The Semester of Our Discontent

by Cynthia Kuhn

  “Mmm,” I said. Simone was the first person who’d shown any indication of knowing what the symbol meant, and I was afraid if I said the wrong thing she would stop talking.

  She shook the necklace slightly. “When did you get this?”

  “A little while ago,” I said. “Were you expecting one too?”

  Simone stepped closer and spoke quietly. “My mother was a member,” she confided. “I was sure I’d be selected this year.”

  I nodded, trying to give the impression I knew what she was talking about.

  “I didn’t think they contacted potential members until after they’d been here for at least a full semester,” she mused, turning over the necklace. “Maybe they’ve changed things.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know much yet.” Which was true, actually.

  She straightened up and smiled brightly at me. “Perhaps you could put in a good word for me when the next discussion of membership comes up.”

  I smiled back just as brightly. “Of course.” It was shocking how quickly she changed demeanors. You could almost see the wheels turning. Now that I had something she wanted—at least she thought I did—her air of condescension was melting away.

  “Thank you so much, Lila,” Simone said.

  As I tried to think of questions to ask Simone that would simultaneously provoke the sharing of additional information but make it seem as though I actually knew something about the society, I heard my name called. I handed Simone the key and gestured for her to follow me. Fiona was waving at us from a booth farther down. She was cheerful in a red hat and wool coat combination. The table was draped with a dark cloth onto which letters spelling out the club name had been sewn in a variety of bright fabrics.

  “What a wonderful drape,” I said. The black provided a perfect contrast to the piles of colorful t-shirts stacked tidily along the top of the table.

  “Liane made it,” she said. “She’s seriously gifted.”

  “Where is she?” I asked, checking the individuals browsing through the boxes of books lined up neatly on the ground behind the booth.

  “Oh, she went to get us some cocoa. It’s freezing out here.” Fiona’s cheeks were rosy. She rubbed her hands up and down the sleeves of her coat, trying to warm up.

  “How is everything going?”

  “We’ve sold half of our stock already,” Fiona said. “Books and shirts.”

  “Well done. Do you need anything? Want me to cover for you so you can take a break?”

  “I don’t think so.” She shook back her bangs. “It’s super fun to be out here selling.”

  Fiona thanked me and turned to speak to a student standing next to me. I moved to the right and said hello to Alex. He looked up from the table, where he was making change for a customer, and gave me a friendly smile.

  “Everything okay?”

  He produced a jaunty thumbs up.

  “Dr. Raleigh has the lockbox for you,” I said, nodding at Simone.

  She walked over and handed it to him. He began pulling bills and change from his pockets and loading the compartments within.

  “Need anything?” I asked, though the words were drowned out by the din of the marching band passing by. He shook his head, so I headed to the stadium.

  The sound of drums echoed in the wake of the band ahead of me, which was doing its best to motivate the crowd. I waved at Judith and Willa, who were standing by another booth. Normally I would have gone over to speak with them, but it was too loud to hold any meaningful conversation. I continued to follow the band, impressed by the number of faculty members who had shown up tonight. I hoped they would support the Lit Club.

  People milled everywhere, illuminated by the powerful overhead lights aimed at the field inside. When the aroma of fresh popcorn reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch, I stopped at the refreshment stand and bought a cup of cocoa for five dollars, which was highway robbery but contributed to the Stonedale booster club’s fundraising efforts, so I wasn’t going to complain.

  Our school colors were crimson and silver; the other team’s colors were black and gold. Fans were decked out in their team regalia to show spirit and support: Stonedale fans had a silver gryphon—our mascot—on their clothes, and the other team’s fans had a golden lion on theirs. It all reminded me of medieval jousting competitions. Contributing even more to the illusion was a huge bonfire burning to the right of the stadium, surrounded by students holding cups and singing the university’s fight song, which I recognized because the chancellor had played it for us at the beginning of the last mentoring meeting. Thankfully he hadn’t made us sing along. A few of the voices belting out the lyrics this evening were adding a whimsical bit of drunken slurring.

  I joined the outermost ring of the crowd, sipping my cocoa and soaking in the merriment all around me. Bit by bit, I edged through the throng of people. The group in front of me was yelling back and forth about the location of their seats in the stadium for what seemed like centuries. Finally, they left to find said seats, and I scored a space right next to the fire. The heat was absolutely delicious. I stretched out my free hand near the flames, trying to erase the chill. Suddenly, I was shoved from behind, towards the inferno.

  Chapter 21

  Twisting sharply to the left and rolling sideways prevented my death. I didn’t even know my body could do that, I mused. Then sharp pain dragged me back into the immediacy of the moment. I had landed hard on the ground beside the fire, my hands taking the brunt of it. My palms were cut and bleeding. As I tried to determine the level of damage, a stinging sensation radiated up my arms as well. People swarmed around trying to be helpful, which hindered my ability to stand, and I remained on the cold ground in a daze for several moments. I was able to confirm that I wasn’t burned, but my face was hot and my coat was covered with gray ash.

  Finally, some kind strangers, cooing over my injuries like doves, helped me to my feet. I assured them that I was fine, but the whole thing had scared me senseless. At first I thought the crowd had simply surged forward, knocking me off balance, but the two students who had been standing behind me insisted someone in a hooded coat had squeezed in front of them, pushed me, and ran off.

  “Could you see the person’s face?” I asked the taller of the two young men. They both had their faces painted in Stonedale silver, and the effect was uncanny.

  “No, dude. He blew past us and took off. Sorry.”

  Although part of me wanted to correct the application of “dude,” I thanked them and hightailed it out of there.

  Someone must have witnessed the bonfire episode because word got around fast. The phone rang all night long as colleagues and even the dean—which I considered a small miracle—left consoling messages. I let them all go to voicemail. All I wanted to do was sit on my sofa, drink tea, and stare at the television, on which was playing an old detective movie marathon. Perhaps not the best choice given the tenor of the day, but it was oddly soothing. I watched the handsome leading men and the glamorous leading ladies and tried to lose myself in a world where the bad guy always got caught, one way or another.

  As soon as I had returned home, I looked up the Briar Rose Society online, but I hadn’t found a single reference or link. I’d read through the original folktale of Little Briar Rose, but it hadn’t provided any clues whatsoever. And somewhere along the way, I’d realized Simone still had my necklace.

  I felt like a failure all around.

  Cady curled up on the couch next to me and started purring as I petted her distractedly, wincing at the pressure—my wounded palms were excessively tender. I wished Calista would just explain the tattoo already. The fact that she had the symbol on her body was not only disturbing but, I felt sure, central to the strange happenings at Stonedale. If there was a secret society, as Simone had said, she must be a member. If she was a member, how far would she go to keep it a secret? Who else was a member? A
nd what were they up to?

  Struggling with the sense that I was missing a vital connection, I decided to go back to the beginning. I pulled out a legal pad and made a list of names, followed by reasons why they might have wanted to kill Roland.

  Tad: angry about tenure

  Elisabetta: angry about harassment

  Willa: angry about bullying

  Norton: wants to be chair

  That was an unsatisfyingly short list. But the bigger problem was that none of those reasons would explain why Judith had been attacked, why Eldon had been killed, or why someone now appeared to be targeting me.

  A loud knock at the front door echoed through my bungalow, interrupting my musings. Unwillingly, I pulled myself off of the sofa and checked through the peephole. Nate stood on my small porch. His red sweatshirt said “Lit Ninja,” which made me like him that much more.

  I held the door open and greeted him warmly.

  He scanned me quickly from head to toe but didn’t say anything. I walked into the kitchen, inviting him to make himself comfortable while I made another pot of tea.

  Once we were settled on my sofa with mugs, Nate gave me a sympathetic look. “I thought you’d have bandages all over you. How are you doing?”

  “Not great,” I said, holding up my battered hands.

  “What happened? All I heard was that you fell into the bonfire.”

  “I didn’t fall in. I was pushed.” I gave him the particulars.

  Nate appeared increasingly stunned as the story unfolded. “Why didn’t you call me, Lila?”

  “Don’t know. Just wanted to hide, I guess.”

  “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be here alone.”

  I didn’t think so either, truthfully.

  Nate studied me, as if gauging something, and slid over slightly closer, his fresh soap scent surrounding me.

  “How about if I stay here tonight?”

  “I appreciate that, but then there’s the next night, and the next. You can’t just move in.”

  “Why don’t you come to my apartment building? At least there’s an alarm there.”

  I put my hand up to intervene. “I don’t want to move out, and I don’t want you to feel as though you have to be my bodyguard—”

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, Lila.”

  “Thank you. But we need to find out who is doing these horrible things. That would solve the problem.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “It would.”

  It was quiet as we tried to figure out what to do next. “Have you spent much time in the basement of Crandall?” I asked.

  He did a double take. “That’s very left field. What are you talking about?”

  I told him about the circular room and the meeting…or whatever that was.

  “Have you told the detective any of that?”

  “No. I’m not even sure what I saw down there. It did sound like there were multiple people involved, though. I’m certain of that much.”

  He leaned back and played with a spoon on the coffee table for a minute. His face was serious. “You should absolutely tell the detective.”

  “I don’t know. It just sounds…” I fiddled with some pillow fringe.

  “Crazy?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one will think it’s crazy if you catch someone doing something wrong. What do you think they’re up to?”

  “No idea. Plotting their next murder? Drinking blood? They might be devil worshippers for all I know.”

  “Maybe they were just…rehearsing a play?”

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “They were chanting.”

  I was so glad to be able to talk this over with Nate, now that I’d told him everything else on Halloween. It felt productive to discuss it with someone rather than simply having the various pieces go around and around in my head all the time. “But I did get a clue, sort of. At the football game, Simone saw the thorn necklace and said it meant I’d been chosen for membership into the Briar Rose Society.”

  He perked up. “Explain, please.”

  I recounted the conversation I’d had with Simone.

  “A secret society? Did you look them up online?”

  “I did. Couldn’t find a thing.”

  “Hence the secret part,” he said gleefully.

  “The initial letter that came with the thorn necklace definitely did not say anything about joining them. But my point is that maybe the society is the chanting group that meets in the basement?”

  He pressed his hands together and rested them on his chin while he contemplated the information.

  “Can you think back? Was there anything to identify them? Like a giant thorn ball hanging from the ceiling? Or a bunch of thorns lying around?”

  “I couldn’t see a thing. The door was only open partway to begin with, and when I got close, it slammed shut in my face. I don’t even know if they knew I was there or what.”

  “Would you show me the necklace letters?” Nate asked.

  “Sure,” I said, reaching into my bag, which I’d stashed beneath the coffee table, and pulling out both. “But there isn’t much to them.”

  He raised his eyebrows and settled back into the cushions to scan the letters.

  “So the first one tells you to show the necklace to Calista, and the second one tells you to wear the necklace to the Halloween party.”

  “Correct.”

  “How are those two things connected?”

  “No idea.”

  “And Calista wouldn’t explain what the symbol is?”

  “No. But I’m pretty sure she’s involved. Somehow.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Has she ever committed a crime before?”

  “Nate!” I stared at him. “Never. When I said ‘involved,’ I meant that she knows more than she’s saying. Not that she’s a killer.”

  “I knew that,” he said quickly, in response to my angry tone. “Just thinking out loud. Being thorough.”

  I went back to my satchel and withdrew the folder holding the Poe Collins articles. “I also wanted to ask you about these. Will you take a look and see what you think?” I explained how I had found them.

  Nate began reading. Cady jumped onto my lap, and I tried to refocus on the movie, though I had lost the thread of the plot.

  After a few minutes, he put down the articles.

  “These are weird,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” I turned to prop my elbow on the back of the sofa.

  “They seem more intent upon tearing the authors down than they do on showing us something new about the books. Usually a good piece of literary criticism expands our reading possibilities, right? He—or she, I guess—basically just attacks the writer.”

  That was it in a nutshell. I don’t know why the journals had seen fit to publish them. They were all newer journals, though, and content depended on the submissions received or lack thereof.

  We tried to come up with reasons that the articles had been collected in a folder in the main office. The most logical explanation was that someone in our department had either been researching Poe Collins or had been writing as Poe Collins and was about to be taken to task for it.

  Or maybe, though I didn’t dare say this out loud, even killed for it.

  Chapter 22

  A week later, Nate and I were at Stonedale Correctional Facility, facing Tad through a thick cloudy window. As promised, Tad’s father had made the necessary arrangements to allow us to visit quickly. I don’t know how, and I didn’t want to ask. We’d been ushered in by an unsmiling guard after having our credentials checked and our hands stamped with the same invisible ultraviolet code they used when I visited my cousin. Calista was meeting with her lawyer right now, so we weren’t going to be able to see her as well,
unfortunately. I certainly had a lot of questions for her.

  Nate held the black phone up between our ears so we could both hear what Tad was saying. The thick metal cord attached to the wall on my side was therefore stretched across my neck. I tried not to think about the germs swarming over its surface.

  “They charged me with killing Eldon and as an accomplice to Roland’s murder,” said Tad. His five-o’clock shadow lent him an edgy air and his blond hair, normally groomed into a style that looked easy but probably took some work, stuck up in uneven lumps from his head.

  “We know you didn’t do anything,” Nate said reassuringly.

  At least we hoped he didn’t.

  “I was trying to pull the stake out of his chest, which put my prints on it and his blood all over me. The police find my story unconvincing, but wouldn’t you try to remove the knife too, if it were you?”

  “Depends,” I said slowly. It hadn’t even occurred to me to go near Roland’s uncannily still body on the conference table.

  “I thought he was still alive,” Tad said. “I was trying to help him. But the stake was jammed in there, and the blood made it so slippery…”

  I was glad he trailed off at that point. I took a deep breath to counter the sudden wobble in my stomach.

  “And of course all the stuff with Roland last year supposedly provides motive,” Tad continued. “As if I’d kill him for revenge, then his brother too for good measure? Who would do that?” He shook his head. “Even though Roland’s gone, he’s still ruining my life. Unbelievable.”

  “I’m sorry, man,” said Nate quietly. He hadn’t spoken much up to this point, which was unlike him. “What happens now?”

  “Trial, though who knows when that will start,” Tad said glumly, while examining, then brushing, something off of his sleeve. His bright orange prison jumpsuit appeared to be freshly pressed. I didn’t know how he avoided wrinkles but they never seemed to plague him, even in jail.

  I returned my attention to the conversation, where Nate was telling him about the people meeting in the basement.