tell them it looked like you were pleasuring yourself in my classroom. Now, I am sure I have been clear.”

Students nodded dumbly, placing their cell
phones and iPads in their backpacks and their hands on their notebooks. Their faces showed their shock at having their technology removed from them and in such a dramatic fashion.

C.J., however, was thinking something else.
These students are technology addicted. Technology. Stephen used a lot of technology. I wonder…. Is there a digital yellow brick road to showing that Stephen is innocent?

Drawn back to the present by the silent stares, some sullen, some wide-eyed, of
the phone-free students, C.J. gave them a great big Texan smile. “Now, that’s just wonderful. Getting back to the demand curve. Looking around the room, I get the feeling there has been an increase in demand for tattoos over recent years. Anyone got a particularly good one on an arm or a leg they want to show?”

*****

“I knew it!” exclaimed Betsy loudly, as C.J. entered Wallaby’s at just after eleven.

C.J. just shook her head
and went over to order a caramel latte, extra cream. It was that kind of day.

Betsy, C.J. no
ticed, was not knitting today. Instead, she had just put aside a copy of
The Pug Post
. The arrest of a colleague meant Betsy’s role as sleuth superseded that of grandmother. As C.J. sat down next to her friend, drink in hand, she glanced over to see the
The Pug’s
headline of the day. “CHOI-KED TO DEATH!
”
Ouch.

Betsy,
wobbling like a Jell-O cup with excitement, continued talking. “Stephen was the lemon! All those Chinese death rituals, all that bitterness over not getting tenure. He snuck out of his office and strangled Edmund.”

“Would it matter to your conclusion if I told you that Stephen was
not
in his office the hour before Edmund died? But instead he was walking downtown at about one o’clock?”

Betsy looked puzzled.
“But, I don’t understand. Stephen said he was in his office. Has he changed his story?”

“Not on purpose. But Mary Beth saw him walking into downtown and told Jefferson, and Jeffie told me after the faculty meeting last night.
As you know, nothing is secret in an academic department.”

C.J. took a long sip of
caramel-flavored coffee, savoring two of her favorite food groups, caffeine and sugar. Then she turned to Betsy and asked thoughtfully, “Why would Stephen walk downtown at one o’clock if he wanted to kill Edmund a few minutes later?”

“To give himself an alibi, of course.”

“But then, why lie about it?”

Betsy was quiet for a moment, thinking this new development through.

“Exactly,” said C.J. “I think the fact Stephen lied about being in his office shows that he is innocent. Obviously he left his office at lunchtime for some reason. But not to give himself an alibi. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t killing Edmund.”

Betsy still looked skeptical.
“Well,” Betsy said finally, “why doesn’t he just say where he was? Then he wouldn’t be sitting in jail right now.”

C.J. sighed deeply, looking troubled.
“Betsy, dear, you have struck at the fundamental problem. I, like you, have been assuming that all of the innocent people in this affair would do everything they could to prove that they were innocent. It seemed the rational choice. But why are we assuming that everyone is going to behave rationally? What are we? Nineteenth-century economic theorists, like Walter? I think emotions, like embarrassment or love, are coming in to play.”

Betsy looked confused
, so C.J. continued her explanation in simpler terms. “My guess is Stephen doesn’t want anyone to know what he was up to on Monday afternoon because he was doing something... naughty...or...or perhaps his afternoon activities reveal something about someone else.”

“Oh. I get you,” said Betsy, with the air of sudden understanding. “
It is possible he might have been seeing a...well, you know, an escort...at one of the hotels downtown. How strange he won’t say anything. It’s not like an economist to have that much honor or delicacy, for that matter. But you never can tell with, you know…Asians. Their culture is very different.”

She sighed, clearly disappointed to hav
e to give up on her first suspect. “It’s often not the first one they arrest on
Law and Order,
either. But if it isn’t Stephen, who is it?”

C.J.
decided to ignore Betsy’s comment about Stephen’s cultural background as she thought inwardly,
You just can never tell with old people.
Instead, she
batted her eyes innocently. “My dear Betsy. What are you saying? That more than one person might have wanted to kill dearest Edmund?”

Be
tsy chuckled. “Well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead...”

“I know. I know. It’s easier to ask who didn’t have a motive.
I was talking with Jefferson earlier, and he said he had heard that the police had confirmed that Lisa DeBeyer was at the gallery in New York, so the wife didn’t do it. Which leaves Stephen, Charles, Jefferson, Walter and myself as the only faculty not on vacation, at home, or teaching. Stephen had a motive. Edmund had denied his tenure. That’s why the poor chap is dressed in an orange jump suit as we speak. But assuming it’s not Stephen...Charles had a motive. Edmund was angling to get him kicked off the faculty.”

“But Charles was at home.”

“Walter had plenty of motive. Edmund had clearly passed Walter in the department’s ego to brain ratio race. I am sure Walter has been wanting the man dead for years.”

Again Betsy demurred.
“But Walter was in his office. And why kill him now, after all this time?”

C.J. pursed her lips. “I sure would like
Walter’s alibi corroborated, anyhow.”

“Well, I don’t think it was Walter. If it wasn’t Stephen, I think Jefferson killed Edmund,” Betsy declared confidently.

“Jefferson?” asked C.J. wonderingly.

“Yes,
” said Betsy firmly. “On
Law and Order
, it is always the person you least suspect. And I don’t suspect Jefferson at all. Frankly, he is the only person in the department who is showing any grief. He looks like he hasn’t had any sleep since it happened.”

“Jefferson?” asked C.J. again. “How would he have done it? He was out running at the time Edmund was killed.”

“That’s not a problem. He was running laps of the campus, so he could have run one lap, dashed back to Edmund’s office, killed Edmund, and then dashed out again and continued on with the second lap of his run.”

“But
why? Jefferson is the one person who has a productive working relationship with Edmund. It seems unlikely that he decides to suddenly kill his coauthor in the middle of a run. Very unlikely.”

“Mmmm,” mused Betsy. “
I see what you mean. But I still think it’s Jefferson.”

*****

Two coffees and a scone later, and feeling quite rejuvenated, C.J. went to leave Wallaby’s at close on midday. As she was heading out the door, C.J. almost bumped into Annika Jonsdottir. The girl had paid for her coffee and was clearly distracted, walking hastily and talking to herself. By the expression on her face, C.J. could tell the girl was troubled.

“Annika?” C.J. asked questioningly
. Inwardly, C.J. sighed. She hated dealing with student troubles.

“Oh!” cried Annika with a start. “Professor Whitmore. You startle me.”

“I see that. Is everything alright? You look… concerned…about something.”

“Me? Oh, no. Me? I am fine. I am
just, um... thinking about...Professor Daniels’s problem set. Excuse me, Professor Whitmore. I must go.”

W
ith that, the young woman scurried off down the street, leaving C.J. staring after her, unsure of what she had just seen.