Chapter 16

  

One of the few good conversations I had with my mother was about hair. We both had dark, thick red hair that tended to curl. “Take good care of your hair,” she advised, “it can be your best feature. Men will love it and women will envy it.”

Maybe because I still cherish those few good times with her, I took her counsel seriously. After a year of searching my new city and trying all of Trudy Worthington’s suggestions, I had finally found a stylist who knew how to give me a good cut. Tuesday after lunch, I headed to the salon. After the stylist was finished, I stared at myself in the large mirror above. My hair framed my face with curls, some dark as wine, some lighter and more golden.

For years, as a kid, I thought I was homely. But by thirty-five I had decided I was good-looking without being conventionally pretty.

Thirty-five was not past childbearing age, but also not a girl anymore, a woman to be taken seriously. Sadie was right. The hell with whoever had written that anonymous note. I was qualified and, given the events since Henry’s death, I knew I damn well better be taken seriously.

Several faculty members who were coming up for annual reviews were due for visits to their classes to see how they were doing as instructors.

I promised myself I’d be diligent. I would start my evaluations with classroom visits to the people I liked least, hoping to avoid invidious comparisons with those I liked better. I decided not to bother with Simon’s class.

In George’s class, what the faculty saw as verbose and pompous, his students saw as dramatic and interesting. For the most part, George lectured, but all fifty students seemed engaged by his rhetoric, especially stories of his days as a young reporter and some of the celebrities he met when he became editor. After I left George’s class, I headed for Edwin’s.

Edwin taught writing with conspicuous concern for students who were having trouble. The students worked at computers. When they were finished writing or editing, they turned their chairs around and wheeled over to a long table in the center of the room. Edwin’s critiques were thorough and useful. His students seemed eager to improve their work and present again. Edwin walked around, stopping to kneel down beside a student and offer more guidance. This was a kind and articulate Edwin. As I left his classroom, I knew this was the Edwin a young Mary Cartwell had loved all those years ago.

George and Edwin were difficult colleagues, but excellent teachers. I resolved to make a greater effort to understand the complexities of the two of them.

Especially if it turned out Simon was not the killer who had sent Henry down that flight of stairs.

  

Larry Coleman was a wreck. According to Nell he had been waiting for me in my office for over an hour while I watched Edwin’s class. Larry had been pacing the floor and bugging Nell every ten minutes about my whereabouts.

As I approached my outer office, she stuck her head out of her office that adjoins mine. “Watch out, he’s a mess,” she said as she rolled her eyes.

Larry was standing by the window behind my round table looking out over the quad. “I’ll pick you up at the airport. I love you, too,” he said to his cellphone when he saw me. He closed his phone and sank into a chair facing my desk. “Oh, Red. It’s getting worse.”

“What’s getting worse?” I tried to sound sympathetic.

“Simon and the Dynamic Duo. They’ve been visiting other members of the faculty. They trap each person in his or her office and then trash my tenure application.”

“Tenure reviews are confidential,” I said. “Are they breaking the rules?”

“They’re not only breaking the rules, they’re busting my balls. They’re telling everyone who will listen that my research is irrelevant, my teaching sucks, and my student evaluations are awful. Lies, Red. Outright lies.” Larry was slender with a delicate, almost feminine face. He had a short beard and a mustache, which I suspected existed to make him look more masculine. His eyes were awash. “And worst of all, Edwin and George corralled a couple of grad students yesterday and told them not to take my classes next semester.”

My resolution to try to better understand Edwin and George dissolved. “That’s outrageous. I’ll deal with this, Larry. You go home and get some rest.”

“No one to go home to,” he said, starting to sob. “Karen’s in Chicago on a business trip. I just spoke to her. She can’t get home until tomorrow.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose just as I was reaching for a box of tissues.

“I’m sorry, Red. I know I should be handling this better. But I have worked so long and so hard.” He cleared his throat and stood up as if to make it easier to talk without tears. “I’m filing a grievance against those bastards. And please don’t even try to talk me out of this. I love the school, but if I can’t file a grievance, I’ll file a lawsuit for slander. I’ll go to the media, and if all else fails, I’m going to get a baseball bat and break their kneecaps.”

“Take a deep breath, Larry. And sit down,” I said. “I’m not going to try to talk you out of anything. I’m going to tell you how to file a grievance.”

“Maybe I should just see my attorney now,” he said.

“A good attorney will advise you to go through the grievance procedure first.”

“Shit. I’m starting to like the baseball bat idea better.”

“I know. But these guys are not worth you going to jail, are they?”

I explained the steps he should take. He listened, then stood up, straightened his shoulders and strode out of the office. He left me to think about what I was going to tell Stoddard and what I was going to say to the gang of three when they received a formal notice of grievance.

Idiots.

  

Celeste Cummings survived. Irene Cummings called to say they were taking her home and withdrawing her from the university.

“Do you think she’ll come back in the fall?” I asked. “I would be happy to help her find a new major in another college.”

Irene was silent for a moment. “Thank you, Dean Solaris. That’s thoughtful of you. But her doctors want to see if there’s even slight brain damage,” she said. “We’ll have to wait and determine what Celeste can do in the next weeks. Also, she needs some therapy before she should come back here.”

An hour later, I had a meeting with the university president. Philip Lewis was finally showing his age. His fine features were pale and drawn and his expensive tailored suit seemed to hang on him. He motioned me to a chair by his desk, then leaned back and put his fingers to his lips. I had telephoned him to alert him to Larry’s predicament.

“You’re having a tough go aren’t you? Tougher than we anticipated.”

“Do you want to appoint someone else?” I said, half hoping he would say yes so I could go home to my dog and back to my old teaching job and forget about all the assholes and their stupid bickering.

He smiled gently. “No, Meredith. You are still the best person. I don’t know of anyone who could have done more or foreseen more.”

I sensed a “but.”

“But I wonder if it would help if I put the school of journalism into receivership?”

Receivership happens when an independent college is put under the wing of another college because it cannot function on its own or is too dysfunctional to govern itself.

Lewis went on, “The dean of the College of Liberal Arts tells me he would be willing to help out.”

“I don’t think we are at that point yet, President Lewis,” I said, carefully choosing my words. “I’m working with the provost and hope to get this grievance matter handled with as little publicity as possible.”

“Some of your senior faculty deserve to be spanked and sent to their rooms without supper,” said Lewis.

“Yes, they do. Care to make that happen?”

“Regrettably I can’t, Meredith. But I can put the school of journalism under Liberal Arts if things get any crazier.”

“President Lewis, that punishes the entire school for the asinine behavior of a minority of the faculty. I’m sorry, sir, I think that’s unfair and, frankly, I don’t see how it would do much good. Also, please keep in mind we are all suffering a police investigation of Henry’s death.”

“I do admire your determination, Meredith.” He played with a small stack of papers on his desk. I waited.

“I’ll hold off for a while.” A frown on his forehead, old eyes looking fierce. “But know this, Dean Solaris. I didn’t put you in that job to see you whipsawed by a bunch of thugs. So call me right away if you need help.”

“Thank you. I’m meeting with the provost in half an hour,” I said. “Let me see what he and I can work out.”

Usually decisions take forever in a university and events move at a snail’s pace, but, as I walked downstairs to Stoddard’s office I had the anxious feeling that, this time, events might run ahead of my ability to manage any of them. It was no longer just the quarrel. My school was in jeopardy.

“Are you willing to try to talk to these clowns again?” asked Stoddard. “I can be in the room with you this time.”

I sat down in one of the provost’s overstuffed chairs and moaned. “I tried before. I warned them Coleman would file a grievance if they didn’t cease and desist. But they went ahead anyway.”

Stoddard’s office felt cold. No doubt a man of his girth kept the temperature down, but I shivered visibly and he rose and closed a window behind me.

“Yes, but things are different now. With Phil giving serious thought to putting journalism into receivership, you may find that your powers of persuasion have been enhanced,” Stoddard said.

“Will they believe it?” I asked. “They’re so delusional, I wonder if they’ll think I’m making it up.”

“That’s why I’ll be there to back you up. If they have any doubts about Phil’s intentions, I’ll make sure they get it. Are you game?”

“Yes, I’m game. Do you think President Lewis would really do it?”

“Oh, yes. Phil has the guts of a pirate captain when it comes to dealing with rogue faculty.”

I left Stoddard’s office and walked across the quad toward the school. It was getting dark early as we approached the winter solstice. The lights were bright in the three colleges facing me. Snow crusted the ivy that climbed on the larger buildings. A choir was practicing carols somewhere near. Voices high and crystal clear in the winter air. In two weeks, Mountain West would close for winter break and go home to celebrate Christmas.

God rest ye, merry gentlemen.

Let nothing you dismay.

It was thirty-three days since Henry Brooks had been found at the bottom of the stairs.