Sounds of Murder (19 page)

"Ohhh," said Pamela, sadly. "He doesn't want
you to leave." This was another reason she avoided animals. She was
a sucker for a sad face and this chimp had a really sad face.

"He's fine," announced Arliss, standing and
whipping off her lab coat as she grabbed her back pack from a lab
table. "Let's go party!"

Pamela headed out the lab door, with Arliss
loping behind. Arliss locked up behind herself and the two women
strode down the main hallway of Blake Hall, laughing and
talking.

"Just thought you’d like to know," said
Pamela to Arliss, "Since I’m bringing you, Joan will be taking you
home--as she's closer to you, and
Who-Who's
is closer to
me."

"Limousine service!" chuckled Arliss.

"And don't you forget it,” said Pamela,
shaking her finger at Arliss. "Joan and I expect some payback."

"I'm a great dog-sitter," announced Arliss,
"and I know you have a super little poodle, don't you?" Pamela knew
that Arliss lived alone in an apartment complex where no pets were
allowed; it was probably torture for her, loving “critters” the way
she did. They exited Blake Hall and into the small parking lot.
Pamela unlocked her car and she and Arliss slid inside.

"Believe me," confided Pamela, "the poodle
doesn't need sitting. It's the teenager that needs sitting. Do you
want to try your hand at that?" She shook her head hopelessly.

"The perils of motherhood," bemoaned Arliss
in a mock serious voice.

"The joys of being single," intoned Pamela.
"Believe me, animals are much easier to raise than children."

They were laughing and chatting and having an
otherwise relaxing Friday night out. Pamela pulled carefully out of
the parking lot—after all, she did have a passenger. They didn't
notice the person sitting in a nearby car, watching their every
move.

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."