Passport to Murder

by Mary Angela

  “So I will see you tonight,” said Giles, “without a spyglass?”

  “I will be there, but I can’t promise I won’t be wearing a trench coat.” I stood up.

  He looked doubtful.

  “It’s cold outside.”

  He smiled. “Do you have creative writing this morning?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve heard good things about that class. Good things. You know, Emmeline, I think you might have a bit of a knack for storytelling.”

  I started for the door. “Story listening, perhaps. These students come up with the most fascinating plots. A few weeks ago, a boy wrote a story about a bathtub swallowing him whole. And it was from the bathtub’s point of view.”

  “Fascinating, indeed,” muttered Giles as I left his office and unlocked my own.

  The air was stale; I hadn’t been here since before spring break. I switched on the light and opened the window to catch the fresh spring breeze. The sights and smells of new life were everywhere. The sun was warmer, the sky was bluer, the days were longer. In the fields surrounding Copper Bluff, farmers were beginning to plan and dig and till. Nowhere was it more evident that the seasons had changed.

  It was lucky that Minneapolis’s snowstorm had skipped Copper Bluff, I thought as I turned on my computer. According to Lenny, it had snowed eight inches, and he’d been trapped inside for a full day with his nieces and their Easy-Bake Oven. I wished I could have been there.

  I waited patiently for my computer to boot up. It was a relic that I planned to replace with the money I didn’t spend in Paris. I sighed. Despite the sensible investment a laptop would make, I would have preferred to fritter away my money in French cafés, perfumeries, and museums.

  My creative writing students submitted their work to an online drop box where the class could read and comment on the stories before class. Although students were supposed to drop in their work at least one full day before we met to give others time to read, they didn’t always meet the deadline. Today, I had a late submission from Kat, and I wondered why. After all, her spring break plans, like mine, had been drastically cut short. She could have had her story in well ahead of deadline.

  I began scanning it and felt my lips curl into a smile. Here was the reason. Often, writers wrote exaggerated versions of their own lives. If we had a thunderstorm on Saturday, a monsoon would appear Monday in their poems or short stories. If we had a snowstorm, a blizzard. It came as no surprise, then, that Kat had written a mystery-most-noir.

  By the time I reached the end, I was thoroughly intrigued, not only as a professor but as a reader. Growing up as an only child, I read a lot of books. They were my companions. Within them were so many more chances for happiness and adventure and love than on my street. In my circle, a dream meant a nine-to-five job and a weekly paycheck. It had little to do with passion or talent or interest. But in books, the most extraordinary things could happen to the most ordinary people. Even me.

  I packed my folders and grade book into my satchel and logged off my computer. My class was in Winsor, which had been a women’s dormitory in the late 1800s. Composed of purple-red bricks and a three-story turret, the building was connected to my building, Harriman Hall, by a rickety passageway. The passageway was known to those of us who taught in the buildings but very few others—thankfully. I was certain that if it saw any more foot traffic, it would surely crumble.

  My classroom was on the first floor, so after crossing the passageway, I descended one flight of stairs and walked into the far room at the bottom of the turret. The windows were bowed in a half-circle shape, and the students’ seats were raised, theater-style. I had twenty-three sophomores in the introductory class. Since it was a few minutes to the hour, most of them were present and ready to begin.

  “Good morning,” I said as I shoved my satchel under the desk facing the students. I sat there instead of standing at a podium because creative writing courses worked like discussions rather than lectures. “First of all, I hope all of you had an enjoyable spring break and have refueled your tanks of creative inspiration.” This garnered a small laugh. “Second of all, if you haven’t checked your emails since returning, you might want to do so after class. The Student Counseling Center sent out a message about the death of Professor Jaspers. They are extending their hours today.”

  As I waited for questions, I downloaded the first short story from the drop box, which also happened to be the last one submitted, and brought it up on the overhead screen. This method saved students the hassle of printing out the stories themselves. It also meant they didn’t need their laptops, which always proved to be distractions.

  I scanned the room. “If there are no questions, we have four stories to discuss this morning, so let’s get started. Kat, your story is up.”

  A few murmurs passed through the room, and I inquired about the problem. Claire Holt said, “Some of us didn’t read this. It must have been submitted late.”

  “It was,” I said. “But that’s okay, given the circumstances of spring break. We’ll let Kat summarize it for us, though we don’t usually have the writer talk about the story first. This will help those of you who didn’t get a chance to read it.”

  Against her jade-color sweater, Kat’s hazel eyes appeared green; the gray in them was all but gone. I could tell she was excited and ready to talk. “Okay. So, it’s a story about a group that takes a trip overseas. They’re going to take a trip, I should say, but then someone is murdered, and they can’t go. So now they have to figure out who the murderer is. That’s all I got so far.”

  “Didn’t you go to France?” asked Jason, a boy who sat next to her.

  She looked at me. “I was supposed to go but didn’t.”

  “Was Professor Jaspers on that trip?” asked Sabrina, the girl two seats away from her.

  I answered for Kat. “Yes, we were all going to France on a university-sponsored trip, but when Professor Jaspers died unexpectedly, the trip was canceled.”

  I cleared my throat. “So let’s continue with the story. This is what’s called a ‘whodunit’ mystery. The writer should know who did the murder. Do you know, Kat?”

  She bit her lip. “No, I don’t.”

  I said, “That’s an important part of the plot.”

  “But how do I decide who did it?” Kat asked. “It could have been any number of people.”

  Sabrina said, “They couldn’t have all wanted her dead.”

  Kat braided a piece of hair that had come loose from her sloppy bun. “They kind of could have. Like in Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie.”

  The room was silent. I had the feeling nobody read Agatha Christie.

  “I got it,” said Jason, slapping his hand on her desk. “The murderer kills somebody else.”

  I became enthusiastic. “You’re right, Jason. Good idea. In some mystery novels, the murderer miscalculates. He makes mistakes. He goes back to the scene of the crime, he retrieves a piece of evidence, and he may even kill again.”

  Kat wrote something in her notebook. “Yeah! That’s a good idea.”

  A few other students chimed in with suggestions that sounded like they came from the latest season of CSI. The story was going from mystery to thriller, and the room was buzzing with all kinds of possibilities.

  “Even so,” said Claire, “what’s the purpose? Where’s the moral?”

  Jason and Kat exchanged glances. So did a few of the other students. Then they looked to me.

  I smiled. “The purpose is to find the truth, catch the killer, and ensure that justice is served. What else?”

  After class, Kat stopped by the computer, where I was shutting down the overhead equipment.

  “Professor Prather? Can I submit another draft to the drop box on Wednesday even if I’m not scheduled? I got some really good ideas today.”

  “Definitely,” I said, logging off my account. “We’ll try to squeeze it in at the end of class.” Now I gave her my full attention. “How was the rest of y
our spring break?”

  “After what happened, there was no place for it go but up, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Amanda and I hung out. We finished our presentations for Student Fest.” Student Fest was a conference that gave students in various fields the opportunity to present papers on topics of interest. It would start in a couple of days.

  “How is Amanda doing?” I asked. “She was pretty upset by everything.”

  Kat nodded. “She was close to Professor Jaspers.”

  “What about Nick Dramsdor? They seem pretty close, too.”

  She shifted her weight from one Vans shoe to the other. She didn’t know how to answer.

  “Kat?”

  She was deciding whether to confide in me, her hazel eyes growing wide and intense, and I knew it must have been serious for her to hold back. She and I had become close friends the last several weeks of class, and this ordeal had brought us a bit closer.

  “I’m worried about Amanda. She was so disappointed by the trip. She’s not acting like herself.”

  I leaned against the podium. “What do you mean ‘not acting like herself’? Are you worried she will harm herself?” If that were the case, I had a duty to report it to Student Counseling and notify the university.

  “No,” she said quickly. “Not that. I mean she’s acting kind of weird. Kind of crazy.”

  “Do you think her behavior has to do with Molly Jaspers’ death? Or does it have to do with her relationship with Nick?”

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “I know they were seeing each other in some capacity, Kat. Since he wasn’t her professor, I’m not concerned about the indiscretion. I am concerned, though, about her.”

  She looked relieved that someone else knew the secret. She let out a long breath. “Me too. That’s the only reason I’m telling you this. See, she had the impression that Nick might propose to her in Paris.”

  “Propose?” I said, trying not to show how stunned I was. “Were they that close?”

  “I think so. They are both kind of idealistic that way. Amanda said he had hinted at proposing before the trip.”

  I wondered if the myth of Paris didn’t have more to do with the idea than Nick himself. It was, after all, the city of light—and love. I said as much to Kat.

  “Maybe,” she said, “but Amanda’s normally pretty level-headed. She’s been on lots of trips—even with him. Whatever he said, it must have been convincing for Amanda to believe it. She’s not what I would call gullible.”

  I agreed. From what I knew of Amanda, she was serious to a fault. Had it been Kat, the notion of being head over heels in love might have been more believable.

  A few students began to trickle in for the next class, and I gathered my satchel. “Don’t worry, Kat. I will keep an eye on Amanda, and if anything else comes up, be sure to let me know. You have my cellphone number.”

  “Thanks, Professor Prather. I will. I promise. See you Wednesday.”

  I finished straightening up the podium and walked out the door, my mind still on my conversation with Kat. Something bothered me about Nick and Amanda’s relationship, and I decided it was their equal fondness for Molly Jaspers. Bennett even suggested Nick’s admiration went as far as being a crush. Perhaps Bennett was jealous and overreacting, but from what I had seen on the trip, I would also call it a crush. Academic or otherwise, Nick’s interest in Molly may have complicated his relationship with Amanda—and prevented him from proposing. But was the complication reason enough to do away with Molly? This was what I needed to find out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Although Lenny didn’t like being on campus Mondays, he couldn’t avoid it this semester, for he had a Monday, Wednesday, Friday class schedule just as I did. As I walked back to the English Department, I thought I would stop by his office to see if he had returned from class yet. I hadn’t seen him since Minneapolis, but we had caught up on the phone. I found myself wondering about his sister and nieces, and well, Lenny himself. I had learned a lot about him in Minneapolis, about his music and his family. Even his real name: Leonard! Somehow it suited him. Underneath his carefree demeanor was a serious side that he hid very well, a little like his name.

  I knew right away that Lenny was in his office because I could hear the Beatles’ “Lovely Rita” playing as I walked down the hall. Before I could enter, Barb, the English secretary whose office was across from Lenny’s, stopped me. She was a large, nondescript woman with a face that looked good devoid of makeup. It was plain and remarkably unwrinkled, even though she was in her late fifties. Perhaps because she spent so much time indoors, her face was as pale as the moon.

  “There you are, Emmeline,” she said.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “I have something for you.”

  I followed her into her office. If my office was unorganized, hers was atomic. Although her desk looked relatively neat, cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly in every corner of the room. Some were open and had university forms and letterhead paper in them. Others were closed and probably filled with copy paper. Copy paper was one item she parceled out like military rations; another was Dixie cups for the water cooler.

  She pulled out a large Get-n-Go travel mug from her desk drawer.

  “I’ve been looking for that everywhere!” I exclaimed. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the break room. On the bookshelf,” she said.

  The English Department had a double bookshelf with glass lift-up doors in the break room. It held some lovely old books. I liked looking at them while I waited for the coffee to brew.

  I went to take the cup from her. “Thank you, Barb.”

  She turned the to-go mug over in her hands as if she were looking for the fluid ounces it held. “This has got to hold a half a pot of coffee.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Nevertheless, I don’t think donating two quarters to the coffee fund would be out of line when you use this mug. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Since the university didn’t find it economically feasible to provide employees with free coffee, the coffee fund was one of Barb’s pet projects. She made sure that faculty members donated a quarter whenever they indulged in a cup. The coffee was purchased out of the English slush fund, but one would think the money came from her own pocket the way she monitored our intake.

  “Completely. I agree completely.”

  She smiled, returning the mug.

  As I turned to leave, I said, “I still haven’t received my student evaluations from fall semester. Do you know when I will have them?”

  She folded her hands. “Soon. They haven’t come down yet from the dean’s office.”

  I nodded but was unconvinced. Had I asked Giles, Barb’s favorite teacher and boss, about his class evals, I knew he would have students’ comments typed, the scores stapled, and the results sealed in his desk drawer. The rest of us would have to rely on Barb’s goodwill.

  Lenny was laughing as I entered his office. “How did the inquest go?”

  I plopped down in the chair across from him, dropping my satchel on the floor. “Did you tell her that was my mug?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “I might have suggested you were the only one in the department who could drink that much coffee in one sitting.”

  I crossed my arms. “Thanks.”

  “Come on, Prather. You couldn’t expect me to take the fall for you; she knows you and I are the only coffee addicts on this floor.”

  “Did you get your evals?”

  He opened his top desk drawer, rummaged through some papers, and took out an unopened envelope. Examining it, he said, “Nah. This is from last spring.”

  I was astonished. I opened my evaluations the second I received them. “Haven’t you opened it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It was a crappy class. I don’t need these to tell me that.”

  I smiled. I wished I had some of his carefree attitude. It would have done me a world of good in so m
any areas of my life.

  “So how was the bus ride home? Did everyone arrive alive?” he asked.

  I nodded. “There was a tense moment between Nick and Bennett, and Kat just told me that Amanda thought Nick was going to propose to her in Paris.”

  “Marriage?”

  “Yes, marriage. What else?”

  He tapped his pencil. “I can’t see any professor asking a student to marry them, even from a different campus. And Nick…. He was pretty hip on Molly Jaspers as far as I could see.”

  “That’s what makes it so odd. They both adored Molly. I bet they will be at the visitation tonight. Are you going?”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “Yes, of course,” I answered. “I mean, if you want to. I could pick you up.”

  He laced his fingers behind his head. “You know, Em, this sounds like you’re asking me out on a date. On a date to a funeral home. You know how weird this would come off to any other guy? No wonder you got no game.”

  I could feel my cheeks grow warm. Despite several attempts, most of my dates in Copper Bluff had ended in dismal failure. Some men didn’t like my cat, some didn’t like my aversion to their cellphone use during dinner, and some were just plain rude. But if my track record was sketchy, Lenny’s was scribbles. He had more flavors of the month than a Baskin Robbins.

  “Oh, I have game,” I said. “I have a big game going on right now with lots of players on the bench just waiting for me to give them a call. Any one of them would die for a chance to take me to the funeral home.”

  Lenny raised an eyebrow.

  “No pun intended,” I added.

  His hearty laugh filled the room. “I bet. If they were smart, they would be. But if you will allow me the honor, I would love to escort you to the funeral parlor tonight. What time will you pick me up?”

  I stood up. “It starts at six and goes until eight.”

  “I will see you at six, then.”

  I tossed him a smile over my shoulder and walked out the door.

  After teaching my afternoon class, I returned home. The spring air had turned colder as the afternoon wore on. The campus was quiet, and I had a feeling that many students had extended their spring break. It was the time of the year when people had a hard time returning to classes, finishing papers, taking tests. On the trees, leaves were beginning to bud, and after a long winter, any sign of life made one’s own seem that much more precious, too precious to spend in a hundred-year-old classroom. I couldn’t say that I wasn’t affected. With the warm weather so near, I found myself in the seed aisle of the local hardware store a good deal now. In fact, I had purchased five packets of wildflowers to date. I was no gardener but thought there couldn’t be much to growing wildflowers. They were, after all, wild.