The Professor

by Alexandria Clarke

  “Whoa,” he said, his eyes widening as he took in the pillars of papers and folders strewn across the table and the floor. I’d built a fortress of kitchen chairs to keep Franklin away from the material on the carpet of the living room. He’d been sulking in the corner behind the sofa all afternoon, though he leapt to his feet and bounded over to Wes as soon as he walked in. Wes set his keys on the counter, absentmindedly scratching Franklin’s head. “Nicole, what is all this stuff?”

  “It’s from O’Connor’s safe,” I explained. “I’ve been trying to sort through it all. Have you ever heard of the Davenport family? Or the Lockwoods?”

  “They both own pretty big businesses from what I understand,” answered Wes. He leaned down to kiss my forehead. “Why?”

  “I can’t figure out why O’Connor was so obsessed with them,” I said. I pointed to one of my sub-piles. “That whole stack is entirely on the Davenports. Newspaper articles about their banking businesses, stocks, social events that the wife has run, kids. I mean, everything that has ever been written about them in the past few years, O’Connor got his hands on.”

  “Why?” asked Wes, skimming one of the articles.

  I shrugged. “No idea, but check this out.” I handed Wes one of the manila file folders. “O’Connor has a copy of Donovan Davenport’s student record.”

  “Who?”

  “Donovan,” I repeated. “One of the Davenports’ sons. He just graduated from Waverly last year at the top of his class. Here’s the thing, though. Look at his transcripts.” I extracted the correct copies from the file folder in Wes’s hands.

  “Looks like he was a pretty average student,” Wes observed, flipping through Donovan’s grades. “Cs across the board.”

  “Exactly. So tell me how Donovan made the Dean’s List every semester when you need at least a three-point-eight GPA to qualify for it.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded eagerly. “Not to mention, Donovan got nailed for plagiarizing a ten-page paper for one of his literature classes during his freshman year. Except here’s the thing: he never got in trouble for it.”

  Wes groaned in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It was on his permanent record, but there’s a note that says the whole thing was a misunderstanding, and the entire incident was expunged. Wes, he was the valedictorian of his class. How the hell did he pull that off with a solid C average?”

  “Sounds like Daddy paid off the university,” said Wes. “What else did you find on him?”

  I handed him the first article that I’d read on Davenport. “He landed an internship with the Lockwood firm straight out of college. It’s full-time and salaried. What kind of entry-level internship is that lucrative?”

  He skimmed through the article before handing it back to me. “I don’t know what to tell you, Nic. I’m not really surprised. It’s elitist bullshit, but that’s just the way the world works, you know?”

  I threw the article on top of the Davenport pile. “It’s not just the Davenports,” I said. “It looks like O’Connor was investigating a few of the tenured professors at Waverly as well. He has their employee files too.”

  “And now you have them? Nicole, you do realize that this is illegal, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Officer McAllen, but to be fair, I didn’t collect this information, remember?”

  “Nicole, if the force finds out that all this stuff is here—”

  “They won’t.”

  “Nic.”

  I looked up at Wes. His expression was stern, his mouth set in a hard straight line. The seriousness was out of place on Wes’s face. He was usually so easygoing, but if there was one thing Wes never joked about, it was his dedication to his job. I stood up from my seat at the kitchen table and snaked my arms around his waist.

  “Weston,” I said, gazing up into his hazel eyes. “I promise not to compromise your job, okay? Just let me play around with this stuff a little while longer, and then I’ll get rid of the entire lot. Is that fair?”

  Wes’s hands floated up to cradle my face, though he still looked unsure. After a moment, he sighed and said, “I guess there’s no point in protesting, is there? You tend to do as you like.”

  “Which is why you love me,” I reminded him with a cheeky grin. Playfully, he hauled me forward, trapping me against his chest. With my cheek pressed to the zipper of his black police jacket, I laughed as he ruffled my hair. “Get off!”

  He let me wrestle away but pulled me back at the last second and captured my lips with his. The apartment was calm and quiet as I melted into Wes. Then, as he was prone to do, Franklin barked and shoved his way between us.

  “Cynic,” Wes scolded the dog, using his boot to nudge Franklin out of the way. “Listen, Nicole. Be careful with this stuff, okay? And maybe move it to the bedroom, just in case we have visitors.”

  “I will,” I said. I sat back down at the table. “I haven’t even shown you the weirdest stuff yet.”

  “I don’t even want to know.”

  I waggled a stack of papers at him. “Or do you?”

  He gave in too easily. “Fine. What is it?”

  “Handwritten letters,” I said, handing them over. “Most of them are complete nonsense. I have a feeling whoever was writing them has some kind of code for all their business talk.”

  He glanced through them. “How do you figure?”

  “Because none of them are signed by anyone with a first and last name,” I pointed out. “Check it out. All of them are correspondence between these two people: Pluto and someone called the Morrigan. They mention other people, but never by their real names. Argos, Bacchus, Gatsby, Salander, Hoenikker. They’re mostly literary references from what I can tell.”

  Wes held one of the letters up and squinted at it. “Did you see this watermark?”

  “There’s a watermark?” I grabbed a few of the letters and raised them up to the overhead lamp. Wes was right. Each page sported a transparent emblem, that of some kind of raptor in flight. “Who prints watermarked stationery to send coded letters to one another?”

  “Wealthy people,” said Wes matter-of-factly. He set down the rest of the letters and picked up the wooden puzzle box. “What’s this?”

  “Yet another mystery,” I said. “I can’t open it.”

  He fiddled with the puzzle on the front of the box for a few seconds before returning it to the kitchen table. “Good luck with that. Are you hungry? What should we make for dinner?”

  “Do you mind if we order takeout?” I asked. Franklin rested his chin on my knee, and I tickled his ears. “Honestly, I’m pretty deep in this, and I just want to keep working.”

  “Chinese it is.”

  Over the course of the next week, I spent every minute of my spare time immersed in O’Connor’s findings. The professor himself remained AWOL. According to Wes, the station had officially opened a missing persons investigation. O’Connor’s home was searched for clues as to where he might’ve gone, and they put out an APB for his old sedan. Wes’s boss, Officer Wilson, asked if I could let him and a couple other officers into O’Connor’s office. I obliged, standing quietly nearby as they combed the small room. When they asked about the safe under O’Connor’s desk, I claimed that O’Connor never told me what was in it. Technically, that was true. I’d discovered the contents all on my own.

  I continued to teach O’Connor’s undergraduate American History class. It was only twice a week, but I now spent more time creating lesson plans and lectures than focusing on my own studies. Thankfully, the university had found another professor to fill in for the rest of O’Connor’s courses. I logged so many hours in the library that I practically lived there. Wes had taken to complaining about how he rarely saw me at home anymore, and when he did, I was lying on a bed of pillows on the floor of the bedroom, taking notes and reading through the rest of O’Connor’s research. Despite my dedication to the task at hand, I still couldn’t fathom why O’Connor had taken it upon himself to conduct
such thorough investigations of his fellow faculty members and certain Waverly students. More than once, I thought about setting everything on fire out of pure frustration, but curiosity got the best of me. Besides, a nagging voice in the back of my mind told me that O’Connor wasn’t paranoid or crazy. He’d collected this information for a reason, and I was determined to figure out what that reason was.

  After class one day, I managed to corner one of the professors whose last name had appeared a few times in O’Connor’s files. Stella St. Claire had only been teaching at Waverly as an assistant professor for three years before she achieved tenure, which was more or less unheard of. Of course, her quick rise to a permanent position could have simply been the product of nepotism. The St. Claires went way back with Waverly University. Stella’s great-grandmother created the first sorority charter on campus, and every woman in the St. Claire family since, with the exception of one of Stella’s cousins, had been inducted as a legacy. In fact, the St. Claire name was so prestigious that most of the women born into the family refused to take their husband’s less reputable patronymics. In any case, Stella St. Claire happened to teach American Novel right next door to O’Connor’s history class, so I dismissed my students early and lingered outside in the hallway.

  It wasn’t long before St. Claire exited her own classroom. I recognized her right away. Her faculty ID picture had been included in O’Connor’s files, and there was no mistaking her impossibly long, wavy blond hair. She walked briskly, but I stepped into her path, pretending to be immersed in one of my student’s essays, and jostled her shoulder just enough to send the cup of coffee in her hand flying. It hit the floor and exploded, splattering coffee from one side of the hallway to the other.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I sputtered, watching with disguised triumph as St. Claire attempted to shake droplets of coffee off the legs of her trousers. “I wasn’t paying attention at all. Are you okay?”

  “I’m just fine,” she replied curtly. “Though if you don’t mind fetching something to wipe myself off with, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  I jogged to the nearby bathroom, wrenched several cardboard-colored paper towels from the holder, and went back out to the hallway. As I handed them over, I said, “Again, I’m really sorry. You’re Professor St. Claire, right? I’m Nicole Costello. I was thinking about taking one of your courses.”

  “Well, I can assure you that an A in my class is not attained by dousing me in hot coffee, Miss Costello.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  She dabbed at her pants with the paper towels as she glanced up at me. “You’re George O’Connor’s TA, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, pleased that the subject had come up all on its own. “I’m teaching his freshman American History course while he’s away.”

  “Mm. That’s excellent experience for you, even if O’Connor did throw you under the bus in a way. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him?”

  I shook my head, repositioning my messenger bag on my shoulder. “Unfortunately not. I’m at a loss, really. Got any tips for me? I could use some advice from an expert.”

  She gave up on blotting the coffee stains and crumpled the paper towels. “I’m hardly an expert. Otherwise, I’d have learned to dodge hazardous students in the hallway already.”

  “I beg to differ,” I said as she turned away from me to toss the paper towels into a garbage can a few feet away. “I noticed that you went up for tenure after just three years as an assistant professor. The university must have been pretty impressed with you. Professor O’Connor’s been here for over six years, and he still isn’t tenured.”

  St. Claire paused, peering at me over her shoulder. “What else did O’Connor tell you about me?”

  With a surge of confidence, I asked, “What else does O’Connor know about you?”

  To my surprise, St. Claire took me by the elbow and hauled me back into her classroom. She closed the door behind us. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice low and rushed. “Whatever it is you’ve found out, it would be in your best interest to drop it. It’s not worth it.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Drop it, Miss Costello. Believe me. It’s for your own good.”

  Without another word, she strolled away, and by the time I stepped out into the hallway again, she had already disappeared into the stairwell. The coffee-stained carpet was the only indication that the entire conversation had even happened. I leaned against the doorway, going over our exchange in my head. One thing was certain: I had no plans to drop this, whatever it was.

  The following day, I had a stroke of luck. I spent all morning at the Waverly library, tucked away at a desk in a shadowy corner with a stack of O’Connor’s newspapers. I read through all of the material he had on St. Claire twice, but other than a couple of speeding tickets, Stella St. Claire didn’t seem to be protecting any kind of deep, dark secret. I’d brought along my laptop too, searching the far reaches of the Internet for any information on the St. Claire family. Most of what I found was useless. The St. Claires had donated a boatload of money to Waverly University, and every year, they hosted a banquet for the students who performed best, but ultimately, there was no obvious reason for Stella’s paranoid behavior toward me.

  As absorbed as I was in my research, I almost didn’t notice when Donovan Davenport himself casually cruised by my desk. I spared him a glance and went back to my Internet search before I realized who he was. Then I slammed my laptop shut, hastily hid O’Connor’s files beneath my messenger bag, and sprang up from the desk.

  “Hey, Davenport,” I called in a hushed voice, trying not to disturb the other students working. Donovan turned, and I gave him a little wave.

  “Do I know you?” he asked when I caught up with him.

  “Nicole Costello,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-three or so, but his pressed slacks, tailored suit jacket, and expensive shoes afforded him the illusion of maturity. “I’m a senior staffer at the school paper. We’re doing an article on Waverly students who’ve been really successful post-graduation. Any chance I could talk to you about your internship with the Lockwood company?”

  He reached into the pocket of his jacket and extracted a business card. “Call me during business hours. I’m running an errand.”

  “Oh, actually, this really won’t take up much of your time,” I insisted but accepted the card anyway. “I’ll just walk with you. Where are you headed?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Rapere Wing. You need qualifications to enter, so unfortunately, you won’t be able to accompany me.”

  I resisted the urge to sneer at his snotty tone. Little did Davenport know that O’Connor had cleared me for access into that room during my first semester as his TA. I reined in my temper. As it was, I couldn’t believe that Davenport had actually bought my undergraduate act. There was no way in hell I still passed as a twenty-year-old.

  “I’ll be quick,” I insisted, staying in step with him as he tried to walk off. “Tell me, how were you hired for the position at Lockwood Inc.?”

  “Applied online, booked an interview, and landed the job,” he said shortly. “That’s the general process for something like that.”

  “Were you recommended for the position?”

  “Nope.”

  “No? Your family wasn’t already familiar with the Lockwoods?”

  “Why would they be?”

  A student hushed us as we trotted by. I ignored the subtle reprimand. “I just figured since both the Davenports and the Lockwoods owned prominent businesses near Waverly, you might have interacted with each other once or twice.”

  Donovan apparently thought that my statement didn’t warrant a response. We were nearing the Rapere Wing. I glanced toward the giant pillars that flanked either side of the great mahogany doors, too aware of the fact that I was running out of time to get any more information out of Donovan.

  “What was your GPA when you graduated from Waverly last year
?” I asked. When he looked at me sharply, I added, “Just for informational purposes. Waverly students want to know what kind of expectations they should live up to.”

  “The highest,” he said. “I was the valedictorian. I had a four-point-oh GPA.”

  “Your transcripts state otherwise.”

  My mouth had gotten ahead of me again. Donovan stopped short of the manuscript room and whirled around. “And how on earth would you have access to my transcripts?”

  I had to think fast. “Uh, the newspaper allows its staff access to select transcripts from past students. For research, you know.”

  “Then you might want to get your eyes checked,” Donovan said, “because I maintained straight As all throughout my four years here. Excuse me.”

  With an abrupt about-face, Donovan stepped into the Rapere Wing and vanished behind a bookshelf. Under my guise as an undergraduate, there was no way I could follow. Defeated momentarily, I returned to my desk across the library. Thankfully, no one had disturbed my laptop or O’Connor’s files. I plunked down in my seat and opened up my computer to see two new emails waiting for me. The first was from a university official.

  Miss Costello,

  With the extended absence of Professor George O’Connor, it has come to the department’s attention that you no longer have access to a readily available thesis advisor. A new advisor has been assigned to you. Please contact Dr. Catherine Flynn, Dean of Arts and Humanities, to set up an appointment with her.

  Regards,

  Jacob Blackburn

  Waverly University

  However, it turned out that I didn’t even have to go to the trouble of contacting Dr. Catherine Flynn, because the next email was from the dean herself.

  Miss Costello,

  As your new advisor, I would like to speak to you about your thesis as soon as possible. I took it upon myself to check your class schedule and noticed that you are available tomorrow morning at 9:00. I am located in Research Hall, Room 410. Please be prompt.