Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Eleven





She had not rushed to complete her task during the weekend. She had done as her husband had asked and had spent her Sunday relaxing with her family. Angie and Kent had again come over—evidently realizing that her parents weren’t going to read them the riot act for cohabiting. After all, Angie was of age. She had a part-time job and would graduate in the spring. Kent was employed full-time in the Human Resources Department of a local oil company—in fact, the same company that Jane Marie’s husband worked for. He had put his Master’s Degree to good use, thought Pamela and was one of her success stories. She was just happy that Angie was happy— although she knew Rocky had moments where he wanted to rip her boyfriend limb from limb. The foursome had dined together on Sunday—one of Rocky’s superb pork roasts, complete with homemade gravy, browned potatoes, and his special green beans. He’d also whipped up a creamy dessert, probably laden with major calories, she worried. As it was, a very pleasant Sunday—no time for investigating or analyzing voices. It would just have to wait until Monday.

Now it was Monday and she found herself arriving bright and early as usual in the Psychology Department’s main office. Jane Marie was already hard at work in her little alcove. Her hands balanced on her keyboard and the telephone receiver poised on her shoulder, it was evident to Pamela that their departmental secretary—or administrative assistant as she preferred to be called—was a superb multi-tasker. When she spied Pamela, Jane Marie said farewell to her caller, hung up the phone, and waved to Pamela to come to her desk.

“Dr. Barnes!” she cried. “What did you think of the football game?”

“Very exciting, Jane Marie,” answered Pamela. “You’re a regular fan, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely!” responded the brunette, leaning over her monitor. “Billy and I go together when he’s not out on the rig, but when he is—which is a lot, I’ve been going with Laura. She likes to get away from her baby once in a while and her husband is very nice about baby-sitting.”

“That’s great,” said Pamela. She too was happy for Laura Delmondo and her young husband. The couple had eventually been successful in their efforts at in vitro fertilization and now had a six-month old infant son as proof. “I was expecting more fireworks.”

“You mean, like President Foster saying something about the murder, or what?”

“I think he handled it just right,” offered Jane Marie. “I mean, what could he say?”

“Of course,” agreed Pamela, pulling up a chair and scooting closer to Jane Marie. The little office was deserted and Pamela realized that Jane Marie was an amazing source of information regarding campus events—of all sorts. “Have you heard anything more about the murder?’

“I wish,” said Jane Marie. “Everyone is talking about it, but no one really knows anything.“

“All speculation, you mean.”

“Right. I’ve talked with staff people in the Dean’s office and the Business Office, and, of course, Rosemary in the Athletic Department. Most everyone is mystified. I haven’t heard anyone say that they even suspected Coach was having an affair.”

“Not even his secretary—his assistant?”

“No,” replied Jane Marie. “Rosemary is just torn up about this. She seems really concerned about the team—and the boys on the team—and how they’re reacting. They’re like sons to her.”

“I can imagine. I spoke to one last week. It was heart breaking.”

“Horrible,” agreed Jane Marie, frowning.

“Is Mitchell in?” Pamela asked suddenly, glancing at the adjoining door to the Department Head’s office which was closed.

“No,” answered Jane Marie, “he hasn’t come in yet. He usually doesn’t get here before ten.”

“All this with the Coach and the apparent affair—that nobody seemed to know about—it sort of makes me think back to when all that happened with Mitchell,” she whispered, “and that former student. You know, when you were worried about Mitchell because of his behavior and thought maybe he was mixed up in Charlotte’s murder . . .”

“And it turned out he wasn’t . . . but he was having an affair . . . with that woman who used to be one of his students.” Jane Marie stared at Pamela. The two women locked eyes and seemed to be having the same idea.

“I mean, Jane Marie,” continued Pamela, “you’re devoted to Mitchell—anyone would say that, but you suspected his infidelity . . .”

“And I told you my suspicions,” she agreed, clutching the top of her monitor and bending over it to speak quietly. “But, Dr. Barnes, I had no idea what was going on with Dr. Marks back then. I just knew he was acting strangely. I was worried about him . . .”

“Just like the Coach’s secretary must have been . . . surely. If anyone suspected that he was having an affair—let alone multiple affairs—it would have been his secretary.”

“You would think,” noted Jane Marie. “She keeps his schedule, sees that he’s on time. I know she’s very efficient and organized—and protective. If he was sneaking off in the afternoons and Rosemary suspected what he was doing, I’m not certain that she’d mention it to anyone.”

“Even you?”

“I don’t know. We do talk a lot. I mean, we share similar jobs and we interact a lot on the phone about students and course scheduling for team members. She’s always been very friendly and open —but, of course, you know Dr. Marks insists that we bend over backwards to help the athletes with any scheduling or class problems they might have.”

“I know,” said Pamela. She had often felt annoyance at the pressure the Psychology faculty was under from their boss to cooperate with the demands of the Athletic Department—demands that she felt were excessive, if truth be told. But now, Mitchell’s support of campus athletes could prove beneficial in securing information.

“I did have lunch at her house once—along with a few other administrative assistants that I assume have also been helpful to the team. She is quite a cook—Rocky would be jealous!” The two women laughed.

“Probably,” laughed Pamela, “he’s always threatened by anyone with a new recipe!”

“And Rosemary’s an amazing gardener. She grows her own vegetables and maintains a small herb garden in her office. Of course, her office is much larger and nicer than mine,” said Jane Marie, with a snicker, cringing as she glanced around her tiny space.

“Surely,” continued Pamela on her original track, “someone over there must have been aware that the head football coach was stepping out for afternoon trysts—and evidently on a regular basis.”

“You’d think,” agreed Jane Marie. “But then, men can be sneaky!” As they laughed, a tall, lanky man entered the office with a textbook tucked under one arm.

“Not all men, surely?” he questioned, standing forlornly in the doorway, glancing from one woman to another.

“Dr. Goodman!” exclaimed Jane Marie, blushing.

“It’s farmer Bob!” announced Pamela, greeting the man with a warm hug. “I haven’t seen you in ages. What is it I hear now about horses? Arliss said you two are expanding your livestock holdings.”

“We’re hoping to,” said the painfully skinny professor, beaming widely. “A farm doesn’t seem a farm without a horse—or two.”

“What about cows?” asked Jane Marie from her seated post, returning to her typing.

“Whoa, Jane,” he whistled, tugging at his glasses, “one step at a time. We have to run this menagerie ourselves and both of us are pretty darn busy keeping the animal lab over here going.”

“Pretty darn! Now you even sound like a farmer. You’ll have to have a party out there one of these days,” suggested Pamela.

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “We’d love to show off our new homestead. Maybe when all the furor over this—you know—horrible event . . . calms down . . .”

“What do think about all this, Bob?” Pamela asked. Jane Marie continued to type as the two professors chatted, but she kept herself glued to their conversation.

“Not what this school needs,” he said. “We’ve had enough of death and murder, especially of faculty members recently . . . as you well know, Pam.”

“Yes,” nodded Pamela.

“At least,” he noted to her, “you won’t have to be involved in this one. Doesn’t appear as if anyone made a recording of this murder, does it?”

“No,” she said smiling. Little did Bob realize how right—and yet how wrong he was.

“Had you ever met Coach Croft, Dr. Goodman?” asked Jane Marie, looking up from her work.

“No,” said Bob Goodman, “I’d never met the man . . . but I have met the young fellow who is apparently taking his place—this Jeff Dooley.”

“The assistant coach?” asked Pamela.

“Yes,” he continued. “We served together on the Academic Probation Committee for several years. A nice young man. Looks like he’ll take over officially for the Coach, doesn’t it?”

“He did win the game,” said Pamela. “That seems like a good first step in becoming the Coach’s replacement.”

“Yeah,” agreed Jane Marie.

“Did this Dooley ever say anything about the Coach?” Pamela directed this question to Bob.

“Oh, you mean, about . . . women?” Bob queried cautiously. “I’m trying to think. He was certainly very open and chatty about things going on in Athletics. Maybe a disparaging remark or two about the Coach from time to time, but nothing mean-spirited or on a regular basis. I don’t recall him ever suggesting that there was any hanky-panky going on.”

“But now with the Coach out of the picture,” said Pamela, “he suddenly becomes Head Coach. One might consider that a motive for murder.”

“Maybe,” agreed Bob, “but the Administration could bring in someone from the outside. Just because the Coach is gone doesn’t mean Dooley automatically gets the job.”

“But his chances are greater now,” she said, “don’t you think?”

“Pamela,” sighed Bob, “I think all your work for the local police has colored your outlook of the world.”

“Probably,” she confirmed, wishing he weren’t so right in his observation.

“I’ve got to get back to Bailey,” he said abruptly, turning to go. “You can’t leave that monkey alone for more than a few minutes or she gets as angry as a hornet!” He waved briefly at the women as he walked out at a fast clip.

When the two women were alone, Pamela sat back down next to Jane Marie and scooted closer.

“Jane Marie,” she whispered. “Mitchell says that the Coach’s oldest daughter is a student at Grace.”

“I believe he did,” responded the secretary, also whispering. “What are you thinking?”

“I guess I’m thinking of suspects,” said Pamela.

“Suspects?”

“You know, anybody who knew the Coach—anybody who the police are questioning. Who might those people be?“

Jane Marie’s eyes widened. She obviously enjoyed helping Pamela with her various criminal investigations.

“There would be the wife—first of all,” noted Jane Marie, “but Mrs. Croft is handicapped, remember! Dr. Marks said she’s in a wheel -chair.”

“So he says,” agreed Pamela. “Or is that what she wants people to think?”

“Surely, Dr. Barnes,” exclaimed the woman, “you don’t suspect his wife! She has multiple sclerosis!”

“I know. I know,” agreed Pamela. “I’m just trying to consider all possibilities. The wife, the secretary, the assistant coach, the daughters.”

“Dr. Barnes,” interrupted Jane Marie, “the Coach’s daughters are young. One is still in high school.”

“And teenagers never commit murder?” asked Pamela.

“No, but I can’t imagine either of his daughters would follow their father to a motel and stab him in the back.”

“If he was cheating on their invalid mother?”

“I don’t know . . .” she whined, bending over her monitor, green eyes flashing. “It doesn’t seem possible . . .”

“Maybe not,” agreed Pamela, “but I’m going to look into it anyway. Can you check on the oldest daughter?”

“You mean in the student records?” asked Jane Marie. Pamela nodded. All administrative assistants in all departments were able to access student records from their desktop computers. This way they could easily track students majoring in their area and make adjustments to their schedules when necessary. Jane Marie clicked a few buttons on her keyboard and soon the University’s mainframe computer database was displayed. A few more clicks, and Pamela saw on screen the data for student “Elizabeth Croft—senior in Nursing.”

“She’s a nursing major,” noted Pamela.

“Yes,” agreed Jane Marie. “She’s graduating this year. Wow, she’s got a 3.922 GPA. That’s really good for Nursing. That’s a stiff program.”

“I know,” mused Pamela. She knew Nursing was a hard major and she’d seen many students drop out of the program due to the intense requirements of the field. A nurse—or a student majoring in nursing—would know about the workings of the human body and exactly where a person would have to be stabbed for a wound to be mortal. She wondered if this would be something that a daughter would—or could—ever contemplate about her own father. She resolved to find out more about the Coach’s family—particularly, his eldest daughter.