by Eryn Scott
“Hammy was eating this, but…” I shook my head. “It’s…” I held it up. “It’s Shakespeare, I think. You didn’t write this?”
While it was in her purse, it wasn’t Dr. Ferguson’s handwriting, which was like none I’d ever seen: long, stretched out, delicate cursive which mirrored the soft, wispiness of the long scarves she always had draped over her body.
This writing was tall, straight, still cursive, but there was a tightness to it the likes of which I don’t think had ever existed in my favorite professor. But the note had been in the woman’s purse…
Fergie stood and walked over, reading over my shoulder as I flattened the wet and crumpled piece of paper.
“Macbeth,” she said and then shook her head. “No, dear. I did not write that.”
Was she lying to me? She didn’t seem to be phased by the note, didn’t seem to recognize it…
I repeated the title in my head. Macbeth. I knew from reading the play that it was a bloody story full of backstabbing and revenge. I wouldn’t expect any excerpts from it to be light or happy, but still, the words on the paper made my heart hammer out of fear.
“Fergie, if you didn’t write this, why is it in your purse?”
The woman arched her eyebrows and nodded. “It could’ve been left over from when we did the Scottish play. Who knows with that land-yacht of a purse. I’m always surprised at what I find in there.”
I swallowed. Technically, Fergie was right. Random pieces of paper carrying Shakespeare quotes floating around in her purse was not out of the realm of possibility. Which would explain why she wasn’t freaking out like I was. She hadn’t seen the note left under Dr. Campbell’s body. She didn’t know the handwriting was the same. I kept that fact to myself, however, not wishing to alarm the already disturbed woman.
“Is it just me or does this sound kind of threatening?” I asked, trying a less direct approach.
“Malcom, I believe,” she muttered to herself. “Yes, yes, it’s a very threatening line, dear. It’s during this scene when MacDuff learns his wife and children have been slaughtered. Malcom is telling him to use his hatred, fuel it and turn it into revenge.”
As she spoke, Fergie’s shoulders squared and she stood taller. It sounded as if she were a producer, giving direction to one of her actors.
Even though Fergie seemed a little better, bolstered by the escape into the words of her beloved Bard, I couldn’t help but feel worse at her analysis. I was sure now she hadn’t written it — why would she implicate herself by telling me it was a line between two bloody scenes? — and my mind latched onto the only other option: someone had put it in Fergie’s purse. The word “revenge” stuck in my throat like my sandwich had when I’d shoved too much in at once earlier in the library. What if the killer had been trying to hurt Fergie and got Dr. C instead?
“There isn’t anyone who might’ve been upset with you or Dr. Campbell? Is there?” I remembered back to the conversation I’d had in the library about Evilsworth. He would’ve been equally mad at Fergie as he was at Dr. Campbell since she was the one who brought him here in the first place.
“Oh, I don’t think so. He was a brilliant man. Sometimes he could be a little short with people, blunt to a fault, some may say.” She waved her hand at me. “But he had the sweetest heart, my Davis.”
I noticed she hadn’t answered the part about anyone being mad at her, but she appeared tired and my heart ached for her, so I let it go for now. Stuffing the paper in my pocket, I scooped up Hammy and reached out for Fergie’s bony hand.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Fergie. I really am.” I squeezed tight. “I’m sure the police will figure out the truth and will bring the killer to justice.”
Fergie smiled sadly. “Thank you, Pepper. And thank you for your visit. I think I will finish up here and head home.” She moved toward her desk, but then paused, walked gingerly around the chair, and then stacked a few papers together. “And I think I’ll need to talk to them about getting me a different chair.” She placed a long finger to her lips. “Or maybe the whole desk should go.”
Sighing, I waved and headed out of her office. I couldn’t imagine having to continue working in an office where someone you had once loved — or maybe still did — had been killed. I found it hard enough to walk by Dad’s old office, and he had died of natural causes.
My free hand, the one that wasn’t holding onto Hamburger, searched in my pocket for the paper. Sure of its existence, but unsure of what to do with it, I set Hammy down on the ground and put us on a course for home. Darkness curled around us and I decided on a longer, more well lit, path over my normal route. It’d been a long day, but there was a potential murderer wandering about on campus and I wasn’t about to take any chances. Plus, my head felt full and jumbled; maybe a longer walk would help clear things up.
On one hand, I felt so sure Fergie wasn’t the suspect the police should be looking into. But on the other, this note had been in her purse. And then there was her odd behavior the day Dr. C had been killed.
A cool breeze whipped past me as I passed the bright student center where the cafeteria and gym were located. The sharp scent of burning leaves rode on the wind, remnants from someone cleaning up their yard, no doubt. I sighed and took a turn down a winding path which wove through a grouping of freshmen dorms. The smell of more burning foliage — a different kind of leaf — always sat heavy in this part of campus. Hammy snorted, nose high in the air as she caught a whiff of the skunky scent. I shook my head and let my thoughts return to the note.
One thing was sure. If I turned this in, and they were already suspecting Fergie, it would be some terrible nail in the coffin of the case against her.
And even though I trusted the police to do their jobs, these weren’t just the same old blood and fingerprints kind of clues we were used to dealing with. This killer was leaving behind clues, knowingly or not, using literature.
I pulled my coat tighter around me as a chill danced down my spine at the thought of the murderer. My eyes darted around me in between the dark buildings. The creepy feeling reminded me again of my run in with Naked Newt just before I’d found Dr. C. It was way more likely he’d killed the man than Fergie. And then there was Evilsworth and what Trish and Heather had told me about his beef with the visiting professor.
Turning right on my street, I sucked in a deep breath and made a decision. Maybe the police didn’t need my help, but I was pretty sure my favorite professor did.
The note sat in my pocket like a lead weight the next morning as I headed onto campus to research winter quarter classes at the registrar’s office. The paper was made even heavier by the knowledge that, by keeping this away from the police, I was officially breaking the law, obstructing justice.
I sighed, shaking my head slowly, looking from the rock to the hard place I was stuck in between.
Inside the office, I grabbed a course catalog from the files hanging on the wall and began to flip through to the English section. My eyes caught on the pictures of the faculty hanging on the wall in front of me. I couldn’t help but smile at Fergie’s photograph. She even managed to look dramatic in the picture, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. Not a cell in her body that of a murderer. Then my eyes found Evilsworth’s picture. His eyes looked like they were disappointed with me even through the camera lens. He had a slightly crooked nose and a hard, thin mouth. I definitely couldn’t say the same of him as I had of Fergie.
“Dollar for your thoughts?” someone asked over my right shoulder, entirely too close to my ear.
I jumped, heart beating wildly in my chest as my head whipped around.
Alex stood behind me, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, a light gray hoodie sitting easily on his tall frame. There was a slight twinkle in his eye and he twitched up one eyebrow much like Fergie’s in her picture.
I took the course catalog in my hands and swatted it at him. “You scared me half to death, man!”
He chuckled, but so lightly it was more of an exhale. His hands raised in an I’m-innocent way. “Sorry, didn’t know you were so jumpy.”
Narrowing my eyes, I said, “There’s a killer on the loose, you know. This is not the time to be sneaking up on people.”
“I didn’t sneak. I can’t help it if you were staring longingly at a professor you have some crush on and didn’t hear me.”
My face twisted in disgust. “Eww. A crush? Never.” A shiver ran up and down my body. “Wait, isn’t it only a penny?”
“What?”
“You said, ‘Dollar for your thoughts?’ Isn’t it supposed to be a penny?”
Alex’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah. Whatever was going through your head seemed to be worth more than a penny, though.” He shrugged.
I rolled my eyes at him to hide the delighted smiled pulling at the corner of my lips. “Haha.” I took a step back, suddenly aware I could smell his fresh-laundry and mint smell.
He tipped his head toward me. “But seriously. Care to share what you were thinking about?”
I sighed, hating the turmoil of doubts and fears roiling about in my poor head. I’d always been a rule follower (I mean, in a small town, your parents are going to hear about anything you do, so…) and keeping this piece of evidence secret was feeling like an increasingly worse idea. At that thought, my eyes widened. Alex was pretty much the police. Maybe he could help me decide what to do.
I thought about it, then nodded. “Well, I — it’s just that I —” Ugh, I couldn’t seem to get it out without it sounding like I was a total criminal. “This.” I finally pulled the paper out of my pocket and shoved it toward him.
Alex looked closely at the wrinkly piece of paper. “What am I looking at here?”
“It’s the same handwriting as the note I saw with the…” I stopped myself, about to say, “body.” I cleared my throat. “With Dr. Campbell.”
“Where’d you get it?” His voice tightened along with his grip on the paper.
My fingers itched to grab it back. Okay, showing Alex may not have been the best idea.
When I didn’t answer his question, Alex shot me an impatient look.
“I — uh — found it,” I stammered.
Alex leaned back, standing up straight, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He didn’t have to say anything more, his narrowed eyes spoke quite clearly of his insistence for a better answer.
“Fine, I found it in Fergie’s office…” I let the sentence hang there, not wanting to finish it.
“So it’s evidence then.” Alex raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah.” I sighed.
“Which means you should give it to the police. Your professor friend might be in danger if the murderer is still on the loose, leaving notes like this. Is it possible the person could’ve been trying to get to her and got Dr. Campbell by accident?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The hard part is I didn’t know Dr. Campbell, so I don’t know if he had any enemies, anyone who would’ve wanted to do him harm. And I can’t think of anyone who would dislike Fergie, let alone hurt her.”
“Still, you’d better be safe and hand this over to my dad.” He pushed the piece of paper back into my hand.
I stared at it for a moment.
Alex’s shoulders dropped as he watched my hesitation. “But you’re worried it could be used against her since I’m guessing she’s also a suspect?”
I nodded.
Alex reached forward and for a moment I thought he was trying to snatch the note from me, but then his large hand settled over mine.
“Pepper, is this her handwriting?” His voice was kinder, softer than I’d ever heard it. The normal tightness in his dark eyes loosened.
I shook my head.
“Do you think there’s any way she could’ve killed that man?” he asked.
More shaking.
“Then this could mean your teacher is in danger and you have to show someone.”
This time I nodded. He was right.
“Where in the professor’s office did you find this?” Alex asked.
“Her purse.” My words were a tiny mouse, peeking out of hiding, away from safety.
“What?”
A guy down the hallway glanced over at us, alarmed by the sudden burst of volume as the word shot out of Alex.
He leaned closer to me. “What?” It was more like a whisper this time — if a whisper and a yell had some strange lovechild.
“It may have been in her purse, but she didn’t recognize it. Even told me it was from a really bad part in Macbeth, a part all about revenge. Why would she tell me that if she was trying to hide it?” Now it was my turn to forcibly whisper.
“I don’t know. That’s why they’re murderers; their heads aren’t right. Normal people, people who are easy to understand, don’t kill people as a way to solve a problem.”
“Fine.” I turned on my heel. “I’ll turn it in.”
“And stop getting involved in this case, Pepper. I’m serious. It could be really dangerous.”
I waved the course catalog over my shoulder at him as I left, adding next quarter’s classes to the list of things I was still unsure about.
8
I’m not proud to admit how much I wanted to do the exact opposite of what Alex had suggested, but in the end, rationality won out and I decided he was right.
I visited Detective Valdez in between classes that day, gave him the second note I’d found, and mentally shut the door on this whole ordeal.
The truth was, I wasn’t Nancy Drew’s fake sister. I may have figured out some small clue within a Shakespeare quote, but the police hadn’t needed it after all — Detective Valdez would neither admit nor deny if it had been the toxicology report, but I saw him shift in his chair uncomfortably when I brought it up, so I was pretty sure that’s what it was. These people were professionals. They knew what they were doing and they didn’t need some literature loving twenty-one-year-old running around thinking she was part of their group.
Everyone’s good at something. The police were obviously good at this investigating stuff. I was good at reciting random lines from classics and having literary analysis debates which lasted for hours. And it was probably best if we stuck to what we knew best.
This revelation also helped me make a final decision about my major. I really loved literature. It was my thing. And sure I would have to work my butt off for the rest of my career to prove to myself I deserved all of the wonderful opportunities I’d been given because of my family. But becoming a professor at NWU wouldn’t be a cakewalk, even with my dad’s influence. After graduating with my Bachelor’s it would mean enrolling right away in a Master’s program and someday a Doctorate. It would mean writing books about my subject. It would mean a lot of late nights after long days. And I was ready to put in the work.
Liv had been right. English was in my blood.
I felt liberated once I came to the decision. I hadn’t realized how much it had been weighing on my mind lately, but it felt like I’d taken the equivalent of Fergie’s huge copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare off my shoulders. When I’d told Liv the good news, she danced around the apartment and exclaimed she was making me lasagna to celebrate.
I laughed and let her have her moment. Actually, I was pretty excited, too. When I was done getting all of the degrees I would need, Fergie and I could be colleagues. Working with her would be a dream which could’ve only been topped by getting the chance to work alongside my father.
So I had a smile on my face while I was walking Hammy that evening, before my Liv-made-dinner, after all of my classes were done. The campus was bustling with students needing to get here or there and some who were chatting and soaking up the rare fall sunshine. There was a light, green smell in the air which almost seemed like a tease, knowing we wouldn’t get that new, just shooting out of the soft earth, growing-plant scent much in the winter months to come when the northwest zipped itself up into a down coat of fog, d
rizzle, and gray.
So it was with a skip in my step that I passed a guy handing out copies of The Frond, a tongue-in-cheek — and often controversial — campus chronicle named after the ferns which grew abundantly in this climate. I normally didn’t read the thing, not needing the satirical gossip articles to tell me the buzz on campus. I was a Pine Crest resident, after all, which meant I usually knew about things before people on campus did — the towns people were always the first to know the best information. But the headline — which usually didn’t stop me in my tracks — made me feel like I had swallowed a bug.
Or maybe it was the grainy picture of a frazzled Fergie on the front page.
Either way, my abrupt stop caught Hammy by surprise and she jerked to a halt. My fingers snatched at the paper so forcefully the guy who had been holding it let out a shocked, “Hey!” I waved my hand dismissively at him while scanning the front page story.
The headline, Foul-Play Ferguson atop the article brazenly implicated Dr. Ferguson as the most likely suspect in Dr. Campbell’s death. My blood started to boil as I read further.
I hadn’t brought my wallet with me, however, so after a moment more I had to hand the paper back to the sour-looking paper guy. My brain was a frenzy as I clicked my tongue at Hammy and she trotted after me, back to the apartment.
When I whirled into the apartment a few minutes later, Liv had music blaring from her phone on the counter. She swayed her hips from side to side as she stirred the ingredients in the skillet. Not even the delicious smell of browning meat, garlic, and sautéed onions could release my lips from the thin line they’d pressed into since seeing that headline. Hearing me enter, Liv turned around.
“Hey, why the weird face? I thought we were celebrating.” She pointed her spatula at me. An onion fell from it to the kitchen floor and she bent over to toss it in the garbage.
I unhooked Hammy from her leash and slumped into one of the stools at our breakfast bar. “Just second guessing my decision.”
Now it was Liv’s turn to look down-trodden. “But you just…” Her words petered out as if she was too tired to continue. She stirred the meat in the frying pan dejectedly.