by Mary Angela
* * *
After class, I went back to the English Department. I had an office hour, which meant, as long as students didn’t stop by, I could contact Owen Parrish. I had cooled down enough to make an outgoing call. At least until I pulled up the picture of my book cover again. Staring at the pink and purple eyesore, I could feel the angry feelings well up again. Just because this was a book about women didn’t mean it needed flowers, pastels, or animals on its cover. I huffed a breath. It didn’t reflect the work of these women—or mine, for that matter. And Owen Parrish was going to hear about it.
“What the hell is that?” said Lenny. He was standing at my side with a bag of food from Roca de Taco.
“It’s a collage of every stereotype women have fought against for the last hundred years,” I said, pivoting my chair in his direction.
“That’s putting it kindly.” Lenny took the corner alcove chair. “It looks like the Disney princesses threw up on your screen.”
“Thanks for your opinion,” I muttered.
“Sorry, I just got off the phone from my sister,” said Lenny.
Lenny’s sister had two little girls who recently graduated from Nickelodeon to Disney. He knew more about tiaras and wands than I did.
“I brought lunch,” he added. “Everything is better with salsa—even ugly book covers.”
I thanked him as he handed me a grilled burrito. “Did you remember to add—”
“Jalapeños?” he said, handing me a container of salsa. “Of course. I think I know what you like by now.”
Yes, he did. But did he know how much I liked his company and how often I found myself wondering about what he was doing? I pondered those questions for the next several bites.
“I assume you’re going to talk to Owen about the cover,” said Lenny. “It looked like you were formulating a sinister plan when I walked in.”
“Plot is more like it,” I said. “I’m struck dumb by his nasal voice. Last time we talked, I could hear my earring clattering against the phone.”
“That’s not like you,” said Lenny. “Why does this guy have you spooked?”
I shook my head. “That’s the million-dollar question.” I added salsa to my burrito. “I suppose I don’t like disappointing people.”
“Like who?”
“My parents, for starters,” I said. “They’ve told the entire neighborhood. They act like my book is going to be a New York Times bestseller.”
“Don’t worry about them,” said Lenny. “They’ll love you no matter what. So will—”
A knock on Giles’s door interrupted our conversation. “Professor Giles is gone for the afternoon,” I hollered from my desk.
Alice, Mia’s roommate, poked her head into my office.
“Oh hi, Alice,” I said. “Can I help you with something?”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “I just needed to talk to Professor Giles about my schedule next year. I want to switch up some classes.”
“Sorry,” I said. “He won’t be back this afternoon. You should be able to catch him tomorrow, though.”
“I’ll stop by in the morning,” said Alice. “Will you let him know?”
“Sure,” I said. “Before you go, can I ask you something? It’s about Mia.”
She took a step into my office. The sun caught the highlights of her lovely cranberry hair.
“I overheard a conversation she had with Hailey,” I said. “Something about counseling. I wondered if Mia might need help from a school grief therapist. I could put her in touch with someone.”
Alice thought for a moment. “That’s funny. I saw the Health Services brochure on our table. That must have been what it was about.”
“So, Mia knows where to get help if she needs it?”
Alice nodded. “The university sent out emails, too. I can mention it, though, if you think it will help.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It might be better coming from a friend.”
She gave me a little salute. “I’m on the case, Professor Prather.”
After she left, I turned to Lenny. “I like her, you know that?”
The dimple in Lenny’s cheek showed. “You like anyone you can wrangle into your world of detection and mystery.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “That must be why I like you so much.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Before we went to Petal’s Place, I needed to call Owen Parrish. I couldn’t focus on anything, even Lenny’s cute dimple, with the cover art on my mind and computer screen. I told Lenny to shut the door on his way out so I wouldn’t be disturbed. Then I took a deep breath and dialed Owen’s number. He sounded more annoyed than ever. I wanted to hang up the instant he picked up. But I’d completed more difficult tasks than making a phone call. I’d brought three killers to justice. Surely I could tackle one unfriendly editor.
“Hello, Owen. This is Emmeline Prather, and I’m calling about the mock-up cover I received this morning.” So far so good. My voice was strong and clear, and my hoop earrings were silent.
“If you have concerns, you need to schedule a call,” said Owen. “I’m very busy.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” I said. “Since we’re on the phone now, can we talk?”
“What is it?”
“The cover is a little … flowery.” I stared at the tangle of blossoms on my screen, trying to describe the problem. “I don’t think it relays the message we want to convey.”
“What message?”
“The early ways women found to express their creativity,” I said. “This book is about voice.”
“Gardening is a form of creativity,” said Owen.
My earring jangled, and I switched my black office phone to the other ear, determined not to let his unexpected responses distract me. “True, it is, but it’s not one of the forms I discuss in the book.”
He sniffed. “Maybe it should be.”
Was he kidding? The book was about writing, women’s writing. I was starting to believe he really hadn’t read it. Or he was joking. I attempted a chuckle. “It would hardly fit with the theme. Anyway, if we could try another cover, one with fewer flowers, that would be great.”
“Everyone likes flowers,” he said.
“Purple and pink flowers? I don’t think so.”
“The cover will appeal to women.”
“It doesn’t appeal to me, and I’m a woman.” The statement hung in the air like smoke from a gun. I was glad I’d said it because it was true. It was my book, after all. I’d written it. I’d spent hours with it. He acted as if it had materialized out of thin air, as if my opinion didn’t matter at all. Well, it should.
“What would appeal to you, Emmeline?”
I’d never detested the sound of my name so much. I might have been a two-year-old. I refused to be talked to like a toddler. “I’m glad you asked. I would like to see some form of writing, perhaps letters and a fountain pen or a typewriter. Something that conveys the art of writing.”
He puffed out a breath. “I’ll talk to our designer and get back to you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“Please don’t call again without an appointment.”
The line went silent, and I was glad I didn’t have to respond. I’d won a small battle. I wanted to end on that happy note.
Lenny opened the door. “You were great.”
“Were you listening outside the door?” I asked.
“Yep, and you held your own against that jerk.”
I pushed back my chair. “I did, didn’t I? He’s going to talk to their designer and get back to me.”
“Good.” He reached for the gray knit sweater on the back of my chair, holding it out for me. “We can go to Petal’s Place now. It’s too nice to be inside.”
Locking up, I noticed the hall was quiet for a Monday. No one was coming in or going out, and a familiar mustiness hung in the air. It was the disuse of summer, already settling into the cracks in the wal
ls, the crevices of floorboards. When the warm air arrived, it would slowly fill the void left by students, leaving scholars to peruse their favorite tomes in peace for two blissful months. Then the cold fall air would snap their attention back to teaching, and the blithe summer days would go much more quickly than they’d come.
Thomas Cook stood in the hallway outside Barb’s office, and seeing him reminded me to ask him about the sonnet submitted for the contest. He was our resident expert on rhetoric and studied violent language on campuses. He and I had collaborated on a paper last semester that had recently been accepted by a prestigious scholarly journal. He might have some insights into the poem that I hadn’t considered.
Lenny and I greeted him with hellos. He explained that he was waiting for Barb to finish her phone call. Most likely she was talking to her niece. She spent most afternoons gabbing with her about her kids.
“It might be a while,” said Lenny.
“Tell me about it,” said Thomas.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask you something the other night,” I said. “Mind if I ask you now?”
“I’m in no rush,” said Thomas, putting his hands in the pockets of his sleek jacket. “Obviously.”
“Great,” I said. “A submission came into the sonnet-writing contest that warned of trouble. At the time, Claudia wasn’t concerned, but with Tanner’s death happening shortly thereafter, I wondered if you might look at it. I gave the original to Giles. I have a copy in my office.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to. When?” asked Thomas.
I appreciated his willingness to give it a look. “We’re on our way out, but are you in tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here in the morning, around ten,” said Thomas. “I’m meeting with a student.”
“I’ll stop by your office afterwards.” I turned to Lenny. “Do you want to be there?”
He shook his head. “Iambic pentameter is not something I set my alarm for.”
Thomas laughed. “I hear you. I’m not a big fan either.”
“By the way, I enjoyed visiting with Lydia at Bluff View,” I said. “I wish she’d let me talk to the history chair. It’d be nice to have her on campus.”
He tilted his head. “She likes working from home.”
“She might like it here better,” said Lenny. “You never know.”
He glanced into Barb’s office. “It looks as if she’s off the phone. See you tomorrow, Emmeline.”
Once we were in the stairwell, Lenny gave me a look. “Did you notice how he brushed off my question? I wonder why he doesn’t want her teaching here.”
“There’s something we don’t know,” I said. A blast of cold wind hit my face as I opened the back door of Harriman Hall. I quickened my pace to Lenny’s car.
Lenny unlocked the doors. “So many mysteries, so little time.”
* * *
Petal’s Place was owned by Petal Petersen, whom I’d met last Christmas while poinsettia shopping. She had the loveliest—and the most expensive—red and white plants in town. They were also the healthiest, for I still had mine in my bay window. A Christmas fanatic, I wasn’t about to throw my poinsettia away just because the season had ended. Even Dickinson was resigned to it being there. She hadn’t touched it for months.
Petal’s Place was packed with colorful blooms, and as we passed under the creaky wooden sign that marked the entrance, it was like entering another world, a world of gardens and high tea and stolen kisses in gazebos. I almost forgot we were here because someone had left me an ill-intentioned pot of pansies. The idea seemed silly in the midst of so much beauty. How could the gesture feel sinister? It occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t. Unlike begonias or marigolds, pansies had a pleasant meaning. Was it possible they were a gift, sent by an admirer? Someone who liked me? In the context of other recent events, I doubted it.
“Claudia was right,” said Lenny. “Your eyes are violet.”
I smiled. Maybe the enchantment of the place was rubbing off on Lenny, too. Or maybe it was the purple hydrangeas I was standing next to. “Do you see any pansies?”
“Not yet,” said Lenny. “Let’s look around.”
The store was small, with several nooks and crannies. Every corner was stuffed with plants, potpourri, or plush animals to send as gifts. The delicious smells changed from one nook to the next—roses, then lilies, then carnations. But no pansies.
“Em, over here,” called Lenny. On the other side of the store, he’d found the perennials and annuals. As I approached, he held up a pot of pansies identical to the one I’d found on my porch. “Is this it?”
“It is.” I turned the pot around, looking at it from all sides. I was certain of the match.
“Aren’t those gorgeous?” said a peppy voice. “I just put them out on Saturday. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was in the backroom.”
It was Petal. I remembered her heterochromatic eyes, one blue and one brown. They were distinctive, just like her flower shop. “Yes they are,” I said. “I was given one yesterday.”
“How nice,” said Petal. A heavy canvas apron covered her top and jeans. She must have been cutting or arranging flowers when she heard us come in.
“Normally, it would be,” said Lenny. “But this was different. Someone’s been leaving flowers as signs, messages. The pot of pansies was left on Em’s doorstep overnight.”
“Out in the cold? Terrible.” Petal brushed her blonde pixie hair off her forehead. “Who would do such a thing?”
I could tell Petal took the carelessness personally. “We thought you might be able to tell us. If you just put them out Saturday, maybe you remember someone buying one.”
She bit her lip while she considered the question. “I was here Saturday morning and then left to do a wedding. I don’t remember selling any.” She paused. “I don’t have a security system, but I could review the receipts for that day. Maybe someone used a credit card. Would that help?”
“That would be great,” said Lenny.
We followed her to the cash register then waited while she reviewed her list of sales. The local radio station crackled over the speakers. An announcer reminded listeners of the upcoming party at Harmony Music Museum for Shakespeare’s birthday on April 23. Free and open to the public, it was the final event before the folio left campus.
“Let me check one other place,” said Petal and disappeared into the backroom. I could see her looking through rolls of receipts near a file cabinet. She returned with a shrug. “Sorry. According to my receipts, I didn’t sell any.”
“Does any place else in Copper Bluff have pansies?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Petal. “I’m usually the first because I have space for them indoors.”
“Thanks for the help,” I said. “We appreciate it.”
“I hope you find whoever left them,” said Petal. “It’s not nice to leave flowers out in the cold.”
Lenny and I shared a look. Disregard for flowers might be the least of this person’s sins.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I didn’t teach on Tuesdays or Thursdays, but that didn’t mean I didn’t work. If I wasn’t in my office, I was usually grading papers or writing my own essays for eventual publication. This being Tuesday, I was up early, rewriting the last chapters of my book. It was a difficult process, one I couldn’t completely reconcile myself to. Dickinson was in my office and heard the grumbling and saw the headshaking. After deleting a few sentences, I would turn to her for comfort. With a squint of her eyes, she would assure me that I was the last person on earth to be right about anything. So I continued deleting and rewriting until I’d cut thirty pages and added seven.
I sent the file to Owen and pushed my office chair away from the desk. Revision was hateful. I was not hearing the happy voice that told me to write all these wonderful pages in the first place. A devil sat on my shoulder. Then he’d jumped into the chair and had his way with my manuscript at last. I hoped he was happy. I certainly was not. But I trusted the wri
ting process enough to know I would be when the project was finished.
My phone was buzzing on the counter when I deposited my coffee cup in the kitchen sink. It was Lenny. Maybe he’d decided to come to Thomas Cook’s office with me after all. “Hello?”
“You know I can hear it in your voice when you’re smiling?” said Lenny. “That’s why I love calling you.”
I attempted a straight face and failed. “You got me. I am.”
“I called to tell you that Andy is really sick,” said Lenny. “I just got off the phone with Felix, and the antibiotic they started isn’t helping. Andy’s worse than ever. Giles is teaching, so I’m taking Felix to the hospital. I wondered if you wanted to go with me.”
“Shoot,” I said. “I would, but I promised Thomas I’d meet him at his office. Remember? You go and see what you can find out. Call me when you’re done.”
“I will,” he said. “Be safe.”
“You, too.” I ended the call, more convinced than ever that Andy’s illness wasn’t food poisoning. None of the people at the banquet had gotten sick, including faculty members or students. If something was wrong with the food, that would have been discovered. Even if it was food poisoning, Andy should be feeling better by now, not worse. Nothing they did was helping. I’d bet my summer vacation it was because the doctors hadn’t found the underlying cause.
As I was tucking my phone into my blazer pocket, it rang again. This time it was Claudia. She was making arrangements for Shakespeare’s birthday party and wanted my input on the desserts. My suggestions included chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate.
“And don’t forget coffee,” I added. “Get it from Café Joe if you can. The university’s coffee is weak.”
“Chocolate and coffee,” said Claudia. “I got that. But what about finger foods? I need a vegetarian option.”
“Cucumber sandwiches are always nice,” I said.
“You’re right,” said Claudia. “Shakespeare’s English. We should have tea.”
“Who said anything about tea?” I said.
“Plus, Felix is English,” said Claudia. She was talking to herself now. I heard her scribble something on a notepad. “Thanks for the ideas, Em. This helps.”
