Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Five





Pamela arrived home and gave her garage door opener a quick click. As she drove her little blue Civic into its spot next to Rocky’s black Ford Explorer (Rocky believed in buying American) she was anxious to learn if her husband had heard any gossip about the murdered football coach from his side of campus. Grabbing her jacket and belongings, she slid out of the car and opened the door into the kitchen. Immediately she was greeted with the vibrant, spicy aroma of Mexico. Rocky stood at his favorite location in their home, in front of their stove, stirring frantically as he poured a container of sour cream into a bubbling mixture of what smelled like his famous chicken enchilada casserole.

“Umm,” she announced. “Mexican!” Rocky turned and smiled briefly at her before returning to his pouring and stirring.

“Hey, Babe,” he called out. “No late meetings?”

“Nope,” she replied, hugging him from behind with a quick kiss on his neck. She could smell his after-shave mixed with salsa.

“Everything go okay? No first day crises?”

“Smooth all the way,” she responded from the bedroom around the corner. “And you?”

“Great,” he called out to her, “They gave me an extra section of English 100!”

“Wonderful,” Pamela said, returning to the kitchen empty-handed. “That’s four classes. We can use the extra money.”

“No kidding,” agreed her large, muscular husband. “And it fits great into my schedule. All morning classes. Still have the afternoons to cook!” His eyes twinkled conspiratorially.

“Thank the Lord for that,” she said, laughing. The couple was non-traditional in that Pamela had the full-time job with her tenure-track position in Psychology, and Rocky, retired from the Army, worked in the English Department as an adjunct, picking up courses when he could, semester by semester. Typically, he was able to schedule three classes each term. An additional class would mean extra dollars in their budget.

Rocky now moved over to the island in the center of the kitchen where a rectangular casserole dish awaited. A layer of corn tortillas was draped over the bottom of the pan and a package of opened tortillas sat to the side. Rocky carefully poured a portion of the chicken and sour cream mixture over the tortillas in the rectangular baking dish. Then placing the cooking pan back on the stove, he opened the refrigerator and brought out a package of shredded Monterey Jack cheese and ripped off the top. Sprinkling a generous amount of cheese over the chicken mixture, he continued alternating layers in the pan of tortillas, chicken and cheese as he spoke.

“Angie was here,” he said.

“Oh?” she said, smiling. “Why? Did you ask her to stay for dinner?”

“I did, but she was off with Kent. They were headed to some event for his job. She stopped by to pick up some sweaters.”

“Sweaters?”

“Yeah, she’s freezing over at Kent’s. He keeps the thermometer off and she’s used to it being warmer, but she’s not about to pick a fight with him, so she’s just going to dress warmer, she said.”

“She said that?”

“Yup,” he noted. Angie was their daughter and she’d been spending a lot of time at her boyfriend’s apartment. She might as well admit it; Angie was living at her boyfriend’s apartment. Even so, she and Rocky had kept Angie’s bedroom as it was—which meant messy—on the off chance that she would move back home, but Pamela wasn’t holding her breath. Angie dropped by from time to time to “pick up” items she needed and usually stayed for a meal. Despite their still bumpy relationship with their daughter, the young woman had made considerable progress towards adulthood. She was now a senior at Grace University and was on track to complete a degree in Sociology at the end of the year. She had even located a part-time job with a local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, a position that tickled her father. She spent most of her time there calling people and arranging for donations of clothing and other items.

“Did you hear about the football coach?” asked Pamela, as Rocky sprinkled the last few shreds of cheese over the top of the casserole.

“Yeah,” he answered, opening the oven door and placing the filled pan onto the interior shelf. Closing the oven door, he turned to her. “Can you believe it? The football coach. Their first game is this weekend.” His voice sounded bleak.

“I heard they found him in a motel.”

“And you know what that means.”

“An affair?” she asked.

“Why else would a man—anyone—go to a motel in the same town where he lives in the middle of the day?”

“ Maybe just to get away from all the pressure? I mean—head football coach, team’s first game coming up? Could be, he’s just stressed,” speculated Pamela.

“Let me tell you about that kind of stress,” replied Rocky with a crinkled upper lip.

“Come on, Rocky,” Pamela scowled at her husband. “Did you hear anything else?”

“I just heard that they found him in a motel room, murdered,” he replied. “And I heard that from students. It’s amazing how quickly they pick up things and then let the faculty know. Little gossip mongers.”

“Right,” she agreed. “One of mine burst into my first class right as I was starting my first lecture and dropped the bombshell.”

“Luckily, I heard about it in my office. A bunch of students were talking outside my door. Supposedly, he was killed yesterday morning and they were questioning people all day today. Mostly team members, staff, and faculty in the Athletic Department.”

“Do you think they suspect a student?” she asked.

“You mean a student who got a bad grade?” he countered.

“Or a member of the football team? Maybe someone who got sacked?” she suggested.

“I doubt he even teaches any classes as head coach,” mused Rocky, as the couple leaned against the kitchen counter. Rocky went to the refrigerator and pulled out a crystal pitcher of red liquid.

“Not sangria?” she asked, squealing.

“It goes with Mexican,” he said, pulling two large wine glasses from the cupboard and pouring the drinks. Pamela reached into the ice bin on the side of the refrigerator and plopped several cubes into each glass.

“Cheers,” he said, clicking his glass to hers.

“Cheers,” she responded, “Here’s to the first day of class. May the rest of the semester be far less exciting than this day.” They sipped their drinks.

Pamela sighed and Rocky put his arm around her, eventually guiding her into their living room where he seated her on their sofa. He pulled up a large, matching hassock and the couple stretched out their legs.

“This is so good,” she said, moaning. No sooner had the couple relaxed in their living room, but a small, furry head popped out from underneath an arm chair in the corner. A miniature poodle stretched himself out from an obviously long nap and paddled authoritatively over to the couple where he leaped effortlessly onto the sofa and into their laps.

“Candide, no food. Just alcohol,” she admonished the small dog. Seemingly satisfied with the verdict, the little dog hunkered down between Pamela and her husband and quickly dozed off again.

“Just a taste of delicacies to come,” Rocky reminded Pamela, giving Candide’s head a scratch. “Enjoy. Enchilada casserole will be ready in a half hour or so.” He squeezed her shoulder and she dropped her head next to his. How lucky she was to have this perfect house-husband who loved to cook—and who cooked so well, especially when she hated the chore. Theirs was a match made in heaven.

“His poor wife,” she said, thinking out loud. “It’s bad enough to have your husband die, but to have your husband murdered!”

“And murdered in a motel room,” added Rocky. “The coup de grace.”

“Don’t you ever get murdered—especially in a motel!” admonished Pamela, turning to Rocky, brandishing her glass of Sangria.

“I promise,” he replied. “If I ever get murdered, I’ll make sure I’m not in a motel.”

“I mean, just don’t get murdered,” she said. “I mean, just don’t die.” She cuddled up closer, feeling his body warmth, a delightful contrast to the cool beverage. Suddenly, she turned to him. “His wife is a paraplegic, you know.”

“Really?”

“That’s what Mitchell says. He met them at a function. She’s in a wheel-chair.”

“Even worse,” Rocky said, chewing on his lip. “Horrible situation. Horrible for the family—and for Grace. I mean, he’s a figurehead for the school, and this will point national attention on us—attention that we don’t need.”

“You’re right. When Charlotte was murdered there was attention. She was famous.”

“But Charlotte was just a Psychology professor and researcher, Pamela. She was not a football coach. This is bigger. Even a coach of a regional football team like Grace is going to draw scrutiny like crazy. Just you wait.”

“You’re probably right. And him being found in the motel. That adds the extra sexual angle. What a mess! Just what Grace doesn’t need!”

Rocky glanced at his wristwatch and reached over to the end table beside the sofa where he grabbed a remote control device. Candide growled as Rocky disturbed his comfortable position. Rocky clicked several buttons and soon a television set in a bookshelf across the room blinked on.

“Let’s see what the media has. Surely, the local channel will report the murder as their top story. It’s just after 6:30.”

A young blonde woman holding a microphone appeared in the center of the screen. To her left was a photograph of a man’s face. Under the photograph, text declared “Wade Croft, Grace University Head Football Coach, Dead.”

“Police officials are now telling us,” said the young reporter, “that Wade Croft, Head Coach of Grace University’s varsity football team, was found murdered yesterday morning in a room at the Shady Lane Motel on Highway 85, south of Reardon. Cause of death is said to be stab wounds to the back. Reardon police are questioning motel employees, staff and faculty of the Grace University Athletic Department, members of the football team, and the victim’s family and friends. Police do not have any suspects at the moment.”

The screen suddenly changed to a view of a man with a microphone held in front of his face. Across the bottom of the screen were the words “Jeff Dooley, Assistant Football Coach.” The young reporter’s voice continued from off-screen.

“Assistant Coach Dooley,” she said softly, “You worked closely with Coach Croft. What is your reaction to this horrible crime?”

“I’m shocked,” answered the man, noticeably distraught. “I can’t imagine why anyone would do this to Coach. We love Coach Croft; he’s a super guy. I mean, the whole team loves him. Coach Croft would do anything for his team. He built this team and made this team something Grace can be proud of. His record speaks for itself. He wins. He’s a winner. He was a winner. Why would anyone want to hurt him? I just don’t get it.” The man’s face contorted into a grimace. The reporter continued to hold the microphone at his mouth, but the man pushed the device away and the camera jerked back to the female reporter.

“There you have Assistant Football Coach Jeff Dooley,” said the woman. “Dooley is the person who probably works-worked most closely with Coach Croft. As you heard, Dooley claims to be mystified as to any possible motive for anyone to murder the Coach.”

At that point, a man’s voice cut in from the studio. The screen picture changed to the face of the local station’s anchor.

“Cindy,” asked the anchor, “Did you speak with anyone who might shed any light on this senseless crime?”

“No, Ed,” answered the field reporter, “We spoke with several members of the football team and they were horrified. They all told me that Coach Croft was universally loved by the entire team. They claimed there was no animosity towards him. They were simply flabbergasted that someone would hurt a man who—to them—was a hero.”

“Were you able to speak to anyone from the Shady Lane Motel?” asked the anchor.

“No, Ed,” replied Cindy, “the Reardon Police seem to be keeping them fairly incommunicado.”

“We heard rumors that the Coach had been stabbed numerous times. Can you confirm that?”

“I can’t confirm that officially,” answered Cindy. The wind now starting to pick up outside the Shady Lane Motel, whipping her hair around. “But I’ve heard those rumors too. Some team members told me that they had heard that he was stabbed as many as seven times.”

“Unbelievable,” said Ed, his face immobile, belying his words. “Thank you, Cindy. We’ll check back in with you later. Maybe you’ll be able to find additional information for us about this heinous crime that will surely impact every person who lives in Reardon, whether they’re associated with Grace University or the football team—or not—“

“I’ll do that, Ed,” said Cindy, her face stolid. The camera clicked back to the anchor who immediately went on to another story.

Rocky and Pamela turned to each other. Rocky hit the remote and the television set turned off.

“Stabbed seven times in the back,” he said to her, shaking his head.

“Everybody may have claimed to love him,” said Pamela, “but somebody obviously didn’t.” Candide moaned in his sleep.