Chapter 19

  

Joe left early for work. I heard him start the coffee pot in the kitchen downstairs and then the kitchen door closing behind him. I lay in bed mentally bracing myself for the meeting with the provost. I knew the meeting would be my last chance to convince him that I was the person he should appoint as dean. I also knew I was sitting on a powder keg named George and Larry, and that it could blow up at any time and ruin my chances.

I scolded myself for thinking only of myself. How could I stress out so much over a stupid job when one of my students was in danger, maybe dead?

I got up and brushed my teeth with an energy designed to punish me for my selfishness. I dressed in red, my war color, pulled back my hair and marched to the car, juggling a thermos of Joe’s good coffee.

As happens almost three hundred and fifty days a year in Nevada, the sun was shining. In addition, the birds were singing, and the flowerbeds beside my driveway were blooming. Still, I felt like hell. Scared. Angry. Conflicted.

I swung into the journalism school parking lot too fast and stopped just inches from one of the cherry trees. I poured some coffee into the cup that served as the thermos top. My hands shook, my pantyhose itched, and I wished I’d come barelegged to do battle with Ezra McCready.

  

The path to the administration building was wide and shaded with trees still leafed out in the early fall. I trudged, and I do mean trudged, to my meeting with the provost. The man held my future in his hands, and I didn’t like him. I didn’t like him at all. He was tall, well built, reasonably good-looking, a bit nerdy when he put on his steel framed glasses. His clothes were conservative and well-tailored. But even if Joe had not been in my life, I would never have been attracted to a man like Ezra McCready. In spite of his academic reputation as a leader, I found nothing to admire. The man struck me as dismissive and interested only in what served his own career, not the welfare of the university. He was a snob, as Nell had said. Perhaps a bigot.

Yet, as I mounted the stairs to the administration building, I vowed to put my private opinions of McCready out of my mind. It was important for me to impress him. I prayed he would think better of me than I did of him. Provost Ezra McCready would have the final say on who would be dean of journalism. Only the president, Philip Lewis, could overrule his decision. The president was my friend but he was ill, infrequently on campus, and not likely to overrule his handpicked executive who was running the university day to day.

McCready’s outer office was empty and I felt timid about knocking on the door to his inner office. He might be the sort who preferred to have a secretary announce a visitor.

I waited.

After what felt like an hour but was only ten minutes, the inner office opened. Ezra McCready escorted a man through the door. The man was a bit taller than me, round in face and belly with big dark eyes. My good friend and competitor, Manny Lorenzo.

Manny’s smile lit up when he saw me and a big bear hug followed. “Great to see you, Red. More beautiful than ever. My favorite rival.”

“Friendly rivals, I hope,” I said nervously, glancing back at McCready who stood in the doorway, not a trace of warmth on his face.

Manny turned back to the provost and shook his hand. “Wonderful talking to you, sir,” he said in his gentle Texas drawl. Manny had grown up in El Paso and earned all his degrees in the University of Texas system.

“I enjoyed it thoroughly, Dr. Lorenzo,” said McCready. Still no smile but at least some light in his eyes. Manny would be a good catch for Mountain West. A brilliant Hispanic with an impressive record as dean of a journalism school much larger than ours. I figured if the distinguished Dr. Manuel Lorenzo wanted to move from the prestigious university that hired him five years ago to the engaging climate of northern Nevada, Ezra McCready would hand him this job on a platter—with an extra serving of incentives.

Manny moved back to me, gave me another hug and whispered, “Talk soon,” in my ear.

McCready watched Manny leave through the outer office without looking at me. “Please give me a moment,” he said in my direction, then went back into his office and closed the door. Another five minutes passed. I suspected he enjoyed keeping me on edge and off my game.

The door opened. “Please come in, Dr. Solaris.”

The provost’s office had been refurnished since my last visit. The former provost, Fred Stoddard, who had helped me through a series of crises last year, had furnished this office with fat leather chairs and a sofa. Not McCready.

A long glass-topped table surrounded by sleek leather swivel chairs dominated the room. A glass-topped desk on chrome legs took over the end of the room in front of the windows.

The carpet was thick and gray, the walls painted a pale gray white. The only color in the room came from the books in shelves lining the walls. A delicate black and white Japanese print hung on the wall to the side of the desk, the only painting in a room that appeared to be as restrained as its occupant.

“Please,” he said pulling out one of the black swivel chairs. He unbuttoned his jacket, sat opposite me, and folded his hands on the glass surface.

A file and a carafe of water with two glasses were all that sat on the long empty table.

His face was an unreadable mask. I tried to look cheerful and tugged at my suit jacket. “Thank you, Dr. McCready.”

“Now then, Dr. Solaris. Start by telling me why you think you should be the next dean of the journalism school in this university.”

I began with the death of Henry Brooks, the former dean, and my appointment to serve as the interim dean. Then I moved on to the horrific faculty quarrel that had preceded and followed Henry’s death along with my part in the discovery of the killer.

I must have spoken for ten minutes with no interruption before he said, “Yes, Dr. Solaris. Of course, I know most of this from my conversations with President Lewis and with Dr. Stoddard on the phone a few weeks ago.”

I took a deep breath. “Well, I think I have survived something of a baptism by fire over the past several months, and I have learned a great deal from the struggle.”

“No doubt you have.” His eyes were cold and steady. “I am informed you are popular with several members of the journalism faculty.”

“I believe I am respected by most.”

“Indeed. Although popularity with faculty members is not necessarily a qualification for leadership.” McCready unfolded his hands and placed them flat on the table. “Any more than popularity with students is the mark of a good teacher.”

In his chilly, formal office, I felt sweat starting on the back of my neck. “I believe I also have earned the faculty’s confidence and that of President Lewis. I believe I have been an effective leader.”

“Perhaps so. Perhaps you have even been a brave leader. But I have some questions about your ability and your experience—perhaps I should say, lack of experience. The search committee report is complimentary, but observes you have only been interim dean for not quite a year.”

Shades of Mark Froman. Do all tall men in expensive suits plan to put me down as hard as they can?

The provost opened the folder in front of him. “Let’s begin with your handling last year of a plagiarist and an admitted sexual predator whom you tolerated for several months even though you knew about his affair with a student.”

And that’s how it went for the next hour, each of my sins and shortcomings pulled from the folder, one by one. It all felt more like a disciplinary hearing than a job interview.

At length, he stood up and walked to the end of the table. He looked down at me. “Please understand, the university is grateful for your efforts to keep the journalism school together after the tumult that almost destroyed it. And I for one am grateful for your work preparing the school for reaccreditation. But my task is to consider what is best for the future of the school and what leadership skills will be needed for the days ahead.”

“I understand,” I said, resenting his decision to tower over me at the same time he was expressing his tepid gratitude.

In the end, we shook hands and he walked me to the door. “I plan to make my decision soon. Thank you for your time.”

As I descended the stairs from the building, I saw a man heading toward me. Victor Watts, my other competitor. Another tall man in a good suit. This was my day to be treated to displays of Hugo Boss style tailoring. Most of the male faculty on my campus wore sweaters and jeans.

“Interview with the provost?” I asked as he came near. It was almost noon and the sun was high in the sky.

“Oh, hello. Meredith Solaris, right? Actually, I had my interview yesterday. Today, Dr. McCready asked me to join him for lunch.” A thin smug smile played across his mouth, as if Watts knew the provost hadn’t offered me so much as a cup of bad institutional coffee.

  

Jamie

  

Jamie showered, washed the plaster dust out of her hair and dressed in clean clothes. She headed downstairs, determined to find out why he had chosen her specifically from among all the other females on campus. Clearly he’d stalked her at school. Clearly he had entered her apartment and examined her possessions. What was it about her that made him select her among all other women, including women closer to his age, or women who would have been more accepting, more willing to sacrifice some personal freedom in order to get a house and a husband?

He was sitting in the parlor, dressed again in work clothes and heavy boots. His head was bowed as if in prayer. She sat in a chair opposite him and cleared her throat. He raised his head and gave her the usual stare.

“Why me?” She spoke without trembling, hands folded in her lap.

“You’re healthy and very good-looking.”

“I’m black. You’re white.”

“I told you. Your race doesn’t matter. Never has. My stepmother…” He hesitated.

“Yes. Tell me about your stepmother.”

“What do you want to know?”

Jamie wanted to know what had happened to the stepmother, but decided to take a more oblique approach. “How old were you when she married your father?”

He shrugged. “Twelve, thirteen. My mother died when I was eleven.”

“Did your stepmother die?”

He busied himself retying the laces of his boots so he could avoid looking directly at her. “She left when I was sixteen. I didn’t learn of her death until I was in my twenties.”

Jamie leaned forward, addressing the top of his head. “I’m not going to cook dinner until you tell me more about her. Did she look like me?”

He sat back in his chair. “She was beautiful, like you.”

“And you loved her?”

“I did.”

“Tell me more. Tell me all about her.”

“That’s enough for now. I’m hungry. You need to start dinner.”

Jamie decided to switch tactics. “Why did you break into my apartment and go through my stuff?”

He stood up and turned away from her. His hands became fists that he clenched and unclenched. “Enough questions. Dinner. Now.”

She sat still, refusing to move. He turned back to her. His usually unreadable eyes were blazing with anger. She had made him angry, and his expression alarmed her. “Dinner. Now, Jamie.”

It was the first time he had called her by name. And her name in his mouth made her skin crawl.