Angel Food and Devil Dogs (15 page)

Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!

Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one."

"That was nice," she said sincerely, "must have been an Imagist... Amy Lowell? Does she count as a New England poet if she did most of her writing in Europe?"

"Amy Lowell was from Brookline, Mass, the heart of New England, and I get extra credit because she was a lesbian."

"So now it's my turn? I'll have to try to get extra credit too. And maybe I can offer something to the snow as well." She gathered herself for a moment and then with her mesmerizing voice she recited:

It sifts from Leaden Sieves --

It powders all the Wood.

It fills with Alabaster Wool

The Wrinkles of the Road --

It makes an Even Face

Of Mountain, and of Plain --

Unbroken Forehead from the East

Unto the East again --

It reaches to the Fence --

It wraps it Rail by Rail

Till it is lost in Fleeces --

It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack -- and Stem --

A Summer's empty Room --

Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,

Recordless, but for them--

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts

As Ankles of a Queen --

Then stills its Artisans -- like Ghosts --

Denying they have been --

While she was speaking, I had to acknowledge that she had such an intoxicating voice, she could have been reading a laundry list and I'd want to listen. Even so, the piece she'd chosen seemed exactly right for the scene. Better than mine. When she was done, I grinned, "Emily Dickinson, how perfect."

We looked into each other's eyes for several long moments. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. She was considering me with her head tilted to the side again with a slightly predatory look in her eyes. I liked the way it made me feel.

The clock tower on the Zion Church at the far end of the Mews struck the hour in snow muffled tones. "It's 3:00 AM, I have an appointment in a few hours. I have to go home, but I'd like to see you to your door," I said.

"You don't have to," she said standing up.

"I really want to talk to you about Carl Rasmus and also what happened in the conference room yesterday. I need someone in the college who has an objective viewpoint on people... if we could meet for lunch tomorrow..."

She was quiet for what seemed like a long time. I immediately knew I'd said something wrong. There was a dissatisfied look in her eyes, or maybe it was suspicion. She said stiffly, "I don't want to be in a position to accuse anyone."

"Kathryn, I just want you to tell me things like -- This guy teaches printmaking and he's married and about 40 years old. You don't have to tell me whether or not you think he's capable of murdering someone. After all, the whole thing may have nothing to do with the college at all."

"So you want background...? "

"Yeah."

"Can't the college supply that?" she asked flatly.

"Not completely, because records don't always include general personal information... due to affirmative action requirements," I explained way too mechanically.

"We could have spoken about this all now..." she said impatiently as we walked down the steps. I was beginning to understand. She was thinking that the only reason I was chatting her up was to get information for the case.

I touched her arm, slowing her down. I said softly, "Yes, we could have, but that wouldn't have been nearly as... pleasurable. It was far more interesting to talk to you about other things. I enjoyed it. How frequently does an hour like this pop up in life?" I said gesturing back to the monument, as we crossed the street. "How could I waste it talking about things we could discuss any time?"

She turned to look at me, a hint of a smile returned to her face. We were almost to her building.

"So... lunch tomorrow?" I asked hopefully.

She paused to think. "I have a grad seminar at 10:00 AM. It ends at 1:00. Then I get about an hour for lunch. Then, I have a series of dull meetings in the afternoon and into the evening. We could meet in the cafeteria for lunch at a little after 1:00?" We seemed to be back on an even keel.

We were on the sidewalk facing each other in front of her building. I said I'd meet her at 1:00 PM in the Student Union. I had fulfilled all my self-appointed tasks for the evening and was feeling pretty smug.

There were two long low steps to the entrance of the Hampshire Apartment Building. Behind the glass doors to the lobby I could see a dim light where a doorman was probably watching the late, late show. The light on the elevator panel was just visible.

"Where are your windows? Are they on this side?" I leaned back to look up at the front of the building.

She seemed to hesitate, then said, "There, on the third floor."

I looked where she was pointing. No lights on, but I could see the outline of the windows. Everything seemed hushed. I could hear the muffled sounds of a few cars several blocks away, but we hadn't seen one drive along any of the Mews streets in all the moments we'd been together.

Time slowed down. I felt the warmth of her body near mine. She stepped up on one of the steps, and then turned to face me. It made her a few inches taller than I. I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them into my pockets.

"Thank you for a wonderful walk, it was the highlight of my day," I said as I extended my hand. She pulled off her gloves too. She took my hand in both of hers and held it. Her hands were warm. Mine was too. I could feel a humming electric current between us.

"Warm hands..." she said.

"But I'm unlucky at cards." We both laughed. She still held on, looking down at me from the step.

OK
,
I thought to myself, I'm not sure what's going on here, are we having a
moment
, or is she just being polite? I put my other hand on the outside of hers. I had a second to consider whether kissing her might be a good move. I thought of something else.

"One more poem by Emily Dickinson, to say goodnight?" and then I recited something I'd been saving for years, just for this very moment:

Meeting by Accident,

We hovered by design --

As often as a Century

An error so divine

Is ratified by Destiny,

But Destiny is old

And economical of Bliss

As Midas is of Gold --

When I finished, a few seconds went by before she took a breath and whispered, "Take a step forward."

I moved up to the step. She leaned down slightly and brushed my cheek with her very soft lips, then whispered near my ear, "I'm looking forward to seeing you again," and then she let go of my hands and was gone.

Yipe... yeah that was a moment all right. I had to shake myself to stop standing there like a dolt. Geez, I hope she didn't glance over her shoulder and notice I was frozen in place with my mouth open.

I turned and began to walk west to my building. Everything had been so perfect. Even though I could still feel the sensation of her lips on my cheek and her breath in my ear, I was beginning to wonder whether what had just happened was all a dream.

I walked up the south side of the Mews. When I got to the part of the sidewalk I'd cleared in front of Farrel and Jessie's house, I stopped. I turned around slowly and looked back at the Hampshire Apartments. I could see the line of four windows Kathryn had said were hers, on the third floor. Now, a dim light was showing in the far left one. I wondered if she was standing in one of the darkened windows watching me. I turned and continued on up the sidewalk, but the prickly excited feeling that she may have been watching, pleasantly tickled the back of my neck all the way home.

Oh man, it is really going to be a let-down if any minute now the alarm rings and I find I'm dreaming this, I thought to myself. But I wasn't dreaming... and that wasn't the last
moment
I was to have with Dr. Kathryn Anthony.

Thursday morning, I got up just before 8:00 AM but was mighty sleepy. I'd tried to go right to sleep the night before, but I lay awake for a long time... thinking. I should have been sorting through the facts on Carl Rasmus. I should have been trying to figure out who set the firebomb, but all I could think about was Kathryn. She'd kissed me. She'd whispered in my ear. I wondered if in her apartment in the Hampshire building, she'd lain awake too.

I showered and dressed. The phone rang. It was Bouchet. He told me that both Bart and Georgia could probably talk to me in the hospital today, but that Georgia was on heavy pain meds. I scarfed coffee, toast, and OJ and sped out the door, fast walking to the Fine Art Building, making it there by 8:55 AM.

The building where Skylar Carvelle had his office was just beyond the Environmental Safety Building but it was older, taller, and grander. In my opinion, this was the kind of building Irwin College did best. The exterior architecture sported Ionic columns and a bas-relief frieze of scantily clad dancing women having a great time allegorically representing "The Arts." There were cement lions at the base of the entrance stairs, huge cement and polished brass handrails, and twelve foot high, cast bronze, double doors. It looked like an 1890s bank or maybe the town hall in a Jimmy Stewart movie.

Inside were several full size reproductions of Greek and Roman statues with late Victorian applied fig leaves. There were marble floors, slate window frames, and large architectural details everywhere. Voices echoed against the thirty-foot high ceiling. I spent a few minutes looking around, taking it all in. People had felt the grandeur of this room for over 120 years; it was impossible not to.

Carvelle wasn't in yet. His assistant (it said "Assistant to Dr. Skylar Carvelle" on her name plate, but had no other name) looked like Cloris Leachman overacting a tyrannical secretary to the hilt. Her attitude dial was set on
vexed
. She sighed deeply as though everything was designed to make her day more complicated. She suggested I take a seat, eyeing me up and down judgmentally. Maybe she didn't appreciate my casual
couture.
She was dressed to the corporate nines.

Dr. Skylar Carvelle's office was as ostentatious as his designer wardrobe. The carpeting and furniture must have cost a fortune, but weren't remarkable for form or comfort. There was a wonderful Mark Rothko painting on one wall however, and a cluster of Edward Weston photos on the other. These too must have been from the College's collection. The Rothko was certainly worth twenty times my yearly salary... on my best year.

Connie Robinson stepped into the office carrying a stack of folders. She had on a puffy white dress, tightly belted at the waist. She squeaked nervously to the Leachman look-alike, "Miranda Juarez asked me to bring these to Dr. Carvelle. Miranda wants me to tell her as soon as I've delivered them to him. They're confidential."

Carvelle's Cloris clone sighed deeply and said, "Dr. Carvelle hasn't arrived yet."

Connie saw me, smiled a little, and nodded hello. She turned back to the Cloris clone and said plaintively, "He's not here? Miranda told me that I have to give these to him." Connie didn't know what to do. Getting no help from Cloris, she turned to me for guidance.

I stage whispered, "Call Miranda, tell her that Carvelle isn't here and ask her what to do."

Connie nodded rapidly, looking relieved. She turned back to Carvelle's secretary who sighed deeply while motioning toward a side table, "You can use that phone over there."

Connie was dialing Miranda when Jimmy Harmon and Leo Getty came into the office. I heard Connie say over the phone to Miranda, "Ms. Gale suggested I call you..."

Jimmy Harmon asked Cloris, "Is Carvelle here?"

Getty caught sight of me and became expansive, "Maggie! Hey, how's it going!?!" He was wearing an orange knit shirt today, but he still looked like a fireplug. Jimmy Harmon nodded at me. He was wearing green overalls and a shirt with bright yellow ducks.

The phone on Cloris's desk rang. She said, "Dr. Carvelle? Where are you? Yes, she's here..." Then she glared at me, and with a sigh that literally puffed out a lock of her hair, said, "Dr. Carvelle would like to speak to you." She pointed to the extension Connie had used.

I asked, "Which phone should I use?" Just to see if I could make Cloris sigh hard enough to blow some papers off her desk.

When I picked up the phone, Skylar Carvelle sounded distinctly nervous. "Ms. Gale?" he swallowed and then went on, "I... I... have something to talk to you about, but I don't want to come into the office."

I wanted to say, Why don't you just tell me what it is? But awareness that everyone in the office could hear my every word made me just say, "OK."

"Please... come to my house," he said urgently.

"OK," I said.

He gave me the address. It was in the new upscale General Hunterton development on the far western edge of Fenchester.

"Fine, Dr. Carvelle, thanks." I was trying to be discreet, but for want of other entertainment, all attention was focused on me.

Harmon was already saying to Cloris, "It sounds like Skylar isn't going to be here for a while. Have him call me when he comes in."

Getty nodded and told Cloris virtually the same thing. Connie was balancing the massive stack of folders as she made for the door.

We left in a row, then executed a five car chain reaction as Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann bumped into Jimmy Harmon, who was leading the line and not paying attention.

Getty screeched to a halt, shouting, "Whoa there."

Connie stopped and I just managed to keep from plowing into her.
The Marx Brothers Go To College.
We all mumbled apologies. I ducked around the crowd and made it outside without further mishap.

I hurried home to get my van because Carvelle lived at least 6 miles away. It was nearly 10:00 AM. My appointment with Amanda Knightbridge was for 11:00 AM back at the College in Clymer House. I didn't see how I could make it in time, so I pulled the Tenure Committee contact list out of my bag and entered Knightbridge's office number into my cell. She answered it herself, in her clear precise voice. I explained that I wouldn't be able to make the 11:00 AM meeting but asked if we could reschedule for 3:00 PM.