by Mary Angela
“Hey,” he said as he approached the building.
“What is this, anyway?” I asked, motioning to the sculpture.
“I don’t know. A hammer?” He shrugged.
“I believe it’s some sort of gavel,” I said.
Lenny pushed open the front door to the theater and nearly collided with a man exiting.
“Excuse me,” said the man.
That’s when I realized it wasn’t just any man: it was our newest faculty member. “Thomas Cook!” I exclaimed.
He stepped back, startled.
“Don’t worry. She’ll only call you by your full name for the first year or so,” said Lenny.
Thomas smiled, calling attention to the deep middle part in his thick brown hair. He wore a dark suit jacket and an open-collared white shirt; his shoes were expensive—pointed and crocodile. His smile, his clothes, his demeanor—everything about him said refined.
“Ms. Prather. Forgive me for not remembering your first name. And Lenny, right?”
“It’s Emmeline Prather and Lenny Jenkins,” I said, smiling back at him. “What are you doing over here?”
His own smile grew comic. “I teach here, remember?”
Lenny laughed, but I had a feeling Cook was stalling.
When he realized I was still waiting for an answer, he said, “I’m still exploring the campus. I hadn’t been to the theater yet, so I thought I would take the opportunity before my afternoon class.”
“So you heard about that kid dying?” asked Lenny.
He looked from me to Lenny and nodded soberly. “Of course I read something about it in the newspaper. What a difficult way to begin the semester. But this is a lovely building with a terrific art department. Lydia will be delighted with the rotating exhibits.”
“You didn’t know the student then?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “The student who died? No. Not at all. I hardly know a soul on campus … except for English faculty.”
I nodded.
“So what about you two? What brings you over here?”
I answered before Lenny could come up with an improbable excuse. “I’m on a committee with Alex Schwartz about Les Mis. It’s the fall production.”
Now he remembered. “Right. You’re into French literature.”
“Em is a serious Francophile. If you need to discuss anything related to scarfs or croissants, she’s your gal,” said Lenny.
Thomas smiled again and then placed his hand on the door handle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Later,” said Lenny.
I gave Thomas a small wave, and he was gone.
When the door had shut safely behind him, I turned to Lenny. “Well, that was odd.”
“He’s just as curious as we are but too cool to say so. Remember, Em, not everyone is as devious as they are in your chick lit novels.”
I stopped. “You know I hate that word.”
He smiled, showing his dimple. “Yeah, I know.”
“In the 1920s, Virginia Woolf talked about our compulsive need to classify women’s writing because it looks different than men’s—and we’re still doing it today. ‘Chick lit.’ ‘Cozy’!” I huffed. “I swear, Lenny. I’m the only one writing about this in academia.”
“Because you’re the only one reading genre novels.”
I truly doubted that statement. Lots of intellectuals needed the occasional escape from academia. But when they did, they didn’t talk to me about it. My fondness for genre fiction was deeply rooted in my childhood in Detroit. From the time I learned to read, I turned to mysteries and romances as a way to flee the grim reality of city life. Among their pages, I found sympathy, justice, love, and hope.
“Come on, Susan B. Anthony,” said Lenny. “You can brainstorm your next conference paper another day. We’re here to wage a different war.”
We continued walking.
Immediately to the right was a large office with a receptionist. Behind her were two gray cubicles.
“Are you coming in?” I asked Lenny.
“I’ll just wait out here,” he said, studying the pictures on the walls of previous plays.
“Good morning,” I said as I entered the room. “I’m looking for Dan Fox. Might you know where his office is?”
“I don’t know if Dan really has an office, does he, Lori?” she said to someone behind a gray cubicle wall.
“No,” a woman answered.
“I didn’t think so. But he usually can be found in the costume shop or the theater if he’s on campus,” said the receptionist.
“Where is the costume shop?” I asked.
“Take your first set of steps on the left-hand side of the hallway,” she said, pointing in the direction of the Art Department. “Go all the way down to the basement, through the hallway—there will be lots of crates—and knock on the door. It’s always locked.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I would try the theater first, though,” said the unseen woman from the cubicle. “I think the police officers are still down there with Professor Schwartz.”
“Oh, I bet you’re right. Try the theater,” said the secretary.
“Will do. Thank you,” I said, immediately deciding I didn’t want to miss the police interrogation, especially since it involved Alex.
“He doesn’t have an office,” I said to Lenny, “but the costume shop is this way.”
Lenny slowly turned from the hallway pictures and began following me. “I was going to be in a play once.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“My girlfriend broke up with me.”
We entered the stairwell on the ground floor. Above and below us were concrete steps to the upper and basement floors. The fluorescent lights buzzed mechanically, flashing at unseemly intervals as we descended the stairs. I gripped the railing tightly as we went down two steep flights, my kitten heels making eerie music with each step. At the bottom of the stairwell was another metal door. I opened it, and after we passed through, it closed with an echo behind us.
Before us was a long hallway with rectangular containers lining its entire length. Some of the containers were open and contained fabric and rubber, hats and rugs, pillows and dishes. The costume shop was behind another door with pushbuttons for a code.
Lenny picked up a teapot. “What is all this? Props?”
“Shhh,” I said. I could hear voices down the hallway.
“We’re spies now? Is that it?” He put back the teapot.
“Listen, Officers, I understand that you have a job to do, and I respect it. I really do. But I have a job to do, too. I cannot have these delays take weeks instead of days, so do whatever it is that you have to do, and then get out.”
The voice was unmistakably Alex’s. I nodded at Lenny. He nodded back. Someone was heading our way. Lenny quickly picked up the teapot again.
“I think you’re right. It was used in My Fair Lady,” said Lenny in a poor British accent.
Alex rounded the corner and glared at Lenny, clearly annoyed by his unauthorized browsing. “Can I help you with something?”
“Hi, Alex,” I said.
“Oh … hi, Emmeline,” said Alex, recognizing me.
“Professor Prather!” exclaimed one of the officers. I instantly knew her as Sophie Barnes, one of my best literature students a year ago. In fact, she had changed her major to English for a short time—before her dad got word of it and said he wouldn’t pay a penny more if she continued. Needless to say, she changed her major back to criminal justice and graduated on time.
“Sophie!” I said, giving her a hug. “As much as I think you would have made an excellent English teacher, I have to say I’m glad you’re working for Copper Bluff’s finest,” I said. “I can see you’re doing well.”
“It’s great. This is my first big case,” Sophie said, unable to hide a small smile.
“I’m happy for you,” I said. “I just wish the circumstances had been different.”
“I know. I c
an’t believe someone died in here.” She looked around from floor to ceiling as if a ghost might appear any moment.
Sophie had always been a bit theatrical, so I wished I could think of a way to move her along now and catch up with her in private later. Her fellow officer, who judging from his gray hair and weathered skin was much older and presumably more experienced, was way ahead of me.
“Sophie forgot to introduce me. I’m Detective Beamer. And you are …?” he asked.
“I’m Emmeline Prather, and this is Lenny Jenkins. We both teach for the English Department.”
“Emmeline Prather. You were one of Austin’s teachers,” he said.
“Yes, I was. I taught his English class, and I must say—”
He held up his hand. “I’ll get to you later, Ms. Prather. Right now, we’re interviewing personnel in the theater.”
“Oh. Of course,” I said. “Anytime.”
Sophie quickly followed Detective Beamer’s professional lead. “Well, we’ve got to get going. Maybe I’ll see you around later. We’ll be on campus all day.”
“Yes. We will catch up soon. Goodbye,” I said.
Alex, Lenny, and I watched them open the door and walk up the steps, a loud thud sounding behind them.
When they had gone, Alex shook his head. “Cops. I can’t believe I have to deal with them now on top of everything else.”
“What happened this weekend?” I asked.
“I wish to hell I knew,” said Alex. “One moment, we’re ahead of schedule, and the next, a student dies on the set. Why the hell couldn’t he have died off campus?”
“He was a student of mine,” I said. “The one Dan spoke of in the meeting.”
“Oh. Well, I’m very sorry for him, of course, but he’s turned my theater upside down,” said Alex.
“Did you know Austin?” asked Lenny. He had found a closed container and was sitting atop it, swinging his feet.
“No, no I didn’t. I had seen him around … spoke to him a few times. A nice big kid like that … I was glad to have him on the set. I could see he’d make himself useful.”
“So what happened?” I said.
“He was here this weekend. Several kids were, making costumes, practicing parts, putting together the set. That’s what he would have been working on. Dan had an old white table that he wanted stripped of paint. It’s perfect, just the wrong color for the Bishop’s house. Next thing I know, the boy is found dead. That was Sunday.”
“Who found him?” I asked.
“What’d he use to strip the paint?” asked Lenny at the same time.
Alex looked from me to Lenny. “You’re from English, too, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Lenny.
He nodded. “Well, I’m sure he used paint stripper. It’s nothing unusual—it’s what we always use. It couldn’t have killed him, if that’s what you’re thinking. I told the police the same thing. We have plenty of toxins that could have. That just isn’t one of them.”
I wanted to ask where those toxins were kept, but I could sense that he was getting annoyed. We could still talk to Dan, so I repeated my initial question. “And who found him, did you say?”
He replaced a lid on one of the open containers and then stared at the one Lenny was sitting on. “No mystery there, either. The janitor.”
I moved toward the door, motioning for Lenny to do the same. “Well, the cops will be out of your hair soon enough. Say, is Dan up in the theater? He’s the one we were actually looking for.”
“I’m sure he is—although he’s done next to nothing all morning. He’s pretty shook up about this whole thing. I hope that wears off soon.”
“Death has a tendency to do that,” said Lenny. “It always shakes me the hell up, anyway.”
Alex stared at Lenny for a moment. “See you Friday, Emmeline.”
“Right. I suppose you’ll still want the committee to meet.”
“Now more than ever,” said Alex.
“Yes, good thinking. I’ll see you then.”
Lenny and I walked up the stairs in silence. I, at least, was all too aware of the eerie echo. When we reached the main hallway, I let the door shut softly behind me.
“He’s the guy on that committee?” asked Lenny.
“One of them.”
“Fun. Seems like a real control freak,” said Lenny.
“I think so, too,” I said, “but I don’t really know him except from the group. He is nice enough, just bossy.”
“Nice and bossy,” said Lenny, opening the main theater door. “Not two attributes I look for in a group setting.”
Dan was on the stage, just coming down from a ladder. It was propped up next to a false city wall still in need of paint. He didn’t appear to have heard us come in.
When he reached the floor, I called out to him. “Dan!”
The theater lights glared down upon him, and he squinted and covered his brow with his hand. “Hello?”
“It’s Emmeline,” I said.
“And Lenny,” whispered Lenny.
When we got closer, I said, “And you know Lenny Jenkins. He teaches English, too.” I said it as if giving some sort of explanation for our presence.
Dan hung his legs over the stage and then jumped down. He brushed the hair from his eyes a few times and reached for Lenny’s hand. “Hey, Lenny. Long time no see. Hi, Emmeline. Can you believe all this?”
I shook my head. “No, I can’t. I imagine any moment I will awake and chide myself for reading too many mystery novels.”
“I just …. Austin Oliver was a healthy kid, you know? Strong, too. How could he be dead? Alex tells me not to dwell on it, but I can’t help but think something went very wrong down here.”
Dan brushed his hair from his forehead again, and for the first time, I noticed his eyes were a nice shade of hazel. They were wide and framed with perfect feathery brows.
“Did you get to know him at all? Was there anything you discussed besides theater?” I asked.
“Not really.” He thought for a moment. “He talked about science; I think that was where his real interests lay.” He sat down in an aisle chair and motioned for us to sit as well. I sat in the chair across the aisle from him, and Lenny leaned up against the stage.
“It’s surprising to me he would volunteer for the theater at all,” I said.
Dan shook his head. “I don’t think I ever saw him before the day he found me in the costume shop.”
“Did he say why he wanted to work here? It’s not like he got paid,” asked Lenny.
Dan gave the question some thought. Finally he said, “You know, he really didn’t. He was adamant about signing up, though. I asked him if he had ever worked in a theater before—you know, in high school or something—and he said no but he could do anything, said he was really good with his hands. I asked if he was interested in acting or anything like that, but he just laughed and said he wasn’t into that. At the time I thought his reply was sort of odd. Usually we have the same group of kids hanging around. In some way, they all want to be … discovered. He wasn’t here for that.”
“It was probably about a girl,” said Lenny. “She got him into it.”
“For god’s sake, Lenny,” I exclaimed. “It’s not always about a girl.”
“Well, it’s not that crazy of an idea,” said Dan. “I did see him with a girl a few times. Sarah Sorenson—you know her? She was Fiona in Brigadoon last fall. A terrific singer.”
“Yes, I do. Jane said she’s a creative writer,” I said.
“Ah. It makes sense now,” said Lenny. “I told Em, when you’re thinking about guys, you have to think about the girls they’re dating … or want to date.”
“Hold on. I said I’d seen him with her a few times, but I don’t think they were dating. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s seeing another guy—dark hair, Asian maybe,” said Dan. “He was around a lot last fall during rehearsal.”
“Like I said, ‘or want to date.’ Maybe he was trying to steal her away from
him.”
Dan laughed softly. “I suppose he could have been. I don’t know about any of that.”
No one spoke for a long moment. Dan stared off into some unseen place, and Lenny looked around as if he had never been in a theater before.
“Dan, how do you think Austin died?” I asked.
Dan continued staring off but shook his head, so I knew he had heard me. Lenny looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.
“I think something happened, but I don’t know what. You know what I mean?” Now he looked at me. “What I mean is I don’t think he just ‘died.’ ”
I nodded slowly. “Alex said something about paint remover. That Austin was refinishing a table. Do you think something could have happened there?”
“I don’t think so. We use it all the time and in well-ventilated areas. Besides, Austin wore gloves. And I know he was wearing them the night he died because they’re missing.”
I raised my eyebrows.
He explained himself more carefully. “We have only one pair of industrial gloves that are a size extra large. Most kids wear medium or large at most. He must have been wearing them when they found him because the gloves are gone.”
Lenny stood up straight, clearly interested. “Where do you keep that sort of stuff—paint removers, chemicals, gloves?”
“In the costume shop. There’s a little cupboard in back.”
“Is it locked?” I asked.
“Not the cupboard,” Dan said. “But the costume shop is always locked. You have to know the pushbutton code to get in.”
“Do a lot of people know the code?” asked Lenny.
“No, just us in the theater.”
“Students, too, or just teachers?” Lenny continued.
Dan rubbed his palms on his faded jeans. Lenny’s cannon-fire questions were starting to make him nervous.
“Both, I guess,” he answered. “Alex and I and Martha—she’s in the Art Department—plus about a dozen students. Maybe not quite that many.”
His calm demeanor was beginning to crumble, and I felt we’d better leave soon before we induced a panic attack. “How long has it been since you’ve changed that code? Last semester?”
Dan shook his head but did not speak. I went over and stood next to Lenny.
“Never,” he finally said. “I’ve never changed the code.” His smile was rueful. “I never thought to.”