EVERYONE IN THE ROOM CHEERED.
“How are you going to do that?” I asked, but no one responded. In fact, I got the impression that I was being deliberately ignored. “We’d love to have one of you on our podcast discussing your plans,” I tried.
The circle around Tami was tight, and there were frantic whispers going back and forth, but aside from the odd word, like “boycott” and “protest,” I couldn’t make anything out.
I turned back to George and Bess and pointed toward the door. “Let’s go,” I said.
The hallway felt like a cool relief when we stepped out of the overly crowded office.
“Oh, thank goodness! I can breathe again!” George crowed dramatically. “I thought I was going to suffocate in there.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Bess said, wiping sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief. “Okay, maybe it was,” she corrected herself, seeing how wet her hankie was.
“All right, Nancy,” George said. “What’s next?”
“Well, Tami’s definitely on the suspect list. She wore the right type of clothes and she looked like she had physically exerted herself, but we need more proof before we move forward with any accusations. I think we should go and check out that teacher, Erica Vega,” I said.
“Makes sense to me,” said Bess. “It seems like she’s the one really inspiring these people to protest.” She paused, then added, “You know, I feel like I’ve heard the name Erica Vega before, but I can’t remember from where.”
“Well, according to this schedule online, she’s teaching a class right now!” George said, looking at her phone. “It looks like the classroom is just down this hall, too.”
We started walking down the hallway. As we were heading that way, we passed a sign pointing to the museum.
“Oh, Bess, I forgot to tell you,” I said. “They’re having a Dutch masters exhibit here. It opens this weekend. Here, I took a photo of the poster for you.”
I handed her my phone with the photo on it.
“Oh, wow!” Bess said. “This is amazing. It says they’re going to be showing The Zebra Finch, which is incredible.”
“Why?” George asked.
“Well, it’s supposed to be beautiful, and the detail of the light on the bird’s feathers is really intricate, but the big thing about it is that it’s part of a private collection and the owner almost never lets it be shown. I think it’s only been exhibited two or three times in the thirty years that she’s owned it. I didn’t think I’d ever get to see it, and it’s coming right to River Heights!”
“Well, we’ll definitely have to go,” I said.
We kept walking.
“It really is neat how the classrooms and performance spaces are all in this one building,” George said.
I agreed. “Which is why we need it to be successful and not have Brady’s performance sabotaged.”
“Classroom 17. This is it,” George said, pointing to the door.
I put my ear up against the door. I could hear a woman lecturing. “Let’s go for it,” I said.
I creaked open the door. The classroom was a lecture hall with stadium-style seating. At the front was a woman with short blond hair holding court.
“Freedom of expression comes with responsibilities,” Erica said.
I pushed the door open farther, and Erica stopped talking to look up at us.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was hoping we could sit in.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come in. Come in. Quickly.”
Bess, George, and I found seats in the back and slid in as quietly as we could.
“Artists and performers they think that they are a protected class. They think they can say whatever they want and they are covered by the fact that they make ‘art.’ But that is not the case. Artists don’t get a blank check where they can offend anyone they want and not get called out for it.”
Erica was speaking more and more loudly. As I looked around the room, I observed that the attendees were rapt at what she was saying. I saw several people nodding their heads along with her.
“Artists need to be held accountable. And who do you think needs to hold them accountable?”
Several hands shot up in the air.
“Kristen,” Erica said, pointing to a young woman in the front.
“The people!” Kristen said enthusiastically.
“That’s right!” Erica said. “The people! When an artist crosses the line, the people have to tell him or her. And how do they do that? Don’t bother raising your hands. Just shout it out.”
“Boycotting!” someone yelled.
“Organizing on social media!” someone else shouted.
“Protesting!”
“Showing them what it feels like!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Erica said. “You do what you have to do to get your point heard.” She checked her watch. “All right. That’s all we have time for this week. Good luck tonight. Go out there and fight the good fight.”
“Will we see you tonight protesting the show?” a student asked.
“Unfortunately, I have somewhere else I need to be tonight,” Erica said, “but I will be there with you in spirit.”
The students filed out and Bess, George, and I pushed to the front of the room to talk to Erica.
“Hey, Nancy,” Bess whispered. “Do you mind if I take the lead on talking to her?” I looked at Bess in surprise. She is always a great help in my investigations, but she rarely asks to take the lead. She nodded at me, looking more determined than I’d ever seen her.
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Ms. Vega,” Bess said. “I’m Bess Marvin, and I just wanted to say I’m a big fan.”
Erica Vega raised her eyebrows and waited for Bess to go on. George and I looked at Bess, wondering what she was up to.
“I really loved the blog entry you wrote about The Zebra Finch,” Bess continued. “I thought your analysis of the brushstrokes was genius.”
“Thanks,” Erica said, sounding genuinely impressed. “I haven’t met many people who have read that article.”
“It’s one of my favorite paintings of all time. I read everything I can about it. I can’t believe I’m finally going to get to see it in person in River Heights!”
“It’s an amazing thing to see in real life,” she said. “If you’ll forgive me, I need to run.”
I looked down and noticed she was pulling a rolling suitcase.
“Oh, are you headed to the airport?” I asked.
“No, I have a meeting,” she said.
I pushed forward. “I don’t want to hold you up, but we’re producers for a podcast and we’re looking for protesters to interview. Could you recommend any of your students?” I asked. “Who’s leading the charge here?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Erica said. “Tami Wright. She’s my star student, and she would be very articulate about her views. All the students look up to her. Now, I’m sorry, but I really need to run.”
She headed out, leaving me and my friends alone in the lecture hall.
“Wow. She is intense,” George said. “But, Bess, you were genius!”
“Thanks,” said Bess. “It kept bugging me why I thought I knew her name, and then it hit me.”
“You were great,” I agreed. “Tami is definitely our prime suspect.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to see a text from Ned: TAKING A BREAK FROM WORKING WITH BRADY. WANT TO MEET UP?
I checked with Bess and George and then texted him back. SURE. SEE YOU OUTSIDE ARTS COMPLEX IN 5 MINUTES?
Ned agreed, and Bess, George, and I slipped out of the lecture hall and made our way back out to the street, where I saw Ned rounding the corner.
“Hey, how’d it go with Brady?” I asked him.
“We made some progress. We got two pages of the notebook put back together. I don’t know if he’ll ever get it all back, but at least he’ll have some. The good news is he let me do the interview with him as a distraction while we were working on it.”
“That’s great!” I said. “How was it?”
“I think it went really well. Because he was working on this other task, I think he was more open with me in his answers than he would have been otherwise.” That made sense to me. I always liked when someone I was interviewing for a case was doing something else while we were chatting. They tended to be less guarded and more careless with their words.
“In fact, would you guys mind if we went somewhere so I could back up the interview? It’s too good. I don’t want to risk only having it on my computer,” Ned said.
“Can we do that somewhere there is food?” George asked. “I didn’t eat lunch and I’m starving.”
I checked my watch. We’d already investigated for an hour and we’d made some progress, but I didn’t feel close to solving the case. I was going to argue that we push on, but the look on George’s and Ned’s faces told me that I needed to take this break if I wanted them working at their peaks. George was no good to me if she fainted from hunger, and Ned wouldn’t be able to focus if he was worried about losing his interview. “My house is closest,” I said. “I’m sure Hannah can make us something.” Hannah Gruen is our housekeeper. She’s been taking care of my dad and me since my mom passed away when I was little. She is, among other things, the best cook in River Heights, so my friends agreed readily.
I called ahead to let Hannah know we were coming, and fifteen minutes later, we walked in the door to find four turkey sandwiches sitting on the kitchen table. Not only that, but they were each made exactly how we liked them. Mine had no lettuce. The crusts were cut off George’s. Ned’s had extra mustard. And Bess’s had cheddar instead of swiss.
I gave Hannah a hug and thanked her. Ned set up his interview to download off the recorder and joined us at the table.
Just as we started eating, my dad walked into the kitchen. I was surprised to see him home on a weekday. His eyes were glassy and his nose was red.
“Hi, Dad. Your allergies acting up?” I asked.
“Yeah. Kerri told me my sneezes were distracting the entire office and ordered me home.” Kerri was my dad’s assistant, and like Hannah, she didn’t let the fact that she worked for my dad stop her from bossing him around.
“How’d the interview go, Ned?” my dad asked, sniffling loudly.
“Well . . . it was a little more dramatic than I had expected,” Ned answered. We quickly filled him in on everything that had gone on.
“Wow. Brady just can’t stay out of trouble. Typical Brady, though, to stick his foot in his mouth by calling out that heckler the way he did.”
“But don’t you think his job as a stand-up comedian is to push boundaries?” Ned asked.
“Well, tell me, what boundary was Brady pushing?” my dad asked Ned.
Ned opened his mouth to answer but quickly shut it, as he tried to think of what to say. I contemplated too. I believed that art should make people uncomfortable, but I also couldn’t answer my dad’s question.
“He wasn’t pushing any boundary,” Bess said. “He was just being a bully.”
“Exactly,” my dad said. “When you tell a joke that hits at someone, you want to punch up. You want the punch line to land against someone more powerful than you. If you call out or make fun of someone with less power than you, you’re just being mean. You’re not making a point.” We were all quiet for a moment before my dad continued. “I don’t think Brady is a bad person. I think he’s sensitive and he got upset at the heckler and he lashed out. Then it all spiraled out of control.”
“Okay, even if he did make a mistake, that doesn’t mean people should destroy his room or call for violence against him on Twitter,” George argued.
“No, of course not,” my dad said. “People have every right to protest his show and tell him why they’re upset, but they definitely crossed a line.”
“Plus, it’s just not productive,” I said. “Brady is so upset about what’s happening to him, he’s not listening to hear that they might have a point.”
“I wish people could just talk calmly to each other,” Bess said. “So many misunderstandings could be avoided.”
“But then there would be way fewer mysteries to solve!” I joked. I’ve had a lot of cases where the motive came down to wanting revenge for a perceived slight.
“Hey, was Joe cackling with glee at Brady’s misfortune?” my dad asked.
“No. Why would he? I thought they were friends,” I answered.
My dad started laughing, and pretty soon he was laughing so hard he was coughing. Hannah came over with a glass of water for him.
“You need to take care of yourself,” she reprimanded him.
“I’m not sick,” my dad protested. “It’s just allergies.”
Hannah shook her head.
“No, they are not friends at all,” my dad said, getting back to his story. “They’ve been feuding since our days in the fraternity. I was shocked when I saw that Brady was going to perform at the Arts Complex.”
My dad turned to Ned. “Didn’t I tell you all this when I connected you to Brady?”
Ned blushed. “You were in the middle of the McKnight trial. You kind of just grunted and handed me a slip of paper with Brady’s e-mail on it. I didn’t want to bother you by asking any questions.”
“Huh,” my dad said. “That was a beast of a trial.”
“So, what happened between them?” I asked.
“Every year our fraternity hosted an open mic, and we’d invite all the alumni. It was one of our biggest events of the year. We all took it really seriously. I did my Elvis impression, of course.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. My dad was very proud of his impression of Elvis Presley. He went all in, too. He lowered his voice, shook his hips, and lifted just one side of his lip. It was very goofy. I just hoped he wouldn’t do it now. It was one thing for my dad to put on that performance in front of Hannah and me. It was a whole other thing for him to do it for my friends, not to mention my boyfriend.
My dad liked to embarrass me, but he also knew I was on a case and that we didn’t have time to waste.
“Both Brady and Joe did stand-up comedy sets their junior year, but about seventy-five percent of their jokes were the same. They were roommates, and Joe accused Brady of stealing his jokes. Brady went before Joe, so Joe’s set completely bombed, since the jokes were similar. If I recall correctly, he even got booed. He was furious. Brady claimed it was coincidental.”
Hannah put a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen table, and Ned lit up. Hannah’s cookies were his favorite—a fact he never told his grandmother.
“I have an extra bag for you to take back with you to the dorms,” Hannah told him. Ned got up and engulfed her in a hug. It was comical how much taller he was than her.
“You’re the best,” he told Hannah.
“Who did you believe?” I asked as Ned sat back down. I was anxious to get back to the story.
“I was never sure. It was possible that it was a coincidence. Most of the jokes were about life in the fraternity and on campus, which were experiences they both had. At the same time, they were very similar, and we all knew Brady was extremely competitive and would do anything to win. Before the open mic incident, he almost got kicked out of our fraternity when he cheated during a track-and-field competition we had among all the frats on campus. His event was the half mile, and he got caught taking a shortcut.”
“What happened after the open mic?” Ned asked.
“Well, it turned out that Jack Murray, who was an alumnus and a big talent agent, was in the audience that night. He thought that Brady had big potential and signed him to his agency, so Brady’s career basically started that night. Joe was furious. He believed that Jack might have signed him if he’d performed before Brady.”
My dad paused to take a bite of a cookie.
“I wasn’t so sure,” he continued. “Even though the jokes were similar, Brady’s delivery was indisputably better than Joe’s. His timing was impeccable. He knew exactly when to pause, what word to emphasize to get the biggest laugh. He was just a natural in a way I don’t think Joe was. When Joe was up there, you could see the gears turning in his head as he thought about how to make the joke as funny as possible. Joe’s a very smart guy, but he was awkward onstage. Joe was so mad, he moved out of their room and slept on the couch in the living room. Brady ended up dropping out a few weeks later to pursue being a comic full-time.” He stopped and looked each one of us in the eyes. “Something none of you kids will ever, ever do. When you get to college, you will stay there and you will graduate.”
We all nodded and promised that we would stay in school. Of course, none of us were considering dropping out of school, but if it made my dad happier to hear us say it out loud, then we would.
“I didn’t think Joe and Brady had spoken to each other since Brady left college, which was close to twenty years ago now. I stayed in touch with both of them. Since I didn’t know what happened, I didn’t want to take sides, and they’re both nice guys in their own ways.” He took another bite of his cookie and shrugged. “But, you know, Joe’s done very well in his career, and it was a better fit for him anyway.”
I turned and exchanged a look with my friends. Maybe Joe was a suspect.
My dad put his glass of water down with a thunk. “Nancy, no,” he said, immediately knowing what I was thinking. “This was a long time ago, when we were practically kids. When I asked if Joe was happy to see Brady’s misfortune, I didn’t mean to imply that he was involved personally. Just that he might think karma had a long memory.”
“Okay, Dad. I get it,” I said.
My dad nodded and checked his watch. “Oh, good grief,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to work. I have a brief due to a judge in three hours.” He got up and kissed me on top of my head. “Good luck with the case.” He waved to my friends before taking another cookie and heading down the hall to his home office. “Good to see you all. I’ll see you at the show tonight.”
He turned to me one last time. “I’m serious. Joe’s not a suspect.”
I watched him walk down the hall and then turned back to my friends.
“Obviously he is a suspect,” I said.