The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (14 page)

“I feel as if I’ve known you for years,” she said turning to face him. She crossed her legs and a quiet moan slipped from his throat.

“And why is that?”

“Everyone likes to talk about you.”

He folded his hands on his lap. “I hope they are saying good things about me, but I fear not.”

Her eyebrows gathered. “Why would you think that? From what I’ve heard, you’re a respected professor who is liked by your colleagues and students. You have a history of helping the police with difficult investigations.”

“And still you consider cutting my position.”

She leaned toward him and whispered. “I’m afraid there are many jobs that may be cut. Assistant Dean Van Adams has been helping me review each position at the school.”

“Do you intend to act on his recommendations?”

Her right hand slid over his and she made eye contact before saying, “I know you and Van Adams don’t get along.”

The top of his hand tingled where she touched him. He resisted the urge to kiss her. “Dean Tolliver, I—”

“Jennifer.”

He cleared his throat. “Jennifer, it is no secret that I do not get along with Van Adams, but I have never let that interfere with my job.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Her right eyebrow arched. “What is your first name anyway?”

“Mister.”

She sighed. “Van Adams said you could be esoteric.”

“A big word from such a tiny brain.”

She rolled her eyes. “I should lock you both in a room and not let you out until you’ve made peace.”

“Dueling pistols would work better.”

“Are you always this way?”

“Irritating, yes?”

“Let me think on that a while.” She pulled back her hand. “Our budget problems put me in a tough position. I do believe Dean Harris is leaving at an opportune time. You see, the government is shoving science and math down our throats.”

“The world has enough scientists. What it needs are more poets. Scientists create weapons of mass destruction. Poets create beauty in a world that is starved for it.”

“Well said. Unfortunately, ancient mythology has nothing to do with poetry and some people consider your class expendable.”

“Some people, as in Van Adams.” He cupped a hand around the back of his neck and massaged tired muscles. “Perhaps he is right. Perhaps I have no purpose here.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” he said, “but as the saying goes, the writing is on the wall, is it not? Van Adams has wanted to get rid of me for years.”

Her lips pressed into a flat line as she considered him with a questioning stare. “My evaluation is ongoing. No one, and I mean no one, is going to rush me into making a decision that affects another person’s life.”

Her words made him smile inwardly. Perhaps there was hope of keeping his job, not that he needed the income. He’d acquired a small fortune over the centuries in a number of lucrative ventures, most of them legal, and invested his profits wisely. He began by importing Tulip bulbs before the craze swept through Western Europe, and moved next to horses and cattle. In America, he dabbled in real estate, bootlegging, and oil. The real trick was keeping the money hidden from the authorities, most notably the IRS.

“You should sit in on my class sometime,” he said. “You might enjoy learning about ancient cultures. Then you will see how little humanity has advanced through the years. We have technology, but we also have religious ignorance and intolerance. We can cure deadly diseases, while allowing millions to die from starvation. I sometimes wonder if reverse evolution is taking place and one day we will all wake up as monkeys. Look at poor Van Adams, he is already halfway there.”

She chuckled softly and turned to hide the blush in her cheeks. “You are positively awful.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

She touched the base of her throat and took a deep breath that caused her breasts to rise and fall. “I appreciate your candor. Unfortunately, in my position, I cannot afford to reveal too much of myself. Do you understand?”

He wanted her to reveal much more of herself and get her into all kinds of positions, but that was a discussion for another day. “Yes, you must be a diplomat at all times, I understand all too well. I have known many deans in my career and your tasks are always the same. That is why I could never do your job.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

“So, how long have you been a dean?”

Her fingers smoothed the papers before her. “Five years. Prior to that, I was an assistant dean for two years, and a professor of English for six. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, even when I was a little girl. How about you? How long have you been teaching?”

“For a hundred years it seems.”

Leslie walked up on their conversation. “So, you two figure out how to solve the university’s budget crisis?”

Jennifer slowly rose from her chair, notebook clutched to her chest. “Mr. Howard has invited me to sit in on his class.”

“Is that right?” Leslie gave him a hard stare. “You should do it. Mr. Howard is quite entertaining.”

“Yes, I can tell. It was a pleasure meeting you,” Jennifer said to him before walking away.

He followed her progress to the door and then shifted his attention to Leslie who continued to glare. He couldn’t help but grin. “What? Was I not supposed to be social?”

“I know you. You’re already imagining yourself rolling in the sheets with our new dean. I haven’t even left and you’ve already replaced me.”

“No one could replace you.”

“Has anyone told you you’ve perfected the art of lying?”

He started to smile but stopped upon seeing Killgood enter the room, a panicked expression on his face. Killgood spotted him and marched straight over. He acknowledged Leslie with a nod before turning to Mr. Howard. “We need to talk.”

Leslie appeared confused.

“This is Detective Killgood,” he explained.

Her lips pursed into an O. “I see. Well, don’t let me keep you.”

Killgood waited until she was halfway across the room before speaking. “We’ve got a problem.”

“And what would that be?”

“Not here—outside.”

A surge of nervousness coursed through his veins. “Very well. I hope nothing is wrong.”

“Everything is wrong.”

Killgood hustled across the parking lot to his police car, an unmarked silver sedan. He unlocked the door and motioned for him to sit. Mr. Howard ducked inside and closed the door. A pine tree-shaped air fresher hung from the rearview mirror. Unfortunately, it made the car smell more like dish soap.

Killgood joined him in the car. Sweat glistened on his brow. He stared straight ahead, the knuckles on his right hand whitening around the steering wheel.

“What is it, Chandler?”

Killgood shot him a sideways glance. “Ryan’s gone missing.”

Mr. Howard hesitated to respond as he absorbed the news. He hadn’t expected anyone to notice the scumbag’s absence so soon, not that it mattered. No one was going to find him now.

“Since when?”

“Patrol received a call this afternoon from some junkie who went to Ryan’s house. He wasn’t there, but she noticed a large pool of blood on the floor. When the officers arrived, they found a revolver near the blood with a spent round. Looks like someone wanted to take him out pretty bad.”

“Is that not a good thing? I mean, if he is dead, Reann’s troubles are over.”

Killgood looked down at his lap and shook his head. “Reann’s troubles are over, but mine are just starting.”

“I do not understand.”

He turned toward him and in a flat voice said, “Everyone in the department knows about the problems we’re having with Ryan.”

Mr. Howard closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “They suspect you are involved in his disappearance?”

“That idea’s been tossed around like a lame joke; only, I sense in the back of their minds, my partners are wondering if it’s true.”

Mr. Howard opened his eyes and stared out the passenger side window. On the lawn between the buildings, a group of students stood in a circle kicking a hacky sack. They were hippie wannabes who belonged to an earlier time. Nearby, two girls wearing Daisy Dukes tossed a Frisbee. They moved like dancers, long legs knifing through the air.

“You have done nothing wrong,” he said.

“Do you think I’m involved in Ryan’s disappearance?”

He looked at the detective and sighed. “No, but it does not matter what I think. What I was going to say is you have done nothing wrong, so you have nothing to fear. Let them investigate. Let them gather their clues. In the end, you will be exonerated.”

“Sounds great, but you’re not the one being investigated.”

But this wasn’t the case. Willard was hard at work checking into his past to discover a link between him and Stephanie Coldstone.

“What do you believe happened to Ryan?”

“No telling. Mixed up with the wrong sort of people, I suppose. If I provide you with some of Ryan’s things, do you think you could get a psychic reading?”

A sharp pain pulsated across his forehead. He tried to massage away the ache. “You want me to become involved in two missing person cases?”

“I know it’s a long shot.”

“Must you find Ryan? Aren’t you happy he is out of Reann’s life?”

“You’re assuming he’s dead,” Killgood said.

“As are you.”

Killgood slammed a palm against the steering wheel. “Shit!”

“Listen,” Mr. Howard said. “If you become a suspect in Ryan’s disappearance, I will do what I can to help you. In the meantime, let your fellow investigators see what they can turn up. Eventually, this will blow over.”

“You mean once the case goes cold.”

“I have always heard if you do not catch your killer within the first forty-eight hours, the odds go down considerably, yes?”

Killgood stared out the front window in a daze. He did this for several seconds before saying, “As much as I hate to admit it, I’m glad the SOB may be dead. What kind of man does that make me? I’m supposed to be helping people, not wishing them dead.”

“I only met Ryan once, so perhaps I am not in a position to properly judge his character, but from what I saw, he was beyond anyone’s help, including yours. I recommend focusing your energy on Reann and your granddaughter. Clear your mind of Ryan. Yes, your associates at the department may suspect you in his disappearance, but do not despair. Ryan is a footnote in history soon forgotten.”

Killgood nodded. “Fine, but I still may need you to try locating him.”

“I would not know where to start, but as the saying goes, I will give it my best shot.” He glanced out the window toward the building. “I should get back for the grand finale.”

“Are they throwing a going away party for the dean?”

“Do you know Dean Harris?”

“No, not personally, but I’ve spoken to her before, a few years back, during safety week at the campus.”

“I see.”

“Will you be all right out here in the sun?”

“If you read in tomorrow’s paper about an old man who perishes from spontaneous combustion, you will have your answer.”

He exited the car and offered a quick wave to the Detective. Head down, Mr. Howard walked briskly up the steps in search of shadow.

Willard squirmed on the thinly padded auditorium seat. He might as well have been sitting on a cinder block. Squeezed between Doris and Dave, their fat arms spilling over the arm rests, he struggled to control his claustrophobia. He’d suffered from it most of his life. Ever since his older brother, C.J., locked him inside a toy chest while their parents were away selling chicken eggs in downtown Richton.

No ‘count asshole.

He waited nine years to get even. Nine years until he punched C.J. in the mouth, knocking out two teeth. Still, the damage had been done. He couldn’t go through an MRI or CT scan if his life depended on it. Crowded elevators made his pulse soar.

He tried to focus on the stage where Margo attempted to perform ballet. She was a pig amongst swans. A beach ball in a tutu. Twice, she knocked over another dancer while attempting to spin. Now, the swans kept their distance. His cheeks burned whenever Margo moved toward the other girls and they hurried away, eyes filled with panic, the audience breaking into laughter. Doris and Dave didn’t seem to notice. They were too busy sucking down M&Ms they had smuggled in. Only generous donations to the dance academy kept Margo in school, not that it mattered. Margo was a lost cause. Six years of ballet lessons down the drain.

A few minutes into the second act, right after Margo flattened her third victim, his cell phone vibrated. In the dim light of the auditorium, Doris scowled at him as he dug the phone out of his pocket. He checked the number
. Killgood. I wonder what he wants
. He leaned toward Doris. “I need to take this call. It’s business.”

She seized his forearm and dug her fingernails into his skin. “You’d better come back soon. Margo’s been practicing hard for this.”

On stage, Margo bounced off another girl who landed on her butt with a thud. The girl jumped up and ran off in tears. He looked back at Doris. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He wiggled out from his chair and hurried down the aisle, glancing over his shoulder in time to see another girl go down like a bowling pin. Inside the lobby, he dialed Killgood’s number and waited. An older couple passed by shaking their heads.

“I’m contacting the school,” the man said. “They never should let that fat girl dance.”

“She ruined the whole performance,” the woman added.

He turned his back to the exit, a sharp ache settling across his brow. Killgood answered on the second ring. “Hello.”

“Killgood, it’s Willard.”

“Thanks for returning the call. Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

Inside the auditorium, the audience groaned. Willard shielded his face with a hand. “No, I was just watching my daughter’s demolition derby.”

“I need you to come to the station right away.”

In the distance, a siren wailed. “That might be a little difficult. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“We may know where to find Stephanie Coldstone’s body.”