by Cynthia Kuhn
I gave Ruth the thumbs-up through the glass and saw relief cross her face. She closed the curtains and came out to join me.
“Looks great, Ruth,” I said. “Honestly, you couldn’t have picked a better scene to showcase. This is a famous one.”
“Whew,” she said, drawing her hand across her forehead. “Good to know. Don’t tell anyone, but I haven’t even read this book.”
“How did you select the pages?”
“My son recommended the scene. He’s an English major at UCLA. They read The Medusa Variation in one of his classes.”
I nodded.
“I trust him, of course, but...well, the chancellor himself made the request for this display, so I thought a second opinion might be in order.”
“It all looks wonderful,” I said. “Where did you get the pictures?”
“The publisher sent them,” she said. “They were delivered with the manuscript, in one box. By armed guard.”
“Armed guard?” I knew art pieces could travel with such protection, but I hadn’t heard about manuscripts receiving the same treatment before. Or had I? Jack Kerouac’s On the Road scrolls perhaps? I knew they were bought for several million dollars and had been shown in various libraries and museums, but I had no idea how they were transported from one location to the next.
“Pretty intense guys too, I must say. They made me uncomfortable,” she admitted.
“Why?”
Ruth put a finger to her lips as she thought. “It was quite formal and serious. We signed document after document. First time we’ve ever had to do something like this. Though maybe it was the guns they were wearing that made me nervous.” She brightened. “In any case, we’re all excited.”
“Can I help with anything else?”
“No, this is it. Thanks so much, Dr. Maclean.”
“Lila, please,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Lila. Really appreciate your assistance. Can you find your way back to your coat?”
“Yes,” I said, turning to go, then pausing. “When will this be open to the public?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she said happily. “We have a ceremony planned for ten thirty. You should come.”
“I’ll try,” I assured her. “Thanks for the invitation.” I started back across the library.
“Invite everyone,” she called out. “It would be great to have a crowd.”
My nine a.m. American Lit survey class ended fifteen minutes before the manuscript unveiling. After I told them about the event, a number of students were eager to attend, so we walked over to Pennington together.
The library was packed. I’d seen the email blast sent out to the entire university, as well as a number of social media announcements, but I hadn’t expected the unveiling to be such a draw. The first floor of the library was cordoned off at the halfway point and people filled the rest of the available space, right up to the entrance and exit doors.
The students wandered off, and I claimed a spot next to the circulation desk, appreciating the way sunlight was filtering through the tall pine trees outside and into the full-length windows along the far side.
After a few minutes, Ruth appeared in front of me. Her long red corduroy dress was paired with another terrier-dotted headband. “Come up to the front, Lila,” she said. “In exchange for your help. It’s the least I can do.”
“Oh no,” I demurred. “I saw it yesterday. Let everyone else have a peek before I look again.”
“Actually, the chancellor wants to have a word,” she added meaningfully. That was a direct quote, I knew.
I followed her through the crowd, murmuring apologies for the inconvenience. We got a few annoyed looks, but eventually made it to the front, where the chancellor was terrifying a poor dean from the business school whose name I couldn’t remember. The dean was quaking in his highly-polished loafers; I stared at his trembling face with concern. When Ruth said hello, the dean looked so relieved for the interruption that I thought he was going to hug her; instead, he began taking baby steps backwards while thanking the chancellor profusely for listening. When the chancellor turned to face us, the dean spun around and broke into an all-out run for the stairs to the second floor.
I stood up straighter, as I did every time I was in the same room as the chancellor.
He held out his hand, which I shook. It was moist and clammy, but I held off wiping my hand surreptitiously on my pant leg until he looked back toward the curtained display case and made a grand gesture.
“Very pleased,” he said. “This is a boon to our school. Good publicity.” Good publicity was high on the chancellor’s list of desirable outcomes. It tended to translate into money coming in.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” I said.
“Oh, but you did,” said Ruth. She was beaming at me. “I very much appreciated your consultation and expertise, Dr. Maclean.”
“Lila,” I said gently. “Please.”
“Almost makes up for last semester,” said the chancellor, fixing me with a look. He’d considered it very inconvenient I’d found a dead body in the department library at the beginning of the term. That was bad publicity. The opposite of his favorite thing.
“Oh,” I said, mustering up my brightest smile for him. “I’m glad.”
“I said almost,” the chancellor responded. “I’ve still got my eyes on you.” He pointed to his glasses with two fingers and then pointed them at me.
“We won’t mention the essential interview that you failed to obtain,” he continued.
By which he meant putting it out there between us as if inscribed in neon.
“Chancellor Wellington?” We all turned in the direction of the loud voice beside us. A man in a rumpled tan suit shoved a microphone into the chancellor’s face.
The chancellor gave the intruder a tight smile.
The man’s lanyard press card identified him as Terrance Brown of The Stonedale Scout, our town newspaper. He launched into question mode. The chancellor explained the importance of the manuscript and made some comments about how grateful Stonedale University was to the publisher who had made the display possible.
Terrance began another volley of questions, but the chancellor looked at Ruth, who directed her cheerful gaze in his direction. “Shall we begin?” He took a step away from the reporter, indicating that the interview was over.
Ruth addressed the crowd, her hands clasped in front of her. “Welcome, everyone. We are delighted to have you with us this morning for the unveiling of Damon Von Tussel’s manuscript of The Medusa Variation, for which the author has won many literary prizes. The library would like to thank Chancellor Wellington for convincing the publisher to share the manuscript with us. Please follow me.”
She unhooked the belt of the barrier, which retracted into a small pole on the other side, and moved purposefully across the library floor, past the catalog computer terminals and several rows of tables and chairs filled with students. The crowd surged behind in her wake, chattering excitedly.
We collected in front of the blue-curtained window. The excitement was palpable. One heavily bewhiskered guy in a wool coat next to me was rubbing his hands together briskly, like some old-timey character suffused with private glee. The students were all holding up their cell phones, ready to snap a shot to post on social media. It was an odd juxtaposition, both generationally and visually. But we were all enthusiastic, in our own ways, to be part of this event.
Finally, the moment had come. Ruth raised her hands in front of us, and the crowd fell silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present”—she signaled someone off to the side who spoke into their cell phone, presumably giving the “go” sign—“The Medusa Variation!”
The crowd moved forward as the curtains slowly slid backwards to reveal the desk.
It was empty.
Chapter 7
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I looked up in confusion and, as luck would have it, met the chancellor’s eyes. He narrowed them.
As I processed the fact that the chancellor was somehow displeased with me—again—I was pulled roughly to the right of the display case. Ruth grabbed both of my shoulders and peered into my face.
“What happened?” Her voice was high and squeaky.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Was everything there this morning?”
Ruth shrugged. “I didn’t even look. We had so much to do to get ready for the crowds—we had to move all the tables and chairs away from the center of the room and put signs up about the exhibit around the building, and...” She fell silent, her eyes still moving rapidly around as if looking for an explanation. Her face was flushed in an unhealthy way.
Time to take charge.
“Ruth,” I said firmly, “call Campus Security.”
“Not the Stonedale police?”
“You will probably want to call the police too, especially given the value of the manuscript, but start with them.”
She nodded, her lips pressed together with new determination. Just as I suspected, she was a take-charge person. She readjusted her terrier headband, pulled out an old-school flip phone, and started pushing buttons.
Around eleven thirty, things were finally calming down. Campus Security had arrived and had begun questioning the people who remained. Most of the crowd offered some variation of “I didn’t see anything,” which was an unfortunately literal description given the empty desk which they’d been presented with so much flourish.
Ruth, the chancellor, a student with a library staff nametag identifying him as Hamley, and I were waiting at one of the tables off to the side. We did not talk, per instructions, as we filled out our incident reports. I was glad to have something to look at besides the accusing eyes of the chancellor.
I had just completed the form when we were joined by a slender man with straight black hair and a Campus Security patch on the shoulder of his dark uniform. He carried a bike helmet with a mirror attached under one arm and a notepad in his left hand. He placed both carefully on the table top before introducing himself as Officer Heiko. I didn’t know the officers rode bikes in the winter. Maybe it was on a case-by-case basis or maybe it was officer preference. Not that it mattered right now. I shook my head to refocus on the conversation at hand.
Officer Heiko asked Hamley why he’d left his post. I hadn’t even known there was a guard planned, and I looked at him with interest.
Hamley, with a dismayed expression, shook his blond hair out of his eyes before answering. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Barnum,” he said to Ruth. “I had to leave for a minute.”
“Whatever for?” the chancellor demanded.
Hamley flushed. “Uh...well...nature called.”
The chancellor rolled his eyes.
“It’s okay, Hamley,” Ruth said soothingly. “I should have done a rotation to give you a break.”
After a few more questions, Officer Heiko dismissed Hamley and turned to us.
“Do you trust him, Ms. Barnum?”
“Hamley? Oh heavens, yes. He’s my neighbor. I’ve known him since he was four years old. Was happy to give him a job here at the library when he started at Stonedale. He’s been here two years now and is one of our best workers. That’s why I asked him to stand guard.”
We provided as much information as we could. The chancellor described the arrangements made with the publisher, which turned out to involve almost heroic amounts of persuasion, at least the way he told it. Ruth repeated the story about the armed-guard arrival and mentioned she’d had me come in and take a look on Sunday morning. I corroborated what Ruth said.
“Okay, help me out here,” said the officer. His voice was quiet but authoritative. “What was in the case, exactly?”
Ruth identified the manuscript materials and photos on display, and he wrote them down. “Oh, and a vintage typewriter too. But it was only a prop. I don’t know why someone would steal that.”
The officer made a star by the item on his list. “Everything else in the case was from the publisher?”
She nodded.
“Who had access to the display case this morning?”
“No one,” said Ruth. “The curtains and lights are controlled by switches in the hallway. There was no need for anyone to go inside the case. And I had the key, for what it’s worth, and it was in my pocket all day.”
“Isn’t there a master?” asked the chancellor curtly.
“There is a master key in the library vault,” Ruth said. “But only the director of the library and I know the combination, and she’s out of town. Her daughter had a baby,” she said, dimpling sweetly at the thought.
“So the case was left unlocked.” The chancellor glared at Ruth.
“Oh no,” Ruth said, waving her hand in dismissal. She didn’t seem to register the blame shooting out of his eyeballs with white-hot intensity. “I double checked it Sunday night—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Officer Heiko interrupted softly. “Wasn’t opened with a key. Someone broke the lock. You can’t tell by looking at it because the doors were closed again and lined up perfectly, but it was drilled into.”
Ruth and I stared at each other.
The chancellor made an exasperated sound and pushed his incident form across the table. He rose to stand. “The good news is that the manuscript is insured. The bad news is that it may be lost forever. More bad publicity,” he said, glowering at me. “Why do these things always happen when you’re around, Professor?”
I cast about for a response but came up empty.
Ruth patted my arm.
He shook his head in disgust.
“I have an important meeting,” he boomed. “Call me when you have answers.” Officer Heiko nodded and the chancellor strode away.
“I have class at noon,” I said apologetically—trying to counter the chancellor’s abruptness. “Are we done?”
“For now,” said the officer. “You’ve included your contact information on the incident form?”
“Yes,” I assured him. “Feel free to call me if you think of anything else.”
“That I will, Dr. Maclean. Appreciate your help.”
I gathered up my things and hustled across campus—coasting into the classroom as the clock struck twelve. If that could be stretched to mean three minutes after the hour. Shh.
Later that evening, I awoke with a start. I’d been dreaming a shaggy werewolfian creature had cornered me in a classroom after a long chase across campus. The red numbers on my clock radio informed me that it was just after two a.m. I tried to go back to sleep, but the adrenaline shot had propelled me right into awake mode. I’d learned over the years that in such situations, it was better to pull myself out of bed and do some small project; otherwise I’d toss and turn for hours, the anxiety increasing with every passing hour. Occasionally, it could even trigger a panic attack—a most unpleasant experience.
I’d never had a single panic attack in my life until I decided to pursue a career in academia. Best not to dwell on that fact for too long.
I shuffled out of the room and plopped down on the sofa. Maybe I would watch some TV. When I leaned forward to grab the remote, I came face to face with a mountain of papers on my coffee table. I supposed I could get some grading done; my Modernism students had turned in essays on Zora Neale Hurston today. I pulled the stack toward me and settled in to read and make comments. Several hours later, I could see the light outside my windows beginning to brighten, and I was almost through the stack. The majority of the essays were solid, with engaging ideas, strong claims, and thoughtful evidence from the texts as support.
When I picked up the final essay and began reading, the first paragraph set off warning bells. I couldn’t place it, but I had the sense I’d read it before, and the language did
n’t sound like student writing either. I checked the student’s name at the top—Stephanie Barnes. Skimming the rest of the essay only reinforced my suspicions. With a sinking feeling, I went over to my desk and turned on my laptop, then went to start the coffee machine. Time to do some Googling.
Tuesday morning, I marched up the stairs to my office, organizing my thoughts. Stephanie’s paper had been patched together from several online essay sites, and now I had to deal not only with her but also with the student judicial committee. She had also used paragraphs from different pieces of literary criticism, one of which I’d recently happened to read, which is why I recognized it. I’d emailed her to arrange a meeting first thing this morning.
I stopped in the main office to get the necessary paperwork and found a smiling middle-aged woman with cat’s eye glasses efficiently distributing flyers into department mailboxes.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Lila Maclean. American Lit.”
“So happy to meet you,” she said. “I’m Glynnis Klein, the new executive assistant. Just started this week.” We’d had a parade of temps since the woman who had previously held her position had left. I’d heard the department had hired a permanent replacement, but this was the first time I’d met her.
“Welcome to Stonedale,” I said. “How’s it going so far? Everyone treating you well, I hope?”
“Absolutely,” she said, with what could only be described as a wiggle of delight. She smoothed the front of the tailored cardigan she wore with a straight skirt, oxfords, and a huge flower brooch made of different colored gems. The ensemble had a certain retro pizzazz. “I adore Judith—she took me out to breakfast this morning and gave me the rundown on the faculty members. I feel as though I already know you all.”