Braxton College was comprised of two campuses, North and South, separated by a one-mile tree-lined esplanade of cozy storefronts, student housing, and charming historical points of interest. One campus perched atop a semi-steep incline of the Wharton Mountains, the other sat near the base of a lower hill leading directly into the downtown district. Traditional Victorian and Queen Anne homes, painted in vivid colors and adorned with massive stone turrets and white scalloped shingles, reminded visitors of a smaller and quieter version of San Francisco. Without the Pacific Ocean nearby, Crilly Lake and the Finnulia River generously provided our daily water supply, a source of relaxation, and stunning views. Locals referred to the large estates set atop the hill as Millionaire's Mile, and that's where you'd find folks like the Greys, the Paddingtons, and the Stantons.
North Campus was the college's main site, but I worked on South Campus which catered to scholars in the humanities, communications, and music departments. An electric cable car system, currently under maintenance, transported students back and forth between the two academic spaces. For two weeks each summer, usually when the weather reached a scorching one-hundred-degree temperature, a local company would repair the mechanics and reconfigure the inside panels based on whatever the most recent graduating class had gifted the college. This year, as a dedication to the valiant efforts of a few folks—primarily me, who'd played amateur sleuth to locate a couple of murderers—the theme was a Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, 1930s-style mystery car. Construction had begun ten days ago, and the final ribbon-cutting ceremony would occur at the end of this week.
I climbed the steps to the sturdy but chaotic platform and scanned the sweeping uptown view of mesmerizing foliage-covered hills. My latest routine included a visit to the cable car each morning to inspect its progress with the local contractor leading the effort. Quint Crawford was in his late twenties, had shaggy blond hair, and proudly boasted a full beard. Years of working construction sites had tanned his skin a golden color and transformed his lithe body into a solid machine capable of frequent hard labor. When I called out his name, the suave and shrewd craftsman poked his head out the car doors and saluted. While I dressed up for my first day of summer classes, Quint had chosen a white fitted t-shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans slung low on his hips from all the tools weighing down the thinning denim. Although he only stood an inch below me, a slight slouch made him appear shorter.
When I'd first encountered Quint two weeks earlier, the enigmatic electrician puzzled me. Quint fancied himself quite the ladies' man, evident by his wandering eye whenever an attractive girl would meander near the cable car station. Quint was a tad too full of himself, easily enchanting the women around him by posturing a rakish allure and approach to life. But he'd privately mentioned recent heartbreak over lost love and a desire to convince the ex to proffer him a second chance. Unfortunately, Quint hadn't shared specific details on what had gone wrong the first time between him and his beloved. Nonetheless, I'd been impressed by his mercurial attitude and ability to quickly dust himself off and get in the ring again, despite his painfully obvious attempt to conceal several wounds stemming from the end of the relationship.
Once he'd formally introduced himself, I'd realized his mother and I had met a few times earlier in the year. Knowing Bertha Crawford was such a kind and gentle soul, I settled on believing Quint was a sophisticated yet opportunistic version of his mother who didn't like to hear the word no. “Morning, Quint. How're things looking for your mother this weekend?” I asked, passing a steaming cup of coffee and a warm pastry to him.
“I appreciate you dropping by with breakfast again. You're a good man, Kellan.” His eyes darted to the panel he'd been installing and instantly looked apprehensive about my arrival. “Momma's doing better ever since she retired from the Paddington estate. Being on her feet all day as their housekeeper, slaving away at their every outlandish whim, has taken its toll on her over the years.”
“Does that mean the radiation treatments are going well?” She'd discovered a lump in her breast shortly after I'd met her months ago, then learned she had an advanced form of cancer. The Paddington family also confirmed she'd quit to focus on her deteriorating health. That's when Quint had made it a priority to take extra care of his mother, a widow for the last two decades. His father had perished years ago in an explosion at the Betscha mines.
“So far, the doctors aren't positive,” he mumbled, unscrewing an interior panel near the door.
“That's not good to hear.” From what I could see, the winning design was close to being installed. I noticed a few wires creeping out at the bottom and wondered how the repair portion of the work was going. “The new panels look fantastic. Is the electrical upgrade on schedule?”
“Got two cables to replace, but I'll be done tomorrow afternoon. Then we can run some tests to see how the old girl's working. Should be right smooth!” Quint tapped his knuckles on the side of his head as a sign of luck. As he bent downward, he gingerly flinched and moaned before rubbing his back.
“Did you hurt yourself on the job?” I asked, uncertain what company had been awarded the contract for the redesign project. Hopefully, he'd reported any injuries to the school's administration.
“Nothing to grumble about. A man in my line of work deals with rough spots.” He gently kneeled to the floor and turned away to finish removing the lower panel. “How's that daughter of yours?”
I'd brought Emma to campus with me the previous time because she had reduced hours during her last week of school. Since she'd stayed at my parents' place last night, tagging along today wasn't an option. I'd also scheduled summer camp for her to attend while I'd be teaching my classes over the subsequent seven weeks. Orientation was scheduled for tomorrow. “Emma will visit again soon. I'll be sure to bring her by, so you can say hello. She had fun watching you work last time.”
“That'd be cool of you, Kellan. Don't mean to rush you off, but I've got to finish this today. Fern Terry plans to stop by to check out my progress,” Quint advised with an equal mix of hesitancy and substantial irritation, then winked. “Not that she's too knowledgeable about men's work.”
Fern was the dean of student affairs as well as a good friend of mine. I needed to schedule lunch with her to catch up on the wedding plans. Her son was marrying Timothy Paddington's sister, hence the double wedding on Independence Day. I ignored Quint's shallow and ludicrous comments about Fern, keenly aware we'd already discussed his opinions in the past. He regarded women more as beautiful objects or conquests rather than equals, yet he easily disguised such views when he needed to appear polished enough to charm one into offering her affections.
“I understand. Do you own the company that won the project bid?” I paused and waited for a response, but an unusually long time went by without his trademark riposte. “Quint, did you hear me?”
“Sure did. My apologies, I was thinking about the best answer,” he replied, unlatching a tool from the hook on his belt. “I'm working for someone else who promised me a cheap buy-in. I'll earn a stake in the company once this project is complete. Not to be rude, buddy, but I did mention I was busy. Gotta finish tinkering with this beauty until she's sparkling like a diamond again. Chat another time?”
Quint powered up a drill on full throttle. I waved goodbye to his back—he'd already moved on to his next priority without another word—and walked toward my office in Diamond Hall. My curious nature wanted to ask more questions about whom he worked for, but Fern could supply the answer just as easily. It'd also require less impudence than dealing with my edgy new acquaintance, Quint.
Diamond Hall had previously been a grand colonial home, a mansion by modern-day standards, before its transformation into the communications department's offices. The architecturally stunning building stood three stories high and was covered with a limestone façade mined from quarries owned by the Betscha side of my family. On the top floor were a large open working area and departmental library, and on the second resided office
s for academic staff. The ground floor held four classrooms, and for the next seven weeks, I'd occupy the northwest one overlooking Stanton Hall.
As I stepped through the front door, my boss glared at me with a sour expression. It wouldn't be a typical day unless I experienced at least ten minutes of Dr. Myriam Castle's uncalled-for-but-amusing wrath. Even after I'd investigated her wife's stalker the previous month, Myriam still brushed me off with a chilly disposition and delivered ruthless Shakespearean quotes that made little to no sense.
“There's a man here to see you,” she stated curtly, her hands locked on her hips. Adorned in her traditional exquisite couture, her trim frame sported a cream-colored suit and slate-gray blouse assuredly flown in from some European designer's latest collection. It was the spiky, more-gray-than-black, short, no-fuss, no-muss hairstyle that initially captured a person's attention. “He doesn't have a visitor pass, and I don't recognize him. You should tell your ne'er-do-well associates to follow the rules, and if I might remind you, we should be working, not socializing.”
Well, this was a perfect start to a day at the office. “I don't have any scheduled meetings. Perhaps he's a student in my summer course.” I tried to dart past her, but she swiftly grabbed my arm.
“See to it this doesn't happen again. I run a clean and tight ship, and strangers are usually up to no good. I don't like his swarthy looks.” She paused as if she had more to say but thought better of it.
“I'll address it right now.” Swarthy? I didn't know anyone fitting that description.
“Have you considered my recommendation from last week's meeting? 'God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.' I'm thinking only of you.” Myriam frowned as if she'd bit into an acidulous piece of candy, then dug her heels into the floor like a cat in heat.
She'd been harping about instructing students to refer to me as Dr. Ayrwick, not Professor or Kellan, beginning with this summer's courses. I wasn't excessively opposed to it, but my Ph.D. was in film studies. I didn't feel like a bona fide medical professional, and I was still considered a temporary assistant professor. “I'm not the type to be caught up over labels. I understand your opinion that we as doctorates have earned the respect and title, but if it's all the same to you, I'd—”
“It's not my decision, this is college policy. Your father was instrumental in choosing that outcome. Take it up with him if you care to debate it. As an employee in my department, you will follow the guidelines. Are we clear?” She nodded at the puzzled expression on my face and exited the building.
Lacking any and all desire to speak with my father, the result of our discussion was a done deal. He'd been the president up until he retired the previous semester. Lucky for me, the new president was Myriam's wife, Ursula. Fate and Irony were two of my least favorite divas! “Dr. Ayrwick it will be,” I shouted as I mounted the steps, wondering who skulked outside my door.
When I reached the second floor and peered down the hallway, it looked empty. The door to my office was unlocked and ajar, and the light from my desk lamp was on—not the way I'd left it the previous Friday. I cautiously stepped inside to find the swarthy male sitting at my desk, except I wouldn't have considered him swarthy. Knowing Myriam often chose odd ways to describe people, I ignored her comment and focused on why this man sat in my chair. He looked familiar from the side angle, but I couldn't easily place him. “May I help you?”
Once he stood, a six-foot-three solid frame coated with a bronzed skin tone proclaimed his stature as larger-than-life. Piercing golden-brown eyes stared directly at me, and floppy espresso-colored hair cascaded down his forehead in multiple layers, reminding me of genetically engineered male supermodels gracing the cover of fashion magazines. In an instant, I knew it was Cristiano Vargas. He'd finally decided to bestow his unblemished presence upon me.
“I'm confident there's no need for proper introductions, but if you feel that's necessary, I'm happy to oblige.” He exuded confidence and spoke in a smooth, distinguished voice with a cultured accent containing slight hints of his Latino heritage. From everything I'd read about the man, he functioned like a finely tuned, expensive automobile, charmed all the women he'd met, and inspired fear in all the men he'd chucked down. A Harvard pedigree also made him a wizard in the business world, no doubt ensuring his success as numero dos in the Las Vargas syndicate.
“Not necessary. Just a brief explanation of what you need from me, then we can both proceed with our priorities.” Wishing April could be present for the conversation, I discreetly reached for the phone in my pocket, trying to recall where I'd previously placed her on speed dial. After surmising he could've taken me out at any point in the last few weeks, I considered how fearful I should be of Cristiano Vargas.
“There's no need to call the authorities or make any sudden movements. I've no intention to kill you today, but if necessary, I will disarm you.” He lifted a panel of his suit jacket to reveal a Beretta 92.
I wasn't sure of the specific caliber, but it was a lethal one. I'd been researching handguns with the aim of procuring one to protect Emma from anyone involved in this unfortunate and over-the-top situation, yet I hadn't executed the purchase. I abhorred the thought of brandishing a weapon in the house around a child or anywhere near Nana D, who'd undoubtedly want to target shoot with me. I fought the urge to chuckle upon remembering when Rose shot Blanche's favorite vase in the apropos Golden Girls sitcom. Nana D had forced me to stay up late watching it with her every night when I lived in Danby Landing's main farmhouse. “Fair enough. I can put a little trust on the table, Cristiano.”
“Shut the door. Sit tight. Spend a minute with me.” Cristiano effortlessly walked to the guest chair on the other side of my undersized desk and pointed to his original seat. “I'm not the enemy. As a show of good faith, I'll authorize you taking the more powerful position for this conversation, yes?”
Authorize? Why did I get the impression I already hated this man? I stepped cautiously inside, scanned for any makeshift weapons, and assumed the use of my regular chair. “I'm not sure I agree with that statement. You broke into my office and scared the bejesus out of my boss.”
Cristiano laughed, boasting two winning dimples balanced below his perfectly structured cheekbones. “Women are never scared of me. They want to be with me. It can be a curse, but such is my lot in life. We all have, how do you say, an albatross around our necks?” When Cristiano crossed his legs, his sleek, burgundy Ferragamo shoes tapped the corner of my desk. “Based on my research, Myriam Castle does not frighten easily. Please do not start our cozy little meeting with a preposterous lie.”
“You might have researched Myriam, but suffering through her brand of crazy is an utterly inimitable experience.” She was certainly an albatross. I'd give him credit for that snarky comment. I sat with my hands folded on the top of the desk, willing my confidence not to falter in the slightest.
He snickered menacingly again. “Francesca said you were an amusing guy.”
“So, you're the one holding her captive. Is there a reason you're not dealing directly with the Castigliano family? I have no power in this convoluted predicament.” I'd watched enough mob movies and read countless crime novels. I needed to relax and approach the meeting as if we were negotiating a common business deal. I couldn't reveal my desperate fear or complete inexperience in this lifestyle.
“Francesca also said you were very smart and would cut to the chase. I think I'm going to like working with you.” Cristiano matched my position, our foreheads barely six inches apart.
I squished my knee against the side of the narrow desk to stop my leg from quivering. “I'm hopeful we only need this one meeting to discuss resolving the dispute between our two families.”
As I attempted to back away, Cristiano's hand pressed down on my right shoulder. “Don't move until I permit you to do so. I want to be certain you understand what I'm about to tell you. Is this clear?”
Why was no one else in the building at this hour? I'd even acce
pt Myriam as my bodyguard for this brief moment. In his silence, I heard the clock ticking in the hallway and the air conditioner vent blowing from the corner of the room. What had Francesca gotten me into? “Yes, like a cloudless sky.”
Cristiano's other hand landed on my left shoulder, applying enough pressure to be uncomfortably intimate and dangerous. It resembled a powwow or a huddle before a championship game, except in reality, this was a duel where one of us had a broken and bullet-less pistol. “It is excruciatingly important you fear what I am capable of doing. My wrath is boundless. Las Vargas doesn't play games we cannot win… one way or another. Nothing is as it appears. Your wife is a fascinating, resourceful woman who understands the art of a mutually beneficial deal.” Cristiano gripped the back of my head with his hands, then thumped the top of my scalp repeatedly with both index fingers.
Being this close, I had an in-depth look at the immaculate skin adorning his face. Cristiano had no pores—it was as if he'd been blessed with a flawless complexion. Perfection frightened me because it meant someone would fight until death to retain every aspect of it. If he hadn't told me he wouldn't kill me today, I would've expected the next move to be a swift twist of my neck until it hung limply at the side of my lifeless body. “Leave me out of this mess. Just deal with Vincenzo and Cecilia who are used to this craziness. It'll be a lot simpler that way.”
Cristiano released me, walked casually around the desk, and whacked my cheek with the back of his hand—powerfully enough that my eyes saw stars and my mouth tasted blood. When I stood and attempted to punch his perturbed face, he effortlessly grabbed my forearm and twisted it around my back. I couldn't move without intense pain shooting into my shoulder blade. “Do not ever tell me what to do, Kellan. Such consequences have been known to kill stronger men than you.”
Mistaken Identity Crisis: Death On The Cable Car (Braxton Campus Mysteries Book 4) Page 3