"No," replied Jane Marie. "Rosemary is just torn up about this. She seems really concerned about the team-and the boys on the team-and how they're reacting. They're like sons to her."

"I can imagine. I spoke to one last week. It was heart breaking."

"Horrible," agreed Jane Marie, frowning.

"Is Mitch.e.l.l in?" Pamela asked suddenly, glancing at the adjoining door to the Department Head's office which was closed.

"No," answered Jane Marie, "he hasn't come in yet. He usually doesn't get here before ten."

"All this with the Coach and the apparent affair-that n.o.body seemed to know about-it sort of makes me think back to when all that happened with Mitch.e.l.l," she whispered, "and that former student. You know, when you were worried about Mitch.e.l.l because of his behavior and thought maybe he was mixed up in Charlotte's murder . . ."

"And it turned out he wasn't . . . but he was having an affair . . . with that woman who used to be one of his students." Jane Marie stared at Pamela. The two women locked eyes and seemed to be having the same idea.

"I mean, Jane Marie," continued Pamela, "you're devoted to Mitch.e.l.l-anyone would say that, but you suspected his infidelity . . ."

"And I told you my suspicions," she agreed, clutching the top of her monitor and bending over it to speak quietly. "But, Dr. Barnes, I had no idea what was going on with Dr. Marks back then. I just knew he was acting strangely. I was worried about him . . ."

"Just like the Coach's secretary must have been . . . surely. If anyone suspected that he was having an affair-let alone multiple affairs-it would have been his secretary."

"You would think," noted Jane Marie. "She keeps his schedule, sees that he's on time. I know she's very efficient and organized-and protective. If he was sneaking off in the afternoons and Rosemary suspected what he was doing, I'm not certain that she'd mention it to anyone."

"Even you?"

"I don't know. We do talk a lot. I mean, we share similar jobs and we interact a lot on the phone about students and course scheduling for team members. She's always been very friendly and open -but, of course, you know Dr. Marks insists that we bend over backwards to help the athletes with any scheduling or cla.s.s problems they might have."

"I know," said Pamela. She had often felt annoyance at the pressure the Psychology faculty was under from their boss to cooperate with the demands of the Athletic Department-demands that she felt were excessive, if truth be told. But now, Mitch.e.l.l's support of campus athletes could prove beneficial in securing information.

"I did have lunch at her house once-along with a few other administrative a.s.sistants that I a.s.sume have also been helpful to the team. She is quite a cook-Rocky would be jealous!" The two women laughed.

"Probably," laughed Pamela, "he's always threatened by anyone with a new recipe!"

"And Rosemary's an amazing gardener. She grows her own vegetables and maintains a small herb garden in her office. Of course, her office is much larger and nicer than mine," said Jane Marie, with a snicker, cringing as she glanced around her tiny s.p.a.ce.

"Surely," continued Pamela on her original track, "someone over there must have been aware that the head football coach was stepping out for afternoon trysts-and evidently on a regular basis."

"You'd think," agreed Jane Marie. "But then, men can be sneaky!" As they laughed, a tall, lanky man entered the office with a textbook tucked under one arm.

"Not all men, surely?" he questioned, standing forlornly in the doorway, glancing from one woman to another.

"Dr. Goodman!" exclaimed Jane Marie, blushing.

"It's farmer Bob!" announced Pamela, greeting the man with a warm hug. "I haven't seen you in ages. What is it I hear now about horses? Arliss said you two are expanding your livestock holdings."

"We're hoping to," said the painfully skinny professor, beaming widely. "A farm doesn't seem a farm without a horse-or two."

"What about cows?" asked Jane Marie from her seated post, returning to her typing.

"Whoa, Jane," he whistled, tugging at his gla.s.ses, "one step at a time. We have to run this menagerie ourselves and both of us are pretty darn busy keeping the animal lab over here going."

"Pretty darn! Now you even sound like a farmer. You'll have to have a party out there one of these days," suggested Pamela.

"Absolutely," he agreed. "We'd love to show off our new homestead. Maybe when all the furor over this-you know-horrible event . . . calms down . . ."

"What do think about all this, Bob?" Pamela asked. Jane Marie continued to type as the two professors chatted, but she kept herself glued to their conversation.

"Not what this school needs," he said. "We've had enough of death and murder, especially of faculty members recently . . . as you well know, Pam."

"Yes," nodded Pamela.

"At least," he noted to her, "you won't have to be involved in this one. Doesn't appear as if anyone made a recording of this murder, does it?"

"No," she said smiling. Little did Bob realize how right-and yet how wrong he was.

"Had you ever met Coach Croft, Dr. Goodman?" asked Jane Marie, looking up from her work.

"No," said Bob Goodman, "I'd never met the man . . . but I have met the young fellow who is apparently taking his place-this Jeff Dooley."

"The a.s.sistant coach?" asked Pamela.

"Yes," he continued. "We served together on the Academic Probation Committee for several years. A nice young man. Looks like he'll take over officially for the Coach, doesn't it?"

"He did win the game," said Pamela. "That seems like a good first step in becoming the Coach's replacement."

"Yeah," agreed Jane Marie.

"Did this Dooley ever say anything about the Coach?" Pamela directed this question to Bob.

"Oh, you mean, about . . . women?" Bob queried cautiously. "I'm trying to think. He was certainly very open and chatty about things going on in Athletics. Maybe a disparaging remark or two about the Coach from time to time, but nothing mean-spirited or on a regular basis. I don't recall him ever suggesting that there was any hanky-panky going on."

"But now with the Coach out of the picture," said Pamela, "he suddenly becomes Head Coach. One might consider that a motive for murder."

"Maybe," agreed Bob, "but the Administration could bring in someone from the outside. Just because the Coach is gone doesn't mean Dooley automatically gets the job."

"But his chances are greater now," she said, "don't you think?"

"Pamela," sighed Bob, "I think all your work for the local police has colored your outlook of the world."

"Probably," she confirmed, wishing he weren't so right in his observation.

"I've got to get back to Bailey," he said abruptly, turning to go. "You can't leave that monkey alone for more than a few minutes or she gets as angry as a hornet!" He waved briefly at the women as he walked out at a fast clip.

When the two women were alone, Pamela sat back down next to Jane Marie and scooted closer.

"Jane Marie," she whispered. "Mitch.e.l.l says that the Coach's oldest daughter is a student at Grace."

"I believe he did," responded the secretary, also whispering. "What are you thinking?"

"I guess I'm thinking of suspects," said Pamela.

"Suspects?"

"You know, anybody who knew the Coach-anybody who the police are questioning. Who might those people be?"

Jane Marie's eyes widened. She obviously enjoyed helping Pamela with her various criminal investigations.

"There would be the wife-first of all," noted Jane Marie, "but Mrs. Croft is handicapped, remember! Dr. Marks said she's in a wheel -chair."

"So he says," agreed Pamela. "Or is that what she wants people to think?"

"Surely, Dr. Barnes," exclaimed the woman, "you don't suspect his wife! She has multiple sclerosis!"

"I know. I know," agreed Pamela. "I'm just trying to consider all possibilities. The wife, the secretary, the a.s.sistant coach, the daughters."

"Dr. Barnes," interrupted Jane Marie, "the Coach's daughters are young. One is still in high school."

"And teenagers never commit murder?" asked Pamela.

"No, but I can't imagine either of his daughters would follow their father to a motel and stab him in the back."

"If he was cheating on their invalid mother?"

"I don't know . . ." she whined, bending over her monitor, green eyes flashing. "It doesn't seem possible . . ."

"Maybe not," agreed Pamela, "but I'm going to look into it anyway. Can you check on the oldest daughter?"

"You mean in the student records?" asked Jane Marie. Pamela nodded. All administrative a.s.sistants in all departments were able to access student records from their desktop computers. This way they could easily track students majoring in their area and make adjustments to their schedules when necessary. Jane Marie clicked a few b.u.t.tons on her keyboard and soon the University's mainframe computer database was displayed. A few more clicks, and Pamela saw on screen the data for student "Elizabeth Croft-senior in Nursing."

"She's a nursing major," noted Pamela.

"Yes," agreed Jane Marie. "She's graduating this year. Wow, she's got a 3.922 GPA. That's really good for Nursing. That's a stiff program."

"I know," mused Pamela. She knew Nursing was a hard major and she'd seen many students drop out of the program due to the intense requirements of the field. A nurse-or a student majoring in nursing-would know about the workings of the human body and exactly where a person would have to be stabbed for a wound to be mortal. She wondered if this would be something that a daughter would-or could-ever contemplate about her own father. She resolved to find out more about the Coach's family-particularly, his eldest daughter.

Chapter Twelve.

As she rounded the corner of the second floor of Blake Hall, she peeked into Willard Swinton's office next to hers. Willard was at his desk talking to a student. The professor and his protege were intently involved and she doubted that Willard even saw her pa.s.s by. Even so, she gave him a quick wave. Across the hallway, Joan's door was also open and she moved across the hall to see if Joan was also busy, advising a student or typing frantically on one of her many papers. Now that Charlotte Clark was gone and no longer the Department's top researcher and grant-getter, Joan had a.s.sumed the position formerly held by the dead diva. Of course, Joan was not given to tooting her own horn as Charlotte had, and let her work speak for itself. But Pamela knew what a workhorse Joan Bentley was, churning out award-winning publications month after month, year after year. Today, however, Joan's fingers were not flying over the keyboard. She sat leaning back in her desk chair, her eyes staring at a photograph on her desktop. Pamela knew the photograph well as it had held a position of honor there ever since Pamela had known Joan, which was almost fifteen years. The photo was a family picture of Joan, her deceased husband Neville, and their two sons, Charles and Jack.

"Joan," said Pamela softly, not wishing to disturb her reverie, "how are you?"

"Oh, Pamela," replied Joan, sitting up quickly and setting the framed picture back on her desk. "I'm having trouble getting motivated."

Pamela entered Joan's office. The cheery room belied Joan's present state. Joan had bedecked her small s.p.a.ce with numerous live plants (or real plants as Pamela called them because she far preferred the artificial variety that required no tending). Although Joan had stacks of papers, articles, and computer print-outs from her various research studies piled around the room, there was a definite order to the chaos. Joan had sticky notes on the tops of each of the various piles, indicating their nature. Her office reflected her life-a cheery blend of disciplined work in progress.

"That doesn't sound like you," chided Pamela gently.

"No," agreed Joan, "but it's hard to function at work, when my life at home is in such disarray."

"You mean with Jack?"

"Of course," agreed Joan. "Oh, Pamela, why did I ever suggest to the boy that he should move back home? He's just driving me crazy!"

"Is this because he hasn't found a job?"

"Not hasn't found-won't look for one."

"I know how hard it is to . . ."

"He's not looking!" Joan exclaimed. "He could find something if he would just go out there and look. You know as well as I do, Pamela, that job hunting is a full-time job! Jack a.s.sumes that an employer is just going to call him with an offer if he'll just wait long enough!"

"And the two of you aren't getting along?" Joan's face bore the truth of her constant bouts with her youngest and most volatile son.

"He's an adult!" she screamed, then tempered her voice as she realized that students in the hallway might overhear her voice. "But he acts like a teenager. He expects me to be his . . . mother!"

"Ungrateful wretch," said Pamela, smiling.

"I mean he expects me to be his slave, his butler, his maid, his psychiatrist, his chef, his tailor, his personal shopper, his mechanic, his secretary, his matchmaker, his entertainment coordinator . . . you get the picture."

"I do," agreed Pamela, sitting in Joan's leather chair in front of her desk. "I, of course, have never had any similar experience . . ."

"But, Pamela," whispered Joan, leaning forward, "just imagine how much more awful it would be if Angela were out on her own and you thought your days of being a Mommy were through and then . . . she returned home to live!"

"Horrible, I agree."

"You seem rather chipper today," said Joan. Her usual calm had partially returned and she sat up straighter, turning down the corner of the collar of her crisp peplum blouse that had rolled up in an unsightly display of irregularity.

"I'm happy to report that my off-spring is living in sin and out of my house and I couldn't be happier!"

"Bravo!" said Joan. "I'm all for living in sin." She gave Pamela one of her customary rolling eyed glares.

"There's your problem," said Pamela, pointing a finger in Joan's direction.

"What?"

"Jack cramps your style," she explained. "Your swinging single lifestyle. I a.s.sume it's pretty hard to be the wild party woman that I know you to be when your twenty-eight-year old son is sleeping down the hallway from you."

"That too," scowled Joan. "That three."

Joan had been a widow for many years. Although Neville had been the love of her life, Joan was not one to sit at home and knit. She enjoyed partying-and other things. She was discreet, of course-with carefully selected gentlemen from time to time.

"I might suggest that you need a night on the town with the gals," offered Pamela. "I realize that it wouldn't be nearly as exciting as one of your outings to that local ballroom dancing place, but it would do you good to get out."