The boy looked at me. I recognized him as a journalism student, but I wasn’t sure of his last name.
I repeated, “Thad, did she tell you how she planned to get home?”
He slumped to one side in his chair. Obviously, in addition to his grief, Thad was suffering a major hangover. “Celeste drove me to the bar,” he said. “I left on my own and hitched a ride. Celeste had her car.”
“And you were going to let her drive in that condition?”
Thad hung his head, “I was pretty drunk, myself, Dean Solaris. And I’d just been told I was an idiot and lousy in bed.” He looked at Irene Cummings. “Sorry, Mrs. Cummings.”
Tears streamed down Thad’s face. “She said it was my fault she’d been expelled for cheating. She said I should have checked her stuff before she turned it in.” Now he was shaking, “But she cheated all the time. How was I supposed to keep up with her?” He dissolved.
“Thad, go into the bathroom and straighten yourself up,” said Clark Cummings. The boy obeyed.
“I feel so sorry about all of this,” was all I could think to say.
Irene Cummings put her hand on my arm. “When Celeste recovers, if she recovers, we will take her home,” she said. “And, I think we’ll keep her home for a while. Celeste needs to be with us and we need time to help our daughter with some serious problems.” Irene’s voice was steady and her touch sure.
Thad emerged from the bathroom and stood next to me. “Sorry about that,” he said, as if I was the one to whom he owed an apology.
I moved to the door. “Please let me know how she is and if there is anything I can do,” I said. Irene nodded. Clark stared out the window.
Thad left with me. We walked together down the hall toward the parking lot.
“Thad, remind me of your full name,” I said.
“Thad...Thaddeus Archer,” he said.
“Thaddeus is my father’s name,” I said. I stopped and looked at the boy who returned my gaze. “He fell in love with the wrong woman, too.”
Thad said nothing.
“I was a drunk in college,” I said. I had never admitted that to anyone before. “I lost my best friend, I lost my dignity, and I damn near lost my mind.”
He just looked at me.
“Stop drinking, Thad. At least stop binge drinking.”
He nodded. Suddenly, he put out his arms and hugged me. Then, he walked away without a word.
When I told Sadie about my morning with the Cummings, my eyes watered. Sadie reached across the table and put her weathered, strong hand over mine. “You’re being very hard on yourself,” she said. “The girl didn’t start drinking because you expelled her. She’d no doubt been drinking heavily for some time. You know that.”
Wilson showed up with Sadie’s iced tea and hot coffee for me. No wine today. Penance. I wiped my eyes. “I know. It’s just that it’s so damned awful to see a young girl that sick, even if it’s self-inflicted. And her poor parents are so anguished.”
“You’re still in mourning,” Sadie said. “This is another unhappy event piling on. It’s not been long since Henry’s death.”
“I was happy on Thanksgiving,” I said.
“It was a lovely Thanksgiving. I was happy, too.” Sadie’s hawk eyes softened. “Nothing takes away from good days like that one.”
“I was happy and I was beginning to think I was doing a good job for the school...”
“You are doing a good job for the school. You’re a good dean, Meredith Solaris. Know that.”
“Everything feels tentative,” I said. “Nothing’s resolved. Henry’s death. No doubt murdered by one of those ghastly men on my faculty. Then there’s poor Celeste. Larry Coleman’s tenure. Nothing seems to be working out. And, on top of that, I may have offended a major donor by canceling a meeting with him at the last minute.”
Sadie sat back and deliberately made a slurping sound with her tea. “Has that cop taken you to bed yet?”
“What?”
“Well, I thought since everything else in your life is going to hell that he was probably disappointing you, too.”
“Sadie, for God’s sake, Joe is a very good friend and he trusts me to be useful on this investigation. That’s all.”
“Oh, I doubt that’s all. I saw the way he looked at you at your Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Maybe after he solves Henry’s murder, we can begin some sort of...relationship.”
“What if Joe never solves the murder? They don’t all get solved, you know. Some cases just get colder and...”
“Sadie, stop. Are you trying to drive me crazy?”
“No, I’m not,” she said, putting her hand back on mine. “I am just reminding you that your personal happiness depends on a lot more than solving this case. It also means knowing when you’re well off. You have a distinguished job and a great career ahead of you. The administration and most of your faculty support you. You have a good man definitely interested in you. So you are, Queen Red, in my estimation, very well off these days. Murder investigations notwithstanding.”
I squeezed her hand. “Sadie, my rock. I love you very much.”
Chapter 16
One of the few good conversations I had with my mother was about hair. We both had dark, thick red hair that tended to curl. “Take good care of your hair,” she advised, “it can be your best feature. Men will love it and women will envy it.”
Maybe because I still cherish those few good times with her, I took her counsel seriously. After a year of searching my new city and trying all of Trudy Worthington’s suggestions, I had finally found a stylist who knew how to give me a good cut. Tuesday after lunch, I headed to the salon. After the stylist was finished, I stared at myself in the large mirror above. My hair framed my face with curls, some dark as wine, some lighter and more golden.
For years, as a kid, I thought I was homely. But by thirty-five I had decided I was good-looking without being conventionally pretty.
Thirty-five was not past childbearing age, but also not a girl anymore, a woman to be taken seriously. Sadie was right. The hell with whoever had written that anonymous note. I was qualified and, given the events since Henry’s death, I knew I damn well better be taken seriously.
Several faculty members who were coming up for annual reviews were due for visits to their classes to see how they were doing as instructors.
I promised myself I’d be diligent. I would start my evaluations with classroom visits to the people I liked least, hoping to avoid invidious comparisons with those I liked better. I decided not to bother with Simon’s class.
In George’s class, what the faculty saw as verbose and pompous, his students saw as dramatic and interesting. For the most part, George lectured, but all fifty students seemed engaged by his rhetoric, especially stories of his days as a young reporter and some of the celebrities he met when he became editor. After I left George’s class, I headed for Edwin’s.
Edwin taught writing with conspicuous concern for students who were having trouble. The students worked at computers. When they were finished writing or editing, they turned their chairs around and wheeled over to a long table in the center of the room. Edwin’s critiques were thorough and useful. His students seemed eager to improve their work and present again. Edwin walked around, stopping to kneel down beside a student and offer more guidance. This was a kind and articulate Edwin. As I left his classroom, I knew this was the Edwin a young Mary Cartwell had loved all those years ago.
George and Edwin were difficult colleagues, but excellent teachers. I resolved to make a greater effort to understand the complexities of the two of them.
Especially if it turned out Simon was not the killer who had sent Henry down that flight of stairs.
Larry Coleman was a wreck. According to Nell he had been waiting for me in my office for over an hour while I watched Edwin’s class. Larry had been pacing
the floor and bugging Nell every ten minutes about my whereabouts.
As I approached my outer office, she stuck her head out of her office that adjoins mine. “Watch out, he’s a mess,” she said as she rolled her eyes.
Larry was standing by the window behind my round table looking out over the quad. “I’ll pick you up at the airport. I love you, too,” he said to his cellphone when he saw me. He closed his phone and sank into a chair facing my desk. “Oh, Red. It’s getting worse.”
“What’s getting worse?” I tried to sound sympathetic.
“Simon and the Dynamic Duo. They’ve been visiting other members of the faculty. They trap each person in his or her office and then trash my tenure application.”
“Tenure reviews are confidential,” I said. “Are they breaking the rules?”
“They’re not only breaking the rules, they’re busting my balls. They’re telling everyone who will listen that my research is irrelevant, my teaching sucks, and my student evaluations are awful. Lies, Red. Outright lies.” Larry was slender with a delicate, almost feminine face. He had a short beard and a mustache, which I suspected existed to make him look more masculine. His eyes were awash. “And worst of all, Edwin and George corralled a couple of grad students yesterday and told them not to take my classes next semester.”
My resolution to try to better understand Edwin and George dissolved. “That’s outrageous. I’ll deal with this, Larry. You go home and get some rest.”
“No one to go home to,” he said, starting to sob. “Karen’s in Chicago on a business trip. I just spoke to her. She can’t get home until tomorrow.”
He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose just as I was reaching for a box of tissues.
“I’m sorry, Red. I know I should be handling this better. But I have worked so long and so hard.” He cleared his throat and stood up as if to make it easier to talk without tears. “I’m filing a grievance against those bastards. And please don’t even try to talk me out of this. I love the school, but if I can’t file a grievance, I’ll file a lawsuit for slander. I’ll go to the media, and if all else fails, I’m going to get a baseball bat and break their kneecaps.”
“Take a deep breath, Larry. And sit down,” I said. “I’m not going to try to talk you out of anything. I’m going to tell you how to file a grievance.”
“Maybe I should just see my attorney now,” he said.
“A good attorney will advise you to go through the grievance procedure first.”
“Shit. I’m starting to like the baseball bat idea better.”
“I know. But these guys are not worth you going to jail, are they?”
I explained the steps he should take. He listened, then stood up, straightened his shoulders and strode out of the office. He left me to think about what I was going to tell Stoddard and what I was going to say to the gang of three when they received a formal notice of grievance.
Idiots.
Celeste Cummings survived. Irene Cummings called to say they were taking her home and withdrawing her from the university.
“Do you think she’ll come back in the fall?” I asked. “I would be happy to help her find a new major in another college.”
Irene was silent for a moment. “Thank you, Dean Solaris. That’s thoughtful of you. But her doctors want to see if there’s even slight brain damage,” she said. “We’ll have to wait and determine what Celeste can do in the next weeks. Also, she needs some therapy before she should come back here.”
An hour later, I had a meeting with the university president. Philip Lewis was finally showing his age. His fine features were pale and drawn and his expensive tailored suit seemed to hang on him. He motioned me to a chair by his desk, then leaned back and put his fingers to his lips. I had telephoned him to alert him to Larry’s predicament.
“You’re having a tough go aren’t you? Tougher than we anticipated.”
“Do you want to appoint someone else?” I said, half hoping he would say yes so I could go home to my dog and back to my old teaching job and forget about all the assholes and their stupid bickering.
He smiled gently. “No, Meredith. You are still the best person. I don’t know of anyone who could have done more or foreseen more.”
I sensed a “but.”
“But I wonder if it would help if I put the school of journalism into receivership?”
Receivership happens when an independent college is put under the wing of another college because it cannot function on its own or is too dysfunctional to govern itself.
Lewis went on, “The dean of the College of Liberal Arts tells me he would be willing to help out.”
“I don’t think we are at that point yet, President Lewis,” I said, carefully choosing my words. “I’m working with the provost and hope to get this grievance matter handled with as little publicity as possible.”
“Some of your senior faculty deserve to be spanked and sent to their rooms without supper,” said Lewis.
“Yes, they do. Care to make that happen?”
“Regrettably I can’t, Meredith. But I can put the school of journalism under Liberal Arts if things get any crazier.”
“President Lewis, that punishes the entire school for the asinine behavior of a minority of the faculty. I’m sorry, sir, I think that’s unfair and, frankly, I don’t see how it would do much good. Also, please keep in mind we are all suffering a police investigation of Henry’s death.”
“I do admire your determination, Meredith.” He played with a small stack of papers on his desk. I waited.
“I’ll hold off for a while.” A frown on his forehead, old eyes looking fierce. “But know this, Dean Solaris. I didn’t put you in that job to see you whipsawed by a bunch of thugs. So call me right away if you need help.”
“Thank you. I’m meeting with the provost in half an hour,” I said. “Let me see what he and I can work out.”
Usually decisions take forever in a university and events move at a snail’s pace, but, as I walked downstairs to Stoddard’s office I had the anxious feeling that, this time, events might run ahead of my ability to manage any of them. It was no longer just the quarrel. My school was in jeopardy.
“Are you willing to try to talk to these clowns again?” asked Stoddard. “I can be in the room with you this time.”
I sat down in one of the provost’s overstuffed chairs and moaned. “I tried before. I warned them Coleman would file a grievance if they didn’t cease and desist. But they went ahead anyway.”
Stoddard’s office felt cold. No doubt a man of his girth kept the temperature down, but I shivered visibly and he rose and closed a window behind me.
“Yes, but things are different now. With Phil giving serious thought to putting journalism into receivership, you may find that your powers of persuasion have been enhanced,” Stoddard said.
“Will they believe it?” I asked. “They’re so delusional, I wonder if they’ll think I’m making it up.”
“That’s why I’ll be there to back you up. If they have any doubts about Phil’s intentions, I’ll make sure they get it. Are you game?”
“Yes, I’m game. Do you think President Lewis would really do it?”
“Oh, yes. Phil has the guts of a pirate captain when it comes to dealing with rogue faculty.”
I left Stoddard’s office and walked across the quad toward the school. It was getting dark early as we approached the winter solstice. The lights were bright in the three colleges facing me. Snow crusted the ivy that climbed on the larger buildings. A choir was practicing carols somewhere near. Voices high and crystal clear in the winter air. In two weeks, Mountain West would close for winter break and go home to celebrate Christmas.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen.
Let nothing you dismay.
It was thirty-three days since Henry Brooks had been found at the bottom of the st
airs.
Chapter 17
Joe was compassionate. “I’m sorry this investigation is taking so damned long and I’m also so sorry for Celeste, and for Larry,” he said. “I know you feel lousy about all this, even if none of it was your doing.”
He was wearing an old apron of mine and stirring spaghetti sauce while I sat, glum and tired, at the kitchen table. Joe makes terrific spaghetti sauce, not to mention fried chicken and meatloaf. I also figured he came not only to feed me and bring me up to date, but also because college basketball was starting and my television set was newer and larger than the one in his bachelor pad.
“I feel a sort of guilt about Celeste,” I said. “I drank too much in college. I just didn’t get into Celeste’s kind of trouble. Now I wish I had known she was a heavy drinker when we talked in my office.”
“How would that have changed things?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I think I might have better understood the irrationality of her behavior if I had known more about her. I might have been a bit less angry and aggressive. I might have gotten her to talk more about herself.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he said and put down his spoon. “I knew my best friend was an alcoholic and I talked to him all the time, but it still didn’t change things. He would just make a joke about it. And, he was good at making jokes. He got more laughs than any of us. And, more girls, too.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“No. I was a little shyer in college than I am now. I didn’t get to my full height until sophomore year and then I grew three inches. That fall I tried out for basketball. I also hit the gym and tried to bulk up a bit.”
“I would say you did very well at that.”
He ignored my feeble attempt to flirt, and veered back to his friend.
“I can still see his face. One night before he died, we talked until about three in the morning. It was so easy to talk about yourself with him. He really listened, even when he was half in the bag, he listened. He had that way of looking intently at you when you were talking and making you feel like whatever you had to say was significant. I remember we sat in my room and I told him all about my parents and my sister and the girls I had lusted after and never dated.”
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