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DONNIE LET US INTO the house, and Davison lumbered off to his room. I sat down at the kitchen counter and tore open the envelope, not even bothering to find a pair of scissors to slit it neatly.
It was exactly what I was afraid it would be: notice of a not-completely-favorable vote from my departmental tenure committee. The vote had been three for and only one against, so it could have been worse, but my application was going forward without unanimous support from my own department.
Which one of my colleagues, the ones I saw every day, had voted against me? Dan Watanabe, the interim dean, who had always been a mentor? Rodge Cowper, who was pretty much phoning it in by this point, and scarcely seemed to care enough to hold a grudge against anyone? Who would have cast a no vote, knowing the tenure decision was up or out? If I didn’t make it, my academic career was over.
I felt Donnie’s arm around me. “Bad news?”
“Not great. Someone in my department voted against my tenure bid.”
“You said it was risky being department chair without tenure.”
“I didn’t ask to be department chair. I was forced into it. This negative vote could kill my chances, Donnie. What am I going to do?”
Donnie pulled me close.
“You’ll be fine. We’re in good financial shape. You don’t need to work. You can stay home.”
“So I should just end my career? After making it through a top ten Ph.D. program, and switching fields, and publishing my brains out, and twisting myself into pretzel knots to provide the right level of ‘customer service’ so I can get decent student evals?”
“I didn’t say you should end your career.”
“No? How does that not end my career if I stop working and stay home? What kind of cold-blooded thing is that to suggest? How would you like it if you couldn’t work? How would you feel if someone took away your livelihood? Your only outlet for achievement?”
“Molly, I was just—”
“Does it sound like fun to you to be under house arrest for the rest of your life? How would you like to have to beg for money for every little thing you wanted to buy, as if you were a child? Because that’s how it would be, Donnie. ‘Molly, don’t you already have a dress just like it? Molly, are you sure you need another pair of shoes?’ You already say stuff like that to me, and I’m buying those things with my money.”
“I’m trying to be supportive. You’re worried about what happens if you don’t get tenure, and I’m just telling you we’ll be okay no matter what happens. I’m on your side. What do you want me to say?”
“I know. You were trying to make me feel better. I’m just—these past few days, I’ve had to be so careful not to take up too much space or get in anyone’s way. Davison has his own entire room in this house. I don’t even rate a foot of closet space. I can’t imagine how much more of a nightmare it would be if I were financially dependent on you.”
Davison emerged from his room, avoiding eye contact with us. He beelined to the fridge and got himself a sports drink.
“I’m not here.” He zoomed back to his room.
“I thought you didn’t allow food or drink in the bedrooms,” I said.
“You feel like being married to me is a nightmare?”
“It’s not what I said, exactly. But it’s interesting how you let Davison take his drink back to his room. Remember what happened the one time I took my coffee—”
“Is that what you want, your own room? I thought a married couple was supposed to share a bedroom.”
“We’re not sharing a bedroom, Donnie. I’m staying in your bedroom. Believe me, I can tell the difference.”
“I know I need to clear out the closet to make room for your things. But there’s no point in getting all ready for you to move in if you have no intention of doing it.”
“Chicken and egg, Donnie. I’m not going to move in when in your entire huge house, there’s somehow no room for me.”
“Molly, this whole house is yours, too. I’ll give you as much closet space as you want. Just say the word. Oh, that reminds me. That cockroach costume was taking up too much room in the closet. I moved it.”
“Of course you did. Where’d you put it?”
“Davison’s closet.”
“Listen, I think I’m going to drive back home tonight.”
“Really? I was looking forward to you staying here with me.” He moved closer and buried his face in my hair.
“I should spend the night in town. I need to be close to campus.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. Why do you need to be close to campus?”
“Fine. You caught me. I just want to spend the night at home. It’s been a few days, and I want to make sure everything’s okay there. And thank you for calling Konishi Construction to come fix it. It was very thoughtful of you. We’re still on for tomorrow night though, right?”
“As long as you’re not mad at me. Molly, please remember, I’m not the one who voted against you. I want you to get tenure. I really do.”
“Really?”
“Really. Because imagine how cranky you’d be—hey, whoa, I’m kidding.”
I went out to where my car was parked, half on the narrow road and half on Donnie’s lawn. I buckled in, started the engine, pulled out my cell phone and called Pat, hoping he hadn’t gone back up the hill yet.
“Pat. I’m glad I got hold of you. You and Emma want to come over? To my house?”
“Aren’t you spending the night with your husband?”
“No. We both agreed it would be a good idea for me to spend the night in town, make sure everything’s okay there.”
“I figured you would’ve had enough of your happy little family by now.”
“Are you coming over or not?”
“Want to go over to Molly’s?” Pat asked.
“Sure,” I heard Emma reply.
Pat and Emma were sitting on the couch in my living room when I got home. I smelled coffee.
“You guys are drinking coffee now? Isn’t it kind of late? And did Konishi leave my door unlocked?”
Pat and Emma exchanged a look.
“You need to replace the box of cabernet,” Emma said. “I drank the last of it. So what’s going on?”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you guys what happened when we were driving to the donor dinner.” I related the story of Randy Randolph’s cutting us off and his subsequent bad behavior on the road.
“Yeah, Randolph’s a schmuck,” Emma said. “No news there.”
“But think about it. Don’t you think he could’ve been the one who killed Primo Nordmann?”
“I don’t know.” Pat looked thoughtful. “Whoever committed the murder was somewhat competent. Randy Randolph is a drunken buffoon.”
“Maybe it’s a cover,” Emma suggested.
“He obviously has a temper,” I said. “And you both saw at dinner how he is. He’s clearly a narcissist and a sociopath. And totally lacking in empathy. Did you see how he was winding Davison up?”
“You think just ’cause someone likes to quote Ayn Rand, they’re automatically a narcissist and a sociopath?” Pat said. “Oh wait. I’m the one who thinks that.”
“I thought Davison was gonna snap his neck.” Emma sounded disappointed that he hadn’t “I wouldn’t blame him, either. So what then? What should we do?”
“Let’s tell Detective Medeiros.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and joined them on the couch.
“We can do better than that,” Emma socked my shoulder. “Randy Randolph gave you his card. He’s willing to talk to you.”
“It was actually the second time he gave me his card.”
“He gave you his card twice?” Pat smirked. “Randolph is clearly willing to do something with you. Not sure it has much to do with talking.”
“Molly, you should call him and set up another interview. Pat, you—”
“Not me.” Pat held up a hand. “I have a good-paying gig now. I’m not gonna go around spying on our donors.”
“Fine, Captain Sellout. We don’t need you. Molly and I will do it.”
“What? No way, Emma. I don’t want to be alone with him. I think we should tell Detective Medeiros.”
Emma looked like she was going to object.
“I’m going to call Medeiros first thing tomorrow morning,” I said.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“If he’s not in, I’ll leave a message.”
“Good luck with that, ladies.” Pat set his cup on the coffee table. “I hope you nail him. Now, since we’re all here, let’s talk about something more important. I want your opinion on a new campaign I’m planning.”