THE SUBJECT OF MALICE
Page 1
Praise for the Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series
“A pitch-perfect portrayal of academic life with a beguiling cast of anxious newbies, tweedy old troublemakers and scholars as sharp as they’re wise. Lila’s Stonedale is a world I’m thrilled to have found. Roll on book two!”
– Catriona McPherson,
Multi-Award-Winning Author of the Dandy Gilver Series
“Takes the reader into higher education’s secrets and shadows, where the real lesson is for the new professor—how to stay alive. If you’re smart, you’ll read this book.”
– Lori Rader-Day,
Anthony Award-Winning Author of The Black Hour
“Entertaining, intricate, and oh-so-smart! The talented Cynthia Kuhn treats mystery lovers to an insider’s look at the treacherous world of academia—seething with manipulation, jealousy, and relentless ambition. A terrific plot.”
— Hank Phillippi Ryan,
Mary Higgins Clark Award-Winning Author
“A very intricate, cool story featuring the depth of an institution where everyone is dying to climb the ladder of success.”
– Suspense Magazine
“Tightly plotted with a deliciously memorable cast of characters, The Art of Vanishing kept me guessing from start to finish, and Kuhn’s smart sense of humor made every page a pleasure.”
– Marla Cooper,
Author of the Kelsey McKenna Destination Wedding Mysteries
“Absolutely addictive.”
— Kathleen Valenti,
Agatha-Nominated Author of the Maggie O’Malley Mysteries
“Whether Stonedale University English professor Lila is confronting a backstabbing colleague or investigating a murder attempt on a cantankerous bestselling author, readers will root for this enormously likeable heroine.”
— Ellen Byron,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Plantation Shudders
“Smart, action-packed, and immensely satisfying, The Subject of Malice had me from page one. I love this series, and it just keeps getting better.”
– Wendy Tyson,
Author of Ripe for Vengeance
“A pure delight from page one. Cynthia Kuhn’s Lila Maclean mysteries will cure what ails you. Funny and fantastic.”
— Becky Clark,
Author of the Mystery Writer’s Mysteries
“A twisty mystery with a gentle, gracious humor and a touch of whimsy. Reading it is like spending the afternoon with a best friend. You laugh. You smile. And you want to see her again very soon. I can’t wait for the next Lila Maclean mystery.”
— Keenan Powell,
Agatha-Nominated Author of the Maeve Malloy Mystery Series
“Papers, and panels, and murder, oh my! Everyone’s favorite professor, Lila Maclean (secret powers include reading and finding bodies), is back and she’s on the case (officially)! Lila’s latest adventure is full of high drama and high crimes. Such FUN!”
— Julie Mulhern,
USA Today Bestselling Author of the Country Club Murders
“An intelligent, witty mystery that will keep you guessing to the very end.”
— Libby Klein,
Author of the Poppy McAllister Mysteries
The Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series
by Cynthia Kuhn
THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT (#1)
THE ART OF VANISHING (#2)
THE SPIRIT IN QUESTION (#3)
THE SUBJECT OF MALICE (#4)
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Copyright
THE SUBJECT OF MALICE
A Lila Maclean Academic Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | July 2019
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by Cynthia Kuhn
Author photograph by Angela Kleinsasser
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-511-6
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-512-3
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-513-0
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-514-7
Printed in the United States of America
For my family (near and far)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to...
Henery Press, whose fabulous work has made this book possible.
The Hen House, House of Clues, Sisters in Crime, Malice Domestic, Left Coast Crime, International Thriller Writers, and Mystery Writers of America—for the community and inspiration.
Gretchen Archer, Jim Aubrey, Margarita Barceló, Mary Birk, Cindy Brown, Wendy Crichton, Annette Dashofy, Sandra Doe, Dorothy and William Guerrera, Elsie Haley, Sybil Johnson, Jennifer Kincheloe, Libby Klein, Dennis and Ursula Kuhn, Margaret Mizushima, Julie Mulhern, Barbara Nickless, Nora Page, Vincent Piturro, Keenan Powell, Renée Ruderman, Angela M. Sanders, Meredith Schorr, Craig Svonkin, Wendy Tyson, and Wendolyn Weber—for manuscript readings, generous words, and/or pep talks.
Chicks on the Case—Ellen Byron, Becky Clark, Marla Cooper, Vickie Fee, Kellye Garrett, Leslie Karst, Lisa Q. Mathews, and Kathleen Valenti—for all things blog-sister and way beyond.
Wonderful family, friends, and readers who have supported this series.
Ken, Griffin, and Sawyer—for your kindness, sunshine, and everything else.
Endless gratitude all around. xo
Chapter 1
At the door, I narrowly avoided a gray creature with tentacles waving every which way. In the lobby, I passed two formidable vampires arguing about coffins. Near the fountain, I glimpsed a trio of witches chanting over the water as if it were a cauldron.
Monster Night was upon us.
The gold banner behind the hotel registration desk welcomed guests to Malice in the Mountains, sponsored by the Horror and Gothic Society. The organization’s first-ever conference was taking place near Stonedale, Colorado, where I was assistant professor of English at the university. Attendees had been invited to dress according to a daily theme and, as a result, the ensembles ranged from mild-mannered professor to full-on cosplayer. I had aimed for the former rather than the latter, choosing simple attire for a meeting with the editor of my first book.
Finding a vacant bench, I settled in to wait. Instrumental fiddle music played overhead, competing with the voices of enthusiastic scholars. It was an odd juxtaposition, but this was clearly no ordinary academic gathering, and the venue was part of the reason. The Tattered Star Ranch drew visitors from around the world to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Originally a working ranch, it had been used as a shooting location for many western films, but after it had begun to fall into disrepair in more recent decades, its ghost-town vibe had made it a popular location for horror movies.
When that era ended, new owners completed
a costly expansion to transform the site into a full-service resort. The hotel proper was now U-shaped, with ten floors instead of the original three. Meeting rooms were situated in both wings with guest housing in the center. Along the back, a main street set left behind by one of the westerns had been converted into retail space. The middle of the square had been filled with gardens, benches, and statues. Wisely, the owners had played up the movie aspects—the entire place was dotted with leftover props and sets—and the hotel offered tours that sold out daily. Acres of forest surrounded the site, and a short walk over the wooden bridge spanning a babbling creek led to numerous hiking and horseback riding trails for those seeking additional adventure.
The renovation had yielded a lovely product. From where I sat, deep green pine trees were visible swaying in the wind through the glass walls. The seating was saddle brown and purposefully weathered, as if it had been plucked directly from the range. Rusted iron art pieces and mirrors with whitewashed frames were punctuated with yellow sunflowers. The stream of otherworldly characters passing by, however, would have looked more at home in an abandoned castle. I counted three werewolves, several wraiths, and a zombie.
I wondered if my editor would be in costume. I also wondered what we’d be talking about. Over a year ago, I had signed the contract with the university press and thrown myself into the work of getting the manuscript in order. Even though it was a revision of my doctoral dissertation on mystery writer Isabella Dare, much effort was required to reshape the material and perform additional research. The book was to be published in October, six months from now. The entire process—we had just completed final proofreading—had taken place over email. The only reason I was meeting Meredith Estevan in person was that we happened to be attending the same conference.
Her email invitation had been vaguely worded—she “wanted to go over some things.” The materials I’d received so far had informed me that the press would sell primarily to libraries and academic audiences but would make the book available for general purchase as well. There was no mention of marketing strategies or any kind of events. I typed a reminder into my cell phone to ask her about my responsibilities as an author.
Author.
Still gave me a thrill, that word.
The late afternoon sunshine through the glass warmed my back, and I lost myself in a delightful daydream about launch parties and sold-out readings, even though I knew neither of those was going to happen for a book like mine. Scholarly studies didn’t typically burst onto the scene in the same way as fiction. Unless you were a superstar. Which I was most definitely not.
“Lila Maclean.” It was a statement, not a question. I recognized the voice immediately as that of my colleague and, though I wished things were different, archenemy.
Simone Raleigh stood before me.
Make that two Raleighs. Two sets of pearls, two tailored sapphire suits, two perfect blonde chignons—both exuding cool elegance and a sense of entitlement.
I snapped out of my daydream fast.
“This is my sister, Selene,” Simone said, gesturing. “Remember I told you about her?”
Of course. Selene had applied for the job that I’d landed, setting up the foundation for my ongoing nemesis situation with Simone, who sought out ways to undermine me whenever possible, as retaliation.
“Nice to meet you, Selene.” I extended my hand, which she shook limply with her fingertips, seeming to want to avoid making contact with my skin. The gold bracelets on her slim wrist barely even moved.
“A pleasure. I hoped we’d run into you,” she said in a clear voice, though her smirk conveyed amusement. “Simone’s told me so much about you.”
I had the distinct feeling that I’d just met Nemesis 2.0.
“Are you waiting for Merrie?” Selene smoothed her glistening locks. My own dark wavy hair was probably springing extra frizz just to rebel against being in proximity to such perfection.
“Merrie?”
Simone elbowed her sister, then sighed. “Meredith. The editor. She told us she’d be meeting you.”
I looked back and forth between them. “You know her too?”
In response to my question, I was accosted by tinkling laughs from both sides.
“Of course. We went to school together—” Selene said in a reproachful tone that implied I should have known that.
“Yes, all in the same class, even.” Simone addressed me. “Are you in your thirties too, Lila? Or perhaps a little older?” She pointed to the space next to her eye, suggesting that some hideous wrinkle had given away my secret.
Except that I didn’t have any wrinkles there yet and she knew we had graduated from school the same year, which we discussed almost immediately when we were hired together. So I just nodded and put all my effort into not rolling my eyes, which would only hasten further development of my life markings.
“Merrie’s the dearest friend—” Simone mused, sweetly. She said most things sweetly, which was a misdirection of epic proportions.
“Yes.” Selene concurred in an equally syrupy tone. “And we haven’t seen her in ages—”
“Simply ages. Far too long.”
Selene turned to her sister. “When was it?”
“At the ski weekend—”
“No, it was the cruise—”
“Wait,” Simone said, holding up one finger in victory, “it was the safari.”
“Right! The safari.”
They flashed beautiful white teeth at each other in celebration of having reached that agreement and faced me again.
“Anyway,” Selene said, “I’m here to talk with her about my book. I’ve signed a contract with them, you know.”
“How wonderful! Congratulations.” I smiled at her. “What’s your book about?”
“It’s on an American writer that no one knows, and she’s absolutely fabulous.”
Very intriguing—I taught American literature as well. “What’s her name?”
“Isabella Dare.”
My body responded before my brain did, spiraling a stabbing pain through my midsection and spiking my heart rate. I stared at her stupidly, willing concepts to string themselves together into a response, but nothing happened. I looked down at my palms, which were damp from the adrenaline her words had sent shooting through my body, and concentrated on breathing.
Selene continued cheerily, “Have you ever heard of Isabella?”
Dragging my eyes up to her face was as difficult as if I’d been Sisyphus rolling a boulder uphill, but I counted it a small victory that I met her gaze steadily. I didn’t say anything for a beat, and her face reddened. In that moment, I knew she was aware of what she’d done.
I nodded, then somehow managed to ask Selene—calmly—to tell me more about the book. She chattered on about her take, which was to compare Isabella’s work to that of Charlotte Brontë.
“Isn’t that your area?” I inquired of Simone, though I already knew it was. She’d made it very clear, from the day she arrived on campus, that Charlotte Belonged To Her.
“Yes. It is. How kind of you to remember.” She dipped her head in a show of false humility. “I suppose you might say that my sister and I are writing this book together.”
I couldn’t speak for a moment. Simone, along with everyone in our department, knew that I was working on Isabella Dare. I’d not only talked about my work with colleagues, but also I’d presented on her writing several times at conferences—and all of our presentations were announced on the department website as well as compiled and circulated monthly in an email from our chair, Spencer Bartholomew, who was a kindly sort, prone to acknowledging faculty achievements.
The sisters watched me closely, waiting for a reaction. My shock had already transitioned into ice-cold rage, which, thankfully, kept me from shrieking like a gothic heroine who had just come face to face with a monster. Yet just when I tho
ught I’d managed to regain my composure, a wave of dizziness swept over me at the realization that perhaps having coffee, for Meredith, meant telling me that they’d decided not to publish my book on Isabella Dare after all, since they had the one with the Raleighs. Which would translate into the fact that I either had to find another publisher, stat, or forget about keeping my job.
I reached down for my satchel in order to have something to do that didn’t involve looking at the twins. While I was groping below the bench, I heard one of them exclaim, “Merrie!”
A petite woman strode over to us on the highest heels I’d ever seen. She could have been a model, with shining black hair down to her waist and piercing blue eyes. Even through the lenses of her chic dark glasses, the power of her gaze made itself clear.
Simone and Selene wrapped her in hugs and expressions of affection while I stood there awkwardly, tapping my satchel. Eventually, Meredith tugged her fitted charcoal gray jacket back into place and looked over her frames at me.
“And who is this, please?”
The Raleighs gestured toward me in graceful slow motion, as though I was the prize revealed behind the curtain in a game show.
“Lila Maclean.” I stepped forward and offered my hand.
“Oh! Just the woman I was looking for. I’m Meredith Estevan,” she said, shaking my hand firmly. “I know we are scheduled for coffee in”—she consulted her oversized watch—“now, actually—”
“Couldn’t we steal you away for a catch up?” Selene interjected, a wistful look on her face. “I’m sure Lila wouldn’t mind talking business another time.”