Smart, But Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 3) Page 6

  I looked straight at her. “Emotional stress alone does not cause death,” I stated. “Dr. Ornish says that how a person handles stress is what matters.”

  “I suppose so.” She raised her chin. “But combined with other factors, it might cause a fatal reaction.”

  I wanted to get back to her beliefs. Did her credibility depend on Dr. Ornish, instead of Dr. Carmody, being on the right track?

  “What do you think Dr. Carmody was particularly interested in?” I asked.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Telomeres. Telomerase. Genetic mutations. Beyond that, I really couldn’t say.”

  “I guess I’d better get this produce home,” I said. “I enjoyed the visit.” I whirled and headed for the door before she could say something snarky and while my eyes could still function once I reached daylight.

  At home, I stuffed produce into refrigerator bins. I’d have to buy either a larger refrigerator or a rabbit. I tossed my salad, fixed iced tea and jiggled around the kitchen to the Spice Girls’ “Say You’ll Be There.” Despite Dr. Carmody’s death and Penelope’s obsession, life was basically good. I concentrated on staying youthful and thought about Sam. I was pleased with my column and eager to meet Dr. Carmody’s fellow scientists on Tuesday.

  But first, I was going to meet Dr. Carmody’s brother, Claude.

  Fourteen

  It wasn’t difficult to find him in the phone book. There was only one Claude Carmody listed. Kermit and Claude. Under his name, I read “U.S. World Investments” with a northwest San Antonio address and phone number. His home address wasn’t listed. That was okay. I probably had a better chance of seeing him without an appointment if he thought I was an investor. He might be home making funeral arrangements; I decided to call the company.

  “Mr. Carmody’s office, please.”

  His assistant came on the line.

  “Hello. My name is Agatha Mundeen. I’m a new investor—in town for a few days—and thought I might make some investments while I’m here. My family lives in San Antonio, so I’m here often. I know Mr. Carmody’s brother died. Such a tragedy. I wonder if he might be coming in today. I certainly don’t want to impose.”

  “Actually, he’s here now. They made funeral arrangements over the weekend, and services are tomorrow. One minute. Let me check…He says that will be fine. Can you come fairly soon? He may go home early.”

  “Thank you. Tell him I’m on my way.”

  After changing into business apparel, I hopped into Albatross, made my way to Loop 410, turned west on IH-10 and scanned the access road for the investment company. They’d probably have an imposing building with a large sign so people could find them. As expected, the company name stretched in huge letters across the top of a three-story building. I pulled into their lot, entered the expansive lobby and walked up to the girl behind an imposing information desk.

  “I’m Agatha Mundeen. I have an appointment with Mr. Carmody.”

  “Certainly. Walk around my desk toward the rear plate glass window. His office is the last one on the right.”

  Under his name on the door was “Vice President, CFA, Chief Portfolio Manager.” He must be the second man in charge under the CEO. As I reached for the knob, he opened the door, a salesman’s smile on his face.

  “Come in, come in.” He grasped my hand.

  “Agatha Mundeen. Thank you for seeing me on short notice. I’m so sorry about your brother.”

  “Thank you. It was quite sudden. Did you know him? Please, take a seat.” His office was appropriate for a CEO. It had windows all across the back, mellow wood furniture upholstered with sumptuous leather, and plush carpet. I molded into the luxurious chair in front of his desk.

  “I returned to graduate school and had two of my classes with Dr. Carmody. He was brilliant.”

  “Yes, he was. He could have made astounding discoveries. His life was cut way too short.”

  “Had he been ill, do you know?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He didn’t take care of himself...spent too much time researching and never exercised. He’d get involved with scientific inquiries and forget everything else. But ill, no.”

  “So he didn’t take medicine for a recurring problem, perhaps some familial tendency that...”

  His smile disappeared. “No. None of that. He had the usual aches and pains middle-aged people get, and he may have taken mild remedies for that. But there are no inherited diseases in our family. Now, what can I do for you?”

  I’d concocted a story about wanting to spread my investments in balanced mutual funds, a few individual stocks, maybe some real estate investment trusts. He grew interested and made notes.

  “I keep a bungalow here, but after your brother’s funeral tomorrow, I’m going back to Corpus Christi,” I said. “Shall I call you in a couple weeks to see what you recommend?”

  “Perfect,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for coming in.”

  As soon as we shook hands and I left, I scooted fast as I could toward the front of the building. I’d parked Albatross on the side. I wanted to get out of the parking lot and onto IH-10 before he saw the Wagoneer. There was no way anybody who drove a car like mine could make all those investments.

  Fifteen

  When Meredith came to pick me up Tuesday morning for the memorial gathering, I was waiting at the curb wearing a navy pantsuit with a turned-up collar, a stylish vest and bellbottoms. We’d decided to dress for Carmody’s memorial and one o’clock funeral and grab lunch between events.

  “You look nice,” I said. Her brown pantsuit was taller and leaner than mine. I’d gotten over longing to be tall. The best I could do was struggle to become lean.

  “Thanks. So do you. Since he’s famous, it’ll probably be a big funeral.”

  “With a slew of scientists there.” I wished I could wear a press pass to draw their attention.

  The UHT campus looked normal when we arrived, but chatter in the first-floor hall leading to the small auditorium was subdued. People from Carmody’s class shuffled like mourners. Even undergrad students wore muted attire and somber faces. They knew better than to cavort around. I recognized the postdocs from our class and slid toward them, matching their stride.

  “His death is tragic, isn’t it?”

  Stanley Bly nodded. “Yes, tragic. We may have to search for other universities to pursue our research.” The other man, Phillip Delay, nodded his head in agreement. His nose reminded me of Dr. Carmody’s.

  “Won’t Dr. Eric Lager carry on Dr. Carmody’s work?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Phillip said, “but he doesn’t have the reputation.”

  Meredith caught up, and we stood in line behind the two men, waiting to be cleared for admission by one of three campus officers stationed at doors to the auditorium. I didn’t have a chance to ask more questions.

  A sign standing on a tripod near the middle door read: “Private Function.” After the young scientists sauntered in, the officer asked to see our student identification cards.

  At the next door over, a man waited for another officer to admit him. He was probably a researcher who knew Carmody but didn’t have a campus ID. Stooped, with dark hair and a beard, he looked rather sinister. The officer asked for his name and address and checked it against a list. I hadn’t expected so much security. The university hierarchy was obviously shaken by Dr. Carmody’s untimely death. He must have been an even bigger celebrity than I imagined.

  The officer looked up at the man, jerked his thumb toward the entry door, and the man trod into the auditorium. I watched where he sat so I could catch him later.

  Once the officer scrutinized our ID cards, we walked in and found seats about halfway back in the auditorium. I found a paper clip in my purse and attached my name tag to the top of my collar. I told Meredith I wanted people to notice the tag so they’d co
me over to read it and discuss my column about Dr. Carmody’s work.

  She rolled her eyes. “You dropped a lot of information in that column, Aggie. You’re going to get in trouble.”

  I grinned.

  The area at the back of the auditorium was without chairs, which provided space for people to gather. Rows of chairs toward the front began to fill. They all smelled the same, these indoor corrals for gathering students: musty, tinged with an odor I imagined to be energetic hormones combined with restless feet.

  Students had been summoned to participate in this interlude about death—an irrelevant condition they never expected to experience. Chomping at invisible bits, they yearned to get on with the forward motion of their lives.

  On the auditorium stage in a row of chairs, middle-aged and gray-haired men and women, UHT’s Board of Trustees, sat with solemn faces. Their black, gray and brown attire was similar to Dr. Bigsby’s, who sat among them. In my mind’s eye, learning was brightly colored, joyful, bursting with life, full of promise. When it was snuffed out, the landscape turned drab.

  When the ground floor sitting area grew silent, the university president rose and walked to the podium.

  “We are gathered here,” President Merkel said, “to honor our fallen comrade, fellow scientist and friend, Dr. Kermit Carmody, a man whose talents were taken from us much too soon. His funeral will be held at St. Peter’s Episcopal Church at one p.m. today. This gathering is a chance for you to greet one another as mutual friends of our renowned colleague and share your remembrances of him. We will now have a moment of silence in memory of our friend and associate, Dr. Kermit Carmody, after which you are free to visit among yourselves.”

  And try to avoid thinking about how suddenly death can overcome us.

  It didn’t last long—a single minute to remember a man’s existence on earth. I was glad there would be a funeral service later. After a few minutes elapsed, people rose in batches and chatted, gravitating toward the back of the room while they looked for people they knew.

  I headed directly to the stooped man with the shock of hair. He was looking at the floor when I approached. I stepped close enough so the ID on my collar would be in his line of vision.

  “Hello. I’m Aggie Mundeen. From Dr. Carmody’s Science of Aging class.”

  He made an effort to stand straight enough to read my ID though his bifocals. He seemed too young to be bent over. He must have spent hours leaning over test tubes.

  “You’re a student,” he declared, trying to absorb that improbable fact. “I’m Dr. Gary Biskin, Biochemistry department, Mellencross University.”

  “I gather you do genetic research?”

  “Yes. Primarily on BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes linked to breast cancer. We’re trying to refine genetic tests offered to women who probably inherited those genes.”

  “Interesting. And you were a friend of Dr. Carmody’s? I didn’t know that was one of his fields of interest.”

  “Unfortunately, it wasn’t. But I didn’t know that until I had done massive research to prepare for my dissertation. He was on my approval committee at Columbia but was disinterested in breast cancer. Other committee members supported the direction of my inquiry, but Dr. Carmody was too involved in his own research to meet regularly with the committee. Unfortunately, he had a lot of clout. When he took time to consider my proposed research, he disapproved. I had to start over. I lost a year of work.”

  “He must have felt bad about that.”

  “Not particularly. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He shuffled toward the exit.

  Meredith had apparently wandered off. I recognized two stylish women I’d seen in the main building, who I thought were scientists, and sauntered over to introduce myself.

  “Are you in the science department here?” I asked.

  “I’m Connie Strong, from the biology department, and this is our best chemistry professor, Harriet Walker.” They smiled.

  “Dr. Carmody’s death is such a loss. Did you work with him?”

  “Well,” Connie said, “we kept up with what he was doing and visited the lab, but…”

  “He wasn’t very communicative,” Harriet finished. “When we collaborated with him on projects, we frequently didn’t know the final results until he published them in a paper.”

  “With his name and ‘colleagues’ on it,” Connie added. “Our names would be mentioned toward the bottom.”

  “That must have been frustrating.”

  “We sort of backed off from working with him. Sometimes we propose ideas to other labs cooperating in the genome project. Dr. Carmody had a great mind though.”

  Connie nodded. “We’ll see you at the funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  They smiled and walked off.

  I needed to meet somebody with a positive outlook. I spotted Meredith talking to a woman wearing bright colors and four-inch heels standing with three men. She looked to be in her thirties and was smiling. The men might have been older. I walked toward the congenial group just as they left Meredith and headed toward the door. I caught up with her.

  “Who were they?”

  “Scientists from UT Austin—various labs. The man with the auburn beard, McIntosh, studies the daf-2 gene and its effect on ‘downstream’ genes. He visited with Carmody a few times. The clean-shaven man, Ted Strickland, said his lab worked with the effects of telomeres and telomerase. He talked with Dr. Carmody a lot. The sandy-haired fellow with glasses studies APOE genes and their connection to Alzheimer’s.”

  “All the same projects Dr. Carmody was interested in. What about the lady?”

  “If I understood correctly, Gretchen’s lab is charting the locations of genes that scientists have identified to date. They’re looking for connections, similarities, interactions or pathways between them. The men indicated that her research turned up in a paper that Carmody published.”

  “Ouch.”

  “She didn’t seem perturbed. She said most of it was common knowledge.”

  “It’s nearly noon. Let’s grab Subway on our way to St. Peter’s. Did you meet anybody from the biology or chemistry departments?” I asked.

  “A few. I sensed more disbelief than sadness that Dr. Carmody wouldn’t be around.”

  Sixteen

  We stopped for Subway, ate while we drove to St. Peter’s Episcopal Church and arrived early for the funeral. We parked in back of the church, entered the foyer, signed the guest book and tiptoed down the aisle toward the front. The first four rows were marked for family. We sat on row five. I was glad Carmody’s casket was closed.

  Meredith whispered in my ear, “I’m dying to see his family members.”

  While the organist played music so loud it made my ears ring, a woman with two teenage children arrived at the front pew, followed by Dr. Carmody’s brother, Claude. Assorted people followed, probably cousins with their offspring. Professor Carmody apparently had no wife or children.

  I saw a few faculty members sitting with Dr. Bigsby. Others spoke to them, scientists, I surmised, from nearby universities and research labs. I looked around for Sam but didn’t see him. The UT contingent arrived and nodded to a few colleagues

  The Honorable Reverend Harold McClintock, Rector of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church, rose and glided to the center of the sanctuary. He had probably never seen Professor Kermit Carmody until he lay in a casket. Backed by assistant clergy and lay-people wearing long robes, he began to recite the Anglican liturgy, words created for the occasion of death, unchanged and repeated by Anglican and Episcopal worshipers through centuries.

  “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

  The lyrical, comforting words focused on man’s reunion with God at death, not on humanity’s loss of an individual. If a priest gre
w enamored of his own ad-libs, the centuries-old liturgy kept him in check. Although familiar and reassuring, the words failed to mention the deceased. Someone wandering in to pay respects would not have known who died.

  Although many scientists believed in God, it was hard to imagine Dr. Carmody acquiescing to a higher power. Yet, I hadn’t really known him.

  Lulled by the priest’s repetition of prescribed words, I began to imagine my own funeral. I hovered above, trying to determine who was thinking about me or about something else. I found it hard to capture their attention. I wanted them to know I’d sought justice and strove to be honest, loyal, loving, fair and trustworthy. Even though I didn’t always succeed. I started to tear up until I remembered why I was there.

  The rector lead the congregation in prayer, then read a passage from Isaiah about comforting those who mourned. Were there any? Not academic mourners, but personal mourners. I feared at least one person was not mourning.

  People I scanned seemed more interested in glancing around than listening to the priest or contemplating Dr. Carmody in his casket. Stanley Bly and Phillip Delay looked back and spotted Brandy Crystal at the left end of our pew. One winked at her. The other gave her a seductive smile.

  She must have applied gel to her pixie cut to control it. The spikes lay almost horizontal. Her hoop earrings were smaller than usual. I wondered if her miniskirt was longer than usual. When she glanced toward my end of the pew, I noticed her eyes were mascara-free and red-rimmed.

  Had she actually cared for Dr. Carmody? Despite her disdain for his Texas work environment? Was she more than his protégé? What was her relationship to those two men?

  New images appeared in my brain. Brandy would be next on my interview list.

  Penelope Farquhar sat beside her, wearing the female version of a Harrington jacket with a t-shirt, dark skirt and low-heeled shoes, the trendy/professional look. I understood her wish to be admired for her writing. How far would she go to protect her point of view?