The Raven and the Nightingale

by Joanne Dobson

  “Thanks for coming, Karen,” Sophia began. She’d twisted her lank hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, and her tired blue eyes were rimmed with shadows. “I called you because you’re the only one I could think of who might be able to help Ms. Birdwort … Jane. I’m so worried about her, I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  “She seems to have that effect on people,” I said, dryly, and took a slurp from the mug of coffee. The woman in the booth across from us was wearing knee-high red leather boots, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off them.

  “Jane didn’t have anything to do with Professor Corbin’s death,” Sophia insisted. “She couldn’t have. Poetry is her life—her entire existence. She wouldn’t hurt a … a …”—Sophia fell back on cliché, decidedly the last resort for a fledgling poet—“a flea!” she concluded haplessly.

  “Sophia, I know you care about Jane, but you’ve got to relax. She hasn’t been arrested. She hasn’t even been charged with anything.”

  “But why would they take her in if they didn’t think they had evidence? Why would they hold her so long? She was there for hours! I called her last night, and she said the police just kept on and on about whether or not she had an alibi for Thanksgiving Day. But she doesn’t. She was home alone all day, writing—and she didn’t go anywhere for a holiday meal. She just had a frozen turkey dinner for supper. Isn’t that sad? Frozen turkey! On Thanksgiving! Isn’t that totally tragic?” Every once in a while I was jolted into remembering just how young Sophia was. “And … why I thought you could help? I know you have connections with the police—that big lieutenant, you know, from when …”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I know.”

  “Anyhow, I … I want to talk to him.” Sophia drew herself up and squared her narrow shoulders. “Jane couldn’t have killed Professor Corbin on Thanksgiving Day, and I can prove it!”

  Sophia wouldn’t tell me anything more, no matter how hard I pressed her. I gave her Piotrowski’s phone number, and walked her out to her car. I was worried about Sophia; she was genuinely distraught about Jane, and I feared she was on the verge of doing something rash.

  20.

  Ah! Woman still

  Must veil the shrine,

  Where feeling feeds the fire divine,

  Nor sing at will,

  Untaught by art,

  The music prison’d in her heart!

  —FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD

  WHEN I ENTERED THE CLASSROOM at five minutes before the FroshHum exam’s scheduled nine A.M. start, my students were sitting in the early-morning gloom with no lights on, as if they anticipated a two-hour snooze instead of a two-hour exam. I flicked the switch, and twenty sets of eyes narrowed against the light. I hadn’t seen Freddie Whitby since the day Piotrowski had spooked her in my office, but now she swaggered into the classroom behind me, pulled out her chair with a screech, and plunked herself down. I sighed. If I’d thought about Freddie at all, I’d entertained the sweet fantasy that she’d simply decided to drop out of my course—and out of my life. But no such luck. Here she was in her size-four jeans and bleached-red Ralph Lauren sweatshirt. A cold rain tapped monotonously against the large, multi-paned windows that constituted one wall of the room. Even with the fluorescent overheads, this test was going to be administered in the semidarkness. I looked out over my anxious students, counting heads. Nineteen? Who was missing?

  “Has anyone seen Mike Vitale?” I asked. Students glanced nervously at each other; they wanted to get on with the exam. I checked my watch: 9:05. Conscientious Mike was the last student I would ever have expected to be late for a final.

  Tom Lundgren raised his hand. “Mike’s roommate thinks he went home.”

  “Went home?”

  “He hasn’t seen him in a few days.”

  “He thinks he went home?”

  Tom shrugged. Amy Bloomberg tapped her pen against her teeth. Nina McBride rattled the pages of her bluebook. Jeff Wilen scrawled his name over and over on the cover of his. I checked my watch again—9:07—and handed out the exams.

  Where the hell was Mike?

  As if synchronized, student heads bent over exam papers, student breaths deepened. In the small classroom, the oxygen level seemed to drop perceptibly. Freddie hunched over her little blue exam book, face scrunched with concentration, most likely scribbling, “J. Alfred Prufrock” is alot like life. When she handed in her exam, I intended to schedule a conference with her about the plagiarized Poe paper. Tom Lundgren, his plump, fair face flushed, worked methodically, making outlines of his answers on the inside cover of the exam book, then writing the essays out in a careful rounded hand. I knew this, because he’d shown me the outlines while I was answering the first of his several questions about the exam. Most likely Tom would remain till the bitter end, and beyond, as if five extra minutes would make the difference between an A-minus and (horrid thought) a B-plus.

  Then, while I was in the middle of answering Tom’s anguished query about just exactly what I wanted him to say in essay number two, Freddie dropped her bluebook on my desk and skittered out of the classroom so fast I couldn’t stop her without leaving the room—a definite no-no during a final exam. I checked my watch again; only Freddie Whitby could possibly have the arrogance to leave the exam room after a mere forty minutes. Maybe I didn’t need to do further library research on Edgar Allan Poe scholarship. I was tempted simply to let Freddie’s plagiarism slide; I could flunk her for the course based on the number of classes she’d missed and the perfunctory exam she’d just turned in.

  In the roller coaster of my current personal and professional life, Freddie Whitby and her plagiarized essay had taken a back seat: a murdered colleague; a poet under suspicion of his death; a detective who hounded me relentlessly for information about my associates; a daughter who asked uncomfortable questions about family members I firmly intended never to see again; the weird sense I kept having on campus that someone was watching me; a student in excellent standing—okay, a teacher’s pet—unaccountably missing from the final exam. Final papers; final exams; final grades.

  Leaving the classroom at 11:10, I dropped my bag with the exam bluebooks in my office and headed across campus to the Dean of Students’ office in Emerson Hall. I’d made a date with Earlene for an early lunch at Rudolph’s. I wanted to follow up on comments she’d made at Thanksgiving about Jane and Elliot, and now I needed to consult with her about Mike Vitale. I was worried about Mike: His tearful visit to my office, his uncharacteristic absences from class, and his failure to show up for the final exam—it all gnawed at me like a dull toothache.

  The rain had stopped, and a pallid sun struggled resolutely through the lightening cloud cover. On the quad, the shower had reduced to grimy hillocks the majestic mounds of snow that had lined the walkways for the past week. I watched my booted feet carefully as I navigated the paths; the temperature was dropping fast and puddles of slush were on the verge of turning into treacherous slicks of ice. Two women students in bulky down jackets brushed past me, deep in conversation. “It wasn’t as if I actually let him do anything,” the bundled-up blonde said to her shorter, darker friend.

  “They’re all so fucking arrogant,” the other girl replied. She was at least nineteen; she knew everything there was to know about men.

  “And now he thinks he owns me,” the blonde continued. Neither student wore gloves or a hat. Their outrage at the male sex was keeping them warm.

  As I entered Emerson Hall from the quad, the administration building’s central corridor was dim. Until my eyes adjusted, I could see only the half-moons of radiance glowing from brass sconces positioned at ten-foot intervals on either side of the hallway. At the far end of the corridor, the enormous peacock-tail fanlight above the massive eighteen-foot-high front doors radiated kaleidoscopic blues, greens, and golds across the dark wainscoting, thick burgundy carpeting, heavy paneled doors. Luminous peacock spots brightened the maroons, browns, and blacks of the gilt-framed, near-life-size portraits of Enfield’s past president
s. Surprisingly, the usually empty corridor was bustling today with custodians and suit-clad men. Stepladders and extension ladders clustered around a huge rectangular shape presently leaning lengthwise against the oak wainscoting: Another gilt-framed portrait was about to be hung on the high ecru wall across from the President’s office. I bypassed the burgundy-carpeted stairs leading directly to Earlene’s second-floor office in favor of the more circuitous route that would allow me to meander oh-so-casually past this picture-hanging event.

  As custodians shifted ladders back and forth under the officious direction of various minor administrators, I paused to gape at the new addition to the gallery of presidential portraits that lined the corridor: a three-quarter-length oil painting of Avery Mitchell in his Harvard doctoral robes. Framed for posterity, our president sat ensconced in the elaborate nineteenth-century ebony-wood Enfield College ceremonial chair, his elegant pale hands with their long, slender fingers resting easily on the winged dragons carved into the armrest. The painted blue eyes gazed pensively somewhere just beyond my left shoulder. The angular face, with its long nose and thin, sensitive lips was composed, and the square jaw was set. This was a portrait of a man born to mastery.

  “Well, Karen, what do you think?”

  The real Avery touched me lightly on the arm to announce his presence. He must have been lurking in his office doorway watching the preparations for his induction into the rogues’ gallery of presidential portraits.

  I gazed at the painting for perhaps a millisecond longer than strictly required. “I like it,” I replied. It was only the truth; last summer’s impulsive kiss had erased any tenuous objectivity I’d ever felt about Avery Mitchell.

  He paused for a second or two. Was he also recalling that damn kiss? If so, he hid it well. His voice was exceedingly level as he continued, “A little pretentious, perhaps, but the trustees insisted on the robes and the chair.”

  “Well … they become you.”

  The portrait’s original stood silent for another brief second, then unexpectedly gestured toward his office. “Karen, do you have a minute?” I was late for my date with Earlene, but at Enfield a summons from our president, no matter how impromptu or hesitantly phrased, means a command appearance.

  Especially for me.

  “Sure.” I followed Avery past the secretaries’ desks and into an office beautifully furnished with Persian rugs in jewel tones, leather chairs, and nineteenth-century landscapes. The unseasonal scent of roses directed my attention to a ceramic bowl overflowing with a tasteful cluster of plump ivory blooms in artistic disarray. Did the President’s office have a standing order with a local florist? Or was this floral display the loving work of Avery’s wife, Liz?

  It really didn’t matter, I scolded myself, as I accepted Avery’s offer of a seat on one of the maroon chairs. No relationship with my elegant boss, aside from the sanctioned one of employer-employee, had ever really been in the cards, not at this small, decorum-shackled school, even long before Liz had taken a whim in her pretty head to return to Avery.

  “So, Karen,” Avery leaned against the fireplace mantel, “about Elliot? What a terrible, terrible thing.”

  I nodded, and he went on, “Security tells me the … ah … investigating officers have been … ah … consulting with you?”

  So, this was a fishing expedition. I gave him what I hoped would be interpreted as a knowledgeable but enigmatic gaze.

  “I’ve talked with Lieutenant Piotrowski, yes. If that’s what you mean by consulting?” Even my own ears could hear the tone of challenge: Is there a problem? Sir? I thought I saw Avery wince. Maybe I’d overdone it.

  “Of course,” he said, hastily. “We all have our civic duty. I simply wondered if there was anything you could tell me about how the police investigation is proceeding? As President, I—”

  I spread my hands, the weight of their emptiness heavy upon them, and Earlene came striding into the room. “There you are, Karen! I just called your office—I thought maybe you’d forgotten our lunch date. But the guys in the hallway said you were in here.”

  “Hello, Earlene. How are you?” Avery’s relief at her arrival was almost palpable. “Well, ladies, don’t let me keep you.” He escorted us to the door.

  Earlene stopped in front of the portrait, tilted her head. Turning to Avery, she raised a knowledgeable eyebrow. “Very nice,” she said. “Very nice, indeed.” I wasn’t certain whether she was speaking as a connoisseur of art or a connoisseur of men, but at that very second, as if in some sort of mystical epiphany, radiant pinpoints of blue, green, and gold suddenly illuminated the painted image of our president’s handsome head.

  Earlene scowled at the menu through oval glasses with red wire frames. “Get this,” she said, “Special of the Day, Trout Soup with Carrots and Barley. Yuck!”

  “What’s the matter, Earlene? You don’t have a taste for kitchen scrapings?”

  She laughed. “The menu here is so damn outré, I never know what I’m going to end up with. Pesto on my hamburger? Pumpkin seeds on my pasta?”

  I ordered a burger, medium rare, hold the boursin, and Earlene chose a Caesar salad and pea soup. “What’s in the salad?” she asked. “No cheese or ham, right? No bacon bits?” The ponytailed waiter shook his head. The diamond stud in his left eyebrow winked. “What about trout?” She cut her eyes at me. “There’s no trout in it, is there?”

  “Trout?” he echoed. “In the salad? Nooo …”

  Our meal was delivered with unusual promptness. Earlene’s salad was top-heavy with anchovies. I bit into my burger. It was loaded with cracked pepper and Worcestershire sauce. We’d need a quart or so of ice water to get us through the meal.

  “Earlene,” I asked, “do you know a student named Mike Vitale?”

  “I’ve met him. Tall kid with a ponytail, right? Why do you ask? Is there a problem?”

  I told her about Mike’s absence from the final, the missed classes, the crying jag in my office. “And now it seems that he’s been gone from campus for the past few days. Even his roommate doesn’t know where he is. This is a good kid, Earlene. I’m seriously concerned about him.”

  “I’ll look into it.” Earlene fiddled with the earpieces of her red-rimmed glasses. “But sometimes freshmen just freak out at exam time.”

  “Mike’s not that type,” I protested. I knew Earlene would use all the resources of the Dean’s Office to find out what she could about my student.

  Earlene plucked an anchovy from her salad, deposited it on the rim of her plate as she changed the subject. “So, I was really surprised to hear that the police were seriously questioning Jane Birdwort about Elliot’s death.”

  “Me, too.” Before he’d left my house Tuesday afternoon, the lieutenant had asked me to keep my doubts to myself. “But I do recall that at Thanksgiving dinner you said you’d heard something interesting about the two of them. Was it that they’d once been married?” I didn’t think I was betraying any secrets; if the case went to trial this would be public knowledge.

  Earlene’s brown eyes widened. “That’s it! Harriet Person told me that last spring, when the English Department hired Jane. Harriet thought it was hilarious that the department was confronting Elliot with his ex-wife.”

  “So Harriet knew all along about their marriage?”

  Earlene plucked another anchovy off the romaine, examined it, this time popped it in her mouth. “I guess. To tell you the truth, Karen, when I heard Elliot had been killed, I immediately suspected Harriet, not Jane. She wants that Palaver Chair thing so bad.…” Earlene let her words trail off, a cue for me to share any possible suspicions of my own.

  “Harriet is quite ambitious.…” I let it hang. We had our conversational code; the ball was in her court again.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” she replied. “Did you know she once sued the school for promotion? Oh, about ten years ago, now; just after I first got here.”

  “Really?…” This I didn’t know about. Miles Jewell walked by our
table on his way to a solitary lunch in the bar. I nodded at him. Earlene watched him pass, then lowered her voice.

  “Yeah. And it had something to do with Elliot. Harriet had applied for a full professorship, and the department turned her down, ostensibly on the basis of insufficient publication, although she’d published almost as much as a number of the men who were fulls. She got a hot-shot lawyer, charged the school with gender discrimination—and won.”

  “Really?…”

  “So she became the first female full professor ever in the Enfield College English Department. It was about time, but—my God—it escalated into such a nasty situation. And Elliot was her chief adversary.”

  “Really?…” Hmm. I wondered if Piotrowski knew about this ancient departmental skirmish. I also wondered if my vocabulary had permanently shrunk to that one titillated word: really.

  “And, then, I also wondered about …” Earlene pushed her half-eaten salad away, ignored the soup, stirred a dollop of milk into her Earl Grey tea, and went on about Elliot Corbin’s nasty squabbles over the years with Miles Jewell, Avery Mitchell, countless students. Earlene knew everything that went on at Enfield; I had tapped into the gossip mother lode.

  “Earlene,” I asked as we dodged fica trees on our way out through Rudolph’s foyer, “is it okay with you if I tell this stuff to Lieutenant Piotrowski?”

  “Sure.” She lowered her red-framed glasses and regarded me owlishly over the top. “You’re seeing him, huh?”

  “I’m not seeing him! I’m simply talking to him about the homicide.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured, nudging the glasses back up to the bridge of her nose and tying a cherry-red scarf around the collar of her sweeping black coat. “I always did like a big man.”

  “Then give him a call, Earlene,” I said evilly. “I’m sure he’d be happy to hear from you.”

  “If you don’t do it, Karen, I just might.” She winked at me and led the way down the restaurant’s salt-strewn steps.