by Cynthia Kuhn
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t go into dangerous situations.”
“Even if—”
“Don’t pepper people with questions.”
“But questions are my—”
“And don’t go running in anywhere like some kind of ninja. You are not a member of the police force.”
“I didn’t know you were all ninjas.”
He gave me a look. “I’m serious.”
I nodded, trying to appear chastened. “Of course.”
“I mean it. I don’t want...”
“What? You don’t want me to take a chance?”
“No. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Another warm feeling spread throughout my chest. This man literally made me tingle. “Thanks, Lex.”
He bobbed his head curtly.
Well, that wouldn’t do. I leaned over, preferring to seal our agreement with a kiss.
The signing was set up in the room adjacent to the “Book Lair,” which unfortunately meant that it was in the room where Ellis had been found. I wondered whose idea that had been. Not a very good one, in my humble opinion. Not that anyone was asking me.
In the hallway, I paused to send up good thoughts to the recently departed professor, then shivered before going through the door.
The room had been reconfigured. A long line on the left side steered individuals toward the scholars seated at tables at the far end of the room. A cookie and coffee bar had thoughtfully been set up in the middle for those who needed an afternoon sugar boost, and the right side of the room was filled with groups of attendees chatting and partaking of the refreshments. I took a place last in line, training my eyes on the row of anthology contributors, as Lex had asked. Everything seemed to be going smoothly—individuals in line would slide their book across the table to an author, exchange a few words, then the scholar would sign the book and slide it back. The line would move one person to the right, and the whole process would begin again.
As I watched, I heard a familiar voice right behind me. One I didn’t particularly care to hear at the moment. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice me if I stood very still.
Or did that only work with a T-Rex?
“Are you sure you want to be here?” One of the Raleighs asked. “Aside from the obvious...I mean, it’s going to take forever.”
“Yes,” came a swift reply. I didn’t recognize the speaker. It was a male voice, though.
“Well, I have half a mind to go right up to the table.”
“Please don’t do that, Selene.”
I silently thanked the man for identifying her.
And for encouraging her to behave like a normal human being.
She sighed. “Why should we have to wait along with everyone else? It’s our publisher. Doesn’t that give us, like, VIP status or something?”
He laughed. “We’re not at a club.”
“I know, Becks, but we could be back in our room.” Her voice turned cajoling. “We have just enough time. Come on. You know you want to...”
I could feel movement behind me but now I really didn’t want to turn around. A vigorous smacking suggested that there was a make-out session happening.
“Selene.” He cleared his throat. “Stop.”
Good for him. It wasn’t like we were waiting in line at a carnival ride after kicking back a few brewskis. This was a formal scholarly event, not a date.
Way to draw a boundary, buddy.
I did that thing where you face one way but all of your attention is focused on what’s going on behind you. If I were in a Dr. Seuss book, the illustration would have my ears perked up and eyes heading in opposite directions trying to see around myself. Or something like that.
Despite my hyperalert watchfulness, nothing else happened for a moment. She seemed to be following directions and halting her amorous administrations. He wasn’t talking.
“Lila!” I cringed that my cover—not very substantial, as it was just comprised of not turning around—had been blown.
Simone stood beside me, presenting the very picture of collegiality. Almost. I knew that beneath those perfect teeth were lies just waiting to be told. Selene slid up next to her sister, and both of them were staring and smiling in an unsettling way at me.
The way two crocodiles might open their jaws and reveal their teeth.
Right before eating you.
“Good afternoon. How are you?” I could be polite with the best of them. My mother had taught me well.
“Congratulations on your nomination,” Simone said. Her mother had taught her well too.
It occurred to me that our mothers could have quite the well-mannered rumble if ever brought face to face.
“Congratulations to both of you.”
“What a surprise,” my colleague continued, not sounding at all surprised.
“And an honor.” I replied, genuinely feeling that to be the case.
Selene tossed her head. “I don’t know how they’ll ever choose between us.” Her words said one thing, but her head-toss said another.
Simone addressed her sister. “We’re in worthy competition, aren’t we?”
What was this? I wasn’t used to Simone saying anything nice about me.
She directed her gaze to the person standing behind me. “Becks, do you know Lila?”
I spun around to face the previously well-kissed boundary-setter himself, who turned out to be a ruddy-faced preppy, with a flop of blond hair over his brow. I’d seen carbon copies of him at every frat party on film. He grinned and held out his hand. “Beckett Thurber Standhouse.”
“The third,” Selene said loudly, smoothing the hair along her temple. Her large diamond ring seemed familiar somehow.
He grinned at her. “Yes, the third.”
“My fiancé,” she added.
“That’s right,” he said.
“We’re getting married in August,” she informed me. “In the Hamptons.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It will be. There’s been so much planning. Everything has to be perfect. Exquisite. We’ve been simply drowning in details, haven’t we Becks?”
“That we have.”
“Though Simone has been a dream maid of honor. What a helper.” She squeezed the shoulder of her twin, who gave her a big smile, but not before I caught sight of something else on her face. A flicker of exasperation? Hard to tell.
“Anyway, I’m bored now,” Selene said abruptly. “Shall we go?”
Beckett studied her face, which now showcased an adorable pout. I saw the future dynamics of his married life stretching out before him and cheered for him to stand strong.
He shrugged. “Of course.”
The two of them left holding hands, with Simone trailing slightly behind them. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a maid of honor to Selene, who had all the makings of a major bridezilla.
After the signing was over, I filed my first official consultant report.
Which meant I texted Lex that everything had been fine at the signing.
He texted back the number of the small conference room where we would be meeting the contributors and editors. By the time I found the location on the second floor and walked in, everyone was already seated at the large round wooden table. I scurried to the last spot.
“Thank you for bringing us in for this discussion,” Candace said warmly. “We’re happy to help, however possible.”
Lex flipped open the black notepad he used when interviewing witnesses. I’d had it aimed at me a few times in the past. “I’m grateful you all were able to come, and I hope not to take up too much of your time. As you know, we are investigating the death of Dr. Ellis Gardner.”
“Are we suspects, Detective?” Richmond folded his hands
over his stomach. “I can’t imagine why. Ellis was our friend.”
Lex maintained his calm demeanor. “I’m just trying to get a sense of the book project that caused such a splash here.” He gestured to me. “This is Dr. Lila Maclean—”
“Oh we already know her,” Richmond interjected. “She’s one of our newest authors. Very pleased to see you, Lila.”
I smiled at him as Lex requested that we place our conference badges on the table so that he could record the name of everyone present. He went around the circle, reading the name, glancing at the face, and scribbling in his notepad. We sat silently until one of the men cleared his throat and waved.
“Yes?” Lex looked up.
“Are we going to be here long? I have to meet someone for drinks.”
All heads turned toward the detective, who held up one finger while completing his list. “And...done. No, this shouldn’t take too long. Why don’t we begin with a brief discussion of the project—how it came to be, what happened along the way, etc.?”
Richmond launched forth with a description of how he’d been watching the film adaptation of Flynn’s first book and had a powerful eureka moment, realizing that Flynn’s work would be the perfect topic for the series concept he’d been toying with. He explained that he’d reached out to Candace and Ellis, English professors at the school, to see if they’d like to join him. The three of them came up with the idea of dividing the book into four parts. The decision to include biography, interviews, and photographs limited the number of critical essays, but it also differentiated the guides from more typical anthologies, which they felt was a positive thing.
He discussed the contributions of those present and gestured to the scholars in turn: Sharita Dawes, an elegant woman with a level gaze, wrote on Bollywood elements; Topher Armitage, a tidy sort with a bright orange bowtie and endearingly crooked grin, wrote on Shakespearean allusions; Lawrence Ling, an athletic man in an oversized hoodie, wrote on video game connections; Winston Hughley, a stout fellow with a long blue pen smudge on his cheek, wrote on comic book influences; and Nan Delancey, a woman with a shock of fuchsia hair that fell over one eye, wrote on representations of the body.
Once their topics had been established, we all looked at Lex, who peered pointedly at me.
Apparently, I was up at bat.
“Aside from working on this collection, do you know each other?” I asked, trying to establish the relationships among participants.
“Only from the email list, right?” Shanita said first. The rest confirmed her statement.
Lex was writing and didn’t appear to be waiting to ask another question, so I continued. “How long have you been working on Flynn’s books?”
“And movies,” Nan murmured, fiddling with one of the safety pins on her shoulder. Her punk-flavored clothing had rows of them in strategic places. She exuded restless energy.
“Yes—thank you. Flynn’s books and movies.”
All of them indicated that it had been the call for papers sent out by Richmond that spurred them to dive in.
“We had an enormous response,” Richmond said. “A veritable tidal wave of submissions. People around the world wanted to be part of this project. It took us months to make our way through the abstracts we received and whittle it down. In the end, while competition was vast, your essays prevailed. You should all be very proud of yourselves. Very proud indeed.”
“We’re grateful, sir,” Topher said. The others made sounds of agreement.
“Nothing has been written on McMaster before this,” Shanita informed me, smoothing her long dark hair. The gold bracelets on her wrist caught the light.
“Well, that’s not exactly true,” Winston cut in, his low voice barely audible. He adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses and straightened up in his chair when everyone turned his way. “I mean, he’s all over the internet. Lots of people have written about him. And there have been conference presentations.”
“Shanita means there is nothing that has been peer reviewed,” Lawrence said, tapping the table for emphasis.
“True,” Winston conceded, his chin lowering slightly.
Lex looked at me questioningly.
“Vetted by other scholars before publication,” I explained, “in books or academic journals.”
“Peer review can also lead to a request for revisions,” Lawrence clarified for Lex. “Or sometimes straight-up rejection. Denial of publication altogether.”
“Sometimes? More often than not!” Winston exclaimed. “Peer review can be brutal.”
There was a brief period of commiseration with this pronouncement.
Lex made a note.
“Anyway, that’s why this critical guide is so important,” Nan said. “It will launch discussions of McMaster’s work on a new level.”
Richmond preened. “We at Fairlake certainly think so.”
“And it is well-deserved,” Topher said so loudly that his bowtie seemed to quiver. “Flynn’s work has captured the minds and hearts of America.”
“That description may be over the top,” Winston ventured, attempting to regain ground after having been corrected earlier, “but he is definitely a success.”
“How many films have been made?” Lex glanced around the table.
“Three so far,” Nan said, smiling. “A trilogy.”
“Three more in production,” Winston jumped in. “Which they’re calling the second trilogy.”
“How clever of them,” Lawrence said, rolling his eyes.
Winston shot him a look.
Lex went on. “And how many books are out currently?”
“Six,” several people said in unison.
“He’s working on the seventh,” Sharita said. “Set in Tibet.”
“Do any of you know him personally?” Lex asked.
The room fell silent.
“I do,” Richmond said. “And so do Candace and Ellis...” he stopped, overcome by the mention of his friend.
Candace patted his forearm, and they smiled sadly at each other, then she took out a tissue from her pocket and touched it to her eyes.
Lex shifted slightly in his chair. “Very sorry for your loss.” He made eye contact with both professors before continuing. “And how many of the rest of you—aside from Dr. Haskin and Dr. Slaten—knew Dr. Gardner, outside of having worked on this book with him?”
“I met him yesterday,” I said quietly.
The detective acknowledged that with a dip of the head. “Anyone else?”
The other scholars remained silent.
Lex flipped the page of his notepad over and waited. My turn again, I guess. I wished he had told me ahead of time to come up with questions so I could be functioning more like a proper investigator, but he hadn’t. So I just said the next thing that popped into my head.
“What are your impressions of Flynn, in general, everyone?”
“He’s a player,” Nan said. “I mean, he’s pretty much known for that. Love ’em and leave ’em.”
“Known for that?” Winston scowled at her. “What does that even mean? That he dares enjoy the company of women? Is that not allowed in this day and age?”
Sharita spoke gently. “No, that’s not what she—”
Winston interrupted, asking Nan to provide evidence for her claims.
“Um, Twitter? There are pictures of him on there with a different woman every week.” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “That he posts.”
“Maybe they’re just friends—” Lawrence began.
“He’s not married, is he?” Winston barked. “So what’s the problem?”
Nan narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not a problem. It’s just a description. Why are you getting so rage-y?”
“I just feel like you wrote him off immediately rather than discussing the importance of his work—”
/>
“I didn’t write him off! She asked what our impressions were. I gave mine.” Nan made a sound of exasperation. “Give yours, then.”
Winston repositioned his glasses and leaned forward. “Flynn is a genius. I don’t care what he does in his spare time. That’s my impression.”
Topher waved his hands. “I agree with Winston. Could we please talk about our essays instead?”
That’s probably what I should have asked them about in the first place, now that he mentioned it.
I peeked at Richmond and Candace. He was staring sternly at the contributors, as if displeased with the sudden turn of the conversation. Candace had her head tilted away and was still dabbing at her eyes. Seeing their emotion made me want to wrap things up here as soon as possible, so they could have some space to grieve their friend.
Quickly agreeing with Topher, I invited the scholars to describe the focus of their essays. As they went around the table one by one, I noticed that outside of Winston, who pretty much just praised all of the ways Flynn made use of comic conventions, they all put forth arguments that were less celebratory—for example, Sharita focused on cultural appropriation, Nan examined body objectification, Lawrence suggested plot parallels with other texts, and Topher challenged the way Flynn used Shakespearean allusions. It surprised me—given the usual glorification whenever Flynn was mentioned, both in and out of academia, I would have guessed that the earliest scholarship might have matched that.
Eventually, Lex gave me another inquisitive look, which I interpreted to mean that he wanted to wrap things up, and I nodded in agreement.
He thanked everyone for coming and asked for their emails and phone numbers in case he had follow-up questions.
As they all shuffled out, he moved over to my side of the table and sat down heavily.
“Anything of note?”
I pointed out the tone of the scholarship.
He looked thoughtful. “So they didn’t just write adoring essays...that’s good, right?”
“In terms of scholarship, yes. Absolutely. But...” I couldn’t quite articulate fully what I was thinking. It had to do with motive. If there was something significant for us to consider in the approaches of the scholars, I didn’t want to miss it. “You know what? I think we should both read the essays tonight. See for sure what we’re dealing with.”
