by Diana Saco
“I’ll consider it,” I said noncommittally.
“I won’t let up, you know. I can be very stubborn.”
“Do they have art and writing retreats together?” I asked.
“Of course. In fact, I know of a place in Ashfield that we can go to.”
“That’s in the Berkshires, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, so you do want me to keep driving west,” I joked.
“Next trip. Right now I need you to take this exit,” Chloe directed.
“Why? Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
“That, and also it’s the exit for Charlton,” she said.
“Oh! Right.”
*****
Maxine Moffit received a doctorate from the University of Central Florida in, of all things, Hospitality Management. UCF was in Orlando, where Mickey Mouse lived, so tourism and hotel administration know-how were natural fits for the area. In such a mecca of hospitality, Maxi should have been able to find a lucrative teaching or consultancy position. Instead, she’d wound up in a tenure-track position at the virtually unknown Charlton School of Business, a small community college in the town of the same name. The town’s proximity to Millsferry—only a few hours by car and ferry—may have been one reason why Maxi took the job there. Tenure was rare at the community college level, so that might have been another reason. But that fact also made it even more mysterious that Dr. Moffit opted for early retirement two years ago to go run a B&B in Chatham, a position for which she was certainly overqualified. Chatham was a town in the so-called elbow of Cape Cod. The move put her closer to Millsferry, suggesting that her departure might have been voluntary. But for tenured faculty, “early retirement” was a red flag. I wondered if Maxi was asked to resign and why. I had made an appointment with the chair of Maxine Moffit’s former academic department to try to get those answers on the pretext of vetting her for a restaurant management job. I had even arranged the cover story with Farm in case Maxi’s former boss wanted to confirm my reason for being there.
Dr. Frida Roth was the picture of hospitality as she greeted us at her office door and ushered us over to a comfortable looking settee. She even offered us tea and biscuits.
Her assistant had given her my card, which she was studying at the moment. “You’re Nina A. Bray-co?” she asked, mispronouncing my name.
“Braco. Rhymes with taco.”
Dr. Roth smiled affably. “Ms. Braco. How do you do?”
Despite the pretext, I suddenly decided I didn’t want it to come out that the defendant in the murder trial was attending the interview of a background witness, so I fumbled for an alias as I introduced Chloe.
“And this is my associate, Ms., uh, Dottie.”
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Dr. Roth said.
“Ms. Uhdotti,” Chloe said without skipping a beat. “The ‘h’ is silent,” she added with a straight face.
I bit my lower lip to keep from laughing.
Poor Dr. Roth frowned, apparently wondering where that “h” went. She dismissed it just as quickly. “I’ve never spoken with a private investigator before. Your card says you specialize in ‘food-related investigations.’ What exactly does that mean?” she asked excitedly.
“It means that we love food. Everything else follows from that,” I said. I waited for a reaction and could see Dr. Roth and even Chloe nodding with amused smiles. Foodies never needed more of an explanation. “My current client is a restaurant owner interested in head-hunting one of your former faculty, Dr. Maxine Moffit.”
“Oh? Dr. Moffit hasn’t been here for over two years. The last I heard she was managing a B&B somewhere.”
“Yes, in Cape Cod. That’s where my client met her. He was impressed with her and is considering hiring her to manage his restaurant.”
“Well, she’s certainly qualified. Dr. Moffit taught courses in both hotel and restaurant management.”
“There’s no real problem, especially with her qualifications. My client was just wondering why she would leave a tenure track position to go run a B&B. I was hoping you could help us with that.”
Dr. Roth paused considering. “I suppose I can tell you. It’s a matter of record. Dr. Moffit slept with her students.”
Chloe snorted. “Surely she wasn’t fired for that. Isn’t that a common extracurricular activity?”
“Yes, and we’re all adults here, including the students. But we don’t ignore it any more than a business can afford to ignore a potential sexual harassment problem if a supervisor becomes involved with one of his or her staff. It’s too easy to trade grades or promotions for sexual favors.”
“So what exactly is the policy here for addressing student-teacher affairs?” I asked.
“If a faculty chair learns about the relationship, she is immediately required to interview the professor and the student separately to ensure that the relationship is consensual. Furthermore, if the student is taking any courses from the professor or is an advisee, the student is asked to change classes or advisor.”
“Is that what happened with Dr. Moffit?”
“Yes, but I only found out about the other two incidents after the third one was brought to my attention. In all three cases, the young men were in their twenties, above the age of consent. And two of them weren’t even in the same department or taking electives from Dr. Moffit, so it wasn’t an issue.”
“Why was she fired, then?” I asked.
“Oh, she wasn’t officially fired. She was asked to resign. The problem was with the third student. He was married.”
“Ah,” I said. “That would be a problem.”
“To the dean’s daughter,” Dr. Roth added.
“Ouch,” Chloe said.
“Indeed,” Dr. Roth agreed. “You know, despite the trouble, Maxi was a pleasant colleague to deal with and considerably forward-thinking. She was very interested in organic gardening and said that’s where hospitality needed to go next. ‘People want pampering, not pesticides,’ she used to say.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that,” I said.
“Yes, I liked her ideas, too. Frankly, I found her professional conduct unassailable. Except for the affairs, of course. I do so hope this won’t put your client off hiring her.”
“Do you think it should?” I asked trying to coax more details out of Dr. Roth.
“No,” she replied thoughtfully. “Maxi was very sincere in her affections, not exploitative. And it shouldn’t have a bearing on the job in question. Unless your client makes a habit of hiring red-headed bus boys, of course,” she added with a chuckle.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Maxi had a type. Young men with red hair.”
Chloe and I looked at each other probably thinking the same thing. That Marvin Munch was a red-head. I was no Sigmund Freud, but Maxi’s bias screamed affect displacement. I decided to steer the conversation in the direction of Maxi’s relationships.
“I had the impression Dr. Moffit was married,” I began. “I remember reading in her job interview that she has a family?”
“No husband, although she did tell me she was engaged before college. She said, ‘He was the one who got away, but he didn’t go very far.’ ”
“What a curious thing to say. What do you think she meant?” I asked.
“No idea. I just assumed she meant he stayed in Oklahoma, which is where Maxi is from. I think that’s the reason she broke it off. Maxi said she wanted a career and wasn’t ready to settle down.”
“So no family then?”
“She does have a twin sister.”
“How interesting! Do they look alike?” I asked, wondering if Dr. Roth had ever met Monica.
“Oh, yes,” she said laughing. “I was five minutes into a conversation about midterm exams with Maxi once before realizing it wasn’t Maxi at all but rather her twin. Her sister and brother-in-law visited here often, I believe.”
“Always together, or did Dr. Moffit’s twin sister come alone sometimes?”
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“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t always see them, not each visit. But come to think of it, I remember seeing Maxi alone with her brother-in-law several times. But never just the two sisters.”
Bingo! I thought. I remained outwardly placid and said, “Well, that’s nice that she has close family like that.”
“They live in Millsferry, by the way,” Dr. Roth added. “The sister and her husband.”
“What a coincidence,” I said, feigning surprise. “My client’s restaurant is in Millsferry.”
“Oh, then Maxi will certainly accept the offer, if your client decides to hire her.”
I kept up the ruse. “She’s still a strong candidate. Despite her minor indiscretions.”
“I’m sure it’ll work out,” Dr. Roth concluded. “Maxi would do anything to be nearer to the people she loves.”
I was almost certain of it now—that Maxi did the unthinkable to be nearer to possibly the only man she ever loved. All I had to do next was prove it.
16. Why You Can't Blame the Sister
Chloe was animated on the drive back, as curious about my process as she was about the facts we uncovered.
“That was intriguing to watch,” she said. “Especially the indirect way you got the information you wanted. You came at it slant.”
“Hmm, ‘slant.’ I like that. Yeah, I put the focus on something obvious—that Monica might have visited Maxi alone. But I was fishing for the answer I got—that Marvin visited alone.”
“Did you use that slant technique on me?” Chloe asked.
“A magician never reveals her secrets.”
“But you just did!” she said laughing.
I shrugged.
“It’s kind of passive-aggressive, isn’t it?” she observed.
“I suppose,” I said. “But it’s more about keeping people at ease. I don’t want to get a rise out of them; I want to get information from them. So I stick to neutral questions.”
“That makes sense,” Chloe agreed.
“Also people can be evasive. They could be hiding something. They might think I already suspect somebody—maybe somebody they care about and want to protect. If they only knew.” I said, shaking my head. “The truth is that I’m clueless going into an investigation. The initial interviews are just information gathering. I keep things neutral because I don’t want suspicions or agitation getting in the way.”
“I wasn’t evasive, was I?”
“Are you kidding?! You were the polar opposite. You didn’t just admit you hated Monica. You proclaimed it! I’ll never forget how you said you were glad to be rid of the ‘alliterating albatross’ and then offered me cake to celebrate.”
Chloe laughed but shook her head. “That’s not what happened. The cake was me being a good hostess, not celebrating. However, I admit that I didn’t see the point in trying to hide something that was never a secret to begin with.”
“You’d be surprised how many people try to hide stuff like that,” I said.
“Is that why you think I’m innocent—because I was honest about how I felt about Monica?”
“Nope, that wasn’t it.”
She gave a startled laugh at my emphatic response. “Okay, then what was it?”
“I think it was your fingernails,” I teased.
“What?! Come on, be serious.”
“Seriously. You keep your nails sensibly short and naked. Just wholesome, workaday nails, buffed to a clean skin-toned shine.”
“Nina,” she began impatiently. “A lot of people keep their nails this way.”
“It’s more about how you don’t keep them. I have this thing about painted fingernails.”
“I don’t believe you,” Chloe said.
“Hey, we all have our prejudices. Mine just happens to be women with long, painted fingernails—specifically, white painted fingernails.” I shuddered just thinking about it.
“You truly are abnormal.”
“Is that any way to treat a childhood trauma?”
“Oh, it’s a childhood trauma now?”
“Well, I couldn’t tell you exactly when or why I developed this phobia. But I’m not joking when I tell you that white fingernails do give me the creeps. Maybe one of my mother’s overly perfumed friends had white nails. My still-developing brain probably associated the cloying assault on my nose with those bleached talons clawing at me, hugging me closer to that sickly-sweet smell.”
“Interesting theory.”
“Clearly the experience, whatever it was, scarred me for life. I can barely look at white fingernail polish.”
“I see. Do other colors bother you?” Chloe asked, playing along.
“Not so much.”
“What about men with white fingernail polish?” she asked.
“Funny you should ask. I was at a truck stop in Barstow once—”
“Not the old ‘truck stop in Barstow’ line. Nina, that’s so cliché.”
“Do you want to hear my story or don’t you?” I asked.
“Please, continue,” Chloe said.
“Anyway, I stopped for a cup of coffee on my way to L.A. and struck up a pleasant conversation with a gorgeous drag queen heading to Vegas. She—now, I say ‘she’ out of respect for this person’s gender-identification preferences, but you do understand I’m talking about a man in women’s clothing here, right?”
“Yes, I get it. Go on.”
“Okay, so she had perfectly shaped inch-long fingernails painted stark white. She kept tapping them against her ceramic cup as she spoke, and I didn’t even flinch once.”
“Fascinating. So it’s just women with white nails that you don’t like.”
“Yup. Right or wrong, that’s my credo—never trust a woman with long white fingernails.”
“Does that mean you trust everybody else?” Chloe asked.
“Of course not!”
“Exactly!” she said triumphantly. “So you see? Your story doesn’t explain why you trust me.”
“In a way it does. I’m saying it’s not rational, Chloe. I trust you because I trust my gut. My gut tells me you’re a good person. And good people don’t poison bumptious bakers and bucolic beekeepers, even if one of them is an alliterating albatross.”
“Now you’re just annoying me.”
I laughed.
“Maxine Moffit’s nails aren’t painted white, I don’t think,” Chloe mused, trying to remember the few times she’d run into her.
“No, they aren’t, but she’s definitely hiding something,” I said, thinking about her affairs and her mysterious engagement to a hometown beau. I wondered who he was.
“I wonder who the fiancé was,” Chloe said.
“Okay, you have to stop doing that. It’s creepy.”
“Doing what?” Chloe asked.
“Reading my mind,” I said.
She laughed. “So you were thinking about the fiancé, too?”
“Yup. When Al interviewed Marvin, and Maxi showed up, he thought they might have a history. Actually, what he said was that he thought Marvin liked both of the sisters. And now we know Maxi broke off an engagement and has a thing for red-heads.”
“Oh, I get it! You’re thinking Marvin was the fiancé.”
“It would fit. So they meet first and fall in love. But maybe he turns out to be more high maintenance than a young, career-minded Maxine Moffit is willing to deal with. She breaks things off. Monica steps in. Maybe she’s always been trying to measure up to her more outgoing sister, and she sees a chance to beat her at something for once. So Monica becomes the happy homemaker, marries her sister’s ex-fiancé to prove she can be a better wife to him than Maxi ever could.”
“But there’s no contest. Maxi already gave Marvin up,” Chloe observed.
“Right,” I said.
“But Monica continues competing for those first-place ribbons, like it really matters,” Chloe added. “I feel as though I have a whole new insight into her.”
“Kind of sad, isn’t it?” I suggested.
“I was thinking pathetic. I mean, Marvin isn’t exactly first-prize material.”
“Seriously,” I said, agreeing. “And adding to the weirdness is that Maxi doesn’t seem to have gotten over him,” I commented, shaking my head.
“Right. Enter a string of young, red-headed boyfriends,” Chloe added.
“Maybe also a rekindled love affair between Maxi and Marvin,” I suggested. “She’s older now. Probably realizes professional aspirations aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”
“So you think Marvin was traveling to Charlton to sleep with Maxi?” Chloe asked.
“Maybe. It certainly looks like he visited without Monica. And now Maxi swoops into town, apparently her first time here, to reclaim ‘the one who got away.’ ”
“But who ‘didn’t go very far’!” Chloe quoted with a sense of revelation. “Do you think that’s what Maxi meant when she said that to Dr. Roth? Not that he stayed in Oklahoma. But rather that he wound up with her own twin?”
“Oh, yeah! It had to be Marvin,” I concluded.
“How do we prove it, Nina? Can we just ask them?”
“Eventually, but they could lie. If they announced their engagement, we might find something in the newspaper archives. I’ll start there.”
*****
As a private individual, I detested being so visible on electronic databases. I hated that online stores served me browser cookies to track my queries—as if that one-time search for ‘feline urinary tract infection remedies’ meant that I wanted to buy every cat UTI pill sold over the Internet every time I went online after that. I was wary that the email content I didn’t encrypt could be read by some newly hired, insufficiently vetted support tech, probably in a different jurisdiction and therefore not subject to what few privacy protections I had in the U.S. And I couldn’t stand it that social networks were able to track where I ate breakfast and what I thought about my #lunch. My remedy for most of those subtle and not-so-subtle invasions of my privacy was to opt out. Most of them depended on self-disclosure anyway. I just participated as little as possible, occasionally annoying Farm and also the Florida cousins who sent me annual birthday greetings via one of the currently trending e-card websites.
