by N. C. Lewis
"It's the newspaper," she said at last.
Millie was a part-time reporter for the Medlin Creek Times.
"What about the newspaper?"
Millie sniffed, reached for her handbag and pulled out two sock puppets. One was purple and wore a white shirt with a little black tie—Professor Purple. The other was blue with frizzy, brown curls and a pleated skirt—Madame Bleu.
"Oh Ollie," said Millie as she opened and closed the mouth of Professor Purple. She was no ventriloquist; her lips moved with each word, and the deep male voice quite clearly came from her throat. "Millie has retired from the newspaper."
"Retired?"
Professor Purple nodded his sock puppet head. "I'm afraid so."
"Will someone please explain," I asked, looking from Millie to the sock puppets. Millie's number one goal in life was to become a full-time reporter. She was too young to retire. It didn’t make any sense.
Madame Bleu spoke up. "Ooh la la." She had a rich French accent. "The owner of the newspaper treats Millie like an electronic cleaning device," she cried, her eyes wide.
"Eh?" Now, I was totally confused.
"Oh oui," cried Madame Bleu, her eyes now even wider. "Press a button and Millie must, how you say in English, suck up any old bits of news and then write the story."
"But she's a reporter, that's what reporters do."
"Oh, non! Millie is un artiste des nouvelles, a news story artist. She must receive pay whether or not she writes. An artist needs time and space to create. C'est impossible when you must write about the high school production of The Addams Family or else go hungry."
"Now, now," said Professor Purple, his eyes narrowing. "It is not wholly unreasonable for the owner of the newspaper to expect Millie to write a story about the high school production…" Professor Purple paused, his sock puppet head rotating from Millie to me. Millie frowned, and Professor Purple grinned. He continued, "…given that they have just won first place in every category of the Greater Austin High School Musical Theatre Awards."
"Sounds like a remarkable story," I said.
"How can Millie release her full potential if she must write about such things?" cried Madame Bleu, trembling with rage.
"That's the artist's life," chipped in Professor Purple. "Hard work, a little sleep, and more arduous work is the only road to success. Millie must learn to type faster, sleep less, and master the science of multitasking." (“multi-tasking”)
"C'est un crime! Millie must choose the open road, not the confines of an office cubicle," cried Madame Bleu slipping back into Millie's handbag.
The sky darkened. Thunder roared. It began to rain. Large drops splashed against the café window.
"So, you quit the Medlin Creek Times?"
"Well, not exactly," said Millie with a sigh.
"What do you mean?"
Millie turned to avoid eye contact and whispered, "I told the owner of the newspaper that I was in the hospital."
I shook my head. I didn’t know where to begin with that one. "Millie, a lie that big is going to cause trouble."
Millie's eyes narrowed. "I told the owner of the newspaper I'd be out for two weeks. Maybe then it will be clear how valuable I am."
"Valuable," I echoed.
"Yep, then the owner might offer me a full-time position. Ollie, being sick could be my gravy train to a full-time job at the Medlin Creek Times."
"You're crazy!"
Millie shrugged. "Anyway, a couple of weeks gives me time to pursue the open road."
"What open road did you have in mind?"
"The open road of catering. Imagine it Ollie, no matter where you are people must eat. The open road of catering could take me to the plains of the Serengeti or the mountain peaks of the Himalayas."
"What!" My mouth hung open.
"I've signed up to a catering agency. My first assignment begins in an hour or so. I'll tell you all about it later. Got to go, else I'll be late."
I felt a vague sense of unease as I watched Millie hurry out of the café.
Chapter 8
The rain stopped as I drained my cup. It was twelve forty-five, and time to head back to Medlin Creek Community College for the staff meeting. The lunchtime rush hour was over, and the barista had disappeared into a storeroom behind the counter while the assistant cleaned the equipment. He waved as I walked by. At the café door, I stopped, turned, returned to the counter, and ordered two medium cappuccinos.
"Are you taking them back to the college?" inquired the assistant.
"Yep, I need an extra boost to help me get through the day."
The assistant smiled. "Tell you what, I'll put them in our insulated cups. Keeps coffee hot for hours."
The doorbell rang. In rushed Gratia Violeta, the owner of a local hair salon, and town gossip.
"Ollie," she said drawing in a large breath. "Grabbing your afternoon caffeine kick as well, eh?"
"Staff meeting at the college this afternoon."
Gratia nodded as if she understood. "Did you know the county begins widening Creek Street next week? I got the news from Ruth Minary. Have you met Ruth? She used to work at Bee Mound Drilling over in Wimberly. Ruth was there for years, left, and is now a county engineer. Imagine the county starting road work without informing the local business owners. It's a disgrace."
I made a sympathetic murmur of agreement.
Gratia jabbed a finger in the air. "I'd complain to Sheriff Hays, but he is out of town this week at a conference in London. Something to do with combating international crime. Not that we have much of that here. Amazing what our tax dollars go to fund."
Just then the barista hurried out of the storeroom. His lopsided eyes flashed on seeing Gratia, and he scurried over to the counter. "Did you say the county is going to work on Creek Street? Well, about time, too. The road needs resurfacing, and the sidewalk widening. I just hope they complete it before the fall tourist season begins."
There was a general murmur of agreement.
I turned to leave.
"Ollie, take one of these," said the barista holding out a small rectangular card.
"What is it?" I asked, walking back to the counter and putting my cups down.
"A ticket to the Saturday night performance of the Wimberly Players. You saw them earlier, all tights and funny shoes. They are performing at the Lilly Building this Saturday, Twelfth Night."
"Oh, I love Shakespeare, and I'm not doing anything on Saturday. Yes, I'll go."
The barista's eyes flashed. "Charlotte Arrow is playing Viola. She is Professor Andy Arrow's daughter. Have you met Charlotte?"
"Not formally," I replied. "But I saw her in the café earlier."
I slipped the card into my handbag, placed the cups in a cardboard tray, and headed out of the café. On the sidewalk, the sky had cleared. I looked up as a tiny scudding cloud passed in front of the sun, casting shadows along Creek Street.
"I hope that's not an omen of things to come," I muttered, quickening my step.
Chapter 9
The sky darkened once again as I pulled into the Medlin Creek Community College parking lot. I glanced at the dashboard clock–one ten; I had plenty of time. Good fortune seemed to be with me as I found a space in the staff area, pulled in, and walked at a brisk clip carrying the coffee tray into the building.
Seated in the reception area was an elderly lady with her gray hair swept up into a bun. By her side was a metal-framed walker. I stopped.
"Mrs. Hobs?"
"Yes, dear," she said peering up.
"I'm Doctor Ollie Stratford, and I teach in the business department."
Mrs. Hobs tilted her head to one side. "That must be very nice for you dear."
"Yes, it’s a lot of fun, and the college is always looking for ways to help students learn."
Mrs. Hobs crossed her arms but didn’t say anything.
"Listen," I continued, "I'm looking for one or two students to mentor."
"Really?" she said unclasping her arms and lean
ing forward.
"Yep, if you'd like me to review your economics work let me know. The lectures can sometimes seem confusing."
Mrs. Hobs clasped her hands together. "Oh, dear God, thank you. You've no idea what that means to me. I spoke with another professor earlier and…" Her voice trailed off.
I thought carefully about what to say next. "Everyone is welcome at Medlin Creek Community College, but some professors are a little… off-putting."
"Yes dear, they are." Her old eyes drooped somewhat, and her voice was edged with sadness. "I'll take you up on that offer."
At her age, I thought, college must seem very confusing, and all the technology daunting. I fished around in my handbag. "Mrs. Hobs would you like my business card, then we can arrange a time to meet."
"Oh no dear, that is so last century. Can you text me and we can sync up on Google calendar?"
"Of course," I said, wondering how to use Google calendar.
She leaned forward. "Electronic scheduling is so much more efficient than paper, no crees?"
"Pardon?"
"Oh, sorry dear, I've had my Spanish class this morning, it can be difficult to switch at my age. 'No crees?' means 'don't you think?'"
"Oh, I see, so you speak Spanish?"
"Sure do, I've been at it for four years, almost fluent."
I ran a hand through my hair. "Can you tell me what 'no es tu padre' means."
Mrs. Hobs smiled. "That's easy, it means 'not your father.'"
"Oh," I said creasing my brow.
◆◆◆
At the first-level reception desk, the girl with caramel-colored skin sat reading a magazine. I glanced at her name tag—Marcia López.
"Marcia, this is for you," I said handing over a cup.
She looked up and smiled. "Moozoos, my favorite! I normally stop by during my lunch break and have a chat with the barista, but today it's been crazy, plus all that rain."
I nodded. "I got soaked through earlier."
Marcia laughed then let out a long sigh. "Rather you than me! Anyway, today has been a tough one; I couldn’t face the rain as well."
My mind went back to her earlier confrontation with Professor Sweet. I felt my heart thudding dully in my chest as I said, "I saw Professor Sweet throwing a hissy fit this morning."
Marcia rolled her eyes. "If he wasn't an academic, he'd be in the asylum or a jail cell. The man's mad!"
I leaned forward, pleased that Marcia was a talker. "What makes you say that? "
"Do you know Professor Sweet?" she asked cautiously, her eyes darting around the room.
"Not very well, we teach in the same department."
Marcia crinkled her nose. "Oh, I see. Please excuse me if I spoke too freely. I apologize."
I placed my hands flat on the counter. "No need, I only recently took a full-time post. I'm still getting to know my work colleagues."
Marcia took a sip from the cup and placed a hand on her cheek as if she was considering something. "Take my advice. Stay away from that man." She took another sip. "Professor Sweet is rather… peculiar."
"Peculiar," I echoed. "Do you say that because he changed his mind over the color of the printouts?"
Marcia shook her head. "Nope."
I waited, but she said nothing else. My late husband, John, used to say, "If you want a direct answer, sometimes you must take an indirect route."
I asked a different question.
"Did you print out the document Professor Sweet asked for?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
Marcia reached for a drawer under her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. She didn’t say anything as she handed it over—she didn’t need to. It had a full-color blowup of Professor Andy Arrow's face with a large red "X" stamped on top.
Chapter 10
I stared at the sheet of paper for several long moments. That's odd, I thought, very odd indeed. My stomach tightened. Then I lifted my eyes toward Marcia. She shook her head and looked away.
A group of students walked slowly into the reception area. Excited chatter filled the air. At the center of the laughter was a familiar voice. I turned around to see Mrs. Hobs grinning at another student helping her along. When I looked back, Marcia had disappeared into a room behind the reception desk.
I headed toward the elevator and pressed the call button.
The doors opened.
"Doctor Stratford!" said a tall, striking woman with penciled eyebrows and pearly white teeth. I recognized her at once, Ava Torgersen—Professor Torgersen.
The elevator door closed.
"On your way to the staff meeting?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
"Yes," I replied admiring her outfit, a deep blue, designer, shawl-collar blazer and matching blue dress, with her long, black hair twisted into a chic knot. "I'm hopeful it might prove a little more interesting than the last one."
"Oh, it will be," she said in a light bubbly voice. "Today's meeting is going to be delightful, absolutely wonderful."
"Really?" I said in a tone that told her I was eager for more.
Ava lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Today's the day of the announcement."
"Announcement?" My eyebrows raised.
She clasped her hands to her chest. "Andy Arrow is retiring. That's cause for celebration in and of itself. But there is even better news."
"Go on," I said giving her my full attention.
"I'm his replacement."
The elevator doors opened. Professor Ava Torgersen rushed out on the tips of her toes as if she was as light as a feather.
As I stepped out of the elevator, someone stepped in. Something caused my head to turn. I'm not sure what. It might have been a flash of color glimpsed out of the corner of my eye. Or possibly the dull thumping sound of clogs against the carpeted elevator floor. Whatever the cause, I stopped and turned around.
Charlotte Arrow stared back.
The jesters hat wobbled merrily on her head, but her eyes were as small as stones, her face flushed crimson, and her jaw clenched as straight as an arrow.
My eyebrows raised. "Got tickets to your show on Saturday," I said.
Charlotte glanced in my direction and gave a weak smile as the doors closed.
I wondered why she was at the college. Had she stopped by to speak with her father? Or maybe the Wimberly Players were planning to put on a performance at the college? Before I could give it any more thought my cell phoned buzzed—a message from Millie:
Oh my gosh Ollie. At my first catering job now. You won't believe it. I'll tell all later. Moozoos tomorrow at 10 a.m.?
I grinned as I typed in my response:
Great! If it all goes well, drinks are on me, if not, you pay.
I needed the restroom. High on a wall I saw the sign and hurried along a carpeted hallway with oak-paneled office doors, large potted plants, and portraits of the founders and benefactors of the college.
"No more money!" yelled a vaguely familiar voice from behind one of the oak-paneled doors. "Must be one of the department heads asking for more cash," I muttered to myself, half wondering if it was Professor Bingham fighting for the funds to support new research posts. I kept going.
"Mi bebé no grites. Baby, please don't shout."
That caused me to stop. I recognized the heavy, raspy Mexican accent—Sophia Flores! I turned around, curiosity winning over the call of nature, for the moment.
As I scanned the hallway for the source of the sound, I noticed one of the office doors was slightly ajar.
"Necesito mas dinero!" cried Sophia.
Sophia was in one of the executive rooms. What was she doing here and to whom was she speaking?
Slowly, I crept toward the open door. Through the crack, I saw the back of Sophia. She stood in front of a tall, fat guy with small eyes and a large mouth—Professor Andy Arrow!
Professor Arrow's lips twisted into a snarl. "Sophia, you'll get no more money, you devil! Our relationship is over. As soon as I'm done teachin
g today I'm going to visit with Jack Tenby, my lawyer, and get you struck out of my will."
"Andy, bebé, no!" bawled Sophia taking large gulps of air. "I'll kill you first, necesito mas dinero."
Professor Arrow's fists curled into balls, he raised his right arm above Sophia's head. "Don't you threaten me!"
He paused, letting his arm fall limply to his side and scrunched his face into an angry ball of fury. "Terminamos," he yelled with the intensity of a tropical storm.
An instant later he pushed by Sophia. Before I could react, he shoved the office door wide open. His furious eyes glowered down at me.
"What the hell are you doing?"
My stomach churned. "Restroom," I mumbled hurrying away. I could feel his murderous glare as I turned around a corner and darted into the "Ladies."
Chapter 11
The meeting room on the top floor had large floor-to-ceiling windows which on most days would have had a sweeping vista of the campus. But today, low, dark clouds obscured the view, giving the space a claustrophobic atmosphere.
A large, darkly stained teak wood executive table stood in the center of the room with matching leather executive-styled chairs. Low voices murmured in the background as members of the department stood in clusters staring out of the window or chatting on their cell phones.
I scanned the room; Professor Bingham was not present yet. The meeting wouldn’t start until he arrived. Professor Arrow stood near the head of the table, his eyes glaring at the door. Ava Torgersen sat in a chair at the front of the room, next to the lectern. They avoided eye contact.
I slipped into a seat close to the entrance. As soon as the meeting was over I'd head home, take a hot shower, change into fresh clothes and settle into a good James Patterson novel.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha, that's funny!"
Everyone turned. Dan Sweet strode into the room with a cell phone held tight to his ear. "Well, I'm at the meeting now. It's nearly showtime, so I guess we'll be in contact after my coronation. Ha-ha-ha-ha."
Professor Arrow glared toward Dan, his eyes the size of pebbles. He raised tight fists as if he was ready to pounce and tear the man to pieces. Then with a flourish, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pink sheet of paper and tore it into tiny bits tossing them into a nearby waste basket. Next, he took two steps toward Dan, thought better of the idea and sat down in a chair next to Ava. She shifted in her seat.