by Cynthia Kuhn
That evening, after fixing myself a cup of peppermint tea, I settled in to do some class preparation. Despite the real-life drama demanding my attention, classes marched ever onward. I sat down at my kitchen table with the books I’d need to catch up. The American Lit survey covered everything since 1865 and progressed necessarily at the speed of light. I had the sneaking suspicion I’d assigned far too much reading. It would probably take a few semesters to calibrate the pace of the class. In the meantime, I would just have to scramble. But first I’d prepare Gothic, which for me was the literary equivalent of having my dessert first.
I cracked open the cover of the thick anthology but, after fifteen minutes of reading the same page over again and still not knowing what it said, I found myself staring out the window, thinking about today’s class meeting on Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s story, “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Gilman’s tale always prompted energetic discussion—the narrator’s relentless journaling of her descent into a dark state of obsession is gripping indeed.
After discussing the text at length as an example of psychological realism, describing a woman suffering from depression, I asked them to see if they could make an argument for the events being, instead, supernaturally charged experiences. I’d heard multiple gasps as students, upon a second reading, saw that the same symbols and elements could be read in multiple ways. It helped when they noticed that the narrator says upfront she hopes the house will be haunted.
The mysterious rose symbol popped into my mind. What did it mean? It was all well and good to compare realistic and Gothic readings when connected to a text, but not quite as comfortable in reality. Whenever I mentioned the symbol—or whatever it was—no one offered any explanation, but then another one appeared. What was the connection to the attacks? Was I imagining some kind of ominous conspiracy where there wasn’t any? The only thing I knew for certain was Detective Archer had found the symbol interesting enough to mention.
Getting nowhere with my reading, I pulled out a folder of papers that needed attention. Trying to catch up on grading was a Sisyphean task: as soon as I completed one stack of papers, another one rolled in. But that never stopped me from believing I could carve out a little reprieve somehow. And so it goes.
When my phone trilled and my mother’s name popped up on the screen, I gladly set down my pen and answered. I’d brought her up to speed a few days ago, and she’d been sending supportive texts around the clock.
“How’s Calista doing?”
“I don’t know. She’s…not herself.”
“That’s to be expected. By the way, I’ve hired a new lawyer for her. Don’t let Calista fire her. She’ll say it’s too expensive and she’ll figure something out herself, but this is my niece we’re talking about. I’m not going to leave it up to chance. Anyway, Tara—that’s her name—probably has seen Calista by now.”
A rush of relief ran through me. “Thanks so much. I was worried about that.”
“Now, on to you,” she said briskly, as if she were running down a checklist in front of her. “Are you okay?”
“Technically. I mean, I’m functioning. It’s just…horrible.”
“I know,” she said. “But you have to stay strong. And do everything you can to help her.”
“I am,” I said, though my mom had already accomplished more than I had on that front, from New York to boot. She was efficient that way.
“Give Calista my love, darling, and tell her I’m making plans to come to Stonedale at the earliest possible moment,” she added. “I have a deadline coming up on some commissioned work to go in front of a new office building. One of those developer deals where they want a sculpture to go along with whatever they’re naming the place. You know how difficult it is for me to try and be creative within someone else’s parameters, and I’m really struggling, or I’d be out there already.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to a trial.” It was surreal to imagine my cousin in that situation. Didn’t even seem possible that she was a suspect in the first place, much less a defendant.
“If it does, we’ll just have to do our best. Didn’t someone famous say that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But they were right.”
Chapter 15
I hurried to the café where I was meeting Judith and Elisabetta for dinner, trying to decide if I should bring up the thorn-and-rose design. I suspected it would make me sound crazy, but I didn’t have anyone else to ask. Judith had already told me she didn’t know what it meant when we’d discussed the book, so that was probably a dead end anyway. Still. Perhaps I should just go with the conversation, and if it felt right at some point to toss a query onto the table, I’d do it. I entered the front door into the warm, fragrant restaurant and saw the women sitting in a booth in front of the fireplace. They both smiled and waved me over.
“So glad you could make it,” said Judith, patting the spot next to her. She was wearing a brocade jacket with another one of her amazing scarves arranged artfully over the top. Someday I would have to ask her to show me how she got them to defy gravity like that. My scarves always unwrapped themselves and slithered to the floor, flew off my shoulders as I walked, or otherwise tried to escape when I wasn’t looking.
I slid onto the leather seat and settled in.
“Are you hungry? The food is fabulous here,” Elisabetta said, handing me a menu.
We all read quietly for moment, then gave our selections to the waiter who appeared to materialize out of thin air at the right moment—sign of a good restaurant. Then I turned to Judith and asked how she was feeling.
“I’m fine, thanks. As I kept telling the nurses and doctors, it was nothing.”
“Jude, it was not nothing—you were attacked in your own home,” Elisabetta said. “I can’t imagine who did this, but they deserve to be caught. And I hope they are prosecuted to within an inch of their lives.”
“Can you think of anyone who might be upset with you?” I almost anticipated Judith would know exactly who it was—she seemed so in tune with everything that went on at Stonedale.
She winked at me. “Dear heart, we all make people angry at some point. It’s part of life. I hope whoever it was has now gotten that out of their system and we can all move on. It doesn’t do anyone a bit of good to live in fear.”
Elisabetta made an exasperated sound.
I took a small bite of the green salad just set down by the waiter, whose name, he had reminded us for the twelfth time, was Franz. We promised to let Franz know if we needed anything else, and he melted away from the table.
After shaking pepper onto her salad, Elisabetta smiled at me. “Lila, I know we snapped you up right after you finished your Ph.D. However, I’m afraid I don’t know much more than that, other than that you’re an Americanist. What was your dissertation topic?”
“I wrote about a mystery writer named Isabella Dare.”
Elisabetta put her fork down and leaned forward. “How wonderful. I’m a mystery lover too. Where did you hear about her?”
I repeated the story about having found the box with Dare’s work at the used bookstore.
“Very interesting,” said Elisabetta. “Tell us about them.”
“They’re mysteries at the core, and they not only situate themselves within the Gothic tradition in obvious ways, but also play with the conventions in order to subvert certain ideologies of the day.”
“They sound fascinating,” said Judith.
“Who was Isabella?” asked Elisabetta.
“She lived a quiet life in New York City. Didn’t really mix with other writers, but it’s obvious she read widely. My committee director believed the texts were important enough on their own to be dissertation-worthy. I was so relieved because I wasn’t convinced I had anything new to say about my original topic, which was Sylvia Plath.”
“Did you know my dissertation was on Plath?” Elisabetta le
aned forward.
Now it was my turn to be intrigued. “I didn’t. What was your focus?”
“Oh, it was very in keeping with the times: I argued for Plath’s rightful place within the literary tradition…you know, something so obvious to us these days but back then, it had to be proven.”
“That’s what I hope to do for Isabella too,” I said, then something clicked. “Wait, you’re E.G. Vega? Your book about Plath is terrific. I’m embarrassed I didn’t realize who you were before. I thought—”
“You thought E.G. was a man? That was the idea.” Elisabetta smiled. “What can I say? I was full of fire and fury in those days. I half-hoped some pompous ass would make the mistake and write about me as male so I could correct him in public.”
“You’re still full of fire and fury, Liz,” Judith said.
“Yes, but I’ve learned to tamp it down to a simmer for everyday living.”
“You’re splendid either way, dear friend,” said Judith.
After a sip of delicious cabernet, I asked, “Did you two meet here at Stonedale?”
“Nope,” said Elisabetta. “Cal.”
“She means Berkeley,” clarified Judith.
Elisabetta regarded her fondly. “We went through the Ph.D. program together, a bonding experience if there ever was one, as you know.”
“How nice that you could work at the same school.” I missed my own grad school friends, all of whom had relocated to wherever the job market took them: we were scattered all over America and beyond.
“Indeed. It’s very rare that two people from the same college are hired on tenure track—at least close together. We still can’t explain how that happened, one right after the other.”
Judith held up her wine glass. “Ours is not to wonder why, right?” And with that, we all took a sip.
Franz appeared as if on cue, placing our plates gently before us and inquiring about any additional needs. He deserved a hefty tip.
We went about the business of eating, then Elisabetta asked if we’d heard anything about the Roland investigation. Judith and I both shook our heads. Recognizing a chance to ask some questions, I went for it.
“Were you all very close friends?”
“For a long time, we were,” said Judith, regarding Elisabetta thoughtfully.
Elisabetta put down her fork. “Actually, three of us were. Jude and Spence were together, and I adored them, and Roland was Spencer’s friend, so he was always hanging around.”
“So you didn’t adore him too?”
Elisabetta sighed. “No. Not at all. I tried to tolerate him, but it was uncomfortable.”
“Why, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Lila, you met him, right?” Elisabetta asked, watching me closely.
“Yes.”
“So you know he was an overbearing and outspoken man, with opinions that were not only antiquated but also hurtful. I arrived, focused completely on beginning this new career and he swooped in like a hawk and began ordering me around. And it had a strong romantic component, as if I were a mail-order bride. Just because Jude and Spence had connected, he acted as though the universe had conjured me up as a mate for him. It was unbelievable.”
“What happened?”
“Well, for one thing, he wouldn’t leave me alone—always showing up at just the right moment when I had to walk across campus so he could accompany me. He brought me flowers and gifts all the time. I did not want them. He called me at home so often I had to quit answering the phone. He—” She stopped suddenly.
“May I?” Judith said, quietly.
Elisabetta nodded her assent.
“He couldn’t believe Liz wasn’t interested in him, so he orchestrated inappropriate touches—a brush here, a squeeze there—and joked far too often that she was ‘just playing hard to get, as befits a lady.’”
I gaped at her.
“But that’s sexual harassment.”
“It is,” said Elisabetta. “But, as a new faculty member, I didn’t want to create a scandal. I needed this job. I’d seen what had happened to women in the profession before me who had dealt with similar situations. Also, I was involved with another professor and didn’t want her to be subjected to the scrutiny that would follow. That bastard simply wasn’t worth it.”
“I understand why you would want to protect someone, but still, I can’t believe you had to go through that.”
“It’s embarrassing to admit this, but I was just afraid. All of my bluster about being strong enough to handle it on my own was crap, and Nala knew it. She was very angry with me—she wanted me to take formal action, to make sure he was officially reprimanded. We fought about that for thirty years, actually, but I was stubborn. Not proud of that now. I wish I could tell her she was right.”
“You’re not together anymore?” I was horrified to see tears well up in Elisabetta’s eyes.
Judith patted Elisabetta’s arm while talking to me. “Nala passed away last year, Lila. She was sick for a long time.”
“I’m so sorry, Elisabetta.”
She struggled to regain her composure, then excused herself from the table.
“Oh, Judith, I’m sorry.” Clearly Elisabetta was still suffering a great deal.
“It’s not your fault, Lila. She’s grieving.”
I nodded.
“They were a perfectly matched couple—true soulmates—and they were very happy.” She frowned slightly. “It’s just unfortunate that they had to deal with Roland.”
“So you were in the middle.”
“Not really,” she said. “Roland was always more Spence’s friend than mine. Like Liz, I tolerated him for Spence’s sake. But it was difficult. Once he found out about Nala, he did everything in his power to punish them both professionally. He argued against Liz’s tenure bid and promotions, though she still received them. And Nala was a history professor who single-handedly brought about the existence of the African-American Studies department. Roland, of course, as a loud presence on the Faculty Senate, opposed it. It was an ugly, drawn-out battle. But Nala was a fighter, and she never let his idiocy slow her down. She just persevered.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She was.” Judith paused. “And Liz is deeply depressed about her death. I wish I could do more for her.”
“I’m sure she appreciates your support,” I tried to console her.
“All we can do is offer our condolences, I suppose, but I do feel rather helpless.” I had never seen Judith uncertain before, and it was unnerving. I noticed the bill in its leather folder resting on the table, which Franz had invisibly produced for us somehow, and reached for it. “I’ll pay for this.”
I turned to rummage in my bag for my wallet, and my fingertips touched metal. The necklace.
She held out her hand. “No, Lila—I’d like to take care of it.”
I gave Judith the bill, thanking her as I pulled out the chain.
Franz arrived to collect payment, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts. When he left, I gently set the necklace down on the table between us with the rose-and-thorn emblem facing up. “Have you ever seen this before?”
She gave me a brilliant smile. “Oh, it’s lovely. Would you mind if I took a closer look?”
“Please do.”
She examined it.
“It matches the symbol in the book used to…”
“Get me?” Judith sounded amused. “Yes, you mentioned that the book was embossed when you came to see me in the hospital, didn’t you? It does sound like an unusual coincidence to see the same pattern on both.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Elisabetta approaching from across the room, so I spoke hurriedly. “Do you know what it means?”
Judith held the disk at arm’s length. She frowned. “Sorry, I can’t see details anymore without my glasses.” She st
udied the symbol for what seemed like a long period of time, during which I wondered if she was thinking up a plausible explanation. But finally, she shrugged and put it down. “I can’t help you, dear.”
Well, that was incredibly unhelpful. Perhaps it was best to hold off on the whole rose-thingies-might-be-evil conversation for the time being.
When Elisabetta returned, Judith changed the subject to what we were currently reading. We spent another fifteen minutes or so talking about a bestselling mystery they’d both enjoyed. Elisabetta offered to loan me the book and suggested we swing by on our way home. We’d already discovered her house was only a few blocks from mine—one thing I loved about Stonedale was the ability to walk almost everywhere, even at night, thanks to Stonedale’s dedication to street lights. They were designed in a quaint style to evoke an earlier era and placed all over the town. There must be a lamp post company somewhere that was very happy to have won the Stonedale contract.
We said goodbye to Judith and set out along the sidewalks, past neat rows of bungalows and Victorians nestled side by side. I was glad we were together—the recent attacks were always on my mind as I walked around Stonedale at night. I wasn’t willing to give up my freedom, but I had regular prickles of concern about my solo jaunts. Soon we reached Elisabetta’s house, a large stone cottage with tall firs on either side of the front lawn. It would have made the perfect cover for a romantic suspense novel if it hadn’t been tucked into a residential street but situated instead on a windswept moor.
After Elisabetta unlocked the door, we went inside. I stepped onto a long red floral runner that extended the length of the hallway. Mahogany banisters gleamed along the staircase to the left.
“This way, Lila,” she said, moving to the right.
I followed her into a room with wall-to-wall bookcases and a black leather sectional flanked by a pair of reading lamps. A fleece blanket folded neatly over one corner of the sofa invited you to curl up beneath it immediately. It was a reader’s dream.
