Max opened the meeting with a slide:
The number of working daily journalists has already shrunk roughly 30-35% in the last five years, and will likely go down at least another 10-15%. That’s half the labor force.
Max paused to let the reality sink in and then turned the front of the room over to Larry and Phyllis who spoke clearly and with enthusiasm about the need for students to have access to online publishing and the exploration of new ways to present the news, verbally and visually, online and on air. Despite the occasional grunt from George, no one interrupted and the rest of the faculty seemed engaged and interested. Several applauded at the end of Larry’s plea for new courses and Phyllis’s for new equipment. Others smiled and nodded. And to my complete surprise, no one, including the three antagonists, took issue with the recommendations.
As we broke for lunch, Edwin sat with his chin in his hand. George joined Simon in the corner where they spoke quietly together. The rest of the faculty congratulated Larry and Phyllis on the presentation and piled on the fried chicken from the buffet table.
I followed Max outside for a breath of fresh, cold air. I was hoping to see some sign he had recovered from our last conversation about Celeste.
“Not bad, chief,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I expected a food fight from the three musketeers, but they seemed to have learned some manners over the break.”
I felt relieved. He seemed friendly again and I realized how much Max’s friendship meant to me. “We still have the afternoon discussion ahead,” I said.
“You know about wounded water buffalo?”
“No, but I’m sure I am about to learn.”
“The story’s told by big game hunters. They say the most dangerous animal in the world is a wounded water buffalo. Most dangerous because, if you shoot and just wound the buffalo, the animal will seem to run away. But actually he just runs into the bush where he waits. The buffalo will track you for days, following your trail, and, when you least expect it, he’ll charge out of the brush and attack. He’ll try to gore you to death.”
I smiled up at Max. He looked ruddy and handsome in his scarf and camel’s hair coat. His blue eyes sparkled. No wonder female students found him so irresistible.
“So I should be prepared for three wounded water buffalo?”
“Your leadership skills could get a good workout this afternoon.”
It wasn’t like Max to try to alarm me. But, since my scolding about Celeste, I supposed he was still annoyed with me underneath all his cordiality.
“Hey, are we still friends?” I asked.
Max took my face in his cold hands and kissed my forehead. “Of course we’re still friends.” His eyes were large and his expression soft. “You know, for all my stupid fooling around, you and Trudy are the only women I really love.”
Then, he turned to go inside.
“Max, one more thing,” I said. “Could I see the manuscript for the book you just finished?”
Max put his hands up to his face to blow on his fingers. I couldn’t see his expression, but, after a moment he said, “I heard you were asking for faculty manuscripts. What’s up?”
For a moment I wished I could confide my reasons to Max, who was smart and could help me figure things out. But I stuck with the story about needing to see work for purposes of evaluating.
“Well, I sent off the final version last month before break. But, I think most of it is still on the drive. Could I send it tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s perfect.”
Max looked quizzical for a moment, then turned to go inside. “You better get something to eat, Red. I’m counting on a victory today, you know.”
As I said goodbye to the last faculty to leave the retreat, Wilson met me and offered me a Pinot Noir “on the house.” I smiled a refusal and went straight to my car.
Joe met me at the door, also with a glass of Pinot. “I see I am gaining a reputation as a wino,” I said, dropping my coat on the back of the couch and collapsing into the armchair in front of the fire.
“How did it go?”
“Not bad. In fact, better than I expected. Simon was irascible, of course. George worried out loud about traditional benefactors from the industry losing interest in us if we ‘went too radical,’ as he put it. Edwin was unusually quiet and, when he spoke, surprisingly civil to Larry and Phyllis.”
“And the others?”
“The others were positive. I really didn’t have as much refereeing to do as I anticipated.”
“How did it end?”
“Better than I had hoped. Max called for a vote to approve the recommendations and most of the faculty voted yes. The usual suspects did not vote no. They abstained...a bit of a shock, but better than another awful fight.”
“A fight was what you were expecting?”
“That’s what I was expecting. But I guess the threat of being put into receivership made the pit vipers calm down. And, while there may be some rough sledding ahead, I think I might even call this retreat an advance.”
“You don’t think the three of them are up to something, do you?”
“Shit. I hope not.” I started to tell Joe the story about the water buffalo, but he stopped me midway.
“I know the story. And it’s not just a story. It’s been known to happen.”
The announcement of the new Henry Brooks Chair in Journalism was held in the large auditorium of the Liberal Arts College next door. Phil Lewis beamed and Stoddard looked sunnier than I had seen him for weeks. Ben Howard made a brief appearance to talk about his friendship with Henry.
Michael Brooks made a special trip out for the occasion. As they walked to the door, I followed. “Thank you so much, Mr. Howard,” I said. “And, Michael, it was great you could come.”
Both men turned. Ben stopped, put his arms around me and gave me a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. Michael smiled and gave me a gentler hug.
“Don’t you think this gorgeous woman should become the first Brooks Chair?” Ben asked of Michael. Michael grinned agreement.
“A fitting tribute to my father,” he said.
Sadie was at our usual table at Gormley’s, reading, when I arrived for lunch.
“Good news about the gift of a chair,” she said. “My spies tell me your retreat went well and no bombs went off.”
“No bombs. The combatants treated each other with restraint if not respect and we got some good work done.”
“So is all calm and sunny at the j-school?” she asked.
“Not really,” I answered, “I have a new problem. A challenge, as they say.”
“It never lets up,” she said.
Over lunch I told Sadie about my conversations with Alistair Shaw and my plagiarism hunt.
“Is there no limit to the wickedness of the journalism faculty?” Sadie shook her head. “Do you need any help? I’m good at tracking literary thieves.”
“I am dedicating the weekend to checking manuscripts electronically and reading through George’s print copy.”
“And Max Worthington’s?”
“He hasn’t sent his in yet, but I reminded him today and he promised to get it to me.”
Sadie made good on her offer and came over on Saturday to go through both manuscripts. As I supposed, Phyllis’ text had nothing to do with Shaw’s. I called Phyllis that afternoon. “Your book knocked my socks off.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said. “But I’m still not sure why you had to bother with it. Henry and I must have had two or three discussions about it before he died.”
“I know, but I’m the one who has to complete your evaluation, so it was good for me to see it, too.”
“How are you doing, sweetie?” Phyllis’ kind voice almost made my eyes water.
“Some days are better than others but, most of the time, I don’t feel
I am getting anywhere at all.”
“Isn’t that typical progress for The Red Queen?”
I smiled. “Indeed, as the old girl said, it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place.”
“Hmm. A good metaphor for hard-working academics.”
Sadie had taken on George’s printed manuscript. We had agreed I would probably be less objective and more inclined to look for reason to believe George was our guilty plagiarist.
After an hour of reading, she looked up and grunted. “What drivel. This Weinstein is a dreadfully boring writer and not an inspired thinker. How did he ever get tenured?”
“He was close to the old dean, Simon Gorshak. Also, he’s a genuinely good teacher. His students are crazy about him.”
“Humph,” said the former dean of liberal arts. “I haven’t found anything plagiarized yet.”
She was about a third of the way through George’s manuscript. I picked up some of the remaining pages and started reading.
“Yuk. I see what you mean.” George claimed to have fired his publisher because the editors bugged him about changes. No wonder. I wanted to write his editors a thank you note for saving the world from a truly tedious read.
I did find a few lines from Shaw, but George had put quotation marks around them and attributed fully on the page and in his endnotes.
“Much as I would like an excuse to hang George Weinstein by his thumbs, I don’t think he’s our villain,” I said, after a run through the last third of his book.
“He can’t get a merit raise for this work,” said Sadie.
“No, but he’ll get a compliment for teaching and a comment about how we hope to see a more productive next year in his evaluation.”
“How will he react to that?”
“He’ll be hurt. He’ll be angry. He’ll be loud. And, then he’ll stomp off to figure out how to get even with me.”
Chapter 23
The Tuesday after Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday was the first day of spring semester and a whirlwind of students trying to get into classes that were full, and faculty trying to get their syllabi copied by Nell’s harried assistant. The copier broke down at eleven and the phones went out of order at noon. Nell’s gray curls were a shambles by the end of the day. Her frantic tugging at her hair just made matters worse and she gave up on her comb. Promptly at five, she smashed a cap on her head and left.
I forgot to ask her if Max had said anything about emailing his manuscript. Her office was locked and I decided the hell with it.
Normally, I taught three courses in the spring, but this semester, Stoddard and I agreed I would devote all my time to managing the school. So, no ethics course, no students to brighten my day. On the way home, I recalled what Henry had said: management was “money and people, people and money” all day long. Although, unlike Henry, at least I did have a new curriculum to design with the faculty and an accreditation report to start.
Absorbed in the tasks ahead, I did not notice a strange car in my driveway until I pulled even with it. It was empty and I knew Joe was working late on a new case. I approached the front door with caution.
She was sitting in a corner of the front porch, her knees drawn up to her chest and her head down. Asleep or weeping or just resting, I could not tell. She wore a knitted wool hat, a parka, mittens, and heavy lined boots.
“Hello?”
Celeste Cummings lifted her head. Her pretty face was thin and pale. She wore no make-up.
“Hi, Dean Solaris. I hope you don’t mind my coming to your home.” She pushed off the floor of the porch and rose to her feet, dusting off her parka.
“I don’t mind, Celeste. How are you doing?”
“Much better. I’m stronger and I’m in counseling for alcohol and other stuff.”
I opened the front door. “You must be cold. Come in and get warm.” She preceded me through the door. Charlie barked but came over to her and let her scratch his ears. She took off her gloves and hat and tugged at the snaps on her parka. She did not resemble the beautiful girl I had seen in my office, but she was healthier than the girl I’d seen in the hospital. She had lost weight. Her blonde hair had been cut short and framed her face. She looked much younger and so fragile. I looked away. I busied myself with starting a fire in the fireplace, I asked her to sit down and offered her tea. She seemed grateful to be given a moment to herself while I went into the kitchen.
“I’m just going to put on the kettle and feed the dog,” I called from the darkened kitchen.
No answer.
When I returned with the tea, she was sitting, this time on the floor in front of the fire, her knees once more up against her chest.
Her thank you came in a whisper and the hand she extended for the mug of tea was trembling.
“I need to talk to you about something,” she said.
“By all means.”
“It’s something you are not gonna want to hear, but my therapist says I probably should talk to you.”
“Please go on and don’t worry about whether or not I like hearing things. I was in therapy myself when I was your age and I know these processes are important.”
She stared at her mug, took a sip and a deep breath.
“I’m sorry I called you a bitch.”
“Apology accepted.”
The firelight flickered across her face. Her skin was so transparent I could see a blood vessel throbbing at her temple. “I really want to go back to school, Dean Solaris. I am supposed to graduate this June.”
I leaned down from my chair and put my hand on her shoulder. “I can’t put you back into journalism, Celeste, but I will help you apply to another college for another major. With luck and good behavior, perhaps you can graduate.”
“Thank you.” She sniffed and reached for a tissue in her pocket. “I think I could get a degree in history. History was my minor and I think I could earn enough credits to graduate in another year and a half.”
I reached for her shoulder and felt her bones through her sweater. Sympathy filled me. “I know the chair of history and I’ll be glad to talk to him. But, I have to ask, any plagiarism or cheating problems in history?”
A wan smile. “No, Dean Solaris. I was a good girl in history. I enjoyed the classes and I did well.”
“History is a solid major, Celeste. I’ll make a call on your behalf.” I sat back in my chair. It wasn’t just her pitiable appearance that touched me. I identified with Celeste. I wanted to help this young woman who drank too much and got into trouble. I almost wished I could let her back in journalism, but then I would have had to deal with the irony of tracking a plagiarist on my faculty while forgiving one of my students for the same sin.
“There’s something else,” she said. “I have to get rid of Max and I need your help.”
Puzzling. “What do you mean get rid of Max? Just avoid him.”
She looked away and into the fire. “Max called me the night before last. He pretended to be some other professor calling about a sick student. He talked in a kind of code. I guess in case he thought my parents might be listening on an extension.”
“I’m not sure I understand this. Why would Max call you at all? He assured me what happened was over and done with.”
“I’m not sure it’s ever going to be over with me and Max,” she said. Her expression was tragic.
“Maybe you better tell me more about you and Max. I only have his side of the story and your father’s accusation to go on.”
She drew her knees up tighter under her chin.
“It started last September,” she began.
“Last September?” I interrupted. That was much earlier than Max had indicated. “Maybe you’d better tell me the whole story.”
“It was about the third week of school,” she said, “and I went to his office to ask about an assignment I’d misse
d. It was one of those warm September days, so I was just wearing a t-shirt and a short skirt and—I’m sorry—I wasn’t wearing a bra. I know I should dress more appropriately to go see faculty, but I was trying to get a boy’s attention in class and usually no bra works.”
“I can imagine.”
“Anyway, I could tell by the way Max kept looking at my breasts that I was turning him on. And since he’s nice and great looking I sat there and let him get turned on.”
She took another sip of tea, got up and sat in the chair opposite mine.
“When I stood up to leave, he stood up too and I could see he had a...he was, you know, excited. He asked me not to leave and then he closed his office door and locked it. At that point, I got a little scared, because I let things go too far and I wasn’t sure I wanted sex with him. I think I just liked the idea of turning him on.”
“What happened next?” I remembered Max’s story.
“Specifically?”
“Afraid so.”
“Specifically, he picked me up, carried me over to the couch. Then he lifted my t-shirt and...kissed my breasts. Then he put his hand up my skirt and...”
“Okay. I think I get the picture,” I said. I got up and paced the floor. “Max told me you had started this affair by performing oral sex on him one day in his office.”
“I did. The second time I went to see him. The first time we had sex on his couch.”
I looked back at Celeste. Her anxious eyes followed me.
“How often did you have sex with Max?” I tried to sound gentle and not too judgmental.
“All the time, Dean Solaris.” She cocked her head to one side and closed her eyes. “At first, we had sex in his office, but then he got worried we’d get caught, so we used to meet at a motel on Grant Street.”
“How many times a week?” My hands closed into fists.
“Three or four times a week—early in the morning before class or late afternoon before he went home. Sometimes, he’d sneak out on Sundays. Those times we went to his office because no one was in the building.”
Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 17
