Murder on the Prowl by Rita Mae Brown

We're on our way.” He beamed.
    After the applause, Little Mim, chair of the fund-raising committee, spoke. “That is the most exciting news! With preparation on our part, I think we can get approval from the board of directors to develop a curriculum.”
    â€œOnly if we can finance the department.” Roscoe folded his hands together. “You know how conservative the board is. Reading, writing, and arithmetic. That's it. But if we can finance one year—and I have the base figures here—then I hope and believe the positive response of students and parents will see us through the ensuing year. The board will be forced into the twentieth century”—he paused for effect—“just as we cross into the twenty-first.”
    They laughed.
    â€œIs the faculty for us?” Irene Miller asked, eager to hitch on to whatever new bandwagon promised to deliver the social cachet she so desired.
    â€œWith a few notable exceptions, yes,” Roscoe replied.
    â€œSandy Brashiers,” April blurted out, then quickly clamped her mouth shut. Her porcelain cheeks flushed. “You know what a purist he is,” she mumbled.
    â€œGive him an enema,” Maury said, and noted the group's shocked expression. “Sorry. We say that a lot on a film shoot. If someone is really a pain in the ass, he's called the D.B. for douche bag.”
    â€œMaury.” Irene cast her eyes down in fake embarrassment.
    â€œSorry. The fact remains, he is an impediment.”
    â€œI'll take care of Sandy,” Roscoe Fletcher smoothly asserted.
    â€œI wish someone would.” Doak Mincer, a local bank president, sighed. “Sandy has been actively lobbying against this. Even when told the film department would be a one-year experimental program, totally self-sufficient, funded separately, the whole nine yards, he's opposed—adamantly.”
    â€œHas no place in academia, he says.” Irene, too, had been lobbied.
    â€œWhat about that cinematographer you had here mid-September? I thought that engendered enthusiasm.” Marilyn pointed her pencil at Roscoe.
    â€œShe was a big hit. Shot film of some of the more popular kids, Jody being one, Irene.”
    â€œShe loved it.” Irene smiled. “You aren't going to encounter resistance from parents. What parent would be opposed to their child learning new skills? Or working with a pro like Maury? Why, it's a thrill.”
    â€œThank you.” Maury smiled his big smile, the one usually reserved for paid photographers.
    He had enjoyed a wonderful directing career in the 1980s, which faded in the '90s as his wife's acting career catapulted into the stratosphere. She was on location so much that Maury often forgot he had a wife. Then again, he might have done so regardless of circumstances.
    He had also promised Darla would lecture once a year at St. Elizabeth's. He had neglected to inform Darla, stage name Darla Keene. Real name Michelle Gumbacher. He'd cajole her into it on one of her respites home.
    â€œIrene, did you bring your list of potential donors?” Little Mim asked. Irene nodded, launching into an intensely boring recitation of each potential candidate.
    After the meeting Maury and Irene walked out to his country car, a Range Rover. His Porsche 911 was saved for warm days.
    â€œHow's Kendrick?” he inquired about her husband.
    â€œSame old, same old.”
    This meant that all Kendrick did was work at the gardening center he had built from scratch and which at long last was generating profit.
    She spied a carton full of tiny bottles in the passenger seat of the Rover. “What's all that?”
    â€œUh”—long pause—“essences.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œEssences. Some cure headaches. Others are for success. Not that I believe it, but they can be soothing, I suppose.”
    â€œDid you bring this stuff back from New York?” Irene lifted an eyebrow.
    â€œUh—no. I bought them