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  She turned, glared at me, and hurried out of the reception area.

  A few moments later Professor Bingham appeared in the doorway. He peered around with an uneasy look in his eyes.

  "Ah, Doctor Stratford, a pleasure to see you. I hope you haven't been waiting too long." His eyes darted around as he spoke.

  I stood up.

  "Not too long."

  Professor Bingham stared hard through thick oval-shaped lenses. "This way please," he said turning toward his office. "So much nicer in the office, don’t you think?"

  I wasn’t so sure and didn’t say anything.

  A sour-faced woman, with small eyes that were too close together, stood by Professor Bingham's desk.

  "Oh," said the professor, hurrying to get behind his desk and sit down. "This is Mrs. Fay McNasste, our human resources officer. She'll be joining us this morning."

  Mrs. McNasste looked familiar, but this was our first time formal introduction. I nodded an acknowledgement then glanced around the office. The blinds were open, and sunlight streamed through the slits. The whiskey-barrel table was gone as were the tumblers, soda water, thermos bucket, and the Aberfeldy. And the professor's desk was neat and tidy.

  "Please take a seat, Doctor Stratford," he said, pointing to a chair. "And you too, Mrs. McNasste."

  Once we had settled down, Mrs. McNasste nodded at Professor Bingham. He shrank back slightly behind his desk.

  "Now, Doctor Stratford, I invited you here for a rather delicate matter," he began.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mrs. McNasste was watching me out of the corner of her eye. She held a folder tight in her hand.

  Professor Bingham shifted in his seat. "Now, ah… um, let me see—"

  "I'll take it from here," interrupted Mrs. McNasste. Her voice was high pitched and as jarring as fingernails being scraped down a blackboard.

  "Ah yes, please continue, Mrs. McNasste," said Professor Bingham with a shaky laugh and sinking deep into his chair.

  I've learned from my time working in the corporate world in New York City that you cannot trust a human resource officer, no matter how broad the smile or how friendly their disposition. Part of this is the very nature of the job, they hand out the pink slips when you are considered "surplus." The other reason you cannot trust a human resource officer is that the job attracts that rather peculiar individual who will turn from friend to foe on a dime and take unusual pleasure inflicting pain whether you deserve it or not.

  Mrs. McNasste smiled broadly and leaned in close like a friend. My mouth was suddenly dry, my muscles weak and a pounding tension was building behind my temples. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to slow a racing pulse. An image of Ava Torgersen's angry face flooded my mind. I opened my eyes, and I was about to say something when she whispered, "This is not an easy job."

  "Not easy at all," added the professor with a sympathetic voice.

  Mrs. McNasste placed her hands over her eyes. "Remember Doctor Wort?"

  Professor Bingham ran a hand through his hair. "How could I forget? I'm forever in your debt. You were masterful, Mrs. McNasste."

  Mrs. McNasste smiled then raised the folder in the air. "Doctor Stratford, this is your employment file." She opened the folder and shuffled around. "Ah yes, here it is." She held up a single typewritten sheet of paper.

  "Do you mind if I read it for you, Professor Bingham?" she asked.

  "Please do," he said hurriedly.

  Mrs. McNasste cleared her throat. "Professor Bingham and the senior leadership team would like to inform you that you have been recommended to the post held by the late Professor Andy Arrow on an acting basis." Mrs. McNasste paused and spoke freely, "Which means that the post is yours until the college finds a suitable replacement." She lowered her voice, eyes darted around the room. "If you perform well, the college may realize that you are the suitable replacement."

  That took me by surprise. The dryness in my mouth disappeared; my muscles regained their strength; and the tension in my temples vanished.

  Mrs. McNasste continued, "Of course, the post will double your present salary."

  Professor Bingham leaned forward and in an anxious voice whispered, "Are you interested in accepting the position?"

  "Oh yes," I said without hesitation. "Oh goodness, I'd be delighted to accept."

  Chapter 22

  I skipped out of Professor Bingham's office like a fairy dancing through an English meadow. I needed to share my wonderful news with someone. Emma Garcia wasn’t back at her reception desk. I thought about waiting but decided a Creek Jolt at Moozoos would calm my mind. I'd text my friends with the news while I sipped, smiled, and stared out onto Creek Street.

  I took the stairs, I was too excited to wait for the elevator. On the first level, I pushed the stairwell door into the main reception area. Marcia López sat at the reception desk reading a magazine. She looked up, then back to her magazine, then up again.

  "Doctor Stratford, congratulations on your promotion. You must be very happy."

  "Yes, I'm very excited," I replied; my voice choked with tears. "But how did you know?"

  Marcia tilted her head and placed a finger to her lips. "Good news travels fast. Anyway, I have my sources."

  Suddenly, the enormity of my new position hit me head-on. I felt giddy. "Got to sit down for a moment and get myself together."

  Marcia burst out laughing. "If I ever get a promotion, I'll probably faint on the spot! Doctor Stratford, take as long as you like. Would you like a glass of water?"

  I collapsed into the reception area leather sofa, slouched back, and took a couple of deep breaths. Plans immediately began to flood my thoughts. I wanted to take some of the extra cash to rebuild the derelict buildings by the driveway of Ealing Homestead. While investing a little in advertising the event center. Maybe there'd even be enough left over to open the abandoned oil well, I thought. Suddenly, everything seemed possible.

  "No water; I'll be fine in a moment."

  An urgent, metallic ringing sounded from somewhere on the reception desk. Marcia stretched a hand to lift a receiver. "Marcia López, front desk reception emergency communication desk phone," she said, tugging at a lock of hair.

  "Did you say Doctor Stratford? Yes, she is still at the reception area... ah, I see… yes, I will do that right away."

  Marcia stared at the receiver and shook her head. Then she glanced in my direction.

  "Professor Bingham would like you to return to his office. There is something he forgot to mention."

  "Did he say what?"

  "No."

  I wondered what he had forgotten and why it couldn’t wait until later. Letting out a low groan, I pushed on the sofa armrests and got to my feet. This time I took the elevator.

  Professor Bingham stood in the reception area, his eyes darting around nervously.

  "Ah, Doctor Stratford, this way please."

  He opened his office door, glanced anxiously back into the reception area, then followed me into his office. The door closed with a heavy thud.

  "There is a little more paperwork for you to sign." The air filled with a sweet, malty odor as he spoke, and his eyes appeared more bloodshot than usual. "Mrs. McNasste will get the documents to you tomorrow after the formal announcement."

  As he spoke, I glanced around the office. The chair where Mrs. McNasste had sat was empty, the blinds closed, AC cranked up high, and the small whiskey-barrel table had mysteriously reappeared, as had the tumblers, soda water, ice cubes in a thermos along with a half-empty bottle of Aberfeldy single malt whiskey.

  Professor Bingham clapped his hands together. "So many damn rules in this place. By the way, your promotion deserves a celebration; it's a little tradition of mine."

  He jumped up and almost ran to the whiskey-barrel table, poured out two tumblers, added ice and let out a long low sigh. "Here you go, Doctor Stratford. Well done!"

  I'm not a heavy drinker but given the circumstances, I took a sip. Instantly, a tingling se
nsation filled my stomach as heat spread out across my body. A wave of contentment washed over me. "Professor Bingham, this is good, very good indeed."

  The professor smiled. I guess it was his eyes that gave the game away. They were as anxious as a squirrel and didn’t seem to blink enough. And on his forehead beads of sweat formed like dew drops on grass. Professor Bingham wanted something. My husband, John, always said, "When in doubt, be direct."

  I put the tumbler down and leaned forward.

  "There is something else isn't there, Professor Bingham. What is it?"

  He hunched over his desk and in a faint voice mumbled. "I want you to drive out to the county jail this afternoon and visit with Dan Sweet."

  Chapter 23

  The Havis County Jail lies ten miles north of Medlin Creek. A one-story, red-brick building with ten cells, it sits at the top of a steep hill dotted with cedar and oak, outside the hamlet of Havis. It serves as a temporary lock-up for the surrounding towns and villages. The building is not an "official" county jail but funded by the local towns and hamlets.

  A mixture of volunteers and local law enforcement run the facility. Most "residents" stay one or two nights. During weekdays most cells are empty. On weekends, it fills up with a mixture of local drunks, drug addicts, and the occasional Hill Country tourist.

  I pulled into a space in the small parking lot next to a Medlin Creek Sheriff Department vehicle. The sun was high in a clear blue sky. It was noon. I kept the engine running and the AC cranked up high as I rolled the situation around in my mind. I didn’t like the idea of visiting Dan Sweet, and I didn’t want to do it. But the thought of doubling my salary chased those concerns into a distant corner of my mind. I let out a sigh, climbed out of the Tahoe, and walked with quick steps toward the jailhouse.

  "Ollie, over here!"

  Deputy Dingsplat stood by the entrance of the jail scowling at the sky clouding over.

  "Suppose you're here to meet with Dan Sweet," he said in a slow Texan drawl.

  "Only in my official capacity as a representative from Medlin Creek Community College."

  Deputy Dingsplat raised an eyebrow. "Then you'll be his first visit."

  This didn’t surprise me. "Any charges yet?"

  "Nope. Doubt the college will want any more publicity. The medical examiner's report is due tomorrow, we'll hold him until then. Anyway… doubt much will happen until Sheriff Hays gets back on Saturday as he wants to be part of the investigation."

  "It figures," I said. "I guess the sheriff needs a little positive exposure with the election coming up."

  Deputy Dingsplat paused for a long moment then glanced around. "Maybe so, but I can't see anyone running against him… not with his close connection with Mayor Felton and support of the Lilly family."

  "It's all about who you know," I commented.

  "Yep," he said slowly, again glancing at the sky. "Anyway, Dan is in cell two."

  Inside, two large, potted palms did little to soften the harsh brick walls and unpolished concrete floor that led to a high reception desk behind which sat a heavyset man with wide shoulders, a boxer's nose, and small penetrating eyes. It turned out he was both receptionist and jailer.

  I flashed my driver's license.

  "Ah, Professor Bingham called ahead," he said waving away my license. "This way please, Doctor Stratford."

  We walked through two heavy, steel doors and along a dank, narrow hallway, damp from the recent rain. A strong stench of human perspiration and stale beer fouled the air. On either side of the hallway, there were thick steel doors with tiny metal panels behind which I discovered a small viewing window.

  "All of these are empty," said the jailer as if reading my mind. "Dan Sweet is at the end. How long do you want to spend with him?"

  Sixty seconds, I thought. "Five minutes," I replied.

  The jailer stopped, turned, and arched an eyebrow. "Very well," he said, reaching for a keychain on his belt. "Since you drove over from Medlin Creek, I figured you'd want to spend at least a half hour."

  "Oh no! I'm not his lawyer. This is a courtesy visit from his coworkers at Medlin Creek Community College."

  "Then you'll give him more than five minutes. Dan deserves better than that."

  The jailer hadn’t met Dan Sweet in the real world, hadn’t been subjected to his patronizing tone or arrogant manner. But he was right, whatever my personal feelings for Dan Sweet were, he deserved more than five minutes for his professional service to the college. I let out a frustrated sigh and cleared my throat.

  "Guess I'll need at least ten minutes with Dan. He has worked at Medlin Creek Community College for many years and is… well… has… made a valuable contribution to this community."

  "As you wish," replied the jailer without looking in my direction. "Ah, here we are."

  His key clanged in the lock and the cell door creaked open. Dan lay on a small, metal-framed bed atop a mattress once white but now covered in brown stains. He was staring up at the ceiling.

  "I'll be back in ten minutes," the jailer said as I stepped inside.

  Dan's head snapped around, and he stared, mouth hanging open. He hadn’t been in the cell twenty-four hours, but he was grubby, unshaven, and disheveled.

  I forced a smile. "Professor Sweet, how are you doing?"

  He sat up, his eyes wild. "Words cannot describe the horror of life in this prison cell, or the despair that fills me at the thought of spending another night in this hideous place."

  I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I couldn’t. "It must be very difficult for you right now."

  Dan nodded. "Indeed, indeed. But life is nothing without challenge. This unfortunate incident will soon pass. Why, only this morning I reran the whole sequence of events in my mind. It is clear to me that Professor Arrow's demise was not by my hand, but a simple act of fate." There was something in his eyes, a certain confident gleam I didn’t understand.

  "How so?" I asked courteously. "A room full of witnesses saw you and Andy in a physical scuffle. Surely, you can’t deny that!" My tone was harsher than I wanted but not as harsh as he deserved.

  Dan glared at me for a moment. "Even an imbecile could deduce that Andy had a weak heart," he replied angrily. "It gave out under the strain of a vigorous argument. It could have happened at any moment. I'm the unwitting victim of chance."

  "I see." I sensed he was telling me the truth, but somehow, I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me, but I had no idea what. I was silent for thirty seconds and then probed further. "Professor Sweet, you seem so assured. What if the medical examiner finds out differently?"

  For a moment he stared and said nothing. Then he sneered. "Andy Arrow was well past his best-before date. The medical examiner's report will prove beyond all reasonable doubt that I am innocent of that randy, old goat's death."

  I looked him in the eye and pressed on. "But the college could still pursue charges, you know."

  He stood up and exploded. "Stupid woman! Even a feeble-minded, middle-aged she-goat like you should be able to understand Andy Arrow's death was an unfortunate freak of nature—nothing more, nothing less."

  A vein pulsated in my neck. I counted to ten. Then I spat back, "Don't you call me—"

  Dan waved a dismissive hand, his voice suddenly low and menacing. "I'll be out of here in less than twenty-four hours, and back at my teaching post twenty-four hours after that. Andy Arrow died of natural causes; don't disagree with me!"

  "Okay," I said raising my palms and wondering when the jailer would return. "Okay."

  Footsteps echoed along the hallway. The door swung open.

  "Are you done yet?" asked the jailer.

  "Quite done," I said hurrying through the door.

  Dan stepped forward. His lips curved into a sinister grin. "Oh, Doctor Stratford, be sure to tell Professor Bingham if I go down, so does he!"

  Chapter 24

  Gray clouds rolled across the sky as I walked out of the building. They hung low, growing darker and more threa
tening every moment. Despite incarceration, Dan Sweet had lost none of his belligerent character. I shook with rage as I climbed into the Tahoe, and for a while sat watching the sky darken.

  "At least I've done my duty and paid the loathsome man a visit," I said at last, aloud. "If Professor Bingham asks me to visit him again, I'll say—"

  A figure hurrying across the parking lot distracted my thoughts. She had shoulder-length, curly, black hair and colorful tattoos that snaked from her elbows to her shoulders. I recognized her instantly—Sophia Flores, and watched with interest as she strolled, arms swinging, into the building. There could only be one reason she was at the jailhouse, and that reason had to be its only inhabitant—Dan Sweet.

  Raindrops splashed against the windshield. I started the engine, flipped on the wipers and wondered what to make of it. Sophia Flores was Andy Arrow's girlfriend. Why would she visit with Dan, the killer of her lover? That was odd, very odd.

  "Need coffee," I said aloud. "Perhaps then the whole thing will begin to make sense."

  I drove out of the parking lot, turned onto the main road and headed for Moozoos.

  An uneasy feeling filled my mind as I walked into the café. The air was heavy with the aroma of hot brewed coffee and freshly baked bread, and the barista sat on a tall stool behind the counter. A handful of tourists chatted in muted tones at tables, sipping coffee and nibbling on pastries.

  "What will be your pleasure?" asked the barista with a friendly smile.

  "Medium Americano."

  There must have been something in the tone of my voice, or possibly my body posture, for he tilted his head to one side and gazed directly into my eyes like an X-ray machine scanning for broken bones.

  "Look like ya got the weight of the world on your mind," he said at last, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Bet I can guess what it is."