WEDNESDAY 12:05PM
“Hey, are you okay?” Mike’s voice rattled inside Jerry’s head.
Jerry lifted his head from the pillow. That tiny effort sent the room spinning. “Not really. I feel like the bottom of a birdcage.”
“I can see why.” Mike stooped and picked up the Jack Daniels bottle. “It says right on the label it’s a sipping whiskey. You’re not supposed to guzzle the whole thing.”
“I’m pretty sure I spilled about a third on the floor.” Jerry’s stomach rumbled ominously. “Hold on.” He rolled off the bed, half staggered to his trashcan, and vomited.
“Uh, I’ll let you be. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.” Mike closed the door.
Jerry spent the next five minutes kneeling over the trashcan. This was it: he wasn’t getting drunk again. Ever. Sure, he told himself the same thing before. But this time was different.
A knock at the door.
“Come in.”
The door swung open. Talia, hair down, in an olive-green t-shirt, ripped and faded jeans, and sandals, entered. She held two glasses. She knelt and handed Jerry one glass. “This is water. You need to rehydrate.”
Jerry sipped, then gulped.
Talia put a hand to the glass. “Not too fast.”
When Jerry was done, he set the glass down. She handed him the second drink, a lumpy reddish-orange liquid.
Jerry sniffed. “What’s this?”
“My grandpa’s hangover cure.”
He couldn’t place the smell. “What’s in it?”
“You don’t want to know. But it works wonders. Saved Ronnie and me big time after we partied too hard the night before our SATs.”
Jerry sipped. Not bad. Did he taste tomatoes? Cherries? Beets? Where could Talia have gotten beets on short notice? He swallowed the contents without taking a breath and handed it back to Talia. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“No problem. One glass should cure what ails you but let me know if you think you need more.” Talia grabbed the empty glasses, exited the room, and closed the door.
* * *
Dr. Janelle Thornton-Gaston, EdD scrolled through her inbox. Questions from the Alumni Association. Concerns from the Fundraising Committee. Updates from Media Relations. She wasn’t in the mood to reply to any of them.
Her phone rang. Not the office line, her iPhone. Area code 912. Georgia.
She took a deep breath and answered. “Doctor Thornton-Gaston.”
“Janelle! Hey, it’s Marty Reisinger from the search committee.” Reisinger’s accent so thick you could almost taste the boiled peanuts.
Janelle felt her heart skip a beat. Good news or bad? “Hello, Marty. What can I do for you?”
“Janelle, I was watching CNN this morning and wanted to reach out to you.”
“It’s a heartbreaking situation. The entire Van Buren community is grieving. I’ve taken the leading—”
The intercom on the desk buzzed. “Excuse me, Dr. Thornton-Gaston. Chief Characopus is here to see you.”
The chancellor held the phone to her chest and jammed the intercom button. “You tell the chief to cool his heels, I’m busy!”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the chastened reply.
Back to the phone. “Sorry about that, Marty. Where were we?”
“The tragedies. Simply dreadful. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that certain members of the search committee were already troubled by recent...events on your campus. And with this latest—”
“Marty, let me assure you and the committee that everything at Van Buren is completely in hand. We will overcome these challenges and emerge stronger than ever. Plus, I’m about to announce a bold new Diversity, Inclusion, and Equity initiative that is sure to attract plaudits from all the right people. I’d love to send you and the committee a copy of my plan.”
“Uh, I’m not sure that’s necessary, Janelle.”
“Are you sure? Because I’ve got some groundbreaking—”
“Actually, I need to be going.”
“Thanks, Marty. Keep in touch.”
The abrupt end to the call worried Thornton-Gaston. She buzzed the intercom. “Bonnie, send in Chief Characopus.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The chief in his black dress uniform entered the room, nodded, and took a seat. “Janelle.”
“George, tell me something good.”
The chief exhaled loudly. “The sheriff believes Johnson acted alone in the murder of Professor Harding, then took his own life. Classic murder-suicide.”
“Do they know why? Some sort of lover’s quarrel?”
The chief shook his head. “I don’t think so. The detectives are still tying up the loose ends, but there’s a connection between Johnson’s sister, Peggy, and Professor Harding. The theory is that Johnson blames Harding for his sister’s death. She died on campus back in 1984.”
Thornton-Gaston frowned. “In 1984? Don’t tell me.”
“Yeah, that was part of what the Williams kid was going on about with the bad luck, and—”
“Stop right there.” The chancellor jabbed her finger at the chief. “Don’t you start with that bad luck nonsense. That reminds me. I have to follow up with Maureen about where we are in getting that TRO lifted.” The chancellor scribbled a note to herself.
“I’m just saying Williams may have been on to something. According to my sources, he was the one who found Johnson’s body. As for Professor Harding, not to speak ill of the dead, but she was a strange old bird. Who knows what’s really going on? There are more things in Heaven and Earth than—”
“I don’t want to hear recycled Shakespeare. I want you to restore some order on campus.”
“Yes, Doctor.” The chief rose with stiff formality and left the room.
Janelle tapped her pen against her desk. Things on campus couldn’t be allowed to get any worse. She was certain her candidacy for the Presidency of South Georgia Coastal College couldn’t take one more hit.
* * *
Jerry stood under the shower, for how long he wasn’t sure, willing the water to wash away the pain and nausea. When his fingers wrinkled, he killed the water and toweled off. He shaved, brushed his teeth, and dressed in a purple-and-white striped rugby shirt and jeans. He walked into the main room, where he found Talia and Mike camped on the couch playing a video game.
Jerry plopped into an empty chair.
Talia laid down her controller and looked at Jerry. “Feeling better?”
“Actually yes. Your cure really works.”
She winked. “Told ya.”
Mike paused the game. “What happened last night? You never missed class before. And the only time I remember you drunk was at the Tri-Delt’s Meltdown Party during Rush Week freshman year.” He turned to Talia. “Jerry decided to play Superman, used a plastic tablecloth as a cape, and jumped off the roof. He landed face first in the hedge.”
Talia giggled. “Is there video of that?”
“Nope. It’s completely deleted from the Internet. Don’t bother looking.”
Mike pointed at Jerry. “You still didn’t answer my question.”
Jerry recounted breaking into Professor Johnson’s house, finding his body, and their interrogation at the police station. “Darla was really pissed at me. And I sort of don’t blame her.” He pulled out his phone and powered it up. No calls or texts from her. “With all the pressure I’ve been under, plus finding an actual dead body, the interrogation, Darla. I felt like I needed to...I don’t know, do something.”
“Getting drunk isn’t the answer.”
Jerry turned on his radio announcer’s voice. “College roommate sounds like After School Special.”
Mike shrugged. “I’m just saying that whatever was bothering you yesterday will still be here today.”
“I get that.” He glanced at Talia. “Have you talked to Darla today?”
Talia pressed her lips into a thin line and didn’t answer.
“That bad?”
Talia blew out her breath. “I don’t want to get in the middle of things. And yeah, Darla was not herself at breakfast. When I mentioned your name, I thought she was going to burst into flames. But she didn’t go into details. I have no idea where things stand between you two. She gave her shoulders an exaggerated shrug.
“Thanks. Maybe it’ll blow over in a couple days.” Jerry paused. “I hope.”
Talia stood and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge.
“This is the first time I haven’t seen you guys hunched over the jammer.”
Mike smiled. “All finished.”
“We’ve got a rechargeable battery that will last close to three hours.” Talia held up three fingers. “And I experimented with adding more frequencies, but I guess that doesn’t much matter any longer.”
“What are you talking about?” Jerry protested. “We still need it to block the magic and bad luck.”
“This isn’t over? But you found Professor Johnson’s body.”
“Too many unanswered questions. And it looks like I’m the only one interested in them. I’ll see you guys later.” Jerry grabbed his laptop and headed to the university library.
In the periodical section, he picked up a print copy of The Chronicle. Laurie’s article on Professor Harding’s death confirmed what Darla learned from Billy the deputy: three shots, small caliber handgun, no witnesses, about 1:40 p.m. No mention of Professor Johnson’s death, which he expected. The news broke after The Chronicle’s deadline.
He booted up his laptop. The Underground had the article he’d written yesterday afternoon about Professor Harding’s career, but nothing new on her death or on Professor Johnson. Jerry wondered if Rachel even knew about it. Her mom did say the conversation in the interrogation room was privileged. Did that mean she didn’t tell her daughter that Professor Johnson was dead?
Jerry launched the website for The Whig. A headline in forty-eight-point font screamed: “Two Van Buren Profs Dead.”
The story by Mitchell Grant didn’t include any news that Jerry didn’t already know. Professor Harding was shot to death in her office on campus yesterday afternoon. And two Van Buren students were credited with discovering Professor Johnson’s body. He and Darla weren’t mentioned by name, nor was their illegal break-in of the house. The article didn’t cite the note Jerry found or hint at a connection between the two deaths.
Questions consumed Jerry. Were all the bad luck deaths a result of Professor Johnson’s despair over Peggy’s death? And if so, why target other students? What about his disappearance at the end of his class?
And what was Jerry going to do? He was banned from The Chronicle. If he kept writing for The Underground, would the chancellor ease up? Maybe if Jerry had no more stories about bad luck. But he wouldn’t stop telling the truth. Something he wrote would undoubtedly incur her wrath. Could Rachel and her dad protect him in the future?
Or was best to forget about reporting for a while and focus on—
Darla!
He had mercifully put her out of his mind for the past twenty minutes, but the events of last night flooded his mind. The hole in his heart returned. He grabbed his phone and called her, but it went straight to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. Instead, he texted her.
Thirty seconds. No reply.
Still no response.
He stared at the phone, willing a text from her to appear. But it never arrived.
Jerry needed to get his mind off Darla. He contacted his friends from the classes he missed, got copies of their notes and assignments, and buried himself with homework.
After finishing his assignments, he logged into The Whig archives. He found the story reporting the deaths of the three football players from December 1983. None were locals. He jotted down their names. Maybe Rachel and her databases could locate their families, but he wasn’t sure what questions to ask.
Close to six, he called Rachel. “I’m not sure what your mom could or did tell you.”
Rachel chuckled. “Yeah, she’s a real stickler for attorney-client privilege. But I saw the article in The Whig and pieced things together.”
“Darla and I found Professor Johnson’s body and a note where he confessed to Professor Harding’s murder, the carnage on campus. All of it.”
“Good work.”
“Eventually, someone would have discovered the body and the note. It’s not like anything I did made a difference.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself?”
Jerry sighed. “A bit. Darla didn’t react well to being arrested. We’re kind of on the outs.”
“You’ll be fine. Plenty of other fish. Maybe we could grab dinner sometime.”
Was she asking him out as his editor? Or something more? Rachel was cute, but a little nutty with the privacy. “Yeah, sure, sometime.”
“Let me know. Are you going to write an article wrapping this all up?”
“I don’t think it is all wrapped up. I have lots of unanswered questions, but I don’t have anyone to ask. I could go back to Saratoga and talk to Mr. Wysocki. You could rundown relatives of the football players who died in ‘83.” Jerry gave Rachel the names.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.” Jerry ended the call. He checked his email and texts. Still no word from Darla. But he would not let her end things like this. If they were through, she’d have to tell him to his face.