CATCH A FALLING KNIFE

by

Alan Cook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

“This is a wonderful mystery with engaging characters that are neither stereotypes nor caricatures.”

—Cindy Chow, Librarian, Kaneohe, Hawaii

“This is a fast moving story featuring an engaging senior citizen with wit, intelligence and a few weaknesses of an aging body. The dialogue is witty. The problems of prejudice are clearly depicted. The atmosphere of the retirement community, the strip club, and the college is very realistically portrayed.”

—Barbara Buhrer for myshelf.com

PUBLISHED BY:

Alan Cook on Smashwords

Catch a Falling Knife

Copyright © 2002 by Alan L. Cook.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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BOOKS BY ALAN COOK

Run into Trouble

Gary Blanchard Mysteries:

Honeymoon for Three

The Hayloft: a 1950s mystery

California Mystery:

Hotline to Murder

Lillian Morgan mysteries:

Catch a Falling Knife

Thirteen Diamonds

Other fiction:

Walking to Denver

Nonfiction:

Walking the World: Memories and Adventures

History:

Freedom’s Light: Quotations from History’s Champions of Freedom

Poetry:

The Saga of Bill the Hermit

DEDICATION

To Andy, who is solving the mysteries of parenthood.

With thanks to Art, who helped with the legal issues.

Chapter 1

My cell-phone rang while I was deep into a game at the Silver Acres Chess Club. I swore silently and mumbled an apology to my opponent, Wesley, who was trying to fork my king and rook with his knight. This was not the time for interruptions, but since only a few people knew my cell-phone number and they had been warned not to use it short of a dire emergency, on threat of disinheritance, I figured I’d better find out who was calling.

I located the phone in my purse and said hello.

“Lillian, it’s Mark.”

The voice of my granddaughter’s happy-go-lucky boyfriend sounded so strained that I was immediately concerned. Anyone who saves my life, as Mark had, earns the right to have my cell-phone number and also my full attention, day or night.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, gripping the plastic phone tightly and hoping I could make the problem go away with a wave of my hand.

“Yes. I…it’s…”

Mark made a few more sounds, but didn’t produce any intelligible sentences. This must be serious, indeed, since he had never been at a loss for words as long as I had known him. I looked at my watch. Four o’clock. “Can you meet me here for an early dinner?” I asked.

“I’ll be in the front lobby in an hour.”

I said goodbye and disconnected.

“Is there a problem?” Wesley asked. He had started exercising since his wife had died, several months ago, and he had lost some weight. He didn’t look too bad for an old guy.

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I’m going to have to cancel dinner.”

“I heard. That’s okay. I’ll eat with Tess.”

If Wesley meant to make me jealous, he failed. Tess, my best friend at the Silver Acres Retirement Community, had no interest in Wesley, except for conversation and tax advice.

“Let’s finish the game,” I said, turning my attention to the board. But my concentration didn’t return. Wesley not only succeeded in grabbing my rook, he soon launched an onslaught against my king. I resigned, not very gracefully. I am a bad loser. I excused myself and went back to my apartment.

***

Mark was true to his word. He came through the doorway into the retirement community’s lobby promptly at five o’clock and gave me a hug, but not his usual smile. As we walked the short distance to the dining room he said, “I needed somebody to talk to.”

Meaning that he hadn’t talked to Sandra, my granddaughter. And he didn’t say anything more to me before we arrived at the dining room a few minutes after it opened for dinner. Only a handful of the residents had preceded us and we should be able to converse without interruption. I chose a table for two, which would further assure our privacy.

I observed Mark as he absently glanced at the day’s computer-printed menu. Lines had appeared on his handsome face where I had never seen lines before. When our waitress, a pretty and petite black girl in a ponytail and a dark miniskirt, came to fill our water glasses, I watched him again. He had an eye for the ladies, but he barely glanced at her.

We went to the salad bar and returned to the table with plates loaded. I couldn’t contain myself any longer. “Mark, what is the matter?” I asked.

He looked as if he was trying to think of what to say, then blurted out, “I’ve been accused of sexual harassment.”

“Harassment?” It took several seconds before I processed that. “By whom?”

“By a student at Crescent Heights College.”

He had just started teaching at the small private college north of Durham at the beginning of the second semester a few weeks before.

I sat there with my mouth open, not knowing what to say.

“Lillian, I didn’t do it.” Pain showed in his dark eyes.

“Of course you didn’t.” Mark was a flirt, but he would never do anything to hurt a woman. I asked, “What, specifically, are you accused of?”

“I…I haven’t seen the actual charges, but I think they include rape.”

“When did you find out about this?”

“Today. The school has established what they call the Sexual Misconduct Office of Crescent Heights. The students call it SMOOCH. The head of this office called me in.”

In my long teaching career, I had never heard of such a thing. I said, “What happens next?”

“I have a week to prepare my defense.”

“We’ve got to get you a lawyer.”

“I can’t have a lawyer with me at the hearing.”

This was getting worse and worse. “At least you need a lawyer to discuss your defense with and to educate you on courtroom procedure, such as cross-examining your accuser.”

Mark shook his head, morosely. “I can’t face my accuser.”

“What about your constitutional rights? What about trial by jury?”

“Since Crescent Heights is a private school they make their own rules. The Bill of Rights doesn’t apply to them. And this is billed as an informal inquiry, not a legal procedure.”

“But it can get you suspended.”

“Or possibly fired.”

“Did you know about this…policy when you went to work there?”

“Yes, but I didn’t think I would have a problem. Besides, I needed the job.”

Mark had completed work on his Ph.D. at the University of North Carolina last fall. His preference would have been to get a job at UNC, here in Chapel Hill, or Duke, in nearby Durham, where I had taught, but he wasn’t able to land a teaching position with either of them.

“Do you at least know who filed the charges?”

“Yes. But I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t because you think I would make trouble.” I have not been known to sit idly by when things go wrong.

“I’m under a gag order.”

“I assume your accuser is a woman. At least you can tell me that.” Start with the basics.

“Yes, a female student in my beginning Physics class.”

Our waitress came and served the main course, halibut for me, a beef dish for Mark. We both took the fried apples, which were very good here; they smelled and tasted of cinnamon. I let Mark take a few bites of his food. He needed the nourishment. A disaster like this could end his teaching career almost before it started. But it wasn’t going to happen without a fight. Mark wasn’t a quitter, and besides, I wouldn’t let him give up. But first I had to find out what had happened between him and this…ungrandmotherly epithets came to me.

I picked at my food, not eating much. Finally, I said, “Tell me as much as you can about this girl.”

Mark finished chewing his mouthful. “She’s a sophomore. I believe she’s twenty. I think she’s bright, but she’s cut class a couple of times. The lecture is at eight o’clock and not all the students are early risers. At least once I noticed her sleeping in class.”

“What does she look like?”

“Like our waitress, only lighter.”

He had noticed her. He wasn’t dead yet. “Lighter in weight or in color?”

“She’s white.”

“Rate the looks of this white girl on a scale from one to ten.”

“That’s politically incorrect.”

“Don’t make jokes, Mark. This is serious.”

“She’s an eight, easily. She might be a nine, dressed up, especially later in the day.”

That wasn’t good. The story of a beautiful girl was more likely to be believed than that of Raggedy Ann. Or was it? Perhaps the plain girls got more sympathy. “Tell me what happened between you two.”

“Up until last week I had just answered questions for her in the lab. Of course I do that for everybody. But last week she came to my office.”

“Lil, you didn’t tell us you were going to have dinner with Mark.” I looked up at Tess and Wesley, who had just come into the dining room together. Tess had an eye for younger men. I didn’t blame her; I do too. Since they both knew Mark, handshaking and air-kissing went on for several seconds.

“So why are you keeping Mark all to yourself?” Tess persisted.

I love Tess dearly, but sometimes she can be awfully nosy. “We’re talking about family matters,” I said, hoping she would go away.

“Are there wedding bells in the future?”

Meaning between Mark and Sandra. I said, “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

Tess looked miffed, but at least Wesley could take a hint. He guided her to another table.

“Where were we?” I asked, turning back to Mark. “Oh, yes, you were telling me about the time the white girl went to your office.”

Mark collected himself. “She came in just as my office hours were ending.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Uh…jeans. And a sweater, I think. And a jacket. It’s still winter.” He paused.

“Okay, go on. I won’t interrupt again.”

“She came in and closed the door. I told her my office hours were over. She said she just had a quick question. I said I kept my door open when I had visitors.”

“Especially female visitors.”

“One of the tenured professors told me to do that. But she ignored the hint and sat down.”

I remembered I wasn’t going to interrupt, so I kept quiet as Mark took a breath.

After a few seconds Mark continued. “She did ask a question, but nothing very earth-shaking. In fact, I don’t even remember what it was. Then she stood up and I thought she was going to leave. I was sitting in front of my computer, but I got up to see her out the door. She went to the door and turned around. I was a couple of steps from her. She came toward me and…” Mark faltered, then continued, “She kissed me hard—on the mouth.” Mark stopped, unable to continue.

“What did you do?”

“I pushed her away—gently—and said something stupid like, “I’ve already got a girlfriend.”

“That wasn’t stupid.”

“When I pushed her my hand may have brushed against her breast. Anyway, she stood looking at me, and with a straight face she said, ‘Now you know how I feel about you.’ Then she turned around, opened the door and went out, closing it behind her.”

“Did you try to follow her?”

“No. In fact, I didn’t move for about five minutes. I had that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one you get when you’re sure something terrible is about to happen. Unfortunately, I was right.”

I had the same feeling. I asked Mark a few more questions about the incident to try to find out whether he had forgotten any details, but apparently he hadn’t. What now? I said, “Have you told Sandra about this?”

Mark shook his head, looking miserable. “I’m afraid she won’t understand.”

With reason. Sandra had shown annoyance with Mark’s flirting in the past. No telling how she would respond to this. Still, she had to be told. I said, “What’s your current status at Crescent Heights?” You haven’t been suspended yet, have you?”

“As of right now I’m still teaching. In fact, I have two classes to teach tomorrow. The eight o’clock and a one o’clock.”

We needed a plan. I knew some lawyers, but I didn’t see what a lawyer could accomplish in the short run. And apparently, we didn’t have a chance of getting the policy declared unconstitutional. What could we do immediately? “Take me with you, tomorrow,” I said. “I want to sit in on your class. And look around the campus. And maybe talk to some people.”

Mark hesitated. “I leave here at 6:30.”

“I’m an early riser. You can pick me up and jump on the Interstate.”

“What about King?”

King was my part-husky dog. I had named her after the lead-dog of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, the Mountie on the old-time radio show, in spite of the fact that she was female. I usually walked a mile with her in the morning. “I’ll take her for a short walk and leave her outside with food and water. The cold doesn’t bother her. I’ll ask Tess to take her for a walk later. King likes Tess because Tess gives her cookies.”

Mark acquiesced. He knew I wasn’t completely useless, as I had proven before. But I wanted to make sure he was going to do the right thing. I said, “Now you go home and explain the situation to Sandra.” Mark had been living in Sandra’s condo for a while, with Sandra and her two-year-old son, Winston. “And, hopefully, everything will work out.”

Mark smiled, wanly. “But first, can I have some dessert? I saw on the menu they have do-it-yourself sundaes tonight.”

Chapter 2

I waited for Mark in the parking area near my apartment, shivering in the cold and wishing spring would spring. He still hadn’t arrived five minutes after our agreed-upon time. That wasn’t like Mark. I waited a few more minutes, wondering whether I should call Sandra’s condo from my cell phone. Maybe he had forgotten me.

Then his old Toyota appeared around the curve of the rim road, easily recognizable in contrast to the newer cars of the residents who still drove. As soon as I got into the car I could tell that his outlook hadn’t improved since last night. If anything, he looked and sounded more depressed as he greeted me with a weak hello.

As we drove away I tried to think of something to say to cheer him up. Finally, I said, “We’ll lick this thing. Don’t let it get to you.”

Mark looked straight ahead at the road and said, “Sandy kicked me out.”

The first thoughts that came into my head were words that you can’t say about your granddaughter. Sometimes she seemed to have her head on backwards. With an effort I got myself under control and said, “She shouldn’t have done that.”

“I can understand why she did it.”

Maybe Mark was too understanding. But I didn’t have to be. I would have a talk with Sandra. But for right now he needed a place to stay until this could be resolved. He had buddies at UNC who would undoubtedly put him up on a temporary basis, but I didn’t want him separated from our family. He was too good a catch to let him get away, even if Sandra didn’t realize it.

My son, Albert, Sandra’s father, had plenty of room on his farm a few miles from here, but of course he couldn’t show favoritism toward Mark, even though I knew he liked him. Rules like that didn’t apply to me, though. I said, “You can stay with me and sleep on my spare bed.”

Mark protested, but his heart wasn’t in it. I’m sure he saw the wisdom of keeping in contact with the family. I emphasized that and the convenience of my location, between Sandra’s condo and Albert’s farm. He had to agree with me. I glanced at the back seat of the car. It was filled with his personal belongings.

***

From my seat in the corner of the front of the lecture hall I turned and looked up to watch the young men and women file in through the doorways in the raised back of the room. A goodly number of students were taking beginning physics. As a retired mathematics professor I was glad to see that. It boded well for the future of our country. Of course, if you looked and listened more closely you could tell that some of them had come to the U.S. from other countries to attend college, but many stayed after they graduated.

I wore my blue pantsuit and hoped I looked like an observing professor, but I suspected from the dress of the students, which had deteriorated from my days at Duke, that I needn’t have worried about my clothes. Mark, however, looked sharp in creased slacks and a sweater.

I spotted Mark’s accuser as soon as she entered the hall, even though my eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be. Mark had said he didn’t know whether she would show up, but I hadn’t been able to think of any reason why she wouldn’t, since if he said or did anything to her he would probably be fired on the spot.

I had no doubt that it was she. Although Mark hadn’t told me her name, and thus hadn’t violated his gag order, he had given me enough information to recognize her. He and I had communicated in code before. We were attuned to each other’s thought processes. I glanced at Mark, who was already standing at the podium, but he was going through his notes, or pretending to, and he apparently hadn’t seen her.

She took an aisle seat in the very top row. She wore jeans and a jacket, like many of the other students, women and men alike, but the combination of her delicate face, luxurious dark hair and slim body set her apart. Would she also have the audacity to attend the next Physics lab, which was in a much more intimate setting, if Mark still had his job then?

The raised seating in the small auditorium reminded me of a story I had heard several times in my teaching days. Male architects, the story went, designed most buildings and they made the angle of ascent in these raised classrooms such that the male professors had the optimum opportunity to look up the coeds’ skirts. This was probably an urban legend, but in any case it didn’t take into account today’s relaxed dress code. Most of the students, female and male, wore jeans in winter so there wasn’t much leg for Mark to see.

Mark started the lecture promptly at eight. Before he had a chance to say many words, a young woman in the middle of the front row raised her hand. Mark recognized her. She stood up and said in a loud voice, “Dr. Pappas, I just want you to know that a lot of the students support you. We believe that you have been wrongly accused. We will do everything in our power to help you.”

She sat down and applause broke out. Mark looked flabbergasted, the way I felt. Wasn’t this Star Chamber proceeding supposed to be secret? I looked at the audience; about half of the students were applauding. I craned my neck to see Mark’s accuser in the back row. Her eyes were cast down. One curious thing: I was the only one looking at her. Could it be that they knew about the charges but not who had made them?

Mark continued with his lecture, stumbling a few times before he got a rhythm going. My heart went out to him.

***

Somehow, Mark got through the lecture in one piece and even impressed me. He gave a coherent presentation that I understood. He told a couple of jokes and elicited some chuckles from the audience. When he finished he received another round of applause, again from about half the students. He didn’t acknowledge it, pretending to be busy putting his notes into his attaché case. By the time I stood up and looked around, his accuser had disappeared.

The students filed rapidly out of the lecture hall. Mark remained occupied until they were gone and then looked up. In answer to my unspoken question he said, “Nobody is supposed to know about this. They told me it was completely confidential.”

“Somebody didn’t get the word,” I said. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Bad news has a way of leaking out, especially if someone has a reason for wanting it to be public.

As we walked up the sloping aisle toward the exit I heard loud, human-sounding noises coming from outside the hall. Now what? We reached the back and could see outside. A bunch of students, mostly women but also a few men, paraded in front of the entrance, carrying placards and shouting. I couldn’t make out what they were shouting because they drowned each other out, but the placards had words written on them.

Samples were: “RAPISTS ROT IN HELL,” “HARASS THE HARASSER,” and one particularly nasty one carried by a coed who looked like a sumo wrestler: “DO UNTO OTHERS: FUCK MARK PAPPAS.”

The signs reminded me of the Free Speech Movement in Berkeley in the sixties, but the words on these signs were intensely personal. Did they have constitutional protection here at Crescent Heights College? Was it only Mark who didn’t?

Mark clearly wanted to get away from this. I said, “Go on. I’ll see you later.” He gave me a questioning look, but I said, “I’ll be all right.” I didn’t think the students would attack me, but I didn’t have the same confidence in regard to Mark.

He left the scene at a fast walk. Some of the students followed him, but they had to practically run to keep up. The number thinned and when there were only a few left he stopped and confronted them. He talked to them for a few seconds. Apparently, whatever he said made an impression because when he went on and disappeared around a building they came back to the group.

The others had stopped chanting now that the object of their wrath was gone. I went up to the sumo wrestler and said, “What’s going on?” She looked at me suspiciously. I didn’t know whether she associated me with Mark because we had come out of the hall together. I said, “I’m Professor Morgan.”

“Hi, Professor,” she said. “Dr. Pappas has been charged with sexual harassment.”

“How do you know that?”

“Everybody knows it.” She waved her hand in a big circle, indicating the whole world.

“Do you know the specifics of the charges?” I asked, trying to sound professorial.

“Uh…no, but harassment is harassment.”

“Who preferred the charges?”

“That information is confidential.” She looked shocked that anybody would even ask. She obviously didn’t know.

I wanted to ask her why the name of the harassee should be confidential if the name of the harasser wasn’t, but that would just get me tied up in my underwear. Instead, I said, “To summarize, you know that a charge has been filed against Dr. Pappas, but you don’t know who filed it. You also don’t know the nature of the charge. You have no idea whether Dr. Pappas is guilty of the charge. And yet you have the right to harass him with your obscene shouting and obscene signs.”

A circle of placard-carrying students formed around me as I spoke, and the expressions on their faces were not pretty. I looked from one to another and tried not to panic. They wouldn’t hurt an old woman—would they?

The sumo wrestler appeared to be their ringleader. She spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “We will not tolerate male pigs on this campus. You have been oppressed your whole life and are used to being oppressed, but our generation isn’t. Do you understand me?”

I didn’t know I had endured a lifetime of oppression. I also couldn’t picture anybody oppressing her, but I understood her all too well. I also understood that it was time for me to leave. Mustering all the dignity I could, I walked between her and another student and on toward the administration building. I resisted the desire to run and tried to heed the words of Satchel Paige: “Don’t look back because somebody may be gaining on you.”

As soon as I had put enough distance between me and the demonstrators so that I could breathe I started to look around. Mark had given me a map of the campus, which had modern buildings and was set among hills that would be green as soon as leaves appeared on the trees. The well-kept lawns were already green. Yellow forsythia and yellow daffodils had started to blossom in flowerbeds beside the walks.

The bright greens and yellows put me in a better mood. I walked up marble steps and through doorways with glass doors into the Administration Building.

Chapter 3

A functional and impersonal counter greeted me as I entered an office directly opposite the entrance. A student type sat behind the counter, busily staring at a computer monitor. I wondered what she was looking at. I had used computers when I was a professor, but I had never owned one and I didn’t derive much pleasure from watching a screen. I preferred reality.

She reluctantly dragged her eyes away from whatever enthralled her and said, “Can I help you?”

I repressed a desire to say, “I don’t know, can you?” and to give her a lecture on the difference between “can” and “may,” but that job belonged to an English teacher. I said, “Yes. My name is Professor Lillian Morgan. I would like to speak to Priscilla Estavez.” Mark had given me her name.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“ No. I just need five minutes of her time.”

“What’s it in regard to?”

“I would like to ask her some questions about your sexual harassment policy.” I tried to say that in a positive way.

“She’s in a meeting.”

“That’s okay. I’m in no hurry; I’ll wait.”

“I don’t know how long the meeting will last. You can have a seat if you want to,” she said, doubtfully.

Everybody was always in a meeting. I took a few steps to a chair set against the wall, with thin metal legs and a molded seat and back in one piece. I sat down and noticed that its lack of comfort was not conducive to waiting. I hoped my presence would motivate my helper to contact Ms. Estavez.

After several minutes I heard her talking to somebody on the phone. She spoke softly and the counter intervened so I couldn’t understand what she said. But then her head appeared above the counter and she said, “Ms. Estavez will see you now.”

She directed me down a hallway that started at one end of the counter. I passed several doors until I came to one with a sign beside it that read, “Patricia Estavez, Student Affairs.”

The door was open so I walked in. Ms. Estavez sat behind a metal desk, reading a document, but she looked up and smiled as I entered. She stood and said, “I’m Priscilla Estavez.” She offered me her hand across the desk.

“Lillian Morgan,” I said, as I took it.

She said, “Nice to meet you,” and motioned me to a seat in front of the desk, which I accepted. It was more comfortable than the one in the waiting area. “What school are you with, Professor Morgan?” she asked.

“Duke.” I said it almost without thinking and hoped I didn’t look too old to still be teaching. By contrast, she looked young and earnest. She had pulled her reddish-brown hair back into a knot and she wore frameless glasses. Her white blouse was buttoned up to the neck.

“I attended Duke,” she gushed. “What department are you in?”

“Mathematics.”

“Oh, I could never do math.” She laughed and I smiled in what I hoped wasn’t a condescending manner. She looked me over for a few seconds. “What can I help you with today?”

“I understand that you’re in charge of the Sexual Misconduct Office.”

“That and a few dozen other things. This is a small college. We have to wear many hats. It’s not like Duke.”

I chose my words carefully. “I’m doing a study of harassment policies—on the side, of course—and I’d like to find out something about yours. I’ve heard it’s unique.”

“Oh, is Duke thinking of changing its policy?”

Be careful. I had only a vague idea of Duke’s current policy. “No. That is, not right away. I’m doing this pretty much on my own.”

“Well, let me give you a brief outline. The reason we implemented a new policy is because it was very difficult for a student to file charges of rape or similar abuse. We needed an approach that was more sensitive to the needs of the victims. When you say our policy is unique, it isn’t really. We have modeled it on those of several larger schools. But I believe that we’ve added several features that are logical extensions of the other policies. I like to think that we’re on the cutting edge.”

Said she, modestly, but as if she were reading from a script. I suspected her brief outline might go on for some time. Maybe I could shortcut the process.

“Can you give me an example of something that you’ve added?” I asked.

Ms. Estavez leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. “Well, one thing we decided is that the sexual harassment policy for students should apply equally to the faculty. We don’t want our students protected halfway. Faculty members are in a position of power and you know what they say about power corrupting. Our students come here, still innocent of the outside world—innocent and impressionable. A faculty member with the wrong attitude can do immeasurable damage to a student.”

I tried to remember how many students I had damaged in my career. I noticed that her words so far had been gender-neutral. I said, “It’s interesting that you’ve extended the policy to faculty members. Have you had occasion to use the policy with a faculty member yet?”

Ms. Estavez peered at me, but I had an innocent look on my face. “As a matter of fact, we had a complaint filed just this week. Of course, you understand that I can’t tell you any specifics about it. It’s a test case for us, to see how the policy works with regard to a faculty member. If we can nail this one, we’re on our way.”

“I’ve heard that the defendant isn’t allowed to confront his accuser or to cross-examine witnesses. Aren’t those provisions unconstitutional?”

Ms. Estavez looked at me sharply. “This is a private school. The constitution doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

The voice of the girl from the reception area spoke to Ms. Estavez from the doorway behind me: “Your 9:30 is here.”

“Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.”

I had one more thing to say before she dismissed me. “On my way over here I saw students carrying signs, apparently as part of a protest. The signs contained messages about harassment. The name Dr. Pappas was mentioned on some of them. Is Dr. Pappas the faculty member who is accused?”

Now Ms. Estavez looked at me with open hostility. She didn’t say anything.

“I guess my question is, if the harassment proceedings are confidential, how did the name of the defendant get to be public knowledge?”

She abruptly stood up. “This discussion is over,” she said.

I decided not to paste Ms. Estavez in the face, but to retreat as gracefully as I could. I stood up and offered her my hand across the desk, as I said, “Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Estavez. You’ve been very helpful.”

At first I thought she wasn’t going to shake hands with me, but I kept my hand out and kept a smile on my face. She resisted for a few seconds, but then she quickly shook my hand, sat down and started fiddling with some papers on her desk.

Feeling the thrill of a minor victory, I walked out the door and back down the hall to the reception area. There, standing at the counter and chatting with the receptionist, was Mark’s accuser. Like the first time I saw her, I didn’t have any doubt about her identity. She glanced at me without interest, but I took a good look at her.

Close up, she was striking. The vivid contrast between her dark hair, dark eyes and white face was enough to turn any man’s head. A touch of red on her lips added just enough color to the picture. I was sure she wasn’t wearing any other makeup. She had unzipped her synthetic jacket and I got a hint of a shapely body underneath, but I couldn’t tell specifics because of the bulkiness of the sweater she wore. However, her jeans were tight and skinny.

I had a sudden urge to ask her why she wanted to destroy Mark’s life. I hesitated in front of her. She looked at me again and it occurred to me that speaking to her here would blow any chance Mark had for redemption. But I almost couldn’t resist. I had to physically shake myself into moving again.

I headed out through the front doors of the Administration Building, knowing that Ms. Priscilla Estavez would shortly summon this girl into her office to plot the demise of Mark Pappas.

***

As I retraced my path down the marble steps I considered lying in wait for Mark’s accuser and having it out with her on the spot. I am a direct sort of person and I like to face difficulties head-on. I saw a bench sitting beside the walkway she would take when she left the building. It would be easy to spot her from there when she appeared and then intercept her.

If I could get her to admit that she had framed Mark, maybe she would drop the charges. Whatever the specific charges, there couldn’t be any truth to them. When she saw the error of her ways my impetuousness would be justified.

On the other hand, if she refused to drop the charges it would be curtains for Mark when my relationship to him became known because Ms. Estavez would be able to say that he had revealed his accuser to me, despite the gag order. And although that could be argued, I knew what chance we had of winning the argument. Zero.

“Professor. Professor.”

The voice behind me called twice before I understood that I was the one being hailed, among all the people walking by, perhaps including other professors. I stopped and turned around as the girl from the Administration Building reception area ran up to me, panting.

She was dressed in a style similar to Mark’s accuser, wearing jeans and a sweater, but no jacket. I couldn’t help comparing them. They were about the same height, but her hair was an indeterminate brown color, her eyes and face normal but unremarkable, her body slightly chunkier than the other. Small differences, perhaps, but huge in the way the world would treat her.

“Professor,” she said again, somewhat out of breath. “I wanted to talk to you.” She gulped some air and continued, “When I poked my head in Priscilla’s office to tell her about her next appointment I heard you mention Dr. Pappas.”

She hesitated and I figured I’d better not say anything.

After a few seconds she continued, “I’m taking a class from Dr. Pappas.”

She hesitated again so I said, “How do you like him?”

“He’s great. He’s the best.”

I didn’t know whether she referred to his teaching style or his looks so I waited.

“I think he has been unjustly accused.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he’s too nice a guy. I talked to him in his office and he was a perfect gentleman. He didn’t come on to me.”

No surprise there, but I didn’t see how this would help Mark. I said, “Perhaps you could be a character witness for him.”

She laughed, shortly, and said, “I don’t think they allow character witnesses. But I was wondering if you know Dr. Pappas.”

My guard immediately went up. I said, “I think I’ll make it a point to meet him.”

“If you do meet him could you pass on a message? Just don’t tell him I gave it to you.”

“What’s the message?”

“Tell him that he should go to the Club Cavalier and look for the Shooting Star.”

“Why should he do that?”

“He might find out something that would help him.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

She looked nervous. “I can’t get involved. Please, would you do it?”

“You could send him an anonymous note.”

“Notes can be traced. Please.”

She wouldn’t be satisfied until I promised. “If I talk to him I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you. Remember: the Shooting Star at Club Cavalier.” She turned to go.

“Wait,” I said. “What’s your name?”

She raced back toward the Administration Building without answering. I couldn’t catch her; I could follow her into the building, but I decided I’d better not risk running into Patricia Estavez or Mark’s accuser again.

Mark’s accuser. This girl must know her name. She had announced her to Ms. Estavez and she had chatted with her. Again I was tempted to go back into the building. But if I nosed around too much it could only hurt Mark. I restrained my impulse for the second time.

As I strolled among the students I thought about what she had told me—that she had heard me mention Dr. Pappas. I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events and was positive that I hadn’t mentioned Mark until after she had passed on her message and left the office. That meant she had been listening outside the door.

***

I pondered what to tell Mark about my activities as we drove back to Chapel Hill late that afternoon. I hadn’t seen him since the morning class. He had been tied up with office hours and other appointments. He had also started a research project and had been busy at lunch.

After leaving the Administration Building I had strolled around the campus for a while, nostalgically remembering my days in academia and wondering whether I still had the stamina to teach. I didn’t see any more demonstrations against Mark, for which I was thankful.

When I became tired of walking I repaired to the library and found a book on chess to while away the time. I had started to carry a miniature chess set in my purse because it bugged me that Wesley played a better game than I did. I used my set to work through some problems in the book.

I ate lunch in a cafeteria full of laughing and shouting students and remembered that one of the reasons I had retired was to gain some peace and quiet. I did one more thing: I found a telephone book and looked up the address of Club Cavalier.

“I hoped you weren’t bored out of your mind all day,” Mark said, interrupting my reverie.

Some of his normal good spirits seemed to have returned. I envied him because he never stayed depressed for very long.

“Answer some questions for me yes or no,” I said, still not sure what to tell him. “Was your accuser present in class this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Was she sitting in the top row?”

“Yes.”

“Was she wearing…? Never mind. All the girls were wearing the same damn thing.”

Mark actually laughed.

“What will you do if you get suspended or fired?”

“Go back to bartending. I made good money as a bartender.”

Bad question. I tried another one. “What do you know about Club Cavalier?”

Mark took his eyes off the road to look at me. “Where did you hear about Club Cavalier?”

“I heard some people talking about it. What kind of a place is it?”

“It’s a local topless bar. A hangout for students, among others.”

“And girls dance there?”

Mark looked at me again. “Why the sudden interest in topless bars?”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Lillian! What kind of a question is that?”

“An unfair one, but, nevertheless, humor me and answer it.”

“No, I’ve never been there. I won’t try to make you believe that I’ve never been to a topless bar, but I figured that a brand new instructor should conduct himself in an impeccable manner. A lot of good that did me,” he added, bitterly.

“Well, if you get fired you can always tend bar there,” I said, trying to cheer him up.

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony? But you still haven’t told me what you did all day.”

“Oh, I hung out,” I said, using a student expression I had overheard. “Walked around, played some chess. Nothing very exciting. Oh, I did have a nice meeting with Patricia Estavez.”

“I’ll bet. Tell me about it.”

Chapter 4

“The meeting will come to order,” I joked, striking my coffee cup with my spoon in lieu of banging a gavel. It was Saturday, the day after my visit to Crescent Heights College with Mark.

I was holding the meeting in my apartment at Silver Acres and the participants included Mark, Tess and Wesley. We sat at my small dining table, drinking coffee and eating carrot and celery sticks. Wesley’s health kick since his wife had died included an improved diet as well as exercise. Tess and I often ate dinner with him in the main dining room so we were influenced by his diet. Thus the veggies instead of gooey rolls or cookies.

King circled the room, placing her nose on one lap after another, begging to be scratched behind her ears. I should have chained her outside, but these people were all her friends and she enjoyed the attention.

I quickly outlined Mark’s predicament to Tess and Wesley. Then I had Mark tell about the meeting that had occurred between him and his accuser in his office. He told it the same way he had told it to me, almost word for word. Tess exclaimed, “I don’t believe it,” from time to time and Wesley got a very concerned look on his face.

After Tess and Wesley had been filled in on the facts, I said, “Our purpose here is to help Mark come up with a plan of action. We discussed getting him an attorney, but he can’t have an attorney present at his hearing and he can’t face or cross-examine his accuser so there doesn’t seem to be much point to him having one.”

“When is your hearing?” Wesley asked Mark.

“The exact date hasn’t been set yet,” Mark said, “but probably sometime next week. I gather that there is a separate hearing first for my accuser.”

“And who is present at these hearings?”

“A panel of about five people. One of them is Patricia Estavez, who Lillian met yesterday.”

“I don’t mean to sound negative,” I said, “but if she is the deciding vote your goose is cooked. And I suspect she leaked the information about you to the protestors to create a negative buzz. Presumably, that will make your firing easier for your students to accept.”

Mark grimaced in agreement.

“If the policy states that information about the case is confidential, the leak may be grounds for an appeal,” Wesley said.

“Except that an appeal is handled by basically the same group,” Mark said. “It’s called the adjudicating panel. In addition to Ms. Estavez, it also includes two deans and a faculty member, all specially trained in sensitivity to sexual misconduct.”

“Which apparently means sensitivity to women but not men,” I said.

“What kind of testimony can you give?” Wesley asked. He was a CPA and had been an accountant in the world of business, so he took a practical approach to problem solving.

“Basically, all I can do is tell my side of the story. That’s about it. There won’t be any witnesses because there weren’t any. As I said, I can’t question my accuser. She won’t be present when I am.”

“So it’s your word against hers,” Tess said. “I would believe you before some dippy girl.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Unfortunately, none of you can attend the meeting.”

“How about character witnesses?” I asked, remembering the girl from the Administration Building.

Mark shook his head. “I asked about that. I was told that I might produce a dozen witnesses and they would turn the proceeding into a farce.”

“I’m sure you can produce a hundred character witnesses, but the proceeding is a farce anyway,” Tess said. “And since it’s done in secret, it will be impossible to appeal or correct any bias, intentional or otherwise, on the part of the panel.”

Speaking of bias, it was obvious that we all had the same opinion. I should have invited Priscilla Estavez to give her side of the story. I felt I had a moral obligation to stand in for her. I said, “I understand that the reason for the policy is that students—meaning coeds—had previously found it difficult to file rape charges. They had to cut through a lot of red tape and the college officials tried to downplay problems.”

“But now they’ve swung the pendulum too far in the other direction,” Wesley said, “Out the window go due process and other protections our country is grounded on. Does the charge in your case include rape?”

“I don’t see how it could,” Mark said, “but Ms. Estavez implied that it did. I guess rape is as good as any other charge because I can’t understand how any charge could have been made. But the policy is worded so loosely that what actually happened might be used against me if my accuser had some kind of mental and/or physical impairment that I should have been aware of.”

“Such as having a crush on you?” I asked.

Mark shrugged. He wasn’t conscious of his attractiveness to women, which of course made him that much more attractive.

“All right, this is what we’re going to do,” Tess said. “We’re going to write a script for Mark to use when he testifies. Lillian, do you want to take notes? No, I’d better do it because my handwriting is better than that of anyone else here and I have experience because I acted as Lillian’s secretary when she solved Gerald’s murder.”

Tess produced a yellow pad and her glasses from her purse, which she put on, being careful not to disturb her perfectly coifed white hair. She had come prepared.

“In many enterprises, the secretary runs the company,” Wesley said, with a smile. “I’m sorry; I should have said administrative assistant. I understand that there aren’t any secretaries any more.”

“I may not have a lot of work experience, like the rest of you,” Tess continued, “but I was a member of my local school board and I ran into people like those who are likely to be on the panel. I had to deal with issues like school busing to achieve integration, so I understand the politics of victimhood.”

“Who are the victims here?” Mark asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? The women students. They are so fragile that they have to be protected from their tormentors and can’t even be in the same room with them. Now Mark, you’re going to tell what happened pretty much as we heard it, but you’re going to do it in a sensitive manner. For example, when you tell about pushing your accuser away you’re going to say that you were trying to protect her because you understood that she might have a crush on you that could affect her judgment.”

Although Tess had not held a job most of her life—her career had been that of a housewife—she had a truckload of common sense and she was a lot better at the sensitivity thing than I was. My advice to Mark might have been to tell everybody involved with the case to go to hell, which wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere except thrown out on his ear. Knowing my weakness, I was happy to let Tess take the lead.

As the others talked and Tess took notes, I thought about my next step. I needed a man to help me. Ordinarily, I would have asked Mark, but I had to disqualify him because he was the defendant. Wesley was too old. He didn’t drive much at night and he was too far removed in years from his youth to be able to think like a young man. I had only one logical choice—my son, Albert.

Chapter 5

Albert had some of the same flowers blossoming on his farm that I had seen at Crescent Heights College, including daffodils and forsythia. In addition, he had flowering quince, star magnolia, plum trees and some early roses. A warm spell at the end of February had followed a snowstorm and prompted the flowers to make their appearances, causing the earth to look and smell like spring. I hoped that the quick freezes we were subject to wouldn’t kill them all off.

The four generations of our family had a tradition of eating Sunday brunch at the farm. I brought baked goods while Albert and Sandra prepared the main meal. Sandra’s two-year-old son, Winston, brought his charming and inquisitive self.

As I drove along the mile-plus length of the gravel road leading to the farm I couldn’t help but shiver when I passed the spot where I had almost been killed the previous summer in order to keep me from exposing the murderer of Gerald Weiss. But as time went by the shivers decreased and I could look back on the experience from a distance, as if it hadn’t really happened to me.

Mark had been a regular at these brunches for many months, but he had declined to come today, saying that if Sandra didn’t want him to live with her she wouldn’t want him to eat with her, either. Instead, he went to the Durham restaurant where he had been a bartender while attending the University of North Carolina to see about getting his old job back. He wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence about the outcome of his “fact-finding procedure,” as the Crescent Heights College policy manual called it.

The only vehicles parked beside the large brown house were Albert’s pickup truck and Sandra’s red Toyota. Albert got razzed by his colleagues about being a college professor who drove a pickup truck, but he shrugged it off. He often invited one of what seemed to be an endless stream of girlfriends to brunch, but perhaps we would be alone today. I hoped so.

Romper, Albert’s yellow Labrador retriever, came bounding up to the car to greet King and me. I let King out of the back seat and she immediately ran off with her friend. Here on the farm was the only place I allowed her to run free without a leash.

I entered the house by the door near the kitchen, carrying an apple pie, and found my three descendants busily working on brunch. Albert and Sandra cooked while Winston ate. I got hugs from Sandra and Albert. This gratified me because I had been a little worried about Sandra’s reaction to my harboring of Mark.

Albert was his usual cheery self, but Sandra had a grave expression on her beautiful face and her long blond hair looked as if it hadn’t been brushed.

I kissed the soft cheek of Winston, which would much too soon be rough with whiskers. He said, “Great-grandma, do you have your car keys?”

He checked out everybody’s car. I gave him my key case and he promptly picked out my car key from among the others. Then he snapped it shut and said, “We don’t want your keys to get lost.”

I determined not to be the first to bring up the subject of Mark. No one mentioned him until we were eating. Then Albert said, “All right, you two. Tell me what’s happening with Mark. I’ve only heard bits and pieces.”

Sandra and I looked at each other. He was her boyfriend. She spoke, somewhat reluctantly. “Mark has moved out.”

Albert said, “The way I heard it, it sounds as if you kicked him out.”

Mark had called Albert yesterday from my apartment, but I hadn’t heard their conversation.

“We came to a mutual understanding.”

That was baloney. But I was only the grandmother and I wasn’t going to interfere.

“Let’s not run around the bush,” Albert said. “Tell me what you know about the charges against him.”

“Charges, not conviction,” I said, unable to hold my tongue.

I saw tears in the corners of Sandra’s blue eyes. But she remained silent. So I told Albert what I knew while the tears ran down Sandra’s cheeks.

When I finished, Albert said, “That is the worst harassment policy I’ve ever heard of. It could ruin his career and there doesn’t appear to be anything he can do about it. It sounds like a modern version of the Spanish Inquisition.” Albert taught history at the University of North Carolina.

“It’s his word against hers,” I said. “And I’ll give you one guess as to who will be believed. It’s even more unfair than that. Somebody tipped off a radical group on campus about Mark, and they staged a nasty protest in front of the building where he was lecturing.”

Albert turned to Sandra and said, “Honey, if Mark gets convicted, you’re still not going to know anything more than you know now. And we won’t ever know whether he received a fair trial. It’s a question of whether you trust Mark or not.”

Sandra’s tears now fell freely. She struggled to speak and finally said, “I don’t know what to do. Why would somebody accuse him falsely?”

“Do you want me to tell him to find somewhere else to stay?” I asked.

Sandra shook her head and barely uttered the word, “No.”

At least she was emotionally involved. I believed she loved him. That thought afforded me some relief. On the other hand, her mental state precluded her taking him back. But I had the motivation to do what I had been thinking about.

I volunteered to wash the dishes and hung around until Sandra was ready to leave, saying that she had some papers to grade. She taught English at a local high school. When I kissed her goodbye I said, “Don’t give up on Mark. He’s as torn up about this as you are. He needs you.”

She said, “Gogi, I can’t make a decision right now.”

“I understand. Maybe something will turn up.” I tried to appear more cheerful than I felt.

“Take care of your blue car,” Winston said to me as he left with Sandra.

I promised him I would. When they had driven into the woods and disappeared I walked back to the kitchen with Albert. I didn’t know of any way to edge into this topic, so I said, “I want to check something out that may have a bearing on this case, but I need your help.”

Albert was instantly on his guard. “If you need my help, it’s probably illegal, immoral or involves driving at night.”

“The latter,” I said, “and possibly one or both of the formers. Have you ever heard of a place called the Club Cavalier near the Crescent Heights campus?”

“No, and I’m wondering why you have.”

I told him about the girl in the Administration Building.

“What is her relationship to this case?” Albert asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “In fact, I don’t even know her name. But she does work—part time, since she’s a student—in the same area with Ms. Priscilla Estavez, head of the Sexual Misconduct Office.”

“That proves nothing, except that she isn’t very loyal to this Estavez person. Why would she be giving you information that might help Mark?”

“You’re asking good questions. It proves that when I trained you in analytical thinking, it took.”

Albert had to smile and he used a softer tone when he said, “I suppose what you want me to do is go to this bar and look for this Shooting Star, whatever or whoever it is.”

“It’s a club, not a bar. And the Shooting Star is a she.”

“How do you know that?”

“I called Club Cavalier and said I had a friend who wanted to see the Shooting Star. I was told that she would be performing Monday evening. And I want to go with you.”

“Mother, that’s not going to happen.”

Albert put on his most defiant attitude. He thrust his chin forward, just as he had when he had been a boy, questioning the authority of his parents. He had looked cute then. He still looked cute, even with an expanding waistline and thinning hair.

“Do you want Mark’s career to be over before it starts?” I asked.

“Bars are rowdy places where men get drunk, use bad language and behave in a disgusting manner. It’s been years since I’ve been to a strip joint. And you’d be as out of place there as a cat at a dog show.”

“Do you want Sandra and Mark to get back together again?”

We went back and forth like that for a while. Finally, I wore him down. He said, “If we don’t go and Mark’s hearing ends up badly, you’ll blame me. At least we’ll take my truck. That’s more macho than your old Mercedes.”

Chapter 6

Albert and I arrived at Club Cavalier about 7:30 p.m., after dark. A scattering of vehicles inhabited the parking lot in front of the building, leaving plenty of room for more. Well, it was a Monday evening. Albert’s pickup truck didn’t look out of place among the older cars and trucks, although I also saw a couple of late-model cars and a SUV. However, I didn’t see a vintage Mercedes, like mine.

One side of the building was painted with pictures of scantily clad women in alluring poses, but nothing you couldn’t see on TV or in women’s magazines. I wondered if places like this were having trouble keeping their clientele with all the other options available. I had heard stories about what was on the Internet.

Albert led the way inside and paid the cover charge for both of us. The overweight man who took the money glanced once at Albert and decided not to check his ID. He didn’t even look at me. We stood for a few seconds just inside the door, letting our eyes grow accustomed to the dim light.

Smoke from a dozen cigarettes curled lazily upward, creating a smog layer that stung my eyes and my nostrils. For many years now smokers had been banished to hidden corners where they furtively inhaled and I had forgotten how obnoxious the smoke could be. Loud noises that I guessed passed for modern rock music filled the room and a spotlight highlighted a girl who went through a series of contortions on a raised stage, involving a vertical pole rising from the stage to an overhead beam.

As my vision improved I saw that she wore nothing above the waist and only a G-string below. The G-string didn’t look much different from the thongs that girls today wear under their clothes and even in plain sight on the beach, except it was decorated with sequins. On her feet she wore the tallest heels I had ever seen.

Her ample breasts bounced in time to her movements, which were supposed to be erotic, but to me looked humorous. The platinum-blond color of her hair led me to believe that she wore a wig since only a few people, mostly from Scandinavia, have hair naturally that color. Even Sandra’s hair was a few shades darker.

Men sat at small tables near the semicircular stage, which had a brass rail around its edge. It would have been difficult for them to touch the dancer, had they an inclination to. However, customers reached out and placed bills on the stage from time to time.

Albert took me by the elbow and led me to one of the small tables well away from the dancer. I guess he didn’t want me putting money on the stage. A young waitress, clad in a short skirt and a low-cut top, instantly appeared. She eyed me as Albert shouted an order at her; I stared calmly back at her. She made her way through the tangle of tables, changing direction like a frightened rabbit, but returned quickly, carrying two glasses of beer on a tray. Albert gave her several bills. I couldn’t hear her thank-you because of the din.

The song ended and the dancer bowed to weak applause—the room was sparsely populated—and a few cheers masquerading as catcalls. She picked up the bills from the floor, held them up in acknowledgment and disappeared behind a red curtain at the back of the stage.

The noise level was greatly reduced with the music gone, for which I was profoundly grateful. I looked around at the other patrons. They were all men—I was apparently the only woman customer—but I had expected that. Their ages ranged from college-age to grizzled, with most in between. I realized that I had too small a sample to draw inferences from, but I suspected that most of the college boys came on Friday and Saturday nights.

Some men sat alone and stared into their beer glasses; others sat in groups of two or more. I felt sudden pity for the loners. Was this their idea of a social life? Were they living in a fantasy world because the real world was too—sad? Judging from some of the expressions on their faces, the fantasy worlds couldn’t be much better.

All the men were well behaved, almost docile. Even when the dancer had been on stage I hadn’t seen anything approaching rowdy behavior. It wouldn’t do me any good to watch Albert’s reaction; he wouldn’t lift an eyebrow with me there. The place must get a lot livelier later on. But between the brass rail on the stage and the doorman, who probably doubled as a bouncer, I suspected management was prepared to handle anybody who misbehaved.

I happened to see the dancer reenter the room through a doorway on one side of the stage. In addition to her G-string she now wore a skimpy top. She swaggered directly over to one of the tables, took a middle-aged man by the hand and led him back through the same doorway. I quickly nudged Albert to get him to look in her direction and said, “Where is she taking him?”

Albert looked over in time to see them together, thought about what to tell me for a bit, then said, “She’s probably going to do a private lap-dance for him.”

“Is that what it sounds like?”

“Yes, but there are specific rules. The dancer can touch the customer, but the customer can’t touch the dancer.”

“Or he’ll get his arm broken.”

“At least he’ll get kicked out.”

“So it’s completely under her control.”

“Yes.”

Just as men were becoming more and more under the control of women in all phases of life. As exemplified by the sexual harassment policy at Crescent Heights College.

The ticket-taker picked up a microphone and announced the next dancer. As dissonant music reverberated around the room a clone of the first dancer popped out through the curtain and started to gyrate. Her blond wig wasn’t as blond, but if anything, her breasts were larger. Did the customers become bored watching different versions of the same girl?

As eight o’clock approached more customers arrived. The tables around us filled up. I began to wonder what I could learn by watching the girl called the Shooting Star. If I had dragged Albert all the way here for no reason, he would be upset. He was upset about having to bring me here, anyway, although I had a hunch he secretly enjoyed the dancers.

The clock over the bar showed two minutes after eight when the ticket-taker picked up the microphone and announced in a loud voice, “And now, what you’ve all been waiting for. Club Cavalier proudly presents the Shooting Star.”

I guess I was expecting another big blond Barbie-doll, but the girl who came through the curtain was petite, with bright-red hair—and she wore a mask. My next surprise was that she was dancing to a song I recognized: an old Perry Como tune from the fifties called “Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes.”

Even though the laid-back barber sang it in an upbeat tempo, it was as out of place here after the music of the other dancers as a hotrod would have been in the parking lot, but she made it work. She glided effortlessly around the stage, barefoot, and then did a series of gymnastic maneuvers, ending in an aerial back-flip. I noticed that when she unhooked her bra, shrugged it off and tossed it back toward the curtain, all eyes were on her, including Albert’s.

Her breasts were smaller than those of the other girls. They were obviously her own. They were the breasts of the girl next door, but these days the girl next door had probably eaten too many Big Macs to have the body definition she had. She reminded me of when I had been in school and almost all the girls were thin.

The Shooting Star got on the pole, twisting around it like a snake while flashing colored lights painted her body. At one point she did an upside-down split while hanging onto the pole, completely off the stage. Then she did the same thing facing the other way. She mesmerized the audience. These moves revealed most of the mysteries of being a woman, in spite of her scanty G-string.

I studied her red hair, which was probably the only false thing about her, and wondered how it stayed on. Then I looked at her mask, which covered not only her eyes but also her forehead and the upper part of her cheeks. Was that just for show, to add to the intrigue, or was she really trying to hide her identity?

She finished her act with another gymnastic run and another back-flip. I held my breath, fearing that she would either hit the pole or catapult herself into the audience, but she had complete control of her movements. She received the loudest applause and most cheers of any of the dancers. There were so many bills on the stage that it took her a while to collect them all. While she did several men yelled, “Take off the mask.”

Her brightly lipsticked mouth smiled, she waved to the audience, money and bra in hand, and the curtains swallowed her. I looked at Albert. He stared after her, his mouth slightly open. She had affected him so much that he had forgotten to hide it.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I said, and stood up before he recovered enough to respond. I made my way to the doorway with signs indicating that men’s and women’s rooms (thank goodness) existed in that direction. It was the same doorway I had seen several of the dancers take men through for lap dances.

I used the women’s restroom—the beer was getting to me—and as I came out I noticed another door, leading to…where? The lap-dance area and the dressing rooms? I opened the door and entered a dimly lit hallway with music blaring from hidden speakers.

I closed the door behind me and glanced to the right. I saw what looked like openings to several cubicles. The head and bare back of one of the girls suddenly appeared out of the first one, her hair flying, her body gyrating. She disappeared and then reappeared and bent over backwards until her hair touched the floor. Her naked body was toned with muscle, but still feminine, and I had to admit that she exuded an animal eroticism. I hoped her victim—or customer—was enjoying her attentions.

I turned the other way and saw brightness. I went around a corner and found myself at the entrance to the dressing room. I looked inside; the walls were hung with the traditional mirrors, surrounded with naked light bulbs. Several of the girls sat in front of mirrors, in various stages of undress, working on their faces. I looked around for the Shooting Star, but none of them had her body type, with or without a mask.

One of the blond dolls spotted me in the mirror, turned around and said, “Well, howdy, Grandma. Are you the new dancer?”

The others guffawed and I smiled, saying, “I’m looking for the Shooting Star.”

“You and the rest of the whole friggin’ world,” the girl who had greeted me said. “She ain’t here.”

“But she just came offstage a few minutes ago.”

“She came through here just like her name—ssswishhh—she almost always does that, and went out there.” She pointed to a door with an Exit sign over it.”

“Isn’t she doing another show tonight?”

“Oh, she’ll be back. She comes waltzing in here about ten minutes before her gig, wearing this gigantic jacket with a hood and her mask. Underneath, she’s wearing her costume so all’s she has to do is take off the coat and she’s ready to go on.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Honey, nobody knows her name. She’s about as friendly as a mud fence. I don’t think even Lefty knows her right name.”
“Lefty? Is he the guy who takes the money and announces the dancers?”

“Naw, Lefty’s the boss. Stays in the back and counts the money. When he’s not in here copping feels.” The girls laughed. “Makes sure we always get screwed out of our rightful share. Why are you so interested in the Star, anyway? She’s just a stuck-up little slut, getting her jollies by provoking the customers we worked our asses off to get. She’ll be gone in six months when something else grabs her attention.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I think you’re all great dancers. And thanks for your help. My name is Lillian, by the way.”

“I’m Cherub,” the blond said. “This here’s Francie, Dixie and Jewel. Sounds like a friggin’ law firm.”

They all laughed and I joined them. “Do you have a…business card or something, Cherub?” I asked.

“Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact.” She dug around in her purse and produced a slightly creased card, which she handed to me. “You writing a book or something?”

“It’s an idea. In any case, I need to talk to the Shooting Star. If you learn any more about her, would you give me a call?” She agreed and I wrote my name and phone number on the back of another of her cards. Then I said, “Well, I’d better get back out there. My son will be wondering where I am.”

“Not many mothers would bring their sons to a place like this,” Cherub said. “Is it his birthday or something?”

“Something like that. At the age of 49 I think he’s old enough to start noticing girls.”

Chapter 7

I spent every spare minute on Tuesday trying to figure out how to get back to Bethany and Club Cavalier. I was convinced that the Shooting Star was Mark’s accuser, but how could I prove it? And if I did prove it, how would it help Mark? He certainly couldn’t bring it up in his own defense because the reasoning of the adjudicating panel would go something like this: Mark knew victim was a topless dancer, thus thought she was “easy” and had no qualms about harassing her.

If what Cherub said was true, Club Cavalier needed a harassment policy—to protect the girls from the owner. Perhaps Priscilla Estavez should take that up as a cause.

I had vague thoughts of blackmailing Mark’s accuser so that she would drop the charges against him. Evidently, she didn’t want her identity known, for whatever reason. It probably wasn’t only because she was a student, although that must be a contributing factor. I had heard of other girls who had worked their way through college as strippers and even as prostitutes. I suspected that most of them didn’t tell any more people than necessary about their secret lives.

I couldn’t impose on Albert again. When I had returned to the table after talking to the girls, I hadn’t told him where I had been because I knew he wouldn’t approve. And he certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with lying in wait for the Shooting Star to try to prove her identity.

It had been a wasted evening, as far as he was concerned. At least that’s what he said. I wondered, however, if seeing the Shooting Star, with her youth, freshness and unabashed eroticism, had fanned some dormant spark of manhood inside him, which apparently couldn’t be reached by his girlfriends, none of whom seemed to particularly excite him. I could always hope that he would find somebody to love, and get married again—and not end up a lonely old man.

In mid-afternoon the phone rang. I immediately recognized the voice at the other end as Albert’s. Since he rarely called me during the day I wondered whether something was wrong. “Where are you?” I asked.

“At work,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you that our innocent little foray last night got me into trouble.”

“Trouble?” I said, puzzled. “What kind of trouble.”

“I got an e-mail from one of my colleagues. It seems that some guy in Bethany has created a website for the sole purpose of posting the license plate numbers of people who visit the strip clubs there.”

“Huh? I don’t understand. What in the world would he do that for?”

“I guess he doesn’t like strip clubs or the men who patronize them. Probably considers himself morally superior to the rest of us.”

“I don’t like people who feel qualified to tell me what to do.”

“I know that, Mother. But you’re not the one with the problem. I am.”

“Does anyone really care what you do with your free time? I can see that it might elicit a few laughs around the water cooler, but what can they do to you? After all, you have tenure. There isn’t some policy at UNC that says you can’t go to nightclubs, is there?”

After blowing off some more steam, Albert had to admit that being caught going to Club Cavalier wouldn’t really do him any harm. I guessed he was just using this as a way to try to put me in my place, whatever that was. However, he gave me an idea. “I take it you know how to find this website? Could you give me the information?”

“But you don’t know anything about the Internet.”

“Maybe it’s time I learned. Mark can reach the Internet from his laptop computer. I’ll get him to help me.”

“All right, I’ll forward the information to Mark’s e-mail address. But you’ve done all you can for Mark. There’s nothing more you can do to help him. So don’t go getting into trouble on his account.”

***

“There it is,” Mark said. “Nice graphics.”

We looked at the screen of his laptop together. I had just fed him a hearty dinner of pork chops and a baked potato, with a salad and veggies to keep him healthy. For myself, I had eaten a takeout dinner from the Silver Acres dining room. Since I had to pay for one meal a day, anyway, I didn’t want to waste it.

I wasn’t interested in the pink background on the web page or the small, animated figures of women, moving their hips and continually taking off and putting on their tops. I was interested in the heading that read, “March Patrons at Club Cavalier,” and the list below it that contained license plate numbers plus make, model and color of the vehicle associated with each one.

Mark showed me how we could do a search on any of those items of information if we were looking for a particular vehicle, using Albert’s pickup as an example. It was there, all right, and we could find by searching on any combination of “Toyota,” “Tacoma,” “blue,” and his license plate number.

“So,” I said, “if you are a suspicious wife, mother, girlfriend, employer, minister, whatever, you can check this site periodically to see if your guy is straying.”

“Exactly,” Mark said. He chuckled. “Talk about Big Brother. But, according to what you told me, it isn’t keeping the young studs of Bethany in line. You said Club Cavalier had quite a crowd there last night.”

I had told him everything I had done, if not everything I was thinking of doing. I did it in such a way that I knew he wasn’t going to go running off to Club Cavalier to confront the Shooting Star. In fact, he was more or less resigned to what he considered to be his fate. He had agreed to return to work on the weekends at the restaurant where he had been a bartender, figuring that he would probably be suspended from his teaching job sooner or later.

“What do we know about the person who created this website?” I asked.

“We have his e-mail address. In fact, he’s so proud of what he’s doing that he even listed his name. Here it is: Eric Hoffman. Probably a pillar of the Bethany community.”

“You must know the young woman who gave me the information about Club Cavalier. She said she was taking physics from you, but not the same course as your accuser. And she works in the Administration Building. You may have seen her when you went to talk with Priscilla Estavez.”

Mark thought. “Yes, I did see her and yes, I do know her. If you give me a moment I’ll remember her name. It’s Donna…Donna Somerset. She’s taking my advanced class. Quite smart, actually. But I don’t know of any connection between her and…my accuser.”

“Perhaps she gave me a bum steer. Who knows why? Maybe it’s her idea of a joke. She did tell me not to tell you the information came from her. In fact, she seemed to be afraid of being found out.”

“If she’s really trying to help me, I can understand why she’s afraid of being found out. Helping me might be a hanging offense. At the very least, she would lose her job in the Administration Building. And speaking of my accuser, she showed up for Chemistry lab today.”

“How did it go?”

“We ignored each other.”

Mark had more forbearance than I did. Next topic. I asked, “When is your appointment with Burt Brown?” Burt was a lawyer friend of mine. I wanted Mark to speak to him, even though he couldn’t be present at Mark’s hearing.

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Say hello to him for me. I hope he can help you.”

“At least he won’t make things any worse.”

Chapter 8

“Don’t go too fast, Lillian. Give me a chance to read the numbers.” Tess had a road map in her lap and held a piece of paper containing directions she and I had written down before leaving Silver Acres.

“It shouldn’t be far from town,” I said. We had turned off the main street of Bethany onto one of those side roads that permeate North Carolina, barely two lanes wide, with no shoulder. My eyesight was fine for driving during the day, except that I had trouble reading road signs. Tess had come along to act as my navigator.

“We’re getting close.” Tess eyed the curbside mailboxes as we drove by, many of which had addresses on them.

I slowed some more and tried to read the numbers, myself, but by the time my eyes focused on one we had passed it. At least the weather cooperated. It was cloudy and cool but the predicted rain had held off. It seemed that weather forecasts were particularly inaccurate in this part of the country.

“Stop; this is it,” Tess said.

I pulled my old Mercedes into the gravel driveway because there wasn’t any room to park it on the street. I glanced at Tess, who looked neat and put-together in a casual dress that said she wasn’t a casual person. I had told her not to dress up, but this was about as dowdy as she got. I wore slacks, which I preferred because of my varicose veins. We both had lightweight coats to protect us from the breeze and possible rain.

“Let’s review,” I said. “We’re with the Institute for Family Values. We’re interested in Mr. Hoffman’s website, on which he publishes license-plate numbers of the strip-club patrons. Let me do the talking.” Tess didn’t keep silent if she had something to say, which was most of the time.

“Don’t worry about me,” Tess said. “I’m not terribly anxious to interact with this Mr. Hoffman. The only reason I’m going in is to protect you.”

That comforted me. We exited the car and crunched along the 100-foot driveway toward the house, which was small but tidy; it had known the feel of a paintbrush. A thick oak tree stood tall in the center of the front lawn, with smaller trees surrounding it. All were still winter bare. A couple of old cars sat on the other side of the driveway. We walked around a pickup truck, not unlike Albert’s. I felt right at home.

A loud bark stopped us in our tracks. We hadn’t seen the huge dog because it had been hidden by the truck. It growled at us from the end of a chain attached to something like a clothesline. If the dog decided to come after us I wasn’t sure the line would hold it.

“It’s okay; we’re friends,” I said to the dog but I stayed carefully out of its reach.

“I don’t think it agrees,” Tess said, looking as if she wanted to retreat to the car.

The front door of the house opened and a man came out, using a cane. “Monster, sit,” he yelled at the dog.

Monster didn’t sit, but continued to growl at us. The man limped over to him and took hold of his collar. “He won’t hurt you,” the man said.

Famous last words. “Hello, I’m Lillian Morgan,” I said. “This is Tess Upchurch. We’re with the Institute for Family Values and we’d like to talk to you about your website.”

“Well, come on in.” The man beamed. “I’m Eric Hoffman.”

Mentioning the website had done the trick. He held Monster by the collar while we gingerly walked past them to the front door. Then he followed us, his limp giving an irregular cadence to his steps. Once we were all inside, he said, “May I take your coats?”

We took off our coats and handed them to him. At least he wasn’t going to kick us out right away. He hung them in a closet and ushered us into his comfortable living room, filled with furniture that had been around for a while. My nose told me that mildew lurked in the corners.

Mr. Hoffman had also been around for a while, but not nearly as long as we had. He wore unfashionable khakis and a flannel shirt. His once-dark hair was streaked with gray and his face was lined with living. The most pronounced thing about him was his limp.

He offered us coffee, which we refused, although I don’t ordinarily refuse coffee, but I wasn’t used to the role of impostor and didn’t believe I’d earned the right to have it.

“I’m sorry my wife isn’t here,” Mr. Hoffman said. “She’s at work. I’m on disability. Mr. leg flared up about a year ago. I got hit in Viet Nam and it hasn’t been right since.”

We expressed our sympathy for his leg. Then I said, “On your website it stated that you worked out of your house, so we took a chance that you’d be here.”

“Well, I’m here a lot of the time,” Mr. Hoffman said, “except at night, of course, when I’m out on patrol.” He smiled a grim smile. “I do that from my truck so I don’t have to walk much.”

“You’re performing a valuable service for the community,” I said, trying to keep from biting my tongue.

Mr. Hoffman beamed again. He did have a nice smile. “We believe so. By the end of the 20th century, families had been rent asunder by the temptations of modern life. Our group is trying to promote family values before the human race spirals downward to catastrophe. If we don’t save the family unit at the beginning of the 21^st century, we won’t be around for the end of the century.”

“So you think that keeping men out of the strip clubs and home in the bosom of their families is part of the solution.” I was beginning to talk like he did.

“That is where I am concentrating my efforts. The first step is to gather the license plate numbers. Then we can find the owners of the cars and contact their families and friends. We also urge the men who frequent these bastions of sin to seek professional counseling.”

A family portrait stood on the table beside the sofa where I sat. The three people in the picture were Mr. Hoffman, a woman who must be his wife and a girl, perhaps teenage. “I take it you have a daughter,” I said.

“Yes, a wonderful girl. She is the pride of my life.”

“What would you do if a boy came to date your daughter and he had been to a strip club?”

Tess, sitting beside me on the sofa, made a sudden movement. I glanced at her and saw that she was desperately trying to keep from what—laughing?

Mr. Hoffman’s expression darkened as he scowled. He said, “If a young man came here to see my daughter and told me he had been to a strip club he had better run fast in a zigzag manner.”

“I have a question for you about your patrol Monday night,” I said, quickly. “When you were at Club Cavalier did you happen to see a young lady dressed in a jacket with a hood and wearing a mask come out the back door and get in a car?”

Mr. Hoffman looked at me in a funny way so I continued, “You’re trying to save the patrons. Our organization is trying to save the dancers. This particular dancer always wears a mask and we’re not sure who she is.”

“Oh. No, I can’t say I did. What time would that have been?”

“Around 8:15. And again at about 10:15.”

“We didn’t arrive there until almost 8:30. And later we were covering other clubs. They are usually the most crowded between 8:30 and 10:30 on weekdays.”

“Well, you might have recorded the license plate of the car, anyway. You said you find out who owns the cars. She could be a student. Did any of the cars belong to students at Crescent Heights, do you know, possibly a female student?”

“None belonged to female students. I believe a couple of the owners had dormitory addresses. Of course, it’s possible that other cars might belong to students living in apartments or to their parents. But I’d be glad to give you the information on the ones I’m sure of.”

“We would appreciate that.” Maybe she was being chauffeured by a male student. Take what you can get.

“Would you like some coffee now?”

I accepted, eagerly, Tess with less enthusiasm. I felt I had earned some coffee, although I almost regretted accepting when I saw what a struggle Mr. Hoffman had getting up from his chair.

While he was in the kitchen I picked up the framed picture from the end table and looked at it more closely. I sucked in my breath sharply and Tess said, “Lillian, what’s the matter?”

“This girl—Mr. Hoffman’s daughter,” I said, trying to keep my voice down but in danger of hyperventilating at the same time. “She’s the one who accused Mark of sexual harassment.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost positive. She has the same dark hair. Same eyes. But she’s smiling in the picture and I haven’t seen her smile.”

Mr. Hoffman limped back into the room and said, “Coffee will be ready in a few minutes. And I’ll get you the addresses from my computer.”

“Your daughter is lovely,” I said, still trying to control my voice and my breathing. “How old is she?”

“Isn’t she a beauty? She’s twenty. She attends Crescent Heights College.”

“What’s her name?”

“Elise.”

“Elise Hoffman. Pretty name. Does she live at home?”

“No, she lives in an apartment near the campus. She won a scholarship. Smart as well as beautiful. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to afford to send her to Crescent Heights. She would have had to go away to a state school and she’s too young to do that.”

I tried to think of the right question. “Is she having any trouble adjusting to college life?”

“In her first year she was always coming home on weekends. Now we rarely see her, except on vacations, even though she’s so close.” He sighed. “They grow up so fast.” He went back into the kitchen.

“I need to get her address,” I stage-whispered to Tess.

“Well, don’t go tearing up the place,” Tess whispered back. She knows me too well. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

Brilliant. Mr. Hoffman soon returned with the coffee and offered us cream and sugar, which I refused and Tess accepted. I took a couple of grateful sips from a mug with “Durham Bulls” printed on the side, being careful not to burn my tongue, and said, “One of the things we’re doing is talking to young women on college campuses because some of them have been known to work as strippers to earn extra income. Although I know your daughter would never do that, perhaps we could get her to introduce us to some of her friends.” I had trouble getting that speech out and when I had finished I held my breath.

“I think it’s excellent that you’re approaching this problem from the other side of the coin, so to speak.” Mr. Hoffman was smiling again. “Of course Elise would never consider such a thing. She is very supportive of my work, however, and I’m sure she would be glad to help you. Would you like to contact her?”

Yes, yes, I cried, silently, but outwardly I merely said yes. I pulled a small notebook and a pen out of my purse. Mr. Hoffman gave me Elise’s phone number. “What’s her address?” I asked, in an offhand manner. He gave it to me and I started breathing again. Well, why shouldn’t he give us information? We were just two harmless old women.

Chapter 9

“Mr. Hoffman doesn’t know much about his daughter,” I said as we drove back toward downtown Bethany.

“You don’t know that,” Tess said. “There’s no reason he would discuss a sexual harassment charge with strangers. Particularly since the proceedings are confidential.”

“Even if that’s true, she’s his little angel and would never work in a strip club.”

“Again you’re making an assumption. You haven’t proved that Elise Hoffman is the Shooting Star.”

Why did Tess always throw cold water on my theories? Maybe her role in my life was to keep me honest. At least I had found out the name of Mark’s accuser without him telling me. Of course it was pure luck, but as a statistician I can tell you that if you want to succeed in life it helps to be lucky. But I would have found out her name in due course, anyway.

Now it was time for action. “I’m getting hungry,” I said. “If you can stand the noise and confusion, let’s eat lunch at the Crescent Heights College cafeteria. It’s a small school and there’s a chance we’ll see Mark there.” Or Elise.

***

We didn’t see either Mark or Elise at the cafeteria, but we did get some tasty pizza. They don’t serve pizza at Silver Acres and I have been known to talk my younger relatives and friends into going to a Pizza Hut upon occasion.

After we had eaten I asked Tess if she wanted to take a stroll on the campus, but she declined. She is not a stroller. I said, “Let’s go find Elise’s apartment.”

Tess gave me her look that means she’s on to my schemes and said, “She probably won’t be there.”

“No, but at least I’ll know where it is. For future reference.”

“You’d better be careful about contacting Elise. You could get Mark into more trouble than he is already.”

“I know that. I’ll be careful. I’m always careful.”

Tess snorted. But she assumed her duties as navigator and guided me to the apartment building. It had one story and all the apartments faced the street. We found Elise’s number with no trouble and I parked on the street in front of it.

“I think I’ll go ring the doorbell,” I said.

“Big surprise,” Tess said.

I rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. I returned to the car.

“Well, what should we do now?” I asked.

“We wait,” Tess said. “I know that’s what you want to do. I blocked out the whole day for you so it’s no problem with me. We missed pool aerobics this morning. I knew we’d never make it back for the Bridge Club. In fact, I brought along a book to read.” She pulled a paperback copy of a Sue Grafton mystery out of her purse. She started reading mysteries after we solved a murder last summer. “We’re two detectives on a stakeout.”

But Tess’ idea of a stakeout was to read a book, not to watch for anything. I had to do that. After a few minutes I knew the meaning of boredom. And then Tess fell asleep, leaving me completely alone. This was not a glamorous job. I had trouble staying awake, myself. Several times I dozed off and woke with a jerk. After an hour I was ready to give up.

I heard a car pull up behind me and stop. I glanced in my rearview mirror. I got a quick look at the face of a young woman. It wasn’t Elise, but it looked familiar. She got out of the car and I could no longer see her face in my mirror. She walked around the back of my car and up the sidewalk to Elise’s apartment. From the back she reminded me of the girl from the Administration Building, the way she had looked as she had run away from me after telling me about Club Cavalier. What was she doing here?

She went up to the door, but instead of knocking or ringing the doorbell it looked as if she was using a key. The door opened and she went inside and shut it after her. She must be Elise’s roommate. Donna. I remembered her name. I pulled out my spiral notebook and checked my notes. Donna Somerset. I had learned not to rely on my memory.

I had to see her face again to make sure. I could knock on the door, but she would recognize me. If I waited, maybe she would come out. But I couldn’t wait here, because she had undoubtedly noticed the two of us sitting in my car, even though only the backs of our heads had been visible to her. If we stayed here she might get suspicious and take a closer look. And she could see the car from her front window.

I started the car and pulled ahead, intending to park a short distance up the street.

“What’s going on?” Tess asked, sleepily.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” I said. I had a thought. “I need to get the license plate number of the car behind where we were just parked. I’m going to turn around and drive by it. You can help me read the license.”

I pulled into a driveway on the other side of the street and backed out, reversing our direction. Then I cruised slowly past the other car. It was some sort of Chevrolet model, not new, not old. Between us, Tess and I read the license plate and she wrote it down.

“There’s a girl coming out of that apartment,” Tess said. She was looking back over her shoulder.

“Damn,” I said. “I need to get a good look at her.” I pulled into a second driveway and turned the car around again, as quickly as I could, with Tess helping by warning me not to back into a parked car I wasn’t going to hit, anyway. As I drove past the girl’s car she was just opening the driver’s side door and I had to steer wide to miss her. She looked up and we stared at each other for a split second. I had no doubt that she was Donna Somerset.

I turned right at the next corner.

“She didn’t look like Mr. Hoffman’s daughter,” Tess said.

“She’s not. But I know who she is. I’ll explain later. Right now, we have to get back to that street.”

Easier said than done. The streets didn’t necessarily run in straight lines, I found out, and it took me about ten minutes to return to the vicinity of the apartment. When I did I parked about 50 feet from it instead of directly in front. Donna’s car was gone.

“This would be a lot more fun if I knew what was going on,” Tess complained.

“All will be revealed in good time,” I said. “Right now, we have to watch for Elise. We’ll give her ten minutes and if she doesn’t show up we’ll get out of here.”

To keep Tess interested I decided to tell her about Donna, and we were pondering the relevance of the fact that Donna and Elise were apparently roommates when I noticed that something looked different about the apartment window.

“It looks as if the drapes behind the white curtains have been opened,” I said. “They were closed before.”

“Donna might have opened them,” Tess said.

“I don’t think so. I’m going to the door again.”

“Be careful.”

As I walked up the sidewalk to the front door I confirmed my observation about the drapes. Somebody was inside and it wasn’t Donna. As I rang the doorbell I felt a lot tenser than when I had tried it the first time.

I heard a noise from within and the door opened. I looked into the stunning eyes of Elise Hoffman.

For a few interminable seconds I lost the power of speech. Then I said, “Hello, are you Miss Hoffman?”

She nodded and gave me a look that said, “And what are you trying to sell?”

“I’m Lillian Morgan—Professor Morgan. May I come in a minute?”

Whether it was the “professor” or the fact that I looked harmless, she reluctantly stepped aside and let me in, closing the door behind me. She remained where she was, with one hand on the doorknob, and didn’t offer me a seat. Unless I could thaw her quickly this would be a short interview. I knew I couldn’t mention her father so I had to find another way to break through her reserve.

I took a look around at the sparsely furnished front room, complete with posters on the wall. And pictures. Several of the pictures were of Elise in a leotard, doing gymnastic routines. I said, “You’re a gymnast, aren’t you?”

Elise nodded again.

“Were you on a team in high school?” I didn’t know whether Crescent Heights College had a gymnastics team.

“Yes. We went to the state championships two years in a row.”

She stated it as a fact, without bragging. She had warmed up a few degrees. “It’s wonderful to be so athletic. I was always too tall for gymnastics, but I played tennis.”

“I play some tennis too. But I wasn’t good enough to make the team in high school. And I don’t have time for any sports here.”

I had been prepared for Elise to be a conniving bitch, but she didn’t appear to be malicious or scheming. She didn’t seem hard or emotionally distant. I was sure her reticence now was normal when talking to a stranger. I decided to be frank with her.

“Elise,” I said, “I need to say some things to you. Listen to me for two minutes and then you can ask me to leave if you want to. I am a friend of Dr. Pappas, but he didn’t give me your name or ask me to come here. I discovered your name by luck. He hasn’t violated any part of the sexual harassment rules.”

Mark’s name had registered in her expressive eyes. If I had had any doubts about whether she was his accuser before, they were gone. As I paused to collect my thoughts, I waited for her to kick me out, but she didn’t say anything.

“Dr. Pappas—Mark—is a good person,” I continued. “He would not intentionally hurt anybody. I have heard his version of what happened between you two. I haven’t heard your version and I won’t make a judgment about who’s right and who’s wrong, but let me say this. If Mark is found guilty by this panel, this committee, or whatever it’s called, it will destroy his career. He will never work as a college professor again.”

I paused for breath. “You’ve seen how the procedure works and you know by now that it is completely unfair to him. He can’t face you or question you, he can’t call witnesses; he can’t even hear the complete testimony against him. This is not how a free country is supposed to work. I know you didn’t write the rules, but ask yourself whether or not you want to be a party to his ruin.”

I stopped, trying to think what else I should say. The eyes of Elise were locked on mine; they disconcerted me. If they bothered me, what must they do to men? I didn’t want to cheapen what I had already said by repetition, so I finished, “That’s all I have to tell you. I’ll leave now.” I took a step toward the door.

“Wait,” Elise said. “I want to talk to you. Please sit down.”

I picked a beanbag chair to sit in and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was too low and too squishy and I would have a hard time getting up from it. Elise didn’t sit, but paced nervously back and forth in the small room. She had the graceful movements of an athlete, even though she appeared to be going through some sort of internal battle.

She stopped in front of me and said, “I knew I’d seen you before. You came out of Priscilla’s office just before I went in. And I believe you were sitting in on Dr. Pappas’ class that morning.”

I didn’t try to deny her statements.

“You probably saw the demonstration that was going on that day. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I was told the complaint procedure was confidential. I assumed that meant that both of our names would be protected. I don’t have any association with those…those people. Please tell Dr. Pappas that.”

“I’ll tell him”

“This hasn’t gone the way I thought it would. I thought he would get off with a reprimand, but that doesn’t appear likely.”

“Even if he does, the whole world will know about it.”

“Yes.”

Elise paced some more. Jeans weren’t becoming to many girls, but she looked good in them. Still, whatever happened to dresses? When she stopped in front of me again, I saw a tear on her eyelid.

“Tell Dr. Pappas…”

She paused for so long I thought she wasn’t going to say any more.

“Tell Dr. Pappas…I’m sorry.”

Chapter 10

I was eating breakfast and casually glancing at the Raleigh News and Observer when I saw the story. King was tied up outside, resting after our morning walk. Mark wasn’t there; he hadn’t returned last night, but I wasn’t worried about him. He had said he might be late. I assumed that he was either with Sandra or a friend of his. I hoped he was with Sandra.

The headline at the bottom of the first page of the newspaper caught my eye: “Coed Slain at Crescent Heights College.” The name of the school jolted me into full alertness. I shifted my focus to the first line of the story.

“A student at Crescent Heights College in Bethany was found dead in her off-campus apartment last night. Elise Hoffman, a sophomore, had apparently been stabbed repeatedly with a sharp instrument.”

I read on in increasing horror as the story detailed how her roommate, Donna Somerset, who had returned to the apartment after studying late with a friend, had found the nude body of Elise. It said Elise was an honor student and told about her activities at Crescent Heights, which included singing in school musical productions. It listed her parents as Eric and June Hoffman, of Bethany.

The initial investigation showed that nothing had been taken from the apartment. However, the front window had been broken and the assailant had apparently gained entrance through the window.

I read the story several more times, barely comprehending it. I had talked to Elise yesterday afternoon. She had been so young, so beautiful. Who would want to kill her? The telephone rang. I staggered to it in a daze.

“Have you read this morning’s paper?” Tess asked, and without waiting for a reply, “Elise Hoffman has been murdered.”

“I’m just reading it now,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Me, neither. Although I didn’t see her I was right outside her apartment yesterday afternoon. But you must be devastated. Does Mark know?”

“I’m not sure where Mark is. He didn’t come home last night.”

Tess didn’t say anything for what seemed like a long time. Then she said, “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“What?”

“He’s a suspect.”

“Mark? It can’t be Mark. Mark wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“You know that and I know that, but the police don’t know that. You’re going to need some support. I’ll be right over.” Tess hung up.

Still in a daze, I called Sandra’s number. Of course she didn’t answer. She dropped Winston off at a daycare center before she went to the school where she taught so she had to start early. I didn’t leave a message. I couldn’t think of a comprehensible message to leave.

I called Albert’s home number. After three rings I thought he had also left for work, but then he answered.

“Hello.”

“Albert, have you seen Mark?”

“Good morning, Mother. I’m fine, thank you. No, I haven’t seen Mark. I thought he was staying with you.”

“He hasn’t been here since yesterday morning. Did you read today’s paper?”

“I haven’t seen it yet. I’ll pick it up on my way to Duke.”

The newspapers for the houses on Albert’s road were dumped on the ground beside the mailboxes, which were just off the main road, over a mile from his house.

“A female student at Crescent Heights College was murdered last night,” I said.

“That’s terrible!” Albert, who usually took everything in stride except some of my trespasses, sounded shocked.

“Worse than that. She was the one who accused Mark of harassment.”

“How do you know that? I thought you didn’t know her name.”

“I found it out.”

While I was listening for Albert’s answer, Tess knocked on the door and then came in. I always leave the door unlocked when I’m home during the day.

Albert said, “Mark couldn’t have done it.”

“Of course not, but the police are still going to want to talk to him. If you hear from him, would you call me, please? I’m sure I’ll be talking to the police today, also.”

“Mother, I’ll try to find out where Mark is, but I want you to stay out of this.”

“I’m already in it. I talked to the victim yesterday afternoon.”

Albert spewed a string of obscenities, which was unlike him. Then he told me not to do anything rash and hung up.

Tess had poured herself a cup of coffee in my kitchen and sat down at my small dining table. She said, “I take it that nobody knows where Mark is.”

I tried to look on the bright side. “Of course he might be at the college. I’m sure he’s teaching at least one class today.”

“If he is, the police will find him there. Well, I guess we’re back in the detective business, whether we want to be or not. If for no other reason than to help Mark. Anyway, I came prepared.”

Tess pulled out her yellow legal pad and placed it on the table. “Is there anything you should mention about your meeting with Elise that you didn’t tell me on our way home yesterday? You were in there quite a while. I was about ready to send the dogs in after you.”

“Nothing of substance. She seemed to be genuinely sorry about the problems she had caused Mark. I don’t think she anticipated them at all. She said several times that she hadn’t had anything to do with the demonstration. I suspect that Priscilla Estavez knows how the information leaked out about Mark, but of course I can’t prove it. However, I’d like to wring her neck, just on general principles.”

“Did Elise tell you her side of the harassment story?”

“No. But just as I was leaving she did say one thing that puzzled me. She said, ‘I should have figured out a better way to do it.’”

“Do what?”

“Deal with the harassment, I suppose. Or what she imagined to be harassment.”

We chatted for a few minutes while I tried to remember anything of relevance that Elise had said. Then I thought of something else. “I should check my messages. I don’t think I checked them after I returned from dinner last night.”

“In spite of the fact that you might have a message from Mark?”

“I meant to check them. But you know how absent-minded us old folks are.”

“Speak for yourself, Lil.”

I went to the telephone and punched in the code for my messages. A female voice told me I had one message, which had been received last night at 6:17 p.m. I had been eating dinner in the dining room at that time. The voice said that the message was from an unknown number, which meant that it was from outside Silver Acres. It must be from Mark. I felt relieved and played the message.

“Mrs. Morgan, this is Elise Hoffman. I want you to know that I am dropping the charges I made against Dr. Pappas. Please tell him that. When I see him I’ll tell him myself. I hope that I can undo the damage I’ve done to him. I wanted you to know about my decision right away because you helped me make up my mind.”

The message ended. I played it again to make sure I had heard it correctly. Then I hung up the phone.

“Lil, you look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“I just heard a ghost.” My hands were shaking. I told Tess about the message.

“How did she get your telephone number?”

“I gave it to her…that is she asked for it. I wasn’t sure why. She said she wanted it in case she needed to get in touch with me.”

“She must have been thinking about dropping the charges even while you were still there. We have to save that for the police.”

“The police, right. And I want Ms. Priscilla Estavez to hear it.”

***

The police arrived sometime after lunch, or I should say one policeman in the person of Detective Julius Johnson. Detective Johnson wore civilian clothes—a suit and tie—but he did have an authentic-looking badge so I let him in. He was fairly small in stature and his dark skin probably helped to make him look more authoritative than if he had been white. He was young, without any hair to speak of. They used to call that a buzz-cut.

I escorted him inside and introduced him to Tess, who had kept me company through the morning and through lunch while we waited in vain for word from Mark. I offered him a seat on the roomy sofa, beside Tess, but he remained standing so I did, too.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he said to me.

Instead of a southern accent, he had what I would call a universal accent, as exemplified by many of the residents of California.

“Lillian Morgan.”

“Good. You’re the owner of this apartment, right?”

I acknowledged that fact.

“And Mark Pappas has been staying with you?”

“For the last few days, yes.”

“Where is he now?”

I had to admit that I didn’t know. He asked me when I had seen him last and the other usual questions. After he had determined beyond the shadow of a doubt that I didn’t know where Mark was, he said, “Do you know what this is in regard to?”

“The murder of Elise Hoffman.”

“What do you know about Elise Hoffman’s murder?”

“What I read in the paper. But I may have some additional information for you because I talked to Elise yesterday afternoon.”

“You did?” Detective Johnson’s eye twitched. “I certainly do want to talk to you.”

“And Tess can verify what time that was because she was in the car with me. But she didn’t actually see Elise.”

“What kind of a car were you driving?” Detective Johnson asked.

“An old Mercedes, 1986. Blue.”

Detective Johnson flipped back a couple of pages in his spiral notebook. “You were the ladies that Elise’s roommate saw.”

“Donna? We saw her but we didn’t speak to her.”

“Okay, I need to sort all this out.”

He looked tired. I wondered if he had been up since midnight. He asked several questions of Tess, and then realizing that he had exhausted her fund of information, he turned back to me and said, “You’re the one I need to talk to. But I want to talk to you alone.”

“I have some chores to do, anyway,” Tess said. She got up, painfully, as her feet hurt her when she stood after she had been sitting for a while. Then she hobbled out the door.

I invited Detective Johnson to sit down again, and this time he did. I asked him if he wanted a drink. He said he drank coke. Fortunately, I had bought some cokes for Mark so I got him a can along with a glass with ice in it. Then I sat down on the other end of the sofa. Detective Johnson looked young and I suspected his experience was limited so I decided to help him as much as I could.

“Do you want me to tell you about my whole day, yesterday?” I asked. “It all has some connection to Elise.”

He agreed with that approach. I started by telling him that Tess and I had gone to Eric Hoffman’s home.

“Why did you want to talk to Mr. Hoffman?” he asked.

“It’s complicated to explain,” I said, “so bear with me.” First I told him about Mr. Hoffman’s website. He acted as if he hadn’t known about it before and he scribbled notes as I talked. Then I said, “I assume you know that Elise had filed a charge of sexual harassment against Mark Pappas. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be looking for Mark.”

Detective Johnson nodded and I continued, “I think that Elise may have been working as a stripper nights at Club Cavalier.”

“You just told me her father posted license plate numbers on the Internet for Club Cavalier, as well as other strip joints.”

“I know.” I told him about the tip I had received from Donna on the Shooting Star and how Albert and I had gone to see her. He took copious notes. “I thought if I could prove that Elise was the Shooting Star, that fact would help Mark’s case, somehow. So I hoped that Mr. Hoffman had connected one of the license plates to somebody who could be connected to Elise. Because, you see, I didn’t know at the time I went to see Mr. Hoffman that he was Elise’s father. In fact, I didn’t even know her name.”

It took us ten minutes to sort that out. It became more and more obvious and Detective Johnson was suffering from sleep deprivation and was having trouble comprehending what I told him. His eye twitched on a regular basis. To help him out I took Tess’ pad—she had left it on the table—and on a blank sheet of paper I made a timeline showing what I had known when. After a while I think he got it.

“All right,” he said, finally, “I understand why you went to see Mr. Hoffman. When you discovered that Elise was his daughter, did you discuss the harassment case with him?”

“No, because I wasn’t sure he knew about it.”

Detective Johnson thought for a minute. “Of course, he was all broken up about Elise’s murder, but when I mentioned the harassment charge to him and his wife after Donna told me about it, they seemed puzzled. I’ll bet they didn’t know about it. Did you mention the Shooting Star to him?”

“Heavens, no. I’m sure he hadn’t heard about that.”

“Yeah. It appears that Elise hid a few things from her folks. So why did he give you Elise’s address?”

“I’m afraid I lied to him.” I told the detective about the organization to save girls from becoming strippers. I hoped he didn’t think that because I had lied about one thing I would lie about others.

He didn’t interrupt and after taking some more notes he said, “So after you left Mr. Hoffman’s house you went to Elise’s apartment.”

“We ate lunch first. And when we got to the apartment nobody was there.”

“How long did you wait?”

“Almost an hour. And then Donna showed up.”

“And you knew who she was because she had given you the tip on the Shooting Star.”

“Right.” He was brighter than I had given him credit for.

“She identified you, too. She didn’t remember your name, but she said she had seen you in the Administration Building. She said you’re a professor.” He looked at me suspiciously.

“I was a professor. I’m retired.”

“But she didn’t say anything about the Shooting Star.”

“Maybe she forgot.” I explained how we drove around the block and found Elise there when we returned.

“Why did you want to talk to Elise?”

That was a good question. What had I hoped to accomplish? Blackmail? I decided to stick to the bare facts. “I wanted to talk her into dropping the harassment charge against Mark.”

“Did Elise admit to being the Shooting Star?”

“The subject didn’t come up.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I told her how much damage she was doing to Mark.”

“And…?”

“She said she was sorry.”

“And that’s how it ended?’

“At that time, yes.”

“What do you mean by ‘at that time.’”

“Elise left me a voice-mail last night.”

“What?” Detective Johnson jerked his head up so fast I was afraid he would hurt himself. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Because I had so much to tell you. Would you like to hear it?”

“Of course.”

Detective Johnson listened to Elise’s voice-mail, turned to me and said, “Has Pappas heard this?”

“I don’t think so. As far as I know, he hasn’t been here since yesterday morning.”

He listened to it at least half-a-dozen times. Then he said, “Don’t erase that. I want to have the our lab make a permanent copy of it.”

Our voice-mail is centralized so there was no tape that Detective Johnson could take with him.

Mark walked through the door with a cheery, “Hi, Lillian.”

Detective Johnson heard him and came around the corner from the den where the phone was located. I said, hastily, “Mark, this is Detective Johnson. Mark Pappas.”

“Detective?” Mark asked as they shook hands. “Is something wrong?”

“Have you been at the college today?” I asked.

“Uh, no.”

“Have you heard the news?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s not play games,” Detective Johnson said. “Elise Hoffman was murdered last night.”

I could tell from the way Mark’s face crumbled and how he grabbed my small bureau for support that this was the first time he had heard about Elise.

Chapter 11

I didn’t have a chance to speak to Mark until much later. I had volunteered to leave my apartment while Detective Johnson questioned him. I went to Tess’ apartment, taking King with me, and called Albert and Sandra. I told them Mark had shown up, but that I didn’t know where he had been. I told them about the message from Elise. Sandra seemed to be more interested in trying to refute a possible murder charge against Mark than that Elise had said she was going to drop the harassment charge. I was relieved to hear her talk like that. I promised to keep them informed.

Tess and I ate an early dinner in the dining room while the questioning continued. It was close to 8 p.m. when Mark called me and told me that Detective Johnson had left.

Mark looked so haggard and wrung out when I returned to my apartment that I was afraid a breeze would blow him away. His face had scratch marks. For one awful moment I wondered if Elise’s fingernails had done that. No, it couldn’t be. I immediately got my thoughts under control and went about fixing something for him to eat, especially after he told me that he had only eaten once since yesterday. Mark was a three-meals-a-day person. Minimum.

“Go in and sit down, Mark,” I told him when he offered to help me. “You look completely beat.”

“No, I need to talk to you, Lillian,” he said.

He wouldn’t be persuaded to relax so I got him a beer from the refrigerator. Beer was another food item I had stocked up on when Mark came to stay with me.

“I guess you know by now that the murdered woman is the one who filed the charges against me.”

I said yes, figuring that a long explanation at this point was inappropriate.

“I swear I didn’t know she had been killed until I walked through that door.”

“I know,” I said. “It was obvious from your reaction.”

“I want to tell you what happened to me.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“But you’re wondering where I’ve been for the last 36 hours,” Mark said. “You’ve probably been worried about me. After, all, I didn’t call you or anything.”

“You can tell me later. I assume you’ve told the story to Detective Johnson. That’s what counts.”

“I tried to. But he doesn’t believe me. And there’s no reason why he should.”

“Okay, you’d better start at the beginning.”

“I left here yesterday morning, fully intending to go to work.”

He had left before I had.

Mark took a sip of beer and continued, “When I got near Sandy’s condo I had an overwhelming urge to talk to her. Of course I knew she would probably be gone already, but the urge overpowered me so I stopped at her condo, anyway. Sandy wasn’t there. I let myself in with my key. I wanted to take a look at the things I had left. Among them were a pack, hiking boots and other hiking gear.

“It suddenly occurred to me that I needed to get away for a day…to clear my head and get some perspective on my situation. That idea got a boost from the fact that I dreaded going to the college, even though I didn’t have any classes scheduled and so would have to face a minimum of people.”

I wondered if Detective Johnson had played Elise’s message for him, but I decided I’d better not interrupt him.

He took a few more sips of beer. “On impulse, I took the hiking gear and put it in my car. Then I drove west toward the mountains. After a while I realized that I was headed toward Mt. Mitchell, one of my favorite places.”

“The highest mountain east of the Mississippi,” I said.

“And it also has a road going up it. I thought I would drive up the road and, somehow, the solution to my problems would come to me in the thinner air, like a bolt of lightning. I forgot that the road might still be closed from the storms we had in February. Well, it was.”

“Let’s continue this in the dining room,” I said, exaggerating the grandeur of the area where I eat. You can start on this salad. You need to get some food in you before you waste away to a grease spot.”

Mark thankfully took the salad and we sat at the dining table. After a few bites, he started talking again.

“I had driven all that way and I had my hiking gear with me so I put on my boots, took my pack and began hiking up the trail, figuring that I would go for a couple of miles and then turn back. But even after I got to the snowline I was able to follow the trail and I wasn’t cold so I kept going. Then it started to snow some more. I still kept going because I thought I was near the summit. Then a cloud dropped on top of me and I couldn’t see past the ends of my fingers.”

Mark held out his hand to demonstrate.

“I’m beginning not to like this story,” I said.

“Wait, it gets better. I was finally smart enough to start back down the mountain. Except that the snow, which was now coming down hard, had obliterated my tracks, and visibility was so poor that it was impossible to spot any trail markers. At one point I slipped and tumbled down a slope. I got banged up and scratched, but it also knocked some sense into me. By the time I climbed back up I had admitted to myself that I was lost.”

“Hang on to that thought while I get the rest of your dinner,” I said, wishing that this were a television show I could turn off. Mark could have died, although he obviously hadn’t, but I still wasn’t sure I could stand to hear any more. However, I returned with his dinner, wanting him to get on with the story so that he could get to safety. From then on, the story and the food competed with each other for his attention.

“On top of everything else, it was starting to get dark,” Mark continued. “I knew the smartest thing to do was to spend the night right where I was rather than to go crashing around, get hopelessly lost and perhaps hurt myself.”

“But weren’t you cold?”

“The water in my canteen froze. But snow, after all, is water, so I didn’t have any trouble getting water to drink because I just melted snow in my mouth. I also made myself a snow fort for a shelter. I didn’t have thermal underwear, although I had been smart enough to take gloves and a wool hat, as well as my winter jacket. I also put on two pairs of socks. But, to answer your question, yes, I froze. I didn’t really sleep, but spent the night trying to maintain feeling in my arms and legs and eating the few bites of food that were left from my lunch.”

“You poor thing,” I said, the mother instinct in me rising to the surface. “How did you find your way out?”

“When it started to get light I knew I had to move before my hypothermia completely immobilized me, even though at that point the thought of moving was almost too much to bear. In fact, I was starting to feel comfortable, probably because I was almost numb. I was drifting off into another world. I even asked myself whether it was worth the effort to save myself because of what I was facing here.”

I held my breath. I definitely didn’t want to hear this.

“But I forced myself to come out of my cocoon—the snow had pretty much covered me and, in fact, gave me some protection from the cold—and found that the storm had passed and the sun was coming out. After a few minutes of careful searching I spotted a trail marker and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“I know you’re glossing over a lot, but even though you’re sitting here I’m relieved to hear that you got out safely. When did you manage to get something to eat?”

“I returned to my car, started it, and turned the heat on full blast, until I stopped shivering and my body started functioning well enough to drive. Then I drove until I found a café. I went in and ate enough food to feed a good-sized elephant. I’m sure my waitress had never seen anybody eat so much. In fact, she made a few remarks about my eating.”

“And then you drove back here?”

“Yes.”

“You could have called me from the café.”

“I could have…but at that point I still sounded pretty awful and that would have worried you more, possibly, than you were worried already. And nothing against you, but in my weakened state I just wasn’t ready to reenter the hassles of civilization.”

“When you came through the door you appeared to be in a good mood.”

“By the time I got here I had solved all my problems. I was ready to get on with my life. And then…”

“I know,” I said, softly, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Did you tell Detective Johnson the same story you told me?”

“Yes, but of course I have no witnesses, so as an alibi it sucks.”

“How about the waitress at the café?”

“Shirley? Yes, I did read her nametag. And I did give her name to the detective, as well as the location of the café, although I can’t remember its name. Do you know what he said?”

“What?”

“Even if she verifies my story, that still doesn’t give me an alibi for last night.”

“Did Detective Johnson tell you about a message from Elise?”

“Message from Elise? No, he didn’t tell me much of anything. He just kept firing questions at me. I know the basic story, that she was apparently stabbed last night in her bed, but that’s about all.”

“I won’t go into detail because what you need more than anything else right now is some sleep, but I have a little good news for you. I talked to Elise yesterday, and last night she left me a message saying she was going to drop the harassment charge against you.”

Mark showed surprise, then some relief. After thinking for a bit he said, “But since I didn’t know about that it doesn’t invalidate my motive for killing her.”

Chapter 12

“Whew,” breathed Wesley. “No wonder you and Tess missed the Bridge Club on Wednesday and you missed Chess Club yesterday. I knew it had to be something serious, but I didn’t figure on anything like this.”

Wesley and I were the only residents of Silver Acres who were members of both the Bridge Club and the Chess Club. I had just finished telling him about Elise Hoffman and Mark, while Tess sat poised with her pad and pencil, in case I said anything significant that we hadn’t noted before.

“I’d like you both to help me clear Mark,” I said. “You were a big help when I was working on Gerald’s murder, but of course this is more personal because I hope that Mark will be a legal member of the family someday. But that won’t happen if he ends up in jail.”

“Where is Mark now?” Wesley asked.

“He went to the college as usual this morning. He teaches two classes on Friday. Since he hadn’t heard anything different, he assumed he was still on the payroll.”

“When was he last there?”

“Tuesday. He took Wednesday off, as I said, and because he got lost he never made it yesterday.”

“Mark wasn’t mentioned in the article about the investigation in this morning’s paper,” Tess said, glancing at the Raleigh News and Observer.

“Probably because the sexual harassment charge hasn’t been made public,” I said. “The college has done a good job of protecting Elise, if not Mark. And the police apparently haven’t mentioned it to the press yet. But if he gets arrested, it will certainly come to light.”

“It does say that, judging from the state of the body, the murder weapon was probably a sharp knife, maybe a carving knife. ‘There were approximately a dozen stab wounds in the chest area,’” Tess read.

“It sounds like a crime of passion,” Wesley said. “Especially since she was naked.”

“Which definitely rules out Mark,” I said.

“In your eyes,” Tess said. “The front window of the apartment was broken. That’s how the killer got in. No fingerprints were found, except those of Elise and her roommate. And no weapon has been found.”

“Is there a local newspaper published in Bethany?” Wesley asked. “If so, we should subscribe to it. It might give more details about the case than the Raleigh paper.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Tess…”

“I’m writing it down.”

“That’s a good idea, Wesley, especially since I don’t think we’ll get much information out of Detective Johnson. And I’m not sure we can depend on him to make a thorough investigation. He seems to have his mind set on proving that Mark did it. So…let’s get organized. First we need a list of suspects.”

“Unfortunately, Mark is at the top of the list,” Tess said, “since we can’t prove he didn’t do it.”

“Next would be Elise’s father, Eric Hoffman,” I said.

Tess wrote his name down and said, “Motive?”

“What if he had found out that she was the Shooting Star? After his crusade to keep men out of the strip clubs, his own daughter was luring them in.”

“What about her mother?” Wesley asked.

“I haven’t met her, but we can’t eliminate her yet. Her name is June.”

“And the roommate,” Wesley said. “She found the body, right?”

“Donna Somerset. Yes. About eleven o’clock Wednesday evening, she says.”

“Motive?” Tess asked.

“I don’t know at this point,” I said. “In addition, it could be somebody from Club Cavalier, I suppose. The owner is a man named Lefty. Then there are the other dancers, although they didn’t seem to have much contact with her. What time is it?”

“Ten forty-seven and 30 seconds,” Wesley said with the precision of an accountant.

“Club Cavalier opens around noon,” I said. “I’m going to give them a call.” I suited action to the word.

A male voice answered the phone, “Club Cavalier.”

“May I speak to Lefty, please,” I said.

“Who should I tell him is calling?”

The voice was low and guttural, and sounded like that of the bouncer/ticket-taker/announcer. “Lillian.”

“Hang on.”

I hung on. The “hold” music sounded like traditional stripper music, but not what the girls actually danced to.

“This is Lefty.”

This voice had more class than that of the man who had answered the phone.

“I have a friend who wants to see the Shooting Star,” I said. “Can you tell me if she is dancing tonight?” I had mixed feelings about the answer I wanted to hear. No answer would bring Elise back to life.

I heard a background conversation at the other end of the line between Lefty and someone else. Then Lefty said into the phone, “I don’t know if she is or not.”

“When did she last dance there?”

“Wednesday. She was supposed to dance last night, but she never showed. Stupid broad. I thought she was more reliable than that.”

“You’re sure she danced Wednesday, though.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Who the hell is this, anyway?”

“I’m…a friend of hers.”

“A friend? If you’re on the level, I need to talk to you.”

“I need to talk to you, too. Are you going to be there this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I’m always here.”

“All right, I’ll see you about 1:30.”

When I hung up the phone, Wesley said, “You’re going to Club Cavalier, aren’t you? I’m going with you.”

“All right.” As a protector, I wasn’t sure Wesley would be much better than Tess, but at least he knew how to read maps and road signs. His fitness regime included working out in our equipment room three or four times a week, lifting weights and walking on the treadmill. He had lost weight and some of the florid color in his face and looked years younger, but I still couldn’t picture him as a threat to the bouncer at Club Cavalier.

“The Shooting Star danced there Wednesday night,” I said so that Tess would write it down. “What do you think that means?”

“According to our timetable,” Tess said, “she could have danced as late as ten and still made it home in time to get herself killed.”

***

Club Cavalier appeared less exotic in daylight than it did at night. It would have looked like just another restaurant if it had had windows and hadn’t had girls painted on one wall. The parking lot held a sprinkling of cars. As we entered the lot in Wesley’s car I looked around to see if anyone was taking down license plate numbers. It was too early in the day and I assumed that Eric Hoffman had stopped doing that, at least temporarily, after his daughter had been murdered. I didn’t think Wesley was in any danger of being exposed on the Internet.

I preceded Wesley into the building and noticed that no music was playing. There was a lull between dancers. That meant I wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of Wesley—and he wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of me. Also, I could make myself heard by the ticket-taker—the same one as the other time I had been there—as I told him that we had an appointment to see Lefty.

He picked up a phone beside him and pressed a button. After a very brief conversation he motioned for us to follow him and led the way across the room to the hallway where the restrooms were. The few patrons nursed their beers and didn’t look interested in us. Then he went through the doorway to the lap-dance area. I would have really been embarrassed if anything had been going on there, but thank goodness the place was quiet.

We passed the dressing room; a couple of girls were sitting in front of the mirrors. I didn’t look at Wesley so I didn’t know whether he saw the girls. We came to a closed door. Our guide knocked and we heard “Yeah” from behind it. He opened the door and stood aside for us to enter.

I went in first. The room was cramped because it contained two gray metal desks at right angles to one another that took up most of the room. At one desk sat a woman not much younger than I was, I would be willing to bet from her wrinkles, but with bleached blond hair. I had stopped applying any color to my hair and had reconciled myself to its natural gray. Her off-the-shoulder top let me see more of her wrinkled skin than I wanted to.

The occupant of the other desk must be Lefty. He wasn’t as big as the ticket-taker, but almost as heavy, with more fat than muscle. He had a big nose and a wide mouth. He wore a white shirt and a smashing, multi-colored tie. I wondered who bought his ties. He also wore cufflinks. His slicked-back, black hair was neatly trimmed and combed, and made him look like an old-time Italian movie star.

He stood up and said, “Hello, I’m Lefty,” extending a beefy hand across the desk.

“I’m Lillian,” I said, shaking his hand. “This is Wesley.”

He shook hands with Wesley, gave him a quick once-over, apparently dismissed him and turned back to me. “Have a seat.”

Two wooden chairs were crowded into the space between the desk and the wall. I sat in one and Wesley in the other. The woman was working with a calculator and rows of what must be figures on bookkeeping paper. She ignored us.

Lefty sat down and said to me, “So you’re a friend of the Shooting Star.”

I hesitated, not wanting to overplay my hand. “I’ve met her.”

“Perhaps you can tell me why she didn’t show up last night,” he said, issuing a challenge with the tone of his voice.

“Did you try to call her?”

He looked at me, appraisingly. He said, “You don’t look like a cop, unless the police are recruiting from old folks’ homes these days. I know all the local cops, anyway. Here’s the deal; I don’t know anything about her, including her name. She gave me a false ID when I interviewed her.”

“Her name is Elise Hoffman,” I said, “and she’d dead.”

“Dead?” Lefty’s eyes drilled into me. “You’re making fun, right?”

“No. She was murdered Wednesday night.”

“Murdered? You mean she’s the babe from the college who got herself knifed? Maud, where’s yesterday’s paper?”

Maud, who had finally looked up when I said Elise had been killed, swiveled her chair around and produced a newspaper from a pile of papers and magazines on the floor. She handed it to Lefty and said, “I told you that girl was bad news. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

This must be the local paper. The story was on the front page, complete with a picture of Elise.

Lefty skimmed the story, nervously drumming his fingers on the desk. He said, “She was killed not that long after she left here, if it’s really her.” He looked at the picture for a few seconds. “Yeah, that could be her. The mouth looks familiar. I never saw her without a mask and a wig. I wouldn’t forget those eyes if I saw them, but the Star’s eyes were always covered. When she came in here I told her to go play dress-up someplace else because she looked ridiculous. But she bugged me to give her a chance. I usually have the girls strip for me so I can see what kind of bodies they have, but I could see there wasn’t any point with her. She didn’t have anything up here.”

He cupped his hands over imaginary breasts. “I let her go on during the afternoon when the place was empty so she wouldn’t get stage fright. I figured she’d chicken out, anyway, either before or after. But she had the moves and she exuded such charisma that the few guys who were here loved her immediately. She had ‘em inside her g-string right from the start. So of course she was hooked. No girl can resist that kind of power.”

“So she packed them in,” Wesley said.

“Yeah, word got around. Look, I’m in this to make a buck, so what am I supposed to do, show her the door just because she’s got idiosyncrasies? She wanted to be paid in cash, she wouldn’t give me her phone number, but she always showed up when she said she would—until last night. So what’s your connection to her?”

Lefty looked at me. I decided to be partially honest. “She was taking a class from my granddaughter’s boyfriend. He teaches at Crescent Heights. It’s a long story, but he’s a suspect in her murder and I’m trying to clear him.”

“Did he do it?”

“No.”

“That’s tough. What can I do to help?”

“First, I suspect the police are going to want to talk to you. A Detective Johnson is handling this case.”

“Johnson. I think I know him. He must have got promoted. He used to drive a patrol car. All right, I can handle him.”

“Did she have any enemies here?”

“No. But she didn’t have any friends, either. Never stuck around long enough for anybody to get to know her. She always came in costume, wearing that damned mask. And she’d leave after each show, even if she was going on again the same night.”

“How about the patrons? Do you think anyone might have been stalking her?”

“Not as far as I know. She never complained. Like I said, after each show she’d charge out of here like she had to catch a plane. I guess she had a car down the street. At least, she never parked in the lot.”

Speaking of the parking lot rang a bell. “Are you familiar with a website on the Internet that posts the license plate numbers of patrons of the clubs here in Bethany?”

A broad grin lit up Lefty’s face, making his mouth wider than ever. “You mean the site that old guy Hoffman maintains? That guy is a piece of work. But he’s good for business. The young dudes brag about getting their plates on his site.”

Talk about unintended consequences.

“He’s the father of Elise.”

“No.” Lefty looked dumbfounded. “You’re shittin’ me. If he knew about her dancing here…”

“He would have killed her? I’m going to look into that possibility.”

“Look, if there’s anything I can do to help you, let me know. I’m sorry the Shooting Star bought it. I liked that girl, in spite of her idiosyncrasies. She had guts.”

Chapter 13

“How long did you wait the other day?”

Wesley was clearly getting restless, and because he had insisted on driving I couldn’t hold him here against his will. We were sitting in his car across the street from Elise’s apartment, waiting for Donna Somerset. I wanted to express my condolences to her. “Let’s wait ten more minutes and then we’ll go.”

We only had to wait five more minutes. Donna’s car pulled to a stop directly in front of the apartment. I was thankful we were in Wesley’s car because she wouldn’t recognize it, and I was on the passenger side, where she couldn’t see me. I decided not to accost her in the middle of the street, but waited until she had entered the apartment. Then I followed her to the door, telling Wesley to wait for me. The broken front window was covered by a brown packing box that had been flattened out.

Donna opened the door at my ring, looked at me and said, “It’s you. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Elise,” I said. “My name is Lillian Morgan, by the way.”

“Did the police talk to you?” She looked ready to close the door in my face.

“Yes, I talked to Detective Johnson. I confirmed what you told him, that I was here on Wednesday. I don’t know if you know it or not, but I actually talked to Elise on Wednesday. But I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Donna considered this and then said, “Come in.”

I followed her into the now-familiar front room. I noticed that the pictures of Elise had disappeared from the wall. When Donna offered me a seat I avoided the beanbag chair and sat in another one. She looked somewhat the worse for wear. Her hair was messy and her blouse was wrinkled, as if she had slept in it. She flopped into the beanbag chair, with one leg underneath her.

“It’s been a madhouse around here,” Donna said. “The police kept coming in here and looking around and taking pictures and looking for clues and all that stuff. I couldn’t sleep here the last two nights. In fact, I didn’t get any sleep at all Wednesday night because Detective Johnson and other people kept asking me questions. Then my folks called and asked if I wanted to go home for a while. I said no. They offered to help me find another apartment, but I like this one. I want to stay here. The police let me back in this morning, but it’s going to be too weird sleeping in the same room where Elise got killed, so I may sleep out here.”

She motioned toward an old couch. After her outburst she deflated deeper into the chair. I sympathized with her, making the small talk that I’m not great at because I wanted her to view me as a friend. When I thought she had softened toward me, I said, “May I ask you a question, Donna?”

“Go ahead.”

“Last week you asked me to tell Dr. Pappas to go to Club Cavalier.”

“That was a crazy thing to do, wasn’t it?” Donna giggled.

“Why do you say that? Didn’t you want Dr. Pappas to find out that Elise was the Shooting Star?”

“Elise wasn’t the Shooting Star,” Donna said, quickly.

“What? What do you mean?”

“No. Elise wasn’t the Shooting Star. I was the Shooting Star.”

I stared at her. “I saw the Shooting Star. You couldn’t be the Shooting Star.”

“I am. Come on, I’ll show you.”

I followed her into the single bedroom. It contained twin beds, against opposite walls, plus dressers, bed stands and two wardrobe closets. One of the beds had been stripped down to the innerspring. The mattress had been taken. Donna went to the other side of the room, opened a drawer in the dresser and started pulling things out.

“Here are a couple of my g-strings and bra tops. Here is my mask and here is my wig.”

Everything looked familiar, but so what? “Since you shared this bedroom with Elise, having those things doesn’t prove that you were the Shooting Star and she wasn’t.”

“Watch.”

Donna put on the mask and the wig. Then she took a lipstick from the top of the dresser and with the aid of a mirror on the wall above it, colored her lips bright red. She turned toward me.

“Ta-da!”

I had to admit that from the neck up she looked like the Shooting Star. At least her face looked like the face I had seen in the spotlight as I sat in the back of the room. But what about her body? She weighed more than Elise, and I was sure it would show with her clothes off. Also, breasts are unique to a woman, as well as nipples. Like fingerprints. But again, I might not be able to spot any differences because of my imperfect view at the club. How could I satisfy my doubts?

“What music did you use?”

“Perry Como. ‘Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes.’ It’s from a CD Elise had. I have to admit, Elise had the thing for old music, not me. But when I decided to call myself the Shooting Star, it seemed to fit.”

Donna went into the other room and returned with the CD. The title was something about Perry Como’s greatest hits.

“I took dance lessons when I was young,” Donna said. “I know it was a crazy thing to do, but I always wanted to dance in front of a live audience. I had to wear the mask and wig. If my parents ever found out…. I made some pretty good money, though. Look at my haul from Wednesday.”

She pulled an envelope out of the dresser and flashed a wad of bills inside it.

I was having trouble absorbing all this. “You’re speaking in the past tense.”

“Yes. Of course I couldn’t go on last night. And now I think it’s time to call it a career. Short and sweet. It was fun while it lasted. Whatever gave you the idea that Elise was the Shooting Star in the first place?”

“Well, you did. You’re the one who asked me to tell Dr. Pappas to go to the Club Cavalier and look for the Shooting Star. You said it would help him. And since we’d been talking about the sexual harassment case against him…”

“I have a confession to make.” Donna giggled. “I have a crush on Dr. Pappas. When I heard you talk about him with Priscilla I thought, wouldn’t it be great if he came and saw me dance. Of course he wouldn’t know it was me. And I would never have had the guts to tell him.”

“Dr. Pappas didn’t see you dance, but I did.”

“How did you like me?”

She gave no indication that she had seen me, but I couldn’t have expected her to. I had been sitting in the back and the spotlight was in her eyes. “You were…great. You sure held everybody’s attention. I’m told that after each dance you rushed out of the club and disappeared. In order to maintain your anonymity. Did you have your car parked somewhere?”

“A block away. I couldn’t park in the Club Cavalier lot because Elise’s father keeps a website of license plate numbers of guys who go there.”

“I know. My son’s license got put on the Internet.”

“I’m sorry. I hope it didn’t hurt him. Elise and I joked about it—in fact it’s a running joke at the college—but still I figured if I was going to keep my identity secret I’d better not risk it.”

“You owe Lefty a call,” I said.

“Lefty? Oh, you mean at the club.”

“Yes. To tell him you’re not going back.”

“Right. Because of everything that’s happened I haven’t had a chance.”

I looked around the bedroom. All of Elise’s possessions appeared to have been removed already. “You found her, didn’t you?”

Donna shuddered. “It was awful. She was in the bed there, lying on her back, all covered with blood. Blood…blood, all this blood.” She paused. “I had just returned from the club.”

“And the killer got in through the front window?”

“Yes, it was broken so he could undo the latch and open it. There was glass on the floor inside and the window was open. I didn’t notice any of that when I came in. It was dark outside and I didn’t turn on any lights in the living room. And the drapes were closed. The police found the mess.”

Then Mark definitely didn’t do it. He knew how to pick locks.

I must have said part of that aloud because Donna said, “Mark? You mean Dr. Pappas. I don’t believe he did it.”

“Let me clear one thing up. When you and I talked outside the Administration Building you said that he couldn’t be guilty of sexual harassment. You were aware at that time that Elise had filed the charge against him, weren’t you?”

“Of course. Elise and I didn’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Are you saying that Elise filed a false charge?”

“What does it matter now?”

“It may matter a great deal because Dr. Pappas is suspected of her murder. If Elise filed a false charge, Dr. Pappas of course knew it was false and would be less likely to kill her than if the charge were true.”

“Or maybe he would be more likely to kill her because she was trying to hurt him and he didn’t deserve it.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Human nature is complicated. “What did you tell the police about the harassment charge?”

“They didn’t ask me about it.”

“Look, Donna. We’re on the same side. Neither of us believes that Dr. Pappas killed Elise. Why don’t you just tell me what you know about the charge.”

“If I do, will you promise not to tell anybody else?”

“How can I do that? This is a murder case.”

“Okay, not unless you absolutely have to.”

“All right, all right.”

“Elise had a boyfriend named Ted. Ted was handpicked and approved by her father.”

“Were they serious?”

“He was more serious than she was. But I think she had become resigned to marrying him.”

“That doesn’t sound like till-death-do-us-part love.”

“No, but remember, Elise was always trying to please her father.”

Always didn’t sound like the right word. “Even to letting him pick her husband.”

“That’s what it looked like to me. Ted believes that people shouldn’t have sex until they get married. He claims he’s a virgin. But Elise…”

“Wasn’t.”

“She had another serious boyfriend before Ted, one definitely not picked by her father. Last year Elise and I roomed together in a dorm. Sometimes I had to leave the room while she and her boyfriend…”

“I get the picture. I still don’t understand what this has to do with Elise filing a harassment charge against Mark…Dr. Pappas.”

“The fact that she wasn’t a virgin gnawed at Elise because she figured it would be found out when she got married, if not before. She needed to get it excused in Ted’s eyes. She came up with this idea of filing a harassment charge for nonconsensual sex. I told her not to, especially not against Dr. Pappas. But she did it anyway.”

“Why did she choose Dr. Pappas?”

“Because…he’s young and good looking, and because…I suspect Elise fantasized about him, just like I did.”

There’s nothing like living out your fantasies. “So Ted knew about the harassment charge because he was meant to. I gather that her father didn’t know about it.”

“She didn’t want him to know about it because she was afraid he would hurt Dr. Pappas.”

“But the consequences of the charge, itself, wouldn’t.”

“I warned her about that. But she wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t think she thought it would hurt Dr. Pappas as much as it did. Or cause an uproar on campus. The whole thing was supposed to be confidential.”

“Who do you think leaked the fact that Mark was the accused?”

“I’d rather not say. I work in the Administration Building and I don’t want to lose my job.”

“You’ve said enough. I want to talk to this guy, Ted.”

“The police have already talked to him.”

We had been standing in the bedroom all this time. I had noticed a loose-leaf binder sitting on Donna’s dresser. The cover had been hand-decorated with music notes and flowers. The word “Compositions” was written on it in fancy script.

“Are you a writer?” I asked her.

She followed my gaze to the notebook and giggled in an embarrassed manner. “I like to write. I’ve written some poems and stuff. The drama department put on a musical review last fall. I wrote the words to many of the songs they sang, including all the songs that Elise sang.”

“That’s impressive. I read that Elise was a singer. She must have been good.”

“She was great. She was going to have the lead in Carousel, the May musical here at the college. Here death really upset things. They’ve been going crazy trying to recast the part of Julie.”

Speaking of crazy, I had one of my crazy ideas. “Where do your parents live?” I asked.

“In Virginia. Near Washington, D.C. They both work for the government.”

“So you don’t go home weekends.”

“Oh, no. They asked me if I wanted to come home for a while…to get over the shock, but then I’d miss school. I think I can handle it here, but of course it’s hard.”

“On Sundays my family gathers for brunch at my son’s farm in Chapel Hill. You have a car. How would you like to drive down and have brunch with us? Dr. Pappas is a friend of the family, too. I think I can arrange for him to be there.”

She blushed at my mention of Mark’s name. “That…sounds like fun, but I don’t want to intrude.”

I assured her that we brought friends to the brunch all the time.

She consented, thanked me and then added, “Please don’t tell Dr. Pappas that I was the Shooting Star. That would be just too embarrassing.”

I agreed and gave her directions to Albert’s farm. Then I said, “One last question. Who do you think killed Elise?”

“I wish I knew.” Donna looked puzzled. “I know you’re trying to help Dr. Pappas. I’d like to work with you to find the killer.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

Chapter 14

The office of Burt Brown, my attorney friend, was plush considering his age, early thirties, and the fact that he had been out of law school only a few years. His parents had been friends of Milt, my late husband, and me, although they were younger than we were. We had known each other since before Burt was born.

Burt’s firm handled cases ranging from murder to immigration and I wanted him to be in at the start with Mark, even though Mark hadn’t been charged with anything yet. He had agreed to meet us on Saturday morning before his golf game, because of the family friendship.

Burt met us in the lobby of his firm’s offices, which were in a new office building in Durham.

“Hi Aunt Lillian, it’s good to see you,” he said, greeting me with a warm smile and a hug.

Of course I wasn’t really his aunt. He wore a golfing sweater and casual slacks. He was about the same height as I am and his exotic good looks, caused by his mixed ancestry, had to attract females, although I wasn’t aware that he was involved in any romantic entanglement. His mother was Malaysian. His parents had met while his father served with the military in Asia during the Viet Nam war.

I introduced Burt and Mark to each other, and Burt led us into his office. In addition to his desk and some shelves filled with law books, the furniture consisted of a sofa, several functional chairs and a large, antique rocking chair with giant arms and a hand-carved back. The seat had been recently recovered. Burt waved us to the couch.

“Sorry, Aunt Lillian,” Burt said, “there’s no coffee because it’s Saturday, but I have soft drinks and fruit drinks. Can I get you something?”

I asked for water and Mark requested a coke. Burt got a fruit-flavored drink for himself and a bottle of designer water for me; all the drinks came from a small refrigerator in the corner of his office. After he had served us, Burt produced a yellow legal pad, the same kind Tess had been using to record notes for me. I was glad to see that Tess used official legal stationery. He sat down in the rocking chair and rocked gently back and forth.

“This chair is over 100 years old,” Burt said. “It still has the original buggy springs in the seat.”

“Almost as old as I am,” I said, looking at it with new respect.

“So, Mark,” Burt said, in a conversational tone, “I understand you’re involved in the case of the coed murder at Crescent Heights College. I read about it in the paper. What’s her name…Elise something-or-other?”

“Hoffman,” Mark said. “Elise Hoffman. I haven’t been accused of anything yet, but the detective questioned me for several hours on Thursday afternoon.”

“And Aunt Lillian tells me you’ve been suspended from your teaching job.”

“That’s right. I found out yesterday morning. The reason it happened so fast is because Elise had previously brought a sexual harassment charge against me.”

“In fact, you were supposed to see me about the harassment on Wednesday, if I recall correctly.”

“I apologize for not showing up.” Mark looked contrite. “That was the day I fell apart.”

Burt had said that with a twinkle in his eye, but we owed him for wasting his time.

“All right, tell me about your relationship with Elise and then tell me everything you did on Wednesday.”

Burt took notes with a Mont Blanc pen as Mark told his story, which went on for half-an-hour. Burt interrupted, occasionally, with questions. I was impressed with his thoroughness and his professionalism. Any time you watch a child grow up you tend to still think of him as a child, even after he has become a fully functioning adult.

When Mark had finished his story, Burt rocked in his chair and stared at the pictures on the wall of him playing golf with people who looked to me like celebrities I should recognize. I would have to take a closer look at those pictures. I wondered whether Burt was thinking about Mark or about playing golf.

“Okay, this is what we’re going to do,” Burt said, returning his gaze to Mark and me. “We’re going to take very seriously the possibility of Mark being charged with murder. Mark, you’re going to carry on with your life and look the picture of innocence. You’re not going to go out of town or do anything that might arouse suspicion. It’s okay for you to work as a bartender. That’s what you were doing before you started teaching and you’ve got to eat.

“You’re going to try to get your suspension at the college lifted. Find out the exact reason for the suspension. If it has anything at all to do with Elise’s murder, I’ll be on top of it like a linebacker sacking the quarterback because, since you haven’t been charged with anything in connection with her murder, they can’t legally suspend you for that.

“If the suspension is for the harassment, I can’t intervene directly because of their own rules, but you can take this approach. Try to get the harassment charge dismissed because Elise is no longer available to testify. Play the recording for them in which Elise said she was going to drop the charges against you. If these people have any humanity at all they’ll dismiss the charge and reinstate you.”

“Everything you’ve said makes sense,” Mark said.

“I’m not through,” Burt said, with a smile. “Mark, I don’t want you talking to the police. If they ask you any questions, refer them to me. I also don’t want you running around playing detective. I don’t want you going to Club Cavalier or talking to anybody connected with Elise, including her roommate, her parents or her boyfriend. You’re going to leave that sort of thing to the police. And to me.”

“What about me?” I asked, feeling guilty because I hadn’t told them that Donna claimed to be the Shooting Star. Maybe I shouldn’t have promised her to keep quiet.

“Aunt Lillian, you’re the last person I would try to tell what to do. Nobody can tell you what to do. You’re irrepressible. In fact, I encourage you to continue your own investigation because you might find something that the police don’t. I heard about your previous exploits as a detective and I’m impressed. If you’re even a little bit careful I don’t think the police will be bugged by what you’re doing because you can fly under their radar. They don’t expect you to be out there and you can accomplish things without them noticing.”

***

With Burt’s blessing I drove to Bethany again Saturday afternoon. Tess rode shotgun with me and watched the map.

“How do you think I should play it with Ted?” I asked, as we turned onto the main street of Bethany.”

“Maybe I should go in with you,” Tess said. “It sounds to me as if Ted is a very religious person and you’re about as religious as a vulture.”

“That’s not fair,” I protested. “Just because I watch the ceiling whenever I’m inside a church to see if it’s going to come crashing down doesn’t mean that I can’t talk to religious people. And besides, I try to increase harmony in the world.”

“I never said you weren’t a good person. Being a good person isn’t the same as being a religious person.”

“Amen to that.”

“Turn right at the light.”

A few more turns and we were on the street where Ted lived, in the basement of a residential house. Donna had given me his address and told me that we were likely to find him home even on a weekend because he spent a lot of his time studying, although his routine would understandably have been interrupted by Elise’s murder. Tess spotted the house and we parked 100 feet past it. My recent experiences had taught me it’s a good thing to be somewhat devious when one is a detective.

I decided that Tess might add some leavening to my vulture-like approach (using her words) and so we walked back to the house together. The long driveway was asphalt, instead of the gravel of the Hoffmans’ driveway, and thus easy walking. Our walk took us past the house, itself, an older wooden model with odd shapes projecting from the walls, forming, I suppose, nooks inside where the inhabitants found sanctuary.

The door in the back was right where Donna had said it would be so I didn’t hesitate to knock on it. There was no doorbell. My knock was followed by silence for so long that I suspected Ted was not in residence, but eventually footsteps sounded behind the door and it opened.

The young man who looked out at us was tall and quite thin, with short, blondish hair and aviator-style glasses, which gave him a studious look.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, practicing my compassion, “but I knew Elise, and I wanted to express my condolences to you. I’m Lillian Morgan and this is my friend Tess.”

“Er, thank you,” he said, looking from one of us to the other. And then, as an afterthought, “Uh, won’t you come in?”

As he turned to lead us inside I detected a whiff of what might be alcohol on his breath. Did religious people drink alcohol? There were a number of steps going down to what was clearly the basement. I hung onto Tess, whose walking was somewhat wobbly under the best of conditions. We made it all right and followed Ted into a messy room with a few pieces of furniture and two small, ground-level windows, high up on adjoining walls.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked, lifting a pile of clothes from an old chair and throwing them into a corner. I suspected this was his only room, except for a small kitchen and smaller bathroom that I could see through open doors.

I let Tess take the closest chair because it looked firm and she had the hardest time getting up. I sat on the couch, which I was sure had a hide-a-bed hiding beneath the pillows. Ted sat in a chair with a footrest, facing a television set that was broadcasting a basketball game. A lit lamp on a table beside him didn’t help much to relieve the gloom. Neither did the dim light coming in through the windows. An open beer can and a half-eaten sandwich sat on the table. He turned off the TV with a remote.

“So you knew Elise?” he said to me.

As usual, I was conscious of the possibility of digging myself into a hole. “I knew her slightly,” I said. “She was such a bright and beautiful girl. It’s such a shame what happened.”

“Who would do a thing like that?” he said.

He slurred his words a little and looked as if he might be close to tears. Maybe he had been drowning his sorrows.

“You can take comfort in knowing that she’s in a better place,” Tess said.

Ted looked at her for a moment and said, “Right,” as if he wasn’t completely convinced of that.

“Elise told me she had filed a charge of sexual harassment against one of the professors,” I said, plunging in.

He looked at me, not showing comprehension, and I wondered whether Elise had told him about the charge. Maybe Donna had given me the wrong scoop. I wondered how to extract my foot from my mouth and why I wasn’t home in my apartment reading Reader’s Digest.

Just as I was about to retract my statement, Ted said, “First that and now this. The whole world is going to hell.”

I hoped he wasn’t going to deliver a sermon, but he became quiet again. I said, “She also told me that she was going to withdraw the charge.”

“Withdraw the charge? Why would she withdraw the charge? The man abused her, sullied her, dirtied her. He’s probably the one who killed her. He should be the one to die.”

Uh oh. I had woken him up. “If she was going to withdraw the charge, maybe that meant she…she was mistaken.”

“No, there was no mistake. She definitely wasn’t a virgin.”

Tess and I looked at each other. What made him an expert on virgins? Unless the two of them…. I said, “I know how you feel. Marriage is a sacred union and should be treated as such.” When he didn’t respond, I said, “It must have been awful for you. How did you hear about…Elise?”

“Mr. Hoffman called me at about 1 a.m. from her apartment. Of course I rushed right over there.”

“Do you have a car?”

“No, it’s only about a mile. I ran all the way. I couldn’t believe it was true. I hoped it was just a bad dream.”

“And you had been here studying the evening before?”

“I…you sound just like a detective.”

Now I had really woken him up.

“I’ll bet Detective Johnson asked you that question.”

“Yeah. I guess I was upset that he would consider me a suspect.”

“Did he say that you were a suspect?”

“No. He said Dr. Pappas had probably done it.”

“He said that to you?” Tess asked, astounded.

“Yeah. I bet he did it, too. That guy’s a dirty…skunk.”

I didn’t want to argue with Ted about Mark, so I said, “I heard that you and Elise were talking about getting married.”

“Who told you that?”

Woops. “Maybe I misheard. But you have been going together for a while, haven’t you?”

“Since September. I…wanted to marry her, but she hadn’t agreed. Sometimes I got the idea she thought I wasn’t good enough for her. But she who casts the first stone…I was willing to take her, in spite of her transgressions.”

Big of you. “What are you studying?”

“Right now, liberal arts.”

“And what do you want to do when you…graduate?” I almost said, “…when you grow up.”

“I plan to go on to graduate school and study to be a minister.”

Chapter 15

Mark and I arrived at the farm early because I wanted to be present when Donna got there. At first, Mark didn’t want to go, but I gave him the old “we’re all in this together” speech and he finally acquiesced. He hadn’t seen Sandra in over a week and it was time they talked to each other.

One of the devious reasons I had invited Donna was to attempt to strike a spark of jealousy in Sandra. If Sandra became aware of the fact that Mark had his groupies, she might value him more. I also wanted to come up with a plan of action that everybody in the family could agree on and I figured that Donna could make suggestions and would also stick up for Mark, in case Sandra or Albert had any doubts about him.

Technically, Mark was violating the rules laid down by Burt about not talking to anybody connected with Elise, but this was a family gathering and he wouldn’t be alone with her so I had justified this meeting to myself.

Mark drove King and me in his car. He said it was an old car and he didn’t mind getting dog smell and dog hair on the back seat. When we arrived at the farm we released King to run off with her playmate while Mark and I went into the house. I was glad to see that Mark and Sandra hugged each other, although they didn’t kiss. At least they were acting civilly. Winston was happy to see Mark and promptly asked him about his car. We busied ourselves with food preparation.

Albert said, “Tell us about Donna.”

“As you know, she was Elise’s roommate,” I said. “She was also the one who discovered Elise. I’m hoping she might have some information that might lead to the killer.”

“Haven’t the police already questioned her?” Sandra asked.

“Yes, but the detective in charge of the investigation is young and I’m not sure he’s doing a thorough job.”

“Don’t trust anybody under 50, is that it?” Albert said.

“Couldn’t Donna be a suspect?” Sandra asked.

“That’s a possibility, of course, but she doesn’t seem to have a motive, except…” I looked at Mark, wondering how much I should say.

“Except what?” Albert prompted.

“Except that Donna appears to have a crush on Mark and she was upset when Elise filed the charge again him.”

“That’s hardly a motive for murder,” Sandra said, coldly.

“Probably not,” I agreed, quickly.

Mark wisely kept silent. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to talk about his groupies. Maybe getting Sandra together with Mark and Donna was a mistake. Sandra knew about Elise’s phone call to me so there wasn’t anything else we could say to convince her that the harassment charge had been false. And we certainly didn’t want her to start picturing Mark carrying on with other women.

I decided to mention something that might be in Mark’s favor. “The Bethany paper states that the autopsy showed Elise probably hadn’t had sex before she was murdered. Since she was found without any clothes on…”

“It still may not have been a lover’s quarrel,” Albert said. “Although the front window was broken, as I recall, indicating forced entry. But didn’t you say her boyfriend didn’t believe in sex before marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Then by backward reasoning, it could have been him. And he could have covered the murder by breaking the window.”

“Here comes a car,” Sandra said.

We watched through the large front windows as a car that had just appeared out of the woods came slowly along the meandering driveway past acres of lawn to the house.

“That’s Donna’s car,” I said.

I went outside to meet her and to try to prepare her for what lay ahead. She pulled to a stop beside Mark’s Toyota.

“Your directions were great, Mrs. Morgan…or I should say Dr. Morgan,” Donna said as she got out of her car. “I only went astray once and I immediately recognized my error and turned around.”

She wore a skirt and sweater and was dressed more formally than the rest of us. She looked wholesome, but Sandra was prettier, if a grandmother can be permitted an opinion. And Elise had been too.

“I’m retired,” I said. “Why don’t you call me Lillian? Everybody else does.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Here, I brought some rolls.”

“That was nice of you.” I usually baked rolls from scratch so she had infringed on my territory, but she was a guest and didn’t know any better. I led her along the narrow sidewalk to the front door, quickly going over the names and relationships of the people present. We went inside and into the kitchen, the center of activity, where I introduced her to the people she didn’t know.

Mark formally shook hands with her, acting very professorial in front of Sandra. Albert shook hands with her and welcomed her to his home. Sandra said hello from the stove and didn’t shake hands. Winston asked her if she had new tires on her car.

We sat down to eat at the round table just off the kitchen. With just six people it was a lot easier than carting food into the formal dining room. And that applied to getting seconds, also, which I allowed myself one meal a week. Donna got seated between Albert and Mark, more or less by accident since we didn’t have place cards.

The conversation while we ate started off as small talk. Albert asked Donna how he liked Mark’s class.

“Dr. Pappas is great,” Donna gushed. “Advanced Physics is tough but he explains everything so clearly.”

“I wish he’d explain it to me,” Sandra said. “I almost flunked beginning physics in college.”

“Do you want to be a scientist?” Albert asked Donna.

“Well, I’ve been told I have an aptitude for science. And that more women should go into it.” She paused, reflecting. “But I’d like to become a writer.”

“What do you like to write?” Mark asked.

“I write short stories and poetry. But if I could do what I really wanted I would be a lyricist.”

“You mean a song lyricist?”

“Yes. As I was telling Dr. Morgan, I wrote a bunch of songs for a musical review presented by Citrus Heights College last fall.”

“Some of which were sung by Elise,” I said.

“How long had you two known each other?” Albert asked.

“Since the beginning of the last school year, when Elise was a freshman and I was a sophomore. We both lived in the dorm, but we became friends because we had common interests. And then we decided to get an apartment together for this school year.”

“I would guess that the demand for lyricists is not great,” Sandra said, not unkindly. “I’ve written some poetry in my time and I can tell you that you can’t make a living as a poet.”

Donna sighed. “How true. Of course it’s also difficult to make a living as a singer, but Elise sang with a rock group last summer—a Christian rock group—and was going to have the lead in our May musical. At least she was getting some recognition.”

“Mark has written some poetry too,” Albert said.

“Yes, but Mark can do everything,” Sandra said, “so he doesn’t count.”

Sometimes it did seem as if Mark could do everything. “Donna brought a book of her compositions with her,” I said. I had asked her to do that. “Perhaps she can read some of them to those of us who are on dish duty.”

Before she had a chance to do that the conversation shifted to the murder. Fortunately, we had all finished eating. Sandra told Winston to go play with his car in the family room where she could keep an eye on him but he wouldn’t follow the conversation. He sat in the plastic car, supplied car noises with his voice and power with his feet as he practiced steering and driving forward and backward. He would be asking for a real car in another few years.

Donna retold the story of how she had found Elise. Although she had told it a few times already it was still traumatic for her and she had to pause to avoid being overcome by emotion as she recalled the events of that evening. Sandra gasped when she heard about the amount of blood on Elise and the bedclothes, Albert looked grim and Mark pressed his lips tightly together.

“We know Mark couldn’t have done it,” Sandra said when Donna had finished. “He knows how to pick locks.” The looks she got prompted Sandra to continue, “Well, you picked the lock of the apartment of that woman at Silver Acres last year.”

“I asked him to,” I said, quickly, “and before Donna gets the impression that she has fallen into a gang of thieves let me add that we were trying to solve another murder.”

“Did solve another murder,” Albert said, “but remember that you said you were going to retire from being a detective.”

I had promised with my fingers crossed, but to keep the peace I said, “All I’m doing right now is trying to help Mark.”

“According to the newspaper accounts,” Sandra said to Donna, “you must have just missed the murderer. Elise hadn’t been dead long when you got there.”

“No,” Donna said. Then she blurted out, “I may have seen his car.”

We became suddenly quiet, waiting for her to say more.

“As I went up the walk to the door of the apartment I saw…I saw a car pull away from the curb and drive away. The driver seemed to be in a hurry.”

“Had you seen the car before?” Albert asked. “Do you know what make it was?”

“It was dark, of course, and I didn’t get a good look, but…I don’t think I’d seen it before. It was a compact, but I’m not sure what make it was, either.”

“Another reason it couldn’t be Mark,” Sandra said, “is because he doesn’t own a carving knife. Or any other knife, for that matter. In fact, he didn’t own much of anything when he moved in with me.”

It sounded as if Sandra was trying to protect her turf—meaning Mark—from Donna. That was good news to me. If this kind of talk bothered Donna, she didn’t show it.

Albert and Sandra wanted to know about other possible suspects because the papers hadn’t yet mentioned anybody as a suspect. Donna and I gave a description of Eric Hoffman. From what she said I gathered that Donna liked him. Albert didn’t wish him well since he had placed Albert’s license plate number on his website, but we couldn’t come up with any reason why he would kill his daughter, unless she had been the Shooting Star.

I had promised Donna I wouldn’t tell Mark that Donna was the Shooting Star so I didn’t participate in the speculation about Eric Hoffman’s motive. Donna didn’t say anything, either.

We also talked about Ted, Elise’s boyfriend. Any reason that he might have for killing her was probably connected with her virtue or lack thereof, which might in turn be connected with the harassment charge against Mark. Donna soft-pedaled this, for which I was grateful since I didn’t want to upset Sandra. But we ended up without a prime suspect.

On that note we cleared the table and started to wash the dishes. Donna went out to her car and came back with her book of compositions. She read us several of her poems and song lyrics. I was pleased to hear that they had both rhyme and rhythm. I am not a great fan of what passes for poetry these days.

When I commented on this, Donna said, “As I mentioned before, I think my talents are best suited to writing song lyrics. And in general they have rhyme and rhythm. I write limericks too. Here’s one…oh my God, I can’t recite this one.”

I had seen Donna blush before like she was doing now and I guessed that the limerick was about Mark. She didn’t turn the page fast enough and Albert put his hand on it and read the poem over her shoulder.

“It’s instructive,” Albert said. “Let me read it out loud.”

“I’ll die,” Donna said, but somehow he took the book from her hands and read:

A physics professor named Mark

Had always been scared of the dark.

Said Elise, “‘It’s not dire,

Marky boy, light my fire.

We’ll banish the dark with my spark.

Everybody looked uncomfortable, so I said, to cover the silence, “Why did you use Elise’s name?” before I realized I probably shouldn’t have said anything.

“Because ‘Donna’ wouldn’t scan,” Sandra said, dryly.

Donna recovered her composure enough to say, “Elise was always saying, ‘Dr. Pappas this, Dr. Pappas that,’ as if she owned him. After all, I was taking a course from him too.”

“Do all of your students go bonkers over you?” Sandra asked Mark.

“Only the smart ones,” Mark said.

***

Elise’s funeral was Monday. Although I wanted to talk to her father, and her mother, if possible, this wasn’t the day to do so. I didn’t go to the funeral. Since I wasn’t a friend of Elise or her family, I didn’t think it would be appropriate. Mark didn’t go, either; Burt Brown had specifically told him not to.

I read a number of poems that I had copied, with Donna’s permission, from her book. Albert had recently purchased a new-fangled printer for his home computer that also acted as a copier and a fax machine so I made the copies on that. One of the poems went like this:

Each morning you wake with a smile.

Love came; soon you’ll walk down the aisle.

In school you excel,

Show business, as well.

Egad! You’re becoming a trial.

I suspected that Donna had written this poem for Elise, although it had no heading. However, it seemed to fit her. I assumed it was written tongue-in-cheek. The one thing that puzzled me was the use of the word, “egad,” a word that my grandfather might have used.

I stared at the poem for a while and then figured out what Donna was doing. When Tess came by to go to pool aerobics class with me I showed her the poem, saying, “Here’s a test for you, Tess. A test for Tess. Look at this poem, which was written by Elise’s roommate, Donna, and tell me how we could tell she wrote it for Elise, assuming we didn’t know anything about her.”

“Lil, you know I can’t do puzzles,” Tess complained.

“At least it’s not a math puzzle,” I said, knowing that Tess hated math puzzles. “It’s a word puzzle. Word puzzles are not my strong suit, but I figured it out so you should be able to.”

“Why do you always have to be so competitive? All right, I’ll look at it.”

Tess read the poem and said, “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a limerick. But in limericks the third and fourth lines are usually indented.”

“Clue number one.”

“And a college student doesn’t say ‘egad.’”

“Clue number two.”

Tess looked at the poem some more, complaining all the while. Finally, she said, “All right, I get it. If you say the first letter of each line you spell Elise.”

“Brilliant. Go to the head of the class.”

“Now tell me what is so important about this discovery.”

“It tells us that Donna is clever. She’s not only smart, which we already knew, she’s also clever.”

“Most college students are smart. And I’m not sure what the distinction is between smart and clever.”

“Maybe it has something to do with guile. There’s more to Donna than appears on the surface. Here’s another poem Donna wrote.” We studied the poem, which read as follows:

Will I shoot seven or eleven?

Will I find a jewel that gleams?

Will you lend your wand to me

So I can wave it at my dreams?

Keep it, Lady Luck.

Each lass is Satan’s earthly prize.

He makes angels run amuck

And blinds them with his laser eyes.

“Beats me,” Tess said, shaking her head. “Something about having luck, of course. But Satan, and angels running amuck? The girl needs help, I think.”

I didn’t have a ready explanation so I showed Tess the “light my fire” poem, saying, “Read this poem that she wrote about Mark and Elise and tell me what you think about it.”

Tess read it and said, “It sounds as if Elise had a thing for Mark.”

“Either that or Donna has a thing for Mark. In fact, Donna told me she has a crush on Mark. Maybe both of them had a crush on Mark. If you recall, Mark said Elise made some sort of a declaration of adoration to him during the session that resulted in the harassment charge.”

“The eternal triangle—or rectangle. Does Sandra know all this?”

“Not all of it. But she’s smart enough to know that whatever the girls felt, it wasn’t reciprocated. Mark wasn’t part of it.”

“So has Sandra taken him back?”

“Well…no. Although they seemed to get along all right yesterday. They even went for a walk together. But Mark is still staying with me. Right now he’s at the college trying to get his suspension lifted.”

Tess shook her head. “Remind me never to give any money to Crescent Heights College. But to get back to the murder, which is what we’re really talking about, are you surmising that Donna killed Elise because Elise had a crush on Mark—or because she filed a harassment charge against Mark?”

“I’m not surmising anything yet. But it does appear that Donna and Elise had their differences.”