Passport to Murder Page 3

  “He’s in Paleontology. Is that right?” I asked. Western State University in South Dakota was known for its paleontology degree because of the various fossils found west of the Missouri River, which divided the state in half.

  “Yes, right. He is in Paleontology, which might have been obvious by the boots on his feet,” he said.

  “Boots?” I said.

  “Yes, you know. The cowboy boots.”

  “Ah,” I said, “the cowboy boots. A lot of people wear them west of the river.”

  “Well, he will see no boots like that in Paris, I can assure you.” He spoke with clear annoyance.

  “No, probably not. I guess I should leave mine at home.”

  He was speechless.

  “I’m joking, of course.”

  For the first time that morning, André smiled his usual pleasant smile. “I’m sorry. You must think me rude. This trip has been more work than I realized.”

  “I just wish you’d let me help more. As assistant coordinator—”

  André held up his hand in protest. “You are my very dear friend who has never seen Paris; I want this trip to be as enjoyable as possible for you. Besides, it is best to have one person manage these things, and you have done so much already with the itinerary.”

  Sure, part of André’s concern was my enjoyment, but he also had a need to be in control. He wanted to make certain this trip went off without a hitch. The future of the French major depended on its success.

  I slung my tote over my shoulder. “All the work will be worth it when we set foot on French soil. I, for one, can’t wait.”

  His was still smiling. “One of your dreams is about to come true, Em.”

  The thought was almost too much to comprehend.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, I arose early to depart for the trip. André had chartered a bus to take our group to Minneapolis, where we would board a plane that flew non-stop to Paris. The bus would leave at seven in the morning, the plane at three in the afternoon.

  After deciding the capris I had laid out were ill-advised (after all, it was only thirty-four degrees outside), I donned dark jeans, a white blouse, and a neat navy blazer with white trim. Since Paris was the fashion capital of the world, I had taken extra care with my usually haphazard dress. I had also packed plenty of colorful scarves. One of my many guidebooks recommended that adding a scarf to your outfit was the best thing you could do to fit in on the streets of Paris. That and taking off your bra, which I wasn’t prepared to do.

  I stood in the middle of my living room, scanning the open space as if the things I had forgotten would line up and jump into my suitcase à la Merlin the Wizard. Everything looked uncharacteristically neat and tidy. There were no papers on my coffee table in the living room, no books on the large bow window in my dining room, and no journals on the wide walnut pillars that separated the two rooms. For once, everything was in its place, except my cat, Dickinson, who lay on top of the television, switching her tail back and forth.

  I clapped my hands. “Get down from there. You know that thing is on its last legs.” And it was. Although I wouldn’t have minded buying a sleek new television that would have taken up half the space, it wasn’t a priority. I rarely watched it. Besides, there were so many other things my 1917 bungalow needed, such as central air conditioning and a new roof. Yet I loved working on my house. After living in one dilapidated rental after another during graduate school, home ownership was a very big deal for me. I prided myself on having the wherewithal to purchase a home before the age of thirty.

  Dickinson raised one spotted paw and began to lick.

  “You know, I have Kristi coming to visit you every day to get you fresh water and food while I’m gone.” Kristi was the neighbor who worked in the Foreign Languages Department and lived four doors down.

  Dickinson looked at me as if to say, “Don’t bother.”

  “Fine. Be crabby,” I said, taking her from the TV and giving her a quick squeeze before placing her on the couch. “I’m still going to bring you back a treat.”

  With that, I rolled my brown hounds-tooth suitcase over the plank floor and onto the front porch, taking care to lock the door behind me and slip the key under the colorful mat that said, “Welcome Spring.”

  The travel group was to meet in the parking lot between Harriman Hall and Winsor, so I didn’t have far to walk. As I approached the campus, I noted its perfect silence on this crisp Saturday morning, the first official day of spring break. Like my living room, everything looked clean and in place. No students scurried here or there, no bikes plunged off the walkways, and no laughter floated from the windows. Instead, the buildings stood like guardians waiting for the return of their ever-changing occupants.

  The wheels on my luggage labored over the cracks in the walkway as I made my way kitty-corner across campus. As I approached Winsor, I was surprised to see (and hear) the diesel school bus in the adjacent parking lot. I had imagined something more in the line of Greyhound. Knowing the university’s shoestring budget, however, I shouldn’t have been surprised. The state was more concerned with farm subsidies than education, and just retaining the annual budget without deep cuts was a source of pride.

  Several faculty members, looking organized and prepared, were boarding the bus in an orderly fashion. I imagined the students would rush in at the last minute, if their travel habits resembled their classroom habits. André was near the entrance of the bus, cheerfully providing guidance. He was no longer frustrated or angry; yesterday’s storm of emotions had passed, leaving the disagreeable André behind. Instead, he brimmed with excitement.

  “Good morning, Emmeline,” he called out from the bus. He was wearing tight black jeans and a button-down blue and black shirt. Somehow he looked more Parisian than ever, as if anticipating that he would soon be in his element.

  “Hello,” I said, quickening my step.

  “You like our big yellow bus?” André asked as he took my suitcase.

  “Very nice,” I said, not wanting to dampen his spirits. “Should I sit anywhere in particular?”

  “Anywhere you’d like. You have a first-class ticket.”

  I climbed the three rubber-covered steps and sat in an open green seat near the middle of the bus. Several rows on each side were already filled with faculty members. Nick Dramsdor from Paleontology was seated directly behind Molly Jaspers and her husband, Bennett. Molly was the kind of woman who didn’t need makeup; au naturel looked fabulous on her. Masses of natural blonde curls hung just past her shoulders and were tucked neatly behind her ears. When people said they wished for naturally curly hair, this was the kind they meant: wavy locks that piled one atop the other. Her billowy white blouse added the right touch to her straight tan trousers, and the only sparkle came from her eyes, full of energy as she and Nick talked back and forth. Once in a while, Nick, absorbed by her words, would lean in so close it would appear they were all sitting in the same seat. Molly’s husband, Bennett, whose hair was black with a two-inch gray streak down the middle, didn’t seem to mind. He contributed heartily to the conversation, though he looked more tired and overworked than Molly or Nick. He had broad shoulders and a boisterous laugh, however, and when he let loose with it, his face appeared much younger. Another faculty member occupied a seat across from Molly and her husband, but I couldn’t put a name to her face. She was probably nearing sixty, with cropped, dark-brown hair feathered to one side. Thick rectangular glasses disguised her eyes.

  “Is this seat taken?” asked Arnold Frasier, the art professor I had mentioned to Lenny.

  “Not at all,” I said. I was pleased that I would have over four hours to get to know him better. Although I had talked to him a few times during various university events, I didn’t know much about him. He was nice looking, in his forties, with a short blond-brown ponytail at the nape of his neck and expressionless eyebrows that framed bland blue eyes. I wouldn’t say he was dreamy, but preoccupied. It was as if this world had about ha
lf his attention. The other half was lost in a painting somewhere.

  “You’re in English, right?” he said. He unzipped his khaki jacket.

  “Yes. Emmeline Prather.”

  “Arnold Frasier,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Nice to see you again. I’m the chair over in Art.”

  “I thought so,” I said. “I’m hoping to stand next to you in the Louvre.”

  He smiled. “I hope I don’t disappoint you. My specialty is American folk art.”

  “It’d be impossible to disappoint me. I know very little about art, except the references to Greek mythology. You could probably make up a good deal, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “Well, I guarantee you that your Greek mythology will serve you well at the Louvre. There’s nothing those artists enjoyed referencing more.”

  I shrugged. “Greek myths are popular with writers, too.”

  The bus was filling up fast as students rushed in, in short bursts. Molly Jaspers stood and hugged a girl who walked in with Kat, my creative writing student, and Nick hugged her too. They all seemed to know each other well. Kat and her friend took a seat in the middle of the bus, Kat high-fiving me as she walked by. Olivia, the girl from André’s office, boarded the bus next. She pouted her glossy lips at André as she passed through the doorway with another girl she addressed as Meg. I had a feeling the two groups of girls didn’t get along, for Kat and her friend exchanged sour glances as Olivia and Meg hurried to the back of the bus. Two boys, one as short as the other was tall, joined Olivia and Meg in the back of the bus. André was the last to enter, and the door closed with a rubbery slap behind him.

  After speaking for a moment with the driver, he stood facing us, waiting for the talking to subside. “Good morning, everyone! We have a nice day for travel, no?” He pointed out the windows. “We make a little stop in Mankato, and then we arrive in Minneapolis by twelve. I will sit directly behind our driver, Ben, here if you wish to pose any questions.” With that, he sat down in the seat behind the driver, and the bus began to move in hesitant spurts toward the street.

  I never minded a drive through the countryside, especially in the spring. The land wasn’t particularly pretty or even green, but the distinct smell of dirt was in the air as if the fields had just been stirred with a giant wire whisk. It was a terrific scent that spoke to the power of renewal after the harsh, harsh winter. With the opening of a bus window, the past four months receded into the folds of a thick blanket. Outside, the seeds of spring were poised to sprout, reenergizing something inside of us Midwesterners that we thought had died with the winterkill.

  It was exhilarating, and I found myself inhaling deeply, imagining this trip to Paris as the start of a new chapter in my life. It was the chance I had been waiting for to reconnect with my French background. For almost two years I had taught solely for the English Department. I hadn’t minded; in fact, I enjoyed it. I hadn’t expected the introductory creative writing class I was teaching while Claudia was gone to be so pleasurable. Now, with the semester half over, I could say it had been one of my best teaching experiences to date. I loved immersing myself in the students’ stories and helping them write the next lines. I had always loved fiction, had buried myself in it in my youth, and now I had a chance to participate in its creation. It had been an eventful semester, and with Paris dangling in the distance like a ripe red apple, I couldn’t help but anticipate good things for my future.

  Mankato, Minnesota, was small but spread out in all directions. Unlike Copper Bluff, it felt like a city, not a town, even though it housed a state university. We stopped at a fast-food chain just past the industrial area for a short break, André emphasizing the word “short” as the bus came to a halt. Although the faculty sat near the front of the bus, the students emptied out first. When they were gone, I waited patiently for Arnold Frasier to stand. My bladder shouted for relief after many cups of coffee, and I made a small commotion as I yanked my purse off the floor, hoping to give him a clue.

  “I guess we’re here,” Arnold said, stating the obvious.

  “Time for a stretch.” I stood up.

  He stepped into the aisle, allowing me to go ahead of him, and I quickly walked to the restaurant, the pungent smell of french fries hitting me as I pulled open the door.

  The bathroom stalls were full, and I stood in a line three deep against the wall. Olivia and Meg chatted happily while reapplying lip gloss at the vanity. Kat’s friend, who had a curtain of blonde, flat-ironed hair, came out of the stall and washed and wiped her hands without looking up from the sink. She silently zipped up her plaid spring coat and left. As she walked out the door, Olivia and Meg looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Now it was my turn to enter a stall, so I could no longer see their faces, but I could hear them whisper as they rummaged through their purses.

  “Whatever. I hope Amanda’s not like this the whole trip,” said one.

  “She’s so stuck on herself,” said the other.

  Over the crinkling of paper towels, I heard, “After last spring, we’re through.”

  “I know, right? It was a test.” The other girl zipped her purse shut. “You think she could get over herself long enough for one test.”

  The door opened, and they were gone. I silently prayed I wouldn’t need to moderate between the two groups of girls. With our number totaling thirteen, the trip had enough stacked against it without infighting.

  At the counter, I ordered a chocolate malt and french fries, munching out of the bag as I reentered the bus. Some of the faculty stood talking to each other in the aisle. Molly and her husband, Bennett, snacked on vegetables from a Tupperware container, and my seatmate, Arnold Frasier, stood behind them next to Nick Dramsdor. I smiled at him briefly as I plopped down on the seat, the cushion expelling its air as I made myself comfortable. The woman with cropped hair sat reading a book. I still couldn’t place a name with her face, but I had a feeling she was associated with administration. She had an air of authority.

  Arnold and Nick were discussing the hieroglyphs of the Mayan ruins at some length, and I was surprised to hear an edge in Arnold’s voice. The last couple of hours, he had been mild-mannered, even borderline bland, not that I doubted his warmth. He had a quiet passion simmering just below the surface. When I looked into his steady eyes, I could see it there, bubbling.

  “Frasier, you’re coming at it from an artist’s viewpoint. A historian approaches it from a completely different angle. Molly sees it from a social prospective.” Nick sounded more like an adoring student than a professor.

  “You’re exactly right, Nick. That’s where Arnold and I have always differed.” This was said by Molly. I would have recognized her tyrannical voice anywhere; it nearly beat one over the head with its smug certainty. The woman with the cropped hair looked in Molly’s direction. Her eyes narrowed in disapproval.

  “Not always, Molly,” said Arnold, his voice a little more even. “There was a time when your interest in art went beyond a protest poster.”

  “Touché!” exclaimed Molly. “And this coming from a man who encourages students to follow their passions.”

  It was the kind of sparring at which Molly excelled. Although her combativeness infuriated some on campus, I kind of admired her willingness to speak her mind.

  “She’s got you there,” laughed Nick.

  Arnold attempted a smile and failed. “I should be getting back.” He walked toward our seat, his shoulders slumped. I stuck out my bag of french fries, but he declined with a shake of his head.

  “I’m told it’s hard to get fast food in Paris. This may be your last chance,” I said.

  “I’m not really hungry, but thank you,” he said.

  The bus continued to fill with students, and the noise decibel rose concurrently. “So, you and Molly…. What was that about?” I said.

  “She used to be an avid patron of the arts.”

  I took a sip of my malt. “Not anymore?”

  “No, not anymore. Fightin
g Midwest Connect takes up most of her energy now.” Midwest Connect was a proposed pipeline that would transport oil from North Dakota to Illinois. If I remembered correctly, it was supposed to be functional by the end of the year, and I had no trouble seeing why Molly would be against it. I, too, was against it, along with half of the state, including the Native Americans into whose reservation it would cut. The pipeline wasn’t worth the environmental risk, especially to sacred lands. One of North Dakota’s Native American tribes was already protesting to keep it off their reservation.

  His calm eyes turned downward, revealing his disappointment. I knew there was more to the story than his short explanation. “It’s too bad. She encouraged a lot of our students when she bought their paintings.”

  “Yes, the old case of money speaks louder than words,” I said.

  “Don’t you mean actions?”

  “So many times it means the same thing, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  “True.” He leaned in more confidentially. A few strands fell from his low ponytail, and I tried not to stare at his good looks. Now he looked like the art professor who had caused more than a few girls to change their majors. “It’s too bad when professors fixate on a cause. It’s better for our students when we’re integrated as a community. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It depends on the cause; sometimes it’s worth it when so much is at stake.”

  He leaned back; he didn’t like my response. But I wasn’t about to dismiss the severity of the threat posed by the pipeline entering our state. While I didn’t think Molly should put her cause before all else, I could understand why she would. Many professors had a hard time staying neutral on issues that impacted their fields—and even ones that didn’t. When a student of mine had died last semester, I’d put finding justice for him before everything. Even Arnold Frasier, if he were honest with himself, would realize that he was doing the same thing—putting his passions above hers. What really angered him was her loss of interest in the art world.