Voice Mail Murder (2 page)

Chapter Three

The three women were lounging in Pamela’s office as they often did late in the afternoon on those days when none of them were teaching. Arliss MacGregor-Goodman had confiscated Pamela’s desk and had draped her long, gangly legs over a corner of its top, leaning back in the leather desk chair, where she looked to any newcomer as if she owned this office. She slurped her straw in a large paper cup of raspberry-flavored tea and gesticulated with her free hand. The other two listened attentively. Joan Bentley sat primly in a straight-backed chair by the office door, her hands clasped in a prayerful pose atop her left knee which was crossed neatly over her right knee, her trim grey herringbone skirt pulled sedately over her knee caps. Joan directed her gaze back and forth from Arliss to Pamela who was ensconced on the paisley couch under the window, her shoes resting on the floor and her legs tucked beneath her on the cushions.

“All I heard was that he was murdered,” Arliss said, arms and beverage cup flailing wildly to punctuate her comment.

“From whom?” asked Joan, leaning forward at her waist and peering at her younger colleague over the tops of her gold-rimmed glasses. “Students are not known for their accurate conveyance of campus information.”

“You mean gossip,” added Pamela, reaching for a cup on a side table and sipping.

“It wasn’t a student,” continued Arliss. “Bob heard it from someone in the Athletic Department. Someone on the faculty.”

“Bob knows someone in the Athletic Department?” Joan asked, thin grey eyebrows raising a fraction, along with her posture. Pamela giggled. Bob was Arliss’s husband— a sweet man, but hardly one to maintain acquaintances with jocks.

“They serve on the Graduation Committee,” explained Arliss. “They have for several years. He teaches Kinesiology or something and works as the football team’s assistant coach. Bob says he’s reliable.” She plopped her arms down and uttered a snort.

Pamela and Joan exchanged looks.

“So,” ventured Pamela, “so, tell us what this assistant coach had to say to Bob.”

Arliss lifted her thin legs from atop Pamela’s desk and planted her sneaker-clad feet unceremoniously on the floor. Setting her drink on the desk, she scooted the wheeled desk chair across the linoleum floor closer to the two women. “Evidently, they found him in a motel room.”

“What?” squeaked Joan. She reached behind her and quickly shoved the open office door shut.

“Joan,” protested Pamela, “I have office hours.”

“It doesn’t look as if anyone is coming, my dear,” replied Joan, patting Pamela’s hand.

“It’s the first day of classes!” retorted Pamela.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pamela,” answered Joan, “If anyone knocks, I’ll open it. Go on, Arliss. What did this coach tell Bob again?”

“He said the police found his body in a motel room,” repeated Arliss, her head of frizzy black hair bouncing as she spoke.

“How did he hear this?” asked Pamela.

“According to Bob,” said Arliss, “the guy he knows says the police are questioning everyone in the Athletic Department.”

“Why?” questioned Joan. “Do they suspect someone over there?”

“Bob didn’t say any more than that. But, I’m sure he’ll let me know if he finds out any new information.”

“Yes, dear,” said Joan, smiling. “I’m sure he will. But, of course, it doesn’t matter, really.”

“What do you mean by that?” sneered Arliss. “A man dies—is murdered—and it doesn’t matter?”

“I just mean,” replied Joan, her palms raised towards Arliss, “that Pamela will surely solve the crime before the police do anyway.”

“For heaven’s sake, Joan!” laughed Pamela. “I hardly think I’ll have anything to do with this investigation.”

“My dear,” continued Joan, “you always seem to come to the aid of our local constabulary who somehow tend to mangle most murder investigations in Reardon. I’m sure they’ll be seeking you out to solve this one too.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” protested Pamela, sitting upright, and scooting forward on her comfortable sofa. “The only reason I ever got involved in those other murders is because there were sounds that were clues to the killer and that’s my area of expertise. Just how often is that going to happen with a murder investigation?”

“Twice,” responded the older woman, rising gently and rearranging her skirt.

“Joan, you are maddening,” said Pamela. “You know those deaths were flukes. It’s completely unlikely that that will ever happen again.”

“You never know,” said Arliss, joining Joan in needling Pamela. “Sherlock Barnes may soon be on the trail again.” She leaned over and punched Pamela in the arm.

“Never!” said Pamela, drawing back. “My detecting days are over. That local rube Shoop is quite capable of solving any murder that is committed without any help from me.”

“Just listen to yourself, my dear!” exclaimed Joan. “’Local rube’! It doesn’t sound to me as if you have much confidence in our law enforcement.”

“They’re just fine, Joan,” said Pamela, “I’m exaggerating. Besides, what acoustic clue could there be? Arliss said they found him in a motel room. It doesn’t appear as if anyone recorded the murder—at least this time. And if no one recorded the murder, then there’s no reason for me to become involved.”

“You’re probably right,” agreed Joan, sliding back in her chair, gnawing on her lower lip.

“It would be more fun if you were involved, Pam,” added Arliss, checking for approval from Joan.

“Arliss!” shouted Pamela, “Murder is not fun. A murder investigation is not fun—nor should it be.”

“It could be,” suggested Joan, leaning forward and straightening the lace collar of her blouse. “It’s not as if we have any personal connection with this man.”

“Good grief, Joan!” yelled Pamela. “He’s the university’s football coach! He’s a hero to most of the student body--even those of us who don’t know him personally. Most students know who he is. Without him, who knows what will happen to the football team?”

“You mean they might lose?” suggested Arliss, with a sigh.

“I see that would upset you,” cackled Joan.

“Horribly,” responded Arliss, weaving back and forth on the rolling chair. “Football is my life!”

“You two!” exclaimed Pamela. “A man is dead and you’re making jokes.”

“Pamela, you have to be able to find humor in the mundane,” observed Joan. “Since when were you ever a football fan?”

“I’m not a football fan, but this coach, what’s his name? Croft? Coach Croft. He’s also a member of this faculty. He’s one of us. He was murdered. That’s horrible.”

“That’s the problem, as I see it,” said Joan, standing now and pacing around the small office.

“What problem?” asked Arliss, who had rolled backwards and again placed her legs on the desktop. Pamela had originally cringed when Arliss started to take over her desk in this fashion, but eventually got used to it, and now simply kept a clear space on the lower left corner so that her friend would have a space to stretch her long legs comfortably when she visited.

“The problem is that none of us like football, so none of us know anything about this fellow or the football team or any of the people in the Athletic Department—other than Bob and that one person he knows on that committee.” Joan continued pacing. “It would help if we had some sources over there.”

“I’ll ask Bob to see if he can grill his friend on the Graduation Committee,” said Arliss.

“Grill?” asked Pamela. “Why? Why do we have to find out anything?”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“I don’t know,” answered Pamela. “I’m sure we’ll find out when everyone else does--when it’s revealed in the newspapers.”

“Pam,” exclaimed Arliss, “This is just not like you! You are usually so eager to find out, so curious! Don’t you want to know who murdered the coach?”

“Of course, I do,” maintained Pamela, “but it’s not my responsibility to find out.”

“No, but we’re all researchers,” suggested Joan, arms folded, “and we can surely do a little research.”

“I suppose,” concluded Pamela.

“Besides,” added Joan, “I can use something to distract me from Jack.”

“Now what?” questioned Arliss.

“He has totally disrupted my life,” replied Joan, sitting back down on her perch, and pulling her chair even closer to the two women. “I have no privacy. He’s taken over my little house. My lifestyle has been forced to change.” She sniffed with just a tinge of self-pity.

“Joan,” said Pamela, shaking her head. She had heard this complaint from Joan daily since Joan’s youngest of two adult sons had moved in with her after losing his job. “Can’t you get him busy job hunting? If he’d spend more time . . . .”

“He’s tried,” moaned Joan. “There simply aren’t any jobs in graphic design.”

“Tell him to apply at McDonald’s,” suggested Arliss. “We’ve all had to work at places we didn’t want to work at some point in our lives.” She eyed her fast food cup and gave the side of it a little tap.

“Remember,” she prompted them, “he got that warehouse job several months ago, but after one day, he was sneezing so horribly and all that lifting aggravated his bad knee so much that he had to quit. It just seems like less hassle for him to do nothing.”

“Yes, but when he does nothing,” noted Pamela, “then he’s moping around your house driving you crazy.”

“Right,” agreed Joan. “How did I go so quickly from being a content, widowed professor living a satisfying single life to slave Mom working to motivate an adult child?” She gave the women an exaggerated eye roll.

“You let this happen, Joan,” admonished Arliss.

“So you keep telling me,” Joan sighed. “At least you seem to have finally found your bliss, Miss ‘I reject traditional marriage and all conventional values.’ How is life on that little farm of yours?”

“Excellent,” said Arliss, smiling proudly. “Two horses and a few chickens now.”

“What about cows?” queried Pamela.

“Not yet,” said Arliss. “Of course, we have quite a few dogs, and so many cats that I couldn’t even begin to count them. But, if you know of any stray animals that need a home, we can fit in a few more.” Pamela realized that Arliss was truly in her element. The young assistant lab technician had unexpectedly found her life’s dream when she was courted and wed by shy associate professor of animal psychology Bob Goodman several years ago. The couple had recently purchased a farm on the edge of Reardon which the two animal lovers had quickly turned into an animal refuge.

Pamela glanced at both of her best friends—each so different from the other, yet each so full of the energy and enthusiasm that Pamela herself possessed and admired in others. Joan and Arliss wanted to know about the murder of the football coach. Pamela knew that their curiosity was the same curiosity that she possessed—that of a researcher. They all wanted to know how and why someone could do something like commit murder. And when murder happened so close to home, the desire to know was even stronger.

Chapter Four

Luckily, the topic of the football coach’s murder had not consumed Pamela’s thoughts because she had taught two more classes and dealt with a line—yes, an actual line—of students outside of her door during her office hours who were trying to get in or out of various courses at the last minute. She mused that she had sat at her desk during her office hours for several days before the first day of class and had seen very few students. Now, that classes had finally started, students were all frantic to solve their registration problems and, of course, they all assumed that they were the only ones experiencing any problems. She sighed, knowing that it was par for the course, and that schedules would eventually iron themselves out and classes would eventually get down to the business of learning. But for the next day or two, it would be chaos.

As she glanced up at her wall clock, she realized that it was almost five o’clock. The line of students had dwindled away to nothing and she grabbed the opportunity to make her exit. Gathering her purse, clipboard and papers she knew she would need for tonight’s lesson prep, she locked up and headed down the side stairs. The old building echoed forlornly suddenly empty of most of the earlier mass of pushing and shoving bodies.

At the main office, she slipped in quietly and peeked inside her cubby. Jane Marie was typing on her computer.

“Dr. Barnes,” signaled the perky secretary, as she noticed Pamela by the wall of mailboxes. “What a day, right?”

“More than usually hectic for the first day of class,” responded Pamela, edging over to Jane Marie’s desk that contained a neat arrangement of family photos, flowers, and cups of wrapped candies. “The football coach?”

“Right,” whispered the secretary, leaning in to Pamela over her computer monitor, “Can you believe it?”

“Students are saying he was murdered. Is that what you heard?”

“That’s the story,” replied Jane Marie. “Supposedly, they found his body yesterday morning in a motel. The police were called.” She bent closer, grabbing Pamela’s sleeve. “Stabbed in the back, seven times.”

“My God!”

“Yes,” continued the young woman, “He was on the floor and there was blood everywhere.” She clenched her teeth when she said everywhere.

“Who would do such a thing?” asked Pamela.

“Good question,” answered Jane Marie. “He hadn’t lost a game in years.”

“I wouldn’t know,” replied Pamela, “I don’t really follow football.”

“Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, “surely you know how successful our football team is! I mean, they’re amazing. The team idolized Coach Croft.”

“Somebody didn’t idolize him. How did you find out all this, Jane Marie?” asked Pamela, although she wasn’t surprised at Jane Marie’s intimate knowledge of any campus news. The departmental secretary was typically a fount of information about college scandals.

“The police have been questioning everyone in the Athletic Department. I talked with Rosemary Ellis, the Coach’s secretary, this morning.”

“Do the police suspect someone in the Athletic Department?”

“I don’t know, but they are probably going to question everyone who knew the Coach or worked with him.”

Mitchell Marks, Head of the Psychology Department, opened the adjoining door to his office, which attached directly from Jane Marie’s small connecting area to the main office. Marks, a tall, blond, somber-looking man, looked around cautiously before entering the little alcove.

“Pamela,” he greeted her, and ambled over to Jane Marie’s desk where he sat on the edge. “Heard you talking out here. I suppose you have the coach’s murder solved already, don’t you?”

“Mitchell,” said Pamela, scowling and sitting on the edge of a chair in front of the secretary’s small desk. “All I know is what I hear from Jane Marie.” She clutched her belongings and beamed at the secretary who in turn glanced up at her boss with a shrug.

“Right,” he declared, “Scandal Central, here. Just figured that the police had probably contacted you and asked you who ‘dun it?”

“No, sorry,” replied Pamela. “All I know about it is what Jane Marie has informed me. She says the police found his body in a motel and that he’d been stabbed seven times.”

“That’s more than I’d heard,” said Marks, his head tipped to Jane Marie quizzically. “Do they have any suspects?”

“Not that I know of,” Jane Marie said.

“Boy,” continued Marks, his jowls shaking, “What a mess. Sad. Really sad.”

“Yes,” agreed Pamela. “I didn’t know him, but, of course, the students are all very upset.”

“I’d met him a few times,” offered Marks, tapping a pencil on the desk. “Seemed like a nice fellow. And, of course, his wife. In that wheel chair. Very sympathetic.”

“Yes,” agreed Jane Marie. “I think she has multiple sclerosis or something similar.”

“Oh no,” said Pamela, “I hadn’t heard that. I guess I just never paid any attention.”

“I believe I met them at one of the Dean’s functions a few years back—when he first came here. It was a few years ago, wasn’t it, JM?” asked Marks.

“Yes, sir,” replied Jane Marie, “He’s only been here three years, but the team started its winning streak almost as soon as he got here. I mean it’s been amazing what he did over there.”

“You met him?” asked Pamela.

“I did,” nodded Marks. “Very friendly. Very solicitous of the wife. She was charming—and energetic, despite being in the chair. Didn’t seem to affect her personality at all. A nice couple.”

“How horrible for her,” offered Pamela.

“Yes,” said Jane Marie. “And their daughters.”

“They have children?” asked Pamela.

“I believe so. Two daughters. One is still in high school, but the other one is enrolled here—I think she’s a junior,” said Jane Marie.

“What could possibly be the motive to kill such a man?” wondered Pamela, shaking her head.

“Right,” nodded Marks. “Doesn’t seem a likely victim for murder. No one could be upset with him for his coaching. I mean, with the team on this long-term winning streak. If there’s any problem in the family, I don’t see it.”

“Must be something else,” said Pamela.

“Must be,” agreed Jane Marie. “They did find him in a motel.” She gave an audible sigh.

“What did you get from the secretary?” asked Marks, looking over his shoulder at Jane Marie.

“She was upset, as you can imagine,” she explained. “She was trying to keep things going over there—get the team members enrolled in courses they needed to be in—and had forgotten to register for. You know, the typical thing. But, I could tell she was really upset. “

“Of course, she’d be upset,” Pamela noted, “I’d be upset if you were murdered Mitchell.”

Marks chuckled and smiled. “Thanks, Pamela. I guess.”

“You know what I mean,” Pamela added, flustered and blushing.

“Yes, yes. I know. You say that the police are questioning everyone in the Athletic Department?” he pressed the secretary.

“That’s what Rosemary said,” repeated Jane Marie. “I didn’t get the impression that they had any specific suspicions though, only that they were trying to figure out who might have had a motive or if anyone knew why Coach Croft was in the motel in the first place.”

“I can venture a guess as to why he was in the motel,” said Marks, glancing from one woman to the other.

“You can?” replied Pamela, meeting his challenge.

“Come on, you two,” said Marks, eyeballs rolling. “What’s the main reason someone goes to a motel when they have a perfectly good home to go to?”

“Privacy,” suggested Jane Marie, sweetly.

“An afternoon nap,” offered Pamela, equally innocent.

“Oh, come off it!” snorted Marks. “He may be Mr. All-American Coach of the Year, but a motel room in the middle of the day suggests one thing to me—and I’m sure it suggests one thing to the two of you innocent ladies too.”

“What?” both women asked at once.

“The guy was having an affair,” said Marks in a loud stage whisper. Pamela appreciated his discretion as you never knew when some student might be listening around a corner to faculty speculation.

“Even if he was,” suggested Pamela, “that doesn’t explain the murder. I’m sure a number of people manage to have affairs without getting murdered.” She wished she could retrieve this statement as soon as she said it. There had been a minor scandal several years ago when Mitchell had had a brief affair. His marriage to Velma had been derailed but was now apparently back on track.

“Maybe so,” agreed Marks, running his hand through his thick mane of graying blond hair and seemingly oblivious to her comment, “but it might provide a motive—particularly if someone found out about said affair—someone he didn’t want to know.” A tuft of his blond hair fell over his forehead and he shook it quickly out of his face.

“Surely not his wife,” whispered Jane Marie. “You said she’s in a wheel chair.”

“What about the daughters?” asked Pamela. “Maybe they didn’t approve of their father cheating on their mother.”

“Wait a minute,” said Marks, hands in traffic cop position to the two women.

“Or maybe it was an irate student,” declared Pamela, “who got a bad grade!”

Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, arms folded. “You don’t kill a professor for a bad grade!”

“I don’t know,” mused Marks, “Some of them get pretty angry when things don’t go their way.” At that point several students poked their heads around the corner of the secretary’s alcove.

“We need to get Dr. Swinton’s signature,” said one, “on a drop and add form.”

“He isn’t in his office,” said the other, glaring at Jane Marie expectantly.

Of course, thought Pamela, students expected each faculty member to remain in their office twenty-four hours a day and be on call whenever they needed something signed or approved. She knew that Willard Swinton was one of the few professors who probably would do just that if he were allowed. Totally devoted to his students and his research, Willard was probably grabbing a quick supper. She noted her watch and seeing that it was a little after five o’clock now, she was quite certain that he would probably return to his office shortly.

“Why don’t you wait by his office door?” she suggested to the pair. “I believe Dr. Swinton is out getting some supper, but I’m sure he’ll be returning to his office soon.” The pair looked at each other quizzically and, without a word, headed out the door.

“They don’t seem too worried about the Coach,” said the secretary.

“Oblivious,” agreed Pamela, following the students’ departure with her eyes.

“Probably for the best,” agreed Marks. “Life and classes must go on. It’s late, ladies.” He turned and headed back into his inner sanctum and shut the door, leaving the two women alone in the small room.

“So, really, Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, conspiratorially, “who do you think might have killed Coach Croft?”

“I have no idea, Jane Marie,” answered Pamela, “but, truth be told, I am interested. And you seem to have an inside track on classified information.”

“Maybe.”

“I’d really like to hear what you find out—if anything.”

“I can’t promise, but I do speak to Rosemary fairly often. We see each other from time to time at those college secretaries’ luncheons. Dr. Marks bends over backwards for the athletes too, more so than many heads of some departments, Dr. Barnes,” she added secretively, “and I know Rosemary appreciates our help when their athletes need special treatment, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, Jane Marie,” Pamela replied, “but this time, the Coach got some special treatment from someone—and not just help with some football players who needed to get into a course late or help with struggling athletes who couldn’t make passing grades. This time, he got more special treatment than he bargained for.”