Meet Melinda Payson
Chp. 1 of the first Melinda Payson Mystery, now in story editing.
August in the San Joaquin Valley can be brutal and today is no exception. With the temperature just above 105°F, sweat isn’t trickling, it’s full on running down my back and leaving a damp stain around my waist. My normally out of control curly hair feels like a mass of wet, un-spun wool roving glued to my scalp. It made me wish I had gotten the short haircut I’d considered getting back in July.
I sighed with relief when the air-conditioning hit me as I entered Findley Hall. The old-fashioned portrait of the department founder looks very out of place in the renovated, modern lobby that houses the Political Science Department. Ira Findley’s glare was enough to scare freshmen right out of school.
I hit the button for the elevator and saw my reflection in the burnished metal panel. I look homeless, not at all like I belong in the building. Self-conciously I started tucking my escaped hair back into its headband. My clothing was so rumpled I look like I’d slept in my car, which was close enough to the truth. I’d actually spent the past two nights in a cheap motel just off 99. Until our first disbursement checks came in I was living off of my slim savings account.
I smoothed down my wrinkled shirt front with one hand in a useless attempt to straighten it out. I had pulled the shirt out of my suitcase that morning so it was already a little rumpled before the hot walk across campus. I could feel it sticking to the sweat on my back.
Yuck.
It was strange to be on a university campus again. I thought journalism was my life’s calling. I spent seven years of my life working as a police and fire reporter. Working the beat was very exciting, but witnessing all the death and disaster? That takes a toll.
In a moment of personal crisis, I chucked it all in to find something different. I took the opportunity to slip out of my hometown, move down to what I lovingly call middle California, and begin a PhD program in political science at UC Elkhart.
I punched the elevator call button three more times.
“Does everyone feel this way?” I asked myself.
“Feel what way?” The unexpected male voice behind me caused me to jump.
“Shit. I said that out loud didn’t I? Sorry.” I turned to face him and all I saw was chest. At 5’4” I was definitely of average height, my new friend was not. I had to look up to see his smiling face. He was easily six-five. His clothing was freshly pressed.
The doors opened and I hit the button for the Political Science Department on the fourth floor. When he didn’t reach for another button, I realized we were going to the same orientation.
“Hi. I’m Melinda Payson. Anxious new grad student.”
Another portrait, this time of the department chair, greeted us when the doors opened. At least she was smiling, I thought.
A sign with a big black arrow pointed us towards the orientation room.