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The next day the Boston Globe ran a front-page story with the headline, “St. Paturnus College Board Member Arrested for Murder.” The college campus was abuzz with rumors. Nothing in the newspaper article mentioned John Fulghum. The photo of Felix Contreras was the mug shot taken at the police station. Only for the continuation of the article on page 7 were other file photos of Contreras included. On that same page ran a small article about the woman found brutally murdered with a Bowie knife in the home of Professor Margaret Sturbridge. The identity of the woman was given as Iris Levy, who was “distantly related to the professor.”
When he arrived on campus, Fulghum dodged a forest of reporters seeking to talk with any administrator of the college. He slipped into Sister Barbara’s office and gave her the V for victory sign with his first two fingers. She rolled her eyes and continued her phone conversation. Fulghum wandered through the throngs of students going to class and saw Clancy in his glass box. Clancy winked at Fulghum without stopping his mime routine.
“Mr. Fulghum,” a female voice called out to him. He turned and saw Rita Rivanna holding hands with a young man who was the poster boy for the college football team. “This is Tony. We’re engaged! I thought you’d want to know.” She was beaming and flashing her diamond ring. Tony was looking embarrassed, but he was smiling.
“Let me wish you the both the best of everything in life.”
He shook Tony’s hand and hugged Rita, who whispered in his ear, “Thank you so much.”
Fulghum saw Father Ignatius coming straight towards him with his arms wide open. The Father hugged him. “The ways of the Lord are mysterious,” he said. “One day we’ll have to talk. Right now, I’m off to prison to hear confessions. I’m not sure what’s happened will have any effect on my flock, but you never know!” He padded off towards the parking lot.
Dr. Medic caught up with Fulghum halfway across the quad.
“Professor Fulghum, I thought you’d like to know that twenty-five students have signed up for your night class. I’m reassigning it to one of the large lecture halls. I’ll need your syllabus by tonight, I’m afraid. College rules. Just email it to me when you get the chance. I checked with Father Burin this morning. Mr. Contreras’ arrest won’t upset the SUCCESS program because it’s self-funding now. We won’t need his underwriting from now on.”
Fulghum pressed through the crowds until he came to his office. There he opened his laptop and began composing his syllabus for the evening course. In an hour, he had completed the document. Another half hour was spent tidying up its details and composing a reading list. He sent the finished piece to Dr. Medic before lunch. Almost immediately he received an acknowledgment with thanks and an invitation to see the syllabus posted at the SUCCESS website. Fulghum went to the URL and found his photo along with the syllabus. At the site, the course was now listed as having thirty-eight enrollees.
The detective was getting hungry when Professor Sturbridge, dressed all in black, dropped by his office to suggest lunch. They walked to the cafeteria where he ordered a hamburger with fries and a Coke, and she ordered a salad and coffee. They sat at a large table by the window that overlooked the main quad.
“You’re looking much better today,” Fulghum said.
This was true. Her swelling had gone down, and her bruises had gone from black-and-blue to livid-and-green. When she smiled, he could see where her tooth was chipped, but otherwise, she looked well.
“I’m sorry to read about what happened at your home.”
“The woman whom they killed was my cousin, visiting from Israel. The whole Levy family is in mourning.”
“I believe our business has been successfully concluded.”
“I agree, except I doubt that justice will be done. Contreras’ lawyers will get him off. You can count on that.”
“Possibly, yes, but Contreras’ reputation will be ruined. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds himself released from the Board within the week.”
“Anyone who crossed Mr. Contreras can expect retaliation.”
“That’s a safe bet. But he’ll choose the time and the place. I hope you’ve made arrangements for your security.”
“You can run, Mr. Fulghum, but you cannot hide. Mr. Contreras’ tentacles are everywhere.”
Fulghum nodded. His brain was working hard on a solution. Robin and Greg came to ask if they could join Fulghum and Sturbridge.
“Sure. Have a seat. What’ve you been up to lately?”
“Did you have the chance to look at the picture I emailed you?”
“Yes, Greg. Thanks. It helped a lot. I didn’t recognize everyone in the picture. I just wanted to get the impression of the whole. Seeing all the erasure marks piqued my curiosity.”
“Greg and I were just talking about recreating the picnic picture in the woods. Do you and Professor Blackwood want to join us? You’re to come too, Professor Sturbridge because you’re in the original cartoon.”
“Is there a particular reason for this gathering besides having a good time?” Fulghum asked.
“Greg wants to create a new drawing just like the original, only with new people substituted for some old ones.”
“I’ll come,” volunteered Professor Sturbridge.
“I’ll ask Professor Blackwood and let you know. It sounds like fun.”
“Professor Fulghum, what do you think about the arrest of Mr. Contreras?”
“It’s hard to say, Robin. An arrest doesn’t mean a conviction. It certainly doesn’t reflect well on the college to have a prominent board member put in the public spotlight this way.”
“I dropped by the president’s office. He’s been asked by the bishop to convene the board this evening to discuss the matter. Do you think all this should be reported in The Clarion?”
“Here come the right people to answer your question,” Fulghum said, motioning for Silvia and Sister Barbara to join their gathering. The new arrivals were looking for a place to sit, so they came right over. When they were settled, Fulghum asked Robin to repeat her question.
“How should The Clarion cover what’s happening with Mr. Contreras, Sister Barbara?”
“I’d suggest not following the mainstream media. The board is meeting tonight to make a determination. Reporting on that could keep your reportage on firm footing. Who’s the student representative on the board?”
“That would be Madeline Riley.”
“Why don’t you approach her to provide you with the minutes of that meeting? From the minutes and an interview with the president, you should be able to compile a news story.” Sister Barbara smiled.
Greg did not look happy. “What’s on your mind, Greg?” Fulghum asked.
“I’m still thinking about our picnic portrait.”
“Picnic portrait?” asked Silvia.
“Greg drew a picture of a group in the woods by the ruins of the old retreat building. He and Robin want to do a retake including you and me. I think it’s a great idea. What do you think?”
“I’m game,” said Silvia.
“I am too,” said Sister Barbara. “When’s this going to happen?”
Greg said, “I was thinking May 15. That’s after most classes in day and evening programs. My only concern is Mr. Contreras. After all, he was in the original drawing. In fact, he commissioned it.”
Sister Barbara said, “I think we should have clarified Mr. Contreras’ status by then. You don’t have to rush on this. Schedule the event and take what comes.”
They ate and talked pleasantries until it was time to clean up and return to classes and office hours. Fulghum walked with Professor Sturbridge since they had not completed their conversation.
“So, your cousin came to visit and got caught in a trap designed for you?”
“I’ll never forgive myself. A Bowie knife. How barbaric! In Israel, I’d know exactly how to deal with this matter.” She halted in the path and looked right into Fulghum’s eyes. “I’d take revenge without remorse. And you know what? No one would give it a second thought. An eye for an eye. It’s been that way for five thousand years.” She continued walking, but her subject changed entirely.
“You know, Mr. Fulghum, I don’t know another college campus in the country where the administration, the faculty and the students can sit down to lunch together and listen to Cole Porter hits. Think about it. For all its faults, this is a special school.”
“Meg, will you tell me something about your relationship with Hal?”
“Now that’s a long story requiring low lights and lots of wine.”
“The short version?”
“There’s no short version, John. Is there a short version of your relationship with Silvia?”
Fulghum was speechless.
“I thought not. If only we could seize the day and to hell with the consequences. I don’t know if I even love Hal, but I know he’d die for me. I’m concerned that he’ll do exactly that on account of what’s happened. He told me you helped him out in a jam. You saved his life. He’ll never forget that. For all his antics, he’s a sentimental bugger. Once he decides to own you, he won’t let go.”
Fulghum wondered whether Meg knew about the two-year affair Hal had with Amanda Lebetter. He decided against raising the issue.
“I’d like to attend my cousin’s funeral. Do you have time to accompany me? I’ll manage if you don’t.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“It’s scheduled for three o’clock today. I looked at your schedule and saw that you’re free. It’s at Temple Ohabei Shalom Cemetery in East Boston. 147 Wordsworth Street, to be precise.”
“We can probably make it there in my Saab if we leave right away.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fulghum.”
Fulghum and Sturbridge lit up Marlboros as soon as they departed the college campus. Most of the way, they were lost in their own thoughts, chain-smoking and watched the Boston traffic. The day was bright and clear. They arrived at the cemetery in plenty of time and went to Section 7 where an awning had been set up over an open grave.
“As you probably know, Jewish burials are supposed to happen within 24 hours of death, within the remaining daylight of the day of death if possible. The police forensic staff released the body only this morning at 10 AM, so I had to make the arrangements in a hurry. We’ll see if everything comes together as planned.”
The service was Spartan. Besides the rabbi and the cemetery employees, only Fulghum and Sturbridge were present. When the rabbi asked whether anyone had anything to say, Sturbridge stepped forward and in Hebrew offered the Kaddish for her cousin. She finished and nodded to Fulghum, who said, “Shalom.” She took the trowel and sprinkled earth on the coffin. Fulghum did the same. Then it was over. Sturbridge said a few words in Hebrew to the rabbi and gave him an envelope, presumably with cash inside. He bowed and extended his hand towards the exit.
On the way back to Needham, Sturbridge talked about her cousin in a mix of eulogy and criticism.
“I told her not to come, but she came. What was I to do? She took me to a dental appointment on the day she died. She was supposed to go to my house and eat lunch then pick me up in the late afternoon. My teeth needed work because of the beating. She never returned. I took an Uber cab back home and found her in the garage. Oy vey! Such a mess. It’ll take me a month to wash the place clean. I’m almost afraid to go back on account of the dybbuk.”
“You believe in ghosts?”
“Why not?”
He did not have a good answer for her, so he remained silent.
When Fulghum dropped her at her home, she invited him in for something to drink.
“Meg, I’ll come in to search the place to be sure you’re safe. After I do that, I’ve got to be going. No rest for the weary.”
He searched her house from basement to attic. By the time he finished, he was sure no one was lurking in some corner waiting to kill her.
“I’m still concerned about your garage door. It seems everyone and her cousin has the electronic means to open your garage door.”
“I plan to disable the automatic opener as soon as you’ve departed. Thank you for accompanying me to my cousin’s burial. I don’t think I could have done that alone. You seem to know a little Hebrew.”
“I picked up a few phrases when I was in the Special Forces.”
“In the Middle East.”
“Yes. I was in that area for three tours.”
“Thank you for your service. Earlier I mentioned our tradition of an eye for an eye. I think you must understand that concept.”
“I understand and believe it.”
“I knew I could rely on you. If I had died instead of my cousin, what would you have done with the money I put in your offshore account?”
“When at first I thought the person who died might be you, that ran through my mind.”
“Did you make a determination?”
“No. The corpse was not yours. What would you have me do with that money?”
“Mr. Fulghum, you may do with it whatever you please. And since you’ve earned it, I’ll give you the additional amount I promised in the beginning.”
“How do you know I’ve earned it?”
“Mr. Fulghum, I don’t believe in coincidences any more than you do. Now if you’re not going to spend the night with me, go in peace.”
“Shalom, Meg.”
Fulghum departed wondering whether Contreras’ thugs would return to finish the job they had botched by mistaking Meg’s cousin for their real target. He realized that by taking Sturbridge to the cemetery, he had missed his appointment with the appraiser. He pulled off the highway to catch up on his messages.
The first message was from Sister Barbara, asking whether he had forgotten about his appointment with the appraiser. He replied, “Mea culpa. Please reschedule if possible and let me know the time.”
His second message was from Silvia wondering where he had gone since his car was not in the parking lot. He replied, “On an errand in South Boston. Returning. CU.”
The third message had been a text from Clancy. “What gives with you and Meg?” followed by a frowny-face emoji.
Fulghum texted back, “Funeral in Boston. Will discuss when you’re out of your glass cage for a moment.”
Kim Su Baek sent him an email with a terse message, “DPRK hit team ENR. RUOK?”
Fulghum responded, “IMOK. Thanks for the heads-up! Have you met your dream poet yet?”
That interchange caused him to recall Mander’s mention of a poet for Sue. Fulghum texted Mander, “What about the poet for Kim Su Baek? She just warned me of something important. Did you copy?”
Four minutes later Mander was back with, “Poet on deck. Got her message. Working now. Watch Six.” Fulghum responded with a smiley face.
Silvia texted him, “Will you stop by my place and pick up bathrobe with red-crowned cranes? I feel naked without it.”
Fulghum texted her, “WILCO.”
Fulghum went to Silvia’s apartment to pick up her bathrobe and immediately sensed that the place was under surveillance. He didn’t stop but continued well beyond her building. He parked and walked back in the shadows to scope out the surveillance. As he suspected, the two goons who worked for Contreras were keeping their eyes focused on the entry. He decided that leaving them uninjured was not in his script. He waited until he saw the way clear and went into his Special Forces mode, reverting to his combat skills. He snapped the necks of both watchers and collected their cell phones. He quickly went into Silvia’s apartment and exited with the bathrobe, the ginseng root, and liquor. He locked her door on exit and proceeded northwest to Route 3 and the closest exit to arrive at Lillian’s Motel.
Silvia opened the door after he knocked with their special code. He presented her with the bathrobe and ginseng treats but made no mention of the two hit men he had dispatched in her neighborhood. For their menacing presence, he knew he owed a visit to Felix Contreras, but he decided to enjoy an evening with Silvia before he took his revenge.
While Silvia prepared a snack of ginseng and JD, Fulghum sent a text message to Meg, “Two eyes for two eyes. Shalom.”
She responded, “Thank you. Your additional funds should appear in your account momentarily.”
Fulghum checked his account. The additional $500,000 was shown as a recent deposit. He texted Meg, “Amount received. Thank you.”
Silvia appeared from the bedroom wearing the bathrobe with the red-crowned cranes. She also was wearing the two hair sticks. They ate sliced ginseng and drank JD until Fulghum decided they needed to migrate to the bedroom. Before they did that, a knock at the door caused him to draw his concealed weapon and rush Silvia to the bedroom with its door closed. At the door was Lillian, the formidable manager of the motel. She had her hand out. Fulghum nodded and fetched five fifty-dollar bills to pay for a second occupant of Room 7. Lillian smiled and curled the five fifties over a roll she carried in her saddle pouch.
“Thank you kindly, mister. A girl has to watch closely these days, or she’s likely to be cheated by even the nicest folks. Have a good night.”
Fulghum closed, locked and latched the front door. Then he went back to the bedroom and gave the secret knock. “That was Lillian. I think she was jealous of you. In any case, I paid her enough to keep you with me for five days. How does that sound?”
She pulled him close and kissed him on the lips. He hugged her and ran his hands down her sides and around her back. In no time, she was no longer wearing the silk bathrobe he had fetched for her, and he was au natural. They spent the rest of the night trying to determine who was going to be on top. In effect, it did not matter; they took turns. In the morning, when the alarm went off, they wanted to start all over again, but they had to get to school.
While they got ready, the both checked their messages.
Mander had texted, “DPRK 6-person hit team taken out in Bedford.”
To this Fulghum texted, “BZ. Thanks.”
Sister Barbara had emailed, “New appraiser appointment two p.m. today in the retreat house. Don’t be late.”
Fulghum returned, “K.”
Greg Marston emailed, “Everything set up for May 15 picnic. Details follow to all.”
Fulghum responded, “Great job of coordination. Looking forward to details.”
Nigel Pounce emailed, “Murders in Greater Boston increasing alarmingly. Two new corpses near your friend’s apartment and six near your old digs in Bedford. These yours? Forget that. Watch your six.”
Fulghum responded, “News to me. Any progress on Contreras case?”
Within minutes, Pounce replied, “Contreras case political at COP, mayoral and gubernatorial levels. He may walk.”
Clancy emailed, “Thank you for driving Meg to South Boston. She’s very grateful. Didn’t know you knew Hebrew.” Fulghum returned a smiley face.
Fulghum made his appointment with the appraiser in the retreat house. The man looked like an accountant. He was bald with wire rim glasses. He seemed to walk on tiptoe. Dark hair, what there was of it. Dark eyes against pale skin that seemed not to have seen much daylight, ever. He seemed to be bothered that he had to interrupt his important papal work for a mere faculty member.
“I won’t take much of your time,” Fulghum said. “I’ll need a copy of your final report, inclusive. Can you provide that to me?”
“I can’t just give that to you. I’d have to give it to someone official.”
“All right. Will you give a special copy to Sister Barbara, the acting VP for Academic Affairs of the college?”
“I suppose so.”
“While we’re talking, can you give me a ballpark amount that the paintings and prints in this building are worth?”
“Conservatively speaking, the entire collection is worth three hundred million dollars.”
“What do you mean by conservatively?”
“My valuations are based on the last auction records for these works. Many of the paintings have not been on the market for fifty or a hundred years. Still, I peg their value at the last known auction sale price. Prints are different in that auction prices reflect states and condition. A best-state Rembrandt, for example, would be much more valuable than a worst state. I would choose the worst state for my evaluation because that would reflect a minimum current auction value.”
“The works you’re examining are Old Masters, for the most part, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Shouldn’t they be much more valuable than the modern and contemporary items being sold at Sotheby’s, for example?”
“Not necessarily, no. In fact, Old Masters are now in a slump. This is particularly true because in this case at least, the provenance was truncated by the theft of the art by the Nazi government and its agents.”
“So, the auction value of these works might be lower or higher than your appraisal suggests?”
“It’s highly unlikely that the Church will auction these works on account of the publicity they would generate.”
“As a result, the values you’re going to set are for insurance purposes?”
“Yes, and collateral purposes.”
“Collateral, as in loan value?”
“That’s correct. If someone would like to collateralize the collection, he would want the value to be conservative.”
“I don’t understand. It stands to reason that for insurance purposes alone, you’d want a high valuation in case of loss or damage. Further, when collateralizing, you’d want to have the highest possible valuation in case of default on the loan granted against the collateral.”
“Your assumptions are correct except that these artifacts will be handled exclusively by Vatican personnel. The likelihood of being damaged or lost in transit would be minimal. Consider that they’ve lasted all the years since the war unscathed. As for insurance, the Vatican would naturally self-insure.”
“I see. The Vatican has special rules for internal handling of art. As for the Nazi connection, how much would you estimate would be a fair amount of gold to house and maintain this collection indefinitely?”
“You can only be talking about the Nazi gold that accompanied this collection to America after the war. The Germans were extremely careful about the care of artworks. They thought ahead and considered everything that might occur. My judgment is that the ten metric tons of gold would serve to protect the art indefinitely as long as other issues didn’t intrude.”
“What kind of other issues are you thinking of?”
“I’m thinking of the gold being used to underwrite operational funds or make significant purchases of real estate. Funding a college endowment might be a case in point.”
“Are you valuing the art alone or the art and the gold as a unit?”
“My task is to assess the art and the gold as a single unit. If the art moves, the gold moves. They are inseparable. That is the Church’s firm opinion.”
“And this opinion comes from the top of the hierarchy?”
“If by that you mean His Holiness the Pope, yes. But it’s a view shared by those in the Curia who have responsibility for such assets.”
“Does the scope of your appraisal extend beyond the art in this building and the gold in the basement of the Administration Building?”
“No, it does not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to work.”
“Thank you for your time. I’ll be looking to receive my copy of your appraisal from Sister Barbara in due course. When do you think your completed appraisal will be available?”
“It should be available in the middle of May if I keep to schedule.” He gave Fulghum an insinuating look as if to say his time was being wasted right now.
It was now clear to the detective that the art and gold were a package. When the package left the college, nothing would be left behind. The four other repositories were a separate matter, but Fulghum had no idea they actually existed. He did know that the safe repository in the basement of the Administration Building had assets beyond the Nazi gold. He figured those might amount to something like a fortune. He could have kicked himself for not asking about those, but perhaps mentioning them would have caused problems he had not anticipated.
Fulghum went straight to Sister Barbara’s office and found her daydreaming, looking out her window like a pre-Raphaelite heroine. She was most beautiful in his opinion. “Are you dreaming of Goblin Market, perhaps?”
“Oh, Mr. Fulghum, I was just thinking about all that’s happened in the last week. I want to thank you again for fulfilling your obligation to find the murderer of the Lebetters. I had my suspicions about Mr. Contreras, but having the police take effective action makes all things clear.”
“There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip,” Fulghum paraphrased the English proverb. “Justice is a separate world where anything can happen. I’ve just talked with the appraiser. He’s going to give me a copy of his appraisal through you. He said he’d be finished in mid-May. Will you please remember to give me the copy right after he gives it to you?”
“He won’t give it to you directly?”
“No. His report has to be delivered to someone in authority. That means you.”
“I’ll make a note of it and give it to you as soon as possible after I receive it.”
“I have a question that goes beyond my brief.”
“What’s that, Mr. Fulghum?”
“If a donor had a million dollars he or she would like to give to the college, what would be the most deserving project to fund with it?”
“That’s a game we play all the time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Father Burin and I make up a little wish list. We update it every month. It includes the neediest programs for donations in amounts ranging from ten thousand dollars to ten million. The A-list donation wish list goes all the way up to one hundred million. Father Burin considers it his pipeline to the future. If the Lord brings us a donor, it’s our obligation to use the money well. As I’ve told you many times, we are good stewards. We grow programs that can become self-sustaining. We won’t just throw money at wasteful projects that don’t complement what we essentially are.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
“By the way, Mr. Fulghum, having satisfied your obligation to me as your client, you are free to do as you please. I hope you’ll stay to the end of the semester. The students like what you have to say. The SUCCESS students are looking forward to your offering. I’ve signed up for your course. Professor Silvia Blackwood has also done exemplary work for the college. In fact, she’s turned out to be the perfect teacher. Her students rave about the way she enlivens her courses. She’s patient and kind, tough but fair. I’ll let her know these things separately, but I want to thank you for bringing her to us. The president had doubts at the outset, but he’s happy as a clam now. I’m afraid I’ve taken too much of your time. Feel free to stop by at any time just to chat. I value our walks on the perimeter. Enjoy your class tonight. The numbers are swelling. I’ll be there to cheer you on.”
Fulghum went to his office and texted Silvia, “As a reminder, I’m teaching my first SUCCESS class tonight. Wish me luck. I’ll be at Lillian’s around eleven o’clock. Love, John.”
Fulghum reviewed his syllabus and thought through his introductory lecture. He surfed the internet for some choice quotations. Since tonight he was only going to frame the course, not show films, he wanted to bring color and vitality to noir. He wanted to stimulate his students to think out of the box. He didn’t know whom to expect in his class, but he had an administrator and students designated as night school only. He had to be on his toes. In a flash of insight, he arrived at a title for his lecture, “To Noir with Love.” He brainstormed the idea and jotted down notes in a Word document. From there, he arranged his random thoughts into a coherent message. He took care to leave some ideas ragged rather than fully thought out. Students, he thought, need to feel as if they are helping to shape the course with their thoughts.
An hour before his three-hour class was to begin, Fulghum walked the periphery of the campus alone in the evening. The sky was clear. He could see the bright lights of the campus and hear occasional shouts and mock screams of students horsing around. He rehearsed his opening until he knew it cold. He took a deep breath and concentrated, so he heard the sounds of frogs and insects in the night.
“Fulghum, is that you?” a familiar voice whispered.
“Clancy?” the detective responded.
“Yes, it’s me. I thought you’d like to know that tonight’s the night.”
“For what?”
“You know. And if you don’t, you’ll know in the morning.”
“Watch your six out there,” Fulghum urged the voice. He could not see Clancy.
Clancy seemed to have disappeared.
Fulghum walked back to the campus, now acutely aware of his surroundings. He picked up his laptop and walked to the lecture hall for his class. When he walked in the door, he saw that he did not have a scattering of students in a half-filled auditorium. Instead, every seat of the one hundred was filled. Among his enrollees, he saw administrators, faculty, and students. They were excitedly talking when he entered, but as he approached the podium, they became silent. A pin drop could have been heard before he spoke.
“I was thinking about a title for this course when it hit me—‘From Noir with Love.’ This title is appropriate not because you come to noir but because noir comes to you. It puts a rough edge on your senses and confronts you, shaking your complacency like a grip of the neck, a ham fist to the gut, or a sap to the back of the head. Noir is rude, crude and sassy. It’s unexpurgated and raw. It upsets you in ways you hadn’t anticipated. It unsettles your soul. If you’re a romantic, noir’s your nemesis. If your outlook is black, noir is like winged Melancholy brooding for ways to take you down in despair. The best noir writers, playwrights, film directors and visual artists, tell us something that lies beyond our conscious selves. They don’t give us science fiction, though the world they force us to understand is a parallel, darker universe to our own. I’ve planned an odyssey for us through a wild and unknown realm of noir questioning truth and awakening our sensibilities. Tonight, I’m going to become a great noir writer. Imagine if you will that I am Raymond Chandler. Don’t take notes. Just listen. Hear my stories. As this course continues, the stories will come back to you in print and on the screen. I want you to think, but more, I want you to feel the grip of noir.”
For the next two and a half hours Fulghum lectured without a break. His class was mesmerized by his story-telling style. When he had finished, he stopped, picked up his class list and walked to the door. The class almost let him escape before they erupted in applause.
Fulghum continued walking out of the building into the night. He walked straight out to his Saab where on the windshield under the wiper on the driver’s side he found a note. He climbed into his car and turned on the interior light to read. He hit the door and rolled free of the car. At that instant, Fulghum ran away from the vehicle with everything he could muster. When the blast came, he dove to the ground. Behind him was a roaring ball of fire.
In his hand, he held the note, which read, “I know you wore a wire. I know where you live. You bastard.” Though the note was not signed, the handwriting was familiar. It was the signature of Felix Contreras.
Frantic, Fulghum dialed Silvia’s number. His call went to voicemail. He sent her a text message, “RUOK?” She did not respond.
The police and emergency vehicles arrived in the college lot. Someone had called 911. The firemen put out the fire. The police interviewed Fulghum, who gave them a short statement.
Benny came up and asked, “Is there anything I can do, Professor?”
Fulghum replied, “Are you willing to give me a ride to Nashua right now?”
During the drive to Lillian’s, Fulghum called Silvia’s number repeatedly. She still did not answer. Arriving at the motel, Fulghum asked Benny to wait for a moment.
He dashed to Room 7 and gave the secret knock. No one answered. He gave the knock again. Still, there was no answer. Rather than breaking down the door, Fulghum went to the office to check whether the night manager had news of Silvia.
The man laughed. “Room 7, right?”
“Yes, Room 7.”
The man laughed again, a rich belly laugh. “Give up.”
“What did you say?”
“Give up!” The man was about to turn around when Fulghum leaped the desk and grabbed him by the neck.
“Tell me where she is!” Fulghum’s fist contracted around the man’s neck.
“Hey, back off, will you. She changed from Room 7 to Room 10 around seven o’clock. Go to Room 10. She’s there.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“All right, buddy. I’m with you. I’ve got the master key.”
Fulghum went to the door and knocked in the familiar code. He heard a chain unfastening and the lock opening. In a moment, the door opened, and Silvia stood there in her silk bathrobe with two glasses of Jack Daniels, one in each hand.
“Man, like I told you. There she is. Are you satisfied? Geez.”
Fulghum glared at the young man and said, “Scram!”
The man fell over himself to escape to his office. Fulghum looked at Silvia, who now was worried about him.
“You’ll never guess what happened this evening,” she said, holding out a glass of JD for him. He did not take it.
“You didn’t answer your phone. I texted, but you didn’t text back.”
“I dropped my cell phone in the toilet. It’s FUBAR.”
“Why did you change rooms?”
“Do you know how you get those hunches?”
“I surely do.”
“Well, I got a hunch. So instead of waiting for you to arrive, I went to the desk and asked for another room. I brought everything here. I figured when you arrived you’d figure things out.”
“Wait just a minute. I want to bring a friend in for a minute. Do you mind?”
“No. Should I pour another glass of JD?”
But by then Fulghum was in the parking lot asking Benny whether he wanted to come in for a drink.
“Mr. Fulghum, I’d like that, really, but I’ve got to get back down to campus. I’ve got work to do before I sleep. Maybe another time, we’ll have that drink. Are you going to be okay getting in tomorrow?”
“I’ll be fine, Benny.”
“Hey, Professor, I was in your class tonight. Wow, what a sendoff that was. Then to top it off, your car blows sky high! Look, I know you didn’t blow up your own car. But wow! Maybe we need to develop some private surveillance for you in the future. Like when you get a new car. Just saying. Anyway, I’m gone. Goodnight.”
Benny flipped on his headlights and backed out of the parking space. He drove towards Route 3 and disappeared over the crest of the hill.
Fulghum turned to go back to Silvia except he saw through the window of the motel office that the manager was talking excitedly to someone on the phone. Fulghum looked at his watch. It was midnight. The detective crept up to the office and carefully opened the door. He heard his worst nightmare.
“Yes, Mr. Contreras, he’s here right now. Room Number 10. His girlfriend’s with him ... Yes, sir, I’ll call you if they split. Goodbye.”
The man hung up his phone. He did not see Fulghum approach or hear the gun catch him behind the ear inducing a mild concussion and blackout. Fulghum pulled the cord from the venetian blinds and tied the fat man’s hands behind his back and cinched his feet together.
He went back to the room and told Silvia to grab her bag right away. He tore her clothing from the clothes hangers and marched Silvia to her car. He took her keys and drove while she sat on the passenger side observing him. Only when they were well away from Lillian’s Motel did he light a Marlboro and offer her one as well.
“Where are we going, John?” she asked as she exhaled.
“We’re going to a place I know in Bedford. It’s called Dahlia’s. We’ll stay there tonight. It’ll be safe.”
“Where’s your Saab?”
“It’s gone forever. It blew up in a fireball in the parking lot at the college. No one was hurt, fortunately. Felix Contreras rigged the job—or he had it rigged. He left me a love note.”
Fulghum heard the ringer that indicated a text message arriving on his cell phone. The message was from Clancy, “RUOK?”
Fulghum didn’t reply. A few minutes later Clancy texted again. “FC is decidedly NOT OK.” Again, Fulghum did not reply.
Next Fulghum got a text from Meg: “RUOK? Worried sick.” Fulghum let it slide.
Fulghum’s mind was racing on overdrive. It was all he could do to keep Silvia’s car at the speed limit. He did not want to be stopped by police this night. Psychologically, he was back in the war zone in the Middle East. His mind ached to call down an air strike and blow Contreras sky high with a daisy cutter. The air base was nearby, after all, but he had no radio and no longer wore the uniform. More than that, he wanted to get Silvia to somewhere safe.
“Dahlia’s will be okay until tomorrow,” he said.
The night manager at Dahlia’s knew Fulghum, so making the registry “Mr. and Mrs. Baek” was fine with him. The man took cash for three nights in advance and gave the couple the stand-alone cabin near the rear where they parked her car behind the building. That way the license plates wouldn’t be visible from Route 225. In the room, Fulghum pulled all the shades tight and tried to assure that they would be prepared for a siege. He checked his weapon.
Silvia showed him that she had rescued Jack Daniels from Lillian’s. She poured each of them three fingers of the velvety brown liquid. They touched glasses and drank. She wanted to edge them back to some semblance of normalcy.
“How did your noir evening class go?” she asked.
“It never ended,” he said with a rueful smile. He raised his glass. Imitating the inimitable Bogey, he said, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” before he went to the bed and collapsed, careful to put the glass of JD on the night table under the lamp before he crashed entirely.
Silvia brushed his hair with her right hand affectionately. “Sleep tight, John.” She set the alarm for seven o’clock thereupon, she slid under the covers and slept until the alarm awakened them both in the morning.
When he and Silvia were ready to depart for the college, Fulghum turned on the television to the local news channel. Two of the three featured stories pertained to the college. In the first, a car had burned up last evening in the college parking lot. Footage showed the blaze without mentioning the owner of the car. In the second, Mr. Felix Contrares had been rushed to the Emergency Room early this morning with a gunshot wound to the head.
The commentator reported, “Pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, the Greater Boston area contractor and philanthropist had apparently committed suicide. Mr. Contrares was recently arrested for murder. His executor and lawyers had no comments to this channel about the reasons for his having taken his own life.”
“Silvia, we have just enough time to drop your things at your apartment before we head to school. What do you think?”
“I think we should check our messages. Who knows what else has been happening in the neighborhood?”
Fulghum turned on his cell phone and checked his messages.
Thirty people at the college had expressed condolences on the loss of his vehicle and hoped he was not injured in the fire. Fulghum responded to every one of those emails and text messages including a quote from Mark Twain, “The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”
An email from Professor Sturbridge, quoting Exodus, “The penalty shall be life for life. Shalom Aleichem.”
Fulghum responded, “Aleichem Shalom.”
Two text messages from Professor Clancy contained information about powder blue Saabs for sale in the Greater Boston area. Those Fulghum did not answer, but he did not delete them.
Sue had texted that Fulghum must have a guardian angel. He answered with a smiley face.
Sister Barbara reported that the board meeting last night reluctantly advised that Mr. Felix Contrares temporarily vacate his position on the board while certain allegations were addressed in the courts. Mr. Contrares had been indignant and stormed out of the meeting hurling imprecations in every direction. Sister also reported that the president had appointed another A-list donor to take Mr. Contrares’ place on the board. “It’s likely she’ll accept. She’s been a quiet backer of the Sodality for Peace and Justice. I’m most pleased.”
Robin had asked him for an interview for The Clarion regarding the Saab fire. Fulghum texted that they should wait until he had bought a new car for that.
Greg Marston had sent a formal RSVP invitation to the May 15 picnic in the woods. He characterized the event as “graphic.” Fulghum accepted the invitation.
When he had cleaned up his forty-odd junk mail messages, Fulghum said, “I’m ready to start the day. Are you?”
“Anything interesting in your messages?”
“It was more of the usual. Oh, yes, there was an invitation to that May 15 picnic.”
“I liked the word ‘graphic.’ Did you notice that Mr. Contrares was not among the invitees, but the new board member, Sheila McDougal, was?”
“News travels fast.”
“The invitation was issued before the board meeting. I’ll say that’s faster than the speed of light.”
“I don’t think we’ll have time to stop by your apartment now, but it was good to catch up on the messages. At the rate things are happening, anything might have been in those messages.”
Fulghum drove while Blackwood composed notes for her planned article on art collections in small Catholic colleges. She told Fulghum she had tentatively titled the piece, “Hidden Jewels.”
Fulghum purchased a brand new powder blue Saab on credit because of the zero-interest loan rate. He and Silvia spent weekends visiting houses for sale in the Greater Boston area. They found a Cape Cod near his office. She liked the place for him. He bought it for cash.
The semester ended though Fulghum and Blackwood were so busy grading papers and exams they thought the work would never end. They attended the picnic in the woods. There Professor Sturbridge read Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” while Professor Clancy played the flute. Robin kibitzed while Greg did his composite drawing. Sheila McDougal went out of her way to shake everyone’s hand and discuss improvements in the life of the campus. The president seemed relieved that another year had ended without apocalypse.
Sister Barbara was dressed in a snappy spring green pants with a matching SODALITY T-shirt. She had two students bring a box of such T-shirts in various sizes to distribute to all picnic attendees. She had also brought a present for Fulghum—the appraisal he had requested earlier. When she gave him the elegant book, her thanks seemed to encompass many things.
Father Malloy had also brought a special gift from the college to Silvia. It was a package of catalogs of the four off-campus collections she would use for her article, together with a letter authorizing publication images of fifteen artworks of her choice.
The president took John and Silvia aside for a private conversation. “I wish you two had opted to continue your contracts for at least another year, but I fully appreciate your desires to return to your professions. Best of luck to you. We’ve felt privileged having you among us. Silvia, it’s not often that we have a one-term lecturer voted Best Teacher of the Year. Congratulations. And John, you’ve coined a new faculty award, Best of Noir. I’m not sure how to thank you for that.”
“Father Malloy,” Fulghum said, “here we’re having a picnic in a setting with the ruins of a retreat. Do you care to comment on the irony of that?”
They all laughed. Greg walked up with his sketchbook and showed them what he had drawn. The artist asked everyone to pose for a group picture taking positions just as his drawing indicated, so the picnickers did as they were told. Their positions were identical to those in Marston’s original drawing, with substitutions as necessary. Sheila McDougal replaced Felix Contrares. For the Lebetters, Fulghum and Blackwood were substituted. For the former VP of Academic Affairs was Sister Barbara, who had now been promoted. Dr. Medic took the place of Sister Barbara in the original because she was in the place of the former VP now. The president, treasurer, and librarian looked pretty much the same as they had in the earlier picture. Greg took the photo with a time delay so he could be in the picture.
Behind the group, though visible in the streaming sunlight though covered with foliage was the ruin of the former retreat, looming out of the foliage like a memento mori. Later Fulghum, like the others, received a copy of the color photograph, which he mounted alongside Marston’s two drawings on the wall of his office. When he compared the new and old drawings, he noticed that the composition of the ruin had been changed in the new one. Marston had substituted his conception of the new retreat building as a ruin for the old ruin. Once again, he had looked into the future, for the new retreat building burned to the ground the week after the paintings and prints left the campus along with the gold.
Fulghum was invited by Meg Sturbridge to lunch at her home. Over cucumber sandwiches and Jack Daniels whiskey, she told the detective that her assignment was over though the president told her she could stay on as faculty as long as she liked though she would never be granted tenure. She laughed because she knew her lawsuits were the reasons for her guaranteed longevity at the college.
She smiled when Fulghum asked, “Why are you staying at all since you have the means to live anywhere you like?”
“Some bonds, Mr. Fulghum, are deeper and stronger than traditions.” He knew she meant her bond with Hal Clancy, who had finally escaped from his glass box yet still haunted the campus like a dybbuk.
“By the way, I met young Adolf and his great-aunt Trudy in Nashua. I don’t think they’ll be much trouble politically. Trudy, however, will have her hands full raising that little hellion.”
Silvia became a dues-paying member of the Sodality though she had little time to devote to the society’s meetings. She did not win a Pulitzer Prize for her series of articles on the five collections though they opened the door for art historians and connoisseurs worldwide, as well as lawyers and accountants looking for large fees for repatriating the artifacts. In fact, the furor generated by the repatriations led to Silvia’s third Pulitzer Prize, but that came much later.
After his one-semester teaching adventure, Fulghum returned to being a gumshoe in his office above Joe’s Malt Shop. On a particularly hot summer’s day, he was reading a racing form and smoking a Marlboro when he heard a knock on his door.
“Just twist the knob and push. You know the drill.”
In through the smoke came Nigel Pounce. He sat in the captain’s chair opposite Fulghum’s. He placed a gaily wrapped gift box on the detective’s desk.
“This present is from Molly. It’s a thank you for all you did for her sister, Sister Barbara. She said to open it right away and not let it get lost among the racing forms.”
Fulghum opened the present, which was a set of four glass tumblers and a pristine polishing rag.
“Tell Molly; she must have been inspired.”
Fulghum carefully placed the four tumblers in the second drawer to his right. Then he had a second thought. He placed two tumblers on the desk and raised a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey from the second drawer. After pouring three fingers of the brown, velvety liquid in each glass, he slid one glass to Pounce and raised the other for a toast.
“Vox in choro, mens in foro!”
Pounce, who knew Latin from high school, laughed and touched glasses with Fulghum before they both savored the heavenly elixir.
The homicide man said, “Perhaps it’s time to get our lines wet at Pontoosuc Lake again. What do you say?”
The detective answered, “Hold that thought, Nigel. We have Jack Daniels in our company. Let’s relax a moment and catch up on things. It’s going to be a great afternoon.”