Coming Up Murder

by Mary Angela

  I waved at Dickinson, who was sitting on the windowsill, and pulled open my door. Once inside, I called Lenny, but he didn’t answer. My stomach growled, so I grabbed a granola bar and my laptop computer. While waiting for Lenny to get back to me, I would look up our visiting scholars. I didn’t know nearly enough about them, and the problems had begun, coincidentally perhaps, upon their arrival. I searched for the faculty page at their Denver university.

  “Let’s see how smart you really are, Felix Lewis,” I said, watching the cursor spin.

  Dickinson joined me, placing her orange butt squarely on my keypad. She loved my new laptop more than I did. I was starting to think it sent secret signals to her, for she came running every time I opened it. I worked around the giant impediment as delicately as I could, pulling her closer to my stomach.

  “There he is,” I said to Dickinson, clicking on Felix’s picture.

  Much of his biography was the same as what I’d read in the program for his closing lecture. Because he was the keynote speaker, our English Department had spared no paper. The brochure included a full-color photo. His faculty website listed the classes he taught: Shakespeare’s Comedies, Shakespeare’s Tragedies, Shakespeare in Film, Shakespeare Abroad, Shakespeare in the 21st Century.

  “He’s a Shakespeare god, Dickinson,” I murmured as I scanned the text. “I bet his sonnet entry was topnotch. Claudia must have read it.”

  Finding nothing alarming, I leaned back in my chair and relaxed. He was just as smart and nonviolent as he looked. Silver hair, distinguished jacket, lapel pin with flower. With flower! I sat up, squinting at the screen. The sudden movement startled Dickinson, who leaped off my lap. I zoomed in on Felix’s jacket. On the lapel was pinned a sprig of heather.

  “Not so smart now, are you Felix?” I tapped the screen. “I see you have a weakness for flowers—as does our mystery man … or woman,” I added. “I wonder if you know flowers as well as you know Shakespeare’s plays?” Our own Shakespeare scholar, Reed Williams, knew plenty about flowers. It seemed any scholar specializing in the bard would have to have a rough understanding of them in regard to the plays. That gave me another idea. Maybe the actors and actresses had specialized knowledge as well. If this trail turned up nothing, I could always go to the theater.

  I opened a new browser window, determined to find the meaning behind the heather sprig—without Jane Lemort’s help. The language of flowers was not dead, but according to my search, alive and well. Several sites were dedicated to flower facts. So did Felix get it right? Was heather appropriate for the professional picture? Within a few minutes, I decided it was. Heather meant admiration and luck. Two qualities that couldn’t be more essential to succeeding in academia. The information put Felix on my suspect list. If he was knowledgeable about flowers, he could be behind the begonias.

  My cellphone rang just as I took a bite of my granola bar. At first I thought it was Lenny, returning my call, but it was a Los Angeles number. As I reached for the phone, I dropped it in the crack of my couch. Panicking, I grabbed the cushion and threw it on the floor, retrieving my phone from the crevice. “Hello? Hello, this is Emmeline.”

  “Emmeline, this is Owen Parrish, from Dewberry Press,” said a nasal voice that made my name sound like a curse word.

  “Hello, Owen,” I croaked, running to the kitchen for a glass of water. A piece of granola had lodged in my throat, and I was on the verge of a coughing fit.

  “I’m the fiction editor, so I was surprised when your project ended up in my lap. Then again, what doesn’t?” he added more quietly.

  I tried a chuckle, but it came out as a cough. His tone put me on the defensive.

  “But you don’t need to hear about our staffing problems,” he said. “What you do need to hear is that I’d like you to get started right away on the rewrite.”

  Rewrite? No “Congratulations!” “Atta girl!” or “What a remarkable piece of scholarship, Ms. Prather”?

  When I didn’t respond right away, Owen continued, “I’ve made notes on the chapters that will need to be removed—”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupted him. “Did you say chapters will need to be removed?”

  “That’s exactly what I said. The ending doesn’t leave one with the upbeat feeling our readers expect. We don’t publish obscure novels.”

  I tried to remain calm. Over the last ten years, I had gotten used to giving and receiving feedback on written work. If something needed to change, I could deal with it. “It’s not obscure, and it’s not a novel. What chapters need work?”

  “What chapters don’t need work might be the better question,” said Owen. “The process is complicated, and I need you to be open to it one hundred percent.”

  I gauged myself at about twenty-five percent open. “Of course.”

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Was I ten? Yes, I understood what he was saying. What I didn’t understand was his adversarial attitude. We both had the same goal: to get my book out there so the masses could enjoy it. “I understand.”

  “Look for a document in your inbox this afternoon,” said Owen. “Make sure you track all your changes so I can approve them.”

  “Track them where?”

  Owen let out a long breath. “In Microsoft Word.”

  After that huff, I wasn’t about to ask another question. I’d figure out how to track them when I opened my inbox.

  “South Dakota,” said Owen, pausing. “I bet it’s cold there.”

  “It can be, but it’s been unseasonably warm,” I said, staring out my kitchen window. “Believe it or not, today’s forecast—”

  “I’ll call you next week.”

  I guessed he wasn’t into pleasantries. “Okay … thank you.”

  He hung up, and I glanced at my phone. Had that conversation really happened? For the first time in years, I was blinking back tears like a chastened child. I took a deep breath. I hadn’t finished my granola bar; that was it. I was hungry and upset over Tanner’s death. A student had been found dead on campus, and my department chair had asked me to figure out why. Of course I was upset. I wasn’t superwoman. It was times like this that made me glad I had Lenny to talk to. I dialed his number again.

  “I knew you’d change your mind,” he said in lieu of a salutation. “I was just calling you back.”

  “Yes, do you want to go to Harry’s for lunch?”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “I can hear something’s wrong in your voice.”

  “Let’s talk at lunch,” I said.

  “Are you driving, or am I?”

  It was beautiful out, a perfect day for a ride in my red ’69 convertible Mustang. “I am.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll be outside.”

  Ten minutes later, I drove up to his olive-green house. His street was a collection of perfectly spaced houses from the 1970s. Though it was nothing like mine, I liked his neighborhood because of its outward orderliness. Each square of property was well cared for, including Lenny’s. He was picking up stray branches in his yard when I pulled into his driveway. He stopped and smiled, then put the branches in a pile next to his house before getting into the car.

  “Not putting the top down?” Lenny still wore his red sweatshirt and jeans. I wished I would have changed, too. I was too dressed up for the pub.

  “Maybe later,” I said. “The wind is chilly.”

  He hung his arm out the window. “I’m glad you called. I’m starving.”

  “I talked to Tanner’s girlfriend, Mia,” I said, turning onto Main Street. Soon the old-fashioned lampposts would be adorned with baskets of colorful flowers. The flags that read Welcome to Copper Bluff were already up. “She said they ate at the pub last night. I thought we could find out how late they were there, what they drank, etcetera.”

  “So the ulterior motive comes out,” said Lenny. “Our sleuth never sleeps.”

  “I’m just saying, whil
e we’re there, we might as well ask a few questions.”

  “Work ’em in with the crinkly fries.” Lenny gave me a grin. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Something like that.” I pulled into an open spot in front of Main Street Grill, also known as Harry’s or The Pub. It was a brick tavern with comfy booths, sticky tables, daily specials, and a bartender named Harry who made every trip worthwhile. I shut off the car, and we walked inside. I was glad to see a booth open near the front window. I liked to people-watch as I ate.

  Lenny grabbed a laminated menu from the end of the table. “Nice. Today’s special is fish and chips.” He handed me the menu. “That’s what I’m having.”

  I returned it to the end of the table. “Me too.”

  Lenny studied my face. “Something is going on. What is it?”

  The waitress came, and I ordered two sodas and two lunch specials. When she left, I said, “Tanner was found dead a couple of hours ago. Isn’t that enough?”

  He unraveled a set of cutlery. “Not for you. What happened?”

  “I talked to the editor at Dewberry Press,” I said, smoothing my paper placemat. “Owen Parrish.”

  The waitress arrived with the beverages. “What’d he say?”

  I stared at the bubbles in my soda. “He doesn’t like me.”

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t like you?” He sounded incensed.

  “I mean, he doesn’t like my work. He said it needs revision.”

  Lenny plopped a straw into his glass. “That’s nothing. It’s his job to revise things. He’s an editor. You’re an excellent writer.”

  “He said chapters need to be removed,” I said.

  “Chapters?” Lenny exclaimed. “What an idiot.”

  I was glad he didn’t mention the revision clause. He could have easily said, “I told you so.” It was nice to know he was on my side, even when he didn’t know the other side.

  “I’d like to see him remove one comma,” he continued. “Has he seen your CV?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He mentioned our weather, so I guess he has.”

  “Weather? The guy sounds like a lunatic.”

  I laughed out loud. Weather was a reasonable topic around here, not exactly lunacy. His support was nice, but I needed to switch gears. “Anyway, I talked to Mia, and she confirmed what Andy said earlier. Tanner didn’t drink, but he did smoke pot.”

  “And you think that’s what killed him?”

  I shook my head. “According to every student essay ever written, no. No one’s ever died of a marijuana overdose.”

  The fish and chips arrived, steamy hot. Lenny hit his chips with extra salt, and I dipped the battered fish in the homemade tartar sauce. “Mia said he was on edge. I thought maybe he had an argument with someone last night.”

  Lenny held up a chip. “About his Shakespeare theory.”

  “Possibly,” I said. “It was a hot-button topic.”

  “I wonder where our visiting scholars were last night,” said Lenny.

  “Good question,” I said. “Whoever murdered Tanner is a Shakespeare expert.”

  He munched his chip for a moment. “Expert?”

  “The sonnet and staged death scene? I think so, and Felix and Andy both submitted entries.”

  “You think the same person who wrote the sonnet killed Tanner,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “But why alert someone to a crime you’re going to commit?” asked Lenny. “That doesn’t make sense. You might give yourself away.”

  “I know,” I said, seeing the contradiction. “I suppose it’s possible we have two Shakespeare authorities, one who wanted to warn us about the other.”

  “Like Felix and Andy.”

  It was a handy theory. I liked the idea of two out-of-towners, at odds over the way to handle Tanner’s revelation. And Felix did have a real flower pinned to his lapel. I told Lenny.

  “You looked him up on his faculty website?” He took a big bite of fish. “That’s the woman I love.”

  It was the first time the word love had entered our conversations. I had to admit, I didn’t imagine it happening over fish and chips at the pub. But there it was, sitting between us like the napkin holder, and I felt a ridiculous blush rise to my face. It was a figure of speech, a cliché, and here I was treating it like a declaration of affection. Stupid, stupid romances. I read too many, watched too many, and imagined too many far-fetched scenarios. No wonder my previous relationships ended in disaster.

  Lenny reached for my hands across the table at the same time the waitress arrived with our check. He stopped midway. This was my last chance to ask her about Tanner. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” Her nametag read “Linda,” and her one-syllable responses let me know she was busy, which is why I hadn’t asked her before. I’d hoped the rush would end before she brought the check. Now I had to think of a question that didn’t require a yes or no answer. I did it all the time with my students.

  “I’m wondering about a group of students who were here last night. Were you working?” Dang! That was a yes-or-no question.

  She gave my outfit a once over. Maybe she’d think I was there on behalf of the college, which I kind of was. Giles wanted me to figure out what happened. “I was here until close.” She tucked her order pad into her pocket. Maybe she was ready for a little break. “Who are you looking for?”

  “A group from the theater,” I said. “Tall guy, outgoing. His name was Tanner.”

  “Oh my god, him,” said Linda. “He was here with a bunch of people. He was acting like an idiot.”

  “Was he drinking?” I asked.

  “I think he’d had plenty before he came. His speech was slurred, and he was flirting up a storm. Then his girlfriend talks to his friend—’cause what’s she gonna do, she’s sitting there alone—and he blows up. Crazy.”

  His slurred speech was interesting, considering Mia and Andy said he didn’t drink. Could pot slur your speech?

  “Did they get into a fist fight?” asked Lenny.

  “Nope,” she said. “He left in a huff. I was glad to see him trip on the way out the door.”

  “His friend—do you remember his name or what he looked like?” I asked. She’d taken a step back from the table. Maybe she needed to return to her customers.

  “No name, but he had glasses, nice-looking.”

  “Smart?” I asked, thinking of Denton.

  That got a laugh. “I don’t know. People aren’t that smart when they come to the bar.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  She walked away, leaving me wondering about Tanner, his slurred speech, and his fight with the man in glasses. It could have been Denton, but he didn’t seem like the type who spent his evenings in the bar.

  “I see the wheels turning in your head,” said Lenny.

  “The waitress said his speech was slurred, but Tanner didn’t drink.” I repositioned my straw. “Don’t you find that odd?”

  “Maybe he made an exception,” said Lenny. “It was opening night.”

  I took a sip of my soda, considering the possibility.

  “Someone could have bought him some shots, and he had to drink them,” said Lenny. “I’ve been in situations like that.”

  “He did trip on his way out the door,” I said. Plus, he was arguing with a friend. Some people become combative after a few drinks. “Did Tanner seem like the jealous type to you?”

  “Not really,” Lenny said. “But we wouldn’t see that side of him. He was an actor, very … animated. He wore his emotions on his sleeve.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “He was an emotional guy. As an actor, he could also summon any emotion on the spot.”

  He finished his soda. “Guys like that—intense, I mean—they’re always on the verge of exploding. Don’t you think?”

  I agreed. Maybe that’s what Mia meant by “on edge.”

  Seeing Lenny was finished, I slipped into my blue spring jac
ket. Though the day was warm and the sun was shining, the wind was chilly enough for a coat. Lenny had no need for one with his sweatshirt. We grabbed for the check at the same time. (He liked to pay, and so did I.) A shock of static electricity happened between us, and I smiled.

  He laced his fingers with mine. “Do you believe in magic?”

  Had he said “spirits,” “God,” or “fate,” I would not have hesitated to answer in the affirmative. But magic? That was another question entirely. That was the sleight of hand, the miraculous disappearance, the unexplained. Magic could happen with the flick of a wrist, a hat, or a glove. But then I remembered David Copperfield, the novel by Charles Dickens, and there was a kind of magic. With a flip of the page, I was in nineteenth-century England. Experiencing a different time, a different social class, and a different perspective—a man’s. I would call that magic.

  “Yes, I do.” I made an extraordinary loop on the E of my name as I wrote out a check. The rest of the world operated on credit. In Copper Bluff, restaurants still accepted personal checks.

  “It wasn’t a test,” said Lenny with a laugh.

  “It’s a difficult question, when you think about it,” I said, ripping the check from the book.

  “I don’t think so,” said Lenny. “I think you know it when you feel it.”

  I guessed we weren’t talking about card tricks. He was staring at me with his dark-blue eyes, which made it hard to concentrate on why we were there: to gather information about the night before Tanner’s death. Instead, my imagination went skipping ahead to scenarios in a regency romance novel. The words Gretna Green came to mind, and I shook my head. I was in the middle of the South Dakota prairie in the twenty-first century, pretty much as far away as I could get from that Scottish parish, the most popular wedding destination in the world, thanks to centuries of tradition and looser marriage laws.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Lenny, still smiling.

  “Oh, I highly doubt that,” I said, sliding out of the booth. If he had, he’d run as fast as he could in the other direction. In the past, I would have too. If I wasn’t careful, I’d ruin the best relationship I’d ever had. For years, I’d worried dating would wreck our friendship, but it was just the opposite. We were closer than ever.