Passport to Murder

by Mary Angela

  “Cheers to that,” Arnold said. He held the door for the rest of us. “Do they have a bar?”

  “If I remember correctly, one side is reserved dining; the other side is informal dining with a small lounge,” I said.

  Because it was early Sunday evening, there were lots of open booths and tables at the restaurant. In each one of them, a dim candle glowed at the center. Although there were several round tables available at the bar, we all remained standing around the counter after we ordered our drinks. We assumed we didn’t have much time before the students arrived, and we were right. I had taken only a few sips of my French 75 when Amanda and Nick entered the restaurant, looking like a couple. There was something about them that said together. Maybe it was the way their hands always brushed or the way he held open the door for her. Under different circumstances, I would have said they were cute, the all-American girl and her cowboy.

  Kat, who was a step behind them, waved to me, and I waved back. Olivia, Meg, Jace, and Aaron followed behind.

  “Can we take these with us?” Lenny asked, holding up his beer.

  “Yes,” I said. “Come on.”

  “Prather, party of… thirteen,” I said.

  “Right this way, mademoiselle,” said the host. “We have a table prepared for you and your guests.”

  “Very nice choice, Em. I like it very much,” said André.

  “Are you sure I won’t have to take out a loan to buy supper?” whispered Lenny.

  “Completely,” I answered. “The velvet curtains are truly deceiving.”

  The host took us to a large table in the corner. A tiny triangle of street showed beyond the curtained window, and I wondered what a passerby would think as he walked by our happy little window. Would he think we were part of a family reunion or a church mission trip? He would never assume that our group was a gathering of possible murder suspects.

  I sat between Lenny and Bennett. Amanda sat on Bennett’s other side, along with Kat. André busied himself with the rest of the seating, making sure students and faculty were intermixed at the table. I realized too late that I should also have been making sure everyone was at ease since I was assistant faculty coordinator. But I had become ensnared in a conversation with Lenny and had temporarily forgotten about everyone else. This was a bad habit of ours. Christmas parties, potlucks, faculty meetings—we had a way of tuning out crowds when we landed on a topic we both enjoyed.

  The waiter began passing out the single-sheet menus, while informing us of the day’s special: sole meunière.

  “Très bien,” exclaimed André. “One finds sole meunière in Paris every day, students. Here is your chance to taste authentic French cuisine.”

  The students didn’t look convinced and neither did Lenny.

  “Escargot? You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispered, reading the menu. “I was joking.”

  I brushed aside his comment. “You can order the special. Sole meunière is nothing more than fish fried in butter, served with lemon and parsley. What’s so shocking about that? You eat fish, don’t you?”

  “Fish,” he said, “as in trout. Halibut. Shrimp.”

  I pointed to the steak au poivre. “You like meat. This is a steak with a cognac and heavy cream sauce. You’d love it.”

  “I like cognac…” he considered.

  “And steak,” I said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Remember, I’ve been here before. The food is good.”

  I turned toward the group. Everyone was intrigued with the menu. The students were studying it and asking questions, and André was thrilled to answer. I’d never seen him more animated. I could tell he wanted everyone to enjoy the meal as much as he would. His enthusiasm was contagious, and even Lenny was excited when it came time to place his order. For the first time, we were acting like a group with similar interests. The trip, I realized, would have been a success, had we made it to Paris.

  Bennett must have been thinking the same thing. Surveying the table with a wistful smile, he told me, “She would have loved this, you know. She wouldn’t have wanted to be waylaid, mind you, but she would have loved the academic company. She thrived on it.”

  I nodded. “Nick said she was going to present a paper at the Sorbonne. Was she excited about it?”

  “Very much,” he said. “She had discovered some new emission findings linked with organic farming and couldn’t wait to expose the dangerous amounts.”

  “Were they really dangerous?” I asked, taking a piece of bread from the basket.

  “She thought they were, but she thought everything was dangerous. In terms of the environment,” he added.

  Not for the first time that spring, the character of Mrs. Dalloway came to mind: She always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. “Wasn’t she afraid that someone would be angry with her for disagreeing with a land practice that seems to support the environment on so many levels?”

  Bennett raised his eyebrows. “Molly wasn’t afraid of anything, certainly not of the environmentalists. They worshipped her fanaticism. I tried to tell Molly that every action causes a reaction.” He unfolded his napkin on his lap. “She said the thing to do then was not to act.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you apply that to the real world.”

  “ ‘Be the change you seek in the world,’ ” said Amanda in an innocent voice. “That’s what Professor Jaspers always taught us.”

  “Who still quotes Gandhi after ten years of teaching? I dropped it year two,” whispered Lenny, biting into a bun.

  “That sounds like Molly,” said Bennett, smiling at Amanda.

  Judith agreed. “You had to admire her ability to inspire students.”

  Amanda nodded. “She knew big changes were ahead for the Midwest, and she said we had to resist them. Changes like the Midwest Connect Pipeline.”

  “Midwest Connect,” Olivia groaned. “That’s all she talked about in class last spring.”

  “She probably had a good reason. What was the class?” Nick asked defensively.

  “I don’t believe we offer a class on pipelines.” Sarcasm tinged Judith’s words. “At least I hope we don’t.”

  “Western Civ,” Olivia said. “No connection whatsoever.”

  “Professor Jaspers saw a similarity between the Roman Empire and the pipelines,” Amanda explained to Bennett. “It was a terrific metaphor.”

  Kat nodded in support of her friend. “She was always pulling in contemporary references. It’s what made the class interesting.”

  “Exactly. But you had to get the references,” said Amanda. Her voice was haughty. She turned to Olivia. “You’re just mad because you didn’t pass.”

  Olivia crossed her arms, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “True, but neither did half the class. It was more work than anyone could handle. That guy you were crushing on? He shot himself a month later.”

  Amanda looked at Nick. “I was not crushing on anyone. And what do you mean he shot himself?”

  “I mean he shot himself in the head. He committed suicide.”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” she said. Her voice began to tremble.

  “Yes you do. Skylar. Skylar Erickson.”

  I looked at Lenny. He recognized the name.

  Kat touched Amanda’s shoulder, but she didn’t notice.

  “He killed himself?” Amanda said, her voice barely a whisper. She put down her butter knife. “I thought he dropped out.”

  Olivia’s eyes narrowed. She was happy to be causing Amanda distress. “Well, now you know. He didn’t.”

  Kat glared at Olivia, her eyes steely gray. “I don’t think this is the kind of thing we should be talking about right now.”

  André responded at once. “I think Kat is right. We have had enough sadness in our lives. You see the wine I’ve ordered,” he said, holding up his glass in the light. “This is a Bordeaux, which comes from Southwestern France. The river Garonne cuts the region into the right bank and
left bank. Together the blending of Merlot and Cabernet wines creates the Bordeaux.” He took a drink. “Now, if the winery is on the left bank, the Bordeaux will have more Cabernet; it will be stronger and bolder. If it is on the right bank, it will have more Merlot and be milder. This wine definitely comes from the right bank.”

  “You know quite a bit about wine, André. You must drink a lot,” said Nick, lightening the mood.

  Arnold chuckled.

  André shook his head. “Yes, I do admit to drinking a fair amount of wine, but my family owns a winery, not in Bordeaux but in Bourgogne. Bourgogne is a small region known for its fine Burgundy wines, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. I’m sure you know it?”

  “Of course,” Bennett said. “It produces the best wine in the world. When I’m overseas, that’s all they drink.”

  André beamed with pleasure. “Yes, you know it. Would you like a taste?”

  “No. No thank you,” said Bennett.

  He knew a lot about wine, but I never saw him drink. I suppose it was the grief of losing Molly that made him refrain.

  “What makes the wine good?” asked Jace. “The grapes?”

  “Well,” said André, leaning in as if he were going to tell us a secret. “It’s not just the grapes but the land. We call it terroir. See, we have the combination of the grape, soil, climate, and esprit. You taste a burgundy, you taste Burgundy itself.” Looking at the group’s confused faces, he added, “It is difficult to explain. When you visit, you feel as if you have stepped back in time.”

  “Textbook organic,” Lenny whispered.

  I nodded. It sounded as if the Burgundy region was known as much for the land as the grapes themselves. In that respect, André wouldn’t want chemicals involved in his wine process anymore than Molly would have wanted the pipeline to cut through her Midwest.

  “What’s the name of the wine?” Lenny asked. “I might check it out.”

  André smiled. “I did not know you were a connoisseur of wines. I thought you drank the bourbon.”

  He raised his wine glass. “Well, I’m trying to class it up for Em here.”

  André laughed. “It is called Trois Frères—Three Brothers.”

  “You’ve got three brothers?” Lenny asked.

  André took a piece of bread from the basket. “No. I have two brothers. I am the third. Ironically, my father also had two brothers. The winery has been in our family for a long time.”

  Lenny took a glug of his wine and grimaced. “I hope it’s better than this stuff.”

  André nodded enthusiastically. “It is very good. My dad and his brothers never compromise on anything.”

  “Are your uncles still in the wine business?” I asked.

  “No, my father bought them out years ago.” He shrugged. “They had girls.”

  “How sexist,” Amanda said.

  “I have to agree,” said Judith.

  André looked at me for help, but I had none to offer. The thinking was antiquated.

  “I suppose it does sound that way, but I assure you it is not. It’s just the way things have always been.”

  “The definition of sexism,” said Lenny with a laugh.

  “I am not helping my case,” André said. “What I mean is that my family has changed nothing for years. If my cousins had wanted the winery, I am certain my father would have considered it. They probably would have been better stewards than my brothers,” he added with a sniff of disgust. “They are idiots when it comes to growing wine.”

  “Does that mean you have no plans to go back to France? Seems to be quite a profitable business to be in,” said Bennett. His hand shook as he took the bread basket from Amanda, and I felt a new wave of sympathy for him. I applauded his commitment to participate in spite of his grief. “The land alone is worth a fortune.”

  “Profits are all my brothers think of,” said André. “No, I could never get along with them. I still can’t. We have different brains for business.”

  Bennett took a sip of water then replied, “Well, unfortunately, profits must come first. They have to if you want to get ahead.”

  “What does that mean, ‘get ahead’?” asked André. “Get richer? There must be a better goal in life than that.”

  “I can’t think of one,” said Jace to Aaron. Aaron laughed.

  Bennett shook his head. “It’s about being successful. You can’t be successful without the profits to back it up. That’s just common sense.”

  André nodded. “I’m sure you have a point, but if you met my brothers, you would see what I mean. They value profits above all else—even the land that has given them everything.”

  Our food arrived, and we ate heartily, despite some of the unfamiliar menu items. It was as if we were starving, not just for food but for companionship. We ate and drank and ordered dessert when it was offered. As my crème brûlée was served, I worried about the bill, but then I remembered we would be going back to the campus tomorrow. This would be the only outing worth mentioning from the entire spring break. So I dove into the pudding, which was still warm, one delicious spoonful at a time, regretting nothing.

  When it was time to leave, André insisted on paying for Lenny’s food since he’d provided us with transportation. Lenny resisted, but André was adamant.

  “It was a few blocks,” Lenny said.

  “Well, it was worth it to ride those few minutes in comfort,” André said. “We need to guard ourselves as much as we can against this Midwest weather.”

  “Are you sure?” Lenny said. “You don’t want to have to justify your receipt to Arts and Sciences. You know how they get. I don’t want to muck up a chance for you and Em here to plan another trip.”

  André waved away Lenny’s concerns. “Allez. We have an extraordinary circumstance, no?”

  “It certainly falls under that category in my mind,” I said.

  Lenny let the subject drop and started to shrug on his coat. Suddenly I remembered the curse of the thirteenth dinner guest: the first one to leave the party would die within the year. I jerked at his arm.

  “Your concern is flattering,” he murmured, “but you know I don’t go in for voodoo.”

  Nick stood and pushed in his chair. “I will walk with the students.”

  He was obviously unaware of the myth or our discussion of it.

  “That’s okay. I’ll take my turn,” said Arnold.

  “No, really. I want to,” said Nick. He pulled on his coat.

  Arnold looked at him quizzically, and Nick added, “I ate way more than I should have. I need to walk it off.” As he zipped up his jacket and left, Amanda was the first student to fall in line behind him.

  “I am only too happy to ride in the car again, my friend,” André said to Lenny, patting his shoulder.

  “I agree,” said Bennett. “Thank you for driving. I don’t think I could make it back to the hotel without a ride. I’m exhausted.”

  He looked exhausted. Engulfed by grief, he walked with a newly hunched posture as if his shoulders were pressed forward by some physical weight. His eyes, hooded by dark, saggy skin, didn’t lift from the ground. I wondered if he was getting any sleep at all.

  “You must be tired,” I said as we walked to the car. The students were hurrying down the street.

  “I am. I’ll be glad when this is over and I can give Molly a proper funeral.”

  “Did the police say when?” I asked.

  “They said I might as well bus home with you tomorrow. That way I will be there when Molly’s parents arrive. Molly’s remains won’t be shipped for a couple more days. I hate to leave her here, but I don’t know what else to do.”

  He coughed to hide a sniffle, and I looked away, giving him some privacy. He had put up a solitary battle for this woman. He had fought for her causes, he had defended her positions, and he had funded her passions. And now that she was gone, so was the better part of him. I continued walking, saying nothing. I could think of nothing to say except that I was sorry for him. But this time, I mea
nt it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lenny pulled up next to the hotel and left the engine running. Bennett was the first to shake his hand as he shut the passenger door then quickly ducked under the awning and disappeared inside the building. Lenny opened the back door for Judith, and the rest of the group began to dislodge themselves from the backseat. I dallied as long as I could to grab a few minutes alone with Lenny.

  “Em, are you coming?” André asked.

  “In a minute,” I said. “You go on up without me.”

  I waited for André to continue walking, and then I turned back to Lenny. “Did you hear what Olivia said about that student? Skylar Erickson?”

  Lenny nodded. “It’s the same last name as the red-haired woman. Do you think there’s a connection?”

  “Of course there’s a connection. There must be.”

  “I never heard about it on campus. Did you?”

  I shook my head. “No, but who knows what happened over the summer? Amanda said she knew a kid by that name from spring semester. She said he was smart enough but that he started hanging out with some of the guys in the back row and quit coming to class.”

  A shot of wind blew open Lenny’s jacket, and he quickly pulled it shut. “Maybe that’s why we didn’t hear. Maybe he left campus.”

  “He must have. But who is Skylar to Jean Erickson? That’s what we need to find out.” I began to rummage through my purse for my phone.

  “Come on. You think you’re really going to find your cell in that suitcase? And if you do, will it even be charged?” He took his phone from his pocket. “Here.”

  He had a point. I had a bad habit of not keeping track of my phone. Although the twenty-first century had adhered most people to their technology, it had done nearly the opposite to me. I was so tired of students bringing their phones into the classroom that I resisted dependence on them entirely. But now I was glad Lenny’s cell lighted up the dark night with its fluorescent glow. It became a beacon of hope for shedding light on Skylar’s fate.

  I typed his name into the Safari app, and after a few seconds, I got several hits. But only one was an obituary from a funeral home’s website in Minnesota.