THE SUBJECT OF MALICE

by Cynthia Kuhn

  “Are you giving me homework?” Lex looked pained.

  I laughed. “Yes.”

  “That’s the last thing I need right about now,” he said, tucking his notepad away in the inside pocket of his blue jacket. “How about you read them and summarize for me?”

  I shrugged. “If that’s how it has to be.”

  “You love reading, right?”

  “I do love reading.”

  “And by all accounts, you’re quite good at it too. I might even go so far as to call it one of your superpowers.”

  “I wouldn’t call it—”

  “So let’s put your superpower to good use, Professor.”

  Flattery will get you, every time.

  Chapter 7

  Lex went to connect with his colleagues while I made a beeline for the room to take advantage of the small pocket of time before dinner. I had just dropped onto the bed with the critical guide in hand when my phone rang. Glancing at the screen, I smiled and answered.

  “I’m furious with you...” my mother said loudly.

  I braced myself.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been nominated for an award? I’ve been toasting you with champagne all afternoon and gushing about you to Daphne.” There was a swallowing sound. Evidently the champagne was still flowing in New York.

  Daphne Duvall was my mother’s dearest frenemy. Although they’d been close forever, long before Daphne married a corporate tycoon and my mother became a famous artist known as Violet O, there had always been a fair bit of turmoil in their relationship. That was just how Daphne rolled. But my mother was the type of person who was energized rather than drained by drama, so the friendship served a purpose for her too.

  “And then Daphne complained endlessly that I didn’t tell her first. You know how much she needs her gossip.”

  Daphne wrote a gossip column for a tabloid, so it was literally her job. Between the two of them, my mother and Daphne had quite a pipeline of information coming and going.

  “But I’m out of practice telling her things, aren’t I, as she hasn’t been around for ages, having jetted off to—where was it? Cozumel? Cartagena? Copenhagen? Something with a C, anyway—to be nipped and tucked again, though she told us all that it was for a spiritual retreat.” She giggled. “She’s running out of reasons to give us. I don’t know why she won’t admit that she’s doing maintenance. Everyone knows, anyway. No one’s eyebrows are that high up on their forehead without a little surgical boost. She does look smooth, I’ll give her that. But back to you, darling, congratulations.”

  “Thank you. How did you—”

  “Calista, of course. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t know anything that’s happening with my very own daughter.”

  “We talk all the time, Mom.”

  “I would not know one single thing, Lila. It’s tragic. A mother likes to be in the loop.”

  “You are in the loop. And I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “That’s not the point, is it, that you’ll tell me something after I ask you? I want you to offer it. To want to tell me.”

  “I do. It’s just very b—”

  “Well, do it more often. I know you’re busy. But I love you. The loop is sacred. Please acknowledge that, darling.”

  “The loop is sacred. And I love you too.”

  “Good. Anyway, this afternoon when I was out shopping for a new frock with Daphne—and I did buy a lovely purple number for the opening party tomorrow. I know, there’s no room for error in that sort of timeline. And I still need shoes. But it’s no secret that I like to live on the edge.” She laughed. “Poor Daphne couldn’t find a thing...wait. Where was I going with this? Oh yes! Your cousin texted me the news, so we immediately ran to the most charming wine bar on the block to celebrate. Now, tell me absolutely everything!”

  I gave her an overview—excluding the part about Ellis and the subsequent investigation—and was rewarded with additional kudos and questions, then another round of updates on Daphne’s more exasperating behaviors.

  “Oh, I’ve just had the best idea—I should catch the red eye. Wait, do you call it a red eye if it goes west instead of east? Maybe not. The point is, I could fly overnight and be there to witness your glorious panel in the morning! I think I know where my passport is.”

  “You don’t need your passport to come to Colorado, Mom.”

  “Are you sure? The rules keep changing. Last time I flew to Paris, I couldn’t even bring my lotion onboard.” An artist of various mediums who was rough on her hands, she made sure a bottle of soothing cream was never far from her at any given time.

  “Yes, I’m sure that you don’t need a passport. And you are allowed to bring a small container of lotion. Just Google the size.”

  “Oh, your generation and your Googling. Takes all the mystery out of everything. There’s something to be said for having to wait longer than four seconds to get an answer, believe me. Back in my day, we suffered for weeks and months at a time, not knowing things. It was almost an art form. Wait...” I heard the sound of paper being ripped off of something. “I just had an idea.”

  I waited for her to jot a note, knowing from experience that she wouldn’t be able to hear anything else until she had recorded the concept that would lead to a new project. When I was growing up, she had frequently halted in the middle of grocery shopping, birthday parties, parent-teacher conferences—whatever—to rip a shred of paper from the nearest available source and capture the stirrings of the muse. She’d pull a pencil from somewhere inside her heavy coils of copper hair and scrawl away on something. I’d inherited the tendency to shove writing utensils into my own braid when I was distracted. Sometimes, at the end of the day, there would be a handful in there. It always made me think of her.

  I was grateful that she’d taught Calista and me to honor inspiration whenever it occurred. We dropped what we were doing to scribble things down these days too. The lessons of Violet O ran deep.

  “Ooh, that’s a good one,” she murmured.

  I took that to mean she was done being inspired for now and we could move on. “Speaking of art, don’t you have an opening this weekend? You just mentioned it.”

  She paused. “Oh, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I may have had too much champagne. That’s it. I’m cutting myself off.” I heard another swallow followed by the clink of glass on granite. “But you know I’d fly to the moon if I could to support you. I’m so proud of you, darling. Brava!”

  I thanked her and asked her to tell me about her latest work. She enthusiastically complied, and ten minutes later, I felt as though I’d visited the gallery to see her interactive exhibit, “Danger Street.” As she described it, the installation featured a tunnel with scenes from noir films silently projected onto the ceiling. Along both walls were red doors in various shapes and sizes. Behind most of the doors were mannequins in gray trench coats onto which a line from a famous mystery was projected. A new door led to a new line from another mystery. Although the quotes had been selected from different books, they wove together into a new layer of narrative. The more doors were opened, the more lines were bestowed, and the further the story progressed. However, behind some of the doors were mirrors, where the line appeared on the viewer as an invitation to reflect upon its relation to their own lives. The deeper the viewer went into the exhibit, however, the darker and foggier it became, until the only thing visible in the final door was not the mannequin or the viewer, but the line itself.

  “Do you see? The line is the end of the line, darling. But the ending is also the beginning of understanding.”

  My mother had always said things like that.

  “It sounds intriguing. Very meta. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I hope it completely destabilizes reality for everyone.”

  My mother had always said things like t
hat too.

  There wasn’t always an obvious response to be made.

  “So many levels of meaning at once…but enough of that. I don’t like to explain my art, as you know. Especially if you haven’t experienced it yet. Now tell me about Lex. How is he?”

  “Great. I’ve enjoyed helping him with the case—”

  “What case?”

  I stopped short. I hadn’t wanted to mention Ellis. She would worry. Come to think of it, I probably should be worrying too, about being in this hotel with a murderer. If the killer was actually staying here. There was no way of knowing. It wasn’t like I could simply call the front desk and inquire.

  I aimed for intentionally vague. “Oh, a case that required input about academia.” There. That should sidestep things nicely.

  “It’s not another murder, is it?”

  I couldn’t lie to her. So I explained.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. And I’m glad that Lex is there. Not because you can’t take care of yourself—of course you can. You’re a strong woman. But because having a person who is skilled in weaponry nearby makes me feel better.”

  “Skilled in weaponry?” Did she think I was dating a medieval knight?

  “You know what I mean. Someone with firepower.”

  We did another round of well-wishing about our prospective activities and were just saying goodbye when she launched her final piece of advice.

  “Please be careful, darling. You never know who is lurking outside your hotel room door.”

  Great. Now I would be thinking about that all weekend.

  Chapter 8

  I stared into the shallow hotel closet with dismay, realizing that I hadn’t packed clothing that could be considered “Western wear.” Primarily because I didn’t own any. Having lived out here a few years, it was high time to invest in boots at the very least, and I’d intended to shop for this event. For now, I’d just have to be dressed as a professor who likes the theme but didn’t make it all the way to the end of her pre-conference to-do list.

  Thus resolved, I set off for the evening’s events. I was early, but it was lovely to go outside, where it was cooler. I’d attended far too many conferences where everything took place indoors, and we all emerged at the end of the weekend pale and blinking, shrinking back like vampires at the unfamiliar sunlight after several days of recycled air and nonstop Muzak.

  Wandering down the twisting stone path, I admired the effect of the time-smoothed gray stones. Now that I was officially—I smiled at the thought—helping Lex with the case, I felt inspired to make the most of my seating arrangement and gather information. However, we’d already spoken with the scholars, and Lex hadn’t given me any additional direction. I didn’t even know who was first and foremost on the suspect list.

  I’d just have to aim for anyone who might have known Ellis in any capacity whatsoever.

  At that moment, someone called my name, and I turned to see my cousin scurrying down the path, the red scarf she had artfully thrown over her blue denim dress swinging out behind her. I complimented the star embroidery that added some Western flair and gave her a quick hug. Her green tea scent, something she’d loved since high school, surrounded me. She’d recently let her usual platinum bob grow out, and for tonight, she’d pulled back her hair into a ponytail that showed off turquoise earrings hanging almost to her shoulders.

  “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow, Cal?”

  She smiled and gave my arm a squeeze. “After our phone call, I changed things up.”

  “Cousin to the rescue.” I smiled affectionately at her. “Did you get your book done?”

  “Like a boss.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Technically, anyway. I’ll finish up on Sunday when I get home. This is more important.”

  “You are so sweet.”

  “I’m not about to let the Raleighs ruin—”

  “Ruin what?” Simone appeared out of nowhere. “What was that you were saying, Calista?”

  “You heard me, Simone.” The two faced off—Simone was taller, and her elegant olive suit with black trim lent her an air of authority, but my petite cousin bristled with energy. “I said: I am not about to let the Raleighs ruin everything.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Simone’s tone was icy.

  A slow smile spread across Calista’s face. “That’s what you’re going with? You have no idea what I’m talking about? All right. How about this, Simone? You will, soon enough.”

  Simone’s mouth fell open. She attempted—but failed—to pull off a casual shrug before stalking away. It came across more like an angry twitch.

  Calista grinned at me, her gray eyes sparkling. “How fun.”

  “What did you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to unsettle her a little.” She winked.

  “Well, it worked. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her speechless before.”

  “I’ll take that as a win.”

  “You know you’re going to pay for that,” I said, half-joking. I’d certainly experienced the wrath of Simone in the past.

  “Bring it on. I’m not afraid of her.”

  “Of course you’re not. Though you’re going to have to face her at school. We’re colleagues.” This wasn’t coming out right, but I was feeling protective. I didn’t want Simone to set her sights on Calista.

  “It wasn’t very collegial of me, it’s true. But she hasn’t been acting very collegial to you.” Calista looped her arm into mine and pulled me forward. “Don’t worry about it, Lil. Let’s go find some excellent seats. I didn’t pull out my fanciest denim for nothing.”

  We entered the barn, which looked exactly like it had the previous evening, except that there was a slideshow rotating through Flynn McMaster’s book covers on a large screen set up on the stage. A song from the first film adaptation was blaring through the speakers—swelling, sweeping, adventurous music. The kind that made you imagine jumping onto a table and unsheathing a sword.

  Good thing we didn’t have a sword right now. I might have been tempted to point it at the twins.

  Calista made her way to the centermost table at the front and set her scarf over one of the chairs facing the stage. She patted the one next to it. “Sit here and I’ll go rustle up some drinks.”

  I did as she said. It had been a long day and I was glad to have a moment to read through the emails that had flowed in from students and colleagues. Our teaching and service responsibilities didn’t stop while we were at a conference fulfilling our professional development obligations. Scrolling through messages on my phone, I could sense the room filling up around me, but I remained focused on the screen.

  Until someone plunked down beside me and made a declaration.

  “My kingdom for a beer!” Nate Clayton smiled at me, his brown hair tousled as usual and his blue eyes crinkled up rather adorably. Like they did.

  I squeaked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Calista told me what’s going on. I thought you might want some additional company.”

  Nate was one of the first faculty members at Stonedale to befriend me; his office was next to mine, and we both taught American Literature. He’d quickly become one of my favorite people there. “Thank you so much.”

  “Tweren’t nothing, ma’am,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “She saw online that some friends had posted about not being able to make it to the conference, so we wrangled their rooms at a very discounted fee. And of course the conference chair was happy to take more of our money for this here swanky dinner.”

  “I’m sorry—I’ll pay you both back.”

  “Nothing doing. Truth be told, when I heard it was Flynn McMaster giving the keynote, there was even more of an incentive to show up.” He leaned an elbow on the table. “We went to grad school together, don’
t you know.”

  “You did?” I stared at him. “You never mentioned that.”

  “Well, it’s not like we walk around listing our rosters of grad school classmates on the regular.”

  “Good point. It’s just he’s—”

  “So famous. Though I never would have guessed it in grad school. Didn’t figure him for an action hero guy. Then again it was during our master’s. Things could have changed when he was working on his doctorate.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Very well,” he said. “Despite totally misreading his interest in genre fiction. To be fair to myself, though, he kept that quiet.”

  “Maybe he was worried that he wouldn’t be taken seriously or something. You know, because he wasn’t writing literary fiction.”

  “He wasn’t writing any kind of fiction, as far as I knew. But yes, what you said. Academia can be snobby about that sort of thing. As you know.”

  “Unfortunately.” I’d gone three rounds and then some regarding the “significance” of the mystery course I taught. There was disagreement in some circles about the “place” of popular fiction in the study of literature. And I still wasn’t sure it wasn’t going to come back and cause an issue when I was up for promotion. But that fight was for another day. “What’s Flynn like?”

  Nate twisted his lips. “Funny, brilliant, and as much as it pains me to admit this given that he’s incredibly successful and I’m not at all successful—”

  “You are successful,” I insisted.

  “Hardly. I’m just a dude who works around the clock on a subject very few people care about—”

  “I do.”

  “Aside from you, I mean. But most people aren’t holding their breath to hear my thoughts on Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

  “Wait a minute there, dude. What about all the Hawthorne scholars? And the Romantic scholars? And the Gothic scholars? And so on and so forth. There are plenty of us holding our breath to hear what you think. Start sharing, please.”