Voice Mail Murder by Patricia Rockwell Page A

don’t you check it out with Arliss, and let me know when we’re on.”
    “Will do,” said Pamela, standing and heading for the door. “And by the way, you might try a football game. They’re quite invigorating. And there are lots of men there.”
    “How would you know?”
    “I was at the home game Saturday,” Pamela tossed the remark Joan’s way as she strode out the door.
    Crossing the hallway, she could hear Joan gasp, but she laughed to herself. Let Joan figure out why her friend had attended her first ever football game after fifteen years as a non-athletic supporter. When she was situated at her desk and had her lunch secured in her small refrigerator, she pulled out her campus phone book from the top left-hand drawer of her desk. Quickly she located the number she sought and dialed a three-digit extension. It was picked up on the first ring.
    “Margaret Billings, Nursing,” said the voice.
    “Margaret, Pamela Barnes.”
    “Pamela,” exclaimed the woman, “it’s been years! How are you? We miss you on the Human Subjects’ Committee!” The friendly voice conveyed exactly what Pamela knew the woman to be—a cheerful, older woman who not only was a figure-head in the Nursing program, but who also had made a name for herself as long-time Chair of the Human Subjects’ Committee, a thankless but necessary job, Pamela always thought. Pamela had served a three-year stint on the committee several years ago and had come to respect and admire Margaret Billings as one of the few people on campus who was genuinely honest and thoughtful.
    “Margaret, are you still serving refreshments at the Human Subjects’ Committee meetings?”
    “Of course, my dear,” laughed Margaret, “no one would come to the meetings if I didn’t.”
    “Your refreshments were the main reason I always attended,” said Pamela, joining in with her laugh.
    “You were very regular in your attendance and always so punctual,” noted Margaret. Pamela thought that it was sweet that Margaret remembered probably the only contribution that Pamela had made throughout her three years on the Committee.
    “I tried to be,” stammered Pamela. “Margaret, I called because I have a quick question for you.”
    “What can I do for you, my dear?” asked Margaret, her warm personality beaming through the phone lines.
    “I was curious about the Coach’s daughter . . . I understand she’s a Nursing major.”
    “Oh, terrible tragedy. Terrible. The poor girl. She was just in my office last week, Pamela. We were doing her graduation check. She’s scheduled to graduate this spring, you know. Oh my, she’s an outstanding student! Outstanding! This is so horrible. I can’t imagine what’s she going through . . . but I haven’t seen her since . . .”
    “I know,” consoled Pamela, “It’s just terrible. I agree.”
    “Is she in one of your classes, Pamela?” The obvious question. Pamela beat around the proverbial and incredibly obvious bush.
    “I . . . had heard she was in Nursing . . . and a senior . . . and I was concerned if any of this would . . . affect her graduation. I know it’s probably the last thing to consider . . .”
    “No, of course not, my dear,” said Margaret gently, “if you have her in class, I certainly hope you’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. I mean if she’s absent or late with an assignment, I’m sure she’ll pull herself together, but do give her a bit of slack. This is just a terrible thing to happen to her and it’s all so public . . . and her mother in a wheelchair!”
    “I heard, yes,” said Pamela, feeling guilty that Margaret had assumed that the student was one of Pamela’s and that Pamela had not corrected this misconception. “I’m sure she’ll need to be there for her mother now . . . and her little sister.”
    “Absolutely, she’ll need to be,” said Margaret, “and she will be. She’s very strong. That’s why she went into Nursing, you know—because of her mother’s illness.