Dark Mural

by Rick Homan

  We came off the bridge and drove a few blocks over to Main Street. “Lionel, do you feel comfortable in Blanton?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “When I come here to pick up groceries at Steadman’s, or get something to eat at Emma’s like we did this morning, I don’t see any Asians other than the family that runs the restaurant. I also haven’t seen many black people.”

  “There’s a church across the river, and a few families live there, but you’re right, not many.”

  “So, I wonder sometimes if minorities are welcome around here.”

  “We’re with the college and the college is welcome here. They’re happy to have us spend our money in their stores. So long as we keep to ourselves on campus and don’t try to take over their town, they don’t mind us.”

  “Abbie said there are unwritten rules like the one about who goes into which bar.”

  “That’s true. There are lines you don’t cross. I’m not planning to make Blanton my home, so I don’t worry about it.”

  We fell silent as we turned up Route 212 and passed the spot where Kate had died. The crime-scene tape was gone from the side of the road. I felt a weight on my chest.

  Lionel parked by the duplex where he lived on Ohio Avenue and we got out of the car. “Thanks for showing me Yellow Springs,” I said. “This was a lovely day. I needed this.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Lionel. “Would you like to come in? I have some of that Roquefort left and a bottle of Medoc.”

  “You’ve already spent your whole day entertaining me. I don’t want to take up your evening too.”

  “All right. I’ll walk you back to your place.”

  “No need,” I said. “It’s just around the corner. I can practically see it from here. Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.” With that I was off down the road with a half-gallon of cider in one hand and a squash in the other. Though I wouldn’t have minded a bite of Roquefort and a sip of Medoc, I was eager to get back to my place and check my Budstem account.

  When I did, I found that Teresa Zannetti had agreed to be buddies with me. I went to her root page and found more information about her interests and activities on campus, plus an email address and a phone number. As a result, I knew a bit more about her, but I didn’t see anything to suggest why the sheriff was reluctant to question her about the incident with Devon when they were in high school. I hated the idea that the sheriff would simply accept that Devon “had a history” without verifying it with the only person in a position to know.

  I thought about calling her, introducing myself, and asking about that night when she was in high school and a man showed up to protect her from Devon, but that seemed like a bad idea. She would probably hang up. I know I would if I got a call like that. I thought about sending her an email, but decided that would be too easy for her to ignore.

  I had a hunch that the best way to handle a sensitive matter like this was face to face, but off-hand I couldn’t think of a way to persuade her to meet with me. I put the problem on the back burner of my subconscious, and looked up a recipe for making something with that squash.

  For my Sunday-morning run, I tried something new. Instead of following Montgomery Avenue to Ohio Avenue, and Ohio to College Avenue, I went the other way on Montgomery and found it continued past the Rabbit Hutches, curved, and stopped at a grove of birches. There was a well-worn footpath through the trees, so I followed it. Before long I came out onto a gravel drive and saw the playing fields and gymnasium ahead. I continued running on this drive, knowing it would connect to the far end of College Avenue.

  I was past the athletic fields when I saw a man walking toward me, about a quarter mile away. He wasn’t jogging or carrying a duffel bag, so apparently he wasn’t on his way to the gym. He was just strolling along in street clothes with his hands in his pockets and his head down.

  When I had cut the distance between us in half, he must have heard my footsteps on the gravel, because he looked up at me and stopped. In the morning light, I saw only a silhouette. I got concerned when he took his hands out of his pockets, picked up his pace as he crossed to the middle of the road, and headed straight for me.

  I had gotten out of the habit of wearing my rape whistle on a lanyard when I ran, having been lulled into a sense of security by the rural setting and the seeming safety of being on a campus. Now I didn’t feel so safe, and I didn’t see any place to get help if I needed it. I was on a half mile of road with the gym behind me and nothing ahead until I got to the far end of College Avenue.

  I kept up my pace, and in less than a minute I could see this man more clearly. It was Devon, and he did not look happy.

  Chapter 16

  As I got to within several strides, I called out, “Hi Devon,” looked straight ahead, and focused all my attention on running. I hoped this would make it clear I didn’t intend to stop and talk.

  He walked right into my path and yelled, “You told him.”

  If I ran around him he might chase me. Since I’d already been running for a while, I wasn’t sure I could stay ahead of him. Instead I broke my stride and settled into a jog-in-place, still hoping to make clear that I wouldn’t stop to talk. “Not a good time,” I said between breaths. “Give me a call.”

  He acted like he didn’t hear me. “Men from the sheriff’s department came here and questioned me. You told them what I told you about my girlfriend in high school. I can’t believe you would do that.”

  “No,” I broke my rhythm and walked backward a few steps, resting my hands on my hips so I could breathe as deeply as possible. “The sheriff asked me about it. He already knew.”

  “How else could he find out if you didn’t tell him?”

  “From the police in your hometown.”

  Devon looked away for a moment. “I didn’t think I had a police record.”

  “I imagine he called them and asked if you’d ever been in any trouble.”

  “Did you tell him what I told you?”

  I didn’t like the way Devon kept walking to within arm’s length of me. I did my best to speak calmly. “He said he wanted to know what you told me to balance what he heard from the police. He said he would keep an open mind. I think he’s trying to be fair to you.”

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot and darted his eyes around as if he didn’t know what to believe.

  “Devon, you should be thanking me,” I said, still catching my breath. “I told the sheriff you probably have an alibi. If Kate started walking back to campus at ten, she would have gotten to the road where she died before you and your friends left Marten’s at eleven.”

  He looked hard at me, not grasping the implications of what I said.

  I explained, “Your friends can tell the sheriff they were with you at the bar.”

  “Then why didn’t he believe you?” Devon yelled. “He called my parents. I caught hell from my dad.” Devon chopped at the air with his hands as he spoke, still unable to contain his frustration. “I had to talk him into letting me stay on campus.”

  I heard a crunching sound behind me. Devon glanced past me and looked scared. I risked a look over my shoulder and saw the campus security patrol car rolling slowly toward us on the gravel drive. We both moved to the side of the road. The officer drove alongside us and lowered the passenger window. He was a heavy-set man with black hair. “Everything all right here?”

  After staring at me for a moment, Devon hurried toward College Avenue, taking long strides.

  “Are you alright, Dr. Noonan?” asked the officer.

  I had never even seen this officer, yet he knew my name. Of course he did. I was the only Asian woman on campus. Of the several new faculty, I was probably the one everybody knew by name.

  I was hugging myself, and starting to shiver. “Actually, I’m a little chilly. Any chance of a ride over to Montgomery Avenue?”

  He nodded and unlocked the passenger-side door.

  As I stood in a steaming shower, I felt sorry for Devon desp
ite our argument. Without support from his family, his father in particular, I couldn’t imagine how he would get through this ordeal. At the same time, I had to resist trying to be a parent to him. He needed a counselor and a lawyer. Maybe I could make some phone calls tomorrow.

  Having thought it over since last evening, I sat down with my laptop and took another look at Teresa Zannetti’s pages on Budstem. A leaf attached to her current stem told me she was “super-excited” to watch the Bears beat Heidelberg on the coming Saturday. Ohio Northern University’s website listed Heidelberg as a home game, so apparently she was staying on campus. That was good news, but, if I went there to meet her, I couldn’t just show up with her picture on my phone and walk around campus looking for her. I would need some way to make her agree to meet with me.

  Reading further down her stem, I saw a number of leaves about the show she hosted on the campus radio station. She had recently featured three students who wrote songs and performed on campus, and she had reported on regional festivals for new music.

  I switched over to my personal email account and drafted a message, making up my story as I went along. I said I was a producer for NPR and that my team was putting together a feature on singer-songwriters who were breaking out with new recordings and appearances at larger festivals. I went on to say that one of these performers had mentioned how important college radio stations are for building an audience, and that I wanted one or two hosts of college programs to appear in the story. I asked if she would be available for a preliminary interview on Saturday morning since I would be near her campus on my way to some schools in Indiana.

  I knew lying about this would be a semi-ethical thing to do and had to stop and ask myself if I really wanted to do it. After all, it wasn’t my job to investigate Devon’s background. On the other hand, I knew how Devon must have felt when someone who knew nothing about him labeled him as evil. Seeing “JAP OUT” on the hood of my car had taught me that. I wasn’t going to let Adams or anyone else label Devon an abuser unless they could prove it. So far as I could see, the only way to find out the facts involved approaching Teresa Zannetti under false pretenses.

  I soothed my conscience by remembering I would be deceiving her for only about thirty-six hours, that the disappointment would not be huge in the great scheme of things, and that I was teaching her to be more careful about putting personal information online. With all that in mind, I clicked send.

  My phone rang. It was Abbie. I saw she had left a voicemail a few minutes ago, when I was in the shower.

  “You got picked up by the cops, eh?”

  I laughed out loud.

  She did not share my amusement. “Seriously, are you okay?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “When someone is driven home by the campus police, I assume it’s because they needed assistance.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, I’m good. I was out running, and I ran into a student. Actually, that part was a little scary. Wait a minute, how did you know the campus police brought me back? I thought you were in Pittsburgh.”

  “I was. I came back early. I was looking out my front window when the cop car dropped you off.”

  It was only ten o’clock. “You must have left early this morning. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. We just needed some space.”

  “Really?”

  “No. We had a fight.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you at home now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes to call home—if I don’t, Mom and Dad will be on the phone to the governor, asking him to send out search and rescue teams for me—then come on over.”

  Chapter 17

  I hung up with Abbie, called home, and listened while Mom and Dad got settled at the kitchen table.

  “I’m sorry we weren’t here Tuesday evening to take your call,” said Mom. “Thank you for the text message. That was very nice of that boy to clean up your car.”

  “Yes, it was, Mom. He restored my faith in the school. Of course, Lionel had already told me he hasn’t had any problems with racism on campus and he’s been here three years.”

  “Why would he have any problems?”

  “I guess I didn’t mention. Lionel is black.”

  “I see. It’s good to know he feels safe there. Have you been seeing him?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. We made a trip to Yellow Springs yesterday.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A little town west of here. They have a historic college.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you’re having fun on the weekends. You don’t want to get burned out.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I’m getting some help on my research from the chairman of the history department. He’s written books on the history of the college and the religious commune that started it, and he’s really interested in what I’m finding out about the mural.”

  “Are you supposed to report to him about it?”

  “No. He’s helping me with the history behind the mural. That saves me some time. It makes my job easier. He’s like a mentor for my research.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  Dad spoke up. “Have you taken a good look at the car? In direct sunlight? You have to bend down and look at it from every angle.”

  “Yep, all good, Dad.”

  “Did my check arrive?”

  “Not yet. Do you want me to send it back or tear it up?”

  “No, you cash that check and set the money aside. That will be your rainy-day fund.”

  Ordinarily I would have refused, or at least argued, but the end of the month was approaching and I was already bumming rides so I wouldn’t have to burn gas when I needed to go into Blanton for supplies. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll do that.”

  “Nicole, honey, the funniest thing happened.”

  Whenever Mom described an event as “the funniest thing,” she meant to suggest it was unexpected when in fact it was the result of her determined effort.

  “What’s that, Mom?”

  “I ran into Mrs. Petretti at Albertson’s.”

  Crossing paths at the supermarket with any given neighbor from our block was practically guaranteed to happen once a month.

  Mom continued. “She said Anna is back home. You remember their daughter, Anna?”

  Anna was a year younger than me and we had attended the same schools, so of course I remembered her. “Yes, Mom. Do you mean she’s back in town or she’s living in their house?”

  “Back in town. She got an apartment with some other girls. It turns out she didn’t like Seattle all that much. She’s working at one of those fancy restaurants downtown, but she still does her music. She gets together with friends, and they play at festivals and different places.”

  “Wow! That’s just like what you want me to do. What a coincidence that you should run into Mrs. Petretti this week!”

  “She was just there at the supermarket. Anyway, do you have Anna’s number? You should give her a call.”

  “Yeah, I have it, Mom. Thanks.”

  “Have the police found out any more about your student?” asked Dad. “The one who was killed?”

  “Nothing definite, Dad. The county sheriff came by to talk to me about one of my other students, and he said it’s now a criminal investigation, so I guess they don’t think it’s an accident.”

  “Do you mean she may have been killed deliberately?”

  I decided Mom and Dad didn’t need to know about Devon and his high school girlfriend. “I don’t know, Dad. The sheriff wasn’t giving out any information.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Mom. “Are you saying she might have been murdered?”

  “Yes, that is possible.”

  “Oh, my god! Nicole! I don’t think you should be living there.”

  “Mom, people get murdered in San Francisco too.”

  “Yes, but this is a big city.”

  “So what? That doesn’t mean I’d be any safer there.”

  “But it’s . . . it’s just
different. I don’t know. You talk to her, Terry.”

  “Nicole, darlin’, just keep us informed. Let us know what this sheriff has to say.”

  “I will, Dad.”

  “Call us or send us a message. We’re always here for you.”

  “I know, Dad. I’ll be fine, Mom. Bye.”

  I knew Mom and Dad were in for an intense conversation about letting me be independent without letting me do anything too dangerous. I’d taken part in that conversation several times in the past. I also knew that in San Francisco I would be no safer than I was in this rural corner of Ohio, but that we would all worry less, because the risks were familiar. It wasn’t going to be a peaceful morning for them or for me.

  I put on the kettle, turned on the oven in my all-in-one kitchen, and changed into jeans and a sweater. The teapot was on the table steeping when Abbie arrived looking tired and stressed. Her shoulders were rounded and her blonde hair looked like she had combed it with her fingers. I got out the dough I had mixed earlier for almond cookies.

  “Was it a bad fight?” I asked.

  She settled at the cafe table. “No. I don’t know.”

  “It’s too bad you have to miss spending the day with her.”

  “I guess.”

  She sat looking out the window while I rolled out the dough and put the cookies on a sheet. One advantage of having a tiny range was that the oven took very little time to heat up. I put the cookies in, set the timer for ten minutes, and sat down across from her. “You look really sad.”

  Abbie shook her head. “I don’t know what to do. It’s our situation. We don’t see each other all week, and when the weekend comes, we each have an agenda. She wants to talk about her work; I want to talk about my work. She wants to stay in; I want to go out. We end up arguing about everything: what movie to see, whether to get take out or cook. It’s crazy.”

  “It’s too bad you can’t live together.”

  She laughed, but it was bitter. “Sure. I could publish a significant book, a job could open up at Pitt or Carnegie Mellon, and I could beat out the three hundred other applicants. It should only take about ten years for those planets to line up.”