Phi Beta Murder by C.S. Challinor Page A

would do his laps as soon as he got back to the motel.
    In the meantime, he ran energetically up the first flight of stairs, walked the next two, and made his way slightly out of breath to his son’s room, where he opened the door and found Campbell and Red waiting for him. The gangly redhead was beating a pair of drumsticks against Campbell’s desk.
    “You must be the drummer in the band,” Rex said.
    Red nodded and sent one of the sticks cart-wheeling into the air, catching it with a nonchalant twirl of his wrist.
    “What did Ms. Knowles say?” Campbell asked.
    “Not much, except that a roommate or a really close friend of a deceased student would receive a passing grade for the semester if they needed it.” Rex joined Campbell on the bed.
    “Lucky for Kris then,” Red remarked. “She was flunking out of Nursing School.”
    “She’s got to be taking it hard,” Campbell said.
    “Dunno about that. They had a big bust-up before Spring Break and she wasn’t talking to him.”
    Young love, Rex thought as the boys debated the question of Kris’ feelings for Dixon. He considered mentioning what the math professor had told him, but didn’t want to advertise the fact that he was talking to faculty members about Dixon’s suicide. “Anyway,” he said, getting up. “I’ll leave you lads to it. Good luck with band practice.”
    “You should come and listen one evening, Dad.”
    “I’d like to. Have you got a name for the group?”
    “Dirty Laundry.”
    “’Cause we play down in the basement where the washers and dryers are,” Red explained.
    Rex grinned. “Must make for some interesting background accompaniment.”
    “It’s hell,” the boy replied. “It really throws you off.”
    “Campbell, can I take the Glenfiddich with me? I thought I’d have a wee drink out on the motel balcony. I’ll replace it if necessary.”
    “Help yourself.”
    “Ta. Bye now.”
    He descended to the car park and, getting into Campbell’s SUV, drove to Jacksonville Beach, managing to miss the worst of rush-hour traffic. The glowing orange sign welcoming him to the Siesta Inn beckoned with the promise of a quiet night in a clean and comfortable bed.
    By six-thirty, he had been for a swim and was ready to leave the motel room for a solitary dinner pondering his notes on the case when an urgent knock sounded at the door.
    “Moira!” he exclaimed upon opening it, scarcely believing his eyes. The woman he had left on Arthur’s Seat stood on the walkway with a small suitcase, dressed in a cotton print frock and a knitted bolero cardigan, in spite of the warm evening air. The clothes looked like they came from a thrift shop, but somehow suited her gamine-like figure. Waiflike was the word that had often come to mind in the days he had thought about Moira.
    “Are ye not going to let me in?” she demanded as he stood there in shock.

Without conscious thought, Rex stepped aside so Moira could pass. She deposited the suitcase on the carpet and sat on the far bed looking out at the view of the ocean through the balcony rail. Rex watched speechless as she slipped off her clunky-heeled shoes and lay prostrate on the zigzag patterned bedspread.
    “I can hardly believe I made it all this way and found you so easily.”
    Neither could Rex. “So how did you?” he asked, perching on the other bed and wondering what he was to do.
    “The young man who devils for you told me where you were staying. I told him it was an emergency. And so it was.”
    It had never occurred to Rex to tell Angus to screen his calls. He had left him the number of the Siesta Inn in case a colleague needed to contact him. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought Moira would follow him across the Atlantic. “Why did you come?” he demanded.
    “I told you before. I have to talk to you. I’m trying to put my life back together.”
    “Well, I’ve moved on. I thought I had made that perfectly clear in Edinburgh.” He gave a heartfelt sigh. “I’m