We hung up. I fixed myself one more cup of tea, then went into the bedroom and dressed for work, imagining my new war gear as I got ready to face my day.
15
I STOOD IN FRONT OF MY CLASS that Monday morning with a renewed love for my job, probably because I knew I was so close to having it yanked away from me. All my whining about the daily tedium of academic life seemed ridiculous now that I faced the possibility of doing without it. Simple, invisible elements of wealth—privacy, routine, security, respect—these I now realized I had taken for granted in the most frivolous, extravagant way.
My students, Gavin included, seemed dull and unresponsive. I didn’t care. I taught gleefully, all the while silently begging Jesus to spare me from a fate flipping burgers for a living by the end of the week.
Gavin and I spoke briefly after class. He was getting settled in at the DeStefanos’. They had offered to let him stay with them as long as he needed to, and had assigned him some household chores. He referred to himself as “vice president in charge of babysitting and garbage removal,” a title he seemed proud to have acquired.
His one night there had passed with neither nightmares nor flies. He was on his way to his dorm to pick up some more clothes and see if the room had been fumigated. He’d drop by my office later and give me the fly report.
I spent a few minutes returning phone calls in my office and then headed down the hall for my meeting with Helene. Her door was open when I arrived.
“Morning,” I said, offering myself a seat.
She looked over her reading glasses at the wall clock. “Noon,” she said.
“Picky” I popped the top on the soda she handed me.
“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would,” she said.
“You give the worst compliments.”
“Well, I thought you’d look worse.”
“What did you expect? Twitching? Drooling? I’m handling it.”
She was unpacking lunch, stacking Tupperware on a cleared space on her desk. Helene had a thing about restaurants. She was convinced she could out-cook them all, so she rarely ate out. In the years I’d known her, I couldn’t remember the two of us darkening the door of one single restaurant together. But we had shared countless Tupperware-stacked meals at her desk.
“I brought tuna,” she was saying. “With cucumber. Do you want pita or regular bread?”
“Pita,” I said, reaching for a plate.
She unfolded a piece of wheat pita bread, tucked a few fresh lettuce leaves into it, and loaded in a heaping spoonful of tuna salad. She layered some chopped cucumbers on top and poured on a little homemade dressing, moving deftly with practiced, gnarled hands.
She handed me the sandwich and then fixed one for herself. More open Tupperware lids revealed green grapes and freshly cut slices of ripe cantaloupe. Helene had a way of making food look so inviting.
The last lid she opened released a smell that turned my stomach.
“Deviled eggs?” she said, holding the little tub out to me.
I felt myself turn green and put my plate down. “No.”
“I thought you liked deviled eggs.”
“I’ve never liked deviled eggs.”
“Well you don’t have to get so testy. You could just say ‘no, thank you.’”
“Excuse me a minute.”
I bolted down the hall to the bathroom and leaned over the sink, fighting off nausea. It took me a few minutes to regain my composure. I splashed water on my face and stared at myself in the mirror. I was white. Shaken.
What sort of person is traumatized by a little plastic dish of deviled eggs? Helene looked up at me as I stepped back into her office.
“Now you look as bad as I thought you would,” she said triumphantly.
“Thanks.” I sat down and pushed my plate away.
Helene had put the lid back on the deviled eggs, forgoing them herself. I walked over and opened the window, then returned to my seat and took a sip of soda.
“You want me to put the rest of the food away?” she asked.
“No. It’s fine. It was just the eggs, I think. That smell makes me nauseous.”
“Suit yourself.” She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed for a second. “How was your weekend?”
“Terrible.”
“What time did you go up to the clinic yesterday?” she asked casually.
I looked at her. “What makes you think I went up to the clinic?”
“Don’t make me audit the computer records. If you logged on, I’ll know. Just tell me.”
“About 2:30.”
“Find anything out?”
“Nothing that will help me.”
“Anything that will hurt you?” she asked.
My stomach was settling down. I reached for my plate and took a bite of cantaloupe.
“Not at the clinic. Afterward, at the library, though.”
She raised her eyebrows at me.
“Zocci’s parents have money,” I said. “They can flatten me if they want.”
“I wondered about that. When I called, it sounded like a maid or something answered. Both times.” She paused. “How much money?”
“His dad founded Eagle Wing Air.”
“Oh. That kind of money.” She finished her sandwich. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Leave that to the lawyers, honey.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“No, it really isn’t.” Her tone caught me off guard. “This is not just about you. I’m responsible for you. The university is responsible for you. We’re all facing this thing together.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Besides, that’s what lawyers are for. You’ll feel better after we meet with them today.”
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” I tasted a grape.
“No. I wanted to talk to you about the faculty meeting.”
“We’re having a faculty meeting? I don’t have it on my schedule.”
“I just scheduled it this morning. It’s about you.”
I felt my stomach flip again. “I thought you said we’d fly under the radar. I thought you said you were going to handle this quietly until we found out what’s going on.”
“I did say that. Zocci’s father called the dean yesterday. At home. He asked that you be put on leave immediately.”
“And she agreed?”
“I didn’t know why until now. Money talks.” She opened another Tupperware container. “Cake?” she asked.
I shook my head no. “You think it’s because of the money?”
“Of course. That’s the way these things work.” She plunged her fork into a spongy slice of chocolate cake, swirling the icing onto the fork before taking her bite. “Anyway. I have to tell the faculty something.”
“So I’m on leave? As of now? I can’t teach this afternoon?”
“No, you can’t,” she said. “You’re on leave as of now. Full pay.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry, Dylan. I really am.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“Your esteemed colleagues? As little as possible. I was thinking you need to have some sort of family emergency.”
“Like what?” I couldn’t think clearly.
“I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “Make something up. It doesn’t matter. Just so you have something to tell people.”
“Who will take my classes?”
“I will, for the time being.” She looked across the desk at me. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.”
“Thank you.” It was hard to come up with much to be grateful for, but at least my classes would be in good hands. “What time is the faculty meeting?”
“One o’clock,” she said.
I looked at my watch. It wasn’t quite 12:30. A lot had changed in half an hour.
“And the meeting with the lawyers?” I asked.
“4:15. In the dean’s office.”
“The dean will be there?” I longed for Mylanta.
“Oh. That was nice of her. What did you tell her? Does she know what’s going on?”
“I talked to her this morning. I told her everything I know.”
“Oh.” One-syllable answers seemed to be all I could muster. “I guess I should go.” I stood up. “What room?”
“Conference room.”
I turned to leave.
“Dylan?”
“Yes?”
“I told the dean I believe you. I told her it wasn’t true.”
“Thank you.”
“See you at 1:00.”
I gave her a half-hearted thumbs-up and went back to my office. I closed the door behind me and sat at my desk, fighting off the urge to cry The phone startled me out of my despair.
“Dylan Foster,” I said.
“It’s John,” a voice said.
John. My mind went racing around. I know about forty men named John. I had at least three students named John and a couple of therapy clients. One of whom was in the middle of a psychotic depression. I’d given the clinic instructions to have him call me directly if he had an emergency. I wondered how I was going to tell him he was about to switch therapists.
“What is it, John? Did something happen?”
There was a hard pause. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, did your weekend go okay? Is there some emergency? Are you feeling suicidal or something?”
“Why would I be suicidal?” the caller said.
Suddenly I recognized the voice.
“John? Mulvaney? Is that you?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’m returning your call.”
“I didn’t call you, John.”
“You did and you know it.” He sounded so childish. Like a seventh grader in a school yard spat.
“Check your caller ID, John. It wasn’t me.”
“I don’t have caller ID, and it was you. And I want you to stop. Our relationship is over.”
“We never had a relationship. Can we just agree on that?”
“We can agree you tricked me into coming to your house,” he said.
“I didn’t trick you into coming to my house.”
“You have to stop calling me,” he said firmly. “Why don’t you say anything when I pick up the phone?”
“John, it’s not me. Maybe someone else is calling you.” I put my head in my hands. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t act like there’s nothing going on.”
“I’m not acting,” I said, and slammed down the phone.
I dialed Helene’s extension.
“I can’t come to the meeting,” I said without saying hello.
“Which one?”
“The faculty meeting. John Mulvaney is delusional.”
“That’s what he says about you.”
“Well, who do you believe?” I shouted.
“You’re right. You can’t come to the meeting. I don’t want you cracking up in front of the staff.”
“Thank you.”
“What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them I had a family emergency.”
We hung up.
I sat at my desk and looked blankly around me, flicking my eyes across my bookshelves, my teapot, my photographs. Things that once seemed homey and familiar to me. They seemed foreign now. Quaint relics from a distant past.
I’d planned on prepping for my afternoon class after lunch, which of course wasn’t necessary now. I hid in my office instead, watching the seconds tick by slowly. The phone rang twice. I let it ring both times. One caller didn’t leave a message. The other message was from Gavin. The flies were dead.
At ten minutes after one, I gathered my class materials and my bag and tiptoed down the hall past the conference room, where I could hear the muffled sounds of the meeting through the door. I leaned in to listen, but couldn’t make out any of the words.
Helene wasn’t speaking anymore. Someone was asking a question, which meant the meeting would probably be over soon. How long could it take for her to tell them I was going on leave?
I scooted past the door, afraid to run into anyone, stopping by Helene’s office on the way out. I left my class materials on her desk and then made a last stop at the reception area to check my box, grabbing my mail and stuffing it in my bag.
I made the short, hot walk to my truck feeling very alone.
I tossed my bag in through the open window and yanked on the door, which let out a groan. I decided to stop at the hardware store on the way home and buy that much-needed WD-40. Might as well make use of my newfound free time.
I walked around the store in a haze, aimlessly shuffling past pyramids of paint cans and walls laden with brooms and garden hoses. I couldn’t remember why I’d come.
Finally, I spotted a small can of WD-40 and snatched it up, searching through my bag for my wallet.
At the checkout I paid the Helpful Hardware Man, whose name was Alice and who was not a man at all, and then dropped my wallet back in my bag.
As I did, my eyes fell on my mail and I gasped.
On the top of the stack was an envelope from the Vendome hotel.
16
I RIPPED OPEN THE ENVELOPE as I hurried back to my truck, opened my donkey-honk door, and tossed the unused can of WD-40 on the seat beside me.
Inside the envelope was a receipt. For $664.48. From the gift store at the Vendome.
I’d never been to the Vendome.
It wasn’t itemized. I had no idea what the bill was for.
Maybe Erik Zocci had stolen my credit card number before he checked in or something. I’m terrible about leaving my bag unattended in my office. Anyone could walk in and take anything they wanted.
Cursing my naiveté, I started my truck, threw it into reverse, and raced home for the telephone.
I parked my car in the garage and shut the garage door. I didn’t want to advertise to anyone that I was home in the middle of the day. I was half afraid that John Mulvaney would show up again after today’s faculty meeting.
I went into my study and sat at my computer and looked up the Vendome online.
I felt instantly outclassed. It was a gorgeous hotel. Far more elegant than anywhere I usually stayed. (My income level placed me firmly at Holiday Inn status.) The photographs showed a tastefully decorated lobby with enormous sprays of fresh flowers. Beautiful rooms. Handsomely furnished suites. There was even a little orchestral number playing elegantly in the background on the homepage.
I poked through the website until I found the phone number.
“Good afternoon, the Vendome. How may I help you?” answered a polite voice.
“Could you connect me to the gift shop, please?” My voice was at least an octave higher than usual. I told myself firmly to calm down.
“Certainly.”
A moment on hold with the same lovely string music playing in my ear, and then I was talking to Eloise in the gift shop.
Even the help sounded elegant.
“I have a little problem I’m hoping you can help me with,” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “How may I assist you?”
“I got a bill. In the mail. A receipt, I mean. From the gift shop there at the hotel.” I sounded like a moron. A hick and a moron. I tried to smooth out my speech. “And I know this sounds silly, but I haven’t the faintest memory of what I bought. Do you have any way of looking that up for me?”
“Certainly.” If she thought I was an idiot, she sure wasn’t showing it. Courtesy could be a grand and wonderful thing. “Do you have the receipt in front of you?”
“I’m looking right at it,” I said.
“What’s the date on the receipt?”
I gave her the date. The purchase had been made almost a month ago.
“Is there a transaction number? It should be in the upper right-hand corner.”
I read her the number, which was printed in red ink right where she sa
id it should be. I listened while she tapped on her computer keys.
“Here it is. $664.48?”
“That’s it!” I said, a little too enthusiastically. “Is it itemized, by chance?”
“It was a phone order. I have eight items listed here, plus gift wrap and a delivery fee. Would you like me to read the entire list to you?”
“Please,” I said.
“One Barrington fountain pen, black, $73.99; one leather Day-timer, brown, zip closure, $64.95; one set luxury bath salts, Origins, $47.99 …”
As she read the list, my heart quickened. These were the gifts from the day at Barton Springs.
She was reading the last item. “One leather cord necklace, black stone drop, $62.50. Total items billed, eight; total amount billed, $503.65; gift wrap, $64.00; tax, $46.83; shipping and handling, $50.00; for a total of $664.48.”
Shipping. “Is there an address listed?”
She read an address that I didn’t recognize. I wrote it down and underlined the zip code. It wasn’t a Dallas address.
“And what’s the name on the charge?” I asked.
“Dylan Foster. Charged to a MasterCard. I’m sorry, but I can’t give you the number over the phone.”
“I understand.” I dug my card out of my purse. “Can you just confirm the last four numbers for me? Is it 5466?”
“That’s the one,” she said. She was very genial. I liked Eloise. “I hope we’ve cleared up your confusion?”
“Yes, you’ve been very helpful.”
“Is there anything else I may assist you with today?”
“No, thanks, Eloise. I appreciate the help.”
I hung up the phone and stared into space. Someone had spent over six hundred dollars of my hard-earned cash to lead me straight to the Vendome. Six hundred dollars that, of course, I did not have.
I tried not to think about that. Six hundred bucks was the least of my problems.
That necklace was still locked in my sideboard. I unlocked the cabinet and took it out, along with the ring, and examined them both again.
Neither of them spooked me anymore. The ring was actually starting to feel comforting. I slipped it on the ring finger of my right hand and undid the clasp of the necklace, fastening it around my neck. If I’d spent $62.50 for the thing, I might as well wear it.
When the Day of Evil Comes Page 11
