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Authors: Bill Crider

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Bond With Death
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T
roy Beauchamp made a beeline for Sally's office as soon as class was over. He didn't actually shove any of the milling students aside, but he did brush a few of them with his shoulders as he dashed down the hallway. He arrived at Sally's door practically breathless, but he still had enough air left to say, “Have you heard about Harold Curtin?” as soon as he reached the doorway.
Sally looked up from the papers she'd been grading and smiled. She knew Troy was going to be crushed, but she told him the truth.
“Yes,” she said. “Jack told me.”
Troy was rendered momentarily speechless, which was for him an unaccustomed condition. He was a careless dresser, and as he stood there with his mouth slightly agape, Sally noticed that he'd missed a loop when he put on his belt. She didn't tell him, however.
“Neville's a rat,” Troy said after a few seconds. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “He promised he'd let me tell you. It's a shame when you can't even trust your own colleagues.”
Sally smiled, but the smile slipped away when Weems and Desmond appeared behind Beauchamp.
Troy turned around to see what Sally was looking at. When he saw the two policemen standing at his back, he said, “Excuse me,” and left without another word.
Knowing Troy as she did, Sally would have been willing to bet
that Troy hadn't gone far. He was most likely lurking somewhere within earshot, so she invited Weems and Desmond to come into her office.
“You don't have to close the door if you just need my help in how to use
who
and
whom
correctly,” Sally said. “Or even if you just want to know something about the use of the apostrophe.”
Weems and Desmond stepped inside, and Desmond closed the door behind them. The door wasn't an entirely effective barrier, because it had louvers in it, but it was better than nothing. If Troy overheard anything they said, it would be all over the building within minutes, if not seconds.
“I take it you aren't here to get any information about errors in writing,” Sally said. “You might as well have a seat, then.”
Weems sat in the chair beside her desk, while Desmond took one at the computer desk behind her. Sally waited patiently for them to tell her what they wanted.
“We've been talking to Jack Neville,” Weems said after a second or two.
Sally thought he would go on, but he didn't. So she asked how Jack was doing, as if she didn't know.
“He's all right,” Weems said. “He wasn't very helpful, though.”
Sally hadn't eaten a Hershey bar after Jack had left her office, but now she wished she had. Digesting chocolate would have helped her deal with Weems.
“What kind of help do you need?” she asked. “Is it about Jack?”
“It's not about Neville this time. I'm looking for some information about one of your former teachers.”
“Which one?” Sally asked, though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
“Harold Curtin,” Weems said, confirming her suspicions. “You and he had some problems at one time, I think.”
“One problem, and it was his, not mine. It was handled by the college. I haven't seen him since he retired.”
“Retired?” Weems gave her a skeptical look. “I guess that's one way to put it. But he didn't leave voluntarily, did he?”
“He didn't have much choice in the matter, if that's what you mean.
“That's what I mean,” Weems said. “And now he's dead. You've heard about that?”
“I've heard.”
“News gets around this place fast,” Weems said with a glance at Desmond.
“Telegraph, telephone, tell a teacher,” Desmond said. He seemed a bit nervous to Sally, and that was unusual. Desmond wasn't the nervous sort. “The three fastest means of communication in higher education. Not necessarily in that order, either.”
“That's a really old joke,” Weems said. “Does anybody these days even know what
telegraph
means?”
“I know,” Desmond told him. “But then I'm an old guy.”
“I guess so.” Weems turned back to Sally. “You're probably wondering why I'm asking you these questions.”
“That's right. But I assume you're planning to tell me sooner or later.”
“Sooner,” Weems said. “There's a possibility that Curtin was murdered.”
Sally sank back in her chair. That was one thing she hadn't expected to hear.
“Who did it?” she asked.
“If I knew that,” Weems said, “I wouldn't be here now.”
Sally had been afraid he was going to tell her something like that.
“Surely you don't think I had anything to do with it.”
Weems didn't answer the question. He said, “I don't have any writing questions, but I have a biblical one. It's about a verse from St. John's Revelation.”
Sally recognized the verse, and of course she knew the source of the next quotation that he asked her about.
“What does that have to do with Harold Curtin?” she wanted to know.
“Because we found both these verses near his body. And your name was signed to them.”
Sally said she found that hard to believe, and she asked if Weems wanted a handwriting sample.
“Well, it wasn't exactly your name. It was a name a lot like yours.”
“Sarah Good,” Sally said.
“How did you know that?”
“I've read about the witchcraft trials, and Sarah's name has been brought to my attention lately.”
“By an e-mail,” Weems said.
Sally wondered if everyone in town had gotten that crazy e-mail.
“Somebody doesn't like me very much,” she said.
“Somebody liked Curtin even less,” Desmond pointed out. Sally had almost forgotten he was in the room.
“Has anyone been trying to find out who sent that e-mail?” Sally asked him.
“Yes,” Desmond said. “We have some of the computer guys working on it. They tell me it was sent from an ‘alias,' whatever that means, and that it will have to be tracked back through a whole series of aliases. They might be able to do it, or they might not.”
“It mentioned Sarah Good,” Sally said. “So there might be some connection between it and those notes at Harold's place. But the notes don't mean he was murdered. He might have written them himself.”
“We're checking on that,” Weems told her. “We're also checking on his medical history. We'll know a lot more by the end of the day.”
Sally's telephone rang. The call was from Fieldstone's secretary, Eva Dillon, who told Sally that Fieldstone wanted to see her in his office immediately if not sooner.
“Roy Don Talon is in the office with him,” Eva said.
It required a mighty effort, but Sally didn't moan. She told Eva that she would be there as soon as she could.
“That was the president's office,” she told Weems. “Dr. Fieldstone wants to see me.”
“We're about through here, anyway,” Weems said. “I just wanted to let you know what's going on. Sort of a friendly warning, you might say.”
Sally didn't think of Weems as friendly in the least. She thought he had other reasons for his visit. After all, she'd been involved in a couple of his cases before, and she couldn't blame him for checking on her. The e-mail was bad enough, and all those references to Sarah Good lying around Harold Curtin's place didn't help. However, she didn't have time to worry about things like that at the moment. She was using all her worry muscles on Roy Don Talon.
Weems and Desmond left, and Sally opened the bottom drawer of her desk. That was where she kept the Hershey bars. She wasn't going to face Talon without eating one.
 
 
Judge Hathorne:
“Sarah Good what evil spirit have you familiarity with?”
Sarah Good:
“None.”
Judge Hathorne:
“Have you made no contract with the devil?”
Sarah Good:
“No.”
Judge Hathorne: “
Why do you hurt these children?”
Sarah Good:
“I do not hurt them. I scorn it.”
Judge Hathorne:
“Who do you employ then to do it?”
Sarah Good:
“I employ nobody.”
Judge Hathorne:
“What creature do you employ then?”
Sarah Good:
“No creature, but I am falsely accused.”
 
 
R
oy Don Talon was a member of the college board of trustees, and he was not fond of Sally. He'd been involved with the “satanic painting” episode that Fieldstone had mentioned earlier, and that hadn't endeared Sally to him. Later on, he'd been even more involved in an incident that had almost landed him in jail. He'd escaped imprisonment because he had no knowledge of certain goings-on at his car dealership, but it had been a near thing, and he blamed Sally for his close call.
Eva Dillon greeted Sally in the outer office and asked if she could use a Snickers.
Sally thanked her and told her that she'd already had a Hershey.
“Good,” Eva said. “Nobody should have to deal with Roy Don Talon without a good chocolate buzz.”
She ushered Sally into Fieldstone's office, where Talon and the president were waiting for her. In contrast to Fieldstone, who was dressed impeccably in a navy blue suit, starched white shirt, and navy tie, Talon might have been on his way to attend a rodeo or a Dixie Chicks concert. He wore a brown western-cut suit and brown boots. His string tie was also brown, and his silver belt buckle looked like the headlight of an oncoming locomotive.
Sally wasn't sure whether Talon dressed as he did because he'd been a lifelong fan of country-and-western music in general and Porter Waggoner in particular or because he was a shrewd salesman.
He had one of the largest automobile dealerships in the Houston area, and his television ads, which turned up at all hours on most of the cable channels as well as the local stations, played up western themes. In the latest, Talon was depicted riding a mechanical bull in the middle of his car lot, hanging on with one hand as he waved his ten-gallon Stetson in the air with the other. After the ride, he slid off the bull and announced that “We won't give you any bull at Talon Auto!”
If that was true, and Sally didn't believe it for a second, there was still plenty of bull to go around when Roy Don met people personally.
“Howdy,” Roy Don said, standing up when Sally entered the room.
He extended a cool hand to her, and she shook it because he expected her to. She was glad he didn't try to hug her.
“Have a seat, Dr. Good,” Fieldstone said. He was behind his desk and didn't join in the handshaking ritual. “Mr. Talon wants to talk to us about some concerns he has.”
“That's the plain truth,” Talon said. He sat down, holding his cowboy hat on his lap. “I do have me some concerns.”
Sally sat on the couch and waited for him to tell her what the concerns were, even though she had a pretty good idea.
“I got an e-mail this mornin',” Talon said, looking at her. He had a deep, sincere voice, which was good for his television ads and probably didn't hurt when he was closing a business deal. “It was about you, Dr. Good.”
“I think a lot of people got that e-mail,” Sally said.
“Yeah, so do I, and that's the problem. We can't have people here in Hughes thinkin' we got us a witch on our staff here at the college. That's not good for our image in the community. People might start rememberin' that incident we had here with that satanic paintin'.”
It took an effort, but Sally refrained from sighing. She said, “It wasn't a satanic painting. It was just a picture of a goat.”
“Yeah, well, that's your story, and I don't blame you for stickin' to it. But it all seems to me to fit together.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. Witchcraft and satanism and all those things like that. They're just one and the same, and now you're mixed up with both of 'em.”
Sally looked at Fieldstone, who at least had the grace to avert his eyes. She knew he couldn't call a board member an idiot, but she wished he'd stick up for his faculty. Not that she really expected him to in this case, as he'd already told her pretty much the same thing himself.
“Mr. Talon,” she said, “do you really believe in witches?”
“Well now, of course I do. It talks about 'em in the Bible, and I believe every word in there, and that includes the maps. But maybe you don't feel the same way.”
Sally wasn't going to fall into that trap. She knew better than to argue about religion with someone like Roy Don Talon.
“I should have asked if you believe that
I'm
a witch,” she said.
Talon moved his hat around on his lap and shifted a little in the chair.
“Well now, I can't say about that. I know that sometimes an e-mail might not be true.”
“Let's say I am a witch. That would mean I could cast a spell on you right now. I could turn you into a cat, or maybe a pig.”
Not that I'd have to work very hard on that last one, Sally thought.
Fieldstone cleared his throat, but Sally didn't look in his direction.
“Or I could put a hex on your car dealership,” she said to Talon. “I could cause your sales to drop to nothing.”
Fieldstone cleared his throat more loudly, and Sally turned toward him.
“Do you need a drink of water?” she asked.
Fieldstone glared at her. “No. I'm fine.”
“I thought maybe you had a sore throat, or a cough.”
“No. It's nothing.”
Fieldstone's face was getting red, but Sally didn't care.
“I'm glad. Are you sure you don't want to get a drink?”
“I don't need a drink.” Fieldstone's voice was strained. “I just need for you and Mr. Talon to start talking sensibly. He knows you're not going to put a spell on him.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” Sally said. “What about it, Mr. Talon?”
Talon wouldn't look directly at her.
“I guess I hope you wouldn't,” he said.
“Good grief,” Sally said. “Look, Mr. Talon, I happen to have the same last name as a witch who was executed over three hundred years ago because that was my husband's name. Not mine. I should never have taken it when I married him.”
Talon looked as shocked at Sally's last statement as he might have if Sally had produced a broom out of thin air, mounted it, and flown around the room.
“There's no call to get radical,” he said.
“I'm not getting radical, but I am getting a little tired of this witchcraft business. I'm not a witch, I don't know any witches, and I'm not going to say anything more about it.”
“Well, see, I wouldn't say any more, myself, but it's just that there's already been some talk around town, what with poor Harold Curtin dyin' the way he did and all. You did know about that, didn't you?”
“I heard about it, and I'm very sorry. I don't see what it has to do with me, however.”
Sally certainly wasn't going to mention her little visit with Weems, and she didn't think either Talon or Fieldstone would have heard about it. Not yet, anyway.
“I guess it might not have anything to do with you,” Talon said, “but I got a call from Sherm Jackson this mornin'. I think you've met his wife.”
Sally had met Jennifer Jackson, all right. She was the leader of a group called Mothers Against Witchcraft, the group that had tried to get the Harry Potter books banned from the Hughes Public Library. She and Sally had developed an intense case of mutual dislike.
“I've met her,” Sally said.
“Then you know how she is. Sherm said she wanted me to set up
a meetin' for her with Dr. Fieldstone, and I just thought we'd better get a few things settled first.”
“Like what?”
“She wants you to be at the meetin'. I think maybe she has it in her head to get you fired.”
“And what do you have in your head?” Sally asked.
“Me?” Talon fidgeted as if he thought Sally might put that hex on him if he said the wrong thing. “Not a thing.”
Sally could see the headline now: DOCTORS EXAMINE TALON'S HEAD, FIND NOTHING.
“I just thought you should know what you're in for,” Talon said. “That's all. I'm just the messenger.”
“It seems to me that just a little while ago you were awfully concerned about that e-mail.”
“Not me. I was just sayin' how it put me in mind of that satanic picture.”
Sally didn't want to get started on that topic again. She looked at Fieldstone.
“Have you set up the meeting already?”
Fieldstone opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out a piece of paper. He pretended to be looking at it, but Sally knew the paper was just an excuse for him to avoid her eyes.
“I had Eva check your schedule,” Fieldstone said. “You don't have a nine-thirty class on Tuesdays, and Mrs. Jackson is free then, too. So we'll meet here in my office tomorrow morning.”
Sally stood up. She looked first at Talon and then at Fieldstone. Talon looked at his hat, while Fieldstone continued to look at the piece of paper he was holding.
“I'll be here,” Sally said.

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