Free Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 06 - Death without Tenure by Joanne Dobson Page B

looked back down into the busy lobby, I could just see the back of his denim work jacket disappearing out the library doors. From its cut and quality the “work” jacket must have been a Ralph Lauren.
    I went back downstairs to retrieve my coffee. I needed it more than ever now.
    ***
     
    It was midnight when I left the library. The work had proven even more tedious than expected. I wasn’t dressed for the autumnal chill, and I quickstepped my way across the well-lit campus with its eerie blue safety lights glowing chimera-like against the solid brick and stone. The faculty parking lot held only a few cars, one of which was Joe Lone Wolf’s lime-green Volkswagen bus—nostalgia on wheels. As I clicked open the door of my Subaru, a high-visibility-yellow sports car, low-slung and mean, squealed into the lot. I recognized it as belonging to Sally Chenille, she of the sex-postmodern-theory-celebrity construct. I was in my car by the time Sally’s sporty vehicle pulled up to Joe’s old bus, barely pausing to let Joe out. Joe slammed the passenger door and the yellow car took off. He glared after it as it peeled out of the lot. Then he shrugged and inserted his key into the VW’s door lock. The engine reluctantly turned over, then caught, and the bus rolled slowly toward the exit.
    A third car, headlights off, edged out of tree shadows on the street. It was a fairly new compact, maybe dark green, and I didn’t recognize it. But as I sat there in the dark, I watched it follow closely behind Joe Lone Wolf’s bus as it turned left, heading for home.
    What the hell was that all about? Was someone shadowing Joe? Should I call him and make sure he’d gotten home okay?

Chapter 8
     
    Tuesday 10/13
     
    A windstorm over the weekend had blown down all but the oak leaves, and by Tuesday afternoon when I came on campus after the Monday holiday, autumn had transformed itself from terminal summer to nascent winter. Old brick buildings had taken on chillier facades—straight, stark, Puritan lines without the redemption of nature’s green. Groundsmen had run their leaf-blowers over the sidewalks, but the Common itself was buried in fallen leaves. Hank Brody was scuffing across the hidden grass. Other students had donned jeans and wool jackets, but Hank still wore his cargo shorts and sweatshirt. Wasn’t he cold?
    “Hey, Hank,” I said. He was coming toward me from the direction of Dickinson Hall, and I wondered if he’d been looking for me.
    Hearing my voice he glanced up, startled. He was pale, his matted corn-husk dreads flopping over the high forehead. “Oh, Professor, do you know where Professor Lone Wolf is?”
    “Professor Lone Wolf? No.”
    “I had an appointment with him for two o’clock—about my paper. I waited a half hour, and he’s still not in his office. He didn’t make either of his classes this morning, either.”
    “Did you try the office? Maybe he told Professor Hilton or Monica, the secretary, where he was going.”
    “Ha!” Hank exclaimed. “That secretary said Professor Hilton was in no fit state to see anyone, and what did I think she was anyhow, a babysitter for the faculty? I’m not going back in there—phew! That lady’s scary.”
    “Monica’s bark is worse than her…bark,” I said, lamely. When Monica was in a bad mood, the entire department tip-toed around as if they were walking in a field of activated hand grenades. Once we were back in the English department, I let him into my office. “You don’t have to talk to her again, but let me see what I can find out.”
    Monica was at her computer, scowling over a game of Mahjong Titans. She didn’t shut it down when I walked in, didn’t even raise her eyes from the screen. Hank was right—she was scary. Then all at once I realized that maybe I’d be better off in the long run if I didn’t ask Monica about Joe Lone Wolf; Joe might well be a sore spot for her. For a while he and Monica had been tight. Joe had spent a good deal of time