The Skeleton Takes a Bow Page 5

  As I continued to sort, somebody came up behind me and said, “Dr. Thackery, you’re looking well today.”

  I turned to see who it was. “Thank you, Dr. Peyton. You’re looking pretty natty yourself.”

  History adjunct Charles Peyton was in fact one of the more nattily dressed men of my acquaintance. Though he made no more money than the rest of us adjuncts, he once told me that buying classic clothes of quality is actually more frugal than buying cheap and trendy. What he didn’t tell me, but which I discovered for myself, was that squatting in unoccupied offices was a swell way to save money, too. He went to great lengths to conceal that fact, both because he was embarrassed by it and because he could lose his job if it were found out.

  I noticed an accessory Charles didn’t usually sport. “Why the black armband?”

  “Haven’t you heard? We lost one of our own over the weekend. Patty Craft succumbed to her illness.”

  Sara Weiss, an adjunct in biology who’d never heard a piece of gossip she didn’t like, had walked up as we were speaking and piped up with, “Yeah, mental illness. She killed herself.”

  Charles looked vexed. “It is my understanding that the authorities have yet to determine the precise cause of death. For all they know, it was the cancer from which she’d been suffering. Or perhaps she accidentally ingested too much of her medication.”

  Sara snorted and went inside the office.

  “An overdose?” I said. “I think I heard something about that.” Craft’s death had to be the one that Deborah had been talking about Saturday night. “I didn’t know she taught at McQuaid.”

  “Actually, she wasn’t currently employed here. She was an adjunct in the Mathematics Department for several years, but was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer perhaps a year and a half ago. She managed to keep teaching for a while, but I suspect her work wasn’t up to its previous standards. So she hadn’t been offered any classes since the last summer semester.”

  That meant she and I hadn’t intersected—I’d started at McQuaid partway through the fall.

  “She had insurance, but it was minimal, and between her expenses and not being able to work, she’d been having a very difficult time these past few months. Frankly, I’m not sure how she managed to keep her bills paid.” He hesitated. “I’m not saying that she did take an excess of medication intentionally, but if she had, I would find it difficult to censure her.”

  I nodded. I carried insurance, both for myself and for Madison, but keeping up the premiums was sometimes a strain.

  “I’ve been letting people know about the arrangements, but I don’t suppose you would care to attend the funeral, since you didn’t know her.”

  “When is it?” I asked.

  “Thursday morning. Patty’s sister Phoebe is her only living relative, and she can’t get here any sooner.”

  “Sure, I’ll go. Police and firefighters will travel halfway across the country to honor one of their fallen brethren. I think I can manage a drive across town.”

  We made plans to meet beforehand, then went into the office.

  The room we adjuncts called home was large, but not nearly large enough for privacy. It was filled to the bursting point with rows of mismatched desks, squeaky chairs, and other hand-me-downs from when the offices of tenured faculty and loftier administrative personnel were redecorated and upgraded.

  My own spot was against a wall near the door, which would have been a prime location if Sara’s desk weren’t right in front of mine. Her constant presence scared most people off, but I hadn’t had many choices when I picked my spot, and that one was the best available. I didn’t like the woman—she was nosy and vindictive—but with practice, I’d learned to ignore her most of the time. Sadly, I’d had worse office neighbors.

  I started grading the late homework assignments—one-page responses to a reading about Freud’s influence—while Charles made his way through the office, telling people about his friend’s death and when the funeral would be.

  Sara sniffed loudly and said, “I hope Charles doesn’t expect me to go to his girlfriend’s funeral.”

  Had it been anybody else speaking, I’d have asked what she meant by “girlfriend,” but not with Sara. For one, I didn’t want to encourage her, and for another, I knew that she’d spill any dirt she had anyway.

  Sure enough, a minute later she said, “Of course he claims they were just colleagues, but I used to see them coming to work together in the morning.” She raised her brows. “Early in the morning, if you know what I mean.”

  Our dog Byron would have known what she meant. “Was she married?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Neither is Charles, and both were adults. You’re a biologist—why would you think this was odd?”

  “Well, if it wasn’t odd, why won’t he admit it?”

  “You could ask him.”

  That was far too direct for Sara. “I wonder if it was because she was so much younger than he was. I don’t really know how old she was, but she sure dressed like a kid—if I hadn’t known she was an adjunct, I’d have thought she was a freshman. I always think that it should be possible to tell a professor from a student at first glance.”

  She certainly lived by that credo. No student on campus would have been caught dead in the long skirts she wore with black oxfords. I had no idea where she got those blouses with the bow collars—she must be hunting them down at vintage stores.

  “The only thing worse than the way some professors dress,” she said, “is the way some students dress.”

  I looked up to see what had provoked such an emphatic sneer.

  Standing just outside the doorway and peering in was a young woman in a black miniskirt with chain trim, a black jean jacket, and Doc Martens. Her hair was precisely the shade of the red in her red-and-black-checked stockings—in other words, a color never found on human heads without chemical assistance.

  “Yo?” I said. It wasn’t a vain attempt at street cred—Yo was her name, short for Yolanda. She was a graduate student in anthropology I’d met during the fall semester when I’d needed somebody to examine Sid’s bones.

  She was looking considerably less frazzled than the last time I’d seen her, which I calculated to mean that she’d nearly finished her dissertation but was still in rewrites. I’d been around enough grad students to be able to make fairly fine distinctions with a high degree of accuracy.

  “Hey, Georgia.” She came in and looked around the room with a disdainful expression surprisingly similar to Sara’s. “So this is your office.”

  “Mine and many others’. Welcome to the adjunct corral—our home away from home.”

  “Yeah, right. Look, can I pick your brain about something?”

  “Sure.”

  She looked around the office. “Maybe somewhere more private?”

  “I was going to get lunch anyway. Hamburger Haven?”

  “Suits me.”

  I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed the look of disappointment on Sara’s face when I gathered up my belongings without saying anything else to Yo, but I really did.

  After we got our burgers, fries, and sodas from the counter, we found a table in the corner where we could talk without being overheard.

  Once my burger had been enhanced appropriately with mustard, I said, “So what can I do for you?”

  “What do you know about grants for attending conferences?”

  “I know that most of us would give our eyeteeth for one, but they’re getting harder and harder to land. I hope this means you’re one of the lucky ones.”

  “You tell me.” She reached into her backpack and handed me a piece of paper to read.

  Dear Ms. Jacobs,

  The Sandra Sechrest Foundation has funding available for graduate students to attend academic conferences as part of their academic growth and to facilitate their se
arch for employment. If you would like to meet and discuss this opportunity, and whether or not you are eligible, please call this phone number.

  Best regards,

  Ethan Frisenda

  “Have you ever heard of the Sechrest Foundation?” Yo asked.

  “No, but if it’s for forensic anthropology grad students, I wouldn’t have.”

  “It’s not. Some buds of mine got the same letter. One was in history, one in women’s studies, and another in English.”

  “Did you Google them?”

  She gave me a look that plainly said, If I could have found out what I need by Googling, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you. “They have a site, but there’s nothing there but the same kind of spiel as in this letter.”

  “Sorry, Yo. I’ve never heard anything about this. It sounds kind of hinky to me.”

  “Yeah, my spider sense went off, too, but I was hoping I was wrong. There’s a couple of conferences coming up where I could do some serious networking, maybe get a job nailed down right away so I don’t end up in that corral where you have to hang out. No offense.”

  “None taken. If I could swing a tenure job, I’d be on it like white on rice.”

  “But you don’t think this is legit?”

  “I think it’s a case of the old saying ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.’ Though it probably wouldn’t hurt to make the call, see what they say.”

  She shrugged and shoved the letter back into her backpack. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t help. I’ll ask around back at the corral, see if anybody else has heard of it.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  We went on to chat about other things, which was a little awkward because we really didn’t know each other that well, but finding common ground in our admiration of the works of Joss Whedon carried us through lunch. Then Yo headed her way, and I headed off to attend my office hours.

  Given the overly open nature of the adjunct office, and the fact that my parents were on sabbatical, I’d taken to using my mother’s office for anything that was better done in private. I could have used that office for all my personal chores, but if one is living the adjunct lifestyle, it behooves one to maintain relationships with as many other adjuncts as possible because one never knows where a job tip will come from. Besides, I didn’t want to get overly accustomed to the accoutrements of a tenured professor—it would make going back to my adjunct corral all the more difficult.

  Thanks to their long tenure at McQuaid, my parents had adjoining offices, with a door between them. When I’d first arrived on campus, I’d used both offices, but a few months back I’d handed over my father’s to Charles to squat in. He’d had to vacate his previous place after the rightful owner returned from maternity leave, and I’d known him long enough to know that he wouldn’t snoop, and when he moves out of an office, he leaves it cleaner than when he found it.

  I still had a few minutes before students started showing up, so when I heard movement from next door, I knocked on the adjoining door. Charles answered as promptly as if he’d been waiting for me.

  “Dr. Thackery, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’d like to consult you about something, if you’ve got a minute.”

  “Of course.”

  “A grad student I know got a letter from a group called the Sechrest Foundation. They’re inviting people to apply for grants for conferences. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “Had you asked me just a few hours ago, I would have answered in the negative, but just today Dr. Goodwin mentioned that she’d received a similar letter.”

  “She’s in your department, isn’t she?”

  Charles nodded. “Her period is Colonial America.”

  “Interesting. My friend is in anthro, and she says grad students in other departments got letters, too. You didn’t get one, did you?”

  “Not as of today. And you?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe it’s a new foundation. Is Dr. Goodwin going to call them?”

  “She wasn’t sure—like your friend, she was hoping to learn more about the organization first.”

  “We’re a cautious bunch, aren’t we? Let me know if you hear anything else about them, okay?”

  “With pleasure.”

  There was a knock on the other door to my office, the one leading to the hallway. “Students await,” I said. “Any bets on how many will be asking for extra credit?” There were always students who spent more time begging extra credit than they would have spent doing a decent job on the original assignments.

  “This late in the semester . . .” He rubbed his chin speculatively. “I would venture forty percent, plus or minus five percent.”

  “I’m betting it’ll be more like sixty, but that’s only because I saw the last batch of grades. Whoever is furthest away brings doughnuts tomorrow?”

  “It’s a wager.”

  We shook hands, and I went on to my meetings. When the last student left, I told Charles that I wanted mine chocolate iced, with sprinkles.

  10

  Madison must have been hungry that night. By the time I got home, she had thawed out some stew we’d frozen a couple of weeks back and had rice ready to serve. She hadn’t done anything with the salad fixings that had also been intended for the night’s meal, but I wasn’t about to criticize her. It might discourage her from doing it again.

  I was glad when Sid joined us at the table, even though I knew he’d be slipping illicit scraps to Byron again, because it was the first chance I’d had to talk to him about what he’d overheard at PHS. I had checked my phone several times during the day, and there had been no messages, but since he’d promised to text only in case of emergency, I still had high hopes. “So what was the scoop at school today? Did you hear anything?”

  “I heard so much I was afraid I’d forget stuff,” he said. “Tomorrow I’m taking a pad and pencil with me.”

  “Well?”

  “First off, Dante and Mina broke up.”

  “You’re kidding!” Madison said. “They were such a cute couple.”

  “I know, right? But she said he wasn’t paying enough attention to her. She texted him Friday night, and he didn’t reply until Saturday morning, so she knows he was out with somebody else.”

  “Maybe he went over his texting limit.”

  “The perennial problem of the age,” I put in.

  Sid went on. “No, because he texted Nikko Saturday afternoon to check on a homework assignment, which proves he still had minutes. So she texted him that night and broke up.”

  “That’s harsh!” Madison said. “The least she could do was to break up in person.”

  “It gets worse,” he said. “They were both invited to a party Saturday night, and she took another guy.”

  “You’re kidding! Did Dante freak?”

  “He would have, but he was with Rhonda. So apparently he was seeing her all along.”

  “Wow,” Madison said. “What else?”

  “Tristan wants to quit the softball team because he really doesn’t like it and he feels tired all the time trying to keep up the schedule, but his father says he needs a sport on his high school resume to get into college.”

  “Mom! Do I need a sport?”

  “You have drama and choral ensemble, plus a part-time job with your aunt and good grades. You’re fine.”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell Tristan,” Sid said, “but under the circumstances . . .”

  “Anything else?” I said impatiently.

  “One of the teachers is sneaking out every chance she gets to smoke. I couldn’t see which one it was, but I could smell the smoke on her when she came back. Just tobacco, though.”

  “That’s Ms. Gilstrap,” Madison said. “We all can smell it on her, so it’s no secret, and everybody knows
she’s trying to quit.”

  “Good for her. Anyway, that’s all I got while in the locker. When I was backstage I heard Becca on the phone telling somebody that she’s having second thoughts about casting Holly as Ophelia because she isn’t sure she’s up to it.”

  “I could have told her that,” Madison muttered.

  “And I didn’t see who it was, but somebody was doing some serious kissing in the dressing room while you guys were doing act four.”

  “Really? Now I’ve got to think about who’s not in that act.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, “though this is undoubtedly valuable information, can we focus on whether or not you heard anything that might apply to the murder?”

  “Well, we don’t really know what could be important, do we?” Sid said defensively.

  “Did any of the voices you heard sound like the murderer? Or the person who came to help the murderer get rid of the body?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Was there any mention of anybody being missing? Like a teacher or any other adult who didn’t come in to work?”

  “No.”

  “Then how likely is it that any of this gossip is meaningful?”

  “It’s a lot more likely than a walking, talking skeleton.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Tell you what. Write it all up tonight so we can keep track of everything.”

  “Can I create a spreadsheet? Or would a database be better? Maybe a word processing file with tags, or—”

  “However you like.”

  “Oh boy,” he said, rubbing his bony hands together in anticipation. Then he gave me a look. “You’re not just assigning this as busywork, are you?”

  “Maybe a little, but the fact is we know so little now that we can’t afford to ignore anything. If you get it all down, we might find a pattern later.” I didn’t know if that made sense from an investigative perspective, but the technique had worked pretty well in the past when I was working on research papers.