The Semester of Our Discontent
Page 1
Praise for the Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series
THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT (#1)
“The best cozy debut I’ve read this year. An engaging heroine, a college setting that will have you aching to go back to school, and a puzzler of a mystery make this a must-read for cozy lovers.”
– Laura DiSilverio,
National Bestselling Author of the Readaholics Book Club Series
“A pitch-perfect portrayal of academic life with a beguiling cast of anxious newbies, tweedy old troublemakers and scholars as sharp as they’re wise. Lila’s Stonedale is a world I’m thrilled to have found. Roll on book two!”
– Catriona McPherson,
Multi-Award-Winning Author of the Dandy Gilver Series
“College professor Lila Maclean gets an A+ for her detecting skills in this twisty mystery set at a Colorado university. With suspects and motives galore, solving the murder of department chair Roland Higgins won’t be easy, but Lila’s got brains and guts to spare. A great book.”
– Maggie Barbieri,
Author of the Murder 101 Series
“I have a real fondness for academic mysteries and this one is first rate!”
– For the Love of Books
“Takes the reader into higher education’s secrets and shadows, where the real lesson is for the new professor—how to stay alive. If you’re smart, you’ll read this book.”
– Lori Rader-Day,
Anthony Award-Winning Author of The Black Hour
Books in the Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series
by Cynthia Kuhn
THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT (#1)
THE ART OF VANISHING (#2)
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Copyright
THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT
A Lila Maclean Academic Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | April 2016
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2016 by Cynthia Kuhn
Author photograph by Angela Kleinsasser
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-009-8
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-010-4
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-011-1
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-012-8
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For my family
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the following…
Kendel Lynn, Erin George, Rachel Jackson, Art Molinares, and everyone at Henery Press—for taking a chance on me and for making the book better. And all the authors in the Hen House—for being so welcoming and helpful.
Metropolitan State University of Denver—for the sabbatical during which the manuscript was finished. Also for the opportunity to work with so many terrific colleagues and students.
Harriette Sackler and everyone at Malice Domestic—for the honor and assistance of The William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant for Unpublished Writers (of mystery).
Sisters in Crime, Camp NaNo Guppy Cabin, Club Herky people, and Mysteristas both past and present—for community and inspiration.
James Aubrey, Maggie Barbieri, Margarita Barcelo, Ellen Byron, Theresa Crater, Carman Curton, Laura DiSilverio, Sandra Maresh Doe, Sebastian Doherty, Elsie Haley, Nancy Hightower, Lorna Hutchison, Sybil Johnson, Mylee Khristoforov, Catriona McPherson, Jason Miller, Mikkilynn Olmsted, Keenan Powell, Lori Rader-Day, Lev Raphael, Christy and Bob Rowe, Renée Ruderman, Gene Saxe, Megan Springate, Mary Sutton, Craig Svonkin, Dana Talusani, and last but certainly not least, Diane Vallere—for your readings, generous words, and/or other much-appreciated kindnesses.
William and Dorothy Guerrera; Wendy, Seth, Jackson, and Charlie Crichton; Sue Crichton; Shawn and James Peterka; Willard Crichton; Dennis, Ursula, Gretchen, Grant, Brianna, Allie, Eric, Amelia, Karl, and Meg Kuhn—for your encouragement and support. Special thanks to my father for coming up with the perfect character name on a dime, to my mother and husband for being earliest readers, to my brother-in-law for being a later reader, and to my sister for not only reading but also listening, cheering, and making me laugh when I needed it most over the years.
Finally, to Kenneth, Griffin, and Sawyer Kuhn—for far more than I could ever list. You are my sunshine. Deepest gratitude and love.
Chapter 1
When summoned by the department chair, one shows up on time. I hurried past the row of faculty mailboxes with minutes to spare and greeted Millicent Quayle, a squarish middle-aged woman whose dull brown hair perfectly matched her suit. As executive assistant, Millicent presided over the front desk that guarded our leader’s inner sanctum. She was practically humming with efficiency as her fingers flew over the keyboard, and I stood quietly until she mustered up the will to drag her attention away from the computer screen.
“And you are?” She frowned, her eyes locked on mine.
“I’m Lila,” I reminded her. “New professor? Dr. Higgins wanted to see me.”
Not even a blink. I had the fleeting impression she was expecting me to curtsy.
I did not.
Millicent slowly consulted an appointment calendar with gilded edges and made a small check in the page margin. “He’s with someone right now. Please take a seat,” she said, waving at the upholstered chair by the window. As I complied, she returned to her work.
I gazed across campus towards the wrought-iron gates flanked by a pair of granite gryphons that marked the main entrance. It was an imposing entry, intentionally so. Officially, Stonedale University offered a “liberal arts education to a small number of exceptionally qualified students.” Unofficially, it was known as an exclusive school for those who didn’t make it into the Ivy League but who were, according to their parents at least, exceptional nonetheless.
Nestled into the foothills southwest of Denver, Stonedale’s location was very popular with students. While the administration was more inclined to celebrate the university’s curricular rigor and high rankings, part of the appeal for students was its proximity to Rocky Mountain hiking, skiing, and snowboarding. Another selling feature for parents and students alike was the air of sanctuary offered by the campus. Charming stone buildings with all manner of architectural flourishes clustered around a burbling fountain, and numerous tall trees contributed to the sense of being enclosed in a protective haven. There were other structures radiating outward from the main circle, but they were never featured in any of the recruiting publications. This, what we all called “the green,” was the carefully calibrated and highly picturesque heart of Stonedale.
Voices rising in the chair’s office—muffled, but clearly irate—paused my reflections. The door flew open and my colleague Tad Ru
thersford stormed out, his face flushed. He shot me an unreadable look as he departed.
Roland Higgins emerged soon after, carrying a large book. He seemed to be unpleasantly damp from the effort. Or perhaps from the tweed—who wore such a heavy fabric in September?
“File this.” He slammed the text onto Millicent’s desk. I had to give her credit. She didn’t flinch at the loud sound, just pulled open the side drawer of her desk with one hand and swept the offending volume inside with the other.
Catching sight of me, Roland froze, peering through his greasy rimless glasses, which I was certain he would have referred to as “spectacles.” After an extended pause, his mouth moved. “You’re here.”
I agreed.
He stared at me long past the point of politeness, then turned to Millicent. “Faculty meeting today…what time?”
“The usual time,” she replied.
“Two?” he asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “But it’s almost one already. What a nuisance. I have important work to finish. Don’t you?” He glowered at me, as if I were responsible for scheduling the imposition.
“Yes,” I said, practically whispering in the face of Roland’s displeasure. He patted his thick thighs a few times as he let his disapproval sink in. With his black suit and white shirt, flapping with exasperation, he looked like an indignant penguin.
“Come in,” he said, finally.
I followed him into the stifling mausoleum of a room, which was dim aside from an ineffective reading lamp perched on the mahogany desk. If the shades were jolted open, a tidal wave of dust would surely rise and consume us both. Roland indicated I should take the skeletal chair facing his desk while he lowered himself into a brown leather executive number on the other side. Once we were both situated, he shuffled through the materials cluttering the surface until he located a stapled packet.
“I read your special topics course proposal. The curriculum chair shared it with me.” He held the pages at the corner with two fingers, as if they were contagious. “We hired you to teach American literature and the occasional Gothic course, Dr. Maclean. Not mystery.”
“Right, but Gothic and mystery overlap—”
He went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “I know you’ve only been here a few weeks, Dr. Maclean, but new professors do not propose courses. We prefer that junior faculty members better acquaint themselves with our program first. Especially those fresh out of graduate school.”
I chose to ignore the unmistakable message about knowing my place. “I was reading through the curriculum to acquaint myself, actually, and noticed there weren’t any literature courses on mystery, so…” I gestured to the packet.
Roland leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers. “There’s a reason for that, isn’t there?”
I conjured up a confused expression, though I already knew where he was headed. “What is the reason?”
He seemed surprised, either by the question or the fact that I had dared to ask it. “Dr. Maclean, our courses celebrate major works. Authors and texts who have made a lasting contribution to literature. Certainly you know the difference.”
“I know that even conservative definitions would include—”
Roland cleared his throat, smoothed his tie patterned with fire-breathing dragons, and launched into a diatribe about literature’s universal values. During the lecture, he closed his eyes—all the better to avoid pesky interruptions. While he belabored his arguments, the gray mustache curved over his mouth like a misplaced comma nobly rode out the torrent of words. At the conclusion of his tirade, Roland looked at me expectantly.
“Ah,” I said.
He inclined his head ever so slightly, as if he were a king granting me a great favor.
A moment passed.
“But—” I began.
“It’s a question of significance,” he said. “This proposal will not be forwarded. It’s not the right time for you to do this.”
A drop of perspiration rolled down my ribcage. “Would it be better if one of my colleagues proposed it?”
He lurched forward in the chair and snapped, “I repeat, it’s not time for you to do this.”
“But isn’t it time for someone to do this? Most universities include popular—”
Roland’s face grew red and his jowls quivered. “Stonedale is not like other universities. We have our own way of doing things. Period.” He pointed at me. “And let me be direct, while we’re at it. As a rule, junior faculty members need to talk less and listen more.”
“What?” I sat up straighter.
“In meetings and so forth. You’ll find your senior colleagues have much to teach you.”
Of course they did. But was he really telling me not to speak?
Roland drummed his fingers on the desktop.
I lifted my chin and met his gaze. “You want me to be quiet until I have tenure?”
He narrowed his eyes. “If you are ever tenured. You have six years of reappointment to get through first.”
That shut me up.
“Speaking of which, Dr. Maclean, I have some concerns about your research. How is your project progressing?”
“Well…” I paused. I’d been so consumed by the demands of teaching that I hadn’t been able to accomplish much writing yet. But as I tried to formulate a truthful answer that didn’t make me sound like a slacker, he kept going.
“Remind me what you are working on,” he commanded.
I shifted gears into a well-rehearsed-in-grad-school plan for making the literary world more aware of an unknown mystery writer named Isabella Dare.
“Fine,” Roland barked. “That’s enough.”
He had, since our first encounter, made it apparent that he viewed my choice of an author unfamiliar to him as an intentional affront. I still hadn’t figured out the appropriate response. Actually, I’m not sure there was one, other than to suggest he try having a more open mind now and then, which wouldn’t go over well.
“I’m still not convinced your topic will be productive enough to meet anyone’s expectations. You do have to publish, you know.”
I forced myself to sit perfectly still as he continued.
“However, I know you worked with Avery Lane on your dissertation. Although I question her decision to allow you to center your research on such a—let’s say unproven—writer, I do know she will have been most stringent in her supervision of your work. Did she mention we have a bit of history?”
“Just that you’d studied at Yale together.” I omitted the part about Roland being a pompous ass on a power trip. She had been very clear on that point.
“Avery is a remarkable scholar,” he said, almost meditatively, while his eyes wandered to a point somewhere behind my left ear. “If she hadn’t called me to sing your praises, you probably wouldn’t be sitting here.”
I wasn’t about to respond to the implications of that.
“Focusing a dissertation on a woman whose work has not been written about before is risky, isn’t it?” He smirked.
“I think she’s important. Avery encouraged me and convinced the rest of the committee—”
“She’s always been persuasive. If Avery thinks highly of you and your topic, I suppose we shall have to keep that in mind.” He jerked his head at the door. I gladly walked through it and away from him.
Calista James was waiting outside. In her sleeveless beaded silver dress, she could have been a 1920s flapper. On most people, it would have seemed like a Halloween costume, but it suited the poet, who was my cousin as well as my colleague. There was no visible family resemblance between us—she was blonde and shortish whereas I was brunette and tallish; her hair was straight, mine was wavy; her eyes were gray, mine green. However, we did share an inclination to blurt things out at unfortunate times and a disinclination to suffer injustices quietly, both of which had gotten us int
o plenty of trouble as we were growing up.
“What was that about?” She gestured me over, the beads on her dress set flailing by the vigorous motions, and pulled me in the opposite direction.
We passed several closed office doors and bulletin boards bursting with multicolored flyers, keeping our voices low.
“Roland didn’t like the mystery course I submitted. Also, he thinks I’m not acting appropriately ‘junior’ as a faculty member.”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously? What did you say to him?”
I recounted the entire conversation.
“Brava,” Calista said. “Takes most people years to muster up the courage to confront Roland. You stood up to him already.”
“I don’t know about that. I just tried to state facts. Mostly.”
Calista laughed. “Roland does not like hearing facts. He likes giving lectures. And plenty of them.”
“He definitely lectured me.”
“Was it as boring as it was long-winded?” she asked, smoothing her sharply angled platinum bob. “And as offensive as it was outdated?”
“Indeed.”
She grinned at me, the spitting image of my beloved aunt.
“How long do you have to be here before you can propose a course?” I asked her.
“Technically, whenever you like,” she said.
“Didn’t seem like it. Roland practically called me a whippersnapper. Hasn’t anyone proposed a special topics course on popular culture before?”
“Many times.”