"Yes, sir," replied Jane Marie, "He's only been here three years, but the team started its winning streak almost as soon as he got here. I mean it's been amazing what he did over there."

"You met him?" asked Pamela.

"I did," nodded Marks. "Very friendly. Very solicitous of the wife. She was charming-and energetic, despite being in the chair. Didn't seem to affect her personality at all. A nice couple."

"How horrible for her," offered Pamela.

"Yes," said Jane Marie. "And their daughters."

"They have children?" asked Pamela.

"I believe so. Two daughters. One is still in high school, but the other one is enrolled here-I think she's a junior," said Jane Marie.

"What could possibly be the motive to kill such a man?" wondered Pamela, shaking her head.

"Right," nodded Marks. "Doesn't seem a likely victim for murder. No one could be upset with him for his coaching. I mean, with the team on this long-term winning streak. If there's any problem in the family, I don't see it."

"Must be something else," said Pamela.

"Must be," agreed Jane Marie. "They did find him in a motel." She gave an audible sigh.

"What did you get from the secretary?" asked Marks, looking over his shoulder at Jane Marie.

"She was upset, as you can imagine," she explained. "She was trying to keep things going over there-get the team members enrolled in courses they needed to be in-and had forgotten to register for. You know, the typical thing. But, I could tell she was really upset. "

"Of course, she'd be upset," Pamela noted, "I'd be upset if you were murdered Mitch.e.l.l."

Marks chuckled and smiled. "Thanks, Pamela. I guess."

"You know what I mean," Pamela added, fl.u.s.tered and blushing.

"Yes, yes. I know. You say that the police are questioning everyone in the Athletic Department?" he pressed the secretary.

"That's what Rosemary said," repeated Jane Marie. "I didn't get the impression that they had any specific suspicions though, only that they were trying to figure out who might have had a motive or if anyone knew why Coach Croft was in the motel in the first place."

"I can venture a guess as to why he was in the motel," said Marks, glancing from one woman to the other.

"You can?" replied Pamela, meeting his challenge.

"Come on, you two," said Marks, eyeb.a.l.l.s rolling. "What's the main reason someone goes to a motel when they have a perfectly good home to go to?"

"Privacy," suggested Jane Marie, sweetly.

"An afternoon nap," offered Pamela, equally innocent.

"Oh, come off it!" snorted Marks. "He may be Mr. All-American Coach of the Year, but a motel room in the middle of the day suggests one thing to me-and I'm sure it suggests one thing to the two of you innocent ladies too."

"What?" both women asked at once.

"The guy was having an affair," said Marks in a loud stage whisper. Pamela appreciated his discretion as you never knew when some student might be listening around a corner to faculty speculation.

"Even if he was," suggested Pamela, "that doesn't explain the murder. I'm sure a number of people manage to have affairs without getting murdered." She wished she could retrieve this statement as soon as she said it. There had been a minor scandal several years ago when Mitch.e.l.l had had a brief affair. His marriage to Velma had been derailed but was now apparently back on track.

"Maybe so," agreed Marks, running his hand through his thick mane of graying blond hair and seemingly oblivious to her comment, "but it might provide a motive-particularly if someone found out about said affair-someone he didn't want to know." A tuft of his blond hair fell over his forehead and he shook it quickly out of his face.

"Surely not his wife," whispered Jane Marie. "You said she's in a wheel chair."

"What about the daughters?" asked Pamela. "Maybe they didn't approve of their father cheating on their mother."

"Wait a minute," said Marks, hands in traffic cop position to the two women.

"Or maybe it was an irate student," declared Pamela, "who got a bad grade!"

Dr. Barnes," said Jane Marie, arms folded. "You don't kill a professor for a bad grade!"

"I don't know," mused Marks, "Some of them get pretty angry when things don't go their way." At that point several students poked their heads around the corner of the secretary's alcove.

"We need to get Dr. Swinton's signature," said one, "on a drop and add form."

"He isn't in his office," said the other, glaring at Jane Marie expectantly.

Of course, thought Pamela, students expected each faculty member to remain in their office twenty-four hours a day and be on call whenever they needed something signed or approved. She knew that Willard Swinton was one of the few professors who probably would do just that if he were allowed. Totally devoted to his students and his research, Willard was probably grabbing a quick supper. She noted her watch and seeing that it was a little after five o'clock now, she was quite certain that he would probably return to his office shortly.

"Why don't you wait by his office door?" she suggested to the pair. "I believe Dr. Swinton is out getting some supper, but I'm sure he'll be returning to his office soon." The pair looked at each other quizzically and, without a word, headed out the door.

"They don't seem too worried about the Coach," said the secretary.

"Oblivious," agreed Pamela, following the students' departure with her eyes.

"Probably for the best," agreed Marks. "Life and cla.s.ses must go on. It's late, ladies." He turned and headed back into his inner sanctum and shut the door, leaving the two women alone in the small room.

"So, really, Dr. Barnes," said Jane Marie, conspiratorially, "who do you think might have killed Coach Croft?"

"I have no idea, Jane Marie," answered Pamela, "but, truth be told, I am interested. And you seem to have an inside track on cla.s.sified information."

"Maybe."

"I'd really like to hear what you find out-if anything."

"I can't promise, but I do speak to Rosemary fairly often. We see each other from time to time at those college secretaries' luncheons. Dr. Marks bends over backwards for the athletes too, more so than many heads of some departments, Dr. Barnes," she added secretively, "and I know Rosemary appreciates our help when their athletes need special treatment, if you know what I mean."

"I do, Jane Marie," Pamela replied, "but this time, the Coach got some special treatment from someone-and not just help with some football players who needed to get into a course late or help with struggling athletes who couldn't make pa.s.sing grades. This time, he got more special treatment than he bargained for."

Chapter Five.

Pamela arrived home and gave her garage door opener a quick click. As she drove her little blue Civic into its spot next to Rocky's black Ford Explorer (Rocky believed in buying American) she was anxious to learn if her husband had heard any gossip about the murdered football coach from his side of campus. Grabbing her jacket and belongings, she slid out of the car and opened the door into the kitchen. Immediately she was greeted with the vibrant, spicy aroma of Mexico. Rocky stood at his favorite location in their home, in front of their stove, stirring frantically as he poured a container of sour cream into a bubbling mixture of what smelled like his famous chicken enchilada ca.s.serole.

"Umm," she announced. "Mexican!" Rocky turned and smiled briefly at her before returning to his pouring and stirring.

"Hey, Babe," he called out. "No late meetings?"

"Nope," she replied, hugging him from behind with a quick kiss on his neck. She could smell his after-shave mixed with salsa.

"Everything go okay? No first day crises?"

"Smooth all the way," she responded from the bedroom around the corner. "And you?"

"Great," he called out to her, "They gave me an extra section of English 100!"

"Wonderful," Pamela said, returning to the kitchen empty-handed. "That's four cla.s.ses. We can use the extra money."

"No kidding," agreed her large, muscular husband. "And it fits great into my schedule. All morning cla.s.ses. Still have the afternoons to cook!" His eyes twinkled conspiratorially.

"Thank the Lord for that," she said, laughing. The couple was non-traditional in that Pamela had the full-time job with her tenure-track position in Psychology, and Rocky, retired from the Army, worked in the English Department as an adjunct, picking up courses when he could, semester by semester. Typically, he was able to schedule three cla.s.ses each term. An additional cla.s.s would mean extra dollars in their budget.

Rocky now moved over to the island in the center of the kitchen where a rectangular ca.s.serole dish awaited. A layer of corn tortillas was draped over the bottom of the pan and a package of opened tortillas sat to the side. Rocky carefully poured a portion of the chicken and sour cream mixture over the tortillas in the rectangular baking dish. Then placing the cooking pan back on the stove, he opened the refrigerator and brought out a package of shredded Monterey Jack cheese and ripped off the top. Sprinkling a generous amount of cheese over the chicken mixture, he continued alternating layers in the pan of tortillas, chicken and cheese as he spoke.

"Angie was here," he said.

"Oh?" she said, smiling. "Why? Did you ask her to stay for dinner?"

"I did, but she was off with Kent. They were headed to some event for his job. She stopped by to pick up some sweaters."

"Sweaters?"

"Yeah, she's freezing over at Kent's. He keeps the thermometer off and she's used to it being warmer, but she's not about to pick a fight with him, so she's just going to dress warmer, she said."

"She said that?"

"Yup," he noted. Angie was their daughter and she'd been spending a lot of time at her boyfriend's apartment. She might as well admit it; Angie was living at her boyfriend's apartment. Even so, she and Rocky had kept Angie's bedroom as it was-which meant messy-on the off chance that she would move back home, but Pamela wasn't holding her breath. Angie dropped by from time to time to "pick up" items she needed and usually stayed for a meal. Despite their still b.u.mpy relationship with their daughter, the young woman had made considerable progress towards adulthood. She was now a senior at Grace University and was on track to complete a degree in Sociology at the end of the year. She had even located a part-time job with a local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, a position that tickled her father. She spent most of her time there calling people and arranging for donations of clothing and other items.

"Did you hear about the football coach?" asked Pamela, as Rocky sprinkled the last few shreds of cheese over the top of the ca.s.serole.

"Yeah," he answered, opening the oven door and placing the filled pan onto the interior shelf. Closing the oven door, he turned to her. "Can you believe it? The football coach. Their first game is this weekend." His voice sounded bleak.

"I heard they found him in a motel."

"And you know what that means."

"An affair?" she asked.

"Why else would a man-anyone-go to a motel in the same town where he lives in the middle of the day?"

" Maybe just to get away from all the pressure? I mean-head football coach, team's first game coming up? Could be, he's just stressed," speculated Pamela.

"Let me tell you about that kind of stress," replied Rocky with a crinkled upper lip.

"Come on, Rocky," Pamela scowled at her husband. "Did you hear anything else?"

"I just heard that they found him in a motel room, murdered," he replied. "And I heard that from students. It's amazing how quickly they pick up things and then let the faculty know. Little gossip mongers."

"Right," she agreed. "One of mine burst into my first cla.s.s right as I was starting my first lecture and dropped the bombsh.e.l.l."

"Luckily, I heard about it in my office. A bunch of students were talking outside my door. Supposedly, he was killed yesterday morning and they were questioning people all day today. Mostly team members, staff, and faculty in the Athletic Department."

"Do you think they suspect a student?" she asked.

"You mean a student who got a bad grade?" he countered.

"Or a member of the football team? Maybe someone who got sacked?" she suggested.

"I doubt he even teaches any cla.s.ses as head coach," mused Rocky, as the couple leaned against the kitchen counter. Rocky went to the refrigerator and pulled out a crystal pitcher of red liquid.

"Not sangria?" she asked, squealing.

"It goes with Mexican," he said, pulling two large wine gla.s.ses from the cupboard and pouring the drinks. Pamela reached into the ice bin on the side of the refrigerator and plopped several cubes into each gla.s.s.

"Cheers," he said, clicking his gla.s.s to hers.

"Cheers," she responded, "Here's to the first day of cla.s.s. May the rest of the semester be far less exciting than this day." They sipped their drinks.

Pamela sighed and Rocky put his arm around her, eventually guiding her into their living room where he seated her on their sofa. He pulled up a large, matching ha.s.sock and the couple stretched out their legs.

"This is so good," she said, moaning. No sooner had the couple relaxed in their living room, but a small, furry head popped out from underneath an arm chair in the corner. A miniature poodle stretched himself out from an obviously long nap and paddled authoritatively over to the couple where he leaped effortlessly onto the sofa and into their laps.

"Candide, no food. Just alcohol," she admonished the small dog. Seemingly satisfied with the verdict, the little dog hunkered down between Pamela and her husband and quickly dozed off again.

"Just a taste of delicacies to come," Rocky reminded Pamela, giving Candide's head a scratch. "Enjoy. Enchilada ca.s.serole will be ready in a half hour or so." He squeezed her shoulder and she dropped her head next to his. How lucky she was to have this perfect house-husband who loved to cook-and who cooked so well, especially when she hated the ch.o.r.e. Theirs was a match made in heaven.

"His poor wife," she said, thinking out loud. "It's bad enough to have your husband die, but to have your husband murdered!"

"And murdered in a motel room," added Rocky. "The coup de grace."

"Don't you ever get murdered-especially in a motel!" admonished Pamela, turning to Rocky, brandishing her gla.s.s of Sangria.

"I promise," he replied. "If I ever get murdered, I'll make sure I'm not in a motel."

"I mean, just don't get murdered," she said. "I mean, just don't die." She cuddled up closer, feeling his body warmth, a delightful contrast to the cool beverage. Suddenly, she turned to him. "His wife is a paraplegic, you know."

"Really?"