A Little Class on Murder Read online

  “Max, I am truly impressed at this evidence of your devotion to your career. But, back to the point, what did Emily know?”

  He looked at Annie with suddenly troubled eyes. “It’s funny you should put it like that. Because I’m certain she knows something. I’m not sure what. We were getting along great. She told me all about the color coding of the folders, the use of tabs, the dead files, the arrangement of the filing cabinets. She even took me on a tour of the office and pointed out the locked closet that held the personnel files. So far, so good. No hesitation on her part. Then, as I stood there looking at that locked door, I thought about keys. And I asked her. She stared at that door like she’d never seen it before. I swear her face turned green. And yet, she didn’t hesitate at all when I asked who had keys. In fact, she seemed to relax. So maybe she turns green every afternoon about four. I don’t know.”

  “Does the master key open that file closet?”

  He looked crestfallen. “How did you know about the master keys?”

  “As an adjunct faculty member I was offered the choice of receiving—for a fifty-dollar deposit—a master key, which would open my office, my classroom, the faculty lounge, and all other locked doors, such as the main office, the supply closet, et cetera, or individual keys, at no cost, for each door I would have occasion to unlock.”

  He eyed her curiously. “What did you choose?”

  “Individual keys, of course. Why should I make that kind of deposit?”

  Max rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “I will not drive you to the poorhouse,” she retorted righteously.

  “Just bananas,” he murmured.

  Ignoring that comment, Annie reached across him to retrieve a pen from the side table. Her hand poised over her notepad, she asked, “So, does the master key open the closet with the personnel files?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who has master keys?”

  He took the pen and pad and added to her list:

  6. Kurt Diggs

  7. Frank Crandall

  And, after a moment’s thought:

  8. Charlotte Porter.

  Annie shook her head. “Crazy. Why should she?”

  Max shrugged. “Who knows? The world’s crazy. Anything can happen. Or maybe somebody stole her key.”

  “Hmm. So anybody on the faculty could have nosed around in those files at some off hour. And of course, Emily has access to those files, too.”

  “During office hours. She made that very clear. Only faculty are allowed to possess master keys. Emily uses a key which hangs in the supply closet.”

  “And Burke might well have noticed if she spent time browsing through confidential faculty personnel folders. So, we can scratch Emily,” Annie concluded.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Max still looked troubled. “I’d swear she knows something. Maybe she saw someone at that closet and since it was a faculty member didn’t think much about it, but now she’s wondering …. I’ll talk to her again tomorrow.”

  Annie tapped the sheet. “Obviously, Brad Kelly’s highly placed source is on this list.” She sighed. “Seven, not counting Charlotte Porter. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “Already done it.” He tried to look modest and failed miserably.

  Annie was impressed, until he handed her a handful of mimeographed sheets and a blue-backed booklet (state-of-the-art desktop publishing). Each sheet was captioned CURRICULUM VITAE, followed by the name of a faculty member. Annie raised an eyebrow.

  “In academese, vitae equals résumé,” Max explained. “Has a delicious ring, doesn’t it?”

  She glanced at the sheets, then opened the blue-backed booklet. The title page read:

  CHASTAIN COLLEGE

  DEPARTMENT OF JOURNALISM

  Annual Report of Faculty Activities, Achievements, Innovations, Publications, Courses Taught, Organization Memberships, Offices Held, Academic Papers Presented, Research Undertaken, Workshops Sponsored.

  Below this introductory paean was the list of faculty, their academic ranks, and dates of original appointment.

  Annie flipped through the thick (forty-six pages) booklet, which included faculty members’ participation in seminars and workshops, speeches given, meetings attended, committee assignments, field trips, courses taught, and papers written (the title of one caught her eye, “The Use of Indefinite Articles in Print Advertising”). She tossed the book back to him. “So what?”

  He pointed at the copies of the curricula vitae, topped by R.T. Burke’s résumé. “I’ve got the skeletons of their lives right there.” He sounded just a little defensive. “Plus I’ve added some additional personal information from the College News Service.”

  The vitae were in alphabetic order.

  Annie skimmed Burke’s résumé first.

  Born in Sandy Springs, Georgia, April 6, 1925, he’d enlisted as a private in the U.S. Army in June 1942, and been part of the First Army offensive through Hurtgen Forest, a campaign that suffered more than fifty percent casualties. He was awarded the Purple Heart, Bronze Star, and Oak Leaf with Cluster, and received an honorable discharge in 1946. He earned a B.A. in journalism in 1950 from Chastain College, and worked as a reporter for several Southern newspapers from 1950 to 1963. He joined the New Orleans bureau of Associated Press in 1963, and assumed directorship of the journalism department at Chastain College in August 1988. He was the recipient of numerous awards for outstanding reporting, including coverage of Hurricane Donna in 1960, a forty-two-fatality fire at Maury County Jail in Columbia, Tennessee June 26, 1977, and a 1986 series on corruption of law enforcement officials involved in a Florida drug ring. He married Beryl Aarons in 1954, was widowed in 1983, and had no children. He is an accomplished rock climber, scuba diver, and spelunker.

  “Vigorous,” she observed and flipped to the next sheet.

  Frank Crandall came across as much less active, much more cerebral:

  Born March 6, 1957, in Bowling Green, Kentucky, Crandall received a B.A. in journalism from the University of Kentucky in 1978, and an M.A. from the University of Texas in 1979. After two years with a Kansas City advertising agency, he completed a Ph.D. in communications at Northwestern in 1984, and joined the Chastain faculty in August 1984 as an assistant professor on tenure track. His publications ran two pages. He served as sponsor of two student clubs and was a member of several committees. Annie yawned and skipped to the personal data. Married, no children. President of the Chastain Wildlife Photography Club, the Audubon Society, and local chapter of Ducks Unlimited.

  Her eyes glinted when she saw the third sheet. “Professor Kurt Diggs.” She waggled the sheet at Max. “I’ll bet this doesn’t tell the half of it. It would take a plain brown wrapper for this jerk.”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “He really made an impression on you.”

  Annie recounted the road-hogging Corvette and Diggs’s suggestive look at the faculty meeting.

  “Thinks he’s a stud, believe me. Macho man with hairy chest, sunglasses, skin-tight Levi’s. Has leer, will travel.”

  Her husband grinned. “Not, in short, your idea of a swell fellow.”

  “Jerk,” she summarized succinctly, scanning the vitae.

  Diggs was born February 19, 1951, in Flint, Michigan, and had a B.A. in communications from the University of Michigan, 1972. He worked as a news writer for a Grand Rapids ABC affiliate, 1972-75, and did his M.A. at the University of North Carolina in 1977. He joined the news staff of an NBC affiliate in Chastain in 1977, and Chastain College as assistant professor in 1978. He was granted tenure and promotion to associate professor in 1983. He worked part-time in the news department of a local station. He listed no publications, but had presented two papers at the annual TV Video News Workshop and participated in a local news forum at a meeting of the International Radio and Television Society, Inc. in New York. Two children. No wife listed by the News Service. Divorced? In addition to professional and educational memberships, he was an officer of the Chastain Sports Car Rally. />
  “And chief honcho of the Good Old Boy Society.”

  Max spread an arm behind her on the couch. “Can’t wait to meet the guy.”

  Annie looked at the next vitae. “From one extreme to the other.” Professor Victor Garrison. Smooth as butter and with a résumé to match.

  Garrison was born October 9, 1952, in Long Beach, California. He had a B.A. in journalism from the University of California at Los Angeles, 1973, and an M.A., 1974, ditto. Then followed two years as a general news reporter on a Long Beach daily, three years as political reporter for the Los Angeles Times, and a Ph.D. in communications from Rutgers. He joined the faculty at Chastain in 1982 as assistant professor, was promoted to associate professor, and was granted tenure in 1986.

  He listed three pages of publications, ranging from “Politics and Journalism, a Symbiotic Relationship” to “The Political Reporter, Crony or Adversary?”

  He was married to Joan Kimball, associate professor of economics at Chastain, June 8, 1983, and had two daughters. He was chair of six Chastain committees, a member of the Rotary Club, the Chamber of Commerce, the State Library Resources Commission, the State News Association, etc.

  In a publicity photo taken in a paneled den with two walls of books, he sat behind a glossy mahogany desk, wearing a tweed sports coat, pipe in hand, and looked into the camera with a carefully calibrated mixture of serious inquiry and studious charm.

  Annie turned to the next vitae with relief. Sue Tarrant might be volatile, but she seemed like a much more genuine person. Annie wasn’t surprised to learn Tarrant was from Little Rock, Arkansas. Born July 19, 1948. Graduate of the University of Arkansas. “No advanced degrees,” Annie remarked in surprise.

  “No tenure either,” Max pointed out.

  “But lots of experience. Print advertising for ten years, then videos and public relations for another six. Joined the faculty four years ago. Hmm. No mention of tenure track.”

  Tarrant was active in the Red Cross, the Community Chest, Big Sisters, the YWCA, and the Allied Arts Foundation. Not married; no children.

  Malcolm Moss’s vitae was by far the longest. His list of publications ran to six pages. He was a full professor, having been at Chastain since 1976. He was granted tenure in 1982. Previously he had taught at Emory and Louisiana State. His degrees were from the University of Missouri, Columbia, and Stanford. Born April 5, 1942 in Kansas City, Missouri. Married with one son. Active in both professional and social organizations. Golfer.

  The man with the mocking smile, the bull-heavy shoulders, and blond hair that covered his head in tight curls.

  As she read the next vitae, she kept seeing befuddled blue eyes swimming with tears.

  Joshua Norden, professor of advertising, was born September 11, 1924 in Peoria, Illinois. He enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1941, and graduated from Officer Candidate School. He served in the Pacific and received honorable discharge as a captain in 1945. He got a B.A. from the University of Illinois, and an M.A. in communications from Northwestern. After fifteen years with a major advertising agency in New York, he taught at Boston University. He joined the faculty at Chastain in 1972, and was made full professor in 1976. Widower. No children. Artist. Watercolor exhibits throughout the South from 1978 to 1985.

  Norden’s vitae wasn’t as long as Moss’s, but it was crammed with honors, most of the awards in recognition of his pioneering work in television advertising. Norden was a part of the revolution spearheaded by Bill Bernbach, when advertising agencies convinced clients that advertising didn’t need to be dull or boring and that the best ads involved readers, talking to them instead of at them.

  Annie turned to the last vitae, then looked at Max in surprise.

  Max inked a thick, black question mark after Charlotte Porter’s name on Annie’s list. “She may be the crux of the problem or she may be an accidental victim. Look at it this way: Why was Charlotte Porter the focus of the first article? Was that a deliberate choice by Brad Kelly? Or was he just using the information as it was supplied to him? Was the intent to embarrass Burke because he had covered up financial chicanery by a faculty member? Or was the informant trying to damage Charlotte Porter? Who was the intended victim?”

  There was nothing in Charlotte Larrimore Porter’s vitae or College News Service record that would foretell the sad ending of her life.

  Born November 11, 1923, in Chastain, she received her B.A. in 1944 from Sweet Briar. She was married on June 5, 1944 to Lieutenant Albert Porter, who was posted as missing in a bombing raid over Berlin in 1945, three weeks before his daughter, Alberta, was born. Porter received an M.A. from Clemson, and a Ph.D. from the University of Mississippi with intervening stints of work for several major corporations in their public relations departments. She returned to Chastain as an assistant professor in 1972. She had a lengthy list of publications and had three times been elected by the students as Professor of the Year. She had served as treasurer of a number of organizations, including University Women, the Rose Society, the Camellia Society, and the Daughters of the Confederacy.

  Annie recalled Charlotte’s thin and tired, but very civilized and gentle face.

  And faces do tell a story.

  Kurt Diggs’s sensuous mouth and jaded eyes.

  Josh Norden’s slack and puffy muscles.

  Sue Tarrant’s middle-aged wrinkles masked by youthful makeup.

  The pugnacious tilt to R.T. Burke’s chin.

  Frank Crandall’s sensitive mouth.

  Victor Garrison’s confident gaze.

  The contemptuous twist to Malcolm Moss’s lips.

  Annie plumped the curricula vitae with their supplemental information down on the side table. “Bare bones, Max, bare bones.”

  “An excellent start,” he disagreed. Pointing at the Annual Report, he insisted, “There’s a lot to be deduced from that thing, boring as it is. For example, Moss was acting chair when Burke was hired. Maybe Moss wanted the job. He could have unleashed this stuff to sabotage Burke.”

  Annie felt sure that Moss’s meaningless smile could mask every sort of base intention. “But Moss accused Burke of leaking the stuff to make it easier to dump some of the faculty.”

  “Of course he did. Whoever leaked that information will try hard to get someone else blamed.” He tapped the cover of the report. “Or maybe Norden did it. He hasn’t had a new publication in five years. Maybe he thought a general stink would disrupt the department so much that his lack of production would seem minor.”

  “So he feeds stuff to the student newspaper that pillories a woman he obviously cares for?”

  “Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be upset if it caused her suicide. Drunks don’t think very straight. Maybe he just looked at his own problem, didn’t foresee the consequences.”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Annie objected.

  “I know. But tomorrow we’ll get to work, find out everything we can about these people.” He grabbed her hand, and grinned. “Welcome aboard.” He pulled her close, then closer. A cool November evening, the hiss of rain against the tree house windows, what better way to end an evening— The phone rang.

  Annie glanced at the clock. Almost eleven. Hmm. She un-looped her arm from Max’s neck, scooped up the receiver, and answered, not quite breathlessly, “Hello.”

  “I wouldn’t have called this late except they only let you have one phone call. And I didn’t know if Edward—Edward Sattherlie, you know, my lawyer—would be at home. Plays bridge so often—and besides, he’s in Connecticut and that is rather a distance and I do think it would be nice if someone could come now.”

  “Laurel?” Annie asked. It was her mother-in-law’s voice, but somehow it lacked its usual husky resonance and piquant lilt.

  “A misunderstanding, of course. The blood has nothing to do with me. I was merely passing through. But they seem to think it a trifle odd I was there. Really, these men have no auras at all. They are void.”

  A deep voice rumbled in the background.

  “Blood? Wh
at blood?” Annie demanded.

  Max leaned closer to the phone.

  Obviously turning away from the receiver, Laurel said, “I have not used my three minutes!” An outraged sniff, then her voice came more strongly. “Annie, my dear child, so sorry to be a bother, but if you and Max could come and get me—and bring some money, of course, I think they said something about bail—I would appreciate it.”

  “Laurel, where are you?”

  “Oh my dear, haven’t I told you? The Chastain City Jail.”

  It wasn’t quite that simple. The magistrate wasn’t in session at eleven-thirty at night. But Max, who regularly challenged him to tennis matches, made a half dozen phone calls and, finally, at five minutes to one, Laurel was sprung. She stood in the dingy anteroom and smiled winsomely.

  Max wasn’t having any.

  “All right, Laurel, what happened?” He glanced down at the notes in his hand. “Stopped by the campus police at ten-forty tonight running from Brevard Hall. Refused to explain presence. Suspicious, campus police (Sergeant Merrifield) entered Brevard Hall where vandalism was discovered. Upon suspect’s repeated refusal to answer questions, an arrest was made for unauthorized entry and malicious destruction of property. Suspect’s bloody footprints found in hallway leading away from the door of the campus newspaper office, which had been splashed with blood.” He folded his arms. “What happened?”

  His mother stared down at her dainty, stockinged feet. “They wouldn’t let me keep my shoes. Said they were evidence. And they were new. The prettiest pink leather. The most darling little shop in Perugia. I always go there when—”

  “Bloody footprints, Mother. Your footprints. How? Why? Whose blood, for God’s sake?” he demanded irritably.

  Her deep blue eyes widened in hurt surprise at his tone. “Maxwell, how should I know? I was merely passing by.”

  “No, no,” he said firmly. “That’s not good enough. At that hour? Come on, Mother, give.”