"Do tell!" exclaimed Willard Swinton, a glow rushing into his chocolate cheeks. "The murder of the local soccer coach, is it?"

"Uh, the football coach, yes," she agreed.

"How exciting!" he exclaimed. "What can I do to help?"

"Could you listen to some voices and give me your reaction?"

"Of course," said Willard.

She opened her acoustic program and brought up the slot for the first voice mail message. She clicked the "play" b.u.t.ton and the sound of the woman speaking on the Coach's voice mail emitted from her monitor speakers. The sentence finished.

"She's . . . I would say . . . over forty . . ."

"Wait a minute, Willard. Why don't you hear all of them first?"

"There's more?" he asked, his grey puffy eyebrows popping up dramatically.

"Just listen." She played the remaining messages-all seven. Then she asked him: "How many different women are speaking, Willard?"

"You've probably figured this out, Pamela, I would guess. It sounds like you have three speakers here."

"You can tell that from one hearing?" she asked the older professor.

"I'm not positive, of course," he a.s.sured her, "however, the first two messages are obviously spoken by the same person. The third, longer message is totally different. Then, you have that fourth and fifth message. Those two are quite different from the others, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes."

"Then the sixth message is very much the style and sound of the first two, of course."

"Of course." She was beginning to feel superfluous. She should have just handed this whole project to Willard when Shoop first came to her.

"And the final message is that same curt tone as the fourth and fifth."

"How did you figure that out after just hearing it once?" she quizzed him. "It took me hours and I had to run several acoustic a.n.a.lyses."

"Of course, all of this is conjecture," he cautioned. "I have no proof. You, however, can provide proof for the authorities with your acoustic print-outs. I'm sure they'll want that. They're all about evidence in law enforcement, aren't they?"

"This deflates my ego terribly, Willard. I thought I had figured it out rather quickly."

"But Pamela," he said sweetly, "it's not a contest; we are co-researchers. We work together. Just consider my observation as . . . a validation of your hypothesis!"

"If you say so," she scowled.

"Is that all you needed from me? Just to verify that there were three women speaking? I do love to listen to female voices; they're so much richer and more emotional than male voices-even the dull ones."

She suddenly realized that she had asked Willard into her office, not to verify her theory of the three speakers (which he had done), but to help her devise personality profiles of the three. She presented her plan to her cooperative co-worker.

"By all means," he agreed after she had explained what she wanted them to do. "Let's get going. Why don't you play the recordings again and we'll try to determine everything we can about our three mystery ladies. Oh, Pamela, are these women suspects in the murder? Do the police think that they killed the master soccer gentleman?"

"Let's start with what's behind door number one," she laughed, "I mean, let's start with Speaker Number One. We have three messages from this woman-one, two, and six. Apparently, the second message was sent shortly after the first as a sort of addendum. I'm a.s.suming the two messages are close together time-wise too."

"Do we know? Or do the police know anything about the actual times when these messages were sent?" he asked her.

"They have them back as far as January," she responded. "They're presented in chronological order-the order they were recorded on the Coach's cell phone."

"On the Coach's cell phone?" he asked incredulously. "You mean they found the fellow's cell phone at the scene of the crime?"

"Yes," she told him, "near the body, under the bed. I'm a.s.suming that the murderer wasn't aware that there was a phone. "

"Yes, a cell phone could be incriminating for the murderer," he offered, leaning in to her in a secretive fashion, "particularly if one of these three women is the actual murderer."

"True," she agreed. They looked at each other, wide-eyed and returned abruptly to listening to the recording.

"So," he declared, "what do we know about Speaker Number One?" She pushed the b.u.t.ton again and the voice of the woman known as *Speaker Number One' filled the office. "One thing is clear."

"What?" she asked.

"She's local," he said.

"How local?"

"This woman," continued Willard, "has lived in this area-I'd say right here in Reardon-all of her life. She's no recent transplant. Born and bred in Reardon."

"You're sure?" Pamela asked, amazed at his ability to pinpoint the geography of the accent.

"Absolutely," he responded. "I could tire you with a lengthy lecture on the quality of her vowels and the roundness of her *r's' but suffice it to say that this woman is from Reardon."

"I don't know if that will help as most people who live in Reardon are probably from Reardon."

"Not necessarily," he added. "In the campus community, there is much greater mobility than in the general population. Professors move here and move away at an astounding frequency, depending on tenure committee decisions-as you well know-and on our campus you will hear a wide variety of accents. This fellow-Croft was his name?-probably had his pick of a variety of women from all over the globe if he was doing his choosing from the campus community."

"So you're saying our Speaker Number One is not from the campus?"

"She could be on campus, but maybe not. Who knows how the Coach met her? I mean, he probably eats at restaurants . . ."

"I guess I just a.s.sumed his mistresses would be women from the campus . . ."

"You know what happens when you make a.s.sumptions . . ."

"I know what happens in this case; we might end up arresting the wrong person."

"What about Speaker Number Two? Is she from Reardon?" They listened to the recording.

"Oh, my, Pamela, surely you can hear it. That's a high Bostonian accent. This woman is from the upper social register in Boston society. The dropped *r's are a giveaway. The slight *eh' before the open vowels. Other features too, but this woman is from the Boston area, if not Boston proper."

"What would some Bostonian socialite be doing having an affair with the Coach of our football team?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I didn't say anything about her morals, only her accent."

"And the third speaker? Are you going to blow my mind with her background too?"

More listening. Willard focused his eyes and pursed his lips in intense concentration.

"No, another Reardon resident," he noted. "But-much different than our Speaker Number One. Speaker Number Three is more sophisticated. I'd say she has a much more powerful position than Speaker Number One."

"What about age?"

"Oh, they're all over forty," he quipped.

"You're sure?"

"Easily," he said. "The frequency range, the quality of the vowels. You can hear it, I'm sure."

Over forty, she thought. But who are these women, she wondered, these three different women-yet with one thing in common-Coach Croft.

"Dr. Barnes," said Willard, standing, "you know, if you would be so kind as to make me a copy of these three voices, I believe I can extract even more information for you-possibly geographical information."

"Can you tell us their street addresses?" she asked, laughing. She wouldn't be surprised if he didn't do just that. "Of course, Willard. I'll make you a copy and get it to you today." Then, speaking softly and seriously, she added, "But please, don't discuss this with anyone-for your sake, my sake, and the sakes of any innocent people whose voices may be on this recording."

Chapter Eighteen.

She now found herself sitting in the front pa.s.senger seat of a non-descript black sedan, a crumpled old paper coffee cup under her foot. In the driver's seat, Detective Shoop sipped coffee from a new paper cup, steam rising up the side of his nose. He guided the car with his left hand, steely eyes on the road. She couldn't imagine drinking any caffeinated beverage this late in the day. Shoop had called her around five o'clock, just as she was ready to leave. She had glanced out her window to see him standing beside his official cruiser in the Blake Hall parking lot.

"What if I'd already left for the day?" she questioned, carefully sliding into the front seat of the old sedan. The musty smell made her think of disinfectant and dead bodies.

"You hadn't," he responded.

"How would you know?" she continued, somewhat annoyed. "You could have called."

"I did."

"I could have left."

"You didn't."

"But you wouldn't know if you didn't call," she responded, getting genuinely annoyed with the man.

"I'm a detective, Dr. Barnes," he answered, his face impa.s.sive, his voice monotone. "I have a way of finding things out."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she exclaimed. The man was insufferable. Even so, they were on their way to interrogate the major suspects in the Coach's murder-something she had pushed him for, so she realized that she'd better just go along with his ingrained habits and adjust. She placed a quick call to Rocky on her cell phone and told him she was running late and not to hold dinner. She didn't tell him why she was running late.

"The protective husband," muttered Shoop, smiling his Cheshire cat grin as she put away her cell phone.

"At your suggestion," she glared at him, "if I recall. You always agreed with Rocky when he reamed me out for my attempts at investigating."

"It was merely an observation, Dr. Barnes," he chuckled, "not an indictment."

"Sure," she retorted. "I've noticed that you always have some sort of opinion on my marriage. It feels at times as if you and Rocky gang up on me. Maybe it's because you're both men. Or both married men. Or are you? I don't even know if you're married . . ."

"Which is as it should be," he said cryptically. Then he nodded as if agreeing with his own observation.

"What?" she exclaimed. "What's as it should be? That I have no information about you or anything related to you? That I know nothing about you? Such as whether you're married or not."

"What do you think, Dr. Barnes?" he asked, glancing in her direction. "Can't you tell from my voice?" He laughed wickedly, his beady eyes peering at her.

"You're impossible!" she concluded, folding her arms and squeezing closer to her window. She stared out at the scenery. This other side of the campus was someplace where she rarely ventured. They drove by a large, three-story brick home, elevated on a large plot of immaculately tended lawn. This, she knew, was the official home of Grace University's President. It was near enough to campus to allow the school's top official to have a short commute, but distant enough to keep the man sheltered from the often loud goings-on of the local dormitories and other campus shenanigans. She had been in this home once-long ago when she was hired, along with the dozens of other new faculty members who had joined the Grace University faculty that year. Further down the street from the official Presidential residence, Pamela recognized other homes belonging to major figures at the school. The Dean of her College resided in an old, but graceful two story home on the corner. A large enclosed porch that surrounded the main level gave the house a quaint feel, but Pamela remembered being inside numerous times where the Dean's ma.s.sive library took up half of the first floor. He even had one of those rolling ladders that could slide along his built-in bookshelves, allowing him to climb to top shelves for out of the way special volumes. Next door to their Dean, a home of one of the school's Vice Presidents-the one in charge of Finance, she thought-was equally imposing. She'd never been inside of it, nor was it likely that she ever would be. As a lowly a.s.sociate professor, she was relegated to living in the boondocks in her pleasant but modest ranch-style, three bedroom home. However, she mused, she was content. She probably wouldn't know what to do with a home as large as these, anyway.

Shoop continued to chuckle. She'd probably never learn anything about the man-not that she yearned to do so. However, it appeared they'd be spending some time together-at least today. It would be nice if she had at least a basic working knowledge of her investigative partner.

"Our first stop is the wife," he told her, effectively cutting off her reverie. "They know we're coming. The daughters are there. Did you develop me a personality profile of any of the three women on the voice mail?"

"They're all over forty," she replied, somewhat belligerently. It seemed she was always supplying the man with information-and he was never reciprocating. "The first one and the third one are local, but the second speaker-I mean, second in chronological order on the recordings-is from the Boston area."

"Boston?" he asked, his face lighting up. "Now, how do you suppose that happened?"

"What do you mean, how did that happen?" she screeched. "The woman was probably born and raised in or near Boston. She probably lives there."

"If she lives there," he noted, "how would she get together with Coach Croft?"

"You forget," she lectured the policeman, "they do play away games."

"So, she's a floozy he picked up when the team was playing in Boston?"

"Oh, Detective," she continued, now definitely feeling the upper hand, "she's no floozy. This lady is from money. Her accent places her in some of the higher rent districts in upper Bostonian society."

"Really?" he scoffed.

"Really. And your other two speakers. Both are from around Reardon, but quite different. Your first speaker is a lower middle cla.s.s woman. The third one is a sophisticated, well-educated woman."

"Intriguing," he nodded, musing over the new information. "And that's all?"

"That's all?" she yelled. "I churned that out in a few hours. What have you produced of similar quality?" She neglected to add that Willard Swinton had a.s.sisted her with the geographical a.n.a.lyses.

"Actually, Dr. Barnes," he said, smiling, "I'm surprised you weren't able to determine the race of the three women."

"Their race? I can't tell that from their voices."

"You can't tell that our third speaker is an Afro-American?" he questioned.

"She is?"