by Mary Angela
Beamer complied, looking around at the books on the shelves as he made himself comfortable. “You read all these?”
I nodded. “Pretty much.”
He grunted. “I can’t seem to get through any of the books my wife gives me. I must be doing something wrong.”
“Maybe they’re the wrong books,” I said.
He seemed to like this idea. “Hmm. That’s a thought.”
“So how can I help you, Mr. Beamer?”
He pulled out a small notebook from an even smaller shirt pocket. A pencil stub was tucked inside the wire binding. “Well, we’re gathering information about Mr. Oliver’s last days here on campus. Pretty routine. I talked to the folks over at the theater, as you know, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to talk to some of his teachers, too. Now, you taught his English class … is that right?”
“That’s correct,” I said.
“Would you say he was a good student?”
“Yes, I would,” I said. “He didn’t necessarily like English, but he always showed up for class and completed his assignments on time.”
He wrote something in his notebook. “So he didn’t like your class.”
“He didn’t like English,” I corrected him, hoping he would make a change in the notebook. He did not.
“Did he have any friends in the class?” Beamer asked.
I thought about this carefully. I didn’t know if Austin would have considered Jared and Adam his friends, but they were certainly acquaintances. “He did sit next to two boys in the back row, Adam and Jared, whom he seemed to know in some capacity. I believe they belong to a fraternity Austin was trying to join.”
Beamer nodded but wrote down nothing, so I felt compelled to keep going. “Austin didn’t seem like the fraternity type to me, so one wonders why he would want to join.”
“I think they’re sort of popular, aren’t they, fraternities?” said Beamer, stretching his legs. “If you can get into one, you’re pretty neat. Maybe he wanted to be one of the cool kids.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe.”
“But you don’t think so. You think something else. You think he had ulterior motives.”
I nodded vigorously. He was beginning to understand.
“But you don’t know what those ulterior motives were.”
“No, I don’t.”
He made another notation on his pad. “So did your class meet on Friday?”
I nodded.
“And how did Austin appear to you?”
I leaned forward. “He didn’t show up.”
He looked up from his notepad.
“But,” I continued, “he did stop by my office Friday morning. And I must say that he seemed different … worried, even.”
Beamer furrowed his forehead, which had a deep crease from performing this action frequently. “What did you talk about?”
“A poem, mostly. Originally, I thought he had come to see me about a poem he was supposed to read for class.”
“Maybe he was worried about reading the poem in front of everyone,” said Beamer.
I shook my head. “I thought so at first, but now I think it was something else.”
Beamer looked at me.
“He wasn’t wearing his backpack,” I said. “Maybe you should write that down: He wasn’t wearing his backpack.”
Beamer crossed his short arms as if to make a point that he would write down only what he saw fit to write down. “Ms. Prather, it’s obvious to me that you believe something mysterious is at play here.”
“And you don’t?” I questioned, deciding not to tell him about the parking lot incident.
Now he uncrossed his arms and leaned forward a bit. He was much older than I’d thought, probably closer to sixty than fifty, with strong gray streaks of hair at his temples and sides.
“Here’s the thing, Ms. Prather. When a person dies, people look back over the last few days of that person’s life and find ‘clues’ foretelling the person’s death. Now, I don’t know if it’s superstition or religion or just human nature that does it. All I know is that every case I’ve ever worked has had some of that. Even when the person dies from old age, relatives will say, ‘Edna knew it was her last day. She ate all her favorite foods, remember?’ That sort of talk. Maybe it just makes us feel better. I don’t know. But what I do know is that it’s foolish to start down a path that is bound to lead to nowhere.”
“Can I ask you then what you think happened to Austin?” I said.
“Well, I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said with a short laugh.
“But you don’t have any indications that he died under suspicious circumstances?”
Beamer grew serious. “I’ll be straight with you. Nineteen-year-old kids don’t just up and die for no reason. You know that, and I know that. Does that make me suspicious? You bet. Does that mean I’m worried the kid wasn’t wearing his backpack on Friday? Probably not.”
“But you should be,” I protested. “If he wasn’t on his way to English class, where was he on his way to—or from?”
His laughter this time was accompanied by a snort, yet I had a feeling he was taking me more seriously than he let on. He stood and tucked his notepad back into his pocket.
“You know, if he liked your class a bit more, Ms. Prather, maybe he would have shown up Friday. Maybe you should be worried about that.”
I opened my mouth and then shut it. I could think of no rebuttal.
He touched the tip of his hat. “Have a nice day.”
Chapter Twelve
There was a tree on campus I thought of as my friend. It was tall and bushy, and this time of year a scarlet red. It stood on the corner of Elm and Fifth Street, and every time I walked by it, I felt our connection as I silently recalled the events of my day, as if the tree had observed also and might reply in kind. It was the last of the trees to let go of its leaves, and I wanted to believe this was more or less for my benefit. Willa Cather had it right. Sparse as they were on the plains, trees became friends, or if not friends, then acquaintances and landmarks. They told one where to stop, where to turn, where to pass. I could navigate all of Copper Bluff—and a good portion of the surrounding countryside—by trees alone.
After my interview with Detective Beamer, going for a drive in the country was a lot less appealing than sitting in a cozy booth in a warm sweater, and eating at a nice restaurant would get me off campus and among people who did not know me as “teacher.”
It had drizzled just enough to make the streets black and shiny, and as I walked under the yellow glow of the streetlamps, I imagined the town in watercolors, bleeding one into another until no buildings remained, only blobs of light. I pulled my wool peacoat tighter as the wind found me on Seventh Street, making short work of my flimsy scarf, and I ducked into Dynasty, a sophisticated restaurant that served authentic Cantonese cuisine. Mostly retired professors and elderly couples ate here, for the prices were considered outlandish in a town where students could visit the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet for just $6.99 a plate. But on trying days such as this one, I told myself I could afford to splurge. I enjoyed the reserved atmosphere, the quiet hum of voices, and the padded footsteps of the waitresses. It was conducive to thought on a night such as this.
The hostess seated me in a booth and handed me a slim menu. I ordered the Cantonese wanton soup and hot tea, and within minutes, a tiny brown pot and handleless cup arrived. I drank eagerly, feeling the mild liquid warm my throat and chest, while admiring the muted pink walls and sparse paintings of birds. As I sat in the booth, time seemed suspended and the town itself ceased to exist. My mind could wander the whole wide world without ever leaving the restaurant.
When André walked in, I immediately noticed his look of consternation, and I selfishly prayed that nothing was the matter with him, too. I wanted him to be most of all carefree, for that was what France represented to me: leisurely strolls along the Seine, long lunches in outdoor cafés, unusual care devoted to the a
rrangement of beautiful scarves. I knew the overworked look of Americans too well and was dismayed to see it written on André’s face. Once I called to him, though, his look changed to pleasure, and he pointed the hostess in my direction.
“Em! Good evening,” he said.
“Hello, André. Join me, won’t you?”
He sat opposite me, surveying the table. “You are finished, are you not? I do not want to keep you.”
“I am,” I said, “but I would enjoy the company. I’ve been sitting here too long by myself.”
“I know women who would rather starve than eat by themselves,” said André, turning over his menu.
“Thankfully, I’m not one of those women.”
He raised his head and smiled. “No, of course not. And I’m glad for it.”
I nodded toward the window. “It’s beginning to rain again.”
“I love the rain here. It never rains, and when it does, the sky falls.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” I said.
“In Paris, it drizzles.” He put down his menu. “Everything there is temperate, even the rain.”
“What is it like there, really?” I asked. He was always somewhat hesitant with his answers about his home country, and I could never quite figure out why.
“Paris is … what can I say? Some Frenchmen hate Paris. So do some Americans. There is a jealousy, I think. But the city is most beautiful if it is exhilaration—joie de vivre—that you seek.”
“I think I would like it.” This I said more to myself than to André, but he replied anyway.
“Em, you would never leave. I would take you back to the States kicking and shouting,” he chuckled.
I smiled. He enjoying using colloquialisms, although they never came out quite right. “What about you?” I asked.
“Mais non. I was never a city boy. I come from an area much like this. I feel at home here.”
“Me, too,” I agreed. The waitress approached, and André ordered. When the waitress left, I said, “When you first walked in, you seemed distressed.”
“I was. I am. They require more information for my grant to be approved,” he said.
I refilled my teacup. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? That means it hasn’t been denied.”
“Normally I would say yes, but the information they want I cannot give. We have no advanced French courses, not yet.”
“Have you talked to Dean Richardson?”
André flung his hands in the air. “I talk to him, but he is a thick-headed man. All he wants to talk about is Spanish and German. German! Who speaks German besides the Germans?”
I had no answer for him, and furthermore, it was hard for me to concentrate on what he was saying with his hair swept across his forehead the way that it was, tussled from the wind.
“I will get this grant, Em. If I don’t, I shall move to Canada. It cannot be much colder there than it is here.”
I refocused immediately. “Oh no, we can’t let you do that. You would abhor the accent. And besides, it is much colder. I had a student from Canada once. He said he slept in his coat.”
A small smile crept across his face. “I think you tell stories.”
“Not tell stories—just stretch the truth,” I said.
A plate of steaming noodles appeared, smattered with fresh vegetables. “Ah,” he said in appreciation. “This helps. Food always helps.” He took several large bites. “So what brings you out on this cold night?”
I folded my napkin and placed it back on the table. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I just needed to be among the living. That student who died? He was in my class.”
André put down his chopsticks. “It is a tragedy. I am so sorry. I read about it in the paper, and I said to myself, ‘Something is not right here. Something has happened to this boy.’ ”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I said. But everyone goes about their business as if it’s all routine, as if this sort of thing happens all the time in Copper Bluff.”
He picked up his sticks again and pointed them at me. “Allez! These routines only make them feel better. See, we are all in a masquerade. We stop to ask questions and now the play has stopped. Now we are not happy.”
“Indeed,” I said. “You are right. You see exactly what I mean.”
“Of course. You and I are on the same book.”
I smiled, noticing a small disturbance near the cash register out of the corner of my eye. Really, I had overheard pieces of it several times during our conversation but had not bothered to look over. A young Asian man, college-aged, was arguing with the hostess. They spoke in Chinese, but it had gone on for a long time. Although the young man seemed angry, visibly so, he also seemed to defer to the woman, who was older than he was. She tried to quiet him by briskly shaking her head. I turned my head suddenly at what I thought was the word “Sean” inserted in the conversation, although it could have been my imagination. He grabbed her wrist, which she immediately shook off. He had gone too far and was left staring after her. He spun around, stalking out of the restaurant.
When I turned back toward our table, André was watching the young man go. “What was that about? I bet you have already imagined a hundred possibilities.”
“You’re getting to know me too well.”
“It is impossible to know someone too well. Besides, you are always a mystery to me. I see you watching those persons, and I say to myself, ‘What is she thinking? She is always thinking.’ Then I am not as interesting as I thought before I sat down.”
I laughed. “How can you say that? You are the most interesting person I know.”
“Or the most French. There is a difference.”
I shrugged and took a drink of my water. He had a point. Much of my affection for André had to do with my affection for French culture. “Either way, I’ve got to get going. The rain has stopped now.”
“You are in a hurry to follow that boy?”
I stood. “Of course not.” I tucked my scarf into my coat. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Emmeline. Be careful. It is cold out there.”
Indeed, if I still could have seen the boy, I would have followed him. He might have been Sean Chan. But the night was dark, and few people were out. I put my head down and walked into the wind, my cheeks stinging from the cold. The air smelled like autumn—fresh, but with a hint of wood smoke and the musky scent of wet leaves; the afternoons would no longer grow warm and muggy, but colder and darker. The season would become more serious as October approached and winter looked on like an eager zealot. But I did not mind. I was a person of change who constantly looked ahead, even if she did not like what she saw.
Chapter Thirteen
The cold snap continued into Wednesday, yet the heat had not yet been turned on in most of the campus buildings. The Fine Arts Building, though, was newer, so the cold didn’t penetrate the walls as it did in Harriman Hall. I had been reduced to wearing fingerless gloves in my office.
After teaching my morning Composition 101 class, I decided to pay a visit to Martha Church. The Art Department, after all, was in close proximity to the theater. Maybe she knew Austin from his work on the set. She might have even encouraged him to volunteer. And I needed to find out if he had attended her class the Friday before his death.
I knocked lightly on the door.
“Come in!” she said.
I found Ms. Church in a square office with a large window, looking at students’ pencil drawings, turning them every which way in the bright light of the window. She had frizzy blonde hair, shoulder-length and quite becoming, and long fingers, noticeably strong and agile.
She told me to sit down for a moment while she finished. After scribbling something in her green-leather grade book, she shut it hastily. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Emmeline Prather. I teach in the English department—”
“Oh, I bet you know Ann Jorgenson.”
“Yes,” I said, excited that we had at least one thing in common.
“I adore Ann. She is such a pleasure to work with. She has been indispensible to this production and my costume design. There isn’t a period of history that she doesn’t know exactly what women were wearing.”
“She is so bright,” I agreed. “I tell her all the time she could have been an English professor. In fact, she does teach classes for our department.”
She motioned to one of the chairs across from her desk. “Please.”
“Thank you,” I said, sitting down. “There’s another person we both knew: Austin Oliver. We both had him in our classes.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Oh, of course. I remember your name from the article. I knew I had heard it before! Can you imagine?”
I shook my head. “No, I can’t. He never showed up for my class on Friday. I wonder, did he show up for yours?”
“Why no! He didn’t. My class meets at nine o’clock, so I have a rigorous attendance policy. He came to every class except that one. I went back and checked,” said Martha.
“And why did you do that?” I asked.
She straightened her back. “What? Go back and check his attendance record? I don’t know ….” She stared at the door for a long time and then shrugged. “I suppose I wanted to know if I had seen him the day before he … passed. That is sort of gruesome, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” I said. “You probably thought it was odd that he didn’t attend your class the day before he died, when he had attended all the others.”
“Do you?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Do you think it was odd?”
I didn’t see any reason to lie. “Yes, I do.”
“Well!”
I glanced at the students’ drawings scattered beneath her grade book. “Did Austin ever draw anything … peculiar?”
“No. His was a class that studied art; they didn’t make art. It’s an introductory course, a fine arts credit. That’s all. I’m sure he saw it as nothing else.”
“Oh,” I said.
“But he did doodle,” she added hopefully. “As an art professor, I notice these things.”
“Do you remember what he doodled?” I asked, leaning toward her desk.