by Rick Homan
“Also, Sheriff, Devon told me he drove a group of friends into Blanton on Friday night, and they spent some time at Marten’s Tavern. He said Kate arrived after them, and left around ten. He and his friends left at eleven and he drove them back to campus.”
The notebook and pen were out again before I finished speaking. When he finished jotting, he flipped back to an early page and compared it with what he had just written. “Thank you for mentioning that. I’ll be sure to ask him about it.”
“Sheriff, my point is, if Kate left Marten’s around ten and started walking back to campus, she would have been on that road where she was killed while Devon was still at the bar.”
When I finished speaking, he put away his notebook and pen. “I understand what you’re saying. I’ll be in touch.” He stood up and held his hat in his hand.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but do you know what time she died? Do you have the report from the medical examiner? Was she killed before eleven o’clock?”
Adams drew himself up to his full height. “Let me make one thing clear, Doctor. You are cooperating with my investigation, not the other way around. Good afternoon.” He left.
I shut my office door and walked to the window. There was more yellow in the treetops this week and a few hints of gold.
The sheriff seemed awfully defensive. I hoped he would take seriously the possibility that Devon had an alibi for the time of Kate’s death. He could easily check by talking to the friends who were at the tavern with him.
Prompted by the sheriff’s investigation of Devon’s supposed history of abuse, I checked my Budstem account and found that one of my students had accepted my request to be buddies, but the other had not responded. I decided to wait and see if the other one would agree before sending a request to Teresa. If I couldn’t reach her through BudStem by the end of the week, perhaps I could get in touch through her college.
Since Jacob agreed to meet me in the chapel at two thirty, I got there at two on that Thursday to see if I could find the coffins Kate mentioned in her email. As usual, the afternoon light from the east-facing windows was not the best, but I hated the thought of getting up hours before my morning classes to take advantage of morning light.
I looked over the parts of the mural I was familiar with but could find no coffins, which was not surprising in scenes about working in fields and orchards, preparing food, preaching, building, and singing. I used my binoculars to go over all these scenes in detail, knowing that muralists sometimes hide miniature objects among architectural details, decorative motifs, and so on. In particular, I looked at the spine of each hymnal held by a member of the choir in the singing scene, because each was marked to suggest a title printed there, but I found only lines and scribbles.
When I was satisfied there were no coffins hidden in the various scenes, I scanned the single, large tree whose trunk formed a symbolic background for the mural. Its leafy crown filled the triangular space where the wall extended to the roofline, and that was where I found the coffins. Five of them were clustered in a dark spot among the leaves.
To the naked eye they looked like shadows adding texture to the greenery, but when viewed through binoculars their six-sided shape became clear. They appeared open, as if the lids had been left off, and a human figure was visible inside each. Why would the muralist make the coffins so small and put them so far from the floor as to be practically invisible?
Jacob arrived, and I pulled a couple of chairs into the middle of the room so we could sit.
“Thanks for dropping by,” I said.
Jacob smiled and nodded. “It’s a pleasure. I am honored to be asked to assist with your scholarship.”
“You gave me an important insight last week when you identified the preacher and the farmer as likely portraits of Felix Fuchs.”
“I would never have thought about it—wouldn’t even have bothered to look—if you hadn’t asked the question.”
At that point, I figured we had spent enough time patting each other on the back, so I moved on. “I wanted to ask you about the scene with the preacher. Why would the artist have shown Fuchs and his congregation outside the church? In that upper, left vignette, do you see how the exterior of the church appears to be in the background? Why wouldn’t he show them inside the church?”
Jacob studied the scene before saying, “It might represent Fuchs preaching to his followers in Fellbach, their home in Germany. He would have preached outdoors there, because he was protesting the practices of the Lutheran church and wouldn’t have been allowed in the pulpit.”
Knowing that, the scene made sense. “I love the idea that the muralist put them outside the church physically to show they were outside the church theologically,” I said.
“Of course, that’s just a guess.”
I took in the details of the church shown in the background. “What about that steeple? I don’t remember seeing one like that anywhere around here.”
Jacob nodded. “I don’t know of one either. It certainly looks like the kind of steeple that is common on parish churches in Germany. I don’t recall what the one in Fellbach looks like, but it would be easy to check.”
I made a note to search images online for the parish church in Fellbach and its steeple. “If it’s a match, that would support your idea that the artist was representing the commune’s origin in Germany. And, if the preaching is taking place in Germany, I suppose the next scene, where they’re raising a building, must represent the followers building their own church here.”
Jacob considered for a moment, and said, “Yes, we could read this row from left to right: Fuchs preaches to his followers in Germany, they build themselves a new home, here presumably, and celebrate by singing as a choir.”
“If we keep this up, I’ll have to add your name as co-author of my paper on this mural.”
“That’s really not necessary. You deserve credit for asking all the right questions.”
I jotted a few more notes. “Jacob, I want to ask you about something else. Kate Conrad sent me an email on Friday afternoon, the day she died. Her message said she had an idea for writing a paper on the mural because she thought she knew what one of the coffins might mean.”
“Coffins?” Jacob turned to the mural and scanned it. “I don’t see any coffins.”
Chapter 14
The afternoon had turned cloudy. “It took me a while to find them,” I said as I handed Jacob my binoculars. “Look in the crown of the tree, left of center, about halfway down from the ceiling. There is a cluster of five coffins hidden among the leaves.”
After several seconds, he said, “Ah, there they are.” He lowered the binoculars and turned to me. “That’s very strange.”
“It’s actually not all that unusual. For instance, the stained-glass windows in the gothic cathedrals of Europe have many details not visible to the naked eye. Also, muralists and painters often camouflage objects among the details of their pictures either as puzzles or as secret messages.”
Jacob lifted the binoculars once more and looked at the coffins. “This would seem to be a symbolic suggestion that those who have died and been buried are on their way to heaven.”
“That’s a possible interpretation,” I said though I didn’t really think so. “I’ll have to spend some time looking at them to understand what Kate meant when she wrote, ‘one of the coffins.’”
Jacob’s thoughts were far away for a moment. “I’m sorry I can’t help you on this point.”
“That’s all right. You’ve given me plenty of help. If you think of anything, let me know.”
“Thank you again, for sharing your work. I must be going.”
“Thanks for dropping by.”
Grateful though I was for Jacob’s help with interpreting the upper row of vignettes in the mural—preaching, building, and singing—I couldn’t help being disappointed that he had no useful insight regarding the coffins.
I looked again at the cluster of five coffins with a human figure visible i
n each. Clothing identified two of the figures as women and three as men. Other than the clothes, there wasn’t much to distinguish one figure from another. I couldn’t imagine which one Kate had in mind.
Maybe there were other clusters hidden in the crown of the tree, but my eyes were tired from looking through binoculars in dim light. I would have to come back and discover them another day.
On Thursday evening Lionel called and asked if I was free for another road trip on Saturday. I didn’t even pretend I had to check my calendar. “What do you have in mind? Another trip to Columbus?”
“No. This is a bit more out of the way. Let’s get an early start. We can be there for lunch and get back before dark. We’ll see some fall color along the way.”
“Sounds delightful. Does this place have a name?”
“Yellow Springs.”
We agreed to leave campus at eight o’clock, pick up muffins and coffee at Emma’s Deli in Blanton, and hit the road.
First I had to get through Friday with its morning and afternoon classes. To all appearances things were going fine—I lectured, provoked a little discussion, and reminded them about quizzes, tests and assignments—but I had a moment of panic in art history when one of the students asked about the assignment to write a paper on the mural. She said she had been over her notes, and had tried writing about it, but wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say.
There was a perfectly good reason for this. After telling them they would be writing a paper I had forgotten about the assignment and given them no further instructions.
I finessed my moment of panic by telling them I would have a hand-out for them on Monday, which would give them a method for developing their papers. I smiled as I said it, even though at that moment I had no idea what the handout would say. I had the weekend to come up with something.
I left my office around two thirty and headed for my Rabbit Hutch, feeling worn out. It had been a busy week. In addition to keeping up with my classes, I had counseled Devon, but I didn’t know if I had done him any good. I had twice met with Sheriff Adams and shared some information, but I didn’t know if any of it meant anything. I had attended my first convocation and learned that the college that hired me was in the process of becoming a different kind of place. I wasn’t sure what that might mean for my career or me. The only bright spots seemed to be my two visits to the chapel and continued study of the mural. Kate’s email had prompted that. Even now, the good student was inspiring her professor. Somehow I would find out what she had discovered.
Friday evening, I checked my messages on BudStem and was delighted to see that both of my students from Mansfield had agreed to be buddies with me. I sent a request to Teresa Zannetti, hoping she would see we had mutual buddies and agree to be my buddy. If so, I could write to her directly, but first I would have to think of a way to convince her to talk to me about the incident with Devon when they were in high school.
On Saturday morning Lionel picked me up and we stopped at Emma’s Deli in Blanton to pick up breakfast to eat in the car as we drove to Yellow Springs. Emma was cheerful as ever. She didn’t mind having people from the college visit her place, even ones who look a little different.
We drove north, and, when we came to Chillicothe, instead of turning up Route 23 toward Columbus as we had last weekend, we stayed on Route 35 heading west. The rolling hills bordered by woods and creeks gave way to flat lands cut into rectangular fields by lines of trees left as windbreaks. It wasn’t as pretty as the area east of Chillicothe, but as we drove through it freedom from the week’s routine lifted my spirits.
After finishing our coffee and muffins, I asked Lionel if he had any ideas for changing the name of Fuchs College. He smiled and shook his head. “I suppose they could choose something that reflects the school’s location, although naming it after Edwards County wouldn’t mean much. Edwards University?”
“Couldn’t they choose someone else from the history of the place, so the school doesn’t entirely break from its past?”
“I suppose so,” he said. “Hilda Kiefaber, the first headmistress of the Eden Independent School, would be a good choice. But no matter what they call it, focusing on education as career preparation will be a serious break from the past.”
“Do you think that’s a mistake?” I asked.
“I suppose it’s a necessity. You can’t expect people to go into debt paying for a college education unless it’s going to help them earn more money. I just hope we don’t completely lose sight of the idea that without the liberal arts—history, literature, art, science, philosophy—we don’t have educated citizens, and without them we don’t have a democracy.”
I was ready to elect him to whatever he wanted to run for.
The rest of the way we compared notes on students, colleagues, and earthshaking issues such as new offerings at the snack bar in the student center.
I was surprised when our two-lane country road turned into Xenia Avenue, lined on both sides with shops, cafes, galleries, and restaurants. It reminded me of small towns like Healdsburg and Sebastopol in the wine country of Northern California. I hadn’t seen anything like it in Ohio.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Yellow Springs, home of Antioch College.”
Chapter 15
It was like a corny joke. What do college professors do on their day off? Visit a different college. I had to admit though, this place was a revelation. The grand old building at the center of campus, a redbrick masterpiece with twin towers, put to shame anything at Fuchs. The newer buildings kept a low profile, as if content to allow the original building to set the tone. Like everything else in this part of the country, the buildings were dwarfed by lush green lawns and trees showing fall color.
After we toured the campus, Lionel drove us through a neighborhood of detached homes and back to Xenia Avenue. Along the way it was nice to see the Little Art Theater offering classics and foreign films, and a mix of stores for books, clothing, and local art.
He parked near the shops, and after a stroll we opted for lunch at a tavern that looked like it had been there a while. I ordered their seasonal special, squash soup and a salad. Lionel went for the chili burger.
“Cute place,” I said. “Thanks for suggesting it.”
“I couldn’t have you thinking every small town in southern Ohio was like Blanton.”
“Antioch College looks like it’s doing well. Do they have a business school?”
“No, they’re doubling down on liberal arts,” he said.
“Really? How can they do that when we can’t?”
“Probably because of their first president, Horace Mann. He believed education should be universal, free, and devoted to preparing people for citizenship. He was also an abolitionist. Yellow Springs became an important destination for the Underground Railroad.”
“That’s a wonderful history, but how does it help them keep their doors open?”
“Actually they have struggled in recent years, but for a century and a half they have been a magnet for people whose values are like Mann’s. Therefore, they can draw on alumni to support the school in upholding those values.”
“I see. Maybe Fuchs College should be calling on its alumni to uphold the values of its founder instead of adding a school of business,” I said.
Lionel tilted his head to one side as he thought about that. “Maybe. There are people alive today who grew up hearing their grandparents talk about what life was like in the commune.”
I thought of Jacob’s history of the Eden commune, Tree of Lif,e which I had borrowed from the college library. “So what values would those be? I know Fuchs thought the clergy in Germany were acting like aristocrats, but that doesn’t seem to have been an issue once he and his followers were settled here.”
Lionel nodded. “Fuchs is a little hard to pin down. He wasn’t a prophet like George Rapp, who also brought people from Germany to settle here, and he wasn’t an intellectual like John Noyes who founded several communes bef
ore starting Oneida.”
“According to Jacob’s book, Tree of Life, Fuchs borrowed ideas from Noyes.”
Lionel smiled. “I enjoyed Tree of Life. Jacob has a great feel for the material. Yes, Fuchs was influenced by Noyes. Also by the Shakers. They were more successful than anyone at creating communes. And then there were the phalanxes.”
“The what?”
“Some communes were driven by religious reform, others by social and economic reform. The phalanxes were based on the philosophical writings of Charles Fourier.” The name was French, so he said it with a French accent.
“Have you done research on him?” I asked.
“No, I’m just aware of his place in French letters. After the French Revolution overthrew the idea of a society based on aristocratic landowners and peasant workers, Fourier proposed replacing it with a society organized in phalanxes, which were four-story apartment complexes large enough to house a self-sustaining community.”
“And Felix Fuchs knew about this?”
“Everybody did back then. In the mid-1800s, phalanxes were established from New Jersey all the way to Indiana. There were several across southern Ohio. Fuchs visited them and learned from them.”
“I see why you say he’s hard to pin down.”
“I hear Jacob is at work on a biography of Fuchs. Who knows? Maybe he can convince us that Fuchs was a visionary like Horace Mann. Maybe that could help us keep some emphasis on the liberal arts in our new university.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that.”
When we finished our lunches, we took a walk and visited at an espresso bar before hitting the road. On the way back, we stopped at a roadside stand to buy squash and a jug of cider.
Somewhere after that, I must have dozed off because the sound of the tires on the truss bridge across the river into Blanton woke me. “Oh, my goodness! I am so sorry. I’m usually better company than this.”
“No need to apologize,” said Lionel. I could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s been a stressful week. It’s good to see you relax.”