Voice Mail Murder Part 9

"They do?" he questioned.

"Rocky!" she laughed, "the man was killed in a motel room. The women on his cell phone voice mail were arranging s.e.x dates with the man. They probably didn't know that he was fooling around with the other women. One of them could have found out she was being two-timed and stabbed him in a fit of jealousy."

"You think that's what happened?"

"It's what I'd do if you were boffing somebody."

"Nice to know," he gulped. "I'll hide the steak knives."

"Luckily for you," she smiled at him, "you know where we keep them and I don't."

"One of the many benefits of being the family cook."

"Oh, come on," she whispered, snuggling against his side. "I've always been more than generous with other domestic help." She ran her tongue up the side of his neck.

"Whoa!" he yelped. "Living room! Daughter! Boyfriend! Entering at any possible moment!"

"Don't worry, Juan!" she said, nibbling on his ear lobe, "I can control myself."

"Yes, but I can't." They both laughed. "Truly," he said seriously, "it doesn't seem as if they're making any progress in finding whoever did this, does it?"

"No," she replied, coyly. "That may change, however."

"Why? Did you find something by listening to those recordings?" His craggy countenance peered at her. She knew every wonderful peak and valley of his expressive face.

"I found that there were three women on the voice mail," she explained, "and there were only three . . ."

"Far too many mistresses, if you ask me, for one guy."

"One is too many for a guy if he's married," she corrected, finger in his chest.

"Absolutely," he said, recoiling.

"Anyway," she continued, "I found that the three women on the voice mail don't appear to be anyone whom the police have interviewed."

"Really?"

"Not one hundred per cent positive, but pretty certain."

"What could that mean?"

"Just that Coach Croft did a really good job of keeping his personal and his professional life separate."

"Didn't he though? Not only that," added Rocky, "but if no one knows who these three women are and the police haven't interviewed them . . . "

"And none of them have come forward," she added.

"That's right," said her husband, "You'd think that at least one of these women would come forward to the police. Surely they've heard that the Coach has been murdered. You'd think they'd want to do what they could to help find his killer-a.s.suming, of course, that they didn't kill him."

"I know. I don't understand it. Even if one of these women did kill the Coach, it doesn't explain why the other two wouldn't come forward . . ."

"But the police haven't announced that they even have this cell phone with the voice mail messages. How would these women know that the police are searching for them?"

"They wouldn't necessarily know about the cell phone and the police having the voice mail. I just mean, you'd think that these women would certainly care enough about the Coach to want to a.s.sist in the investigation. They cared about him enough to have s.e.x with him."

"That doesn't always mean anything."

"I didn't get the feeling from the messages that these relationships were just one-night stands. They seemed to be long-standing affairs."

"They're probably just scared," suggested Rocky. "Even if they didn't kill him, they're probably thinking that they'll be under suspicion-and they'd be right!" The couple sighed and looked at each other quizzically.

"But who could they be?"

"That's the question," he replied.

"And it's one I'm trying to answer," she said.

"You?" Then, with a scowl he said, "How?"

"All totally with data, my dear protector," she said, squeezing his arm. "Shoop has asked me to create personality profiles of the three women." She decided to refrain from telling her highly volatile spouse about the plan to accompany Shoop on his second round of suspect interrogations.

"That'll be fun."

"Sure," she huffed. "A barrel of monkeys."

"Left-overs tonight, Babe," said Rocky, after a beat. "We still have some of that enchilada ca.s.serole in the frig."

"Sounds good," she said, smiling. "Isn't it amazing how much longer our food lasts now that Angela is eating her meals at Kent's apartment?"

"I don't like to think about it," replied the overly protective father.

"She has to grow up, you know."

"She could live here and visit that hoodlum like she used to," he snorted.

"Oh, come on, Rocky! Kent is not a hoodlum! I worked with him. He was my a.s.sistant for two years and he's one of the most responsible, highly motivated young men I've ever . . ."

"Highly motivated to seduce our daughter," he interrupted.

"They're in love!" she chortled. The topic of Angela and Kent's relationship always brought them to a major disagreement. Rocky only tolerated the young man, but Pamela, who had gotten to know Kent before he met Angie, considered the boy a fine person. Indeed, she considered him an exemplary person. She could see for herself how Kent's influence had changed and matured Angie. Angie was more motivated. Since starting to date Kent, she'd found a major-Sociology, started a part-time job at a local charitable organization (which she loved), and the young couple seemed genuinely fond of each other and cheered each other's successes. She could wish nothing more for her offspring. "Rocky, we've been over this before. We can't live her life for her. If we-I mean you-try to interfere-we're just asking for trouble."

"I know, but I don't have to like it," he moped.

"What's not to like?" she continued, shaking his shoulder. "Kent has a great job, a nice place. Angie is doing well in school. Good Lord, she's going to graduate this year! Did you even think that was possible two years ago?"

"No," he replied, nodding. She squeezed him, nuzzling his soft flannel shirt next to her cheek. Even though they disagreed about Angela's relationship with Kent, she couldn't help but be touched with Rocky's concern for his daughter's honor-she guessed that's what all this angst was.

"I just don't like that guy always pawing her," he said, cringing. "You'd think he could keep his hands off of her for a minute or two once in a while."

"Could you keep your *paws' off of me when you were his age?" she said, batting her eyelids at him.

"Not the same."

"Absolutely the same," she retorted.

"You women think you have us all figured out," he sighed.

"There's not that much to figure out," she explained. "Kent is a genuinely nice guy who happens to be a bit further along in the maturation process. Angie just had to hop ahead a bit to keep up with him."

"Oh, really?" He eyed her.

"Sort of like you and me?"

"You being the much more mature one?" he queried.

"Of course," she noted, with a wiggle of her shoulders. "Angie was forced to grow up if she wanted to be Kent's girlfriend. He's really been a very good influence on her, if you ask me."

"If you ask me," offered Rocky, "he saw a sweet young girl and took advantage of her."

"Like you took advantage of me?"

"What?" he stuttered and turned his head towards her and then away. "What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you take advantage of me?"

"No!"

"I guess my father probably thought that you did!"

"He did?"

"I don't know," she replied calmly, "because he never said, but don't you think that's the typical way that most fathers respond to any young man who courts their daughter . . ."

"This Kent fellow is not *courting' Angie," he argued, his cheeks reddening, "you know what he's doing-what they're doing over there all the time at his apartment!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!"

"I don't like it, Pammie, I'm telling you! I swear, if that kid hurts her-in any way. If she comes home crying or upset. If he does anything to her, I swear to you, I'll kill him!"

"Rocky," she grabbed him, "Listen to yourself! You'll kill him? What are you saying? You can't talk like that. My G.o.d, I mean, consider what is going on in our lives-with this murder investigation. People get upset-they get angry at somebody and they kill somebody. And then you have-you have this-and then people like Shoop and even me get involved and even more lives are disrupted and ruined. You are not going to kill anyone!"

"It was just an expression," Rocky said pitifully to his furious wife, his shoulders drooping.

"Don't ever say that again," she chastised him. "Don't even think it. Please."

"I promise."

"Good," she said, kissing his cheek. "I know you'd never hurt a flea, anyway."

"Then why did you go postal on me?"

"You just have to understand that Angie and Kent have to lead their own lives-and we have to lead ours. You have to let go. You have to."

"Let go?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Let go of Angie's life and focus on ours. Come with me."

"Come with you?"

"Yes." She took his hand. "I'm glad you're so cooperative."

"Do I have any choice?"

"No."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Someplace my father would never have approved." She tugged on his hand and dragged him towards their bedroom.

Chapter Seventeen.

Tuesday was her slow day, at least compared to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when she taught three cla.s.ses in a row. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she only taught one cla.s.s at 1:00 in the afternoon. Her mornings were devoted to office hours and this morning was typical. Several students had popped in at various intervals to discuss different issues-most concerning enrollment, advising, or their majors. It was far too early in the semester for the rush of students who would typically line up for help on the course research paper. She was always happy to a.s.sist them and devoted probably an inordinate amount of time with each one who came calling for a.s.sistance. She firmly believed that helping students become the best writers they could be was part of her job-maybe not the most exciting or noteworthy part, but easily one of the most personally rewarding. She was not so foolish or self-centered as to think that students actually cared that much about their research papers or that many, if any, of them would go on to careers that involved writing or science, let alone her specialty of acoustic linguistics. She simply believed that she had an opportunity to help each one who visited her improve their ability to write-and that any improvement could help that student in their future career, whether they realized it or not.

She had sat at her desk, in full advisor mode, as students sat next to her and presented their cases. Some wanted in a cla.s.s; some wanted out. Some wanted to change majors. She listened-something she did rather well-and tried to advise them. In most instances, she believed that the students left her office with their problem at least partially solved.

By around ten o'clock in the morning, the place had cleared out and she heard a familiar tapping coming down the hall. She moved to her doorway.

"Willard," she beckoned to the elderly Afro-American professor, leaning over his ivory-handled mahogany cane, as he ambled into his office next door. "Willard, can you spare me a minute?"

The elderly gentleman beamed at her request, perked up his shoulders, and hustled towards her at a faster clip, his cane marking a faster beat.

"Pamela." He spoke with rich, robust tones, like an orator from an ancient Roman arena. "I can spare you as much time as you deem necessary." She loved talking to Willard, which was much like talking to an open dictionary. They had collaborated on several research papers and it was very convenient having an office so close to this encyclopedia of information about topics so similar to hers. Willard's specialty was cultural and geographical aspects of vocal behavior. Pamela often thought of him as Grace University's very own Henry Higgins. He probably knew exactly which county in which state she was born.

She guided him into her office, noting with some degree of despair, how much more tenuous his movement seemed despite his girth. She glanced down at his gnarled hand on the top of his cane and saw how he was struggling to hold it still. Even so, as her eyes rose to Willard's face, she saw that his eyes still conveyed the bright, intense sparkle that she attributed to Willard's joy of knowledge. She quietly shut her office door behind her and moved to her desk, motioning Willard to sit. Willard placed his cane on Pamela's sofa and cautiously grasping the chair and the edge of Pamela's desk, lowered his large body into the seat.

"Willard," she began, "I have to swear you to secrecy." The old professor's eyes lit up and he tugged at both ends of his bow tie, giving a little embarra.s.sed laugh.

"Oh my," he exclaimed, "Pamela, are you engaged in another one of your investigations?"

"I am," she a.s.sured him, "and I need your help on this one."