Forty-Two

It took three phone calls, starting with the University of Southern Maine’s switchboard, but by 1:30 p.m. Friday, Peyton was in the bullpen on the phone with the associate dean of the Muskie School of Public Service, Dr. Suzanne Fontaine—Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall’s supervisor.

Peyton quickly explained who she was. “I’m calling about Dr. Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall, a professor on your faculty.”

“She’s not a professor,” Fontaine explained.

“Are you telling me she doesn’t work at USM?” Peyton leaned back in her seat and crossed her ankles.

“She works here, but she is not a professor. I sincerely hope she’s not giving people that impression. To call herself a professor would indicate that she is employed here full-time and on a tenure track. Sherry is neither of those things.”

“What does she do?”

“She teaches an introductory social science course most se-
mesters.”

Peyton had her iPad and stylus and was scribbling furiously. “Bear with me, but I need to ask some rudimentary questions, Dr. Fontaine.”

“Call me Suzanne. Is Sherry in trouble?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“I’m talking to a law-enforcement officer about her.”

It made Peyton smile.

“No. She’s not in trouble. I’m looking for some background information. That’s all.”

“Well, she was supposed to teach a summer-session course, but she hasn’t taught the last two weeks.”

“Her parents died suddenly,” Peyton said.

“Oh, that’s terrible. I wonder why she didn’t simply tell us.”

Peyton didn’t speculate. “She has a Ph.D. from Harvard, correct?”

“Yes. And not just from Harvard. She was at the Kennedy School of International and Global Affairs.”

“Prestigious?”

“Oh, very.”

“And she’s published books?”

“One.”

“Suzanne, forgive my ignorance, but it seems that her credentials are excellent. Why isn’t she working for you full-time?”

“Hiring decisions are confidential, Agent Cote.”

“Call me Peyton. And, again, this is background only. This is part of an ongoing investigation.”

“Involving Sherry?”

“I’ll offer my confidential material,” Peyton said, “if you share yours.”

“I like you, agent. I’ve never heard of a criminal-justice officer bartering.”

“I’ve never done it before.”

Fontaine chuckled. “You first.”

“Yes, this is part of an ongoing investigation.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Fontaine chuckled again. She had a deep laugh. Peyton imagined her as one who liked to laugh and didn’t take herself too seriously. “Well, I was hoping for more, but I understand your limitations, and I’ll play along just the same. I guess all you need to know is this: most adjuncts teach to get a foot in the door.”

“Teach a class to prove yourself?”

“Yes. She cried during her first class.”

“Cried?”

“Yes. She broke down. She was lecturing, and a student challenged her. It’s what we do. It’s what most academics thrive on—intellectual debate. Sherry crumbled. I’ve worked with her since. She’s gotten better, but not a lot.”

“So she’s a research specialist?”

“Well, she researches a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s written three books, but only one was published.”

“The other two?”

“I guess no one wanted to publish them. It leaves her in an academic version of no-man’s land. If you can’t publish, you can’t get a full-time position in this market. And usually if you can’t get a full-time position, you have to turn to something else—working for the government or something like that where you can put your Ph.D. to work. In Sherry’s case, she married a doctor.”

A dentist, Peyton thought. A broke one. Aloud she said, “You said you’re working with her. How is that going?”

“I said I have worked with her. She’s applied three times for a tenure-track position—every time one has opened up the last few years. We can’t tell her not to apply, but we don’t even offer her a courtesy interview.”

“She’s that bad?”

“We need the intro classes taught, and the freshman won’t intimidate her.”

Peyton thought of Sherry’s go-round with DA Stephanie DuBois. That intellectual sparring match hadn’t ended well for Sherry either.

“What do you think is going on with her?” Peyton asked.

“She needs approval but lacks the confidence to gain it,” Fontaine said. “I think it’s fairly straightforward in the grand scheme of things. It’s unfortunate. I wish I knew more about her past. There’s something to it that holds her back. I fear that it always will.”

“It’s sad,” Peyton said.

“I thought law-enforcement officers didn’t get attached to people in their investigations.”

“They don’t,” Peyton said. “I was merely making an objective observation. Thank you for your time.”

That night Peyton was in her kitchen preparing dinner for Lois and Tommy.

“Thank you for having me,” Lois said.

“It’s the least I could do. You’ve held down the fort around here for the past week.”

Lois went to the kitchen, rummaged through the vegetable drawer, and came out with salad fixings. Peyton washed a green pepper in the sink and looked out the window. The vast expanse of terrain between her and the Bigrock ski facility made her think of Matt Kingston. Where was he? He’d been gone three days now.

A mini van–sized bull moose wandered out from the tree line and into a field in the distance.

“Mother.” She pointed.

Lois looked up from where she was chopping tomatoes and moved closer. “Ah, beautiful. I still don’t think we should let people shoot them.”

“You haven’t hit one.” Peyton had hit a moose in a Ford Expedition service vehicle one night three years earlier. “If I’d hit it head-on, I wouldn’t be here. They need to be culled.”

“But they’re so dumb. It’s like shooting a cow.”

“Hey, Mom,” Tommy said, running into the room, dragging his L.L.Bean backpack across the kitchen tiles. He hugged his mother.

“Is that a smile on your face?”

“What do you mean? I always smile,” he said. “Look.” He tore through the backpack and nearly ripped a folder as he removed it. He pulled out a paper.

Peyton saw a red B+ on it.

“It’s my math test,” he beamed. “I got it back today. Ms. Lawrence said I did a good job.”

Peyton hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Yes, you did.”

“That’s enough, Mom. I’m too old for that stuff,” the ten-year-old said and ran out of the kitchen.

“You’ll never be too old for my hugs,” she called after him. She turned to Lois. “Progress, huh?”

“It is. How’s Stone Gibson?”

“Fine, Mother.”

“Just fine?”

“How’s that salad coming?”

The thing she loved more than anything was a long bath. She didn’t get them often. On Mother’s Day, she asked for forty-five minutes of uninterrupted time in the tub, and Tommy always obliged.

Other than that one day a year, there never seemed to be time. But this night, after Tommy was in bed, armed with a glass of red wine and a scented candle, which, according to its box, claimed to offer relaxing aroma, she climbed into the claw-footed tub on the first floor.

She hadn’t opened her Lisa Scottoline novel since Hewitt had called a week ago, and she tried to find her place.

Peyton read, but she did so the way she had in college when she knew there was a party elsewhere in her dorm—with her mind adrift.

Where was Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall? She was as insecure and fractured as anyone Peyton had ever met. Peyton wondered about her life in Portland. What did she do when she wasn’t teaching? She had no close friends; Sherry had told Peyton that directly. While trying to be formidable—whether it be attempting to face down Stephanie DuBois or flailing in her efforts to lecture at a university—Sherry was still a troubled and timid person, one who let her husband treat her like a show pony. She had never outgrown the silent and meek persona Peyton remembered from their teenage years.

It was this last thought that gave Peyton the idea.

She drained the tub and searched the Internet for Dr. Suzanne Fontaine’s home number.