Voice Mail Murder by Patricia Rockwell

Author:Patricia Rockwell
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Patricia Rockwell
Published: 2011-05-29T15:23:24+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Tuesday was her slow day, at least compared to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when she taught three classes in a row. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she only taught one class at 1:00 in the afternoon. Her mornings were devoted to office hours and this morning was typical. Several students had popped in at various intervals to discuss different issues—most concerning enrollment, advising, or their majors. It was far too early in the semester for the rush of students who would typically line up for help on the course research paper. She was always happy to assist them and devoted probably an inordinate amount of time with each one who came calling for assistance. She firmly believed that helping students become the best writers they could be was part of her job—maybe not the most exciting or noteworthy part, but easily one of the most personally rewarding. She was not so foolish or self-centered as to think that students actually cared that much about their research papers or that many, if any, of them would go on to careers that involved writing or science, let alone her specialty of acoustic linguistics. She simply believed that she had an opportunity to help each one who visited her improve their ability to write—and that any improvement could help that student in their future career, whether they realized it or not.

She had sat at her desk, in full advisor mode, as students sat next to her and presented their cases. Some wanted in a class; some wanted out. Some wanted to change majors. She listened—something she did rather well—and tried to advise them. In most instances, she believed that the students left her office with their problem at least partially solved.

By around ten o’clock in the morning, the place had cleared out and she heard a familiar tapping coming down the hall. She moved to her doorway.

“Willard,” she beckoned to the elderly Afro-American professor, leaning over his ivory-handled mahogany cane, as he ambled into his office next door. “Willard, can you spare me a minute?”

The elderly gentleman beamed at her request, perked up his shoulders, and hustled towards her at a faster clip, his cane marking a faster beat.

“Pamela.” He spoke with rich, robust tones, like an orator from an ancient Roman arena. “I can spare you as much time as you deem necessary.” She loved talking to Willard, which was much like talking to an open dictionary. They had collaborated on several research papers and it was very convenient having an office so close to this encyclopedia of information about topics so similar to hers. Willard’s specialty was cultural and geographical aspects of vocal behavior. Pamela often thought of him as Grace University’s very own Henry Higgins. He probably knew exactly which county in which state she was born.

She guided him into her office, noting with some degree of despair, how much more tenuous his movement seemed despite his girth. She glanced down at his gnarled hand on the top of his cane and saw how he was struggling to hold it still.

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