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I CALLED FIRST THING the following morning to schedule an appointment with my HMO’s behavioral health department. Of course I was still annoyed with Donnie, Emma, and Pat for ambushing me the previous night. On the other hand, it meant my friends actually did care about me, and it felt nice to know that someone cared. I didn’t really get much of that being-cared-about feeling at work; our administration made no secret of how much they looked forward to the day they could fire all the professors and replace us with software.
To my surprise, they were able to schedule me in for the first appointment of the day. I had been expecting a wait time of several weeks. I wondered whether Donnie had pulled any strings to get me to the front of the line.
There wasn’t much to report about the visit itself. Dr. Gregory Spiner (whom I will never not think of as “Spinner”) twirled around in his chair as he quizzed me about my health habits, instructed me to get enough sleep, and admonished me to limit my alcohol consumption to one drink per day or less. Then he sent me off with a fistful of pharma samples and a set of prescriptions for various psychoactive drugs. I filled the prescriptions, even though I had no intention of taking them. I might find myself in a situation where I had to sedate a wild animal or something. You never know.
I had only been back in my office for a few minutes when I heard a timid knock on my door. Nicole Nixon stood in my doorway. I invited her in and, seeing she was holding a mug, offered her fresh coffee.
“I thought your coffee machine was broken,” she said. Was that the excuse I had given her? I hoped not. I didn’t want her to think I had been lying to her. After hearing about her husband’s disappearance, I was most unwilling to get on the wrong side of Nicole Nixon.
“No,” I said, “I was out of coffee. Pat and Emma got me more.”
“Do you have just hot water? I’m drinking tea.”
“Sure.” I wondered if she had ever figured out the real reason I had stopped by the previous day. Of course, I was no longer interested in the full-time position in her department. And if she asked me, I could truthfully tell her so. I didn’t need to come into a new job with built-in enemies. I could make all the enemies I needed on my own.
Nicole sank into my visitor chair.
“So you know why the police were in my office yesterday?” Nicole said.
“No. What was it about?”
She plucked a tissue from the box I keep on my desk.
“Scott’s left.”
“What do you mean, he’s left? Left his job?”
“Left me. And his job. And the house I can’t afford by myself. Everything.”
“What? What happened?”
“Around two weeks ago. I didn’t tell anyone. I was hoping he’d realize what a stupid mistake he’d made and he’d come back and no one would have to know.”
“Was he . . . in an accident or something? Was that why the detective was in your office yesterday?”
“Was Scott in an accident?” Nicole repeated. “I should be so lucky.”
I wouldn’t call myself a master of tact or anything, but even I could tell this was a time to shut up and listen.
“He left a note,” she continued. “One line. ‘Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like.’ It’s a quotation from Mansfield Park.”
I had not known Scott Nixon well, but hearing this made me dislike him even more than I already had. What kind of thing was it to end a marriage with a snide little one-line note? At the very least, one owed one’s jilted spouse a good argument.
“So why are the police involved?” I asked.
“One of his little undergrads is gone too. Her parents are suing the university.”
I wondered whether Nicole knew about Scott’s plagiarism. Now would not be the time to bring it up.
“We’re being sued? Nicole, you’re not in trouble, are you?”
“I don’t think so. But at this point I don’t really care. You know, the police asked me for Scott’s note so they could compare the handwriting. But I...”
I nudged the box of tissues toward her as she started to weep.
“Sorry,” she sobbed. “I shouldn’t be taking up your time.”
“No, it’s fine. Take all you want. I always keep a couple of boxes around.”
I considered my theory about Scott having been involved with Melanie Polewski. Nicole had tolerated Scott’s dalliances with college girls still in their teens, who would obligingly fade away when Scott tired of them. But Melanie Polewski was on another level; Melanie would have had no qualms about busting up someone’s marriage. Nicole certainly would have had motive to do away with both of them. But then how did the disappearing student fit into this?
“Did the police tell you anything useful?” I asked.
Nicole shook her head and glanced at her watch.
“I have to get going. Sorry about all this.”
Could Nicole have killed Scott, Melanie, and the student? And then why would she stop there? I wondered whether murdering people was like getting married and divorced; the more you did it, the easier it got and the more likely you were to keep doing it.
“By the way,” I asked casually, “What were you about to tell me? The police asked you for Scott’s note, so they could compare the handwriting, and you were going to say...?”
“What? Oh. The note. The bastard didn’t even write it by hand. He printed it out. In Papyrus font. Sorry, Molly. I really have to go.”
She began to weep again.
“Sure. Here. Why don’t you take this with you?”
I handed Nicole my tissue box.