Chapter 22

  

Simon came to my office the day after the New Year’s weekend.

“Your cop came to see me this morning—interrupted my breakfast.” Simon spoke with his usual sneer.

“Did he?” I pretended to be involved with paperwork on my desk.

Simon moved from the doorway to the front of my desk and tapped his bony fingers on my paperwork. His closeness was alarming. “I told you not to meddle in my affairs.”

“I haven’t,” I said without looking up.

“Well, call off your dog then. I don’t need your cop calling my wife’s relatives and messing around with my family business.”

That got me to look up at him. He was still too close to me. I wanted to say “sorry for your loss.” But with Joe’s warnings in mind, I said, “Simon, he’s not my cop and Detective Morgan is—along with a lot of other police—investigating the possible murder of our dean. He has to check out everyone who had access to this building. And that includes you.”

“I warned you, Meredith. I warned you that I would cause serious trouble for you if you didn’t stay out of my business.” There was a look in his eyes that made me want to call Joe right away. I reached for the phone. Simon left before Joe answered.

I waited a minute to be sure Simon was gone. “Joe, Simon was just here and quite threatening. Is there any chance he might have hired someone to kill Henry and then gone to Buffalo to set up an alibi?”

There was a long silence.

“It’s possible,” said Joe. “But his financial records don’t suggest he had enough money to hire a killer.”

“But, Joe, remember he was arguing with someone on the phone the other day when I went to his office. He mentioned sending a check.”

“One doesn’t usually pay hired killers by check,” said Joe. “And the records we now have on Simon suggest he spent every dime, including all his retirement fund on Doris. He still owes the Buffalo people.”

“Which is why he refuses to retire. But he still terrifies me.”

“Me, too. Just stay away from him and hope we can get better forensic evidence to nail this case down.”

  

Faculty retreats are held by departments of colleges and universities all over the country. Usually scheduled to occur during winter break before school reopens, the purpose of the retreat is to give the faculty a full day to plan next steps in the growth and future of the department or college. Retreats are good times to air complex issues like our dispute about the curriculum.

Our January retreat was due to begin at 9:00 a.m. and last until 5:00 p.m. I had rented the large private room at Gormley’s.

Wilson’s almost smiling face met me at the door at 8:45. “Coffee’s ready,” he said. “Want a shot in it before the others get here?”

“Thanks, pal. I think I’ll try to stay sober at least until noon,” I said, heading into the private room. “What did you decide on for lunch?”

“Salad, fried chicken, oatmeal cookies,” he said, following me into the room. “I considered roast beef but decided red meat would be inappropriate for this gang.”

“Wilson, you know too much about academics for a restaurateur.”

“I’ve had years to observe the species.” He turned to leave the room, then added, “I’m bringing in fruit, yogurt, and bran muffins for breakfast. At least the faculty colons will be relatively healthy even if their reasoning is clogged.”

“That man has an evil streak,” said Nell, who was busy putting copies of the agenda in front of each place at the U-shaped table.

“Why do you think I keep coming here?”

I examined the screen and hoped Phyllis and Larry would arrive a few minutes early to set up their presentation on new media courses ideas for our curriculum.

George Weinstein was the first to arrive. He was dressed in a heavy parka and a fur hat.

“Good holiday, George?” I asked, meeting him at the coat rack. I noticed he had a deep tan.

“Good to get away from all this,” he said.

“George, may I ask a favor?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve anything about Larry Coleman,” he said, removing his parka. “Or about putting our school into receivership.”

“It’s not about Larry. I’d like to see a copy of your book.”

He turned to look at me. “Why, Meredith? What’s piqued your interest in old newsroom issues?”

He loomed over me. George tends to stand too close to people, especially those who are shorter than he is. It was 8:45 in the morning but, from the smell of his breath, I was sure George had been drinking.

“Well, George.” I steadied myself for the fiction that had seemed to work on Edwin. “I am in the midst of finishing up Henry’s evaluations and trying to learn as much as I can about each faculty member’s productivity. That means looking at any books written last year.”

George frowned. “Well, not much point looking at mine. I withdrew it from publication last fall. Cretins at the publishers wanted too many changes.”

I tried again. “Nonetheless, George, it represents a large part of your creative output last year, and I should take a look at it. You can just email it to me.”

“I deleted it from my hard drive. It took up too much memory. But I have a printed version. If you really need to see it, I’ll bring it in tomorrow.” He gave a conspicuous sigh of annoyance and sank into a chair at the table.

With books from George and Phyllis, I would have only Max Worthington’s left to consider. I knew Max was writing about television network websites and online coverage of breaking news. Close to Shaw’s topic, but I hated to think Max would steal anything. Max may have been a fool about Celeste, but he was too good a writer and much too proud to plagiarize.

Had I missed anyone? Was there another member of the faculty working on a manuscript?

Several faculty members came in at once and the noise reminded me that the retreat was dedicated to the hopes of the future, not the sins of the past. Henry had been dead for two months. It was time to move on. I began the meeting with a cheerful grin and an announcement of the gift from Ben Howard.

Max opened the meeting with a slide:

The number of working daily journalists has already shrunk roughly 30-35% in the last five years, and will likely go down at least another 10-15%. That’s half the labor force.

Max paused to let the reality sink in and then turned the front of the room over to Larry and Phyllis who spoke clearly and with enthusiasm about the need for students to have access to online publishing and the exploration of new ways to present the news, verbally and visually, online and on air. Despite the occasional grunt from George, no one interrupted and the rest of the faculty seemed engaged and interested. Several applauded at the end of Larry’s plea for new courses and Phyllis’s for new equipment. Others smiled and nodded. And to my complete surprise, no one, including the three antagonists, took issue with the recommendations.

As we broke for lunch, Edwin sat with his chin in his hand. George joined Simon in the corner where they spoke quietly together. The rest of the faculty congratulated Larry and Phyllis on the presentation and piled on the fried chicken from the buffet table.

I followed Max outside for a breath of fresh, cold air. I was hoping to see some sign he had recovered from our last conversation about Celeste.

“Not bad, chief,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I expected a food fight from the three musketeers, but they seemed to have learned some manners over the break.”

I felt relieved. He seemed friendly again and I realized how much Max’s friendship meant to me. “We still have the afternoon discussion ahead,” I said.

“You know about wounded water buffalo?”

“No, but I’m sure I am about to learn.”

“The story’s told by big game hunters. They say the most dangerous animal in the world is a wounded water buffalo. Most dangerous because, if you shoot and just wound the buffalo, the animal will seem to run away. But actually he just runs into the bush where he waits. The buffalo will track you for days, following your trail, and, when you least expect it, he’ll charge out of the brush and attack. He’ll try to gore you to death.”

I smiled up at Max. He looked ruddy and handsome in his scarf and camel’s hair coat. His blue eyes sparkled. No wonder female students found him so irresistible.

“So I should be prepared for three wounded water buffalo?”

“Your leadership skills could get a good workout this afternoon.”

It wasn’t like Max to try to alarm me. But, since my scolding about Celeste, I supposed he was still annoyed with me underneath all his cordiality.

“Hey, are we still friends?” I asked.

Max took my face in his cold hands and kissed my forehead. “Of course we’re still friends.” His eyes were large and his expression soft. “You know, for all my stupid fooling around, you and Trudy are the only women I really love.”

Then, he turned to go inside.

“Max, one more thing,” I said. “Could I see the manuscript for the book you just finished?”

Max put his hands up to his face to blow on his fingers. I couldn’t see his expression, but, after a moment he said, “I heard you were asking for faculty manuscripts. What’s up?”

For a moment I wished I could confide my reasons to Max, who was smart and could help me figure things out. But I stuck with the story about needing to see work for purposes of evaluating.

“Well, I sent off the final version last month before break. But, I think most of it is still on the drive. Could I send it tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s perfect.”

Max looked quizzical for a moment, then turned to go inside. “You better get something to eat, Red. I’m counting on a victory today, you know.”

  

As I said goodbye to the last faculty to leave the retreat, Wilson met me and offered me a Pinot Noir “on the house.” I smiled a refusal and went straight to my car.

Joe met me at the door, also with a glass of Pinot. “I see I am gaining a reputation as a wino,” I said, dropping my coat on the back of the couch and collapsing into the armchair in front of the fire.

“How did it go?”

“Not bad. In fact, better than I expected. Simon was irascible, of course. George worried out loud about traditional benefactors from the industry losing interest in us if we ‘went too radical,’ as he put it. Edwin was unusually quiet and, when he spoke, surprisingly civil to Larry and Phyllis.”

“And the others?”

“The others were positive. I really didn’t have as much refereeing to do as I anticipated.”

“How did it end?”

“Better than I had hoped. Max called for a vote to approve the recommendations and most of the faculty voted yes. The usual suspects did not vote no. They abstained...a bit of a shock, but better than another awful fight.”

“A fight was what you were expecting?”

“That’s what I was expecting. But I guess the threat of being put into receivership made the pit vipers calm down. And, while there may be some rough sledding ahead, I think I might even call this retreat an advance.”

“You don’t think the three of them are up to something, do you?”

“Shit. I hope not.” I started to tell Joe the story about the water buffalo, but he stopped me midway.

“I know the story. And it’s not just a story. It’s been known to happen.”

  

The announcement of the new Henry Brooks Chair in Journalism was held in the large auditorium of the Liberal Arts College next door. Phil Lewis beamed and Stoddard looked sunnier than I had seen him for weeks. Ben Howard made a brief appearance to talk about his friendship with Henry.

Michael Brooks made a special trip out for the occasion. As they walked to the door, I followed. “Thank you so much, Mr. Howard,” I said. “And, Michael, it was great you could come.”

Both men turned. Ben stopped, put his arms around me and gave me a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. Michael smiled and gave me a gentler hug.

“Don’t you think this gorgeous woman should become the first Brooks Chair?” Ben asked of Michael. Michael grinned agreement.

“A fitting tribute to my father,” he said.

  

Sadie was at our usual table at Gormley’s, reading, when I arrived for lunch.

“Good news about the gift of a chair,” she said. “My spies tell me your retreat went well and no bombs went off.”

“No bombs. The combatants treated each other with restraint if not respect and we got some good work done.”

“So is all calm and sunny at the j-school?” she asked.

“Not really,” I answered, “I have a new problem. A challenge, as they say.”

“It never lets up,” she said.

Over lunch I told Sadie about my conversations with Alistair Shaw and my plagiarism hunt.

“Is there no limit to the wickedness of the journalism faculty?” Sadie shook her head. “Do you need any help? I’m good at tracking literary thieves.”

“I am dedicating the weekend to checking manuscripts electronically and reading through George’s print copy.”

“And Max Worthington’s?”

“He hasn’t sent his in yet, but I reminded him today and he promised to get it to me.”

  

Sadie made good on her offer and came over on Saturday to go through both manuscripts. As I supposed, Phyllis’ text had nothing to do with Shaw’s. I called Phyllis that afternoon. “Your book knocked my socks off.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said. “But I’m still not sure why you had to bother with it. Henry and I must have had two or three discussions about it before he died.”

“I know, but I’m the one who has to complete your evaluation, so it was good for me to see it, too.”

“How are you doing, sweetie?” Phyllis’ kind voice almost made my eyes water.

“Some days are better than others but, most of the time, I don’t feel I am getting anywhere at all.”

“Isn’t that typical progress for The Red Queen?”

I smiled. “Indeed, as the old girl said, it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place.”

“Hmm. A good metaphor for hard-working academics.”

  

Sadie had taken on George’s printed manuscript. We had agreed I would probably be less objective and more inclined to look for reason to believe George was our guilty plagiarist.

After an hour of reading, she looked up and grunted. “What drivel. This Weinstein is a dreadfully boring writer and not an inspired thinker. How did he ever get tenured?”

“He was close to the old dean, Simon Gorshak. Also, he’s a genuinely good teacher. His students are crazy about him.”

“Humph,” said the former dean of liberal arts. “I haven’t found anything plagiarized yet.”

She was about a third of the way through George’s manuscript. I picked up some of the remaining pages and started reading.

“Yuk. I see what you mean.” George claimed to have fired his publisher because the editors bugged him about changes. No wonder. I wanted to write his editors a thank you note for saving the world from a truly tedious read.

I did find a few lines from Shaw, but George had put quotation marks around them and attributed fully on the page and in his endnotes.

“Much as I would like an excuse to hang George Weinstein by his thumbs, I don’t think he’s our villain,” I said, after a run through the last third of his book.

“He can’t get a merit raise for this work,” said Sadie.

“No, but he’ll get a compliment for teaching and a comment about how we hope to see a more productive next year in his evaluation.”

“How will he react to that?”

“He’ll be hurt. He’ll be angry. He’ll be loud. And, then he’ll stomp off to figure out how to get even with me.”