Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  In late 1927 he felt a sensation that reminded him of his premonition in 1905, that he knew he’d had enough. His money was making him money, which made him yet more. But, unlike so many men at the time, he didn’t want more. He didn’t believe there was a lot more out there. He sold everything he had in the market, and bought gold. His friends thought him mad. Sarah too thought he’d gone crazy. He sat back and smiled. When the market crashed, he continued to smile. Gold doesn’t crash, he told Sarah, who now saw him as wise. His children produced children, and those children produced a fourth generation. At his death in 1956 at eighty-five, several dozen young and middle-aged Morselys expected to receive large inheritances.

  It didn’t happen. Thomas Morsely, born poor, educated on the streets, had learned the importance of learning. Morsely Hall would become Morsely University: an endowment was to be used for bringing the institution into being. Nine years after he died, Sarah Morsely herself, in a wheelchair but still of sound mind, officially opened the great doors to Morsely University’s first students. “And the endowment has continued to grow,” Peter finished. “The number of students leveled off at eight hundred in 1998. Like old Thomas himself, the Board of Directors said: ‘Enough. We have grown enough.’”

  Kyra had been watching Wisely’s front door since after a very early breakfast, but he hadn’t appeared. His sporty Toyota sat parked where he’d left it yesterday afternoon. She’d dared to drive away once before lunch to the gas station down the street for a bathroom break, and was relieved to see the Toyota still there when she got back. Sitting in her car for five hours was not a pleasure. Though she would bill for the whole time.

  She wondered how Noel was doing with that professor’s problem. What kinds of methods would one use to catch an academic cheat? Surveillance of the student, watching through binoculars to see if he was plagiarizing? Tap his phone to hear someone feeding him words, sentences, paragraphs? Noel would have figured it out by the time they met up. Which, she had hoped, would be this evening. But right now it didn’t look like she’d be getting any photos today.

  At which moment the front door opened and out came Wisely. On his left arm, a dark-haired woman, well curved, a yellow jacket and skirt holding her together tautly down to mid-thigh. They walked along the path to the sidewalk. In his right hand, the cane. Was she supporting him? Did he favor his right side? The woman opened the driver’s door, Wisely slid in with great (faked?) care. She sidled into the passenger seat. What the hell was going on here, a little method acting?

  They drove off. Kyra let a pickup pass her by, then followed. They drove toward the town center. A little lunch with your floozy, Fred my boy? Kyra let a gray sedan pull in between her and the Toyota, which was good because Wisely suddenly turned onto Carolina, as did the pickup, but not the sedan. Kyra went into her turn slowly, spotting the Toyota ahead. No suspicions; she was good at tracking. Across Cornwall Avenue, sharp right onto Logan. Wisely found a parking space, stopped and backed in. Kyra drove past him, another space two ahead. Excellent. She too parked, eye turned to the rearview mirror the whole time. Wisely got out on his side, aha! no cane, went around to the passenger side and opened the door. He reached toward the woman and she got out. Not touching now, they paced along the sidewalk side by side. So, it had all really been an act for his neighbors. He slid his arm around his companion’s waist. She let it lie there for a moment, then sped up, and it dropped to his side. An argument between lovers? Maybe the reason for the late start. Kyra snapped five photos in quick succession. They stepped into Lew’s. Well, he’s got good taste; Kyra was suddenly hungry.

  Noel read three papers by Jordan Beck on Peter Langley’s computer: “Rivers Dancing,” a clever description of the multiple movements of flowing water; “Dark Night of the Pole,” a comedic diatribe describing his friend’s laments for his on-again, off-again girlfriend; and “How to Build a Cabin in a TV Studio,” a surrealistic tale about the hundred things that went wrong in a television series he participated in at a local station in Spokane, his hometown. “You’re right,” he said to Peter, “Jordan’s got talent. Sometimes a little uncontrolled in his style, a bit too unsure of himself to push right through, but he sees and describes with real clarity.”

  “Yeah, I think so. But here—” Peter handed Noel a thick sheaf of paper. “The thesis.”

  “The novella.” Noel took it.

  “Tea? A lemonade? Beer?”

  “Thanks. When I’ve finished this, yeah, something would be good.”

  “Then I’ll leave you for an hour. Need to go to the library.”

  Noel sat, and read. At first he’d thought he could read it diagonally, get a gist of the thing and then come back. He usually read the beginning of an article and could tell if it was worth going on. But, by page five of “Piper Blues,” Noel knew he was in for the duration. A simply shaped story, it told of Jimmy Piper, who decided to drive from Spokane to Detroit, taking only the blue highways William Least Heat-Moon had described in his wonderful book of that title—the back roads that connected rural America. Piper owned a VW van, which he’d named Henry Hamlin, vintage 1988, painted many colors, and he was a first-rate mechanic. He also picked up hitchhikers. The first, a little old lady who was ready to go anywhere; she had no fixed destination. The second, a guy in his thirties who maybe was, maybe wasn’t a bank robber. Three and four were runaways, a boy and a girl in their mid-teens. Soon the VW was carrying nine passengers of assorted ages and genders, including a man who called himself a driven transsexual. And they all adored Jimmy Piper, who would talk with them about whatever they thought ailed them. A few basic interactions among the passengers, from fighting to fucking. By the time Henry Hamlin reached Detroit, the lives of many of the passengers had been transformed, five for the better, two for the worse, the other two immutable. “Five to two ain’t a bad ratio,” said Jimmy in the last paragraph.

  Noel sat back. Moving and intelligent, “Piper Blues” showed a self-confidence not present in the essays. Noel could see Peter’s dilemma. He looked out the window. Twilight. Well, Beck’s or whoever’s writing was compelling. Noel had gotten lost in those hundred pages. Someone had turned on the overhead light. Noel stood and went to the door. Across the hall, lights on in another office. From it came Peter’s voice, “My, but you’re a slow reader.”

  Noel crossed the hall and glanced in. Peter had made himself at home behind someone else’s desk. “Your office away from your office?”

  Peter chuckled. “A colleague’s. We have each other’s keys. In case we need a place to hide. So. What’d you think?”

  “I think I understand your problem. It’s a terrific piece of writing. The essays are clever but they don’t match up. Either Mr. Jordan Beck’s art has matured substantially, or the novella isn’t his.”

  “Yeah, you see what I’m dealing with.”

  “Tell me more about Beck.”

  “Don’t know a lot. He came to Morsely over a year ago, we had two of those two-week sessions, over the year he sent me the essays you read plus nine others, then he decided to come to San Juan for the summer to write the novella—he’d made notes and an outline. He gave it to me two weeks ago.”

  “Doesn’t he expect a reaction? A grade?”

  “I don’t have to grade him till the end of September. I’ve told him I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

  “He’s still on San Juan?”

  “He’s got a job at a restaurant, and I think he’s got a girlfriend on the island.”

  Noel nodded. “I better talk to him.”

  “Sure. But you can’t let him know I suspect him of plagiarism.”

  “Course not. Mind if I copy the essays and novella onto my memory stick?”

  “I don’t. But Beck might.”

  “You going to tell him?”

  “No. What’re you thinking?”

  “I had an idea.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll tell you. But what about that beer you offered me?”

>   Kyra had waited two hours for Fred Wisely and the woman to leave Lew’s. Three separate cop cars passed her where she had parked, nonchalantly reading the Bellingham Herald four times from banner to TV listings; she’d learned every available detail about the Targon rape case and today could’ve watched seven different episodes of Law & Order if she weren’t tied up in this bitch of a surveillance. At last they’d come out, holding hands, laughing intimately. Kyra held up her camera. As if they had read her thoughts, Wisely put his arm around yellow lady’s waist and twirled her twice. Clickclickclickclick. Gotcha! Kyra turned off the camera and texted Noel: How’s it going? Shall I come over?

  TWO

  PETER TOOK NOEL to the Faculty Club, several rooms in the same building as the cafeteria but accessed by a different door. Peter pulled the door open and they entered a foyer, then moved into a large living room with an immense fireplace. Overstuffed armchairs surrounded coffee tables. On each table, a large telephone on a 1940s black cradle. They sat across from each other beside the fireplace. Through an open doorway bordered by marble ionic columns, Noel noted, was the dining room, tables set with white starched cloths. “You prefer lager or ale?” Peter asked.

  “Something local. I don’t know any ales or beers here.”

  “I’ll treat you to my favorite.” He picked up the phone and dialed zero, waited a few seconds and said, “Same to you, man.” More waiting, then, “No, never mind, just get us two of my usual.” And after a few seconds, “Yes, I know you know my voice; you’re good with voices.” More talk at the other end. After a few seconds he said, “Damn right,” returned the phone to its cradle, and grinned.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Noel glanced at the fireplace. “Does that get used?”

  “Yep. It can be freezing cold on this island, but when that pit is fully loaded with good hard maple, it warms this entire space, and the dining room as well. I got to enjoy this room a lot over this last year.”

  “How so?”

  Peter stared at his fingers. “It’s complicated.”

  “Sorry. Don’t want to pry.”

  Peter came to what felt to Noel like a decision, and looked up. “My wife and I separated. I rented an apartment but I found it hard rattling around there, so I’d come here, just to hang out.” He glanced at the fireplace. “We’d been together for seven years.”

  “That’s tough. Any kids?”

  “One. Jeremiah. He’s five.” Peter took out his wallet, opened it, and handed a photograph to Noel.

  A tousle-haired boy with big green eyes and a great grin. Noel handed it back. “Good-looking kid.”

  “Yeah. Smart, too.”

  “Your wife has him?”

  “He’s with me every other weekend, and I get him for a month in the summer.” Peter returned the picture to his wallet and that to his pocket.

  “Must be hard.” He wondered why Peter and his wife had separated but didn’t ask.

  A short round man in his forties with a smile and laughing blue eyes approached, carrying a tray that held two steins of beer and a bowl of peanuts. “Trevor,” said Peter. “Thank you.”

  “How you doing, Pete you asshole,” said Trevor, setting the tray on the table.

  “A good day.” Peter took the chit and a pen from the tray. “Pretty good indeed.” He signed, adding his faculty number, and replaced it on the tray.

  “Always good to know you fuck-ass faculty guys can have a good day.” Trevor pointed at Noel. “Who’s this prick-face?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  Trevor looked as if he were evaluating Peter’s statement, then nodded and turned to go, saying, “See you ’round, peckerhounds.”

  They watched him depart. “And that,” said Peter, “is the joke. Except for Trevor it’s no joke.”

  “Tourette’s?” Noel asked.

  “Yep. Fairly severe.”

  “And so Trevor just—spouts at you?”

  “At all of us. Members of the Club know about his Tourette’s syndrome and let his cursing flow over their heads. Those who’re offended stay away. He can’t help swearing.”

  Noel said, divided between marvel and incredulity, “And that’s okay with most people. Intriguing.”

  “It’s a disability, like losing a leg or having a harelip. He’s been kept on at the Club despite it.” Peter laughed. “It’s in the Club’s constitution. He’s a great-grandson of Thomas Morsely, and Morsely left a proviso, that any of his descendants who want to work here have the right to a job. Until they commit some act that proves their incompetence.”

  “Special circumstances, like Jordan Beck?”

  “You got it.”

  “Nobody’s tried to get rid of Trevor?”

  “A few attempts. All failed. Many faculty members find him refreshing, especially after a long day of committee meetings.”

  The beer was a dark amber with pleasing heft and lush aroma. Noel raised his glass to Peter and sipped. “Very nice.”

  “Glad you think so.” He took a sip as well and set his mug down. “You were saying you had an idea?” He grabbed a small fistful of peanuts and popped it into his mouth.

  “Yes. Can you set up a meeting, me with Beck?”

  “Sure. What do I tell him?”

  “That I’m an investigative journalist.” Noel took some peanuts. “Since Beck is in a dilemma about what sort of writing he should take up, you thought he might like to talk with me.” He took a long draught of beer.

  “Sounds good. And I’ll go even further. I’ll say you’re doing a presentation in a couple of months.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded invitingly. “You were passing by and dropped in to check things out.”

  “That’d work, I guess.” Noel considered this idea. “Does one just pass by from somewhere and come to an island like San Juan?”

  Peter sipped beer, then grinned. “You were on Orcas and popped over so we could talk.”

  “That’d do.”

  Peter leaned forward. He gave Noel a conspiratorial grin. The Club was filling, a noisier gathering now, people making their way to the dining room.

  Noel stared at his beer. Good. But the stein nearly empty.

  Peter sat back. “And you could actually do that, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Come back later in the fall.”

  Why would Noel want to give a presentation at Morsely? He gave Peter a face of indecision. He’d thought Peter’s eyes were olive green; now they seemed emerald. “Could do, maybe,” he said. “We can talk about it.”

  They finished their beers. Peter looked at his watch and stood. “I’ve booked you into one of our visitors’ cabins. Come on, I’ll take you there.”

  “Okay, great. Thanks.”

  They walked to the door. Peter waved to several colleagues, three women and a few men, a couple of whom looked at Noel with curiosity. Peter pushed the door open and they left.

  “I’m in a blue Honda in guest parking,” Noel said.

  “I’m parked behind. Wait for a red Mazda.” Peter strode off and a few minutes later appeared, driving what looked like a very recent vintage Mazda convertible, the top down. Noel pulled onto the road behind him. They passed a number of buildings, each echoing some aspect of the Mansion. They drove between a stolid edifice, Bearton Hall, and another, square and broad, called Applied Sciences. The road curved into forested land where it narrowed, then ended by a two-storey house clad in brown-stained cedar.

  Noel pulled in beside the Mazda and got out. Silence except for birds calling and a squirrel chittering. Peter climbed the three steps to a small veranda and unlocked the front door. They went in. Noel glanced about. A long hall to a kitchen, a dining room and living room, with a stone fireplace. New enough to have a built-in sprinkler in the ceiling, old enough for elegant swing-out windows all around. On the right, a bedroom and a bathroom. Upstairs, Peter said, were two more bedrooms, one with bunk beds, and another bath. From the dining room through
a sliding door the view was cedars, firs and arbutus.

  “Very spacious for one,” Noel said.

  “Used for conventions or workshops, people stay up to a couple of weeks. They like to continue their discussions while they cook rather than go out.”

  “Good idea.” For them. Right then he decided he didn’t want the complexity of shopping and cooking; he’d get a restaurant recommendation.

  At which moment Peter said, “Speaking of food, why don’t you join me for dinner? There’s a place here I like a lot.”

  “Sounds like a great idea.” Yeah, good food and pleasant company. “I’ll just bring in my things.” Three steps down and Noel opened his trunk, returning with his overnight bag and computer.

  Peter, standing at the sliding glass door in the dining room, hands in pockets, turned when he heard Noel. “Want some relaxing time first? I could come back for you in, say, an hour?”

  “That’d be good, actually.”

  Peter strode to the door. “See you.”

  So what Noel had figured would be an evening alone researching plagiarism had become social and promisingly pleasant. He walked through the house again, took in the view from each window and decided to take the front bedroom downstairs. Kyra could have her choice of the rest.

  He drew out his cell phone, read her text message, called. It rang. “Hello, Noel.”

  “Hi. How’s Mr. Whiplash?”

  “Nonexistent. I wrote my report and sent it in. The guy was a phony.”

  “Good. So come on over here. They’ve put us in a comfortable house.”

  “Want to know something good?”

  “Always.”

  “After I proved Wisely a fake, the head honcho phoned. I’ve saved them so much money, they’re giving me a bonus.”

  “That’s great! You can buy me a first-rate meal. When’re you arriving?”

  “Tomorrow. There’s no flight till the afternoon. Pisses me off. I get there at 2:30.”

  “I’ll pick you up and fill you in. See you then.”