Angel Food and Devil Dogs - A Maggie Gale Mystery Read online

  He was humming and grunting, “...in order... all right... data reports...” Occasionally he giggled softly. He managed to gather everything and stand.

  I focused my attention on the woman in the tweed coat. She was one of the most attractive women I’d ever seen, maybe not classically beautiful, but extraordinarily... gee, I couldn’t think of a word... maybe fetching.

  She turned and looked at me directly, then smiled mostly with her eyes. My breath caught in my throat. Auburn hair framed her face with an inward curve. The brisk December afternoon still showed in pink tinged cheekbones glowing softly against alabaster skin. Her blue-gray eyes held a fascinating spark. And I had the vague feeling I’d seen her before, quite a while ago. She was pulling off her gloves and saying in a deep, incredibly sexy voice, “Miranda, I hope we’re not late.”

  Miranda Juarez was saying, “Dr. Anthony, how was your trip?”

  The door to the President’s office opened. President Max Bouchet leaned out and said, “Oh good, you’re all here. Please come in.” The messy papers guy was closest so he went in first. The rest of us followed. Miranda Juarez closed the door behind her.

  President Bouchet was about forty, trim but not thin, with short hair and a neatly cut beard. His skin was dark brown and so were his eyes, which seemed very shrewd. He was also much shorter than I’d imagined him. 5’6” tops. But what he lacked in stature he made up for with a booming, James Earl Jones voice.

  Bouchet called to the receptionist, “Ms. Robinson, when the others come, please unlock the door to the conference room and ask them to have a seat. Thank you.” His engaging voice had risen up like a thundering kettledrum, with just a touch of pretentiousness. He offered his hand to me.

  “Ms. Gale, thank you very much for coming on such short notice. I really appreciate it. I think you’ll be suited to this undertaking.”

  “I’m interested to hear what this is all about Dr. Bouchet,” I replied.

  Dr. Anthony was taking off her coat. The nerd-alert man sat, trying to sort the papers in his lap, dropping more in the process.

  Bouchet’s office was even more impressive than the reception area. He had an Isabel Bishop painting of a New York crowd scene hanging on the wall behind his desk. The desk itself was a slab of polished wood with butterfly wedges in the distinctive style of George Nakashima. There were a few pieces of paper on the desk, a gold pen, and a simple wood frame with a picture of an attractive woman.

  “Have you all met?” asked Bouchet. There was head shaking so he said, “This is Maggie Gale. Ms. Gale is a private investigator who comes highly recommended by the police to give us some help with regard to Carl’s... death.” He turned and said, “This is Dr. Kathryn Anthony, she is working on a series of important projects this semester and she also teaches a graduate seminar and... is advisor to some Ph.D. candidates. Is that right?” he asked her. “Have I included everything Kathryn?”

  “Yes Max, that covers what I’m doing quite well.” She reached out to shake my hand firmly. She was captivating. “I’m very glad you’re here Ms. Gale,” she said. She looked deeply into my eyes and convinced me she meant every word. It made me feel a tad weak, which I managed to hide. I think.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Anthony,” I said. She seemed to be about to say something else, maybe, Please call me Kathryn, but she was interrupted by Bouchet.

  “And this is Bartholomew Edgar,” said Bouchet turning to the nerd-guy. “I’ve asked Bart to bring along some information for you, Ms. Gale. Bart is Assistant Dean in charge of personnel.”

  It was impossible for Edgar to stand or shake hands because he was holding the papers in his lap. Instead he said, “Hello,” with one giggled, “hee,” then bobbed his head like a nervous chicken.

  “Bart has just been to the airport to pick up Kathryn. She’s been representing Irwin College at a week-long conference in London. She very graciously consented to come here directly from the plane for the meeting we’ll be having in the conference room.”

  Dr. Kathryn Anthony said, “Max, I promise I’ll give you a full report on the London conference later, but now I have some very good news. I just received a call from the Governor’s Task Force on Higher Education. The grant we’ve been working on for the satellite campus in Blue Mountain County is approved. But...”

  Bouchet broke in jubilantly, “Excellent, how wonderful!... I’m sorry, you were saying?”

  “It’s just that I must get to Harrisburg to talk to the Governor about a press release. He wants to be live on the five o’clock news...”

  “Kathryn, that is better than good news, and really due to all your hard work. But you just got back, you must be so tired,” said Bouchet sincerely. She should have been wiped from jet lag, but at the moment she seemed pumped.

  “Max, could you do me a great favor? I have to leave very soon. I’ll only have to be in Harrisburg for about an hour, but the four-hour round-trip drive might be too much for me. And I need to write the press release on the way. So I was hoping you might be able to arrange for someone to drive me there?” I was watching her. In fact, I could barely take my eyes off of her. She looked hopeful, but when Bouchet glanced toward Bart Edgar, I saw a flash of panic cross her face. Bouchet saw it too.

  Miranda Juarez, who had been standing by quietly through the entire conversation, turned to Bouchet saying, “I could call the limousine service. I think they could get a car here in fifteen minutes. Especially if we mention that this is a meeting with the Governor.”

  “Yes, excellent idea Miranda,” he looked relieved and so did Kathryn Anthony. Miranda left to make the call.

  “Max, thank you so much, this will make it much easier for me. I’m sorry I’ll have to miss today’s meeting. Please give everyone my regrets. Perhaps you can fill me in later?” Kathryn Anthony said to Bouchet as she stood. “As it is, I just have time to go over to my office and get the grant outline.”

  She turned to me and gave me her hand again, “Ms. Gale, I hope we have another chance to meet soon,” I certainly felt the same way, but she was in a hurry so all I did was nod and smile.

  “Kathryn,” said Bouchet, “I will need to tell you about today’s conference. When you get back tonight I know you’ll be very tired, but please give me a call at home so I can fill you in. Say about 9:00 PM?”

  Was this guy full of himself or what? She’d just flown back from England, swung a multi-million dollar grant, rushed to this meeting, has to whip out to Harrisburg to make the College look good with the Governor by actually writing the press release herself... and Bouchet wants her to call him as soon as she gets back? And he’s even telling her what time?

  “Of course Max, I’ll talk to you then,” said Dr. Anthony as she left.

  Bouchet turned to Bart Edgar and said, “Bart, I just need to speak to Ms. Gale alone for a few minutes.”

  Edgar did that head-bobbing thing again, his huge mustache flapping like seagull wings, but he didn’t make a move to leave.

  Bouchet said patiently as though speaking to a four year-old, “...so Bart if you will just leave us now and go into the Large Conference Room, we’ll be there shortly.”

  The penny dropped. Edgar squashed his papers together with both hands and made his way to the door, miraculously getting through it without dropping anything else.

  Bouchet and I watched him leave with car accident fascination. When the door closed Bouchet dropped his administrator persona and said in honest exasperation, “He’s always like that.”

  “Really?”

  Bouchet nodded incredulously. “His great aunt is one of the most generous contributors to the College. I guess he’s a small price to pay...” Bouchet sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll have to fill you in quickly because the others are already waiting and they aren’t a generally patient lot. As you probably know, last week Carl Rasmus died. It’s been a terrible blow to the College community. Everyone has been affected. We’ve had counselors in to work with the students, and even so
me of the faculty. Many people cared deeply for him. Are you familiar with what was in the papers?”

  I nodded.

  “The police presumed it was suicide, with good reason. There was a note on Carl’s computer detailing his... unhappiness and fears and also blaming several people on the Tenure Committee for his problems.”

  I nodded again.

  “I’m sure you’ve read that Carl was blind. His disability rarely got in his way. In fact, he was able to bring a unique perspective to his work because he was... differently abled, as some people say.” Bouchet paused, then went on choosing his words carefully. “Carl wrote the note on his computer in his office. His computer was off-line at the time. The computer even indicated the time the note was written. Three witnesses confirm that Carl was alone in his office and his were the only fingerprints on the keyboard.”

  “But something has happened to suggest this might not have been suicide?” I suggested.

  “The autopsy report. A contact in the Coroner’s office called me specifically to tell me about it, for which I’m grateful. Carl left his office on the second floor of the Music History building and took the elevator to the sixth floor. He seems to have opened the outside door of a small west side balcony with a key. The key was left in the door. He climbed over the railing, which is about four feet high, and jumped... but...”

  Bouchet paused again to look out the windows to his left. The view included the Music History building. We could both see the sixth floor balcony where this all took place. It was eerie. Bouchet went on, “But the coroner says there are bruises on Carl’s back and the back of his legs. He hit the railing very hard on the way over. The thing is...”

  “The bruising doesn’t make sense if he killed himself?”

  “Right,” said Max Bouchet, “and the inquest is public information. The press will jump on the physical inconsistencies. And they’ll revel in what was actually in the note. Carl blamed others for his distress.”

  “Who’s mentioned in the note?”

  “Those whom you are about to meet, the people on the Tenure Review Committee. They’ll be furious, because much of the note is absolutely untrue. The press may not make it clear that Carl’s note is unfounded. It could hurt these people’s careers...” sighed Bouchet.

  “So you want me to find out why Rasmus was being unreasonable and if this really was suicide or murder,” I said, “and if he was murdered, you’d like me to find out who the murderer was. And you want me to do it before the inquest information is made public?”

  Bouchet was beginning to smile. “Guess this is a tall order?”

  “Regardless,” I said in a businesslike way, “it’s what you want me to do. Dr. Bouchet, you have to understand, I can’t shield anyone for the good of Irwin College...”

  “I know that,” he broke in. “Look, I’m new in town and this has been dumped in my lap. I guess that sounds shallow. I’m very sorry about Carl, I didn’t know him well but he seemed like a good man and I’m sorry he’s dead, but I’m most concerned with the health and safety of the rest of the College people right now.” He shook his head a little. “I’m used to success. I have a lot of money. What I want is to be able to concentrate on making the College the best it can be. I can’t do that with a cloud of doubt and fear hanging over the whole campus. So, I’m proposing that I will pay your salary personally. That way I won’t have to get Board approval, which frankly would not only take too long, but would probably be impossible. Will you do it? What are your terms?”

  I explained my fee then added, “I’ll give you a detailed accounting of how my time is spent and what the expenses are. If I’m answering solely to you, then I’ll give you a daily report, if you want.”

  “Fine, and I’d also like to propose that if you are able to find the answers you just listed before the inquest, which is next Tuesday, I’ll give you a bonus.” He mentioned a figure that would easily buy a very, very nice car, “Frankly, I don’t know whether that’s a good deal for you or not?” he asked with eyebrows raised.

  “It’s a great deal. I work hard on cases and I don’t need the extra incentive, but since you offered, I’ll take it. Because as you said, this is a tall order. I have a contract form here and I’ll need a retainer. And one more thing, I am going to ask tough questions of everyone. Since you’re hiring me, people will blame you if they think I’m being ruthless or rude. Do you still want to do it this way?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. We shook on it. Then I pulled out the contract and filled it in, including the part about the bonus. He signed it and gave me a retainer check. I gave him a copy of the contract and my card.

  “A few things...” I said seriously, “were there fingerprints on the key to the balcony door?”

  “Too smudged to distinguish.”

  “I want to see the note, not just a copy. I’ll need to see Rasmus’s office and have the freedom to talk to everyone who could possibly have any information. Do you think you can get the police to let me see the computer?”

  “I’m not sure if they took the computer out of Carl’s office or not. Until we can find out, here’s a copy of what Carl wrote. Bouchet handed me a sheet of paper. This is what it said:

  To all:

  It is impossible to live this sordid life. I know that homosexuals are often murdered by other homosexuals or otherwise die a slow painful death from AIDS, which is God’s punishment for immorality.

  The Tenure Committee: Knightbridge, Roth, Carvelle, Getty, Anthony, Harmon, Cohen and Smith have done nothing but encourage me to continue in this meaningless existence while they laugh at me behind my back because I am a blind homosexual. I know I will not receive tenure and that I am morally corrupt and alone. Killing myself is punishment for my sins.

  Carl Rasmus

  Grim and sad. And it sure wasn’t one of those notes from mystery fiction that was really written to mean something else and then just misinterpreted by the cops. I stashed the copy in my shoulder bag.

  “You’re going to tell these people what this note says... today?”

  “I have to. It’ll be out in the papers by the middle of next week. These people may feel they need to defend themselves. Listen,” Bouchet said, dropping all pretense, “I have to admit, I’d really like to be the one who solves this problem. It’s intriguing and if I didn’t have to deal with the fall out, if this wasn’t all so lamentable, I imagine untangling the clues could be interesting.”

  Whenever someone suggests solving a murder is interesting, it always makes my bullet scars itch. “Uh huh,” I said, dubiously.

  “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “I’m not going to get in your way. If this was a murder... Christ... I’m a suspect. I guess anyone is, if they had the opportunity... Carl was arguing one way or another with everyone on the Tenure Committee. I’m still checking but as far as I know not one of them has an alibi. None but Kathryn Anthony. She was in Seattle at the time.”

  I was absurdly elated that Kathryn Anthony wasn’t the murderer.

  “Look,” Bouchet went on, “Kathryn is on the committee. She knows everyone fairly well, but though Kathryn’s been part of the Irwin faculty for years, she’s been on an Exchange of Faculty Touring Program, set up by the United States College Cooperative System, the CCS - EFTP they call it, until last September. I trust Kathryn, and I think she might be able to help you.”

  “Are you going to order her to be a snitch?”

  “No, no, no. Not at all, it’s not like that,” he boomed, “she’s just someone who could give you simple information, like who’s who. She doesn’t have a full load of classes and her grant activity is mostly done for the year...”

  “So you’re volunteering her time?” I said dryly.

  He nodded his head with a deep chuckle, “I’m a bastard when it comes to that kind of thing, and it’s even worse than that, because she’s my friend. I’ve known her since grad school. I won’t tell her anything else except that you might want to talk to her. How would that be
?”

  Well, that was true. I did want to talk to her. In fact, a little voice in my brain suggested I ask her on a date, if she were so inclined.

  Bouchet looked at his watch. “Time to face the lions.”

  Chapter 3

  As Bouchet and I walked out of his office toward the open door of the large conference room, we were joined by Miranda Juarez, who handed me a piece of paper, “I have made a list of the people you are about to meet. It includes their titles, contact information and job responsibilities on campus,” she explained.

  “I asked Bart Edgar to make up that list for Ms. Gale,” said Bouchet to Miranda pointedly.

  Miranda gave him an Oh, please look. To me she said, “I am sure you will need other information. Do not hesitate to ask.” A model of efficiency. The kind of assistant everyone needs to get all their work done for the good of humanity with time left over to achieve their dreams.

  The conference room contained an oval table big enough to seat twenty. One end was near the door we’d come in. The room was freezing. Six people were already seated. Some still had their coats on.

  The left wall was floor to ceiling windows with a remarkable view of the half-round drive and more of the campus beyond. I could see the balcony where Carl Rasmus plunged to his death from here, too. Was it just my fertile imagination or were the people around the table avoiding that view. Bouchet took the nearest chair and indicated that I should sit next to him. Miranda Juarez sat to Bouchet’s right.

  “Miranda,” said Bouchet, “why is it so cold in here? Please, turn up the heat.” Miranda got up silently and fiddled with the thermostat. Bouchet looked at his watch. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost 2:15 PM. Connie Robinson came in balancing a tray of soft drinks in bottles and cans. She put the tray on a little table at the far end of the room.