Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Twelve





As she rounded the corner of the second floor of Blake Hall, she peeked into Willard Swinton’s office next to hers. Willard was at his desk talking to a student. The professor and his protégé were intently involved and she doubted that Willard even saw her pass by. Even so, she gave him a quick wave. Across the hallway, Joan’s door was also open and she moved across the hall to see if Joan was also busy, advising a student or typing frantically on one of her many papers. Now that Charlotte Clark was gone and no longer the Department’s top researcher and grant-getter, Joan had assumed the position formerly held by the dead diva. Of course, Joan was not given to tooting her own horn as Charlotte had, and let her work speak for itself. But Pamela knew what a workhorse Joan Bentley was, churning out award-winning publications month after month, year after year. Today, however, Joan’s fingers were not flying over the keyboard. She sat leaning back in her desk chair, her eyes staring at a photograph on her desktop. Pamela knew the photograph well as it had held a position of honor there ever since Pamela had known Joan, which was almost fifteen years. The photo was a family picture of Joan, her deceased husband Neville, and their two sons, Charles and Jack.

“Joan,” said Pamela softly, not wishing to disturb her reverie, “how are you?”

“Oh, Pamela,” replied Joan, sitting up quickly and setting the framed picture back on her desk. “I’m having trouble getting motivated.”

Pamela entered Joan’s office. The cheery room belied Joan’s present state. Joan had bedecked her small space with numerous live plants (or real plants as Pamela called them because she far preferred the artificial variety that required no tending). Although Joan had stacks of papers, articles, and computer print-outs from her various research studies piled around the room, there was a definite order to the chaos. Joan had sticky notes on the tops of each of the various piles, indicating their nature. Her office reflected her life—a cheery blend of disciplined work in progress.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” chided Pamela gently.

“No,” agreed Joan, “but it’s hard to function at work, when my life at home is in such disarray.”

“You mean with Jack?”

“Of course,” agreed Joan. “Oh, Pamela, why did I ever suggest to the boy that he should move back home? He’s just driving me crazy!”

“Is this because he hasn’t found a job?”

“Not hasn’t found—won’t look for one.”

“I know how hard it is to . . .”

“He’s not looking!” Joan exclaimed. “He could find something if he would just go out there and look. You know as well as I do, Pamela, that job hunting is a full-time job! Jack assumes that an employer is just going to call him with an offer if he’ll just wait long enough!”

“And the two of you aren’t getting along?” Joan’s face bore the truth of her constant bouts with her youngest and most volatile son.

“He’s an adult!” she screamed, then tempered her voice as she realized that students in the hallway might overhear her voice. “But he acts like a teenager. He expects me to be his . . . mother!”

“Ungrateful wretch,” said Pamela, smiling.

“I mean he expects me to be his slave, his butler, his maid, his psychiatrist, his chef, his tailor, his personal shopper, his mechanic, his secretary, his matchmaker, his entertainment coordinator . . . you get the picture.”

“I do,” agreed Pamela, sitting in Joan’s leather chair in front of her desk. “I, of course, have never had any similar experience . . .”

“But, Pamela,” whispered Joan, leaning forward, “just imagine how much more awful it would be if Angela were out on her own and you thought your days of being a Mommy were through and then . . . she returned home to live!”

“Horrible, I agree.”

“You seem rather chipper today,” said Joan. Her usual calm had partially returned and she sat up straighter, turning down the corner of the collar of her crisp peplum blouse that had rolled up in an unsightly display of irregularity.

“I’m happy to report that my off-spring is living in sin and out of my house and I couldn’t be happier!”

“Bravo!” said Joan. “I’m all for living in sin.” She gave Pamela one of her customary rolling eyed glares.

“There’s your problem,” said Pamela, pointing a finger in Joan’s direction.

“What?”

“Jack cramps your style,” she explained. “Your swinging single lifestyle. I assume it’s pretty hard to be the wild party woman that I know you to be when your twenty-eight-year old son is sleeping down the hallway from you.”

“That too,” scowled Joan. “That three.”

Joan had been a widow for many years. Although Neville had been the love of her life, Joan was not one to sit at home and knit. She enjoyed partying—and other things. She was discreet, of course—with carefully selected gentlemen from time to time.

“I might suggest that you need a night on the town with the gals,” offered Pamela. “I realize that it wouldn’t be nearly as exciting as one of your outings to that local ballroom dancing place, but it would do you good to get out.”

“Yes,” said Joan. “It would. Why don’t you check it out with Arliss, and let me know when we’re on.”

“Will do,” said Pamela, standing and heading for the door. “And by the way, you might try a football game. They’re quite invigorating. And there are lots of men there.”

“How would you know?”

“I was at the home game Saturday,” Pamela tossed the remark Joan’s way as she strode out the door.

Crossing the hallway, she could hear Joan gasp, but she laughed to herself. Let Joan figure out why her friend had attended her first ever football game after fifteen years as a non-athletic supporter. When she was situated at her desk and had her lunch secured in her small refrigerator, she pulled out her campus phone book from the top left-hand drawer of her desk. Quickly she located the number she sought and dialed a three-digit extension. It was picked up on the first ring.

“Margaret Billings, Nursing,” said the voice.

“Margaret, Pamela Barnes.”

“Pamela,” exclaimed the woman, “it’s been years! How are you? We miss you on the Human Subjects’ Committee!” The friendly voice conveyed exactly what Pamela knew the woman to be—a cheerful, older woman who not only was a figure-head in the Nursing program, but who also had made a name for herself as long-time Chair of the Human Subjects’ Committee, a thankless but necessary job, Pamela always thought. Pamela had served a three-year stint on the committee several years ago and had come to respect and admire Margaret Billings as one of the few people on campus who was genuinely honest and thoughtful.

“Margaret, are you still serving refreshments at the Human Subjects’ Committee meetings?”

“Of course, my dear,” laughed Margaret, “no one would come to the meetings if I didn’t.”

“Your refreshments were the main reason I always attended,” said Pamela, joining in with her laugh.

“You were very regular in your attendance and always so punctual,” noted Margaret. Pamela thought that it was sweet that Margaret remembered probably the only contribution that Pamela had made throughout her three years on the Committee.

“I tried to be,” stammered Pamela. “Margaret, I called because I have a quick question for you.”

“What can I do for you, my dear?” asked Margaret, her warm personality beaming through the phone lines.

“I was curious about the Coach’s daughter . . . I understand she’s a Nursing major.”

“Oh, terrible tragedy. Terrible. The poor girl. She was just in my office last week, Pamela. We were doing her graduation check. She’s scheduled to graduate this spring, you know. Oh my, she’s an outstanding student! Outstanding! This is so horrible. I can’t imagine what’s she going through . . . but I haven’t seen her since . . .”

“I know,” consoled Pamela, “It’s just terrible. I agree.”

“Is she in one of your classes, Pamela?” The obvious question. Pamela beat around the proverbial and incredibly obvious bush.

“I . . . had heard she was in Nursing . . . and a senior . . . and I was concerned if any of this would . . . affect her graduation. I know it’s probably the last thing to consider . . .”

“No, of course not, my dear,” said Margaret gently, “if you have her in class, I certainly hope you’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. I mean if she’s absent or late with an assignment, I’m sure she’ll pull herself together, but do give her a bit of slack. This is just a terrible thing to happen to her and it’s all so public . . . and her mother in a wheelchair!”

“I heard, yes,” said Pamela, feeling guilty that Margaret had assumed that the student was one of Pamela’s and that Pamela had not corrected this misconception. “I’m sure she’ll need to be there for her mother now . . . and her little sister.”

“Absolutely, she’ll need to be,” said Margaret, “and she will be. She’s very strong. That’s why she went into Nursing, you know—because of her mother’s illness. She’s a remarkable young woman. She would do anything for her mother. You can’t say that about every young person.”

“No, you can’t,” agreed Pamela, wondering just how far Elizabeth Croft was willing to go to protect her invalid mother . . . and her sister. Would she go as far as murder?