Chapter 8

  

That night, Joe Morgan arrived on my doorstep promptly at 6:30, dressed in dark wool pants with a pale blue cashmere sweater over a shirt. He looked almost professorial. He drove me in his newly washed car to the best restaurant in Landry and ordered an excellent wine with dinner.

The restaurant was dark and crowded, but Joe had reserved a small table in the corner where it was quiet and no one was within earshot. I sipped on the wine, wishing I had not promised to tell him about my conversation with Mary Cartwell.

I must have looked tense. Joe leaned across the table. He spoke softly: “A college professor goes to the doctor’s office. The nurse asks him what’s wrong and the professor says, ‘I think I am disappearing.’ So a few minutes later, the nurse comes back and says: ‘the doctor can’t see you now.’”

Okay, a cop who tells corny jokes. I pretended I hadn’t heard it before. But I was grateful for his sensitivity. Clearly he was going to let me avoid discussing Mary for a while. The conversation got easier after that. Joe talked about his love of basketball and his time playing on the team at Mountain West.

“NBA ambitions?” I asked.

No, he said he wasn’t NBA material and Mountain West is too small to make it to the top of college ball. He studied hard and graduated. “Pre-law.”

“But you didn’t become a lawyer?”

“No. I went to Chicago to go to law school but left after the first year and joined the police force.”

“Why didn’t you stay in law school?”

“Too cerebral, I guess. I liked action. I liked the men and women on the force. I liked the training. I loved getting bad guys. Also, I’d rather investigate than prosecute. And I’m sure I’d rather investigate than defend.”

“What brought you back here?”

“A suspect in a murder case in Chicago took off and ended up here. I was sent because I know the area. The chief here liked the way I worked and recruited me away from the big city with the offer of an enormous fortune and the chance to save my hometown from criminals and terrorists.”

Okay. I relaxed.

“Do you miss Chicago?”

“Not right now.”

“Surely they have women in Chicago.”

“Not women with red hair like yours.”

That felt good. It had been a while since a man had flirted with me. Joe had a wide smile that made me feel warm and he had strong, long-fingered hands that made me want his touch. Basketball player, ah yes, he could hold the ball forever in one of those hands.

Over coffee, I learned Joe had a shelf of books on China and Russia. “The cultures fascinate me,” he said.

Also a shelf of poetry. “Fredenson, followed by Gerard Manley Hopkins are my favorites.”

“Yeats?”

“Absolutely. ‘And pluck ’til time and times are done, the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun.’”

He said he went to San Francisco for the opera if it’s Rossini or Puccini. He liked Dvorak’s New World Symphony. And, of course, read The New York Times online.

“I thought cops were mainly interested in sports,” I said.

“College basketball,” he said. “When North Carolina is in the Final Four, you can’t get me out of the house. I take unpaid leave if I have to.”

“How do you feel about dogs?”

“I had a dog in Chicago, up until two years ago. But after he died, I’ve had a hard time thinking about a new dog.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Big beautiful shepherd. Best dog I’ve ever had. Died of cancer when he was twelve.”

“It’s so hard to lose them,” I said.

“What’s your golden’s name?”

Oh dear. My first weakness showed up. “I haven’t been able to give him a name,” I said. “I tried a few times, but nothing stuck. He didn’t answer to any of them. So now I just call him ‘Dog’ and whistle for him.”

“What name did you try?”

“Thaddeus. My dad’s name.”

“Good name for a dad. Lousy name for a dog. No wonder he ignored you. Dogs need short two syllable names. The best ones end in y or ie. My dog’s name was Smiley.”

I laughed out loud. “Smiley. What a great name.”

Joe laughed, too. “He had a funny expression he used to get around his mouth—like a grin—when he was hungry. Ergo, Smiley. Also George Smiley is my favorite literary spy.”

By then we were both laughing. His fingers were near enough to the back of my hand to touch me. But he didn’t. Neatly trimmed fingernails. Hands browner than his face. Hands that worked outdoors and played indoors. Oh my.

Yet, on the second cup of coffee I finally brought up the subject of Mary Cartwell. I knew it might change the mood, but I had promised a full report. Looking back, I suspect I thought it would also be a chance to talk about a woman’s need for sex without talking about this woman’s need for sex.

“So you think her husband doesn’t know about her affair with Henry?” Joe said when I finished.

“Yes. Mary has been married to Edwin for twenty-five years. Even though he’s strange and reserved, I think she knows what he knows.”

“You say she’s a beautiful woman. A husband might kill for her.”

“Might. But I think she’s right. Edwin doesn’t have a clue about her behavior.”

“That’s interesting. I came away from my interview with Cartwell also thinking he wasn’t a likely suspect even though he was in the building. His whole story about finding Henry’s body seemed credible. And why call the police and draw attention to yourself? Also, Edwin Cartwell doesn’t seem like the type to get into a fight.”

“So you think there was a fight?”

Joe looked troubled. “I need to know I can trust you, Red. This is police business—strictly confidential.”

“Right. You can trust me.”

“Forensics aren’t complete, but the theory seems to be that Henry sustained a serious wound in his back from that glass award sculpture that was on his desk. And it’s hard to wound yourself in the back so it’s probable someone else was involved and there may have been a fight.”

“And that caused the heart attack?”

“Maybe. We only know he had a heart attack at some point.”

“So, how did he get from his office all the way to the stairwell and fall down the stairs?” I knew the answer before Joe spoke.

“It may not have been a fall.”

  

I did not sleep well that night. Joe had walked me to the door. “You look tired,” he said.

“I am.” But I hoped he would say more.

“I’ll call you,” he said. “Even if I don’t need more information. I’m not supposed to socialize with a source, but, if your alibi holds up and my chief doesn’t blow a gasket, I’d like to have dinner again sometime.”

Then he left me, still wanting the touch of his hands, still thinking about Henry and Mary’s story. Late that night I awoke with Mary’s erotic descriptions melding with my own fantasies about Joe Morgan. I finally fell into a deep sleep that ended at six o’clock the next morning with a phone call.

“We need to talk.” It was Simon Gorshak. The tone was imperious.

“Simon, I have a terrible schedule today. We’ll talk tomorrow.” I tried to match his tone.

“The tenure and promotion committee meets at nine o’clock this morning,” Simon went on. “You and I need to talk before then. Meredith, this is important.”

Did I want to go to school early? Did I want Simon Gorshak to come to my home? I wavered just long enough for him to assume acceptance.

“I’ll see you in your office. Will eight o’clock work?”

“I’ll see you there,” I said, and tunneled into my pillow.

  

I was in my office by seven, looking through Larry Coleman’s file and his tenure application. Larry was due to go up this year. In our school a tenure application goes directly to the school committee of those faculty members who are already tenured. They review the candidate’s teaching evaluations, outside letters from other university faculty in his or her field, and his or her own report on six years of research.

Once tenured, it’s hard to be fired. A tenured professor can be fired if he or she commits a crime or some horrendous act, but just being disagreeable (like Simon) or bombastic and pompous (like George) or dyspeptic and difficult (like Edwin) is not reason enough.

So, it’s important for the school to get it right. The process is demanding and fraught with anxiety. I didn’t think Larry was the type to bring a gun to the faculty meeting, but I suspected he would file a grievance if he were denied.

“Morning, Meredith.” It was Simon. It was also George and Edwin. An ambush. They settled themselves in chairs in a semi-circle in front of my desk.

“What’s on your mind...um, minds?”

Simon cleared his throat to begin, but George couldn’t wait. “Meredith, regardless of how the other members of the Promotion and Tenure committee vote, we will all vote against Coleman.”

“Phyllis and Max are also members,” I said.

“And it won’t matter how they vote,” said Edwin, “because it will be three against.”

“I believe the dean has a say in all this,” I said.

“That’s why we’re here,” said Simon. “We don’t want this to turn into another faculty brawl. The school’s been through enough this year. We want you to think about supporting our decision so we can quietly end this and send Coleman on his way.”

Oh do you? I leaned back in my chair. “And what will be my reason for denying tenure to Larry Coleman?” I asked.

“His research lacks rigor and originality,” said Simon.

“And his students only give him good evaluations because he is popular and far and away the lightest grader on the faculty,” added Edwin.

“How about the outside opinions?”

“Who cares?” said George. “New media experts are a dime a dozen and don’t know much. I, for one, found nothing compelling in their letters. I doubt some of them even read Coleman’s so-called research. At least not carefully.”

I gazed steadily at the three of them. Edwin shifted in his chair. Simon cleared his throat again. Only George stared back, ready to raise his voice. Go for it, I thought. Make an ass of yourself and guarantee you won’t have my support.

George went for it. “You’re not going to put this school through some new horror show are you Meredith?” Accusation is one of George’s favorite techniques.

“No, George, but you three might be about to do just that.”

“Not if you support us,” said Simon. “The administration will back your decisions. They made that clear enough.”

“I don’t think so. I think the administration will be appalled at your vindictiveness.” I tried to keep my voice even. My stomach was starting to hurt. “None of you has a good reason to vote against Coleman. Your issue with him is about curriculum, not qualifications.”

“Nonetheless, we will vote against him,” said Simon.

“If you can’t convince me he doesn’t deserve tenure, how do you plan to convince a special committee?” I had to be cautious now. My anger was starting to overcome my fear of confrontation and might get the better of me.

“What special committee?” asked George.

“A university grievance committee,” I said. “If you deny tenure to Coleman after all his work, he’ll file a grievance. And...” I paused to make sure they were listening carefully, “and I will back him.”

“Then so be it,” said George as he rose up and headed for the door.

The pain in my stomach subsided. I continued, “By the time the grievance hearing is over, administrators and other faculty will see you as mean-spirited and bigoted because a colleague dared to disagree with you. You’ll be seen as narrow-minded bullies.”

That stopped them.

“Meredith, for God’s sake,” said Edwin.

The pain was almost gone. I hardened. “Look, gentlemen, the schoolyard bullshit has gone on long enough. I am willing to preside over a civil argument about curriculum. But this pissing contest has to stop.”

“Or what?” This from George, one hand on the door.

“Or two things will happen. One, Coleman will be tenured by the university because his school is too dysfunctional to do it properly.”

They waited a moment. “And two?”

“You’ll discover whether or not I really am The Red Queen.”