Coming Up Murder Read online

  COMING UP MURDER

  A Professor Prather Mystery

  Mary Angela

  Epicenter Press

  6524 NE 181st St.

  Suite 2

  Kenmore, WA 98028

  www.epicenterpress.com

  www.camelpress.com

  For more information go to: www.maryangelabooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, incidents, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Dawn Anderson

  Coming Up Murder

  Copyright ©2019 by Mary Angela

  ISBN: 978-1-94189-078-3 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-94189-091-2 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019945114

  Produced in the United States of America

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  Acknowledgments

  To my dad, a great teacher, reader, and friend. It seems like just yesterday we were reading the Amelia Peabody series together. I miss you.

  To my mom, what else can I say but thank you. Nobody could ask for a better mom, sounding board, editor, or friend.

  To my husband, Quintin, and our daughters, Madeline and Maisie, thank you for making our home the world’s greatest place to work—and the busiest! You fill my days with love.

  To my family and friends who’ve attended events, bought books, and shared them with others, you’re the best. I mean it. Thank you.

  To the scientists at Sanford Health Imagenetics, especially Allison Hutchinson, thank you for taking the time to answer my questions about genetic testing. People like you make research fun. Any errors are my own.

  To Catherine Treadgold, thanks once again for your editorial acumen. It’s been a pleasure working with you.

  To Phil Garret at Camel Press, thank you for publishing my work, and to Jennifer McCord, thank you for your advice and guidance. It’s been a wonderful adventure.

  Finally, thanks to all the readers who’ve found this series and said nice things about it. It means a lot to know I’m not alone in my love for these characters. No matter where I go, Copper Bluff will always remain close to my heart.

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  Chapter One

  “Love is in the air …” I sang as I walked to campus in my cheetah sandals. It was late April, and the night before, Lenny and I had bought a used record at This and That, the thrift shop downtown. The song was “Acapulco,” and we’d listened to it over a glass of red wine. I smiled to myself. We did things like that now, and Neil Diamond was right. It was nice.

  Outside Harmony Music Museum, a burgundy banner announced the arrival of Shakespeare’s first folio, the historic publication that contained almost half of Shakespeare’s plays. The hosting museum had to meet stringent requirements for air and light quality, as well as security. Since Harmony housed sensitive instruments, it was the natural choice. For security purposes, no one had been told exactly when the folio would arrive, but now that it had, lots of events were taking place, like today’s sonnet writing contest in the Herbert Hoover Library.

  I glanced at my watch as I crossed the street. Maybe I had time to pop in and take a look before my first class. I imagined a room full of scribbling students and reluctant professors jammed into the desks on the second floor, stirring up dust storms with the strokes of their pens. Claudia Swift, a poet and professor of creative writing, had demanded volunteers at our last English faculty meeting. I’d sidestepped the obligation with a timely trip to the restroom. Lenny wasn’t as lucky. He and three other English professors, including the infamously lazy Allen Dunsbar, were compelled to sign up before leaving the meeting. I cut across the quad. Seeing Allen write a sonnet was definitely worth the detour.

  I paused briefly at Shakespeare’s Garden, which was closed for construction. Although the garden wouldn’t reopen until Friday, I could smell the hard work our Shakespeare authority, Reed Williams, had put in. For almost a year he’d been growing flowers in our campus conservatory, flowers such as honeysuckle, primroses, and violets that featured prominently in Shakespeare’s works. Recently transplanted, the bushes and flowers would revive the overrun garden, dedicated by the class of 1923, and so would the new benches and statue. I tried to peek around the barrier, but it was no use. I wouldn’t see a thing until Friday.

  The campus was beautiful and green, full of life after frequent March rainfall, and I was glad the weather was cooperating with the grand reopening. Mid-April in Copper Bluff, South Dakota, could be cool. Actually, it could be downright chilly. But the weather had been unseasonably warm, and the sun invited students to linger on benches, play Frisbee, and catch up with friends. The lunch hour had passed and with it, their enthusiasm. With a month left of classes, they were reluctant to hurry anywhere. By May, though, they would quicken their step, eager to leave for the summer. Then the campus would change. The buildings would sit empty, the halls would grow still, and professors would be able to catch up on the work they’d put away for nine months.

  For once in my career, I didn’t have work to do, and it felt good. I’d finished Words of Their Own and submitted the manuscript to several scholarly presses three months ago. Now I just had to wait for somebody to publish it. It was an easy thing to do, wait, except when it wasn’t. Waiting had given me an excuse for my late-hour walks to campus. Other nights, insomnia was my excuse. But the truth was I enjoyed roaming the campus unobserved. It was the best place on earth for a girl who liked books, liked music, liked to hear people talk. Though I would turn thirty this summer, I felt like a kid who’d gotten away with something wonderful.

  A group of students rushed out of the library, and I waited for them to pass before I entered. Among much older buildings, the 1970s library was distinct and reminded me of home. A little dated, a little musty, but comfortable and tidy. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the sonnet-writing contest was taking place in an oversized study room. Outside was a locked box where participants could submit their sonnets. I peeked through the slot. Quite a few pieces of paper were inside already. Poets didn’t have to participate in the write-in to submit their work, but Claudia had drawn a good crowd anyway. It must be her subtle art of strong arming, I thought as I glanced through the doorway. Allen Dunsbar was inside, looking perplexed. It was his go-to look. His gray hair, scruffy beard, and prominent chin enhanced the effect. Maybe he was perplexed. After all, he hadn’t attended an English event since my arrival on campus, and I was finishing my third year. Maybe he was wondering how long he had to sit there before Claudia let him leave.

  Lenny glanced up from his paper. I’d been spotted. I smiled, and he smiled back, his cute dimple appearing as he folded his paper in half. A good-sized man, six feet with broad shoulders, Lenny looked uncomfortable in the small desk. He grabbed his navy barn jacket—the color matched his eyes—from the back of his chair and gave Claudia a
salute as he left the room. Then he dropped his sonnet in the submission box.

  “Are you checking up on me?” he said, brushing my cheek with his lips.

  Though we’d been dating since Christmas, the kiss sent a shiver up my spine. “Yes.”

  “I like it,” said Lenny.

  I chuckled. “How did the sonnet go?”

  “Fantastic.” He led the way to the stairs.

  “Really?”

  “What?” he said. “You don’t trust my rhyming ability?”

  I remained silent.

  “You’ll see,” said Lenny. “You’re helping Claudia judge the entries, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “The contest closes at ten tonight. We’re judging them tomorrow.” Though I was no poet either, I helped edit Copper Bluff Review, the small journal published on campus, and Claudia wanted me to go through the entries with her. It was a job that should have been given to Allen Dunsbar, but I was certain Claudia hadn’t asked him. She’d performed one miracle by getting him to show up at the event. There was no way she could make it two.

  Lenny paused on the landing. “If the contest goes all day, I don’t know why she had a write-in in the first place.”

  “She’s trying to build a sense of community,” I said. “Great things happen when people with pencils line up in desks. You should know that. You’re a teacher.”

  He kept walking. “Writing’s more of a solitary activity, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t think anyone is asking you,” I said with my sweetest smile.

  “That’s going to cost you,” said Lenny. He put his arm around me. “You’re paying for coffee.”

  Coffee with Lenny sounded lovely, but I had class. I reminded him.

  “Ah yes, your murder club,” said Lenny. “How could I forget?”

  “It’s not a club, it’s a class,” I said. “And we study romances, too.” This was my second time teaching Crimes and Passion: Women Writers of the 21st Century, and Jim Giles, our department chair, said it could become a permanent offering if enrollment kept pace. So far it looked good.

  “A rain check for tonight then,” said Lenny. “Should we get takeout?” His dark eyebrows rose slightly. I loved how they contrasted with his blond, spiky hair.

  Dinner together on a plain old Wednesday. How great was that? “Perfect. I’ll call you later.”

  “If you don’t, I know where you live,” joked Lenny.

  I waved goodbye and started for class. He was referring to my bad habits, including forgetting my phone, not charging my phone, and ignoring my phone. Witnessing the next generation’s obsession with technology renewed my faith in the good old landline. I was probably the only person under thirty who had one.

  Halfway to Harriman Hall, the building that housed my class and the English Department, I felt my pocket vibrate and reached for my cell. Lenny must be teasing me. But I stopped dead on the path when I saw the caller ID. Los Angeles, California! Surrounded by two stately maple trees, several old buildings, and acres of farmland, I couldn’t think of any place more exotic. I accepted the call.

  “Is this Emmeline Prather?” asked a woman on the other end of the line.

  “Emmeline, like Caroline, but yes,” I said. “This is she.”

  “My name is Maria Sanchez. I’m the associate publisher at Dewberry Press.”

  It was one of the small presses that had requested my complete manuscript a month ago. “Hi.” I rolled my eyes. I sounded like an idiot.

  “Uh, hello,” she said. “We’re interested in your manuscript, Words of Their Own. Is it still available?”

  Was it still available? Incredibly. “Yes, it is.”

  “As you know, we primarily publish fiction and poetry, but occasionally a book of nonfiction captures our interest,” said Maria. “We’d like to add more titles like yours to our list. Could I email you a contract to look over?”

  Someone’s backpack bumped me, hitting my arm, hard. I gripped my phone like the precious thing it was now—my connection to Los Angeles, California, and sparkling opportunities two thousand miles away. “Yes, of course. I’d be happy to consider it.”

  Consider it? Who was I kidding? Maria Sanchez at Dewberry Press was a smart, kind, and patient woman. I could tell that from the thirty seconds we’d spent on the phone. Unless she required one of my organs along with the signature, I’d be signing the contract.

  “Wonderful,” said Maria. “I look forward to your response.”

  I remembered to thank her before ending the call. For a moment, I stood gazing at Harriman Hall like a lover. Dear Harriman Hall. Even the asbestos didn’t dim its shine. Nothing could. Boyfriend, career, spring? Check, check, and check. Life was good.

  Chapter Two

  After my class, I headed for the English Department on the second floor. I wanted to tell Giles about the call from Dewberry Press and receive proper congratulations. It was almost five o’clock, but knowing Giles and his Midwestern work ethic, he would be at the office well into the dinner hour. The stairs made happy creaky sounds as I bounded them two at a time. With the heavy literature books in my backpack, it normally wasn’t an easy thing to do. Today, though, I felt lighter than air.

  “Emmeline,” said a voice, stopping me in my pursuit of a hearty handshake. It was Barb, our department secretary. Her face was as pale as the moon, nothing unusual. She always looked slightly spooky.

  “Yes, Barb?”

  “You still haven’t sent me the syllabus for your 100-level class,” said Barb. “You know I need them for my records.”

  Yes, I knew she needed them for her records, but it was the same syllabus I used every semester. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t re-file the one from the fall. Records looked like the last thing on her mind. Her office was in complete disarray. Boxes, copy paper, coffee cans. “I’ll send it today,” I promised and continued walking down the hallway.

  Giles and I had a connecting office located at the end of the hall. His was a nice corner room with two walls of windows. Mine was a small space with a decent bookshelf and small alcove. I couldn’t complain. Being this close to Giles meant I could hear everything, but I never repeated it. Despite my colleagues’ outwardly composed appearances, their lives were full of drama. Grades, schedules, students, promotions, domestic partners. It was enough to make my head spin, but Giles handled all the crises with aplomb. He was the calm in a sea of troubles.

  His door was open, so I knocked. Two men were seated inside. I frowned. My good news would have to wait. “I’ll come back,” I said.

  “No, come in, Emmeline,” said Giles. “I want you to meet our visitors.” In his well-worn jacket, he reminded me of so many of the professors who had taught me in college: intelligent, genteel, and slightly shabby. His type shrugged off materialism as something ugly and slightly embarrassing. I glanced at my cheetah-print sandals. At least I’d bought them on sale.

  “This is Felix Lewis—I’m sure you recognize his name from the program—and Andy Wells, his mentee at Denver. Gentlemen, this is Emmeline Prather.”

  I didn’t recognize the name but assumed Giles was referring to the schedule for the upcoming Shakespeare conference. I, too, was presenting on murder in Shakespeare’s plays.

  “Good afternoon,” said Felix, standing to shake my hand.

  As soon as I heard his accent, I remembered who he was. Felix Lewis was the Englishman headlining the symposium. He was giving the opening lecture on Henry VIII. His hand was gentle, like his manners, but his brown eyes were sharp. On fence posts outside of Copper Bluff, I’d seen hawks with the same eyes. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m excited for your lecture.”

  “Reed Williams and I are mates,” said Felix. “I was happy to accept his invitation.” Though his hair was silver, he couldn’t have been older than fifty-five. He’d grayed prematurely, as some people do, in a way that made him distinguished and handsome.

  “And you’re presenting also?” I said, turning to Andy. He didn’t
bother to stand or shake my hand. He gave me a dismissive once over.

  “A chapter from my book Shakespeare Today,” said Andy. “Macmillan is publishing it this fall.”

  I waited for the rest of his CV. He was the type who would recite his résumé in one fell swoop if you let him. Young and smartly dressed, he made our own hip Thomas Cook look old-fashioned. When he didn’t continue, I decided to share my own good news after congratulating him. “I just got word from Dewberry Press. That’s what I came to tell you, Giles. They’ve accepted my book for publication.”

  “Congratulations,” said Giles. “That’s wonderful news.”

  “Dewberry Press …. Is that a niche publisher?” asked Andy.

  I couldn't exactly say, since I wasn’t sure what a niche publisher was. From the way he pronounced niche, though, it didn’t sound good. “A small press,” I said.

  “Where are they located?” Andy kept on.

  Why did that matter? It was a publisher. That was the good news. “Los Angeles.”

  He relaxed in his chair. I was no longer a threat, not that I ever had been. He was receiving his PhD from a big-name school and had a book coming out from a big-five publisher. Copper Bluff offered different advantages Andy Wells wouldn’t have understood. Giles was beaming, and I felt proud. I was one of the younger faculty members, and to have anything at all published was an accomplishment.

  “I don’t have any details yet, but they’re sending me a contract to look over,” I said.

  “Keep me posted,” said Giles.

  I nodded. “By the way, you’ll be happy to know Claudia had good results with the write-in. I was over there this afternoon, and the room was packed.”