Free Murder is Academic by Lesley A. Diehl Page A

drawn into a thin line, a sure sign he was not pleased with me.
    “There are a few kinks to iron out.”
    “So if Withers’ meeting with Talbot accounted for some of the time in that afternoon when he wasn’t in his office, what was Talbot doing with the rest of his time? And did he cancel that meeting with the mysterious science person? What about…” I was not allowed to finish as Der walked out of the office muttering to himself about amateur detectives. I certainly didn’t believe he meant me, of course. I was his little helper, wasn’t I?
    “You should have hiked to the top of the mountain, and your thinking might have been a lot clearer,” I yelled down the hall after him.
    Well, maybe I was wrong. Perhaps Withers did kill him. Withers with his one hundred dollar haircuts, white suits and black shirts and ties. I somehow couldn’t see him picking up a shovel and lunging for the president. He was way too cool for that scene; he might disturb his carefully coifed hair. And where would he find a shovel?
    “Hey,” I yelled down the hall again. “Where would he find a shovel out there?”
    Despite my expert opinion and legitimate concerns, the authorities called in Withers for further questioning in a matter of hours. The campus began to rumble with excitement. While I loathed the idea of giving in to my baser nature, I had to know what was going on, so I left for the student center to grab coffee and tap into the campus rumor mill.
    Most of my colleagues seemed to be convinced that Withers was the one, asserting that only an administrator would kill another administrator, forgetting that there was enough faculty enmity toward Talbot to pollute the air in a five county area. Pollution made me think about those poor dead fish Guy and I saw on our ride. Pollution and fish and Talbot. What a line of disjointed thoughts. Yet, there was something there. I sat around the center listening to the gossip about Withers and thought about dead fish . Dead fish. What about dead fish?
    “Gotta run, guys.” I rose from the table, bid my colleagues goodbye and ran for the ladies room. I flipped open my cell phone in the privacy of a stall to connect with Der. He was in, but wasn’t happy to hear from me.
    “Just one more question.” I was pleading in my best let’s-be-friends-again voice. He relented.
    “Did you ask Withers why they met out at the lake?”
    “Sure,” he said. His tone of voice told me he thought I was accusing him of being stupid.
    “And what did he say?”
    “That’s two questions.” He paused for a moment then answered. “He said Talbot didn’t want to meet on campus. Talbot wanted to keep up the illusion that Withers was out of favor on campus because it was winning Talbot a few accolades from the faculty for firing him, I mean, for accepting his retirement notice.”
    “Oh.”
    “You sound disappointed. What’s up?” Der sounded his old cheery self at my depression.
    “I thought maybe it was Withers’ idea to meet at the lake.”
    “Well, it was, according to Withers.”
    “But you just said…” I was beginning to get frustrated.
    “I said that Talbot didn’t want the meeting on campus. Withers suggested meeting at the lake. He told me the most preposterous story. You know how he dresses and his style, well…”
    “He told you he was going fishing, right?”
    “How did you know?”
    “Well, it’s a really long story.”
    “Cut it short. I have to make a statement to the newspapers.” I could just picture the thin line his lips were taking on for the second time that day.
    “I was shopping at the outlet stores, you know the ones north of here, and I ran into Withers’ wife. This was about two or more weeks ago. She’s kind of effusive, and I tend to tune her out most of the time, so it took me a while to remember our conversation that day. She said that Withers was with her, but they had separated to do their own shopping. She mentioned that he was intent on taking up a