by Cynthia Kuhn
“What are you wearing?” I tried to turn the question around.
“Well, it’s literary.” He grinned. “And that’s all I’m saying.”
The theme of the event was Great Characters in Literature, which hardly seemed fair to all the other departments in the university but the chancellor had been an English professor once upon a time. At least it was something I could work with on short notice—unlike, say, Great Elements of the Periodic Table.
I sighed. “I’ll look for something.”
Nate seemed relieved. “Good. We will amuse ourselves with running commentary about other people’s costume choices.”
I agreed to meet him at the fountain before proceeding to the party, which would be held in Randsworth Hall on Saturday. He gave me a friendly salute and left.
I surveyed the novel titles on my shelves to see if they’d prompt any costume concepts, but no immediate solutions sprang to mind. Everything was still wildly out of order but at least the books were no longer strewn across the floor, thanks to whoever had painted the office. I’d have to go home and peruse my existing wardrobe for ideas.
I stopped in the main office on my way out to grab my mail. In the middle of the stack was another typed letter instructing me to wear the engraved necklace to the upcoming Halloween party and warning me again to tell no one.
A chill penetrated my body, but it was pierced with heat. The combination of anxiety and anger was overwhelming. I crumpled the letter, shoved it deep into my bag, and ran down the stairs into the sunlight.
On the front porch of Crandall, I stood still, taking deep breaths to counter the tightness in my chest as I tried to think through things logically.
Someone wanted me to be seen with a symbol associated with crime scenes. Were they trying to set me up?
Or were they trying to pound the final proverbial nail into Calista’s coffin?
Wrong image.
Totally wrong image.
I shook my head to clear it.
My eyes scanned the campus, where students and faculty members meandered to their usual destinations. None of them appeared remotely frightened. I wanted that to be me.
Who was sending these messages? It had to be someone who was going to the Halloween party. Though Nate had said everyone did, so that didn’t help. The anonymity only made the notes more disturbing.
Would it make things better or worse for Calista if I went to the police with the letters and the necklace? I was paralyzed by indecision.
As I walked along the campus sidewalk on Friday, I was comforted by the sight of individuals scattered around the steps of various university buildings, speaking animatedly. It was as if they had been staged to represent the best kind of scene in academe. Presumably they were talking about intelligent things—and enthusiastic about them too. More likely, they were discussing the social events of the weekend, but one couldn’t tell that from afar. I felt a small and surprising glow of pleasure about having landed this job, recent terrors aside. I’d decided to ignore the anonymous note for now.
Pennington Library loomed regally over the sidewalk. It was an imposing and beautiful building, almost a block long, built of granite slabs and fronted by massive carved columns. Even this late in the fall, there were two clusters of tall deep red and purple flowers, with a lower row of yellow ones in front, on either side of the entrance. I didn’t know the names of any of the plants; I had never been a gardener—more from a lack of time than interest.
Things had been so busy since the semester began that I hadn’t had a chance to check out the library, and I was eager to see what Pennington had to offer. I ascended the steep stairway and passed the metal electrical gates designed to prevent book theft, heading over to study the large map displayed next to the checkout desk.
Someone called my name. I turned to see Willa bearing down on me like a ship cutting through waves. She coasted to a stop.
“Hi, Willa.” I smiled at her. “Do you teach a class in the library?”
“Just here for an assessment meeting. Norton could only get Addison to volunteer, turns out. I agreed to serve after all. I’d thought he could manage something as simple as rounding up two other people for this project, but apparently not.” She tilted her head, causing the pile of chestnut curls heaped on top to slide dangerously near the side. They stopped short of actually plunging off. “Not many people enjoy Norton’s management style.”
I thought back to his behavior at the memorial service and understood completely.
“Have you seen them? We were supposed to convene in one of the upstairs rooms, but neither has showed up yet.”
“Sorry.” I shook my head. “What time’s the meeting?”
“Now.” She checked her watch. “Oh, I am a wee bit early, I suppose. Best return and try to be patient. Are you here for Isabella Dare work today?”
I shook my head. “Just trying to learn my way around the library.” At the sight of disappointment on her face, I added, “For future research.”
“Well,” she said, smoothing back an errant curl, “it’s essential.”
“For tenure. I know.”
It was important to show that I knew what was expected of me.
“I meant for literary history. You have such an opportunity to make a difference, to educate the rest of the world about the words of Ms. Dare.”
Now I felt stupid about the tenure comment.
“Let me ask you, Lila,” she said, dropping her voice. “Do you have a press in mind for publishing her work? And, of course, your scholarship on her work?”
“No,” I said, knowing I should be saying yes.
“I may have some ideas for you. Once you have a proposal ready, let’s meet for tea. My treat. Just ring me when you’re ready.”
“How kind—thank you. I will absolutely take you up on that.”
We exchanged phone numbers and Willa sailed away, the hem of her violet tunic fluttering behind in her wake.
I marched upstairs, newly determined, and found some critical studies that might provide useful context for my proposal. In a vacant carrel, I plopped them onto the desk and sighed deeply. Almost instantly, the mere sight of all of those pages wearied me. It seemed too soon to go wholly back into scholarship mode, that single-purposed realm of exhaustive activity. It had only been a few months since I’d finished the dissertation itself, and I’d needed time to decompress from that stress. But one must do what is required, as Judith would say, when one is probationary faculty. I picked up a book and began reading. Within an hour, I’d recognized that the books wouldn’t be as helpful as I’d thought, and I deposited them on the reshelving cart.
On my way downstairs, I remembered the folder I’d found in the main office. Since I was here, perhaps I should dig into Poe Collins. At the bottom, I veered over to the row of computers housing the library’s catalog. There was only one free. As I reached for the keyboard, the man next to me looked over, and I realized it was Eldon. I greeted him, and he stared blankly at me. I pushed away the powerful wave of déjà vu—both Higginses had perfected the ability to project utter indifference and alpha position in one glance—and introduced myself. Once he was in possession of name, rank, and department information, he rewarded me with a curt nod.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you that I’m sorry about your loss,” I said. Although I hadn’t particularly liked Roland, I hadn’t wished him ill either.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. They were so smudged I wondered how he could see through them.
“Doing some research?”
“Evidently,” he said, turning back to his computer and hitting a few keys. Yep, there was the Higgins family charm in action.
“What are you working on?”
He sighed and kept pecking at his keyboard. “This and that.”
I receiv
ed the Go Away message loud and clear, but I wanted to know more about Eldon. The display at the department meeting had suggested he was very much like Roland. But was that how he normally operated? What made him tick?
I tried again. “Article or book?”
“Just tying up loose ends on something my brother and I were working on,” he said vaguely, bending closer to squint at something on the screen.
“Oh, did you collaborate often?”
“Sometimes,” he said, making a note on the legal pad next to him with a Waterford pen.
“You’re a Renaissance scholar too, right?”
He turned to me, his eyes glowing. “Oh, have you read my work?”
Awkward.
“Not yet,” I said. “Though I look forward to it.”
A small chime indicated that his window was about to time out, and he went back to the computer, wiggled the mouse, and began typing more purposefully.
“I should get to work too,” I said. “Have fun.”
He sniffed in response.
I quickly pulled up the library database search page and typed Poe Collins’ name into the box, which yielded five articles in scholarly journals. None of the articles were accessible in full text for downloading, but two of them were available in physical form in the library stacks. I’d have to make copies of those and send away for the rest through interlibrary loan if I wanted to read them.
I took a picture of the necessary call numbers with my cell and consulted the library map again. The stacks were located two floors down. I crossed the main floor, past the circulation desk, which was humming with activity, and took the elevator. When the doors slid open with a cheery ding, I stepped out into the room, which was packed with shelves as far as the eye could see. Taking a moment to figure out the flow of numbers on the end markers, I moved in the direction of the area housing literary journals. It was eerily quiet and empty compared to the floor I’d just left, which was bustling with students and library staff. Most stacks felt like cemeteries anyway, and in a sense they were—filled to the brim with materials used by fewer and fewer people in this digital age. I walked a little faster to counter the spookiness. After a few minutes, I located the appropriate row at the far side of the building and slowed to browse the titles, my hand trailing along the metal shelf until I found the exact volume and issue I needed. I tucked the journal under my arm and checked my phone for the other call number.
A door creaked slowly, then closed abruptly with a metallic clank that echoed throughout the room. My muscles tensed. Although I knew it was most likely another scholar in search of an archived text, I was wary these days. I stood still, listening hard. There were no footsteps. Someone must have been leaving, not arriving. My shoulders relaxed and I returned to my slow crawl along the row, checking the tags on each shelf for the number I needed.
As I pulled the second journal from the shelf, a rumble followed by a crash filled the room. Then another. Then a third. I ran down the long rows as fast as I could, panic rising in my chest, and jabbed the elevator button repeatedly. A quick glimpse over my shoulder revealed that the shelves at the end were falling against each other like dominos, having been pushed exactly towards where I had been standing.
Chapter 18
Upstairs, I darted over to the circulation desk staff and told them what had happened. Campus security was summoned to check things out. After filling out a report that basically said I saw shelves falling, I was excused from the conversation. I quickly made photocopies of the articles at the library machines and dropped the journals off at the front desk. There was no way I was going back to the stacks tonight.
As I was walking home, my cell rang. The recorded voice told me to press one if I was willing to accept a call from an inmate at Stonedale Department of Corrections. I did so and was connected with Calista’s voice.
We talked for a few minutes, and I filled her in on the office and library incidents. As I related the events, a current of resentment coursed through me, though I didn’t know where to aim it or who was behind either of them. All I could think was enough already. I was so wrapped up in the heat of the emotion that I only caught the tail end of what Calista was saying.
“…I’m so worried about you.”
“Likewise. Hey, why didn’t you tell me about your tattoo?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Detective Archer found it significant,” I prodded. I could hear muted noises in the background. Sounded like an escalating argument. I wondered how dangerous it was for her in there.
She coughed for extended period of time. “Maybe we could talk about this in person, Lil.”
I had heard that prison phone calls were taped. Maybe that weird cough was code for shut up. But I was angry that she wouldn’t disclose what was going on.
“You said you couldn’t tell me what the symbol meant, so it must mean something.”
“It’s just ink. I saw the design on the knife and thought it was cool.” Her exasperation was clear, but now that she was giving up some details, I wasn’t going to stop pushing.
“So you got a tattoo?”
“I was experimenting with branding.”
“Branding? Like on a ranch?”
She laughed. “No. Branding as in building my authorial product. I was even going to put the symbol on my next book cover.”
“But I’ve seen it in other places too. And what about the necklace? Why didn’t you tell me this when I showed you—”
“I made some necklaces, yes. It’s no big deal.”
“It actually is a big deal. The detective is building a case against you because of the symbols. Why would he do that unless they meant something else? Can you tell me?”
“I just did. And you’re seriously stressing me out, Lil. Could we drop it, please?”
I dropped it.
After a minute, I asked how things were going.
She said things were atrocious.
Then the timer sounded and we were disconnected.
I didn’t feel very good about that conversation. And her explanation didn’t explain much. If the symbol was her own new brand, why would it be embossed in books by other authors? Where did she obtain that knife? And was the necklace I’d been given one that she had made? Everything I learned only seemed to lead to more questions.
Calista’s evasiveness made no sense. We both knew I could do a much better job of getting her out of jail if she would be straight with me. But I was stuck for the time being, no thanks to my cousin, and I needed to regroup.
Early Saturday morning, I was much calmer, so I read through the copies I’d made at the library. The bio at the end of both articles simply said “Poe Collins is a pseudonym for a professor at an American university.” So not helpful. The articles were both attacks on newer mystery writers: the first one took culinary cozy author Dee Parkinstaff to task for “plots in dire need of resuscitation,” and the second one attacked suspense writer Fain DeToro’s “fatally shallow swipes at characterization.” The articles demonstrated strong familiarity with the mystery genre throughout, making longwinded expeditions deep into works by other authors—from early to late, well-known and lesser-known—with a reckless disregard for showing the necessity of such forays. The footnotes, in fact, were quite a bit longer than the article itself in both cases. It was as if the author simply threw in a footnote whenever he or she thought of something, rather than using them to illustrate or reference a relevant point. The writing style alone would have garnered a “rewrite” in one of my classes.
I set them down on the sofa and opened my laptop. An internet search for Poe Collins yielded only the titles I’d already found. There weren’t any articles by others referencing Collins either, though the ones I’d read were fairly recently published, and perhaps no one had written a refuting piece yet. It was only a matter of time though. Scholarship delights in r
ebuttals.
Cady strolled up, no doubt looking for her breakfast. After filling her food and water bowls, I settled back down on the sofa, thinking hard. Why would the folder I’d found originally be in the main office? Roland had made it clear he didn’t think mysteries were worth considering as literature. Was it a pseudonym of someone on the faculty? Had Roland figured out who they were and planned to “out” them? Or perhaps he was blackmailing them. Wasn’t that a strong motive for murder?
It was all very mysterious, this folder tantalizingly named “Mysteries.”
I should probably tell Detective Archer about it, but how could I explain finding it? I’d never pried into something that wasn’t mine like that before, and I was completely uncomfortable. So I either had to confess that I’d snooped or I’d have to lie. At this point, I didn’t find either alternative appealing.
Eventually, it was time to tackle the Halloween party costume problem. I stood in my closet, reviewing available choices, which could be divided into three general categories: things that were black, things that used to be black but had faded, and a few colorful items I didn’t remember buying. I pawed through the options, unearthing at last a dark yellow floor-length dress with long sleeves and a faint but distinct vertical line pattern—must have been an impulse buy, though I couldn’t fathom why at this point. It would have to do. I decided not to wear the necklace. I didn’t want to play along with the unknown note-writer’s plan. Calista had told me not to wear it, and I trusted her.
After a quick shower and hurried walk to campus, I arrived at the fountain to discover Nate in a flowing white shirt and black trousers with a long coat and top hat. We regarded each other carefully.
“Who are you?” I asked finally. “I give up.”
“Miles Coverdale from Blithedale Romance. Though I could be anyone, granted. It’s not like he has a particularly memorable wardrobe.” He angled his head, appraising my dress. “And you are…a sun goddess?”
