The only pieces of conventional furniture were a cheap wooden nightstand and dresser. A wheeled aluminum rack was hung with color-coordinated shirts, slacks, jeans, and sportcoats. Not too much of each, but the quality looked good. On the floor beneath the clothes were two pairs of sneakers, brown loafers, black oxfords, gray cowboy boots.
Nothing on the cracked tile kitchen counter but a blender and a hot plate. I’d seen bigger refrigerators in Winnebagos. A sign taped to the front said THINK POSTIVE—BUT LURN HOW TO SPEL. Two steel-and-plastic stools were up against the counter. Muscadine pulled one out and said, “Sorry, I don’t entertain much.”
We both sat down.
“Thanks for not elaborating about the committee in front of Maidie. She gives me a break on the rent and right now I need it.”
I looked over the exercise equipment. “Nice setup.”
“I used to work at a health club that went under. Got it cheap.”
“Were you a personal trainer?”
“More like impersonal. One of those budget places, basically a scam. I know it looks weird having all this stuff in a place this size but it ended up being cheaper than paying my own gym fees, and right now my body’s my commodity.”
The room was hot but his skin was dry despite the heavy sweatshirt. Tossing his hair, he laughed. “That didn’t come out exactly right. What I’m saying is no matter how intellectual you get about acting, the industry runs on first impressions and when you hit a certain age, you’ve got to work harder.”
“What age is that?”
“Depends on the person. I’m thirty-one. So far, so good.”
“First impressions,” I said. “The casting couch?”
“There’s some of that still going around but what I mean is the way impulse rules. I can practice Stanislavsky—acting methods—from now til tomorrow, but if the bod goes so does my marketability.” He hooked his thumb downward.
“How long have you been working at it?”
“Couple of years. Got a degree in business, worked for an accounting firm for nine years. Finally I couldn’t stand the sight of numbers and went back for a master’s in fine arts. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I’m going to.” Opening the fridge, he pulled a bottle of mineral water from a grouping of two dozen. The only other thing inside was a grapefruit.
Twisting the top with two fingers, he took a long swallow.
“Why’d you drop out?” I said.
“Boy, word gets around fast. Who told you?”
“Professor Dirkhoff.”
“Good old Professor Dirkhoff. The old queen on his throne. He’s quite miffed with me, thinks I should spend two more years developing my underlying resources.”
Flexing one arm, he rotated the hand. “Maybe I should have brought Dirkhoff up before the conduct committee. That would have blown Devane’s mind.”
“Why’s that?”
“No woman victim. Because that’s really what the committee was all about: men against women. From the minute I got in there she was on the attack.”
Shrugging, he poured the rest of the water down his throat. “So you’re talking to everyone involved with the committee?”
“Yes.”
“They said all records would be kept confidential but after the murder I wondered. But why a psychologist—what’s your name, by the way?”
I showed him my ID. He read it and looked up at me. “I still don’t understand what your role is.”
“The police have asked me to talk to people who knew Professor Devane, to do some victim analysis.”
“Analyzing her? That’s interesting. I always figured it was some nut, maybe someone who read her book. I heard it was pretty hostile toward men.”
“And she was hostile in person,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. It really freaked me out being accused of rape. Being summoned. Maybe in the end it worked out for the best because the experience brought my ambivalence about school to a head and led me to try other alternatives—have you met the girl who accused me yet?”
“Yesterday,” I said. “She seems terrified.”
The gray eyes enlarged. “Of what?”
“I was going to ask you that.”
“You’re thinking—oh, no. Lord, no, I’ve kept my distance. She’s bad news, I wish we lived on separate planets.”