by Rick Homan
I held my phone away from my ear because I knew Mom was going to yell, and she did. “Murdered! Oh my God, Nicole! Do they know who did it?”
“No. The sheriff is investigating.”
“Who was she? Why would someone murder her?”
“She was a friend of Edgar’s from years ago when they were both in college in Cleveland. That’s really all anyone knows at this point.”
Dad broke in. “Darlin’, is this the same sheriff who investigated when your student was killed last year?”
“Yes, Dad, Sheriff Mason Adams.”
“Nicole, honey,” said Mom, “how can this be happening?”
“What do you mean, Mom? How can what be happening?”
“These people you know being murdered.”
“What people?”
“Last year your student was murdered, and now this woman who came to your gallery.”
“Mom, this friend of Edgar’s was a professor at the University of Louisville in Kentucky. She drove up here for the opening reception. This had nothing to do with the murder of my student over a year ago.”
“But you knew both of them. I’m just wondering what kind of a place you’re living in where people you know get murdered.”
“The murder of this poor woman happened off-campus, somewhere in Edwards County. It didn’t happen where I live.”
“Nicole, honey, I’ve been around longer than you have, and no one I know has ever been murdered. So maybe you can explain to me how two people you know have been murdered in less than two years.”
“First of all, Mom, I didn’t really know her. I met her briefly at the opening of the exhibit. She was a friend of Edgar, and he is a professional acquaintance of mine. You make it sound like the same thing happening over again, and that’s just not true.”
I could almost hear Mom’s frustration with me. “You talk to her, Terry,” she said.
Classic move: Mom was calling Dad in to keep me off balance while she regrouped and thought of a new strategy.
“Nicole, darlin’,” said Dad, “I think what your mother’s trying to say is that you may not appreciate the risks of living in a rural area.”
This was not what Mom was trying to say. Rather, this was the assumption that drove what Mom was saying. “Dad, I am aware of the risks. I have friends on campus who have lived here longer than I have, and I discuss these things with them.”
Mom jumped back into the conversation. “Nicole, honey, I think it’s to come up with a different plan.”
I was wrong. This was not a new strategy. Rather, Mom was falling back on an old favorite. What she called “a different plan” was so dear to her I suspected she had written it down so she could read over it from time to time. “We’ve talked about this, Mom. You want me to move back home, spend more years in college, and get a job in tech.”
“I’m glad you’re thinking about it. And you could still do your art. There’s the Asian Art Museum, and the DeYoung . . .”
Mom had this unshakable faith that the art institutions of the San Francisco Bay Area were desperate to hire a young Asian-American woman with a PhD in art history, and that my work as an art historian could be done part-time.
“Mom, here’s what I’m thinking. Yes, the art world in San Francisco is a bigger pond, but there are a lot of big fish in it. I could spend the rest of my life there and not have the opportunity I have here with the gallery on campus. I want to take advantage of it. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I don’t want to pass this up.”
Mom pounced. “So, you admit this job is temporary.”
“I’m not admitting anything. I’ve never said I would be here forever. When I went to the College Art Association meeting last month, I talked to someone about a job opening in Michigan. I told you about that. So, I am staying open to other possibilities.”
“Darlin’, I think what your mother’s trying to say is that we just want you to be happy, and we need to know you’re safe.”
Again, this was not what Mom was saying, but I was glad to hear Dad say it. “I know, Dad. And I’m so glad you do. I love you both. And I’ll be careful. I mean, I am careful.”
We talked about how San Francisco was changing with all the new building, why I wasn’t in touch with Lionel any more since he got a job in Chicago, and whether I could make it home for spring break (I wasn’t sure). It was a perfect call home, and it chased away all those blues about whether the girl I used to be was being forgotten back in my hometown. However, it reminded me that a clock was ticking. I had to prove to myself and to my parents that there were rewards to living and working at Fuchs College, and I had to do it before the risks caught up with me.
Chapter 16
Mel didn’t return my call on Thursday, so I thought I’d try to catch him first thing Friday morning. To my surprise, he answered immediately and sounded wide awake.
“Hi, Mel. This is Nicole Noonan. I’m very sorry about Jessica. This must be a terrible time for you, and Rita, and your friends. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, Nicole. Yeah, it was a shock. We had just gotten back in touch with her, and it was so great to see her turn up at Edgar’s show. She’d been in Louisville a few years. I wish we’d gotten in touch sooner.”
“Have you talked to Edgar?”
“Yeah. We’ve been in touch all week. This is really dark for him. Has he come to the campus?”
“No,” I said, “but I saw him in his studio Sunday, and I talked to him on the phone Wednesday evening. I get the impression he’s coping, but it’s not easy.”
“No, there’s no way to make it easy. And there was a sheriff coming around asking questions earlier in the week.”
“Sheriff Adams from Edwards County?”
“I don’t remember his name. He had me and Rita going over everything that happened last Saturday, especially when we all left the gallery to get some dinner. It was creepy the way he seemed to think Edgar might have done it. That’s ridiculous, but I guess they have to ask.”
“Mel, I wanted to ask you about something, if you don’t mind. On Saturday, when you arrived for the opening, Edgar asked me about security for the event. When I asked him why he was concerned, he said he was nervous about his first career retrospective. But when I talked to him Wednesday, he said it was because you thought someone might be planning to attack him in some way. Do I have that right?”
“Not exactly planning, but, as Edgar has become better known, he’s attracted some negative followers. It’s all racist nonsense.”
“I think he said you found something on the internet.”
“Yes, that’s how I became aware of it.”
“Was this on someone’s website?”
“There are websites for racist groups. I can’t remember if Edgar turned up on any of them. I know I saw remarks about him on social media forums, places like that.”
I wasn’t sure how to phrase this next question. “Do you read these websites and forums?”
“No, not specifically. These remarks turned up when I was testing some bots.”
“Testing what?”
“Sorry, ‘bots’ is short for ‘robots’—small computer programs that operate autonomously. I invent my own—write some code, turn them loose on the internet to look for something, and see what they find. Essentially, it’s the same technology as any online search, but on a much smaller scale.”
“I see. And how did this turn up threats against Edgar?”
“I had the bots look for Edgar’s name. Partly, it was just something else to try. Usually I have them look for random stuff—‘apartheid,’ ‘Renaissance,’ ‘Marge Simpson.’ But also I did it because I was interested in how Edgar’s internet presence might reflect his growing reputation.
“Anyway, they turned up all the places he was mentioned on museum and gallery websites and in art publications—pretty much what you’d expect. But then there were these comments on social media forums. One guy had seen Edgar showing his work at an ar
t fair in a park in Toledo. He was spouting all that usual stuff that gets flung at people of mixed race and talking about getting rid of such people.”
The more Mel told me, the more alarmed I felt. “Was there anything said about the exhibit or the opening last Saturday on these forums?”
“Not specifically. But with all the publicity for the opening, and all the buzz in art circles, it seemed like the kind of event some wingnut might target if he wanted to attack Edgar and make a big splash while doing it.”
I shivered. “Mel, I wish I had known about this. At the very least I would have told campus security.”
“Really, Nicole, I think it sounds more serious in retrospect. I didn’t want to scare anyone or spoil the opening. That’s why I told Edgar just to ask what security would be like on campus.”
“But maybe this had something to do with Jessica being murdered.”
Mel didn’t say anything for several seconds. “It’s hard to see how they could be connected.”
“I don’t know either, but if I had told security, and they had told local law enforcement, maybe some extra patrols would have kept these people away.”
“I’d hate to think I could have done something to prevent Jessica’s death but didn’t.”
I took a deep breath and calmed down. “No, Mel, you’re right. I’m being unfair. There’s probably no connection. I think I’m just alarmed that I didn’t know this was going on.”
“I didn’t mean to keep anybody in the dark. I just didn’t think it was something to sound alarms over. You know, more like, take precautions.”
“I understand, Mel. I’m just looking for answers and trying to make things fit—trying too hard, maybe.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad you called.”
“Of course. Thank you for filling me in. And, again, I’m really sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
We hung up.
Suggesting that racist chatter on the internet might have led to the murder of Jessica Fabrizio was over the top. It was hard to imagine why racist thugs targeting Edgar would follow an acquaintance of his from the opening of his exhibit to her motel room and kill her. Still I didn’t think I could forget about it. I would mention it to Sheriff Adams the next time I talked to him.
Chapter 17
After my Friday-morning class, I walked over to the Student Center to have the hot lunch I had promised myself on Tuesday but had not gotten because my department was meeting. When I was a girl, Dad taught me always to keep promises to myself. If I didn’t, he said, I wouldn’t trust myself, and, if I didn’t trust myself, I wouldn’t believe deep down that everything would be all right.
I emerged from the serving line with a bowl of chili, a few packets of saltines, and a cup of fruit. From experience I knew the chili would be palatable given healthy doses of hot sauce, and most importantly it was hot.
At a table by the windows overlooking the quad sat a woman perhaps twenty years older than me who looked familiar though I was sure I had never met her. She wore her blonde hair clipped short and had dressed for the cold weather in a beige pants suit. For some reason I associated her with the Science Building where Matt Dunkle had his office. I seized the opportunity to add one more to my list of on-campus acquaintances and perhaps to pick up some background on Matt as Sheriff Adams had asked me to do.
I walked to her table and introduced myself. She agreed to have me join her and introduced herself as an associate professor of chemistry.
“Then you must know Greta Oswald,” I said.
She smiled. “Yes, Greta is at the other end of the second floor in Science Hall. We see each other coming and going. How do you know her?”
“She’s on the Gallery Advisory Committee.”
“I remember hearing something about an art gallery on campus. That’s new, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Last Saturday we opened our first exhibit, a career retrospective for Edgar Yount. He’s a painter in the photorealist tradition. I hope you’ll drop in and have a look. The gallery is open every afternoon from one to four. It’s on the ground floor of the Arts and Humanities Building.”
“Thanks. I will. Sounds like the art department is expanding.”
She looked away as she said this, avoiding my eyes. I knew she wanted to know how this new program came about but didn’t want to confront me. Professors are always on the lookout for signs that another department is gaining a larger share of the resources that are always scarce on a campus, space, and money.
“This isn’t really part of the art department,” I said. “The initiative came from the president’s office and he controls the budget. I’m just on loan from the art department as director of the gallery.”
“That’s interesting.” She did her best to keep a neutral expression on her face and a neutral tone in her voice, but I knew she was desperate to know more about how I had attracted this patronage. “So, why do you have a biology professor on your committee?” she asked, referring to Greta.
“President Taylor wants the gallery to appeal to the whole campus and the wider community. Over the summer, he set up the committee and asked a few colleagues to give me some perspective.” I decided she didn’t need to know the president’s real reason, which was to protect me from my senior colleagues in the art department. “You might also know another member of the committee, Matt Dunkle.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Matt and I came here at about the same time, although perhaps he was here a year before me.”
“He’s been here six or seven years, hasn’t he?”
“Something like that. He’s tenured, so he’s probably not going anywhere. Same for me.”
“Seems like a nice guy, although he’s awfully quiet.”
She smiled. “I’ve never known a mathematician who was an extrovert.”
“Maybe that’s an advantage living on a rural campus. I’m still getting to know people here, but I find myself wanting more of a social life.”
She nodded. “I have friends in Cincinnati. I go there most weekends.” She finished her meal and stacked her dishes back on a tray.
Sensing an opportunity to pick up a little information, I said, “I wonder where Matt spends his weekends.”
She looked at me and there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she replied.
“I tried working through a few weekends, especially last year when I was getting an article ready to submit, but I started going crazy.”
“I’m sure it’s better to have some company if you’re staying on campus,” she said. When I glanced up, she looked right at me and said, “So, far as I know, your path is clear. I’d say go for it.”
After replaying her remark in my mind, I had a moment of panic. “No. That’s not what I meant. I’m not interested in Matt that way.”
She gave me a skeptical look. “I see. You were just asking for a friend?”
“No. I wasn’t asking at all, not about his relationship status. I just wondered what sort of colleague he is. I’ve only met him a few times at committee meetings, and I don’t have a good sense of what it’s like to work with him.”
She was no longer trying to suppress her smile. “Sure.” She stood, took her parka from the chair next to her, folded it over her arm, and said, “It’s been good to meet you. I’ll be sure to drop by the gallery.” She picked up her tray and left.
As I finished my chili, I was glad I was facing the window so people at the other tables couldn’t see my face, which, I am sure, was red. I had to eat slowly because the thought of taking a romantic interest in Matt Dunkle almost made me queasy. I felt no chemistry with him.
I hurried back to Arts and Humanities, so focused on cleansing my mind of thoughts about cozying up to Matt Dunkle that I forgot there is always ice at the northwest corner of the building. My feet went out from under me, and I went flat on my back. Students were there to help me up, and that made it more embarrassing. It would have been rude to refuse their help and say, “Do
n’t worry! I’m from California. I do this all the time. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” Instead I thanked them and went on my way after they had lifted me off the pavement.
I had only a one-hour class of art appreciation left to teach that day and I planned to demonstrate systems for creating perspective and other visual illusions. This always went over well, and I decided to throw in a little trompe l’oeil since I’d read about it earlier in the week. After class I was free for the weekend, and I planned to take a mini-vacation to Columbus. I needed it after working through last weekend.
I chose a bed-and-breakfast in The Short North, a neighborhood in Columbus full of art galleries and other good things. Arriving there and checking in was wonderfully disorienting. The house dating from the late 1800s gave me a sense of nostalgia for an era I had never experienced.
I was just in time for wine and appetizers in the parlor. Along with the usual fruit, cheese, and crackers, they offered stuffed mushrooms, brie popovers, and little ham and cheese rolls. I decided to call that dinner and went off to the most luxurious bath I’d ever had.
I spent the evening in my room reading a murder mystery I had borrowed from the shelves downstairs and snacking on chocolate truffles taken from the buffet. Every twenty minutes or so, I got up and rearranged the pillows that propped me up on the bed so I could face a different direction and enjoy glancing up at different pictures on the walls. Such luxury was a welcome relief from the grim reality of my Rabbit Hutch.
On Saturday morning, I took a break from the business-casual clothes I wore to teach by dressing in a brown wool skirt, beige silk blouse, and a black cashmere pullover. The breakfast of French toast, sausage and fresh fruit left me feeling there would be no need to eat again until Monday, although I was pretty sure I would change my mind about that by dinner time.
I stopped upstairs to review my itinerary for the day, which included the Wexner Center for the Arts on the Ohio State Campus and the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium. Of course, I would also find time to drop by the Columbus Museum of Art, if not this afternoon, then before I drove back to campus tomorrow.