Angry Arrow

  ANGRY ARROW

  An Ollie Stratford Cozy Mystery

  N.C. Lewis

  Copyright © 2018 by N.C. Lewis

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Prologue

  I'm Ollie Stratford, late forties, widowed with four kids—all grown. A recent transplant from New York City—Brooklyn, to be exact. Ealing Homestead, a ten-acre estate on the outskirts of a Texas Hill Country town called Medlin Creek, is my new home. The estate came with an abandoned oil well—and a stray dog called Bodie.

  They say the Hill Country is the wedding capital of Texas, and that's why I've converted my property into an event center. Unfortunately, owning an event center provides, at most, a modest and sometimes microscopic income, which is why I also teach full-time at the local community college. Unfortunately, it barely pays enough to cover all of my costs.

  Chapter 1

  Oh Crap!

  The sun was up, and I was late. I must have hit the snooze on my cell phone alarm without realizing it. Rolling over, I squinted at the screen, eight thirty. If I didn’t hurry I'd be late for my meeting with Professor Bingham. Just about every day of my life, weekdays or weekends, workdays or vacations, rain or shine, I'm late for one thing or another. But it was Monday, my first appointment of the day, and with my boss—a mandatory performance evaluation. I'd managed to skip these when I was a part-time professor, but full-timers didn’t have that luxury.

  "You're in at ten a.m. Be sure to get there extra early," his administrative officer had warned. "Professor Bingham doesn’t like waiting and will mark you down if you're not on time. Last year, Doctor Wort showed up ten minutes late, received a pink slip—fired on the spot!'

  The administrative officer is my neighbor Emma Garcia. I took the advice seriously. If things went well, I'd ask for a pay raise. If I arrived late, that option would be out of the question, until the next performance evaluation at least.

  As I hurried half-awake to the bathroom I muttered, "I can take a little lateness later in the week, but not first thing Monday, and not for my performance evaluation."

  In the bathroom, I stepped in and out of the shower, fumbled for the towel, and collided with the bottle of shower gel, knocking over the toothbrush. It clattered onto the floor. I stubbed my toe on the side of the bathtub as I bent down to pick it up.

  "Ouch! Not going to be my day."

  I toweled off in the bedroom and changed into a pair of easy-fitting jeans, with a lemon-colored blouse. The bright color would cheer me up, I thought. Then to the kitchen to grab a bowl of cereal. Bodie, the stray dog I took in on my first day in Texas, danced and pranced around my feet.

  "What is it, boy?"

  The dog ran to the front door and sat down. He wanted to go outside.

  "Okay, okay."

  I opened the door and Bodie trotted off, along the dirt path, through the little iron gate, disappearing behind the buildings on the far side of the driveway. A heavy rumble of thunder disturbed the atmosphere. I glanced upward. The clouds were as black as ink.

  "Looks like rain today."

  As I closed the front door the mantle clock in the living room chimed the top of the hour.

  "Nine o'clock. I'd better get moving."

  Back in the kitchen, I wolfed down cereal, brewed drip coffee, took a sip and hurried with the cup to the office to look at my to-do list. Even when I'm in a hurry, I check my to-do list to make sure I'm in the right place at the right time. I'm old school. I write my activities in a desk planner.

  Flipping to the correct page, I scanned the list:

  10:00 a.m. Performance evaluation with Professor Bingham.

  Noon—Catch-up coffee with Millie at Moozoos.

  1:30 p.m.—Business Studies Department staff meeting.

  No teaching classes today.

  I smiled thinking about idle chitchat with Millie, a friend and local reporter at the Medlin Creek Times, then scowled. I'd have to leave early to get back to the staff meeting. Happily, I'd dodged staff meetings as a part-time professor, but all full-timers had to attend. Now I was teaching full-time I had to endure the monthly ritual. I sighed; department staff meetings were always tedious, argumentative, and drawn out.

  In my mind, I replayed how events would unfold—how they always unfolded. Professor Bingham would stagger to the front of the room and say, "Medlin Creek Community College is a joyous place to work." Then he'd complain about, criticize, and condemn college policy. He'd remind us to review next semester's teaching assignments and get distraught over "irreverent" students.

  Last time he was furious over student feedback for his lectures—he received an overall score of seven out of ten. He wanted ten. Nobody gets ten; most don't even get five.

  I grabbed my car keys and handbag and hurried to the door. If I didn't leave now, I'd be late.

  Bodie sat outside the front door.

  "Oh Bodie, I almost forgot about you!"

  The hound trotted inside, and I followed behind. In the kitchen, I washed out his water and food bowls, then refilled both. He gobbled down his food, lapped at the water, then curled up in his dog bed.

  Outside, I hurried along the narrow path. There was a stillness in the air, a kind of quiet calm. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, stationary as if considering when they should unleash their watery load. Through the little iron gate, across the dirt lot to my Tahoe. As I climbed in, another rumble of thunder shook the treetops. Heavy globs of rain splashed down from the heavens. They clattered like icy pellets of hail on the Tahoe roof. I started the engine, flipped on the windshield wipers and glanced at the dashboard clock—nine forty a.m. I was going to be late.

  Chapter 2

  The rain tumbled down in great gray sheets. Even before I had turned out onto the lane, I had to pull over as visibility was nonexistent. "Only a passing storm," I mumbled reaching for the radio. It clicked on to the local station MCR 101.1 FM. The voice of the host, Johnny Spinner, crackled over the air.

  "Boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya, it's raining in the Hill Country! Make the most of the dry patches today 'cause we're in for a wet week ahead. No let-up in the heat though; gonna be in the nineties today. How about a little classic Eddie Rabbit on this wet and rainy morning? Here he is with 'I Love a Rainy Night'..."

  Another clatter of thunder, and the sky cleared. My heart pounded as I glanced at the dashboard clock—ten fifteen. I was already late!

  "Fifteen minutes isn’t too bad," I mumbled, knowing it would be another fifteen before I reached the campus. I eased the Tahoe back onto the road. At the road junction at the end of the lane, I turned left—the quick route into town. The sun poked out from behind the dark clouds, and the going was easy.

  I stepped on the gas.

  The Medlin Creek Community College is a red brick and glass, two-level building on a forty-acre campus on the west side of Medlin Creek. The place has a vibe straight out of the eighties—a mix of The Golden Girls with Taxi.

  I circled around looking for a parking space. Nothing near the entrance because of the rain. I weaved in and out of the staff area. No spaces there either. Finally, I drove to a large student lot farthest from the main entrance and eased the Tahoe into a slot between an old F
ord F150, and an ancient Honda Civic.

  I stepped out of the truck.

  The rain started.

  "Oh crap!"

  I ran.

  After five paces I was dripping. By the time I reached the covered walkway that led to the entrance, I felt like my clothes had been through a wash cycle, with me in them. For a moment I looked back at the parking lot, rain poured in tiny rivers off the concrete overhang.

  Emma's words about Doctor Wort slipped into my mind. "… showed up ten minutes late, received a pink slip—fired on the spot!'" Things were picking up with my event center business, but the teaching job was my main source of income. I couldn't afford to lose it. A sour sensation crept into my stomach like it always did. Nerves.

  The glass doors opened silently as I hurried into the building. Professor Bingham's office is in an extension of the original structure, a modern office complex. The little reception area outside his office had a small teak coffee table laden with yellowing magazines. Next to it, a low, leather sofa. On the opposite side was a reception desk and behind it sat Emma Garcia. In back of her hung a large clock—ten thirty-five.

  "Raining out?" said Emma, "Better dry yourself off in the restroom."

  "Emma, I'd love to, but I don't want to keep Professor Bingham waiting."

  "The professor isn't here yet, delayed by the weather."

  I smacked my palm against my forehead. "Not here yet! Why, I'm half an hour late." I wasn’t certain whether to be relieved or angry. I chose relief. "Thank God!"

  Emma laughed, stood up, turned, and reached into a large cabinet.

  "Here," she said, handing over a towel. "Dry yourself off. "

  I found the restroom and did my best with a hand dryer and the towel. My clothes were still damp, but not dripping. I pulled a brush out of my handbag and tided my hair. Staring into the mirror I'd lost the drowned rat look—almost.

  "Now you look presentable." Emma grinned. "The professor is not here yet. Take a seat. He'll wave you into his office when he arrives." She stood up. "I've got to cover Professor Andy Arrow. See you later… Oh, and good luck!"

  On the wall, the clock's second hand moved jerking out each second, tick-tock tick-tock.

  I paced around.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  I picked up an old magazine and sat flicking through the pages, looking at nothing.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  The air-conditioning hummed, throwing out streams of frigid air, forming condensation on the large window overlooking the parking lot. I stood up and paced again.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  It was almost ten fifty-five. I could feel my stomach churning as it used to do when I worked in the corporate world. I'd be waiting outside the office of my boss, fretting, awaiting the "gift of personal evaluation." When the "gift" was delivered, it was always a disappointment and filled with meaningless statements like "let's continue to collaboratively incentivize customer-directed platforms," and "next quarter we'll move forward to synergistically maximize bleeding-edge benefits."

  Again, my stomach churned.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  I sat down, scrolled through my phone text messages. Again, I glanced at the clock, rubbed the back of my neck, and let out a breath.

  "Whatever has happened to Professor Bingham?"

  Chapter 3

  "Ah, Doctor Stratford, a pleasure to see you. I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

  I half turned then stood up. It was Professor Bingham, a short, nondescript man of indeterminate age, wisps of black hair on top with gray stubble growing across a rounded chin. He had thick oval-shaped lenses which amplified the dullness in his cloudy eyes.

  "Not at all," I said, staring at Professor Bingham, whose lips curved into a wide, toothy smile. Something wasn't quite right about the man, but I couldn't figure out what. It wasn’t his unkempt hair, sticking out at random, or the day-old stubble growing like moss across his chin. It wasn't even the red veins that streaked like cracks in sunbaked earth across the whites of his eyes. There was something else, something as indefinable as lying in the shade of a live oak tree on a warm spring morning reading a gripping novel. The man radiated a sense of contentment, happiness. No! Joy.

  "So sorry to have kept you waiting," he said again in a singsong voice. "Going to be a busy day. Can't think of anything better than starting it with my number one player."

  The air filled with a sweet, malty odor as he spoke, and his body swayed from side to side. Then it hit me, Professor Bingham had fallen off the wagon, again. The man was happy—feverishly happy—and as drunk as a beggar collapsed under a heap of rags in the Bowery, singing some incomprehensible song, and laughing at who knows what.

  I felt relieved; this would not be as bad as I feared. Although it was early, I might even get to sample a glass of Professor Bingham's favorite poison—high-quality Scottish whiskey. I smiled inwardly, and the tension in my body drained away. If he offered, I'd only sample a quarter glass, or maybe a half, and that would be it; no more. Then I'd bring up the issue of a pay raise.

  "This way please," Professor Bingham said, turning toward his office. "So much nicer in the office, don’t you think?"

  "Oh yes," I said, hurrying inside.

  The room was cool and dark with the blinds drawn to chase away signs of daylight. The office was large, and the executive desk which sat facing the door had piles of files stacked up in untidy heaps. Wooden shelving packed with books and journals ran along two sides of the room.

  To one side stood a small whiskey-barrel table. On top were four short tumblers, a bottle of soda water, fresh ice cubes in a thermos bucket, and a full bottle of Aberfeldy single malt whiskey.

  Professor Bingham slumped into his chair and smiled, with deep creases forming around the edge of his eyeglasses. With jerky movements, the man stretched out a bony hand to pick up a piece of paper from one of the random piles on the desk. His eyes struggled to focus on the text.

  I glanced toward the Aberfeldy, half wondering if it would be on offer this morning. It was an unopened bottle, probably been there for days. But why the ice?

  Professor Bingham shifted in his seat, lifted his head, and spoke.

  "Yes, splendid job you have done this semester, Dr. Stratford. Students love your classes, and an evaluation score of eight out of ten is quite remarkable. Well done."

  My late husband John always said, "If you want a pay raise—praise, praise, praise." He also said, "Lay it on thick, and it'll do the trick." I did both.

  "It's all down to your excellent leadership and direction for the entire department. Without you, this place would shatter into a hundred puzzle pieces."

  "Only a hundred," he said as if to himself, rubbing his chin.

  "All the same shape and color and three dimensional," I added quickly. "Only solvable by a brilliant mind." Instantly, I regretted my words, they were too much. Turns out they weren’t.

  Professor Bingham's smile broadened into a full-out grin.

  "Doctor Stratford, this requires a celebration."

  On his feet, he stumbled to the whiskey-barrel table, scooped up ice, and filled two glasses to the brim with Aberfeldy.

  "Isn't it rather early for the amber liquid?" I cautioned.

  "It's never too early for Aberfeldy."

  My lips tugged into a greedy smile. I told them to go back to their normal neutral stance which they disobeyed, as did my eyes and right hand, which reached toward the glass. The professor handed over the drink, and downed his in one greedy gulp, crunching ice between his teeth.

  I sipped, let out a sigh, and relaxed further. Things were going much better than I had expected—so much better.

  The professor refilled his empty glass, then turned, and for the next ten minutes told me of his plans to expand the department and rearrange teaching loads, so a select few individuals could spend time doing research. Finally, he turned and asked.

  "Doctor Stratford, would you consider such a position?
"

  Less teaching in return for sitting at home surfing the internet and knocking out the occasional research report? It was a no-brainer.

  "Yes, I would be delighted to be on the research team. I've got some valuable ideas that need thrashing out in article form. I'm sure I could inject interest in the relevant academic journals."

  "Good, good." He was speaking quickly now. "What about if a more senior post became available? Would you consider it?"

  I could barely hear a thing over my hurried heartbeat. This was thrilling, so very exciting. I'd have to give it some time, make out like I was thinking it over, but in the end, I'd say yes.

  "I'd certainly consider it," I replied.

  "Another glass Doctor Stratford?"

  "Oh yes," I grinned half wondering if the milk from my cereal had sufficiently lined my stomach. My mind was a little woozy, so I couldn’t do the calculation, but figured it would be all right.

  Professor Bingham poured himself another glass and brushed a hand through his hair.

  "Do you know Professor Andy Arrow is retiring soon? His position comes with a significant pay raise. Would you consider such a position?"

  Before I could answer, a wild pounding echoed throughout the room. The office door flew open. In marched a tall, fat guy with small eyes as cold as stones, and a large mouth. The mouth twisted into a snarl.

  "Thought I'd find you in here." He paused, and his cold, hard eyes focused on the professor's almost empty glass, then his gaze slid toward me. "In your den drinking with your boozing partners!"

  Chapter 4

  Professor Bingham hunched forward over his desk like a koala bear, his eyes bulging. Instinctively he reached for his glass, hesitated, then decided against the idea. He cleared his throat and said, "Ah, Professor Arrow, it's going to be a busy day. Can't think of anything better than starting it with my number one player."

  "Damn right I am number one, " spat Professor Arrow, who looked about seventy or possibly older. He wore a tweed jacket, white shirt with a black bowtie, and black slacks. He had a slight stoop like a distinguished English butler, but his voice was as harsh as a desert sandstorm. "And I intend to remain your best player."