An Act of Murder Read online

  The meeting was to take place in Windsor, a terrific old building that was attached to my own Harriman Hall via a suspended passageway made out of frosted security block. I only had to step up from the English hallway and through the passageway to reach Windsor. My first semester at Copper Bluff, I taught in a room immediately following the walkway. I discovered that pigeons often got stuck in a small opening above and would beat their wings against the walls until they found their way out. It was an eerie sound, hard to dismiss. During a quiz or test, when the students were quiet, the sound grew disconcerting, if not downright debilitating. Walking through the passageway now, I realized no one would ever suspect such a thing could be true. It was completely silent.

  Room 208 was located on the floor that housed both the History and the Women’s Studies Departments. The Women’s Studies Department was small and boasted only three faculty members, one being Ann Jorgenson, who was on the committee. Also in the group were two theater faculty, Alexander Schwartz, a perfectionist in every respect, and Dan Fox, Alex’s go-to man and set designer. Rita Johnston, a surprising participant from Health and Wellness, was a mother of four and a champion chess player. I liked talking to her about vitamins and supplements and other cure-all pills that promised to improve or extend my life.

  The committee members were seated near the front of the room—all except Alex, who stood at the whiteboard with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. Alex was a heavy-set man with a barrel-shaped stomach and a bald head. His eyes and eyebrows were dark brown and his mouth so small that it became the focal point of his large, bland visage. Perhaps this is why people listened when he talked, even when he was wrong. The results of his work were beyond reproach, and I had a great deal of respect for him because he represented writers so well.

  Dan Fox was a much smaller man but no less important, of that I was sure. He seemed the consummate dreamer, forever gazing out windows and speaking too softly. His mousy brown hair hung straight in his face and always seemed in need of a good clipping. Despite their odd-couple appearances, however, I predicted that they worked well together, as is often the case when balance is paramount to the success of a project.

  Rita and Ann sat to the left of the podium, several chairs away from Dan, and I took one of the empty chairs near them. Rita had beautiful red hair, wavy and smooth and cut nicely above the ears. One would guess by her hair that she was several years younger than she truly was. Ann was a few years older than I was but probably had a hard time being taken seriously by her students because of her extraordinary good looks. As I sat down beside her, I noticed that her clothes always hung as they did in fashion magazines. Mine nearly did—with the help of a sturdy pair of control tops and three-inch heels.

  “The poetry slam was a hit last Friday,” I whispered. “Everyone had a great time.”

  “I thought so, too,” said Ann. “Quite a few people showed up.”

  Just then Jane Lemort entered, and my heart sank. After learning that one of the committee members would be on sabbatical this semester, she’d asked me about his replacement, but I’d stayed as vague as possible. I knew she was just fishing for some new way to appear involved—as if her membership in twelve other groups and chapters meant nothing. She was obsessed with being well-known on campus; she thought it tantamount to receiving tenure. Now here she was in all her medieval glory. We smiled at each other cordially, and she took the seat next to mine, commenting on my “interesting” earrings. “Interesting” from her was another way of saying, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in those.”

  “It’s so nice to have the input of so many experts on my play,” Alex said, immediately drawing murmurs from each of us insisting that we were not experts. “Oh don’t worry. I’m not going to quiz you … at least not until the end of the meeting.”

  We all laughed.

  “It’s been a long summer, hasn’t it? I can’t wait to sink my teeth into something substantial,” said Alex.

  “You can’t get more substantial than Les Mis,” said Rita.

  Alex nodded. “It’s going to present certain challenges, that’s for sure. I, for one, am not looking forward to the slaying of some of the musical numbers.” He shuddered. “It will take time. But I have every confidence in our student body. Sarah sung very nicely for the part of Fantine,” he said with a nod in my direction.

  I leaned back. I knew Sarah from last year’s Brigadoon, but I couldn’t recall if she was in English. She must have been.

  “Sarah is such a nice girl and a gifted creative writer,” Jane interjected.

  I wanted to roll my eyes but refrained. I couldn’t imagine a medievalist would have any opinion whatsoever on modern creative writing.

  “Jane! Welcome,” said Alex. “Forgive me for not introducing you to the rest of the group. This is Jane Lemort from English. You probably know everyone already.”

  “Mostly,” she said, glancing around the room. “And thank you. I’m glad to be here.”

  “Les Mis feels so right this year; wealth inequality is being discussed in a lot of classrooms,” I said, returning to the play. “I cannot wait to see what you come up with for the set.”

  “Two years ago I saw it performed in New York, and they made a towering replica of the barricade,” said Dan. “That’s what I have in mind.”

  “Oohh,” said Ann. “I like the sound of that.”

  Alex looked agitated. “Nothing has been agreed on yet, though.”

  “Oh no, of course not,” said Dan, completely noncommittal. His passion seemed to deflate with each poke of Alex’s serious voice.

  “But whatever we choose, we’ll need several dozen volunteers to get it right,” continued Alex. “The set will be a huge undertaking but well worth the effort. What do you think about extending a little extra credit in your classes?”

  At this, we chuckled. Extra credit came in quite handy when it came to finding volunteers.

  “I have three new freshmen this year and—you won’t believe this—one fellow is quite strong, a bona fide farmhand!” said Dan.

  “Ah … a thespian of the first tier,” said Alex.

  These were exactly the kind of comments that made me critical of Alex. He could be so condescending.

  “Actually, he’s pumped about the work. I think you know him, Emmeline. He said he’s one of your students. Austin something-or-other.”

  “Austin Oliver?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Dan swept his shaggy hair from his eyes. “Nice kid. Likes the theater, I guess. I talked him into taking Theater Appreciation next semester, so at least we’ll have him around for a couple of semesters.”

  “Smart thinking,” said Alex. “We always need a guy like that around—if for nothing more than brute strength.”

  Now I was irritated. I certainly would not stand for anyone putting down a student of mine. “I’m sure he’ll prove useful in more ways than one. I’ve found Austin to be a very intelligent young man with many talents. He’s much smarter than that clod who played Mr. Darcy … what was his name? Derrick? Drake?”

  “Daniel,” ground out Alex.

  I dismissed him with the wave of my hand. “Of course, Daniel. Hardly believable in that part.”

  Ann covered her mouth and coughed.

  “I have an event,” Jane interceded, perhaps on my behalf, “that I’d like us to promote. I’m partnering with the Music Department to bring Medieval Music Mondays to our sack lunch program. Every Monday in the month of October, there will be live medieval music and poetry at the Music Museum.”

  I wasn’t certain what kind of music was played in medieval times, but all I had to do was picture Jane with a lyre, and the program became intolerable.

  “I like it,” said Rita. “Nobody knows a damn thing about anything further back than the War of 1812. At least I don’t.”

  Rita had a point. The program might help demystify Jane’s very existence.

  “I was hoping we could advertise it
on public radio—just through September—to get off on the right foot,” she said.

  “Oh I don’t know, Jane. That’s a lot of money spent on something that doesn’t generate any revenue,” said Alex.

  Although I thought advertising the program on public radio was a bit overzealous, I didn’t appreciate Alex’s newly asserted dictatorship. He had no more power than Jane did when it came to deciding what events we would create and promote. “Careful, Alex. You sound suspiciously like the Athletic Department,” I said.

  Now his tiny mouth formed a smile. “Oh god, we can’t have that.” He closed his notebook and relaxed his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jane. I think it’s a great idea. I really do. Budget cuts make it harder and harder every year to allocate funds appropriately.”

  “That’s because there are no funds,” said Ann. “I think it’s ludicrous what this university expects us to make do with so little.”

  We all nodded vaguely in agreement. In some ways, Ann was right. She was an up-and-comer in an up-and-coming field. She had ideas she couldn’t possibly put into action on such a small campus. For scholars like me, however, who were connected to the past as if by an invisible string, this campus was ideal. We didn’t need or want much to change, and lack of funds ensured nothing much did.

  After the meeting, I took the main staircase that led outdoors instead of the passageway because it was ten minutes to the hour, and following Alex’s extended harangue on the financial future of the arts, I longed for the rash vernacular of the student body brushing up against me. Hearing them shout to their friends, eating sandwiches and drinking sodas, conjugating Spanish verbs … it was all a part of something that I loved absolutely. I stood in the hallway, unmoving, listening and hoping never in my lifetime to cease understanding what it meant.

  The crowd thinned, and I was left with nothing but an empty hallway and an empty feeling in my stomach. I prided myself on knowing my students. Even if I didn’t remember their names, I always remembered their stories. I began to write them down long before they wrote their first papers, and I suppose, in that respect, I was a bit of a storyteller, perhaps one who had lost her touch. Austin Oliver, after all, contradicted each new page that I wrote.

  Chapter Five

  At the end of the week, my composition students were to begin reciting their poems. They had had almost two weeks to select a poem, and I arrived early on campus Friday morning in anticipation. Sometimes students would drop by my office before class, asking about a pronunciation or the meaning of a word or phrase. Such thoroughness was rare, but it satisfied me to know that some students took their assignments seriously.

  Barb was already in and so was Giles, and that meant that the coffee was brewed. I rummaged through the bottom of my book bag, searching for spare change. All I had were several pennies. I casually glanced back at the door to make sure no one was watching. Then I dropped three pennies in the can and filled my to-go mug.

  I surreptitiously backed out of the door, zipping my bag with one hand and holding my coffee with the other. I made one bold move into the hallway and toward my office door, a small smile of triumph on my lips. My smile faded, however, as I realized I didn’t have my office key in hand. I quickly reopened my bag.

  I heard footsteps and was certain they were Barb’s, the coffee can open, the thief revealed. But they were not Barb’s. To my surprise they belonged to Austin Oliver, walking down the hallway as if he were lost.

  “Austin!” I called out. He froze for a moment but did not turn around. “Austin!” I said again. Now he turned and squinted. I waved. He started walking in my direction. “I’m glad I caught you,” I said. “I just got here. Come in, come in.”

  I threw my bag on the table and sprung open the shade. Then I plopped down in my office chair and motioned to the other chair for him to do the same. He did not. Clad in light blue jeans and a flannel shirt, he stood awkwardly, glancing around the small room.

  “So, which poem did you decide on? Or did you come to see if I would make good on my bet?” I asked. “It’s rather last minute, but no one could accuse me of shirking a duty.”

  He continued to examine my office with interest. He squinted at some of the titles of my books, even going so far as to take one out and frown at it.

  “Hmm?” he said.

  I smiled. “That’s a first edition of Whitman. A history professor gave it to me as a graduation present. Did you choose a Whitman poem?” I pulled my battered text out of my bag and began thumbing through it.

  Now he turned and looked at me, and I could see he was under duress. His eyes seemed larger, and I decided this was because he was not smiling. He was again the unsure student from the first day of class. Maybe Lenny was right. Maybe he really was worried about reciting the poem. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if something else were on his mind.

  “It is the poem, isn’t it?” I asked. “You did come to see me about the poem?”

  He stared at me quizzically, perhaps wondering if I could be trusted with a secret. Many students had looked at me in this same way, hoping to find a sympathetic ear on the other side. For a moment, I thought he would tell me about the girl in the parking lot, confide in me that he was in danger. I touched the arm of the facing chair.

  But he did not sit down. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and said, “Yes. ‘Those Winter Sundays.’ ”

  Now it was my turn to be at a loss for words.

  “The poem I chose is ‘Those Winter Sundays,’ ” he repeated.

  “Yes … well,” I said, trying to regain my speech. “That is a fine poem. The word choice is simple; it has good alliteration. An important aspect of this poem, I guess, is how you view the speaker’s feelings about his father.”

  “I don’t know,” Austin said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I guess he feels bad about the way he treated him.”

  I nodded encouragingly. “The tone is certainly one of regret. Dads perform a lot of tasks for which they aren’t always thanked, wouldn’t you say?”

  He shrugged. “My dad—stepdad—he got up early like the dad in the poem. He did a lot of chores I never really appreciated when I lived on the farm. I suppose that’s why he wants to sell it.”

  “Oh no,” I said, my brow furrowing. “I’m sure it was a decision both your parents came to when they determined to divorce. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “That’s what everyone says. But if that’s true, why did they wait until now to tell me he wasn’t my real dad?” There was anger as well as sadness behind his words.

  “I’m sure they were waiting until they thought you were old enough to process the news; it was just bad timing with the divorce,” I said carefully.

  “Maybe. But if my dad really cared, why is he selling the farm? He knew I planned to farm; we planned on it since I was a kid. He didn’t even give me a chance to make some money or get a loan to buy it. He wants to sell it immediately … before he moves to Toledo. Where is that even at?”

  “Ohio,” I said automatically. His reaction told me he hadn’t expected an answer.

  “And now … well, it doesn’t matter.” He coughed. “I’ve moved on. That’s why I’m here, right?” His voice still held a good deal of uncertainty.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said. I didn’t want to lose any of the ground I had gained. “You can find a new passion here. It could even be poetry.”

  Now he grinned, and I started to feel better about the direction of the conversation. The feeling, however, was short-lived.

  “In fact, I just happen to have a recording of that poem of yours. I think you’d really enjoy hearing the author’s rendition.” I started to rifle through the stack of CDs near my computer.

  “You know, Professor Prather, I think I’m good. I gotta get going,” he said.

  “Nonsense! We have at least thirty minutes before class,” I said, digging faster.

  “That’s okay, really.”

  He was halfway to the door. I frowned, notic
ing that he wasn’t toting his book bag.

  “See you later.”

  “If you have to go …” I said, trying to catch the CDs, now falling one after the other onto the floor. But it was too late—for him and the CDs. Both were out of my reach.

  When I got to class that morning, I wasn’t surprised that he was absent. He hadn’t been carrying his book bag, after all. Maybe he hadn’t planned on attending. Yet, as I stood staring at his empty spot, I began to worry about the unusual circumstances of the encounter. He had chosen a poem; he had come in to discuss it. Or had he wanted to discuss something else?

  Chapter Six

  On Sunday evening, Jim Giles’s name appeared on my caller ID. He hadn’t contacted me at home since my first day of teaching. Now I listened as a third party might while Giles told me a student of mine, Austin Oliver, had been found dead in the theater.

  “Dead,” I said to Giles, repeating the word into the receiver as if unfamiliar with its definition.

  “Yes. He died working on the set of Les Misérables last evening. They found him this morning. I wanted you to hear it from me first …. I’m very sorry, Emmeline.”

  I moved a stack of books from my dining-room chair to the floor and slowly sat down. “What happened? Did he fall?”

  “No, nothing like that as far as I understand,” said Giles. “They are still determining what caused his death.”

  “They don’t know?”

  “They just found him this morning; they assume he died Saturday night. You know what a ghost town it is on the weekends. I mean, what I meant to say is, they will find out what happened. It looks very bad for the university until they do.”

  That was true. To have a student die on campus while working on a university project was bad news. President Conner was probably covering all angles and deciding the scenario that would look best for the university.