Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 05 - The Maltese Manuscript (6 page)

This was a first—Peggy Briggs actually volunteering an opinion.

“Murder isn’t
fun
.” Peggy glared at her fellow students. Mouse brown hair parted in the center and cut uncompromisingly straight just below her ears. Plump shoulders bulked out even further by a too-large hooded Red Sox sweatshirt in navy blue. Round face pink with indignation. “You people are getting off on this story. You’re…
titillated
by it.” She turned her glare to me. “Is that the right word? Titillated?”

I nodded.

“But there’s nothing…
titillating
…about murder. Real murder is brutal and…sordid.” She took a deep breath. “I
hate
this story. It exploits violent death simply to entertain people, just the way those Hardcastle novels do. I don’t think this is a great piece of literature. I think it stinks.”

The thick silence in the room was broken only by the laughing banter of students in the hallway. “Oh, that’s so fun,” a girl’s voice exclaimed.

Peggy’s diatribe was a shocking violation of the Enfield student culture of detachment. Almost as a religion, these young people practiced an outward show of languor and irony, a refusal to acknowledge themselves subject to the woes of the flesh. Also it was embarrassingly obvious to everyone in the room that Peggy’s outbursts must be rooted in some traumatic personal experience, another no-no. In the Enfield classroom we deal with the life of the mind, clear and cold and pure, or the murkier political discourse of race, gender, and class, but never the painful, messy, merely
personal
clutter of individual lives.

This is a literature course
, I thought.
Please, please, please, don’t make me play therapist.
I zoomed into literary hyperdrive, evading the emotions behind the outburst. “Well, Peggy, you make an important point. Poe founded the genre of the murder mystery with this story and others, but the genre does operate on a fundamental disparity between its literary conventions and the realities of its subject matter. Violent death is terrible. Mystery novels are pleasurable. So, what can we make of a seeming contradiction like that?” Toss it back to the class. Diffuse the tension in the room.

I’d talk to Peggy later.

Stephanie Abrams, in appearance the polar opposite of Peggy—tall, model slim, with smooth, pale hair and a wardrobe of sleek pants and sweaters in muted autumn shades—leafed through her edition of Poe’s works. She paused and studied a passage, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “If you notice, Poe says the same thing as Professor Pelletier—about pleasure, I mean—only he calls it amusement. He has his detective say, ‘An inquiry will afford us amusement.’” She looked directly at Peggy as she spoke. “I think there is ‘pleasure’ in these stories. It stems from…what?…some kind of…existential damage control,” she continued. “I mean, we’re all going to die….”

Pretty Tiffany Milford gaped at Stephanie in blank incomprehension:
Die? Who? Me?

Peggy nodded fiercely. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

Stephanie bit her lip, shrugged and fell silent.

I picked up the thread. “Stephanie’s right. Given the randomness of life, each one of us is at risk of a violent death no matter how safe we think we are with our locked rooms. War. Insanity. Revenge. Anger. Greed. Simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time—the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. It happens. Poe knew that. Telling stories about murder helps us feel in control when the world is so out of control. In mystery fiction, everything is tied up. Order is restored. There’s justice in the end.”

After class I took Peggy aside. “Listen, why don’t you stop by my office sometime? We can talk about…ah…how the course is going for you.”

Peggy’s brown eyes grew skittish. “It’s going fine,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

I wasn’t going to let her evade me, as she had in the library. “Sure. But let’s just set up an appointment—” But Peggy was out the door and into the hall, where Stephanie was waiting. Peggy handed the other girl a bulky bag. It was a common plastic bag from Stop ‘N’ Shop, but where it had once held groceries, it now bulged out with weightier fare. From a rip in the side of the flimsy bag, what looked like the corner of a thick manuscript poked out. Without exchanging a word, the two students separated and walked away in opposite directions.

***

You. Have. Four. New. Messages
, the zombie lady on my voice mail informed me.
To. Hear. New. Messages. Press. One.
I pressed One and tucked the receiver between my ear and shoulder. With my hands free, I slid open the bottom desk drawer and inserted my class notes into the file folder with the rest of my teaching materials. If Dickinson Hall ever burns down, I’ll be at a total loss for class preparation material.

Karen, it’s Rachel
, said the first message.
I want to apologize again for the missing Beadle’s Dime Novels. I’ve been making some inquiries and have located a number of volumes at the Smith College library. They’ve got at least two you asked for, and their Special Collections operates on the same schedule as ours. Hope that helps.
Hmm, nice of Rachel to check into that for me when she had so much else on her mind. I made a note to get myself over to Smith as soon as possible.

Beep.

It’s Claudia Nestor calling Tuesday afternoon. Karen, we need an escort to accompany Sunnye Hardcastle around campus during the conference. I assume, of course, you’ll be only too happy to accept the honor. Thanks.
The honor? Obviously Claudia hadn’t met the arrogant novelist yet.

Beep.

Monica’s voice said,
Karen, I’m forwarding a message. It’s about your high-school reunion
. A couple of clicks, and Ruth Ann Bouchard, the voice from the past, said:
Karen, we’re all so excited about Saturday night. Just wanted to let you know everyone’s going to be dressed to the nines! See you later, alligator!

God! Why had I let myself get sucked into this damn thing!

Beep.

Professor?
Peggy Briggs’ voice.
I’m sorry about how I acted in class today. Please don’t hold it against me.
A long pause, then a sob. Then a hang up.

I sat with the receiver to my ear for a few seconds and listened to the silence.

***

“Something disturbing just happened,” I said, as I pulled out the cane-and-chrome chair at Rudolph’s Cafe and joined Earlene Johnson and Jill Greenberg. We meet there every other Tuesday for pasta, wine, and a good, long, grown-up-girl talk. “Earlene, you must know Peggy Briggs.”

Earlene nodded. She’s Enfield’s Dean of Students. She knows everyone. And everything.

“I know her, too,” Jill said. Today Jill looked every inch the transplanted Manhattanite. No one can wear black with quite the flair of a fairskinned redhead. “She’s in my Soc 411 class. Conscientious student, but kind of weird…introverted.” To an extravert like my pal, Jill,
introverted
was synonymous with
weird
.

“What’s going on with Peggy?” Earlene was letting the grey grow into her close-cropped hair. A pair of hand-carved ebony tribal figures dangled from her ears.

I told them about my student’s outburst in class and her message on my answering machine.

Earlene took a few seconds before responding. “I think I know where that’s coming from, Karen. But it might be better if Peggy told you the story herself.”

“The story?” Jill squealed. “Oooh! That sounds so…deliciously mysterious.”

“Peggy’s had a rough life.” Earlene’s expression was sober.

“Who hasn’t?” Jill asked, her Park Avenue upbringing in abeyance.

Earlene shot me a side-of-the-eyes look:
Like she knows what rough is!
Then she glanced ostentatiously around the restaurant, crammed at 6:30 with Enfield students and faculty. “Want me to make you a list?”

Jill laughed. “No, thanks. I just want a bottomless glass of wine.”

I beckoned to the waitress, then turned back to Earlene. “So, you’re not about to enlighten me as to that scene in class?”

She adjusted one of her earrings. “I really can’t. Let’s just say that Peggy is not unacquainted with tragedy.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling chastised. “I of all people should know better than to pry into a student’s past.” I glanced around the restaurant. “Where’s that waitress?”

Our server was on the other side of the room, uncorking a bottle of wine for Claudia Nestor. Claudia was seated alone at a table for two. I sincerely hoped someone was going to join her, if only to help consume what appeared to be a fine California red.

Jill noted Claudia’s presence, then leaned over the table in a confiding posture: Good Gossip. Earlene and I instantly inclined toward her. “That woman just gets battier and battier,” Jill said. Claudia was up for tenure this year in Sociology, Jill’s department. “She does that thing with her eyes, you know?” We nodded. “She does it all the time. I heard one student call her ‘The Blink.’ And…” Jill leaned toward us so far her breasts brushed her plate. “One day last week, right smack in the middle of a department meeting, she pulled out a little flowered cosmetic bag, you know, the kind they give away in department stores. Then she proceeded to do a full-face makeup: foundation, blusher, mascara. Lip liner. The works. In a department meeting! In front of twenty colleagues! This from a woman who expects the Sociology Department to consider her a serious scholar.”

Claudia glanced over at our table and waved. Jill gave her a flash of beautifully straightened teeth, then sat up primly. She raised her eyebrows at us. “Do you think she heard me?” she muttered through barely moving lips.

“Not possible over all the other gossip being mongered in this room,” I assured her. Rudolph’s clientele was almost exclusively composed of Enfield College faculty, staff, and students. A gabby bunch.

As I checked out the scene, a trio of students prepared to leave. Their table was littered with the remains of pricey food. A kid in a retro wool-and-leather football jacket thrust a platinum credit card at the waiter. “Put it all on this,” he said, waving his hand over the half-eaten steaks and melted parfaits. Big Man on Campus. Would Papa even notice the hefty charge?

“Anyhow,” Jill said, “let’s change the subject. So, Karen, how’s that big gorgeous guy of yours?”

“Well, Charlie’s big, all right, but I’ve never thought of him as
gorgeous
. Good-looking in a plain-brown-wrapper sort of way. Smart. Strong. Dependable. But
gorgeous
? I don’t think so.”

“Gorgeous,” Jill pronounced, as if that settled it. “I could really go for all that muscle.”

“We know,” Earlene replied, dryly. “How’s Kenny?” Kenny Halvorsen, the college soccer coach, was something more than merely Jill’s next-door neighbor.

Jill shrugged. “He couldn’t watch Eloise tonight. I had to get a babysitter.” There was something wrong here. We waited, but our young friend had been struck by a rare case of discretion.

Earlene sat back and regarded me owlishly over the red rims of her glasses. “God, it’s good to see you happy, Karen. You just about glow with it.”

“Yeah, I am. But, if only…” I frowned, pulled the menu toward me.

“If only
what
?” Jill plucked the oversize parchment sheet from my hand.

“If only he would let well enough alone.” I focused on the evening’s specials printed on a blackboard in magenta chalk: linguine with chanterelles, shiitake risotto with smoked chicken, polenta with black bean sauce.

“What does that mean—
well enough alone
?” Earlene passed me the bread basket.

I snapped a bread stick in half and muttered, “He wants me to marry him.”

“Hallelujah! We’ll have the wedding this summer. I’ll bake the cake. I make this fabulous Grand Marnier orange cake—”

Jill waved down the waitress. “Champagne, please. We’re celebrating.”

“I’m
not
getting married!”

The waitress was an Enfield student with short blond hair and a pewter stud in the center of her chin. Her brown eyes slid from me to Jill to Earlene, then back to me. Enfield is a fishbowl.

“Why not?” Jill seemed to have recovered from her discretion. She picked up Earlene’s red-framed glasses, settled them on the tip of her nose, and adopted a shrinky expression most likely learned from her psychiatrist father. “Do I detect an inability to commit?”

I scowled at her, then turned to the waitress. “No champagne,” I said. “I’ll have a glass of the merlot.”

“Me, too,” Earlene said. “But bring us a bottle. We’ll share.” The waitress headed for the bar.

“Sorry about that,” Jill apologized in lowered tones. “But it’s just that I think Charlie’s the perfect guy for you. You said it yourself. Smart. Strong. Dependable.”