by Mary Angela
“Absolutely not,” said Claudia. As a poet herself, Claudia was firm on the point. “We’re celebrating Shakespeare, and he wrote his sonnets in iambic pentameter. Period.”
I slipped Dunsbar’s poem into the “no” pile and picked up the next submission. I smiled. “It’s Lenny’s.” I scanned a few lines. “It’s for me.” Lenny had written a love poem, describing a friendship that had blossomed into love. I blushed as I silently read the final couplet. “This is definitely a ‘yes.’ ”
Claudia rearranged her French twist. “Do you think you might be partial?”
“No. Yes. Read it.” I handed her the paper.
She read it and put it in the “yes” pile.
I picked up another poem.
She shoved a pencil through the silky strands of brown hair. “I’m glad you followed my advice for once. I could see your happiness long before you could.”
It was so like Claudia to take credit for the match. But I didn’t argue. She was right. I was happy, and so was Lenny. No matter how we’d gotten here, we were together.
A few lines into the next poem, I could feel the smile leaving my face. As if seeing a spider, I recoiled from the paper.
“What is it?” asked Claudia.
The sonnet was written in all caps, perhaps to disguise the identity of the writer. No name appeared, and no wonder. It was a warning of events to come. The final couplet made my arms turn to sandbags. I read it aloud: “THE TIME HAS COME FOR YOU TO MEET YOUR FOE / A MAN WILL DIE AND BRING TO NONE GREAT WOE.”
Chapter Five
Claudia looked up from the poem she was reading, her eyes wide. She snatched the paper from me, turning it over in her hands.
“There’s no name on it,” I said, answering her unspoken question.
“If this is somebody’s idea of a prank, I don’t think it’s funny,” said Claudia. “It’s childish.” She spoke loudly, as if the prankster were in the hallway, listening.
“What if it’s not a prank?” I said. “What if it’s a warning?”
Claudia picked up the paper and brought it close to her face. “It’s not. It can’t be. For one, the person knows Shakespeare. He or she references Hamlet in the second stanza. And two, the theme of the poem is death. Maybe the student wanted to end on a dramatic note.”
Drama was one thing; murder was another. Unless planning to kill someone, how could the writer predict a death? And what was meant by “foe”? It was as if the lines were directed at me, I told Claudia.
She waved off the idea. “Students use second-person all the time. You know that. Besides, no one knows you’re helping to judge the contest. If the lines are intended for anyone, it’s me.”
The office was silent for a moment. I could hear dishes from the potluck clinking down the hallway. It looked as if Claudia’s thoughts were going somewhere dark.
She sucked in a breath. “God, do I have any foes?”
Oh, so now the threat was plausible because the lines were intended for her. “I can’t think of any. Your students love you.” And they did. Though not the best poet in the world, Claudia was one of the best teachers. She took genuine interest in her students’ work and helped them develop into writers.
“I bet Gene has foes aplenty,” said Claudia, tapping her pen on the table. “Just leave it to him to get me killed.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. Not that I didn’t sympathize; I did. Gene’s wandering eye had caused a lot of fights, but their relationship had been better since they renewed their vows in Italy. At the first sign of personal difficulty, though, she blamed Gene. But the contents of the sonnet did not point to Gene. The person who wrote the poem was familiar with Shakespeare and knew the campus well. Gene stayed as far away from the university as possible.
“Like you said, it’s probably a prankster, a student trying to rattle your nerves,” I said. “To be honest, it’s a good poem. The student definitely knows how to write a sonnet. I think we should put it in the ‘maybe’ category—after we contact the police.”
“The police!” said Claudia. “I can’t turn in one of my students for writing a dark poem. It’s out of the question.”
“We can’t ignore a threat,” I said. “It’s our duty to report it.” For once, I was the sensible one in the room. It was a new feeling.
“This is creative writing. It isn’t real. It’s fiction. And I didn’t stipulate that the sonnet had to be sunshine and rainbows.”
Claudia had definite opinions on creative writing. I understood not censoring the students, but I didn’t believe in letting them kill anyone either. I snatched the paper and stood. “Let’s take it up with Giles. He’ll know what to do.”
She had no choice but to follow me down the hall. Giles was just picking up his first forkful of macaroni and cheese when I stuck my head in his office. “We have a problem.”
He put down his fork.
“Not a problem,” said Claudia. “A question.”
I handed him the poem. “This was submitted for the sonnet-writing contest. I think it’s a warning. I think we need to contact the police.”
“And I think it’s a disturbing poem but hardly deserving of censure—or alerting the police,” said Claudia.
“No one’s going to be arrested,” I said, “but we have to notify the authorities.” I liked the way authorities sounded. I’d heard the same word on the mystery channel last night.
Giles refolded the poem and stuck it in a cubbyhole on his desk. “Emmeline is right. We have to notify somebody, but I think campus security will suffice.”
“You approve of censoring writers?” Claudia huffed. “Frankly, I’m shocked.”
“I approve of warning security of possible threats,” said Giles. “In today’s world, you can’t be too careful.”
“I know Officer Beamer would approve,” I said.
“Let’s not get Officer Beamer involved just yet,” said Giles. “If he keeps getting summoned to our department, I’m afraid I’ll have to award him an honorary degree.”
The idea of Officer Beamer in a cap and gown made me smile.
“Well I’m glad you’re happy with the outcome,” said Claudia. “I, for one, think it’s a big mistake to involve security in the sacred writing process. This is the one place the imagination should be allowed to roam free.” She turned on her heel and left.
Giles lifted his eyebrows, deepening the three horizontal groves on his forehead. We were just two more in a long line of people searching for ways to handle departmental issues. “You’d better follow her before she organizes a sit-in.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Giles. I appreciate your support.”
He picked up his fork. “You’re welcome—now go.”
I hustled down the hall after Claudia and met Lenny on the way. “That was a fast class. Why are you done so early?”
He unlocked his office door. “They didn’t read the material, and I’m hungry. I wasn’t about to sit around and babysit them for the next thirty minutes.”
“There’s plenty of food in the Writing Center,” I said. “Thank you, by the way, for bringing the chips. I forgot all about the potluck.”
He smiled and started toward the Writing Center. “I knew you would, with your panel and all.”
“Claudia and I are in her office. Join us when you’re done. We’re going over the sonnets from the contest.” I reached for his arm. “I came across the most delightful one from you.”
“I meant every word of it, Em,” he said. “You’ve turned me into a babbling love poet.”
“There are worse things,” I told him. I stopped at Claudia’s door.
We shared a smile before he continued on toward the Writing Center and I entered Claudia’s office. “Lenny’s great, isn’t he?”
Claudia looked up from the poems, clearly peeved. “Yes.”
I plopped down in the chair beside her and returned to the stack. “Don’t be mad, Claudia. I have the students’ best interests at heart.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
As she leaned back in her chair, the light caught the copper highlights in her brown hair. “You have a bad habit of seeing a mystery in everything.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I’ve had my fair share of mysteries, but they fall into my lap; I don’t go looking for them.” I pointed to the stack of poems. “This one happened to come via submission box.”
“Tell me I made it to the winners’ circle,” said Lenny as he entered the office.
“You did,” I said, picking up a chip.
“Em! You can’t tell him that,” said Claudia.
Lenny winked at me.
“You two are even more insufferable now that you’re dating,” said Claudia. “You know that?”
Lenny joined us at the table. His broad shoulders made the area seem smaller. “We’re a team now. Bona fide.”
We fist bumped.
“Well, the other member of your team just made a grave error,” said Claudia.
“Em doesn’t make errors,” said Lenny, scooping up a spoonful of potato salad. “She corrects them. Are you acquainted with her red pen?”
In a rush, Claudia told him about the sonnet, the final couplet, and Giles’s interpretation of it. Lenny was eating much more slowly by the time she finished speaking.
“I think Giles made the right call,” said Lenny, after taking a sip of soda. “It sounds like whoever wrote the poem is up to no good. Maybe he’s not planning murder, but he is scaring people. That’s not right.”
“Or she,” I said.
“Or she,” he repeated. “I know you believe in equal opportunity for murderers.”
I chuckled.
Claudia’s jaw was clenched. Lenny’s wasn’t the sympathetic ear she was hoping for. “Let’s get back to it, then. I have kids to pick up.”
Lenny stood. “Dinner tonight?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I want to show you my contract from Dewberry Press.”
“I’ll pick you up,” he said.
“I’ll be waiting,” I said.
As he left the office, Claudia grumbled, “How will I ever get through the spring?”
Chapter Six
Due to our harsh and lingering winters, spring wasn’t as beautiful in the Midwest as it was in some areas of the country. Many trees were still mostly bare, and it took perennials longer to blossom. What we had going for us was grass, brilliantly green from the abundant March rains. We also had farms, and tilling made the air smell fresh and earthy.
With any luck, though, Shakespeare’s Garden would be in full bloom today for the grand reopening. Dedicated in 1923, the garden had gone to seed and was a mass of tangled weeds, tarnished statues, and rusty benches. The English Department had spent a good deal of money on the renovation, and Reed Williams had spent a good deal of time preparing for the reopening. This morning’s itinerary would include the unveiling of the garden, the reading of the winning sonnet entry (unfortunately, not Lenny’s), and the dedication of a new Shakespeare bust.
I rushed to put on my ankle boots, shooing Dickinson away from my bootlaces. I’d been up since six this morning and was eager to leave. The several cups of coffee I’d drunk hadn’t helped my high anxiety levels. After Lenny and I discussed my book contract over dinner, it was impossible to think about anything else for the rest of the night. I tossed and turned for hours before I finally got up, signed the contract, and scanned and emailed the thing back just to get it off my mind. I’d only slept a few hours when I awoke to Dickinson’s meows. She was feeling the restlessness of spring, too. When this semester was over, I really needed to think about taking a vacation, one that let you bring your cat.
As I left my little yellow bungalow, I heard Mrs. Gunderson—Gertrude, I reminded myself—call out my name.
“I noticed you didn’t sleep last night.” She was struggling with a weed near her front stoop. “Your light was on. I hope you aren’t having difficulties with Leonard.”
I walked over and gave the weed a yank. “Nope, Lenny’s fine. It was my insomnia. I can’t seem to shake it for very long.”
“It’s all those books you read,” she said, dusting off her hands. “They put terrible ideas in your head.”
“Then what were you doing up?” I said sweetly, but Mrs. Gunderson was smart. She gave me a look that said she wasn’t going to let me outsmart her.
“Crocheting.”
She said it as if she’d been crowning the king of England.
“Have a good day,” I said, tossing the weed in the street as I continued walking to campus. The morning was as quiet as on a Saturday or Sunday, but that was just because it wasn’t yet eight, and few classes were held that early. The garden ceremony didn’t begin until nine, but I thought a walk might help revive me. Besides, it was Friday, and the ladies at St. Agnes were making cookies for the school kids. I took a short detour so I could pass by the church—a faded orange brick, like the bluff of town. I was disappointed to find the back door locked. That was unusual. Returning to the sidewalk, I hoped nothing was wrong. It was unlike them to be absent on a Friday.
All the way to school, I was off kilter, tripping once over a rock and then again on the curb. I glanced down to see if my laces were the culprit, helped along by Dickinson, but they were perfectly tied. I hustled to cross the street to campus, glad for the protection of the towering old buildings. Nothing could get to me here, even the strong wind.
From a distance, I could see that the barricade around Shakespeare’s Garden was gone. I breathed a little sigh of relief. One thing was going right this morning. Reed Williams would be happy to see the garden was event ready. The sun was out, too, willing away the wind. As the day progressed, it would grow warmer, encouraging visitors to stay awhile. I was glad. I wanted people to marvel over how much work had been put into the garden. Reed had been planning this event for over a year. Finally, he would reap the harvest of his hard work.
As I approached, I noticed Reed in the garden. He was staring down at something on the bench. Maybe an inscription had been mangled. Woe to those who misquote Shakespeare. Then I spotted a person on the bench, a man. How unseemly that on our pretty little campus, someone had passed out in Shakespeare’s Garden! Reed was trying to wake him, and I hurried to help. Reed was touching his arm, but I wouldn’t be afraid to give the student a shake if I had to. People would start arriving any moment.
Until I saw the student—Tanner Sparks. His face was distorted, unnatural, the skin ashen. It could only be the sleep of death.
Reed looked up from the body. “I found him like this. He’s not breathing, and I … can’t … find a pulse.”
“Have you called an ambulance?” I was already pulling out my phone.
“I … no. I just got here.” Reed was dazed and having trouble putting together simple sentences. “I was going to try CPR, but his face was cold.”
I punched in 911. “They’re on their way,” I said, ending the call. Tanner’s face was slack, his frozen features so unlike those of the spirited student I knew. Alive, he’d been one of our most animated actors and passionate scholars. He loved the attention he got from causing a scene. This was one scene, however, he wouldn’t have wanted to star in.
I glanced around the garden, looking for clues to his death. Had he tripped? Fallen? Everything was in perfect order for the event. Not even a stray branch from the wind. I checked his body for a wound. No blood stained his clothes—jeans and a T-shirt. Then I saw it: a substance emerging from his ear and forming a liquid trail to his neck. I pointed. “What’s that?”
Reed squinted, his large nose protruding even farther. “It appears to be … I don’t know.” A tall man, he bent over for a closer look.
“Don’t touch it,” I said. “It might be important.”
He straightened, and I noticed how his shirtsleeves didn’t reach the wrists of his long arms. He looked at me, the g
arden, and then back at Tanner. “It is important.”
For the first time since I arrived, he was able to pull himself together. He was the rational Shakespeare scholar from down the hall once more. “What do you mean?” I asked.
He gestured to the garden, which featured an impressive array of pink, red, blue, and purple flowers. “Don’t you recognize the scene?”
The garden, the bench, the liquid in the ear. Something did seem familiar.
“ ‘Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole / With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial / And in the porches of my ears did pour,’ ” quoted Reed.
Hamlet—of course! I remembered at once. In the play, the ghost of Hamlet’s father tells his son that he did not die of a snake bite in the garden. Hamlet’s uncle, eager to usurp the throne, poisoned him. “But what exactly is hebenon?” I asked Reed.
“As far as we know, Shakespeare was referring to henbane, a poisonous flower, but it could have been hemlock or a nightshade,” said Reed. “Hebenon doesn’t actually exist.”
“I imagine henbane wasn’t on your list of flowers—”
“No,” Reed said decisively and maybe with a touch of anger.
The ambulance and police sirens pierced the eerie silence that had fallen over the garden. A small town, Copper Bluff didn’t have many emergencies, and the EMTs and police tripped over each other getting into the garden. One man lagged behind, and I knew from the square shape of his shoulders and old-fashioned cap that it was Officer Beamer. I liked to imagine we were friends but knew this wasn’t exactly the case. He was cordial to me, and I admired his dedication. Could one call that friendship? I wasn’t certain; his furrowed brow suggested otherwise.
The EMTs were busy with Tanner, so I met Officer Beamer halfway through the quad. He kept plodding toward the scene, and I followed along, retracing my steps as I talked. “Officer Beamer, it’s good to see you. Of course it would be even better under different circumstances. One of our English students, Tanner Sparks, appears to be dead. Something very suspicious is coming out of his ear. It could be what killed him.”
We had reached the garden gate, and Beamer stopped. He pointed to a circular bench in the quad. “Sit. I’ll get to you later.”