by Lea Wait
There was no chance of her forgetting, Maggie thought as she drove back to campus. She swerved around the remains of several smashed pumpkins. What was Dorothy really asking—or telling? Did she expect Maggie to hand Aura over to her on the basis of a story that, much as it sounded credible, was at this point just a story? Would that even be legal? And was Dorothy offering to bribe her?
Maggie still hadn’t sorted the situation out when she reached her office and picked up her classroom notes. Social, political, and economic reasons for the American Civil War. She had given that lecture often enough that she didn’t need to prepare for it. Which really isn’t fair to the students, she thought guiltily as she gathered up her notes and shooed Uncle Sam out from under her desk. Claudia must have left her office door open again.
She had ten minutes before class.
She sat down at her computer and started typing a note to Will. She hadn’t answered this morning’s e-mail, and she needed to communicate with someone who was not involved in this whole mess. But she couldn’t say anything about Aura, or about Dorothy’s confession. Not only had she promised Dorothy she wouldn’t tell anyone, but Will had made it clear that he didn’t want to have children. How would he react if Maggie suddenly had custody of Aura? Would fulfilling her dream of becoming a mother move her away from the one man she cared about?
Maggie looked down at her right hand. She’d once mentioned to Will that she’d always loved nineteenth-century “posy” or “poesie” rings, but had never had one. Will had given her one—in friendship, they both stressed—when they last saw each other, at an antiques show in Philadelphia. He’d bought it from an estate jewelry dealer at a show in Rochester. She’d hesitated about the symbolism of a ring, but it was so lovely, and clearly chosen for her, that she couldn’t say no.
Posy rings were simple Victorian gold bands inlaid with a series of small stones that spelled out words or names. The most common were called regard rings because, like the ring Will had given her, their inlaid stones were a tiny ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, and diamond. Her friend Gussie had a “dearest” that her former husband had given her, and Maggie was secretly thankful that the one Will had found was a “regard.” It was the perfect word for where they were in their relationship.
And it was a beautiful ring. She smiled and held her hand out under the desk lamp to admire it.
Even so, she deleted her note to Will. She couldn’t tell him all that was happening, and she didn’t want to tell him only part.
It was easier to say nothing. She turned off her computer, picked up her notes, and headed for her “American History to 1865” class. What good was a relationship where you couldn’t share everything that was important to you?
As she walked, Maggie realized she was also thinking of the relationship she’d had with her former husband. She hadn’t shared her desire to have children; he hadn’t shared his doubts about the marriage. Maybe he’d shared that with his other women.
And now, knowing Will had no desire to be a father, she was again keeping her thoughts to herself. Could there ever be a relationship in which you could be truly honest and open? She’d never had one. But that didn’t mean she’d given up hope.
The causes of the American Civil War were simple compared to the causes why relationships succeeded. Or failed.
Chapter 14
Mandan Foot Warriors in Counsel. Lithograph by George Catlin, from his Indians of North America, 1841. Catlin was the first white person to travel throughout the American West and live with and draw Native Americans. Although in later years his portfolios and oil paintings were highly valued, this, his first book, was of no interest to North Americans at the time, and Catlin self-published it in London. 6 x 10 inches. Price: $65.
“Professor Summer, you have another pile of messages.” Claudia popped one of her omnipresent chocolate Kisses into her mouth and handed Maggie several pieces of pink message paper. No piles awaited other teachers.
“Am I the only one lucky enough to be in the line of fire today?”
“No, Professor Summer. Mr. Turk”—Maggie smiled at the use of the Mr. Paul had just reregistered at New York University to complete the doctoral program he had dropped out of ten years ago to go into the business world, and Claudia saved the term professor for those who had already earned their doctorates—“Mr. Turk’s been in and out all day. He has all his messages. He was looking for you, too. I think you have a message from him.”
Maggie looked down. Sure enough. Dinner, tonight? Paul.
“I’ve heard he takes people to really nice restaurants,” whispered Claudia. “Usually in New York. Most of his women call to say thank-you the next day.”
“I see,” said Maggie. Most of his women. So Paul’s charms were spread thin.
“He went out for coffee, but he’ll be back soon. Professor James is in class, and Professor Boyle is in his office.”
“Thank you, Claudia.”
“Professor Summer? Is there any news about Sarah Anderson’s condition? I heard she was a total vegetable, just hooked up to wires and tubes and everything.”
Where was this information coming from? “Sarah’s in a coma. Some people are in comas for a few hours or days, come out of it, and are fine. I talked with her doctor a couple of hours ago and he was optimistic.” Well, at least not pessimistic. “So if you hear any rumors like that, squelch them, please! Sarah’s going to be fine.”
“I’m glad. I keep thinking of that poor little girl of hers. She’s so pretty. And she has no one but her mother. It’s so sad.” Claudia pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and blew her nose loudly. “Oh, and Tiffany Douglass called again. I told her four o’clock would be okay with you. She’ll be here then.”
It was three-thirty. Maggie’s office was as cluttered as always. She cleared a space on the desk and put down the papers from her class. Luckily she had already prepared Friday’s exam.
Paul’s message was on top of the “call back” slips. He had asked her out before, but never so persistently as today. Could his sudden interest have anything to do with Sarah, or with his friendship with the Whitcombs? She put his message aside.
Her dentist had called, reminding her it was time to have her teeth cleaned. Rah.
A student was going to miss Friday’s class because he had to attend a business conference. He wondered if he could take the exam early. That would be a change, Maggie thought. Usually in such circumstances people asked to take the exam later. In fact, based on her students’ requests, she suspected exams coincided with a fair percentage of the illnesses, deaths, and business commitments of the population of Somerset County.
An antique show promoter in Pennsylvania asked if she could do a show in Allentown this weekend—another dealer had canceled at the last moment and the show could really use a print specialist like Maggie. Too bad, but she was committed to doing the Morristown show. The promoter must be frantic to fill the space at this short notice.
And finally, a message from Heather Farelli. Would Maggie call her at Whitcomb House as soon as she got in?
Maggie dialed the number, and Kendall picked up the telephone.
“I’m glad you called, Professor. We’re all here—well, most of us are. The police left the house a wreck. And then they took each of us out of our classes and questioned us. But let me get Heather. She’s the one who called you.”
Heather came from a large Italian family and used most of her emotional energy, aside from that spent chasing six-year-old Mikey, trying to separate herself from that family. It had been a great relief to her to get the Whitcomb House scholarship. At twenty-four, after three years of attending part-time, she had managed to accumulate one year’s worth of credits at Somerset College. Living on campus with a scholarship meant she could finish her associate’s degree in relative comfort, away from her family, and then apply to a state four-year college. In one of the Monday-night seminars Heather had been clear about her goal: “I got screwed over once in my life, b
y Mikey’s father, and I’m making sure it don’t happen again. I’m going to be a lawyer. That way no one can put anything over on me again. Or over anyone I can help.”
Maggie smiled, remembering. Heather’s tattoo would stand out in a courtroom, but if anyone could make it work, it would be Heather. She had definite ideas about almost everything. And she hadn’t separated totally from her close-knit family. Wasn’t it Heather’s mother who had made the minestrone everyone at Whitcomb House had eaten for lunch yesterday? Yesterday.
“Professor Summer? This is Heather. You’re the only one who’ll give us a straight story. There’s a lot going on. The police messed up the house, reporters are following us around, and our families and friends are driving us crazy. And we don’t know what to say to anyone! We don’t know what’s happening.” Maggie heard a child crying in the background. It sounded like one of the little ones, Josette or Tony. “First of all, how is Sarah? Really? We’re hearing all sorts of rumors.”
“Sarah’s holding her own, Heather. She’s still in a coma, and as of about two hours ago they still didn’t know what poison had caused it. But she’s hanging on, and the doctor has hopes she’ll recover.”
“Then she isn’t dead?” Heather put her hand over the receiver. But her muffled voice was still clear. “Hey, guys, Professor Summer says Sarah’s not dead.” Maggie heard assorted voices in the background. What rumors were going around campus? Or had something happened to Sarah that she didn’t know about?
“I promised you all I’d let you know anything as soon as I heard it,” Maggie said, “and I will. No word from me means the situation hasn’t changed.” And I’ll call Dr. Stevens as soon as I get off the phone, she told herself. I have to make sure what I’m telling people is accurate.
“Okay. That’s good. Now, I won’t say we aren’t all pretty pissed off about our property being dumped by those cops, but we know they were trying to help. Did they find anything that would tell them what happened to Sarah? Or who tried to kill her?”
“Not that I know of, Heather. But I haven’t talked with either of the detectives this afternoon. Again, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. I’ll tell everyone. We’re pretty nervous. We were with Sarah the whole time yesterday—all day and at the party. I mean, some people might even think one of us gave Sarah that poison. The other students on campus, and even some of the professors, looked at us funny today because we’re ‘those Whitcomb House people.’”
Maggie felt her blood pressure rising. Stay calm. “It’s going to be all right, Heather. Sarah lived with you, and the detectives are crossing off possibilities. She was poisoned, after all! There’s going to be talk.”
“That’s for sure! President Hagfield even called here!”
Max called Whitcomb House? “He called to say he was sorry about what happened to Sarah?”
“Not exactly. He just muttered about how none of us should talk with anyone in the media. He asked to speak to each one of us and just kept repeating the same thing. ‘Don’t talk.’ He must think we’re idiots.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. He’s just upset. So he talked to everyone?” That didn’t sound typical of Max. Usually he avoided talking to students directly when there was any kind of problem. He left confrontations up to people like Maggie.
“Everyone except Tiffany. She must still be on campus. He seemed aggravated at that, too. He asked to speak to her first, and then asked each of us where she was. And his tone of voice made it sound as though he thought one of us had poisoned Sarah!”
“He probably just wanted to make sure he’d talked with you all.”
“Maybe so. But no other dorms were searched today, and detectives aren’t wandering over campus asking about any of the other students.”
“Let’s hope this is all settled quickly, Sarah will be fine, and we can all go back to living our own lives,” said Maggie. And, she added to herself, let’s hope the police find whoever did this to Sarah and make sure he or she disappears. Permanently.
“What should we do about people calling for Sarah?”
Calling for Sarah? By now everyone in the world seemed to know what had happened to Sarah. “She’s been getting calls?”
“A man called earlier, a couple of times. Finally Kendall told him Sarah was in the hospital. That was okay, right?”
“I’m sure it was. Do you know who it was?”
“He didn’t leave a name. But Sarah doesn’t get many calls, so it was a little weird.”
“I’m sure you all handled it well. Anyone in New Jersey could have read The Star-Ledger today and known that Sarah is in the hospital. But if she has any other calls, try to get a name. Sarah might have friends or acquaintances none of us know about.”
Or enemies, Maggie thought.
Chapter 15
Orrin, Make Haste, I Am Perishing! Wood engraving, story illustration by American artist Winslow Homer (1836–1910), printed in The Galaxy, August 1867. Fully dressed young woman in deep water desperately clutching a post under a bridge. 4.5 x 6.75 inches. Price: $125.
Maggie took a long sip from one of the cans of soda she kept in the bottom right-hand drawer of her desk. There wasn’t time to get to the campus cafeteria every time she was thirsty, and warm Diet Pepsi was better than no Diet Pepsi.
“You look like a lady who could use a stronger drink, and a sympathetic ear.” Paul stepped into Maggie’s office and offered her a selection from a box of chocolates. “Not to speak of some instant energy. I hear chocolate-covered cherries go well with diet soda.”
Maggie couldn’t help grinning. Paul was sweet, and he was trying to fit into the Somerset College staff. Besides, chocolate-covered cherries were her favorite. She reached out and took one and then, when the box didn’t waver, another. “You’ll spoil me, Paul Turk.” The sweet cream filling and cherry tartness on her tongue filled her taste buds as the chocolate began to melt. “Mmmmm.”
For a moment neither of them said anything; she savored the treat, and Paul grinned at her and then went over to look at the Currier & Ives Maggie hung on the wall next to her door. She’d recently moved it here from her home office. “I don’t know much about Curriers. Who was Maggie? Other than you, of course.”
“Maggie’s no one in particular. N. Currier and then Currier and Ives printed a wide selection of hand-colored lithographs featuring portraits of young ladies. Some are full figures, and some are just heads. They’re all labeled with names popular in the nineteenth century. Maggie was one of them. They were designed to be given to women who had those names, and they still make wonderful gifts. Although today there aren’t as many Cornelias and Agneses as there were then.”
“How wonderful that you found a Maggie.”
“It was the very first antique print I bought. I was still in college. It started me down a long road.” Maggie smiled at the memory, and at his interest. “Unfortunately, they didn’t do a similar series of prints for men, or I’d look for a Paul for you. Although I think there was a Pauline.”
“Somehow I don’t think Pauline would be quite right for my office,” he said. “Mind if I sit a moment?”
“Go ahead. I’m taking a deep breath. I have an appointment with a student at four.”
Paul looked at his watch. “Then I’ll come right to the point. I’d like some advice on capturing student interest in class, and I’ve heard you’re one of the campus experts at doing that. I’d like to buy you dinner, give you a chance to take another deep breath, and talk about the business of student management.”
Maggie laughed out loud. “‘Student management’? When you figure that out, let me know. I’ll buy a copy of your book!”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously.” Maggie thought a moment. “I have a lot on my plate just now, Paul, and I have to pack my van for an antique show this Saturday.”
“It’s only Monday.” Paul looked so eager, and so enthusiastic. So attractive.
“On the other hand,
I do have to eat.” The calm in Paul’s eyes and manner was definitely appealing, especially on a stress-filled day like this one.
“Then an early dinner, very local—Enrico’s in Somerville? It’s not far, and pasta can be comfort food. We could eat as early as five-thirty if you want to. I skipped lunch.”
“Now that I think of it, so did I,” agreed Maggie. “Can we make it five forty-five and meet there? I have a few things to do after my next student appointment.”
“I’ll see you at Enrico’s, then.” Paul stood up. His wavy brown hair was slightly tousled in a way that was somehow sophisticated as well as casual. He winked at Maggie. “Until five forty-five.” He left, his aftershave lingering a moment.
Paul was so different from Will. Will was a big man; his body would have filled the doorway. And Will’s graying beard was not so kempt as Paul’s tousled hair. Will’s blue eyes were striking, yet comforting; very different from Paul’s dark eyes, which seemed to take in every detail of a room, and of the person he was talking to. Maggie shivered a bit. What would Paul think about her situation with Sarah and Aura? She found herself wondering and shook her head. An early dinner. That was all she was committing to.
Not a date. Just a meeting of colleagues to discuss business.
“Professor Summer?”
Maggie jumped slightly. She had been far away. Tiffany Douglass was at the door. Tiffany was almost six feet tall, but she carried the height well. Her blonde hair looked professionally streaked, but Maggie suspected Tiffany had perfected that technique herself. While most students wore jeans and sweatshirts or sweaters, Tiffany’s slacks or skirts, although usually polyester, matched her stylish tops. Today she was dressed in shades of beige, from her eye shadow to her stockings. Her gold mesh belt and the gold knot earrings were the only exceptions. When Tiffany’s parents had named her, they had unknowingly anticipated her style. Tiffany Douglass was far from rich, but Tiffany Douglass was definitely as polished as she could be considering her budget and circumstances. Her long, pull-on chiffon skirt looked a little light for a November day. That skirt would be great for an antique show. If only Tiff spent as much time coordinating Tyler’s outfits. Unfortunately, at two, Tyler usually wore something either too big for him, or too small. And his hair sometimes looked as though it hadn’t had recent contact with shampoo.