The Semester of Our Discontent

by Cynthia Kuhn

  “Yes.”

  “And?” He sounded annoyed at having to prompt me this time.

  “We walked through the hallway and found Eldon. Then Nate called the police, who apparently called you, and here we are.”

  He made a note. “Dr. Maclean, you don’t seem very sad about Dr. Higgins’ passing.”

  “I am. Of course I’m upset that someone died. I’m just…processing.”

  The detective nodded briskly. “Were you close to the victim?”

  Here we go again. “No.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “He was a colleague.” I knew Archer already knew that. Was he trying to trick me?

  “Did you like him?” He leaned forward.

  I needed to tread carefully here. “I didn’t know him very well at all.”

  “How would you describe him?”

  I wished I had nicer things to say about the Higgins brothers. “Um…abrasive.”

  “How so?”

  “He seemed to enjoy saying things that upset other people.”

  More scribbling. I would love to see what those pages said.

  “What people?”

  “Pretty much everyone. He lacked tact. Like his brother.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  I described the department meeting showdown and the harsh comments he had made at the party. The detective waited for me to say more, but when I didn’t continue, he snapped the notepad shut and slid off the desk. “That’s it for now—you can go fill out the paperwork for your statement with the officer in the hallway. But I may need to talk to you again later.”

  Oh, how I dreaded those words.

  After Nate gave his statement, we walked slowly across the green. The moon shone dully through the twisted branches of trees towering along the edges of campus. They appeared downright menacing.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I guess.” He peered at me. “How about you?”

  “Stunned. Confused. Scared.”

  “With good reason. I can’t believe this keeps happening.”

  “The detective pointed that out too, especially the part about me finding the victims. I’m nervous that they think I’m involved.”

  Nate put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze, his soapy scent pleasantly noticeable. “I know you’re not. And remember that Judith has found two as well. Tad and I have one each to our name now.” He paused. “That sounds weird, but you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, and I’m grateful.” I was also surprised at how soothing his hug had been, but I’d have to explore that emotion at a future time.

  “Lila, if they thought you were responsible, you’d be in jail with Calista. And given the way they just found Tad, splashed with Eldon’s blood…well…” He paused for a long time. “I actually think Tad is headed to jail too.”

  “Do you think he did it?” I peeked sideways at him.

  He shook his head vigorously. “I know he looks guilty as hell, but I’d be shocked if that were true. Tad isn’t violent. At least I’ve never observed any sign of that.”

  “I guess we’ll have to see. Can I ask you something else?”

  “Of course.”

  “How well do you know Willa?”

  “Just since I came here last year.”

  “Has she ever given you a reason to worry about anything?”

  He sounded puzzled. “Worry? In what way?”

  “I don’t know. I just…” I realized I either had to tell him everything or stop talking, because it wouldn’t make any sense in bits and pieces. I was tired of trying to sort this out on my own. It was time I confided in someone, and Nate it would be. Damn the consequences.

  I stopped walking and gripped his arm so he would pause as well. “There’s something going on at Stonedale. Something strange. I can’t quite figure out how it all fits together. But obviously someone is attacking people. And I keep seeing these weird symbols everywhere. Did you notice that the stake tonight had a symbol carved on it?”

  “I did see something. I asked the detective about it, in fact, but he wouldn’t say anything.”

  “The same design was also on the knife used to kill Roland and on the book used to attack Judith.”

  “All three?” Nate’s jaw dropped.

  “And other things too—”

  “Whoa, hold on. You’re going to have to spell this out for me. Start from the beginning.”

  I filled him in.

  “What did Judith say when you asked her about it?”

  “That the symbol didn’t mean anything to her.”

  “And Elisabetta?”

  “Same thing, only she claimed the book was a gift from Calista.”

  “And how did Calista explain the symbol?”

  “Initially, she said she couldn’t tell me anything at all. She was protecting someone. But then she said she saw the symbol for the first time on that knife and liked it, so she was going to use it as a signature image for her authorial brand.” It still didn’t make sense to me. First it was supposedly a big secret and later it was only about marketing? Didn’t add up.

  “You don’t think Calista—”

  “No,” I said. “But I can’t explain why everything keeps leading back to her either.”

  We started walking again by tacit agreement and continued the rest of the way in silence, both lost in thought. When we arrived at my house, I invited him to come in for coffee, but he declined, for which I was grateful. I was almost too tired to stand upright. We made plans to meet the next morning for breakfast. I stumbled through my evening routine, collapsed onto the bed, and was out immediately.

  A few hours later, a cold gust of wind struck my face, and I gasped, pitching myself upright. The curtains were billowing, rain was pouring in, and Cady was yowling on the windowsill.

  Confused, I stumbled from the bed to close the window. A flash of movement caught my eyes and I pressed my face against the screen. I could just barely make out a figure running across my lawn, away from my house. Terrified but also furious, I called out to whoever it was. Like they were going to return and explain. I gently moved Cady to the floor, thanking her for being such a good watchcat. I thought briefly about calling the police but knew I couldn’t deal with them again tonight.

  So instead, I slammed the window shut, locked it, and went to lie on the sofa where eventually, out of sheer exhaustion, I managed to get a few hours of sleep.

  In the light of day, things were less surreal: sunshine streaming through the café windows, Nate across the table, scrambled eggs and hot coffee in front of us both. Even at nine a.m. on a Sunday, Scarlett’s was crowded with animated undergraduates and other residents of Stonedale. It was just the thing to counter the horror of last night. I told Nate about my nocturnal visitor, and he was upset that I hadn’t called the police.

  “At first I thought I dreamed it,” I said. “But the carpet was still damp this morning, so the rain actually did come in.”

  “Someone must have opened your window from the outside.” He was noticeably concerned. “You should report it.”

  “You’re probably right, but I don’t know if I can face Detective Archer again for a while.”

  “Lila, if he thought you were responsible, he would charge you.”

  “Right. But he seems to think I know what’s going on for some reason.” I sighed. “Wish I did know what’s going on.”

  “Oh wait. Can’t believe I didn’t lead with this. I’m still groggy after last night.” Nate set his coffee mug on the table and cleared his throat. “I have bad news. Tad’s been arrested.”

  “What? When?”

  “They charged him last night.”

  My thoughts flew back over the encounters I’d had with Tad so far. My gut told me he was innocent. Not that my gut had a lo
t of experience in identifying criminals.

  “I know I asked you last night, but now that he’s been charged, do you think Tad is capable of killing someone?” I hoped Nate would confirm my assessment.

  “Of course not.”

  “I don’t think so either.”

  “But the judge denied his bail,” he said. “Which isn’t a good sign.”

  “Already?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I didn’t know it could happen so fast. Took longer for Calista. Though she did say she’d heard the judge was a friend of Roland’s. Maybe that has something to do with it. Maybe he knew Eldon too. Or maybe Tad was right when he said they suspected him all along—and they were building a case against him the whole time.”

  He shrugged.

  “Or maybe it’s just how things work here. Small town rules.”

  “Stonedale does seem to have its own way of operating,” I said. “When can we go see him?”

  “Not until we’re approved. Tad has to put us on a list, and they have to do a background check, blah blah blah. I’ve spoken to his father, who may be able to pull some strings and rush it. I’ll keep you posted. But for now, let’s just hope he’s safe in there.”

  I nodded. We ate for a while in silence.

  “This morning I searched the internet for the symbol you described, but I couldn’t find anything unusual,” Nate offered, taking a bite of his eggs.

  “I did that too. Thanks for trying.”

  Nate chewed, swallowed, and put down his fork. “Speaking of mysterious things, what was the wooden stake supposed to mean? That Eldon was a vampire?”

  I thought about this. It was true that Eldon’s incredibly pale skin suggested he could be one of the mythical undead who shunned sunlight, but unfortunately the same could be said for many scholars. When you spent a majority of your time researching in a dark library or writing alone in your office, that tended to happen.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’ve got to find out what the symbol inscribed on it stands for.”

  “Seems to me you’re going to have to ask Calista about it again sooner rather than later, Lila.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s put the symbol on her body. Permanently.”

  My head ached. I stabbed at a tomato slice on my plate.

  “She’s your cousin—can’t you ask?”

  “I have been asking.”

  He drank some of the orange juice that had just arrived, delivered with apologies by a chirpy server who was endearingly frazzled by the number of customers for which she was responsible. I sipped my coffee, listening to the hum and bustle of the crowd and feeling somewhat safe for the moment.

  “You know, I keep looking for answers and trying to make sense of things, but it only gets more and more confusing. I’m desperate to get Calista out of jail, but I’m running out of ideas. Maybe if we hang tight, the police will figure it out and it will all be over soon.” I gave Nate a hopeful smile.

  He shook his head. “No way. The killer has been successful twice. I think it’s all just beginning.”

  Chapter 20

  The week before Homecoming was chaotic with preparations for the book sale. The Lit Club students had been emailing and popping by my office with last-minute questions and, in some cases, subtle requests for reassurance.

  Somewhere amidst the din, I called Detective Archer and left a voicemail asking if Calista would be released now that Tad had been taken into custody.

  A short while later, I received a text that simply said “No.”

  It was worth a try. I wouldn’t stop trying either.

  On Wednesday afternoon, I borrowed the blue-tagged storage room key from the main office again so the students and I could bring up the books for Homecoming. The plan was to store them in Alex’s van until the sale. I asked Millicent if I could hold onto the key for the next week so we could return unsold books to storage afterwards. She was surprisingly cool about it—in fact, ever since the vandalism incident, she had seemed less annoyed by my general existence, which made everything a bit easier.

  Although I was not a fan of the basement, it was far less unsettling to walk down the dimly lit hallway with four chattering students beside me. They were talking about the upcoming weekend’s events with excitement, and none of them seemed bothered by the gloomy basement setting. I led them over to Storage Room 12, where we spent the better part of the afternoon together, boxing and lugging books up to Alex’s van.

  As we loaded the last carton into the vehicle, Liane asked me about the cash box. Simone hadn’t retrieved it for them yet. Surprise, surprise. Since I had the key, I told Liane I’d get the box and bring it to them on Friday night.

  We said goodbye, and I headed back down to the storage room. It took some digging, but finally I found the metal box inside of a plastic container that also held a bunch of old ledger books. As I reviewed a few crumbling pages of the ledgers to make sure they weren’t anything the Lit Club needed, I gradually became aware of the sound of voices, plural. With the strange acoustics of the underground, I couldn’t tell where they were coming from at first, but I narrowed it down to the left. I put the books back into the container and moved over to the side of the room, sliding into a gap between two shelves and pressing my ear to the wall, straining to make out words. I couldn’t tell if the speakers were male or female.

  Stepping back, I noticed a metal vent about a foot up from the floor. I squatted to look through it, but the vent was aimed down on the other side, preventing me from seeing anything except cement. I tried to turn the rusty knob that controlled the angle, but it was stuck. I put my ear to the vent. The voices had taken on a unified rhythm. It sounded like chanting, as if—I realized with a chill—the people involved were in the middle of a cult ritual.

  I picked up the lockbox and my bag, turned off the light, and poked my head around the doorway. No one was in the corridor. Pulling the door shut behind me, I crept along the wall until I came to the next room. That door was open a crack and light spilled out into the dim gray of the hallway. The voices were louder but not any clearer. I edged closer, trying to peer inside, but I couldn’t see around the door. As I reached out to push on the wood, it slammed shut. I staggered backwards and thought for a second. My mind could only come up with two choices: 1) pound on the door and demand entrance into the scary cult room, or 2) run far, far away. I chose the latter.

  On Friday evening, I set out for the brightly lit Stonedale football stadium to attend Homecoming. Cars packed the parking lots as well as the nearby streets. I wasn’t a huge sports fan, but I needed to check on the Literature Club booth—I hoped it was working out well for the students. An hour or two of immersion into a joyful campus celebration seemed like a good way to recharge from the relentless stress that had invaded my life.

  I shivered in my North Face coat as I walked through the wrought-iron gates with the lockbox tucked under my arm. Despite the forecast, I hadn’t believed it could snow this early in the fall and had said so to my American Lit class on Wednesday. The students had assured me it could indeed happen in Colorado, where seasonal weather divisions were more a theory than a practice, and it was looking as though they were right. I hoped any snow would hold off at least until tomorrow so tonight’s sale would be a success.

  The student organization booths were set up along the sidewalk around the stadium. All of the tables were covered with colorful banners announcing club names, and the students working the booths were animated and engaged in conversations with potential members. I passed a number of colleagues, including Addison, Norton, and Simone—who was nowhere near the Lit Club work, it should be noted. I greeted them and called Simone over.

  To protest my having summoned her, Simone was slow to respond. But I waited. I wanted her to be the one who brought the box to the students. She hadn’t done a single thing
to contribute to our work yet.

  “Lila,” she said in a baffled tone, as if she couldn’t fathom what I could possibly have to say to her.

  I held out the metal box. “This is for the students,” I said.

  “Me?” She fluttered her eyelids. “I thought you were handling it.”

  Like I’d handled everything so far. I swallowed the retort and summoned my most cordial tone. “It would be helpful if you would take this over to them.”

  She received the box in her leather-gloved hands. “Is there a key?”

  “Yes,” I said, “hold on.” I rummaged in my bag and felt around for the key ring. When I pulled it out, the rose-and-thorn necklace was entangled with it. I tried to quickly disengage the chain before she saw it, but it slipped out of my grasp and fell onto the ground, emblem up.

  Simone gasped.

  “What?” I asked, bending down to retrieve it.

  She snatched the necklace from me, looking closely at the design on the disk.

  “Wait—” I began.

  She stared at me. “They chose you?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The Briar Rose Society,” she whispered.

  I shook my head while sorting through my confusion. A bell was going off somewhere deep in the back of my mind. Briar Rose—wasn’t that the name of a folktale? “Little Briar Rose,” that was it. Most people knew the version called “Sleeping Beauty.” That explained why the symbol was so similar to the illustrations I’d seen online. And probably explained why it seemed familiar the first time I saw it. However, I still didn’t know what the symbol was doing on a knife, book, or necklace. Not to mention why it kept showing up at crime scenes.

  “I can’t believe it,” she went on.

  “Simone, what are you talking about?”

  “It’s okay,” she said, going into conspiratorial mode. “I know it’s a secret. But you don’t have to pretend with me—I know all about the society. You’ve been invited to join them, haven’t you?”