Sounds of Murder

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

She heard the crisp, sharp tapping of footsteps coming quickly towards her office. She recognized the sound of Dr. Joan Bentley's sturdy, yet lady-like heels. Joan appeared at her door, and knocked. Pamela leaned back on her sofa.

"Thank God, it's you," she sighed, looking up at Joan.

"My dear," said Joan, entering and setting herself primly on the straight back chair near the door. "You've been a busy girl since I saw you yesterday. What a horrible night for you!" The older woman tilted her head of white hair, stylishly coiffed in a loose bob, and looked expectantly towards Pamela.

"Joan," Pamela sighed, "When did you hear?"

"Arliss called me last night," Joan said. "We debated whether to call you at home, but decided we'd talk to you today. You needed your sleep."

"Arliss heard about it last night?"

"It was on the local eleven o'clock news," reported Joan calmly, nodding.

"Did they mention me finding her?"

"No, dear," Joan answered, "But they said a female colleague in the Psychology Department who was teaching a night class found her. That would be you."

"No," groaned Pamela. "I don't want to get involved with reporters."

"Just avoid them. If they ask to interview you, just say no," she replied, as if it were quite simple. Pamela wished Joan would loan her the magic wand she used whenever she encountered a nosy reporter. Joan was a well-known researcher in her own area of educational psychology, almost as famous as Charlotte Clark was in the field of addiction. Some of Joan's studies had even drawn attention from the local media and she was well-accustomed to handling the press.

Pamela heard the sound of another set of footsteps heading down the hallway. She recognized this pair also--the long, striding, sneaker-clad gait of Arliss MacGregor. Arliss's head appeared in her doorway. Arliss was lean and lanky and dressed more like a boy, in trousers, a man-shirt, and a vest--than like the instructor and lab director that she was.

"My God, Pam!" She entered the office, waving her arms around. "What happened?" She plopped down in Pamela's desk chair.

"I wish I knew," said Pamela. "I wish I'd just gone home last night instead of checking to see if the lab was locked. Someone else would have found her then."

"Thank you, Mitchell Marks!" announced Arliss, hands on hips, "Protect our computer lab at all costs! Who knows what you may find there?"

"Arliss!" chided Joan, "This has been a traumatic experience for Pamela. Just imagine finding a dead body."

"And to make it worse--it was Charlotte's," said Arliss, pulling a wayward black lock out of her face and back into her ponytail.

"Arliss," said Joan.

"Come on, Joan," sneered Arliss, "You didn't like her any better than anyone else did." She leaned back and put her feet up on the desk. Pamela was not thrilled when Arliss took over her desk like this, but it was one of the drawbacks she tolerated in order to maintain her favored position on her sofa.

"I didn't wish her dead," said Joan, her nostrils puffing out as her nose rose skyward. She folded her hands neatly on her lap.

"Neither did I," said Arliss, slamming her feet firmly on the floor.

"Please, you two!" Pamela cried, throwing her hands up in defense. "Can't we stop this?"

"I'm sorry, Pam," said Arliss, "really, I am. For you, I have nothing but sympathy." She blinked and stuck out her lower lip.