Coming Up Murder

by Mary Angela

  “Oatmeal raisin?” said Lenny, pointing to my cookies. “This is a change.”

  “I didn’t get lunch,” I said. “I need something nutritious.”

  Lenny stacked four chocolate chip cookies on his tiny plate. “I guess budget cuts are affecting everyone.”

  I nodded. In our department, Barb had become a dictator over the copy machine. We had a budget for paper, and we had to stick to it. When our copies ran out, our cards were suspended, and we had to give specific reasons for why additional paper was necessary. Giles advocated for PowerPoints and class webpages to disseminate information, and I did a good deal of uploading. Still, I copied many stories that weren’t in our textbook and had done battle twice this semester to get my account reinstated.

  Denton was pouring a glass of lemonade from the dispenser, and I took the opportunity to ask him about his Shakespeare research. Last time we talked, he was close to confirming Edward de Vere’s DNA. I asked him now how the project was progressing.

  He took a sip of his lemonade before answering. “I’m finished.”

  “And?” I prompted. “Was it de Vere’s letter?”

  “Yes.” His voice was no louder than a whisper.

  If he was excited about the information, it didn’t show. The eyes behind the glasses conveyed the same cool intelligence they had the first time I met him.

  “So, that means de Vere was alive at the time the late Shakespeare plays were written,” said Lenny, exhibiting far more excitement.

  “You told him?” asked Denton.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He won’t say anything. He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Hey, that’s the first time I’ve heard you call me your boyfriend,” said Lenny.

  I smiled.

  “It sounds nice,” he added.

  “Anyway,” I said to Denton, who was waiting on our side conversation, “what will you do now?”

  Denton shrugged. “Finish med school. I have the money now.”

  “You’re not going to continue the research?” I asked.

  “What research? Tanner was the Shakespeare expert. I’m just a lab rat.” Denton threw his Styrofoam cup in the trash can. “Besides, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s best to leave well enough alone. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.”

  I wholeheartedly disagreed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As Denton walked away, I thought maybe someone had gotten to him, someone like Felix or Andy, and convinced him to stop his research. Tanner’s death alone was enough of a deterrent. If pressured or threatened, he might have been persuaded to withdraw from the controversy. He had a lot at stake, including a medical degree, and as he said, he was a scientist, not a literary scholar. I couldn’t blame him for not continuing. Still, I was disappointed. The sleuth in me wanted to know if Shakespeare was really Shakespeare. His results might not have answered the question definitively, but they would have brought the world closer to knowing the truth.

  Jacob was standing next to Mia and her friends, and Lenny and I took a step in that direction. Dressed in black and wearing a dour expression, Jacob reminded me of a storm cloud. Actually, he reminded me of Tanner. He had the same brooding personality. He was less able to keep a lid on his emotions, though. Tanner was a natural. Jacob had to work at it. Judging by the way he clenched his fists at his sides, whatever Alice was saying irritated him.

  “Congratulations, Mia,” I said as Lenny and I approached the group. “It’s a lovely gown. I’m so glad we got an opportunity to see it.”

  “It’s cool,” said Lenny. “Good job.”

  “Thank you,” said Mia. “And thanks for coming.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I promised another student I’d drop by.”

  “You get your car working?” Jacob asked Lenny.

  “I did,” said Lenny. “Thanks.”

  The question threw me. Luckily, it hadn’t thrown Lenny.

  “Was it antifreeze?” said Jacob.

  The word entered the conversation like a dart. I flinched.

  “I added a little water to the radiator,” Lenny said. “It’s fine—for now, anyway. I need to get it into the shop.”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I was relieved for the break in the conversation. I checked the caller ID. It was Owen Parrish. I excused myself from the group before answering.

  “You didn’t like this cover either.”

  These were the first words out of Owen’s mouth. Not hi, hello, or how are you. I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Hi, Owen. The cover is concerning, yes.”

  “There are fewer flowers,” said Owen.

  “That’s true, but there is also a Victorian lady sprawled out on a bench. I don’t see how she relates.”

  “She’s reading,” he said. “We want people to read your book.”

  “People looking for a historical romance?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so. They would surely be disappointed. I know. I read a lot of historical romances.”

  “I’m not sure what you want from me,” said Owen.

  How about a normal conversation, for starters. “I would like to see a nonfiction book cover that matches the theme of the book.”

  “I will see what else we can come up with that would satisfy you.”

  Owen released a stream of air right into the mouthpiece. I held the phone back from my ear. “That would be nice, thank you.”

  Owen didn’t respond.

  I looked at my phone screen. The jerk had hung up.

  Mia and her friends had dispersed, but Lenny was waiting for me, chewing the last of his cookies. His face was a combination of a smirk and a smile. I swear I could put him in the middle of a maelstrom, and he’d find a way to paddle happily ashore. I’d probably drown looking for a compass.

  “Owen hung up on me,” I said.

  “I figured,” he said. “I saw you glaring at your phone.”

  “What am I going to do?” I said.

  He dusted off his hands. “Exactly what you’re doing. He’ll change it. Just be patient.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Your name isn’t on a book with cleavage.”

  “Actually, I don’t think I’d mind that so much.”

  “Ha ha,” I said. “Very funny.”

  He put his arm around me. “I couldn’t resist. I love it when your lips do that little thing they’re doing. Do you know it was one of the first things I loved about you?”

  There was that word again. Love. Every time he dropped it, I felt like I might swoon. It was ridiculous. “No … I … uh, didn’t know that.”

  “The second was the way the curls at your temples escape no matter what contraption you tie them into.” He touched a curl behind my ear. “These.”

  I swallowed. “I see.”

  “And the third was the way you eat candy with wild abandonment. The moment I saw you tear into a king-sized Snickers at a faculty meeting, I said, here’s a girl after my own heart.”

  Now I laughed. “They’re very satisfying.”

  “It’s been a wonderful ride, hasn’t it Em?”

  “It has,” I said. “I’m glad it’s led us here.”

  “Who knows where else it will lead?” His navy eyes searched mine. “Some journeys take a lifetime.”

  “Or longer.”

  He smiled. “Or longer.”

  My response had answered a question in his mind. What the question was, I wasn’t sure. We’d both played the field and lost when it came to love. Relationships had been disappointing at best, soul-killing at worst. Maybe he was asking if I still believed in the journey, in finding the one person who completed me. I did, and though maybe it was my vast experience with romance novels talking, I believed he did, too.

  The theater director breezed through the door, and I refocused on Tanner and his unsolved murder. I wanted to ask Alexander about the skull in Hamlet and who would have had access to it. I called his name, and he turned and strode in our direction, his barrel of a belly leading the way.


  “You spend a lot of time in the theater,” said Alexander. “I’m starting to think you might need a job.”

  “Heck, no,” I said. “You will never get me up on that stage.”

  “There are other things you can do,” he said.

  “That’s what I want to ask you about,” I said. “Well, not that exactly but something related. I have a question about the prop department.”

  “If this is an excuse to try on the Marie Antoinette wig—” began Alexander.

  “It’s not.” I cut him off before he could tell Lenny about catching me in the wig before one of our meetings. I had a bigger head than I thought, and it didn’t come off easily.

  “Someone put the skull from Hamlet in the downstairs women’s bathroom, under Em’s stall,” said Lenny. “She was the only one in there. We’re still wondering who did it.”

  “Friday night,” said Alexander. “I remember. Someone ran it down to the theater. A volunteer. I was livid to see it gone.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Lenny had a volunteer return it.”

  “Who had access to the props that night?” asked Lenny.

  “Anyone in the play, of course, and anyone backstage. We have tables near the tabs, where props are easily accessible. Nobody else is allowed back there during a performance.”

  “Tabs?” said Lenny.

  “The side curtains,” Alexander clarified. “In Hamlet, the skull comes in during Act V.”

  “This happened during intermission, before Act V,” I said.

  “That’s brazen,” said Alexander. “The skull was on the opposite side of the theater from the restroom. Whoever took it would have to be familiar with the tunnel that runs under the stage. We use it to cross without being seen.”

  “So it’s someone who knows the theater, not just enjoys it,” I said.

  “Precisely.” Alexander waved at a colleague who called out to him. “Let me know if you catch the punk. I’d like to have a word with him. He might have ruined my entire performance. Excuse me.”

  I was glad to hear my safety was his chief concern.

  “Well, that narrows it down,” said Lenny after Alexander was gone.

  I grabbed Lenny’s arm. “It does. Think about it. Felix or Andy don’t know our theater. They’ve never been here. If Alexander is correct, it means they couldn’t have murdered Tanner.”

  “You’re right. It has to be someone else.” Lenny gazed around the room. My eyes followed his from one clump of people to the next. Nibbling cookies, drinking lemonade, exchanging back-pats—they all appeared harmless. His eyes stopped on Mia, who was smugly admiring her creation for Twelfth Night. Alice was admiring it, too. Mackenzie and Hailey were engaged in a side conversation. Jacob looked bored, and Denton watched from the sidelines. Dressed in a plaid button-down and jeans, he was as distinct in his plainness as they were in their flamboyancy. He wasn’t directly involved with the theater, nor was Alice. But any of them was familiar enough with the campus to pull off the trick.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Later that afternoon, I received an unexpected email from Owen Parrish. I was grading online discussion posts when a beep notified me of the arrival. I switched over to my inbox and was pleasantly surprised to find a new book cover waiting for me. The font was the same, but the sleepy woman was gone. A bouquet of old-fashioned roses was placed over a typewriter. Still, I liked the typewriter. The bouquet wasn’t bad either. I’d have preferred it smaller, but if the last week had taught me anything, it was compromise. The book was no longer mine alone. Publishing meant getting used to people’s input.

  I sent off a quick reply, thanking him for the change. He responded with a release date, and I was thrilled. The book would be published next year.

  After the news, it was hard to go back to my online discussion, but I had forty student responses to read, and their quality and length varied. Some students wrote impassioned posts filled with adjectives and metaphors. Others left one or two plain lines to gnaw on.

  It was late by the time I finished. The dinner hour long past and my brain blurry, I ordered Chinese food from Dynasty and turned on the classic movie channel. When my cashew chicken arrived, I was thirty minutes into Lawrence of Arabia. I grabbed a fork (I could never get the hang of chopsticks) and, putting my feet up on the coffee table, dove into the containers of food.

  Though I liked sand as much as the next person, my eyes were tired from reading online, and I must have dozed off near the end of the movie. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that my dream involved the good-looking Peter O’Toole and a tent. I woke with a start. The house was dark and the TV blank. Dickinson lay at my feet, not budging. She hadn’t made the sound. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. A noise came from the alley.

  I grabbed my empty containers of chicken and rice and walked to the kitchen. Tossing them in the trash, I squinted out the back-porch window. I could have sworn my car was running. A stream of smoke was coming from the garage. How could that be? I took my keys down from the hook near the door. That’s when I noticed my car key was missing. Because I rarely drove, I had no idea when the key had been stolen. The other keys were all accounted for.

  Stopping only to slip on my sandals, I raced out to the garage. If someone thought they were going to steal my car, they were sadly mistaken. It was a ’69 Mustang, a classic my uncle had sold me. There was no way I could show my face in Detroit again if the car was taken.

  “Stop!” I yelled as I rushed out of my house. “Right now, stop!” I ran to the single-stall garage. I looked inside, but nobody was there. The car was running. I came closer. It was empty. Maybe I’d scared off whoever it was. And Lenny said I wasn’t athletic.

  I pulled on the handle of the driver’s door. It didn’t budge. I peered inside. No one was in there, but the door was locked. I walked over to the passenger door. It was locked also. Great. I didn’t have another set of keys. I went back to the driver’s door and tried again. Nothing.

  I had a small toolbox, which I bent down and opened. The nice thing about owning a classic car is that security isn’t the best. I was certain I could get inside with a tool. But which tool? I fumbled through the box, unsure of what to try.

  Suddenly, the garage door shook, and I turned around to see it slam to the ground. I sat on my haunches, frozen with fear. After a second, I rushed to the door and pulled. Like the car doors, it was locked. But the long metal bar that looped through the locks was on the outside of the door. I pulled harder, chiding myself for not updating the old carriage house into a proper garage. It still had the shake & shingle siding and was as solid as a brick. With no windows, it felt like a wooden tomb.

  I tried not to panic. I’d seen enough movies to know panic ended in tripping, falling, and general disaster. I ran back to the toolbox and grabbed the hammer. Although it pained me to do it, I struck at the driver’s side window of my Mustang. To my surprise, nothing happened. Not even a crack. I struck harder, over and over. A few dings appeared in the glass, giving me hope. But the action left me dizzy, breathless. I told myself I had time. I wouldn’t die instantly from carbon monoxide poisoning. I smacked it again, choking on the fumes.

  Images of my parents, Christmas, and Lenny swam in my brain. I willed them away. The glass cracked further, but I felt tired, unenthused about my progress. I forced myself to hit it again. It was as if I was watching the action from outside my body, floating somewhere above myself. It was a pinprick against the window, and I begged myself to hit harder. The hammer slipped out of my hand, and I watched it fall to the ground. I tumbled too, grabbing for anything, the side of the car, watching my hand slide against the red paint.

  A shot rang out, and I wondered if this was death, the last moment of consciousness not a light but an alarm signaling the end of life on earth. Then a light did start, low to the ground, rising up, up, up. I blinked lazily, wondering who from the other side was there to greet me. It was a woman in curlers. My grandma? This woman had a gun. Why would
anyone need a gun in heaven?

  “Emmeline! Get out of there right now!”

  It wasn’t grandma. It was Mrs. Gunderson. Did she rule heaven and earth? No, I was still alive. I stumbled toward the door, and when I got closer, she grabbed my hand, and I skipped along the hard gravel ground. She was surprisingly strong. Her thin arm was like a life preserver jerking me to the safety of my lawn. The last thing I remembered was the feel of her hand in mine and her words in my ear: “Hang in there, dear. You don’t want to die a spinster.”

  I awoke with an oxygen mask over my face. Officer Beamer was there, and Lenny, too. They were talking. I was in the hospital, the emergency room. A blood pressure cuff was squeezing my arm.

  I lifted my mask. “Thank god you’re here. Someone tried to kill me.”

  “Put that back on,” said Lenny, rushing to my side. “She’s awake,” he said to the nurse.

  “Leave that on, Ms. Prather,” said Beamer. “We’re aware of the situation.”

  A woman in scrubs asked me how I was feeling, assuring me I could talk with the mask on when I tried to lift it again.

  “I have a splitting headache. Otherwise, I feel okay. Where’s Mrs. Gunderson?”

  Lenny clasped my hand. “She’s in the waiting room. We couldn’t get her to leave.”

  I blinked back tears. “She saved my life.”

  “We know,” said Mr. Beamer. “What happened?”

  I relayed the story, leaving out the dream of Peter O’Toole and the tent. “I must have awoken when I heard the car start, or maybe it had been running for a while. Either way, I ran out to the garage to find it idling. Someone stole my key.”

  “We noticed that when we shut it off,” said Beamer.

  I groaned. “Did you break the window?”

  “Yes, but it was broken already,” said Beamer.

  “My uncle is going to kill me.”

  “Cars can be fixed, people can’t,” said Beamer. “We’re just glad you’re safe. Did you lend your car to anyone lately?”

  I shook my head.