Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Twenty-Three





Shoop had informed her that they’d discovered Skye Davis’s body on the ground next to her Lexus, outside of her real estate office in a trendy section of Reardon. The woman had been stabbed in the back with an instrument that appeared similar, if not identical to, the one that had caused the death of Coach Croft. Pamela learned that Skye Davis was a forty-two year old single mother who had climbed her way to the top of her profession through hard work and determination and was considered one of the top five agents in the area. Her son, Demetrius, was the team’s star running back. She had given birth to the boy when she was twenty and since then had single-handed turned her life around and never looked back. Now that life was over—thanks to a fling with the local football coach.

Pamela mused with some trepidation how strangely this whole murder investigation was developing as she entered Blake Hall the next morning. As she strode down the old hallway to the Psychology Department’s main office, she couldn’t help but remember her involvement with the investigation of another campus murder victim—Charlotte Clark of their own department. Charlotte’s old office was on the right as she walked by. Now, a new professor, Derrick Sumpter, had replaced Charlotte and taken up residence in her office. The new guy was not in today. Pamela continued on down the hallway to the main office where she found Laura Delmondo standing in the doorway. The young woman glanced up as Pamela entered.

“Did you enjoy the game, Dr. Barnes?” she asked.

Pamela halted, grasping Laura’s arm, “Actually, Laura, don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, “but it was my first football game!”

“No!” exclaimed Laura. “I never miss one. Vito tries to come with me too, but we can’t always get a babysitter.”

“Don’t worry,” suggested Pamela, “that baby will be old enough to join the team soon enough!”

“Never!” exclaimed Laura, shaking her hands back and forth. “Too dangerous!”

“It was for the coach,” offered Pamela, walking with Laura further into the office, then thinking better, added, “I really shouldn’t have said that.”

“Pamela, it’s all right,” said Laura, reaching into the faculty mailboxes for her mail, “everyone is aghast about the Coach. Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know yet,” Pamela replied, grabbing a pile of envelopes and flyers from her own cubby hole.

“Yet?” cried the young professor. “Pamela, are you involved in this murder case too?”

“What?” a voice chimed in behind them. The two women turned and noticed Jane Marie Mira neatly ensconced behind her computer in her alcove, a coffee cup at her lips. “What’s this about the murder case, Dr. Barnes? Are you involved in this one too? I didn’t know they had a recording of Coach Croft’s murder?”

“They don’t,” said Pamela, standing in front of the secretary’s desk. Laura moved inside the smaller office and the three women bent their heads together over Jane Marie’s desk. “Please, don’t discuss this, you two. I’m not supposed to be talking about it. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything, really.” She put a finger to her lips in classic “shhh” mode.

“I promise I’ll never say anything to anyone,” said Laura, quickly, giving the “cross your heart” gesture in an enthusiastic child-like fashion.

“Dr. Barnes,” added Jane Marie, “you know you can count on me for discretion. After all, didn’t I know all about . . . . Well, you can count on me to keep my mouth shut.” She produced the age-old key-turning in front of the mouth routine.

“We’re a bunch of mimes!” declared Pamela looking from one woman to another and the three of them broke out laughing. “Truly, there’s not much to tell.”

“So, tell it,” demanded Jane Marie, with a sweet smile.

“The police requested my assistance,” she began, with a bit of a flounce to her sweater and a toss of her hair. “It seems that,” she said and bent closer to the two women, forcing them to come closer to hear, “it seems that Coach Croft kept his old voice mail messages on his cell phone.”

“And?” asked Laura.

“And,” filled in Jane Marie quickly, “these messages were not from his wife.”

“His invalid wife,” added Laura.

“Correct,” said Pamela, pointing her finger at each woman as they scored points.

“Wait a minute,” said Jane Marie, pushing away from her desk and standing up. “You said ‘messages’ not ‘message.’ Does that mean that he received several messages from one mistress or that—oh, my God—don’t tell me—there was more than just one mistress?”

“That’s what the newspapers are hinting,” said Laura to Jane Marie.

“What are they saying?” asked Pamela.

“They’re saying, or rather suggesting that Coach Croft had a mistress. Some people think the mistress stabbed him,” contributed Laura, nodding furiously.

“I haven’t really been following what the press is speculating,” said Pamela, “but I know for a fact that there are three different women who left a total of seven different messages on the Coach’s cell phone. I know because I listened to all of these messages and determined the number of speakers myself.” The two women gasped.

“Well, with a little help from Willard Swinton,” she added.

“Dr. Swinton is helping with the investigation too?” asked Laura.

“We both are,” said Pamela, “but please, don’t mention this. I shouldn’t have said anything to anyone. I’m sorry now I even brought it up.” And she was sorry. There was no reason for her to tell Jane Marie or Laura the specifics about the murder other than to look important. It was one thing to tell Willard Swinton because he was able to help her evaluate the voice mail voices—but now she was regretting saying anything to these female colleagues. If she was going to tell anyone, she should have at least told her best friends Joan and Arliss. On the other hand, it would only be a matter of hours before the local media became aware of the new homicide of Skye Davis and its possible relationship to the Croft murder. They would quickly put two and two together—mother of football team member killed shortly after coach is killed in sleazy motel. Hmm. Is there a connection?

“Dr. Barnes, are you saying that these three women on the Coach’s voice mail are the main suspects in his murder?” asked Jane Marie, sitting back down at her desk and resuming sipping her coffee.

“I would have said so,” explained Pamela to the two women, “but this morning Detective Shoop—he’s the investigating officer on this case, just as he was on Charlotte’s case, if you remember—well, anyway—this morning he called me at the crack of dawn. We’d been working on trying to identify the three women. We had figured out two of them—based on their accents—and other things...” She didn’t indicate that it was one woman’s son hearing his mother’s voice that provided the original clue. “...but we were able to identify two of the women and both admitted—or seemed to admit—to affairs with Croft. We were unable to identify the third mistress, but we had it narrowed down to a short list based on certain characteristics...” She didn’t mention that the main characteristic was race for the third woman. “...when one of the women on this list was found murdered this morning.”

Both women gasped again.

“Yes,” said Pamela. “That was my reaction. There’s no guarantee that this recent murder is connected to the Coach’s murder, but I’m betting it is!”

At that, the connecting door to Mitchell Marks’ office opened and the Department Head stuck his face out.

“What are you women babbling about? It’s not even nine yet,” he growled. The man’s head of thick blond hair was thoroughly mussed and his eyes looked swollen.

“Dr. Marks!” exclaimed Jane Marie, “I didn’t know you were here! You never get in this . . . . Uh, you didn’t sleep in your office all night, did you?”

“Jane Marie,” snapped Marks, “get me some coffee.” He slammed the door, leaving the startled women staring at each other in dismay.

“He never asks me to make him coffee,” whispered the secretary. “This is way too early for him to be here. I didn’t even know he was in there!”

“You don’t think he actually slept in his office all night, do you?” questioned Laura.

“I don’t know,” said Jane Marie. “But look at him! He looks awful!”

Pamela personally didn’t think that her boss looked any worse than he normally did, but she did believe that he seemed more than unusually gruff. He was typically of a fairly moderate disposition.

“He seems upset,” she offered. “Is he? I mean, is he getting along with Velma? I saw them at the football game—remember? They seemed okay to me.”

“To me too,” agreed Jane Marie.

“I’d better get going before I get in trouble,” said Laura in a quiet voice. She gave a gentle wave to the two women and tip-toed carefully out of the office.

“I’d probably better follow her lead,” said Pamela to Jane Marie.

“Just a minute,” said the secretary, grabbing Pamela’s jacket sleeve. “You’re embroiled in this murder investigation and you didn’t tell me about it . . .”

“Jane Marie,” said Pamela, “there’s nothing to tell, really. Besides, Shoop ordered me to keep quiet about my involvement. It’s police business.”

“That didn’t stop you with Charlotte’s murder, Dr. Barnes,” noted Jane Marie.

“I know,” agreed Pamela. It was true. Jane Marie had been an amazing accomplice in her first investigation, aiding and abetting her in tracking down Charlotte’s killer and a variety of additional departmental mysteries along the way. Jane Marie had campus sources and techniques for gathering information that were unknown in police circles, she was sure. “All right, Jane Marie. You’re in. I’m sorry I kept you out of the loop, but you have to promise . . .”

“I already did all that, Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, motioning away Pamela’s worries with her gesture. “You can trust me—just like you did before. I can help you solve this.”

“You think we can solve it? Truly?” asked Pamela, marveling at the possibility that she and Jane Marie, pooling their skills, might be able to identify the Coach’s killer—and now possibly the killer of one of his mistresses.

“How hard can it be?” asked Jane Marie. “You say there were three women who left voice mail messages—three women who must have been his mistresses. One of them is now dead. Don’t you think that she was probably killed by one of the other two? You know. A jealous rage sort of thing?”

“I don’t know, Jane Marie,” said Pamela, thinking. “I heard the other two women and they didn’t sound like they even knew that any other mistresses existed.”

“They’re not going to let on to you what they knew. Maybe they suspected!” cried Jane Marie.

“I guess if they could kill the coach, they could kill one of his mistresses. My God! It could be!” Pamela shouted.

The inner door popped out and Mitchell Marks was again highlighted in the entrance, hanging against the door frame as if he might collapse on the floor.

“What?” he whined. “What’s all the ruckus about? Tell me now, and it better be good or I’ll see to it that you both regret it when I write your yearly performance evaluations. And where is that coffee?”