THE SUBJECT OF MALICE

by Cynthia Kuhn

  When my heart had slowed to its usual pace, I went outside and called Calista. I recounted the conversation and listened to her response, which began with a string of curses aimed at the Raleighs, then veered into possible ways to let other people know how horrible they were, then coasted into potential retribution scenarios. When she finally reached the what-are-you-going-to-do-now phase, I was feeling much better.

  “I’m going to talk to Meredith tomorrow,” I said, resolving to be direct and unemotional. “We have a meeting and maybe she will see the—”

  “Injustice!” Calista said angrily. “It’s completely unfair.”

  “I was going to say issue, but okay, injustice, and maybe she’ll revert to the original schedule.”

  “Your book should come out first, as planned. Being the first to publish on an obscure author holds more weight.

  “But does it always? Maybe—”

  “Stop. You have put in the work. You deserve to go first. Accept nothing less.”

  “I’ll try to convince Meredith. If not, there’s nothing else I can do.”

  “I’ll keep thinking about it. Francisco might have some ideas.” He might indeed. Her boyfriend was brilliant and determined.

  Having vented, I felt capable of finishing the dinner now. “Thanks so much, Cal. How are you doing, by the way? Sorry I keep calling and dumping this drama on you.”

  “I’m fine. Just writing. And I want you to keep me posted. This is unbelievable. I’ll be at the conference soon, but hang in there until then.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I took a deep breath, then returned to the table, hoping that the night would progress smoothly from now on. I couldn’t take much more this evening.

  Everyone was digging into their dessert when I slipped back into my chair.

  “Lila, you must try the cheesecake immediately.” Richmond waved his fork around and popped a bite into his mouth, as if he were playing airplane. “It’s delightful.”

  I complied with his request and smiled at him. “It’s delicious.”

  Although I tried not to look at the Raleighs, my gaze slid toward them when Simone made an expression of surprise. She was mouthing something to an individual at the next table and grinning.

  “It’s Beckett,” she informed her sister. “We should have saved him a seat.”

  Selene squealed and jumped up from the table.

  Simone soon stopped mouth-chatting and caught my eye. She looked down quickly. I wasn’t sure how to read that.

  However, when Selene returned, she stared, with a slow smile blossoming across her face. It was intended to signal her sense of victory, and it worked.

  My stomach rolled over.

  I faced my cheesecake again, no longer able to enjoy it, and set my fork slowly down on the plate. It was a relief to direct my attention to the stage when a sophisticated African-American woman in a burgundy suit walked over to the podium.

  “Good evening,” she said into the microphone. “I’m Acadia Branson, Chair of the Horror and Gothic Society.”

  Acadia, an academic superstar from Princeton, waited politely until the applause subsided, then thanked the conference committee and the volunteers. She gave us a run-through of the main events and complimented those who had taken the Monster Night costume opportunity to heart. In keeping with the unique history of the hotel, she explained, the theme for the keynote dinner on Friday was The Old West, and the theme for Saturday’s Awards Gala would be Literary Figures, with both character and author costumes welcome. The keynote speaker had not yet been announced, and the conference program had warned us to “buckle our seatbelts,” whatever that meant. It was unusual for a keynote not to be named and advertised far in advance, as that could be quite a draw for attendance, but it also lent an air of mystery, I had to admit.

  Next, she introduced all of the nominees for awards that would be given out at the Gala—a long list of scholars paraded up the stairs, across the stage, and back again after receiving their certificates suitable for framing from a beaming Acadia. Following that came the winners of the graduate student scholarships. They bounded earnestly onstage, one by one, and stood there twinkling shyly at us while she finished handing out the attractive wooden plaques. It felt as though things were rolling to a close when Acadia said, “And now we have a surprise for you. May I please have Richmond Haskin and company join me?”

  He pushed his chair back slowly and waited for Ellis and Candace to do the same. They proceeded to the stage.

  I looked questioningly at Hanover, who winked at me before turning to watch his boss. It was a tribute to his reputation that Acadia didn’t even have to name the press; everyone knew the name Richmond Haskin. He had been an extremely prolific scholar during his time at various Ivy schools—he’d been wooed from one to another regularly—and he was famous not only for his monographs but also his edited anthologies focusing on a specific topic and bringing together a variety of scholars. He had been lured to Fairlake University, a small private school on the east coast—very much like Stonedale—by the opportunity to launch his own press about a decade ago. From the beginning, he’d chosen cutting-edge topics and seemed to stay just ahead of the curve.

  “Greetings, colleagues,” Richmond said into the microphone. “Thank you for your attention. As you know, Fairlake is a small press, but we have painstakingly built a strong reputation. That’s due to the incredible work of our authors.”

  He bowed his head as applause swept the room.

  “We have two announcements for you, actually. As you know, the conference awards will recognize the best that has been published during this past year. We’ve just heard the names of the finalists in all the categories. Congratulations to you all!”

  There was more polite applause.

  “The Horror and Gothic Society has allowed us to add a new award to the mix: the Fairlake New Voices Prize. Every year, we will select the best proposals that have been submitted to our press. Those authors will be on a special panel at this conference, which we hope will continue for many years.” He smiled broadly at Acadia. “The winner will be chosen by a board of judges who attend the special panel on Saturday. They’ll base their decision on a review of the proposal along with their evaluation of the scholar’s performance at the panel, which will include a brief reading from the manuscript as well as responses to selected questions. The winner will be announced at the Gala.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Please join me onstage if you hear your name. And audience members, do hold your applause until I complete the list. This year’s finalists are Beckett Standhouse for his project, War Imagery in the Work of Flynn McMaster; Simone and Selene Raleigh for Brontë and Dare: Double Trouble; and...” he paused dramatically as the twins squealed and hugged each other. “Lila Maclean, for Beyond the Veil: Isabella Dare and the Gothic.”

  I froze and looked at Meredith.

  She was smiling and nodding. “Yes, Lila. Go up there.”

  I made my way dizzily toward the stage, shaking my head slightly, trying to clear it. Nothing was making sense.

  The audience continued to applaud until we were all in a line next to Richmond. He made his way down the row, handing each of us a certificate and shaking our hands, then returned to the microphone. Acadia shepherded us over to the side, where it took all my effort not to sink down on a hay bale. As if it weren’t surreal enough to be onstage in the first place, the sight of the crowd turned it up a notch. From this vantage point, it was easier to see the wide range of costumes—from someone who had simply donned a t-shirt that read Nevermore and perched a stuffed raven on his shoulder to a larger-than-life Headless Horseman, complete with flowing cape and glowing pumpkin tucked beneath his arm.

  Richmond rubbed his hands together. “And now for the second surprise. We are very excited—thrilled, frankly—to announce that our press will be publishing a new
series of critical guides on contemporary gothic and horror writers. Intended for professors, researchers, students, and general readers alike, they are going to be very valuable to your work. Each book will focus on an author and include four types of materials: several essays, a detailed biography section, a collection of interviews, and relevant photographs of the author’s life.”

  He waited until the round of applause died down, then smiled. “Tonight, we kick things off with our first guide, on one of the best and brightest: Flynn McMaster.”

  The room went wild. An English professor-turned-bestselling-author, Flynn McMaster was extremely popular, both with mainstream readers and scholars in literary studies and popular culture. Each of the six books in his series featuring Dr. Powell Block, a scholar-warrior-detective doing epic battle with various paranormal creatures and monsters, had catapulted to the top of the bestseller lists since his debut. Several chartbusting feature films had already been made with all-star casts, and several more were in the making. His books crossed genres and appealed to fans of fantasy, horror, gothic, and mystery.

  Eventually, Richmond was able to continue. “The materials have been carefully curated for your use and enjoyment. I can vouch for the quality, as I had the great honor of editing this collection, along with Ellis Gardner and Candace Slaten, both colleagues of mine at Fairlake University. Several talented scholars contributed essays, and I’d like to introduce them now. Please hold your applause until the end, shall we?” He looked sternly around the room, then reeled off several names: Sharita Dawes, Lawrence Ling, Topher Armitage, Nan Delancey, and Winston Hughley.

  As the audience applauded, he handed the microphone to Acadia, who informed us that we could buy our own copy in the book room immediately following the event. In addition, she told us there would be a signing with the editors and essay contributors on Friday afternoon.

  “And on that note,” Richmond added gleefully, “it’s time to meet your keynote speaker. Please welcome Flynn McMaster.”

  The applause was deafening. From a curtain behind the hay bales on the opposite side of the stage, a tall, handsome man emerged. His long brown hair was gathered into a messy knot at the back of his head, and he wore a white tunic over black leather pants, accessorized with multiple pendants and bracelets. It was all very rock and roll.

  Flynn moved quickly across the stage and shook hands with everyone before stepping up to the microphone.

  “Hello,” he said with a little wave, setting off an avalanche of claps and whistles.

  Once the commotion had died down, he grinned and gestured to the professors alongside him. “Many thanks to everyone here. It’s quite an honor to have your work considered...” His hands flailed as he searched for the right word.

  Richmond leaned into the microphone and said “important.”

  Flynn tipped his head down in acknowledgment. “Thank you, sir.”

  Richmond continued. “Yes, your work is very significant, Flynn. So say we all. And,” he turned to the crowd, “we know you can’t wait to get your hands on this gem. So we’ve prepared a little experience for you. Follow the signs out front. They will lead you to your opportunity to be among the first to purchase a copy of this groundbreaking guide.”

  Murmurs broke out around the room and continued as Arcadia wished everyone a good night. I thanked Meredith for the invitation to sit with the press and followed Hanover outside to where large signs were displayed along the path back to the main building. There were multiple pictures of Flynn McMaster on easels in various authorly poses, one with all three editors standing rather stiffly in a group and smiling at the camera, and one of the contributors crunched together in a circle and holding a book above their heads. Inside the hotel, we were ushered into a large rectangular room with a “Book Lair” sign. The horror theme of the conference was admittedly straining a bit against the cheery ranch-chic remodeling touches, but that just made it more interesting.

  Tables were piled high with the guides, as well as Flynn’s other books, all ready for purchase. I paused at the end of the line that already snaked around the outer perimeter; looked like the entire dinner population had come directly to the book room, as directed. After twenty minutes or so, during which I checked work emails on my phone and only progressed about three feet forward, Hanover appeared.

  “Have you seen the guide yet, Lila?”

  “No. I didn’t want to hold it the whole time I was in line.”

  “They’re selling so fast you might not get one otherwise.” Hanover took a few steps away, to the nearest table, then returned with a hardcover book, which he handed to me. “You better hold on to this. Don’t want you to miss out. Also, I’m dying to hear what you think. You know what they say...first impressions and all that. Could you please take a look and let me know your thoughts? Do you like the layout? Is it easy to navigate? And so on.”

  I thanked him and looked down. The cover was in a lurid crimson, with the title splashed across the front in an antique sort of script, Go Ahead and Scream: A Critical Guide to the Work of Flynn McMaster. I opened the cover to read the first page.

  Just then, a high-pitched scream pierced the room.

  Chapter 4

  For a split second, I thought the book had a soundtrack, like one of those birthday cards that plays a song when you open it.

  But when the room went silent, I knew it had come from somewhere else. Hanover and I stared uneasily at each other for a long moment. People were conferring behind us, trying to figure out what was going on.

  Meredith burst through a side door, near where we were standing. She waved her hand frantically at us to come over. “Where’s Richmond?”

  “I don’t know,” Hanover replied.

  She looked at me and I shook my head as well.

  “Call him and tell him to come,” Meredith said to Hanover. “Quickly.”

  We followed her into the next room, where CPR was being performed on someone. From my angle, all that was visible were two trousered legs, which were parallel and unmoving.

  “It’s Ellis,” Meredith whispered loudly.

  “Did you call 911?” Hanover asked.

  “Yes. They’re still on the line.” Meredith pointed at Simone, who was standing off to the side, talking on her cell phone.

  “What happened?” I asked Meredith softly.

  “I don’t know. After the announcement, Richmond wanted me to check on some details with the event manager, which I did, down in the barn. Ellis had already left. When I returned, Simone and I headed to the book sale together. We were just using this room as a shortcut to avoid the line, and we found him like this. It was dark and I tripped over him. When Simone turned on the lights, and I saw the blood, I screamed before I could help myself.”

  “There’s blood?”

  “On his head and the carpet next to him.”

  I surveyed the room. Chairs were set up in rows for audience members facing two long tables at the front that would accommodate the speakers of a future panel. One of the chairs nearby was turned on its side, but nothing else looked out of place. “Was there anyone here?”

  “No. Just him.” Meredith shivered. “I have no idea how this could have happened—” She broke off at the sight of the paramedics racing through the doors.

  We watched them take over.

  “Can I get you anything? And we should have the paramedics check you out too.”

  She shook her head, rubbing her arms, eyes fixated on the revival attempts. “I just want to stand here.”

  The doors opened again and I sighed in relief.

  “Who’s that?” Meredith said, following my gaze toward the man with cheekbones so sharp they could leave a scratch, spiky dark hair, and a purposeful stride.

  “Detective Archer from the Stonedale PD.”

  He had his notepad out by the time he reached us. He gave me a quick nod and sta
rted asking questions. Meredith didn’t seem surprised to see a detective there, though some might have wondered why he’d been called.

  Truth was, he was already at the hotel to see me.

  We’d been a couple since the fall of my third year as an assistant professor. I was in the spring of my fourth year now, so we were at the year and a half mark. It was hard to believe that we’d met while he was investigating a crime and I was the one who was suspected of having committed it.

  Or maybe it wasn’t hard to believe.

  People meet in all kinds of ways.

  But one thing was for sure: Lex took life seriously. He had a light side too, but his job mired him in the kinds of horrific things that people could do to each other on a daily basis, so he had cause for a somber outlook.

  I never tired of seeing him in action.

  Or inaction.

  Just seeing him, period.

  Because it had happened in an otherwise-unoccupied room and because the hotel staff had been able to direct the paramedics and police into and out of the room using a back hallway, not many people knew exactly what was happening yet.

  Meredith asked us to keep things as quiet as possible.

  Meanwhile, the book sale proceeded as planned. There was no chance of that not going forward. I’d never seen more people intent on purchasing the same book in one room. And there was no chance of the conference being cancelled, either, I suspected. People had come from all over the country—in some cases, the world—to present at this event. Unless the police decreed that the conference be ended, it would soldier on.

  But Meredith was a wreck. It had taken her a long time to stop shaking, and Simone and Selene eventually led her into the hotel bar, presumably in search of something to calm her nerves. I’d trailed behind, not knowing what else to do. Although my first choice would have been to stay as far away from the Raleighs as possible, I wanted to support Meredith.