Murder is an Art (6 page)

“But of course under the drape she was nude.”

“That's right. But there was nothing vulgar about it.”

“So you say,” Fieldstone said. “But both Ms. Thompson and her husband are quite upset. They're considering pressing charges against you. And against the school.”

Sally felt almost sorry for Fieldstone. The most frightening word to any college administrator these days was
lawsuit.
Combined with a falling enrollment and financial problems, a lawsuit could prove a nearly crippling blow to the school.

Val sat forward on the couch. “But that's ridiculous. I did nothing that anyone could find offensive. I swear it.”

“You might have to swear it,” Fieldstone said. “In a court of law.”

“I think Val and I should hear what Ms. Thompson and her husband have to say about this,” Sally said. “It's only right that Val have a chance to hear their story and tell them his side of things.”

“I'll see if I can arrange that,” Fieldstone said. “Mr. Hurley, are you sure that Ms. Thompson made no comment to you about your actions at any time during her last sitting?”

“I'm absolutely sure. She seemed very pleased with the way things were going.”

“I see. And she never objected to your fondling her?”

“I object to that word,” Sally said. “You're acting as if Val has been proven guilty.”

To Sally's surprise, Fieldstone said, “You're right. This isn't something for me to make a judgment on without a thorough investigation. As Mr. Hurley's immediate superior, you will have to talk to the Thompsons and bring them together with Mr. Hurley.”

Sally had been afraid that he might suggest something like that. “May I ask Dean Naylor to assist me?”

“That might be a good idea,” Fieldstone said.

Sally certainly thought so. Naylor was as slick as ice, and he would be able to deal with the Thompsons and Val in a way that would make both sides feel better about things.

“I'd suggest that you meet as soon as possible,” Fieldstone said.

He opened a desk drawer and took out a piece of paper. Sally could see that there was something typed on it, and Fieldstone looked at it for a few seconds before handing it to her.

“Here are the Thompsons' phone number and address,” he said. “Give them a call as soon as possible.”

“I can't believe this is happening,” Val said. “I just can't believe it.”

Fieldstone leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“You'd better,” he said.

8

Sally went back to her office and closed the door. She sat at her cluttered desk and tried to think about the composition papers that she had to grade, but she knew that she wouldn't be grading any more of them that day. She would never be able to concentrate.

She had spent a few minutes with Val after they'd left Fieldstone's office, and he'd pleaded with her to believe in his innocence.

“I know it was wrong to do the painting,” he said. “But I did nothing anything else that was wrong. I never touched Ms. Thompson in a lewd way. I never even thought about doing a thing like that. If she says I did, she's lying.”

“Why would she lie about something like that, Val?” Sally asked.

Val's shoulders slumped. “I don't know. I can't understand it. She seemed so happy to be doing this for her husband, and now she's accusing me of something I didn't do. Surely you know me well enough to know I'd never do a thing like that.”

Sally wanted to reassure him, but she couldn't. She'd heard that he had been dating Vera Vaughn recently, and she had the feeling that anyone who dated Vera would do just about anything.

But that was a truly uncharitable thought, and she regretted having it. To make amends, she said, “I hope that you wouldn't, Val. Maybe it's just some kind of misunderstanding.”

She didn't really believe this, but it was the only thing she could think of that might make Val feel a little better.

“Whatever happened,” she said, “we'll get to the bottom of it.”

And speaking of bottoms, she wondered uncharitably just exactly where Val had touched Tammi. She didn't know how to ask him, however. It was a hard question to put delicately. What could she say? Somehow, “Did you grab her ass, Val?” didn't seem properly genteel.

So what she said was, “I hope that when Tammi and her husband come up for their meeting with us, we find out that there's just been some kind of communications breakdown.”

“That must be it,” Val said. “It has to be. A communications breakdown. A misunderstanding. That's it, all right. Tammi—Ms. Thompson—must have misinterpreted something I did, though I don't see how. Anyway, we'll get it all straightened out when we talk to her. I'm sure of it.”

He hadn't
sounded
sure, Sally thought, sitting at her desk and staring at the disarray that covered it. Well, in a situation like this, there was only one thing to do.

She'd go home and get her pistol.

*   *   *

Hughes Community College was located at the intersection of Texas Highways 6 and 288, just a few miles from downtown Houston. The town of Hughes stretched up and down both highways in all four directions from the intersection, and most of the faculty lived near the campus. When Sally reached her red Acura Integra in the parking lot, she was only five minutes from her front door. Four if she was in a hurry.

One reason for the college's financial difficulties was that Houston had not grown in the direction everyone had anticipated. Highway 288 had seemed like a natural corridor for growth, especially after it had been widened in the late 1980s. But Houston had expanded in every direction except toward Hughes. Some in the town regarded this as a blessing, but not those involved with the college, which desperately needed to expand its tax base to keep up with its ever-increasing costs.

And, of course, one reason why Fieldstone wanted to avoid a lawsuit was that a juicy scandal, especially one involving improper conduct with a student, would cause many of Hughes's conservative parents to see to it that their sons and daughters went to some other school, causing an immediate drop in enrollment at Hughes.

To Sally's way of thinking, there were all too many other schools in the area, making it too easy for students to get an education elsewhere. Community-college extension campuses were springing up everywhere in the schools' attempts to increase their enrollment and, by doing so, to get more state funding. Just a short drive from Hughes would take students to college classes in Alvin, Brazosport, Sugar Land, Houston, Galveston, or Texas City.

So Sally understood Fieldstone's desire to get Val's case settled. Even something like the painting of the goat, as ridiculous as the idea of its Satanic implications seemed to Sally, could cause trouble.

She turned the Integra into her driveway and punched the garage-door opener. The door slid up with an annoying metallic squeal, which Sally was sure meant that the foundation of her house was shifting, a common problem in the area and one that sometimes resulted in the need for expensive repairs.

She hoped that she could avoid both the repairs and the expense because she had other expenses to worry about. The house needed a new roof, and a fresh coat of paint wouldn't hurt it, either. And new carpet would be nice.

She got out of the car and went inside the house, where she was greeted by Lola, the meanest cat west of the Mississippi—and possibly east of the Mississippi as well. Lola was a large calico, three years old, and possessed of all the charm of Attila the Hun.

Most cats liked to be rubbed and petted. Not Lola. She seemed to resent any attempt to touch her and would snarl and snap at anyone who tried, except Sally, and even Sally could get close only on rare occasions.

This wasn't one of them. As soon as Lola saw Sally come through the door, she hissed and ran through the breakfast area into the den, where she scooted under a lamp table and hid.

Sally opened a cabinet and took out a box of kitty treats. When Sally shook the box, Lola slipped out from beneath the table and zoomed back to Sally at something only slightly slower than the speed of light. While she didn't relate well to people, Lola had never met a kitty treat she didn't like.

Sally tossed a treat into the air. Lola caught it on the fly, and then settled to the floor to crunch on it.

“I hope you enjoy it,” Sally said. “It's your limit for the day.”

Another thing about Lola was that she was, in Sally's words, “slightly overweight.” The vet had put it differently at Lola's last checkup and had given Sally a pamphlet about the dangers facing overweight pets.

“You have to put your cat on a diet,” the vet told Sally. “It's for her own good.”

Sally had tried her best, but Lola could be very demanding where food was concerned. In six weeks, she had lost perhaps a pound, which was good news. But her disposition had not improved.

Sally went into her bedroom and opened the top middle drawer of her dresser. Where other women might have kept nightgowns or slinky underwear, she kept a burgundy carrying case that held a Smith & Wesson Model 36, the Ladysmith. It had a three-inch barrel and rosewood grips.

Lola, having devoured her treat and for once deciding to be sociable, followed Sally into the room. She stood on her hind legs and put her front legs on the drawer, stretching her neck as she tried to see inside.

“Get down,” Sally said. “This is none of your business.”

She slid the drawer closed, and Lola lowered her front legs to the floor, gave Sally a disgusted look, and left the room, probably to shred the furniture or claw a hole in the already worn carpeting.

Sally put the gun case on top of the dresser and opened it. The pistol was there, looking rigidly lethal and smelling of gun oil. Sally closed the case and went into the kitchen, where she opened a can of tuna. It was dolphin-free, according to the label, though she supposed you could never be sure.

The sound of the can opener brought Lola running, and the smell of the tuna excited her so much that she actually rubbed against Sally's ankles and purred.

“All right,” Sally said, “but just a little.”

She gave Lola some of the tuna in a blue plastic bowl, and ate some herself, on lettuce.

She rinsed off her plate and put it in the dishwasher; then she went and got the pistol.

“See you later, Lo,” she said as she left.

Lola, who was stretched out on a throw rug by the table, didn't bother to answer.

9

Sally parked in one of the faculty spaces by the Law Enforcement Building and went through a heavy steel door in the side of the building away from the classrooms. The door led into the firing range.

Several years earlier, Sally had taken a handgun safety course, more or less on a whim, and had discovered that not only was she a naturally good shot but she also liked guns.

She had never owned a gun, and she had not come from a family of gun owners. In fact, before taking the course, she had never fired a pistol or a rifle in her life. She still hadn't fired a rifle, but she had become skilled with a pistol.

At first, she had simply rented one of the pistols available at the range, but after a while she had decided that she wanted to own her own gun. The Ladysmith, which was supposedly small and light and built for a woman, actually weighed only about half an ounce less than the Chief's Special, but the grips seemed to fit her hand better and she liked the rosewood. So she bought the Ladysmith.

With the three-inch barrel, it was a little more accurate at a distance than the same gun with the two-inch barrel was, but it still wasn't exactly a target pistol. That didn't bother Sally, who wasn't interested in competition shooting. Not yet, at any rate. She was perfectly happy to be blasting away at the sinister outline on the paper targets controlled by the rangemaster. It was a wonderful way to relieve the frustrations of a hard day, even better than her aerobics class.

The only other person on the range when Sally arrived was the rangemaster for the day, Sergeant Tom Clancey. That was one reason she liked going in right after lunch. There was usually no one there at that time.

Clancey was one of the young officers employed by Campus Security. He greeted Sally with a wave and a smile.

Sally got her shooting glasses and ear protection from a small locker, put on the glasses, and fitted the earmufflike plastic coverings over her head. Then she got her pistol out of its case and took up her position on the firing line. Clancey put the target through its paces, running it from the back of the range toward her, flipping it from side to front, running it backward, and stopping it at five, ten, fifteen, and twenty-five yards.

Sally blasted away, five shots at a time. Each time she reloaded, she was careful to observe range etiquette even though no one else was around. She believed in the virtues of discipline.

When she was through shooting, a thin haze of smoke hung in the air, and Sally could smell the sharp odor of cordite. She took off her ear protection, and Sergeant Clancey ran the target up for her to examine. He came out of the booth for a look as well.

All the holes were in the black, most of them clustered in the area of the chest, though a few of them strayed toward the head and stomach.

“You should hang that on your garage door,” Sergeant Clancey said. “The burglars would give your place a wide berth.”

“I don't think I could shoot a burglar if one ever showed up,” Sally said.

“That's why you hang up the target. Discourage them so you won't have to shoot them.”

“I don't think so,” Sally said. “Just put it in the recycling box.”

She went to the booth to put her pistol back in the case.

“You might be surprised what you could do if you did have someone break into your house,” Sergeant Clancey said. “You're a really good shot.”