Tall Man Down - 14. Chapter 14

If I’d learned to be disappointed by Rebecca Varner, after giving her what I felt were more than enough chances, I’d never really taken to Patricia McCune. Middle-aged and “kind of emotionally stingy,” as Pete put it, she seemed to guard her boss as though a great treasure. Often she wouldn’t relay possibly important messages – like this e-mail – fearful of wasting Rebecca’s time. Now there were those who swore Rebecca spent most of her office hours playing online Hearts, and others who argued she’d never be able to master its simple strategies. Either way, people were often kept waiting up to the full time of their appointments, even when they’d made it clear they had to teach immediately afterward.

Personally, I thought it was all Patricia’s plan to give people too little time to explain things to Rebecca – and sometimes, it took dogged repetition to persuade her to make the littlest change. As a result, almost no one ever got what they came for – which her supporters seemed to regard as one of her great strengths.

The one time I managed to snare her approval – largely by repeatedly quoting a faculty memo she’d written about departmental budgets – Pete punctured my tiny triumph by saying, “You know, you’ve just spent two hours trapping a sometimes purposely stupid woman.” Pete had been right, and after that, I let our department chair do our financial thumb-wrestling.

When Don and I entered Rebecca’s outer office, Patricia smiled at us with all the warmth you might give fouled diapers. She glanced at the pair of studded leather armchairs facing her desk and didn’t exactly ask us to sit, so much as acknowledged their existence. We remained standing, having expected to directly follow Rebecca.

While waiting, Don introduced himself, since he hadn’t been before. Patricia smiled politely, as if rendering his introduction redundant. Still, perhaps because he represented the police department, or maybe because we’d just been asked, we were soon allowed to meet with Rebecca.

Patricia led us the less than ten feet, maybe afraid we’d stray, and before she closed the door behind us firmly reminded Rebecca of another appointment, in less than an hour.

“It can’t be helped,” she added sweetly. “It’s important.” As if indicating we weren’t.

Rebecca was sitting behind the extravagantly carved mahogany desk that had supposedly been the favorite workplace of college founder Lewis Waldron, a hundred-and-sixty years earlier. Even Catlin had flinched at the desk’s abundance and had it moved out of the President’s office in favor of a more contemporary model. But Rebecca respected traditions and saved the desk from storage – or from Greg Stratton’s presumed desecration – by taking it for herself.

The rest of the office was dark and traditional. Books locked in glass-fronted cases seemed to reflect Rebecca’s own receptivity. Pictures of classes whose members had graduated long before Rebecca was born decorated the walls. A photo of Elizabeth Cady Stanton – in her late days and looking like a smiling Queen Victoria in mourning – gave some visiting parents the sense that Stanton had been a Waldron grad. Actually, Rebecca’s doctoral work had been on Stanton, an idol of her childhood and adult years.

“How can I help you?” she soon asked Don.

He and I had seated ourselves in another pair of armchairs that matched the ones in the outer office. These were part of a seemingly endless set once used by the earliest school library and now scattered importantly around campus. I’d learned their history – and been denied their use – when I’d tried to borrow three for a play.

“They really aren’t toys,” I’d been told by Rebecca. “So you can’t put them on the stage.”

Other than that, she was very supportive of the arts, especially the theater and dance programs, and she particularly liked shows where “Boys participated and did a lot athletic things.” Still, men, she felt, shouldn’t choose careers in the arts, and she’d nearly crippled her oldest son after he landed a high school chorus role after casually following his girlfriend into auditions. Rebecca worked the kid so hard on spring yard work that he pulled a muscle in his calf and had to quit the show.

“Before we talk about this silly e-mail,” Rebecca began, immediately letting us know how she felt about it, “I’d like to say a few things about Steven Catlin.”

Don had no objections, so Rebecca continued.

“His success is well known, and I could easily spend an hour just introducing his books. He had the amazing ability to attract readers while not messing up history, and I was always jealous of that.”

I recognized the lecture and hoped Don would head it off. Otherwise, what little time we were given would be wasted. Don quickly focused Rebecca by saying he was mainly on campus to talk with Greg Stratton.

“Still, I need to mention that Steven’s greatest success,” Rebecca went on, “one no one can argue with, was that he gave us presence. He took what had long been called ‘The Five College Area’ and made it ‘Six.’”

“How?” Don asked, maybe figuring he could lead her through this.

“I was getting to that,” she said, almost laughing. “Don’t rush an old woman.”

I never denied she had charm. Though a visitor, simply overhearing, might suppose the sage Dr. Varner years older than the children visiting her. Actually, Rebecca was just past fifty, looked somewhat younger, and had – at thirty – married a man now closer to my age than her own. Then she’d been almost constantly pregnant for ten years, flooding the world with little Torchon-Varners.

“Steven made the college visible,” she resumed, “by encouraging people. He pushed our best teachers to make their work better known and often helped them get research grants and fellowships. He persuaded corporations to fund us in ways we hadn’t been before. Until Steven came, we thought we had a decent fund-raising program – though our endowment is small and probably always will be. Greg Stratton – who you said you’re here to see – built his name on that, and he can still raise money from alumni faster than anyone I’ve known. But Steven brought new resources to that, and with them, increased respectability. He also gently prodded some of our – not to be too negative about this – less ambitious teachers to find work where they might be more comfortable. Though in every case, they found jobs in respectable colleges. Finally, he made us look at our goals. Which led to combining many of our smaller, almost boutique departments into larger, more practical ones.”

Rebecca, I was sure, considered herself an essential part of the school – though she’d been hired in the years that nearly drove the college bankrupt through its idealism.

“Of course, there are always people who resist change,” she continued, “especially when they think it’s coming from outside. But Steven was brought in when the faculty insisted that the Board improve the school...”

Actually, it was more the reverse.

“...and the Board spent a long time finding the right person to fix both Waldron’s academic and financial problems. So they’ll have to look very hard now to find someone as good.”

She almost seemed to be speaking as if the Board were listening and also seemed to be working just a little hard to convince both us and herself that she believed what she said.

“What’s the worst thing President Catlin did for Waldron?” Don asked in reply – and I was afraid he’d wind her up again. Instead, this seemed to nicely deflate Rebecca, and she took a moment to recoup. Though even when she did, it seemed partly a bluff.

“I don’t think enough time has passed to see where Steven might have been less than successful.”

“Are there people who’d argue that?” Don questioned.

“There are always the unhappy few.”

“Was there anyone who truly disliked him?”

“Not for any decent reason.”

“Was there one person – or group of people – who constantly fought with him?”

“Anything I’d say would only be my opinion. But I really don’t see how this connects to the e-mail.”

Don smiled faintly, as if knowing he’d managed to nudge her back to the path. Almost.

“Still, I’ve been here for almost twenty-five years,” she went on. “So my feelings for what’s happening now are shaped by what I know has happened in the past and what I hope will happen in the future. And if you ask someone perhaps more objective – like Gil – who’s been here a shorter time...”

Merely seven years.

“...and might see things as freshly as Steven did. Then – maybe – they can more easily pick out one person – or a group of them – who disagreed with Steven more than others. But you have to realize that, finally, we’re all reasonable people. And the best thing about hopefully anyone with a decent education is that she or he can disagree with another educated person, without destroying their friendship.”

“This is Wonderland,” I wanted to say. But I think Don knew that.

“Even so,” he repeated, “were there people who really disliked Steve Catlin?”

“You should at least call him ‘Dr. Catlin,’” Rebecca mildly corrected. “Since I don’t think you knew him.”

It was a delaying action, but Don smiled until Rebecca remembered his question.

“I can’t honestly answer that,” she allowed.

“Could you try? Because it might help lead to whoever sent this e-mail.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Then what would you consider fair?”

Rebecca seemed to consider that.

“Giving Steven his dignity,” she decided. “Remembering him with deserved admiration.”

“Even if we’re talking about a murder?”

Don said it quietly, but I could tell it stunned Rebecca. For a moment, her eyes seemed to freeze. Then she practically reminded herself to breathe.

“Is that really what you think?”

Don was casual and seemed to be exploring. “With unexpected deaths, it’s always a possibility.”

I wanted to laugh. There was probably as great a chance of that being true as me being appointed the next college president. But I wouldn’t undermine him.

“And you want to know who I think...” Rebecca faltered. “Or if I feel that anyone on the faculty could have...” She had trouble saying the word. “...killed... Steven?”

“On the faculty or staff,” Don eased on.

Rebecca simply shook her head. “That’s impossible. People here... well, people don’t do things like that.”

At least, she knew her Ibsen.

“It’s happened at other schools,” Don reminded her.

“There’s been random violence – certainly no better or worse. But what you’re saying is... No... not here. You don’t understand...”

It seemed Rebecca who couldn’t understand. And while I was mainly on her side – and clearly didn’t believe Catlin had done anything besides unfortunately drown – at least I could consider alternate possibilities.

“Is there anyone who especially disliked Dr. Catlin?” Don asked again.

“No,” Rebecca said.

At that point, her phone buzzed. She quickly picked up the receiver and said, “Yes, Patricia, I know.” Then she ignored the warning and was back with us. There was no suggestion we leave.

“This just isn’t what I expected,” she continued. “I simply thought the e-mail was a joke.”

“Well, I’m not saying your assistant, Dr. Marsden...”

“...associate...”

“...is in any way connected,” Don assured her. “That may very well be part of a student prank. And I certainly didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“But you have.” Still, Rebecca smiled, as if to dispel this, and for a short time seemed to be working something out. “The idea,” she finally began, “that Steven’s death was anything but an accident – and a terrible one – well... Well, that never occurred to me.”

She’d already said that and either seemed to be truly lost or stalling to think. Don tried to help her focus. “Does it make you think of anything now?”

“No,” she quickly admitted. “I’m just astonished.”

“Then why did you ask to see me?” Don went on. “Was it only about the e-mail?”

“Well... yes. I thought that since I’m suddenly... unexpectedly... partly responsible for the college again... And since we’re not used to having police officers on campus... Except,” she nearly joked, “to pick up the occasional drunk student... Well, that I should take this opportunity to introduce myself.”

Then she hesitated.

“I know Steven died on college property... But I’m sure there are so many other things...”

Even she seemed to realize she wasn’t making sense.

“I’m really sorry,” she offered.

Don seemed to think for a moment and then asked. “Is there anything you can tell us about this e-mail?”

This time the question didn’t help.

“No... I really don’t know anything about it. We didn’t even get a copy. Did Larry tell you that?”

Don nodded.

“It came to Greg, and he walked upstairs to show us.” She laughed slightly. “In fact, Patricia and I thought so little of it, we simply went to lunch.” She detoured again to explain. “You see, when you’re around students all the time... And no one really wants to admit this... But you can’t always take them seriously.”

Don again nodded, though he added. “Until they have guns.”

“Fortunately, Steven wasn’t shot – that’s all we’d need.” She must have realized how thoughtless that sounded and immediately corrected herself. “That any school would need.”

Don rose, and I followed. Rebecca also stood, seeming relieved. “Thank you for your time,” Don told her.

“You’re welcome. And if there’s anything further I can do...”

“I’ll be in touch. Just right now, I don’t want to keep Dr. Stratton waiting.”

He might have said it purposely, again to get a reaction. In any case, Rebecca couldn’t resist.

“An MBA,” she explained cheerfully, “may sometimes be a terminal degree. But it has no particular title.”

“Mr. Stratton?”

“I think like many of our teachers – in fact, like Gil – Greg simply prefers to be called by his first name. He’s very down to earth.”

The sweetest of euphemisms.

“Thanks,” Don said.

“Just call Patricia, if you need anything. And insist she fit you in.”

It seemed she was trying to be helpful.

“I’m always glad to talk,” she almost finished – we were at her office door. Then she added, uncertainly, “How... public... do you think any of this will get? I mean about Steve. I’m sure you know how certain gossip can hurt a school. Especially a small one.”

As always with Rebecca, there was genuine concern for Waldron.

“We always try to be discrete,” Don assured her, letting her know he was speaking both for himself and his department. Again, I could have assured Rebecca there was nothing to worry about.

We said “good-bye,” and then wished the same to Patricia on our way out. On the staircase, heading down to the Business Office, Don laughed. “She’s not someone you’d want as back-up.”

“Who?” I asked. “Patricia or Rebecca?”

“Either,” he replied, grinning. “Both.”

I laughed, too. “Are you surprised?”

“No,” he admitted. “You tried to tell me.” We went down a few more steps. “Did Steve Catlin like her?”

I considered. “I don’t honestly know. He had a way of using people to get what he wanted. And I’m sure Rebecca always did what he asked.”

“Even if she hated it?”

I grinned. “‘For the greater good.’”

“And Catlin respected that?”

“I’m not sure it mattered.”

We were in the downstairs lobby.

“Still, that’s exactly what I’m looking for – someone in a hole.”

“Not Rebecca,” I said instinctively.

“Why not?”

“Well... no. Just no.” I couldn’t explain.

By then, we were in the Business Office. It filled what had been the cafeteria of the original college, though it was considerably changed. The ceilings had been lowered, walls paneled, and any interesting details erased. It was more efficient, especially during the winter. But something had been lost.

“Are you are coming with me?” Don asked.

“Oh, yeah.