Murder My Past

by Delia C. Pitts

  Rifling through the book’s pages with one thumb flicking the edges, a sense of recognition nagged. I reversed the idle ramble and slowed to turn the leaves with care. Letters and words jumped at me. I knew them, but not in this form or order. Another riff with my eyes sharp, then again without focus, letting the pages ripple in a blur.

  On the next pass I had the answer. This typeface and paper were the same as the chopped words pasted in the letters to Galaxy. Someone had torn apart a copy of this book to compose those threatening messages. Nakamura was the centerpiece in this academic drama. Would Galaxy admit to knowing more than she’d allowed so far?

  After she finished the phone call, she circled her desk to return to the table. I didn’t let her relax in her chair opposite me.

  “You know who sent these messages, don’t you?”

  I speared one sheet with an index finger. She gasped. The challenge lowered my voice. “If you don’t come clean, Galaxy, I can’t help you. I’m wasting my time and yours if you won’t talk.”

  I stiff-armed the table. “Spill the truth about James Nakamura. Or I quit.”

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  Galaxy Pindar stonewalled. “What makes you think James is involved?”

  Her eyes darted around the office, looking for refuge in her books, her statues, her bright textiles and photos. I didn’t have a semester, or even a minute to waste on this coy academic nonsense. Shock tactics cut through BS, so I violated the book. I spread-eagled Nakamura’s text, splitting its spine to flatten it on the table. Galaxy’s eyes popped and she thrust a hand to stop the assault.

  Pointing at a sentence, I explained my thinking. “Look at the word ‘danger’ in this paragraph. Its typeface is the same as the word ‘danger’ in the second message you received. And here. Another place where the letters from the words in this section have been chopped apart. They were pasted back together in a new order for the middle of your first message.” Galaxy squinted at the pages through her red-framed glasses. When she blinked, I continued. “The ‘T’ and ‘H’ in the book title at the top of each page were used to spell ‘BITCH’ in your messages.” I slapped the volume shut. “Nakamura is the key. So give it up.”

  Galaxy exhaled, the gust ruffling the pages of Nakamura’s damaged book. She spilled the story. “Yes, James and I used to be together.”

  “What do you mean, ‘together?’ Precious won’t cut it now.”

  She frowned then squeezed the indentations on the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, Okay. Back in college we dated. I was editor of the campus newspaper at Oberlin, he was president of the student senate.”

  “True love on the barricades, hunh?” I wiped the sneer from my lips, but it invaded my tone.

  “I don’t know if it was true love back then, but it felt real enough. We were pretty intense for a while. But then it faded. We broke up after graduation and went our separate ways.”

  “And you didn’t stay in touch, for what? Three decades?” I frowned at this posh foolishness.

  “Not really. We saw each other at conferences. Wrote a postcard or two. Then a few emails. But other than that, no, we didn’t keep in touch. He got married. I didn’t. I did field research in Nigeria. He worked in archives in the U.S. I published, he published. I got tenure on the East Coast. He got tenure on the West Coast.”

  I sighed. “And thirty years later you both land at Alexander. You as Dean of Arts and Humanities, he as chair of American Studies. File it under S for Small World.” Academic romance was the same self-centered tripe the rest of us experienced. But with three syllable words.

  Galaxy looked at her lap during my flip summation. Her lowered eyes and pink cheeks said she felt guilty. I threw a guess: “Maybe it wasn’t a fluke. James ending up at this university. How did it happen?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly encourage him to apply for the position. But I knew he was a top contender. So, when he came to campus for the interviews, I made sure the members of the search committee knew he was the strongest candidate. They put his name on their unranked list of three finalists and I gave my recommendation to the provost and president. James won the job fair and square.”

  Cynical reading was my specialty: “You put your thumb on the scale, that it?”

  Galaxy bristled at my suggestion. How dare I suggest favoritism rather than sheer merit could win the day? Annoyance deepened the wrinkles around her eyes and she puffed up in her chair. “It was an honor to have a distinguished scholar such as James join our faculty. A feather in our cap that took Alexander’s American Studies program to a higher level in national rankings.”

  Sure. And, if that high-ranking feather tickled her personal cap as well, so much the better. Win-win-win. Except somebody lost out in the transaction.

  “You said he got married and you didn’t. Tell me about James’s wife. Maybe she’s the one threatening you.”

  “Which one? He’s been married three times.” Galaxy dealt this shade with the right amount of salty homegirl snap, forcing a smile from me. She flipped her dreads again. Would she jerk her neck soon? “But I doubt it’s them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Candace works at a rainforest research center in Costa Rica. Pilar runs a bed-and-breakfast near Salinas, California.”

  “And who’s the lucky contestant behind door number three?” I shook my head in mock horror at this thicket of academic entanglements.

  Galaxy’s throat shimmied as she suppressed laughter at my weak joke. Simple pleasure colored her face, making me warm inside too. “Well, that would be Reva. She was James’s grad student. They got married eighteen months ago. Still in the honeymoon phase, right?”

  “Some honeymoons go sour quicker than others.”

  The name Reva tickled a memory. A whiff of candied cherries drifted across my mind. Annie’s perfume. Rêves de la Plage, Dreams of the Beach. I reached for Nakamura’s broken book again. I flipped to the first page and read the phrases out loud.

  “What do you make of this? It’s dedicated to quote The One unquote. Then there’s a line from Hamlet: ‘I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space—were it not that I have bad dreams.’ That tells the whole story.”

  “What story?”

  A grin split my face; the solution seemed obvious. The crease between her eyes said the dean remained puzzled.

  I explained: “James is saying the infinite space is Galaxy, right? And he would be your king, if not for the interference of those bad dreams. Which would be Reva.”

  Her honey-gold eyes popped with shock. “You’re saying James dedicated his new book to me?”.

  “More than that. He pledged to get together with you if only he could get rid of his bad dream of a wife, Reva. I bet she didn’t take that well. Once she scoped the dedication, she freaked out. You never read it yourself?”

  “No, I didn’t read the dedication. I read the manuscript in draft. But I didn’t think to look at the book again after it was published. I guess I should have, hunh?”

  “Damn straight. This is real world stuff here, not Ivory Tower make-believe.”

  Two clueless teens sending each other scribbled messages in the back of seventh grade social studies class. No wonder Galaxy and James kept missing each other for thirty years.

  “I knew he liked me back then. Still liked me now, I guess. But I never knew he felt this strongly. Wow…I don’t know what to say…” She trailed off, rubbing the cuticles on her fingers in slow assessment of the new orientation of her world.

  I threw my best shot, hoping to unjam the sludge. “I’m not that good at relationship stuff. Lousy, in fact. I was a complete failure at it, according to my ex-wife. But you should talk straight to James. Tell him how you feel. Find out how he feels. Then decide where you go from there.”

  I wasn’t going to go on a deep soul-quest with Galaxy. What w
ould Annie say about me now? Would she’d think I’d grown up at last? Would she marvel to see I’d conquered the anger that destroyed our marriage? Would she rate me as hard as I still graded myself? Yet another thing I’d never learn now. I tucked this fresh sorrow into a backpack stuffed with regrets. My job was here and now.

  Galaxy tried to clear a path forward. “Should I show James these nasty letters? I mean, the way Reva ripped up his book, the anger in that gesture speaks louder than her actual words. It’s frightening.”

  “No. Not yet. See how it goes when you talk. Leave out the hate mail for now.” I had nothing more. The Case of the Ardent Academics was closed and settled. The rest of the tough emotional slog was on Galaxy and her bashful suitor. Maybe those two crazy kids could work it out. Like in the movies.

  I coughed to bring her back to earth. “You’ve got thirty minutes to get to your faculty reception.”

  “Wow. Time slipped away, didn’t it?” Galaxy blinked the dazzle from her eyes.

  “I can accompany you to the party, if you want.”

  “You mean for protection? Like a bodyguard?”

  “Not a bodyguard.” Dating university-style must be tougher than hippo hide. “But if you want the support, I’m glad to go along.”

  “No, I’ll handle it. But thank you for the thought. It’s gallant.”

  “Gallant? That sounds stuffy and old.” I laughed at the image of me as a knight, striding through the medieval architecture on campus.

  “Not old. But old-fashioned for certain. Anyway, now that I know where the threat comes from, I can keep an eye out.”

  Though the offer was genuine, I was glad she’d turned down my escort service. I wanted to get to Gerry Keith’s office before the day was over. We walked to the door.

  “You’ve been a big help, Rook. Thank you for cutting through the BS.” She pressed a soft hand to my forearm. “Let’s stay in touch. We’re not so bad when you get beyond our stodgy campus ways.”

  Galaxy reached to turn the brass nob. A noise rattled in the outer office. She shrank from the door just as it blew open. A figure hurtled into the room. Howls blasted the dusty space. The attack’s speed confused me. Black, purple, and yellow shreds of fabric and hair swirled. Galaxy fell to the carpet. Three blinks cleared my eyes. The storm resolved into a long-haired woman flailing at the dean with whirligig arms. The sight would have been comic if the shrieks hadn’t been so eerie.

  And if the knife flashing in the attacker’s hand hadn’t been so sharp.

  I pulled the invader from Galaxy. She scooted toward her desk, beyond range of the attacker’s blade. The woman and I swayed in a slow dance. I clamped both arms around her slender body. Her head lay against my chest, the blonde strands fanned over my black shirt like a cobweb. The pause was brief. She writhed in my grasp. Pounded her forehead against my sternum. Her thin shoulders shimmied until she freed one arm. She dragged her hand over my left cheek, a lover’s touch. Then she clawed trenches in my skin. Pain darted from ear to chin. She bared her teeth, then spat in my face. Eyes popped, she raised the knife waist-high. The blade sliced my shirt. Next stop, my gut. I straightened my elbows to push her away from my body. But she leaned into my chest, her breath hot on my shirt.

  “Reva! Stop it!” Galaxy crossed the room, shouting. “Stop!”

  I turned my head. For an academic, she moved with lightning grace. The force of Galaxy’s blow jolted the attacker’s head against my chest. The blonde woman slumped in my arms, moaning. I lowered her limp body to the floor and looked up. Galaxy loomed above us, the wooden statue of the African mother clutched in both hands like a baseball bat.

  Reva touched her damaged head. She stared at the blood dripping from her fingers. Smeared with red, an ugly switchblade fell from her fist and thumped on the carpet. I kicked the knife under the table.

  “Galaxy, call the police. Now.” I lowered my voice to command her attention.

  Galaxy squeezed her lids, the eyeballs trembling. “No, I can’t. I don’t want…” She dropped the statue on her desk. It landed with a dull thud on the blotter. As if noticing the carved figure for the first time, she murmured, “Yoruba. Early twentieth century.”

  I needed the cool-headed dean not the dreamy scholar. “Galaxy, listen! Make the call. This is a police matter now. Call them. Or I will. When she comes around, she could attack you again.”

  I propped Reva against the base of the desk. Her blue eyes were unfocused. A milky film blurred the pupils. I crouched, pulling her shoulders toward me. I examined the wound on the crown of her head. Matted yellow hair hid the gash under a dirty clump. No fresh blood seeped through the straw; clotting had already begun. Strings of dull red drooped from her hair onto her back. She was concussed. Alexander’s slugger dean had delivered a major league ding.

  When I asked her name, Reva didn’t answer. I tapped her cheek and asked again. Nothing. Was her silence guilt, muddle, rudeness, or all three? Or maybe Galaxy had knocked her clean into next week.

  Galaxy called campus police. There were injuries, she said, but the threat was over. No one was seriously hurt. Squawking and screeching on the other end. A call from the dean incited frantic action from the local force. Alexander deans reporting physical violence on campus were rare occurrences. Good to know in case I ever visited campus again.

  When I stood, Galaxy lunged at me with a wad of Kleenex, dabbing cuts on my cheek. “Reva got you pretty good. Put some iodine on the scratches when you get home. You’re going to have quite a story to tell. Along with those war wounds.” She took three swipes before the bleeding stopped. Two taps at my shirt smeared the blood into damp stains.

  Another pass at my cheek. Her rubbing irritated the ripped skin and I winced. My face was scratched and so was my ego. But Galaxy’s smiles were reward enough and took away the sting. And the embarrassment.

  “This is James Nakamura’s wife?” I looked at the slumped woman. “Fists of fury.”

  Reva’s thin white hands jerked on the floor beside her hips. Her eyes pinwheeled from blue sky to muddy pond.

  “Yeah. Never in a million years did I imagine little Reva had it in her. That was some old-school street skills right there.” The glasses jiggled on Galaxy’s chest as she chuckled. Grudging admiration tinged her speech along with a hint of nostalgia. “I haven’t seen fighting like that since Hyde Park High back in the day. Skinny bitch knows how to cut.”

  Campus police burst into Galaxy’s office within four minutes of her call. After ten minutes of assessing the scene and taking statements, two uniformed women officers escorted the wobbly Reva Nakamura to the squad car for a ride to the campus clinic. Two male cops stood at the round conference table to take Dean Pindar’s detailed account.

  Their interest in me faded once they determined I wasn’t a member of the university community. They didn’t need me. I didn’t want to hang around. With a nod at Galaxy, I slipped through the muttering crowd gathered in the outer office of the dean’s suite. I found the men’s washroom at the end of the hall.

  My hands shook and my knees vibrated as I pushed through the door. Air in the empty room chilled the damp gobs on my shirt and breezed through the rips in the cloth. Goosebumps prickled on my stomach. I leaned over the sinks, peering in the mirror. Stippling and hairline cracks in the glass blurred my view. I touched a finger to my cheek; it came away stained red. If anybody tells you academic life is for sissies, don’t believe them. The blood smears reminded me of my other campus mission. I scrubbed my soiled hands, then headed for Gerry Keith’s office in the Department of Anthropology.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  Escaping academic bedlam in the dean’s office, I stumbled into the mellow sun of the quadrangles. I wanted to find the anthropology department fast. I was on the hunt and hotshot professor Gerry Keith was my target. Nathalie Kwan’s directions were easy: I passed under the shadow of the giant
arch, trooped due north, and found the Barstall Building after a fifteen-minute march. I didn’t even have to ask directions from the campus cop who trailed ten paces behind me.

  Nathalie had understated the ugliness of the pile. The glass cube was wrapped on four sides in red, blue, and yellow ducts and water pipes. Purple drainage spouts dangled from the roof at each corner. Matching purple metal railings bracketed the concrete steps to the front doors. The place was so ugly, I almost didn’t go in.

  I figured it was near quitting time, but the anthropology department office was still guarded by an admin assistant, a hulking black woman in a long green dress belted in a silky cord. She was Johnetta Ames, according to the nameplate on her desk. Chunky knots of hair tied with purple beads bristled from her head. She stared at my battle-scarred face and torn shirt when I asked for the department chair. She slotted her eyes left, then right like a nightclub bouncer. But when she spoke, lullabies wafted from her deep voice: “Dr. Keith stepped away for just a moment. Would you care to wait?” I guess some women go for the damaged rogue look.

  There were no chairs in the space, only metal file cabinets and a wooden bench under the lone window. Floor to ceiling glass-enclosed cases framed the window. One display tower was filled with pottery and brightly feathered headdresses. The other featured weapons – daggers, guns, sabers, slingshots, clubs, and swords. Blocks of orange light from the setting sun pressed the carpet around Johnetta’s desk. The bare bench looked stiff; sitting wasn’t an attractive option. No need to seem aggressive so I didn’t touch the desk, but I did lean into her space from my shaft of sunlight.

  “Lots of sharp objects you’ve got there.” I jerked my head toward the arms collection. “You hosting a war?”

  She jiggled her cheeks at my thin joke and topped it. “Knives from Borneo and swords from Burkina Faso. Pistols from New Orleans, Anchorage, Monterrey, and Tokyo. Even a blow pipe for poison darts. From the Amazon, I think. Before department meetings, the chair tells me to seize all weapons.” She reared her head and laughed at the ceiling. “He says it keeps tenure fights from getting wild.”