by Mary Angela
My cat, Dickinson, greeted me with a swerve when I entered the house, and I knew she had been waiting for her canned cat food. I tossed my satchel on the couch on the way to the kitchen.
“Yes, yes, I see you, Dickinson. Just a minute,” I said aloud as I found her cat food under the sink. After feeding her and giving her several scratches behind the ears, I walked into my office, determined to work on my research.
Although I had published a few essays, mainly taken from my dissertation, my book-length project was ongoing. The subject was early creative outlets for women. And now, when I did have a few hours to spare, I found myself wondering about the wall color and if that new paint at the hardware store really did cover in one coat. This, too, was a danger of spring. It conjured up ideas of house projects.
I turned on my desk light and pulled a large book on the twelfth century from the top of the stack. Without any new research from the canceled trip, it was back to the books for me. I had clipped the first three chapters for reading. Three chapters could easily be accomplished before I picked up Lenny. But as I began to scan the pages, my mind wandered to the death of Molly Jaspers. Dean Richardson had said something to Giles about André. Were the police closer to charging someone than I realized? It was possible. It had been a week since our stay in Minneapolis. Maybe they had found more evidence linking André to Molly.
I put down my book and picked up my phone. An Internet search yielded nothing for Trois Frères, not even on Amazon.fr. I tried again, in English, but still no results. The winery must have been as traditional as André professed, not to have a webpage.
Finished with her dinner, Dickinson jumped on the chair and began licking her paws. My lap made a good bathing area, it seemed, and I continued to pet her long after she finished. Laying aside my phone, I tried to resume reading but couldn’t. If I didn’t help André, who would? He had no family in the United States, and despite his popularity with females, he had no serious relationship with one. His only hope was for me to find out who murdered Molly and why. Unfortunately, I was no closer to finding that someone than finishing my book.
A couple of hours later, I had made a start at the unread pages. However, it was time to dress for the visitation. I pushed in my desk chair, shut off the lamp, and walked to my bedroom, happy to call it a day. This being an old house, the bedroom closet was miniature. I always kept its size in mind when I went to the mall. Although I didn’t shop often—department stores were an hour away—when I did, I tended to buy clothes that were colorful, bold even. But I did have a black dress suit tucked away in the back of the closet for occasions that required it. I laid it across my bed, examining it for wear. After finding no problems, I dressed quickly. My black kitten heels gave me just enough height and a spray of light perfume gave me just enough scent for the informal service for Molly Jaspers. I’d had enough of Lenny’s teasing for one day, and I didn’t want him to accuse me of turning this outing into a date.
I tied the belt around my short trench coat and walked out to the garage in the alley, where my ’69 red Mustang awaited. My uncle in Detroit had sold me the car at a bargain price. Although it wasn’t refurbished, the vehicle was my pride and joy. I loved hearing it rumble to a start, and I supposed my admiration had something to do with growing up in Motor City. There, a car meant something; it was part of your American heritage. It was the lifeblood of the city, and whether you considered yourself an enthusiast or not, you cared deeply about the future of the industry. In my neighborhood, to drive a foreign car was almost sacrilege. You would certainly never admit to buying one on a lease deal.
Lenny didn’t live far from me. Maybe ten blocks. But in those ten blocks, the houses changed drastically. I lived in a 1917 bungalow; he lived in a 1970s ranch. Every house on my street was different; every house on his street was similar. But despite the difference, I liked his lane a lot. The residents took good care of their homes, and the road always looked neat and tidy. My street was more haphazard and was inhabited by an eclectic mix of students, professors, and widows. There was no telling what they would do to their houses or at what hours.
I pulled up to Lenny’s olive-green house and honked my horn. Lenny appeared a moment later, dressed in slacks and a wool toggle-button coat. With his broad shoulders and square jaw, he could have passed for a seafaring captain. It was a bad habit of mine—imagining entirely different lives for people, even me. Sometimes it was hard to shut off the ongoing storyline in my head.
“Hey,” he said as he buckled his seatbelt. Then he gave me a glance. “You look nice. And smell even better.”
“Thanks,” I said as I backed out of his driveway. “I love that coat.”
“Where is this place anyway?”
“Sanderson’s Funeral Home. It’s on Main Street, before downtown.” Sanderson’s was a square mansion, white with navy trim, that took up half the city block. It was integrated into the residential section, so we would have to park on one of the side streets. A couple roads were already dotted with cars. I found a spot a block away and swiftly parallel parked, a skill I was proud to exhibit with Lenny in the passenger seat.
“Show-off,” he said as he opened the car door.
The house had two entrances, one that looked like a front door and one off center that was marked “visitors.” But since some people were entering through the front door, we followed them in. The entry was massive, the size of my living room, and an L-shaped staircase led to unseen rooms upstairs. To the right was an old-fashioned parlor with heavy brocade drapes and wingback chairs. Each of the tables held a vase of flowers from well-wishers. A coat rack stood near the entrance. I untied my coat and hung it up, and Lenny did the same. To the left was a basket for sympathy cards. There was also a guest book, which I signed before placing my card in the basket.
“Did you put my name on that?” Lenny whispered as he signed his name in the book.
“You didn’t ask me to.”
“A fine date you are,” he said.
The large room had pews for sitting, but the program I picked up at the guestbook table said there would be no formal service. Around the perimeter of the room were poster boards of Molly as well as her awards and some of her published works. In the front were several arrangements of flowers, a large photograph of Molly, and an urn with her cremated remains. I didn’t see Bennett, so we started in the far corner, making our way around the room, looking at the displays as we went.
On the poster boards, Molly’s world came to life. She appeared as a young girl and then woman in the pictures with her family. She had a younger sister and an older brother, and with a glance around the room, I could see they were in attendance, shaking hands all around. Molly’s sister was pretty, like Molly, with wavy blonde hair; her brother was tall and thin. Molly’s mother and father had to be the older couple crying in the front row directly behind them. Grief-stricken, they left the condolences to their children.
One poster board drew my attention because it looked as if a student or a group of students had made it. It had colorful bubble letters and pictures of Molly, students, and grad students. I noticed a couple of pictures with Amanda and Nick and pointed them out to Lenny.
Lenny raised an eyebrow. “One big, happy family? Where do you think the pictures were taken?” he asked.
“I think somewhere in New Mexico. I remember Molly mentioning it on our trip.”
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to a stack of pre-addressed envelopes.
Above the envelopes was a printout that detailed Molly’s opposition to the Midwest Connect Pipeline, asking sympathizers to donate to the fund to stop the pipeline in honor of Molly. I took one of the envelopes and put it in my purse.
“Really, Prather? I thought you were going to take your extra Paris money and finally get rid of that eyesore on your desk.”
“I am. This is for informational purposes only,” I said.
He shook his head. “Information on how to get yourself and me off the road to tenure
and on the express route to adjunct city.”
“Professor Prather, do you like it?” came Amanda’s voice from behind me.
I turned around. Amanda wore a long black blouse with black leggings, and her bangs were pinned demurely to one side. I agreed with Kat. She did look different; she moved with a new purpose that had supplanted her grief. “Hi, Amanda. Did you make this? It’s lovely.”
She nodded. “Some of the students from class helped me. Nick and I are going to make sure Molly’s work continues. He’s already talked to Bennett about setting up a fund.”
Kat was right. Amanda had an aggressive tone in her voice that I wasn’t used to hearing.
“Is Nick in town?” Lenny asked.
“Yes. He came back for the visitation. He’s over there.” She pointed in the direction of Molly’s parents, whom he was consoling with a half embrace. He looked regal in his dark suit jacket and tie, and had it not been for his black cowboy boots, I would have never guessed he was the same rugged explorer from the pictures.
“And how are you holding up?” I asked.
“Better,” she said. “I feel like her death wasn’t in vain now. I feel like she will live on in her work.”
“She will,” I said. “She definitely will.”
A group of students waved to her from the door. Meg and Olivia stood behind them. “There’s some of our class. I’ll see you later.”
“Sure,” I said.
Lenny and I moved toward the next display and the front of the room. This display was mostly of Molly and Bennett. Many of the pictures showed her winning various awards or giving speeches, and he, the devoted husband, was at her side in every one. I looked around. I still didn’t see him.
Lenny motioned toward a picture on an easel near a grouping of flowers. “One guess as to who painted A Buffalo at 5 o’clock,” he joked.
We moved closer to it. It was a painting of prairie grass, the waning sun, and in the far corner, a buffalo. “Arnold Frasier,” I said, pointing to the small initials in the corner.
“What was the deal there anyway?” asked Lenny.
“He said Molly used to buy quite a few paintings and donate to art exhibits before she was consumed by her zeal for the environment. Maybe this was a parting gift.”
We continued toward Molly’s sister and brother, and Lenny shook their hands first, explaining who we were. After I offered them my condolences, I asked if they had seen Bennett. Molly’s sister motioned toward the short hallway.
“He’s in there. Help yourself to cookies and coffee,” she said.
We walked through the dark hall to what must have once been a dining room. Tonight, the sideboard was filled with cookies and bars, napkins and cups, juice, and coffeepots. Additional tables were set up for seating. Bennett had just pulled out a chair for Judith Spade, and Nick was already seated. As we approached the table, he encouraged us to sit. I told him we would, as soon as we helped ourselves to coffee.
“I’ll get it. I was just getting Nick some anyway. Take a seat,” said Bennett.
“Lenny, Emmeline,” said Judith, “it’s good to see you again.”
“Hi, Judith. Hey, Nick. You make the long trek from Rapid City?”
Nick nodded. “I got a sub for today and tomorrow. I know we just had a week off for spring break, but there was no way I was going to miss this. Molly’s work was too important.”
“Amanda said you talked to Bennett about setting up a fund?” I asked.
“Yes, as soon as possible. That’s another reason I’m here.”
Bennett returned with the coffee, handing a cup to Nick.
“Let me help you,” I said, standing.
“No, no, I got it. It helps to keep busy.” A moment later, he brought back two more cups for Lenny and me.
“Don’t you want one?” I said, taking the cup.
“No. I’ve had too much already.” He sat down next to me. “I’ll never sleep tonight.”
I believed him. His hands were shaking. “Thank you. It’s good,” I said after taking a sip.
“Mine is a little… cold,” said Nick, making a face.
Bennett started to stand again. “They just put out a fresh carafe. I’ll get you a different cup.”
“No, no. Sit down,” said Nick. “This is just what I need after my drive, a little wake-up juice.” He took a long sip to prove it.
“Have you heard any more from the detectives?” I asked Bennett. I was wondering if there was news about André. I hadn’t seen him yet, but I was sure he wanted to be here. With all the administrative gossip, though, I wouldn’t blame him for not attending.
“Not a word,” said Bennett, “and I don’t think I will, either. They were just as disgusted as I was with the airline and insurance companies. Those folks made it very difficult for me and the police to bring Molly home. I had to get my lawyer involved.”
We all shook our heads to show our mutual disgust.
Sorry to have brought up the subject, I switched topics. “Judith, have you heard about the associate dean position?”
Her lips turned up ever so slightly. “Just today, in fact, so nothing has been officially sent out. I accepted the position this morning.”
“Congratulations!” I said. I wondered if her help on the trip propelled them into making a prompt decision.
“Yes, congratulations, Dr. Spade,” added Bennett. “That’s good news.”
Nick put down his empty Styrofoam cup. “Now you’ll have the chance to implement some of Molly’s plans.”
Judith looked puzzled. “I’m not sure what Molly’s plans were, but of course I will do everything in my power to preserve her memory and her work.” She glanced at Bennett, who nodded gratefully.
“I’d be happy to sit down with you before I leave and tell you what she told me,” said Nick, rubbing his hands together. “See, she thought the College of Arts and Sciences placed too much emphasis on publication. She wanted to emphasize action—the impact her colleagues’ work had on the real world. Like a carbon footprint, only good. It would be central to promotion.”
The idea of having my tenure tied to my societal impact caused me considerable dread. If I had left an impression, it was slight and only visible on my students’ faces. Maybe scientists and historians such as Molly and Nick fared better with tangible effects; still, I had the feeling a great many academics would bristle at the suggestion. Judith, in fact, sat perfectly rigid.
“That’s a worthy notion,” said Judith, “but one that can hardly be put into play in our college. We have teachers like Emmeline and Lenny here who cannot be expected to measure their contributions to the literary world in a quantitative way.”
“Agreed,” said Lenny. “Unless you include rejection slips as part of my legacy, my chances of getting tenure would be next to nil.”
Nick shook his head vigorously. “This is exactly the kind of opposition Molly’s ideas met with. She was the only free thinker among you, do you know that? She was a visionary. A visionary!”
Nick looked a little wild-eyed, and honestly, I couldn’t think of a response. Even Bennett appeared baffled. But Judith readily assumed the role of administrator as she had on the trip.
“She was extraordinary,” Judith said. “I understand you worked with her quite a bit in the field.”
“Yes, I did. We were… friends. We went on a few expeditions together.” His eyes welled up with tears. He blinked rapidly and wiped them away with the back of his hand. “The students loved her. Amanda loved her. She’s here tonight.”
“Amanda. What a good student,” said Judith. “I had her last year. She is a talented individual.”
“Isn’t she?” I said. “I got a chance to know her a little bit in Minneapolis. She’s a bright young lady.”
Tears began to gush down Nick’s cheeks. “You’ll never know, you’ll never know,” he repeated into his hands.
“Hey, man,” said Lenny, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Nick, looking
almost normal. Then he became inconsolable again. He stood. “I just need some air.”
Those of us who were left at the table turned to each other for answers, but none of us had any to give. The answer, however, became shockingly clear the next morning.
Chapter Twenty
Nick Dramsdor had been found dead in his hotel room. Overcome with grief over the death of his colleague and probable lover, he had committed suicide. One single shot to the head by his own gun left little doubt in our minds that he had indeed been in love with the distinguished Molly Jaspers.
Although Nick’s death came early enough to report on the Tuesday morning news, that wasn’t how I heard it. Around eight o’clock in the morning, I received a text from Kat that relayed the dreadful information. Though Lenny thought I was insane to give out my personal cellphone number to students, it hadn’t been a problem. He said that was because I didn’t carry my phone with me enough for it to become one. Luckily I had my phone charging next to the coffeepot when the text came in, and I answered it immediately.
When I saw the message, I was surprised but not shocked. I’d had my eye on Nick ever since he was the first one to leave our table of thirteen in Minneapolis. I wondered since then if something bad would happen. Now Kat confirmed that it had and was desperate over her friend Amanda. She begged me to do something. I told her to bring Amanda and meet me at the grocery store café because, really, it was never a good idea to skip breakfast.
