Angel Food and Devil Dogs (3 page)

Not too ostentatious... until you look closely. There's attention to architectural detail in the placement of every brick and the planting of every shrub. The proportions of the windows in relation to the facades of even the most mundane buildings are painstaking. Only a couple of Irwin's structures are ugly or cheap looking. The rest are gems.

I walked the four blocks to the Irwin Administration Building, not because I wanted the exercise, but because in the middle of the day finding a parking place there would be like finding room for a king-sized bed in a sardine can. People going to Irwin actually parked in my block. So even though it was December and wet, gray, and cold out, I grabbed my shoulder bag and took to the slush covered sidewalks.

I was wearing a heavy polo shirt, fresh black jeans, a wool blazer, and my new squall parka. The parka had a spiffy lined hood in case I needed a hat, and special lined pockets strategically placed for optimum hand-warm-ability. I really liked this jacket.

Winter in small Eastern cities can seem particularly grim on days like this. Regular municipal street sweeping ends in November. Fewer homeowners sweep sidewalks in the cold. Casually dropped litter or over-spill from trash pick-ups accumulates. People stay inside. In winter, the city looks best at night when sundown hides the grime and trash, and holiday lights twinkle.

Irwin College has many confusing buildings, pathways, gardens and monuments, but it's easy to find the Administration Building. It's dead center in the half circle drive off Washington Street, in the main area of the campus. Even better, over the door is a huge polished granite sign with gilt letters that says Administration Building. Its marble steps were no longer in the pale gray sunlight, so puddled slush had turned to ice. It felt slick as I made my way up to the double glass doors.

In the middle of the lobby was a huge donut-shaped reception desk. In the donut hole a student sat on a stool eating an apple and reading a textbook laid open on the counter. Her long straight hair fell forward making a hair-sided pipeline to the book pages. She'd grown her own cubicle.

I considered asking for directions, but I couldn't bear to break her concentration. The sign next to the elevator said the President's office was on the fourth floor. The doors were open, so I rode up.

The elevator opened into what was definitely a rich guy's domain. My shoes sank deep into the luxurious carpet pile. The hall was decorated with real art from the College's permanent collection. I stopped to admire a large Peter Milton etching of a cat sitting on a garden wall. Opposite it was a Robert Rauschenberg silk screen and a Louise Nevelson pressed paper serigraph. This stuff was original, no offset litho reproductions here. Impressive.

The hallway ended at a perpendicular space, which formed a wide reception area. On the far wall were several doors. I figured the one with the reception desk in front must be Bouchet's office. The receptionist was studying a piece of paper. She looked about twenty, had fluffy blond hair and a figure that would kindly be called plump and cattily be called porky. Inexpertly applied make-up tried but failed to make her seem older.

"Maggie Gale?" she squeaked. When I nodded, she said with sincerity, "I'm sorry, President Bouchet is on the phone. He asked if you could just wait for a few minutes. Would that be OK? Would you like some coffee?"

"No thank you... Ms...?" I extended my hand. Her blue eyes widened. Nobody ever asked who she was.

"Connie Robinson," she said shaking my hand.

I smiled back. I took off my jacket and hung it up on a coat rack in the corner and sat down in one of the chairs lined up against a wall of windows. From there, I could see the entrance to the stairs in front of me. To my right was Connie at her desk. To my immediate left were double doors with a sign that read, Large Conference Room.

The beige wall-to-wall carpeting ran from the elevator throughout the reception area. On top of the carpet in front of Connie's desk, were two beautiful, handmade Asian rugs. Rugs like these were a special passion of mine. Each was about five by seven feet. One was a late 19th century camel hair Afshar, probably from Southern Persia. It had a beautiful dark blue field with a red geometric diagonal pattern. The other was a Heriz silk of about the same age, with an intricately patterned medallion in the center. The corner of the Heriz was flipped over as though it had a mind of its own.

A sign on one of the other doors to the right said, Miranda Juarez, Assistant to the President. The door opened and a small capable looking woman in her late forties came toward me with her hand extended.

"Ms. Gale? I am Miranda Juarez, President Bouchet's assistant," she said with a strong Latino inflection, a firm handshake, and a confident manner. "We are just waiting for two other people to arrive for a quick meeting in President Bouchet's office. Then he would like you to meet with a larger group in the conference room."

I heard the elevator ding. Two people came down the art-lined hall. First came a man about thirty years old with thick blond hair parted in the middle, a ruddy complexion, and a huge handlebar mustache. He tugged on his mustache with one hand, trying to balance a load of loose papers in the other. He had
nerd-alert
stamped all over him.

He and the woman who came after him must have come directly from outside because he had on a puffy down jacket and she was wearing a tailored dark tweed coat and red scarf. When the nerd-alert man got almost to the reception desk he dropped the papers. They scattered all over the floor at his feet. He dove down on his hands and knees and began pushing the papers into a pile. The woman in the coat, Miranda, Connie and I all moved to help him, but he waved us away by flailing his arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm interested to hear what this is all about Dr. Bouchet," I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bouchet broke in jubilantly, "Excellent, how wonderful!... I'm sorry, you were saying?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course Max, I'll talk to you then," said Dr. Anthony as she left.

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

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

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

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

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

"Really?"

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

I nodded.

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

I nodded again.

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