by Cynthia Kuhn
Looked like enchanting Damon was in the house tonight. I could practically feel the #angelDVT tweets blossoming out in cyberspace.
“Here’s something from my latest book, In Medias Res,” he said, then donned a pair of glasses—an exact duplication of Papa Hemingway’s, if I wasn’t mistaken—and opened the book.
The stage lights were lowered except for the circle of light around Von Tussel’s broad, muscular figure. Velvet curtains hung motionless in the background. There was nowhere to look but at him. He read slowly from the open book in his left hand. The right hand stroked his white beard from time to time, but otherwise, he was still. The energy swelling and filling the room arose from only his words.
I had to admit, he had enormous charisma.
He had us right where he wanted us. The audience actively responded to his words throughout—laughing at the humorous parts, gasping at the shocking parts—and rewarded him with loud applause when his final story came to a close. He nodded and set the book down on the lectern. As the noise subsided, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a moment, then looked expectantly out into the darkness.
The jittery man with the bow tie hurried back onstage to pump Damon’s hand. He said a few words to him privately before stepping up to the microphone. “Thank you for a stellar reading,” he enthused to the author before addressing the crowd. “Mr. Von Tussel will now take questions from the audience.”
We all waited as people made their way down the row and lined up behind the microphone which had been placed in the aisle by an unobtrusive staff member.
A short man in a plaid sport coat and fedora smiled widely at the author. “Congratulations, Mr. Von Tussel, on your new book. I loved it.”
Damon inclined his head in thanks.
“I’m wondering why there were so many years between The Medusa Variation and In Medias Res.”
The author shrugged. “Many people have asked me that. All I can say is the muse works in mysterious ways.”
A ripple of laughter cut through the room despite Damon’s somewhat dismissive tone.
“But what were you doing for all of those years?”
Damon glared at him. “Living,” he said, curtly. “How about you?”
The questioner timidly thanked him, and the person in line behind him took his place. I tuned out for the next few questions, checking the doorway to backstage again. Still guarded. Those guys were good. When I finally turned my attention back to Damon, a petite redhead in a navy coat asked something about the idea for the book.
Damon threw his hands into the air and sighed. He leaned into the microphone and barked, “I’ve answered these questions a thousand times. Do an internet search, for God’s sakes. Ask me something meaningful!”
The woman, clearly about to cry, began apologizing, but he held up his hand, cutting her off. “Forget it.” He whirled around, scraping the book off of the lectern with a jerky movement and charging offstage.
The room fell silent for a moment, then murmurs began to swell into excited commotion. It was clear the author wasn’t coming back. People stood to leave.
I glanced over at the stage door, where the security guy had a hand over his earpiece and was listening intently. He abruptly turned and went backstage.
Grabbing my coat and bag, I followed him down the short hallway, passing a small shadowy niche on the left side, probably intended for short-term prop storage. Perfect. I slid into it and glanced around the area.
To the right, in a long rectangular space, individuals were speaking animatedly with each other or talking into cell phones. Damon strode through the crowd, cutting a clean swath right down the middle as people moved out of his way, and entered a room at the end of the corridor. He slammed the door. A handful of people followed, as if pulled along in his wake, and someone banged on the door until a roar emerged, telling them to leave him alone. Tally Bendel squeezed her way to the front and turned around to face the people standing there.
“Let’s give Mr. Von Tussel a break, shall we? I’ll see if he can talk to you later, but for now, please give him some space. Help yourself to a coffee on your way out.” She gestured toward the area on the right. “It’s by the far wall.”
Slowly, the others did as she asked. She knocked on the door again, identifying herself. The door cracked open slightly. She spoke through the opening in a low voice. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but after a minute, the door slammed again, and Tally left.
This was my chance. I moved quickly down the corridor until I was in front of the door. I cupped my hand and listened for a second, but I couldn’t hear anything. I knocked gently. There was no answer. I twisted the door handle, but it was locked. There was nothing else to do but return to the niche and try again later.
One by one, Damon’s agent spoke to some lingerers in the main area, and they left. When it was down to Tally and Mr. Bow Tie, they returned to the room where the author had sequestered himself. She called out to him. There was no answer.
The man called out as well, with the same result.
“Can’t you just unlock it?” Tally asked him, placing her hand on his forearm.
He removed a large set of keys from his pocket and sorted through them. “Are you sure?” he asked, looking nervous. Maybe his jitteriness wasn’t natural but had been born from earlier encounters with Damon.
She nodded firmly. “He needs me.”
He slid a key into the lock and turned the handle. Tally flew into the room, emerging a moment later with a confused expression. She said something I couldn’t hear, then they both hurried inside.
I moved to the doorway and peered around the two of them. The room was empty.
Damon Von Tussel had vanished.
Chapter 2
The next day as I made my way across campus, I heard Calista James shouting from somewhere behind me. “Lila! Wait up.”
I turned to face my cousin, who was also my colleague; she was bundled up in a dark coat and a scarlet batik-printed scarf. Her gray eyes sparkled beneath the matching hat pulled low over her forehead.
“Did you see Spencer’s email?” She tugged at my sleeve to get me moving across the circular expanse at the center of campus known as “the green.”
“No. What’s going on?” I started to reach for my phone but thought better of it. The sidewalks were icy, and I probably needed to keep my attention focused on not falling—which was harder than it might be ordinarily, given that Calista was practically running. I cautiously increased my speed and followed her to Crandall Hall.
“The chancellor is coming to our emergency meeting today.”
“Um...” I swallowed hard.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “You did your best.”
I did not think the chancellor would agree with her. I had tossed and turned all night, finally rising with dread to call the chancellor and confess I hadn’t been able to get the interview. Lucky for me, he’d been out of the office, and his executive assistant had taken the message. I’d hoped that would be the end of it.
As we climbed the marble stairs to the third floor where the English department was housed, she gave me a quick glance. “You’re not thinking about Roland, are you?” The last time I’d walked into the first meeting of the semester, I had found our colleague murdered.
“Yes. But we’re already three minutes late, so we won’t be the first ones there today. If there’s anything to be discovered, it won’t be by us.”
“Good.” Calista said. “Let’s never be the first ones to arrive.”
We entered the arched doorway of the department library and slipped into two of the remaining empty seats at the cherry conference table. The room had been freshly carpeted, painted, and decorated after the “unfortunate incident,” as Spencer called Roland’s demise. I sank into one of the black leather chairs and took out a legal pad and a pen.
>
Spencer gave us a kind smile from the head of the table as he rolled up his sleeves. The gray-haired man was the type who brought his suit jacket everywhere but left it on the back of his chair unless formality was called for. He was known for his colorful suspenders—today’s were yellow, providing a lively contrast to his perfectly pressed white button-down shirt and charcoal trousers. While Spencer’s overall demeanor was gentle, he retained a quiet and effective power, so when he held up his hand, the side conversations halted immediately.
“Let’s begin, shall we? I’d like to thank the chancellor for joining us today.” He smiled at the man next to him, who dipped his head. “It appears that Mr. Von Tussel is, ah, unavailable. This morning, his agent confirmed that the rest of his appearances have been cancelled.” He sliced his hand through the air. “Across the board.”
“Including ours.” The chancellor frowned.
Spencer nodded. “There were only two appearances left, but yes, including ours.”
“Is Damon okay?” Calista asked.
“I don’t know the answer to that, unfortunately,” Spencer replied in a somber tone. “No one knows where he is.”
We all took that in.
“I hope we hear good news on that front very soon,” he continued. “And as much as it pains me to turn our attention to business so immediately in light of the circumstances, we must talk about Arts Week. As you know, the event does a great deal to promote the university. We’ve already advertised this year’s events in everything from the alumni magazine to academic journals. Thus, it will take place as planned next week, and we need to make arrangements for a replacement speaker in a hurry. The chancellor is here today to help us sort through possibilities.”
It was rare for the chancellor to venture below deck, so to speak; he preferred to conduct business from the well-appointed confines of his office whenever possible. As one would. He must be under some pressure from the board of trustees to make this event a success.
“Oh, I know,” said Calista, waving her hand. “How about Ellora Delgado, the performance artist? She has a new installation at the Denver Art Museum that is to die for, and she’s part of a fantastic slam poetry team.”
The chancellor stared at Calista, raising his eyebrows slightly, and gave Spencer a pointed look.
Norton Smythe, a man in a cashmere turtleneck who possessed the world’s worst comb-over, seized the chance to agree with the chancellor. “Might I suggest we select someone who is much more well-known? I don’t think we should consider just anyone because we have a gap to fill.” I wasn’t surprised that Norton had jumped in after my cousin spoke. He’d tried to put more than a few obstacles in the way of her current tenure bid.
“It’s true that we are committed to writers of quality,” said Nate Clayton, acknowledging common ground like any effective rhetorician. He had a slender rock climber’s build and longish brown hair that retained its highlights from the sun even in the depth of winter because he was an avid skier. “But we also want the students and the wider public to be interested, to sell the most tickets, don’t we? In which case, I have to say, Ellora sounds fascinating.”
“The students would love her.” Calista pushed back her platinum bobbed hair as she spoke and smiled brightly at the chancellor.
“I think she sounds great.” I supported my cousin’s suggestion and tacked on a smile as well, following her lead.
“I’m intrigued by Ellora,” said Spencer, “and we may need to go with someone local because of our tight turnaround, but let’s make a quick list of possible replacements and consider them together.”
Over the next half hour, a list of authors to invite was brainstormed and debated. No one mentioned cost, but authors of stature were not inexpensive—and the events began mere days from now. I couldn’t fathom how we were going to pull this off. And if this event failed, the chancellor would not only be furious, but he might also pull funding for future events.
“This is troubling,” said the chancellor, pursing his lips.
Panicked glances ricocheted around the room. The chancellor usually preferred to indicate his positions through an elaborate set of nonverbal cues in meetings. A heavy sigh from the chancellor meant a pause in the conversation was warranted, readjustment of his water glass indicated that topics should be changed hastily, and a toss of his pen on a legal pad was enough to call for the immediate end of any meeting. The professors who had been here longer were accustomed to making valiant attempts to interpret situations and respond appropriately without earning the chancellor’s wrath. Straightforward disapproval was almost unheard of.
Code red, people.
Francisco de Francisco, a handsome African-American man I’d met only recently, cleared his throat. He had blue eyes that matched his denim shirt and a dusting of gray around his temples. He adjusted his glasses, then his bolo tie, which featured a sterling silver animal head with horns, before speaking. “Let’s not give up on Von Tussel yet. We’ve done so much preparation for his visit. Could we wait a few days before we cancel everything?”
Spencer looked doubtful but asked us to go over the event particulars before we made a decision.
“All the preliminary paperwork is in order,” said Norton, preening slightly at the opportunity to announce a job well done. “Hotel accommodations have been taken care of as well.”
“And I have copies of all the planning materials for you,” came a lilting voice from the doorway. The chancellor beamed in the direction of the Grace Kelly lookalike clasping a thick folder to her chest, not seeming at all perturbed at her late arrival. Dang. I hoped perhaps Simone Raleigh had left at the end of last term. Wishes couldn’t always come true. She moved gracefully into the room and offered Spencer the photocopies. Before I spiraled too far into despair at the thought of having to deal with my nemesis again, the discussion continued.
“The website is already promoting Arts Week,” added Nate. “Though we’ll need to make some changes if we have a new speaker.”
“And I’ve made the arrangements for the scholarly panel,” Francisco declared.
“What scholarly panel?” the chancellor snapped.
“The one Roland approved last summer before I went on sabbatical,” Francisco said, his voice rising. Stonedale gave tenure-track candidates one semester to work on their publications before going up for tenure, which was an uncommon practice but not unheard of. “I sent you all an email back in the fall.”
“Hmm,” said Spencer, flipping through pages on the table in front of him. “I don’t remember that.”
The rest of the committee members were shaking their heads too.
I met Calista’s eyes. She shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“I didn’t hear about it either.” The chancellor scowled at Francisco.
Francisco didn’t look away. “It’s a done deal,” he said firmly.
Norton interrupted by waving his beloved antique pipe frantically. “What Francisco means to say is that now would be a good time to finalize the details for the panel, if we are all in agreement. And may I say how overjoyed we are to have you with us today, Chancellor Wellington? We know you are a very busy man.”
The display of sycophancy seemed to provide an effective antidote to Francisco’s conduct, and the tension in the room dissipated.
Francisco leaned back in his chair, glowering.
“Would you please give us more details?” Calista asked him. “I think it sounds wonderful.”
“Delighted to. As you all know, I’m writing a book on Damon. Also, I’m the president of the Von Tussel Society,” he said proudly. “We formed officially at last year’s Modern Language Association conference.” He paused, as if waiting for applause but, not receiving any, plunged onward. “Roland agreed that adding a scholarly panel to the events was an excellent idea, so I sent out a call for papers and organized one. We just need to finalize
the day and time.”
There was silence around the table.
“The scholars have already bought their plane tickets,” Francisco added. “It wouldn’t reflect well on the university if we just cancelled on them. In fact, even if we don’t end up with Damon here, we should host the panel anyway as a scholarly event.”
“Are you on the panel?” Norton asked pointedly.
“Yes, but the others are from around the country,” Francisco replied, unfazed by Norton’s attempt to call out his stake in the matter. “So it has national reach.”
“What does Tolliver Ingersoll think about this?” the chancellor asked abruptly. We all looked around the room for our absent committee member as if he might pop up from behind a bookshelf. Someone claimed Tolliver was busy moving to a new home. Someone else said he had already moved last year. A long conversation ensued, during which various theories of his whereabouts were explored, culminating in the realization that no one had any idea where our playwright in residence might actually be residing.
“It really will be spectacular,” said Francisco, still selling. “Damon’s work is some of the most exciting contemporary writing around, and the scholars on the panel are first-rate.” I could tell he included himself in the assessment.
“We have to be careful about overextending,” said Norton. “We don’t want to turn it into a mini-conference. What is the current schedule of events?”
Spencer rustled through the stack of papers before him, then removed one page and consulted it. “The Pennington Library display of The Medusa Variation manuscript will be unveiled on Monday. Our speaker will arrive on Tuesday. Wednesday will be a free day—we’ve found that guests not used to the elevation benefit from having time to acclimate. A dinner party will kick things off officially on Thursday night. Damon will be expected to teach a workshop on Friday for our students. His reading is scheduled for Saturday evening, to be followed by a book signing. On Sunday, he will attend a reception in his honor at the chancellor’s house.”