The Semester of Our Discontent

by Cynthia Kuhn

Elisabetta beamed as she thrust out her hand to shake mine. “So you’re the new me—how do you like it here so far?”

  There was something welcoming about her, as if we’d been friends for years—probably the reason I said it was “a bit scary” instead of something more formal and appropriate for a new professor. She chuckled.

  Judith moved closer to us and lowered her voice. “Liz, have you heard about Roland?”

  Elisabetta’s grin disappeared. “Tragic.”

  I spoke quietly. “You were all close friends, weren’t you? I’m sorry for your loss.”

  They shared a look that seemed laden with meaning but was impenetrable, then murmured their thanks.

  Judith snapped her fingers. “I want to tell you before I forget—the emeritus vote has been pushed back until further notice, given the circumstances.” She looked at me and explained, “Liz is up for professor emerita this year.”

  I congratulated Elisabetta.

  She gave me a warm smile. “I have an idea—why don’t we three have dinner sometime soon?”

  We made arrangements to meet next week, and I went back to my office. I stuffed my laptop into my bag along with papers that needed to be graded and walked through the empty department until I reached the main office. It was slightly after five, and I figured Millicent would still be there. She didn’t seem like someone who shaved minutes off of the work day. The Literature Club had asked me to check on the status of the book stock—they were stored in the bowels of the building somewhere. It would give us all a chance to see what we were dealing with and how pressing the additional sales items would be, in terms of the students being able to hit their goal.

  I greeted Millicent, who was making notations on something. Classical music was playing softly in the background. When she saw me, she put down the pen and waited for me to speak.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could please tell me where the books are stored when professors donate them for the Literature Club sale? I’m helping out this year.”

  “We keep those down in the basement,” she said. “Some students bring them up right before the sale. We can’t have them sitting around here all year in the meantime.”

  “I won’t remove them,” I assured her quickly. “We’re just trying to get an idea of what’s there.”

  Millicent reached into the side drawer and removed a box of keys with colored tags attached. “I’m about to leave for the night, but if you promise to return this promptly, I’ll let you take it.”

  “Perfect, thanks,” I said, waiting until she reached out to drop the key into my hand. The blue rectangular tag read “Storage Room 12.”

  “The door is marked. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.” She picked up the pen and resumed her work.

  I went down Crandall’s side stairwell, whose utilitarian nature contrasted the marble steps leading to the classrooms in the main hall. The thick fire door at the bottom had been well-oiled—it opened noiselessly, and I found myself in a plain white, gently curving hallway. Closed wooden doors were evenly spaced out along the dimly lit, eerie corridor in front of me. I’d never been a fan of basements, always expecting something to jump out of the dark corners. I shivered and tried not to let my imagination get the best of me. It was at times like these that a steady diet of Gothic and mystery did not serve me so well.

  Eventually, I saw the storage room sign. I was so far along that I wasn’t sure I was even in Crandall anymore—I seemed to be heading to Randsworth Hall. I wondered if this passageway extended throughout campus, or just between certain buildings. Hadn’t Nate mentioned something about underground tunnels at one point? I needed to check with him. The corridor hooked just past the storage door, and I couldn’t see around it. I fitted the key into the lock. The sooner I got this over with, the better.

  Inside, I felt along the wall until I located a switch, which illuminated a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. Shelves lined the room, some draped with intricate spider webs. There didn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason to the contents—a large collection of empty three-ring notebooks on one, an old mimeograph machine next to an adding machine on another, and stacks of files on the next. I spied books on the shelves at the far wall and headed towards them.

  After a half hour of digging, I stood back and surveyed the lot, brushing my hands on the side of my pants to get rid of the dust. The students would be glad—there were at least two hundred books here. Some were in boxes and others were stacked haphazardly, but the pile included a number of textbooks, various guides to literary periods or theories, and many paperbacks: everything from classic novels to contemporary poetry to sci-fi. Looked like we were set for a sale.

  I picked up my bag, turned off the bulb, and pulled the door shut behind me, noticing that there was light spilling into the hallway through the half-open door to the next room.

  That light had not been on before.

  Was someone else down here?

  I knocked on the door, my heart beating faster. The knocks echoed, but there was no response, so I pushed on the wood and stepped inside. I expected to find myself in another rectangular storage room, but it was a large circular space, the center portion of which was about a foot lower than the rest and filled with folding chairs. A wooden podium against the far wall faced the rows of chairs. What was this room supposed to be? I couldn’t imagine why anyone else would come down to this strange place unless they were up to no good. Which reminded me that someone had recently been killed in this very building. Definitely time to leave. I hurried across the room and flipped the light switch. Moving steadily along the corridor, I headed back the way I’d come, skirting the fine line between walking and running so as to cover the most ground while making the least amount of noise until I’d made it out of Crandall Hall altogether.

  Through the walk home, the long soak in a hot tub, the sleepless night, and the entire day that followed, I pondered why somebody might be lurking down there without saying anything.

  And came to no conclusions whatsoever.

  Chapter 14

  On Monday afternoon, I met with the Lit Club students in my office to go over the details for Homecoming. Alex’s friend had come through as promised, and the shirts were ready.

  “You were right,” said Alex, as he held up a green cotton t-shirt. “The rules around quotations are mega-complicated. Parody, however, is given much more leeway. So I went with something from Alexander Pope’s ‘Essay on Criticism’ but tweaked it for our purposes.”

  “These are amazing,” I said, examining the words in a large stylized font proclaiming, “To err is human / To read, divine.” Beneath, in smaller capital letters, was the name of the club. Alex handed shirts to Fiona and Liane. The other students and I gushed for a few minutes. Alex usually had a serious expression, but in response to the praise, his whole face lit up.

  “I think I like these even better than reproducing other people’s quotes, Alex. I’d like to buy one right now. How much are they?”

  “You can have one, Dr. Maclean,” he said with a grin. “For helping us. And please take one for Professor James as well.”

  “That’s so kind, thank you.” I selected a bright red one for Calista and a magenta one for myself. “But since this is a fundraising effort, I’d like to pay for them both.”

  “We don’t have the box ready yet,” said Fiona, as she carefully folded her yellow shirt into a neat square and placed it on top of her backpack.

  “What box?” I asked.

  “We have to withdraw money from our club bank account so we can make change. Then we keep it in a lockbox. It should be down in the basement with the books. Professor James usually gets it for us the week of the sale.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s ask Dr. Raleigh to be the box person this year since she wants to help out.” And since she hasn’t done anything else to be of service, I thought bu
t didn’t say. “So who will do that?”

  Liane raised her hand as if we were in class. “I’m the treasurer, so I’ll do it.”

  “How many officers are there?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know.

  “Four,” said Alex. “Liane’s the treasurer, as she just said. I’m the VP, Fiona’s the president, and Carter is the PR guy.”

  “I haven’t met Carter,” I said.

  “He’s, like, a text-only person,” said Liane solemnly. “Tries not to leave his dorm room.”

  “Gamer,” added Alex.

  “He keeps our Facebook page and Twitter updated,” added Fiona. “He’s glued to his computer most of the time. We just fill him in after meetings and he advertises whatever we need through social media.”

  “Okay. Do you need anything else from me right now?”

  “No,” she said. “I think we’re good.”

  We spent some time talking about the cost to make the shirts versus the amount the students needed to earn and came up with a price to charge.

  “We should all wear these ahead of time to stir up some buzz,” Alex said, indicating his own dark blue shirt. “What do you think?”

  “Totally agree,” said Fiona. “I’ll wear mine tomorrow.”

  “Me too,” added Liane. She gazed happily at the peach-colored shirt on her lap. “I love it.”

  “Wear them as much as you can,” said Alex.

  “Great work, everyone.” As they began packing up, I asked them to take a look at a piece of paper on which I’d sketched the thorn-and-rose design. I watched closely as they passed it around, but they seemed unfamiliar with the symbol.

  “What is that?” asked Fiona.

  “Just something a friend showed me,” I said. “We don’t know what it means. It was on the back of a folder. Any ideas?”

  None of them recognized it or even seemed very interested in it.

  “Let me ask you this: how well did you know Dr. Higgins?”

  Liane grimaced. “He was my Brit Lit survey professor. Super strict. He could be rude too. But I learned a lot.” She paused for a moment. “Really sad, what happened to him, though.”

  “It is,” I said. “Did you know anyone who might have wanted him, uh, gone?”

  They didn’t have any theories about that and soon went back to zipping their backpacks and chatting. So much for my information-gathering plan.

  Simone drifted in, making a big performance of checking her watch several times. “I was sure we were meeting at four. Is my watch slow? How long have you been here?” She fluttered around a bit apologizing, then we spent about ten minutes bringing her up to speed on all of the details. She was extremely complimentary about the shirts, though, and the students seemed pleased with her response. So at least she did that.

  An hour later, the late afternoon sunlight shining through the yellow leaves outside my window cast a golden aura over everything in the office. While breathtaking, it made me long for the spectacular reds that were a hallmark of east coast autumns. I allowed myself precisely one minute of nostalgia before returning my attention to the tedious task of proofreading an exam I was giving my American Lit class this week.

  I gathered up my things and went to drop off the exam, which couldn’t be copied by student workers so as to protect the integrity of the test. I had to give it to Millicent, who had already made it clear she hated copying exams, so I approached the task with a small amount of dread. She’d been fine the last time we spoke, but you never know.

  Her desk was empty, but Roland’s—now Eldon’s—office door was open and the lights were on. I took a few steps forward and called her name, dropping my bag next to her desk. I peeked inside Eldon’s office and did a quick visual sweep, but it was empty. She wasn’t here, and I was going to have to sit here and wait.

  Or I could make better use of my time.

  I went back to the hallway and checked to be sure no one was coming, then ran over to the row of filing cabinets across from Millicent’s desk. I yanked open the top drawer of the closest one to look for a folder of tenure letters. I knew it was a long shot, but if I could at least see what Roland’s letter said, I might be able to help my cousin’s defense.

  Nothing relevant there. I repeated my search in all four drawers of all five cabinets, but I couldn’t find anything with “tenure” or her name on it. They must keep sensitive personnel files locked up somewhere else. I pushed the final drawer closed and stood up.

  As I paused to stretch my aching back, my eyes caught on a stack of manila folders resting on the surface of the cabinets. The highest folder was so full that the cover was angled slightly up, revealing the word “Mysteries” in large black markered letters across the front.

  I stared at it. It must be my course proposal. But why was it so thick? My proposal had only been five pages long. Perhaps the folder contained comments from the curriculum committee meeting. Those would be very useful to see since I planned to revise and resubmit now that Roland was no longer in charge.

  I reached out my hand, hesitating with my palm hovering over the cover. Surely a quick peek wouldn’t hurt anything.

  Just this once.

  Especially if no one saw me do it.

  Flipping the cover open quickly, I noted several stapled packets inside. However, these had nothing to do with my course proposal. The top one was an essay, in manuscript form, on an author I had never heard of named Eve Turner. I slid it aside and thumbed through the rest of the stack. The remaining packets were articles that had been published in various journals. Each piece was on a different author and genre—everything from thriller to cozy—but written by the same person, Poe Collins. Unquestionably a pseudonym—it was hard to miss the combination of two writers who had been called “fathers” of the mystery genre in one way or another: Edgar Allan and Wilkie. There were no additional papers inside, so I closed the folder and darted over to the visitor chair.

  I settled in to wait, and as the minutes continued to tick by, I wondered who the other mystery scholar in the department might be—clearly, someone was using the literary criticism of “Poe Collins” for something. I hadn’t run across that name while writing my dissertation, but that didn’t mean much. There is a veritable sea of scholarship through which one must wade for any given topic, and staying focused is necessary. In fact, sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps us afloat.

  I couldn’t ask Millicent who it was, either, given that I’d only discovered the information while snooping. I continued to turn the discovery over in my mind. The longer I sat there, the more I was surrounded by the intoxicating fragrance of the bouquet of mixed flowers—lilies, tulips, daisies, and some spiky things I didn’t recognize—next to Millicent’s computer. I leaned over, close enough to breathe in the scent even more, inadvertently hitting the tallest bloom with my chin. A white card fell onto the desk: “All my love, B.” I picked it up and studied the handwriting. Could B stand for Bartholomew? Spencer was one of the few professors Millicent seemed to like. Maybe the only one, now that Roland was gone. Of course, it could be someone else altogether, someone non-English-department-related.

  As I tried to poke the card back into the arrangement, I heard Millicent clear her throat. I twisted around in my seat, still holding the card, which I held out silently.

  “Nosy, are we?”

  She walked around her chair, set down a paperback book, and reached across the desktop to snatch the card from me. It went into her capacious side drawer, which she slammed shut. After plunking down in her chair, she yanked at the hem of her beige polyester suit.

  “I’m sorry, Millicent. I didn’t mean to see your card. I was just trying to smell the flowers—”

  “What can I do for you, Lila?” Apparently, we weren’t going to discuss it.

  “What are you reading? I’m always looking for recommendations.” I pointed to the paperback s
he’d just placed on the desk. The cover was facing down, so I angled my head to try and read the spine. Couldn’t help myself.

  She slowly moved her elbow sideways so that it was positioned in front of the book.

  I switched gears. Maybe she was a mystery fan. Maybe we could bond a little bit. Maybe she would explain what that folder meant. “What’s your favorite genre?”

  “I’ll read anything,” she said flatly.

  “What’s that one?” I pointed again at the paperback. She didn’t respond.

  We stared at each other like two boxers waiting for the bell to ring.

  Eventually, Millicent sighed, slid the book closer, and flipped it over. A muscled hottie whose unbuttoned shirt was rippling in the wind clasped a long-haired beauty in a corset.

  “Romance?” I tried to hide my surprise. Never would have guessed. “Well, if you come across anything great…” My hand circled to indicate potential sharing of information, and I smiled at her.

  She did not smile back. I was sure no recommendations would be coming my way any time soon.

  “Do you usually buy books at the Literature Club sale?”

  “Yes. I try to support the students whenever possible.”

  “Looks as though there will be a lot to choose from this year. I saw at least two hundred books down in the basement. Which reminds me, I still have the key.” I pulled it out of my bag and returned it to her. “What is the big room in the basement used for?”

  “The department doesn’t use anything besides storage space in the basement. Why?”

  “There was a light on in the room next door, so I peeked inside. It’s a huge circular room, and there were chairs set up, so I thought perhaps someone was having a meeting.”

  Millicent shrugged. “A janitor must have left it on. No one holds meetings down there.”

  She was probably right.

  I explained the exam issue. She informed me that it would be available Wednesday morning in a tone that conveyed irritation and indifference in equal amounts.