Ivory Tower (4 page)

“Why don’t we ask him if he has a particular  time frame?” I asked, “Wouldn’t that solve the problem?” 

Magary started to fidget with his smartphone.  “Perhaps.  But there is the other matter of public perception.  How would it look if we passed over one of our own for an outsider who is unlikely to accept the position?  Maxwell might turn us down on principle if he finds out he’s the second choice.” 

Fat chance of that
, I thought, but knew better than to voice further objections.  Sounded like the decision had already been made anyway
.
 

“In any event,” Magary says, “I’ve discussed this with the Provost and the question arises as to what we would think of proceeding with Maxwell as our sole recommendation.”

“Doesn’t the Provost require the committee to recommend at least two names for him to choose from?” a voice crackled through the speaker. 

Magary shifted slightly in his seat before answering.  “Usually, but the Provost  told me that under the circumstances he is prepared to accept one nomination if the committee is happy with it.  So, shall we put it to a vote?”  No one  answered.  “I should note that the Provost  also suggested that if we do proceed in this manner, it would be very helpful for him to have a unanimous  vote from the committee.”

I couldn’t help making a last ditch effort, if not for myself, then at least to save the faculty from that pompous ass Maxwell. “Couldn’t we reconsider Professor Waters?”

There was silence as those present looked to the head of the table to gauge Magary’s reaction.  His face remained impassive. 

I continued, trying to keep the quaver from my voice, “I mean, she’s extremely well qualified.  We all liked her and she almost made it into the top five.”  I looked hopefully around the room.  No one would meet my eyes and there was dead silence from the speakerphone.

“Are you making a formal motion for us to reconsider Professor Waters’s candidacy?” Magary asked coolly.

“Um, yes, I guess I am.”

“Is there a second?” Magary asked, waiting only a second before speaking again.  “  Shall we proceed?” 

As my abstention would not count under the university by-laws, the committee ended up recording a unanimous recommendation for Maxwell.

****

“You’re at work late.”  Pete’s voice echoed  across the phone line.  From the background noise, I guessed he was at an airport.  He’d been traveling a lot since  the Seattle trip.  First, there was the weekend in New York, and now Utah.  I was a little offended that he never invited me along.  He was probably right that I would  be bored sitting around with a bunch of science geeks, although I’m sure I could have found something to do with myself in New York.

“Are you still in Salt Lake?” I asked.

“Yeah.  My flight was delayed.  I should be back late tonight.  Go home and wait for me?” 

Warm tingles radiated through me.  I smiled at the thought that he called my apartment home.  Technically, he had been renting a room in a shared house downtown, but for all the time he spent there, he may as well not have bothered. 

“The Provost wants to see me,” I said, “but don’t worry,  -  I’ll be in bed before you hit the runway.”  My thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rapping at my office door.  “Speak of the devil.  Talk later?” I said into the phone.

“Okay, babe.  Miss you.”  Pete hung up and I could barely wipe the smile from my face.  The door opened to reveal the Provost with Magary in tow. 

“Good evening, Professor King.”  The Provost addressed me formally.  Magary ceded the only free chair to him. 

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” 

“As you will recall,” Magary said, “ we offered the deanship to Professor Maxwell.”

“On the unanimous advice of your committee,” the Provost reminded me. 

Magary continued, “Professor King, were you aware that Professor Maxwell left town with his family to talk things over?” 

I shook my head. 

“Taking on a deanship is a significant responsibility.  Professor Maxwell wanted to ensure that his family would be comfortable with the commitment,” he said.

What a crock.
  Every year, right after the winter break, Maxwell took his family on an expensive vacation to avoid the holiday crowds, canceling classes and assigning his students  busywork to make up their allotted hours.  Magary hesitated, glancing sideways at the Provost before  he spoke again.  “Unfortunately, there was a mishap.” 

What? 

“Professor Maxwell was involved in a skiing accident.” Magary flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel, as the Provost addressed me again, “So, Professor King, we’re in a tight spot and we were wondering if we might prevail on you …” 

****

Storming into my apartment, I slammed the door and dumped my satchel and jacket unceremoniously on the sofa.  Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I snapped on the kitchen light and made a beeline for the bottle of bourbon Pete kept in my pantry.  I poured myself several fingers in a chipped coffee mug and was about to gulp it down when I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine.  Hoping for an update from Pete—who obviously wasn’t back yet—I pressed the message button.

“Evie?  Are you there?  Pick up if you are.”  It was Melissa’s voice and she was speaking unusually fast.  After a brief pause, the message continued.  “Okay, if you’re really not there, check your email when you get this.”  There was another pause, followed by the sound of a deep breath, then the message went on more slowly.  Her tone sounded strained, with a kind of forced lightness.  “I guess it’s not really important.  Don’t interrupt anything you might be doing with — loverboy —but when you have a moment …”

I deleted the message, glancing from the mug in my hand to the computer screen.  What the heck?  Pete was on a plane.  My career was a joke.  Why not indulge Melissa?  Things had been better between us since that night at the bar, even though  we’d avoided talking about Pete and the dean search since then. 

Turning on my desk lamp, I leaned forward to flick the computer monitor on and called up my email.  I was confronted with a bunch of administrative announcements and a few student queries, with Melissa’s message sandwiched in between.  The subject line was empty but there was a paperclip beside it signaling an attachment.  When I clicked on the message it was also blank.  I wondered if I had a computer virus.  Even if I did, the attachment was a .pdf so it was probably safe.  Taking a sip of bourbon, I clicked on the attachment.  

It took several seconds for the file to load.  It appeared to be a scanned clipping from some newspaper in New Mexico
. 
I couldn’t quite make out the date, but the headline read: “Suspect Taken for Questioning in College Murder  Drama.”  The story was about the murder of a young research assistant in a science department at a small state college.  Police were unsure as to motive and it was apparently unclear that there had been a murder at all until a trace of an unusual chemical compound showed up  in the autopsy.  The compound should have dissolved well before the body was examined, but by a stroke of luck, the victim had been taking medication that slowed the rate of dissolution. 
Weird
. 

Then I saw the photograph.  The image was grainy and the suspect’s face was turned sideways to the camera, but there was something unsettling about it.  He had spiky dark hair and solid angular cheekbones.  The caption identified him as Marc Daly, a graduate student.  I didn’t think I had ever met anyone by that name, but he did  look vaguely familiar.  Taking another sip of my drink, I scrolled  farther down.  There was a second clipping from the same newspaper that must have run sometime after the first.  It was a minor story — only a few paragraphs —noting that the suspect who had been held for questioning, had been released from custody.  The reporter  sought him out for comment, but he had disappeared with no trace.  At the very bottom of the page was a message scrawled in Melissa’s untidy handwriting.  “Pete??”

Oh my God.
  Melissa hadn’t let it go.  She’d been doing amateur sleuthing all this time to go with her pop psychology.  I grabbed hold of my cell phone to call her, but as I was scrolling down my contacts list, I realized it was almost ten o’clock.  And what would I have said to her?  That I thought she was having a breakdown?  Maybe it would be better to talk to Rob first. 

Not bothering to shut down the email program, I snapped my computer’s power button off.  I couldn’t deal with anything else.  I downed the rest of the bourbon, deposited the mug in the sink and headed for the bedroom.  Tired and grumpy, I couldn’t be bothered with the niceties of tooth brushing and nightwear, so I simply tore off my work clothes, dumped them on the floor and climbed into bed for a good sulk that was ruined by the fast-acting effect of the bourbon which sent me straight to sleep. 

I awoke to a prickly sensation against my cheek followed by a pair of familiar lips searching for mine in the dark.  I granted immediate access and was rewarded by the hard planes of his still-clothed body slipping under the covers beside me, hands reaching around my back to draw me close.

“This is what a man likes to come home to,” he said as his tongue teased the shell of my ear, “a naked woman in his bed.”  He rubbed his nose against mine and dipped in for another kiss.  “Mmm.  You taste of bourbon.  Already liquored up.  Saves me the trouble of getting you drunk so I can have my wicked way with you.” 

I pushed myself  onto my elbows and regarded him in the moonlight.  “Long flight?”

“Worth it.”  He was twining his hands into my hair, then down my naked back, sending tingles up my spine.  I sighed.

“How did it go with the Provost?”

“Frustrating.”

Pete’s body stilled against mine, his arms gripping my shoulders tightly, almost painfully.  Not exactly the reaction I  expected. 

“How so?” he asked

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  I tried to wrap my arms around him but he pushed me away.

“Tell me.”  His voice had become insistent.

“Okay.”  I reached across to turn on the nightlight, bathing the room in a yellow glow that brought out an eerie glint in his eyes.  Then I noticed the bottle of champagne and two flutes on the nightstand.  I raised my eyebrows.  “Are we celebrating something?”

Smooth as ever, Pete reached for the bottle and  unwrapped the cork with practiced ease.  He popped it with a swift movement of his thumb and held it above one of the glasses to avoid spillage.  The pouring took a few moments and I had the distinct feeling he was buying time before answering me.  He finally said, “You tell me.” 

He passed me a glass and watched me sip in silence.  Perched on the edge of the bed, he hadn’t made any further move to touch me.  His fingers remained grasped tightly in his lap.

“So what’s wrong?” He pinned me with those glinting eyes.

“Nothing.  It’s just … dean search stuff.”

“Yes?” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“Well, you know how Professor Maxwell was offered the job?” I asked.  He nodded slowly.  “Apparently there was an accident and they’re not sure what’s going to happen now.”

“What do you mean?  Don’t they have to give the job to … someone else?”

“They don’t know if Professor Maxwell will be up to it.”  I only realized after I spoke that Pete hadn’t asked for any details about the accident.  “They’ve asked me if I would be prepared to step in as interim dean if Maxwell’s not recovered sufficiently by the beginning of the next school year.  So it’s the same old story.  Use the woman as a  placeholder until you can find a man for the job.”  Talking about it made the anger well up inside me again and I took a long draft of champagne.

“What do you mean
recovered
?” 

“He was in a skiing accident.  There’s some head trauma and they’re not sure of the prognosis.”

“Dammit.”  Pete rose to his feet and started pacing.

“What’s wrong?”  I wanted to stand up, to go to him.  But he  made me feel uneasy and I realized I was still naked.  Feeling a little vulnerable, not to mention confused, I wrapped a sheet around myself before scrambling to my feet.  “I know Maxwell’s not the nicest guy, but—”

Pete turned to fix me with a ferocious look I hadn’t seen before, causing me to step back involuntarily.  The backs of my knees bumped the side of the bed and I almost toppled backward.  He raced over to catch my elbow and pulled me against him.  “I’m sorry, babe.  It’s just …” Pete’s voice trailed off and my head started spinning.  I was getting a horrible feeling about all this and I hoped to hell it was the mixture of champagne and bourbon and not something else.

Pete had been in Salt Lake City, and Maxwell’s accident was at Park City—less than an hour away.  And hadn’t Pete been in Seattle around the time Congressmen Cody passed away?  And the New York trip.  Hadn’t Professor Adams’s wife suddenly succumbed to some medical problem in New York?  And then there was the newspaper clipping.  My body went rigid. 

Maybe if I killed off all the guys, we’d finally hire a woman.
 

My own words from only a few months ago. 

“What’s the matter, babe?”  Pete’s arms tensed around me and I was struck by his sheer strength when I tried to pull away.

“It’s been an unsettling day,” I said as I finally managed to extricate myself from his grip.  I sat on the edge of the bed, scanning the room for something to use as a weapon in case I needed one. 

This was crazy.  This was Pete.  My boyfriend.  Not some serial killer.  Okay, so I had thought the Seattle trip was a little strange and I was pretty sure he hadn’t told me about it before I told him about the Congressman.  But anyone could go to New York.  It was a big city.  And I hadn’t even known Maxwell had gone skiing until the Provost told me.  How could Pete have known?

Of course he could have known.  I would have known too if I’d been paying attention.  Maxwell always blasted his personal business all over his Facebook page.  He posted half of it on Wikipedia if it was even vaguely work-related.  He was all publicity, all the time.  Of course Pete could have found out where he was.  It would have been easy.  But could Pete have done something so terrible? 

I gazed at his face, eyes glinting yellow like a predator, but still as a statue, regarding me warily.  My breath  caught in my throat.  With one stride, he  stood before me, blocking my view of anything else in the room.  He dropped to his knees and I jerked back, but he caught my forearms and, securing my wrists in one hand, wrapped the other around my waist. Then he dropped his face into my lap.  His breathing was ragged when he finally spoke.  “Oh, Evie, don’t you see?  I just want you to be happy.”

What had he done? 

Trying desperately to buy some time, I reached for his chin and tilted his face so I could see his eyes.  I gently levered him up until we were nose to nose.  There was something in his expression—something almost inhuman.  But I kept my grip firm on his chin.  Slowly, carefully, he leaned in and brushed his lips ever so tentatively over mine.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the champagne bottle on the nightstand, directly behind him.