A Cold Heart

“Oh,” she said. “Gordon’s got problems, does he?”

“You know he does,” I said.

She turned to me. “Professor Delaware, when you came to me you said Kevin Drummond had something to do with a murder. That’s not an everyday occurrence for a boring academic. That’s why you made an impression.” Back to Milo: “Are you now saying that Gordon Shull’s suspected of being a murderer?”

“You don’t seem surprised,” he said.

“I try to avoid being surprised,” she said. “But before we proceed, you must tell me this: Is something highly embarrassing to my department fulminating?”

“I’m afraid yes, ma’am.”

“That’s too bad,” said Martin. “A murderer.” Her smile was sudden, feral, unsettling. “Well, I suppose when too much garbage piles up, the best thing to do is to take it out. So let’s talk about Gordon. Perhaps you’ll be able to take him off my hands.”

She recrossed her legs. Seemed amused. “A murderer… I must admit, I’ve never thought of Gordon in those terms.”

“What terms have you thought of, ma’am?”

“Lack of substance,” said Martin. “Gordon’s a phony. All talk, no action.”

The kitchen doors opened and a man stepped out, bearing a hefty sandwich on a plate. “Liz?”

The same gray-haired man I’d seen in Martin’s office photos. He wore a white polo shirt, beige linen trousers, brown loafers. Tall and well built but running to paunch. Older than Martin by at least a decade.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “Just the police.”

“The police?” He approached us. The sandwich was a triple-decker, full of green stuff and turkey.

“Something to do with Gordon Shull, dear.”

“What, he stole something?” He positioned himself next to Martin’s chair.

“This is my husband, Dr. Vernon Lewis. Vernon, this is Detective…”

“Sturgis,” said Milo. To Lewis: “Are you a professor, as well, sir?”

“No,” said Martin. “Vernon’s a real doctor. Orthopedic surgeon.”

“That comment about stealing, Doctor,” said Milo. “Sounds like you know Gordon Shull, too.”

“Mostly by reputation,” said Vernon Lewis. “I’ve met him at faculty parties.”

Elizabeth Martin said, “Honey, why don’t you relax?”

Lewis shot her a quizzical glance. She smiled at him. His eyebrows rose, and he looked at his sandwich. “How long will this take, Liz?”

“Not too long.”

“Okay,” he said. “Nice meeting you fellows. Don’t keep my sweetheart too long.” He continued across the room, turned a corner, was gone.

Milo said, “What reputation was Dr. Lewis referring to?”

Martin said, “General amorality. Gordon’s been a problem- my problem, since the beginning.”

“Does amorality include theft?”

“If that were all of it.” Martin frowned. “Lord only knows what I’m doing to myself by talking to you, but the truth is I’ve had my fill of nonsense with that man. I run a three-person department, should have control over who I bring on.”

I said, “You were forced to hire Shull?”

“ ‘Forced’ would be too… coarse a word.” She looked as if she’d swallowed something spoiled. “I was strongly advised to hire Gordon.”

“Because his family’s got money.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s always about money, isn’t it? Six years ago, I was brought to Charter College to create a first-rate department of communications. Promises were made to me. I had several other offers- larger schools, better facilities. But all were in other cities, and I’d just met Vernon and his practice was established here. I chose romance over practicality.” Small smile. “The right choice, but… there are consequences to any decision.”

“Charter broke its promise,” I said.

“Broken promises are a given in the academic world. The issue is the proportion of truth to nonsense. Don’t get me wrong. For the most part, I’m not miserable. Charter’s a good school. For what it is.”

“Which is…”

“A small place. A very small place. That affords one the opportunity to interact with students closely, which was initially appealing and still is. All in all, the kids are a nice bunch. After five years at Berkeley, all the left-wing nonsense, Charter seemed positively quaint. But sometimes it’s limiting.”

“Which promises were broken?” I said.

She ticked her finger. “I was pledged a five-person faculty and got three; my budget was cut by thirty percent because several pledges dried up- the recession was in full force back then, donors’ stock portfolios had tumbled, et cetera. My planned curriculum was severely attenuated, because I now had a smaller faculty.”

“Which promises did they keep?”

“I got a nice desk.” She smiled. “I could’ve walked. Vernon’s practice is more than adequate in terms of financial support. But I didn’t go to school for twenty-three years in order to play golf and have my nails done. So I resolved to make the best of the situation and set about enjoying the one thing they hadn’t reneged on: ‘wide latitude’ in hiring faculty. I was fortunate to snag Susan Santorini because she, too, wanted to remain in Southern California, her partner’s a film agent. Then I set about finding the third member of our tight little group and was informed by the dean that a strong candidate had come up and that I was highly advised to look favorably upon his application.”

She touched a pearl earring. “Gordon Shull is a joke. However, his stepfather is one of our wealthiest alumni. Gordon’s an alumnus, as well.”

“A joke in terms of scholarship?” I said.

“A joke, period. When his application came across my desk and I noted that he’d graduated from Charter, I got hold of his undergrad transcripts.”

“Suspicious?”

She smiled. “I was rather displeased to be advised. When I read the transcript, my displeasure turned to wrath. To say Gordon had been an undistinguished student would have been too kind. He was on academic probation several semesters, put together a C-minus average by taking Mickey Mouse courses, took five years to graduate. Somehow along the line, he managed to get himself a master’s.” Her lips curled. “I got my doctorate at Berkeley, did a postdoc at London University, and another at Columbia. Susan Santorini’s doctorate is from Columbia, she taught in Florence, Italy, and at Cornell before I snagged her. The way the job market for academics is running, we could’ve had our pick of bright Ph.D.s from top places. Instead, we were forced to occupy the same intellectual space as that clown.”

“Which helps the budget,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Every year the department receives a check from The Trueblood Endowment- the stepfather’s foundation. Just enough to keep us… motivated.”

“Academic stranglehold,” said Milo.

“Very well put, Detective. And, truth be told, your visit tonight may very well have crystallized things for me. If Gordon’s transgressions have stretched beyond my wildest imagination, I may finally have to make some serious life choices. But before I tell you more, I need one thing: You must keep me informed, provide me enough lead time so I can take my leave well before the storm and thus avoid embroiling myself in criminal-legal matters.”

“You’re resigning, ma’am?”

“Why not, if the parachute’s sufficiently golden?” said Martin. “Vernon’s been talking about cutting back, the two of us have been itching to do more traveling. Perhaps this is providence. So if you want to know more about Gordon’s character flaws, you must keep me in the loop.”

“Fair enough,” said Milo. “What problems have you had with Shull?”

“Pilferage, sloppy expense accounts, spotty attendance as a teacher, shoddy grading,” said Martin. “His lectures- when he chooses to show up- are execrable. Low-level discourses on pop culture with cretinous reading lists. Everything centers on Gordon’s insight of the moment, and Gordon’s attention span is severely attenuated.”