crumbs Wells threw their way. Meredith worked her plan to bring him into the fold and now Bradley Wells’ annual contribution to the university was in the mid-six figures. She was grooming him to accept a seat as Trustee, thereby insuring millions of dollars in annual support. She hoped he would endow a chair and perhaps build a state-of-the- art building for the school of business.
But Bradley Wells wanted too much in return.
Meredith knew Wells had a never-failing eye for money-making projects, and that eye had fallen on one of the most beloved sites at the university. Two hundred acres of virgin woodland along Lake Washington. Home to undisturbed wild life and vegetation. An oasis of solitude in the middle of Seattle. A place students, residents, and tourists hiked and picnicked. Fished and frolicked. The fondest memory of any alum and a charming lure for recruiting new students and faculty.
Wells wanted it.
He promised tasteful development marked with low rise condominiums and high-end retail, restaurants, and entertainment. Boardwalks to keep “an adequate” amount of water open to public access. Discrete parking ramps for the thousands of people who would enter the area daily. In return for full development rights, Wells was willing to pay seventy-five million dollars.
She refused to even consider his offer at first. The land was too well-integrated into the identity and character of the university. But Wells was persistent. His attorney visited her last week, upping the offer to eighty million. Meredith was irritated Bradley hadn’t come himself. She knew his introduction of an intermediary was his signal that this was strictly business. He didn’t care about whatever relationship she may have fantasized they’d built over the past four years. She also heard the quiet undercurrent the attorney offered as he left. He said this would be Wells’ final offer. She knew if she didn’t have the sale of the land on the Board of Trustee’s spring agenda, with her full endorsement, Wells’ involvement with the university was over.
A gentle knock shifted Meredith’s focus. She looked up to see Carl Snelling, her Executive Provost, lean his shock of red hair into her office.
“Got a minute?” He walked toward her before she could answer. “There’s something I want you to be the first to see.”
Meredith took a seat on the silk chenille sofa that flanked her office’s fireplace. She indicated an armchair and Snelling sat down. Meredith had little regard for her Executive Provost. He struck her as weak-willed, too easily rattled, and much too in love with the sound of his own voice. But he’d been at the center of university administration for nearly twenty years. He knew everyone and wasn’t hesitant to share. Meredith found his knowledge and low resistance to manipulation useful. She would have liked to have had a full partner in his position, but she could work with what she had in Carl Snelling.
“You’re not going to like this.” Carl handed her one of two files he held in his lap. “Remember, shooting the messenger ended with a millennia ago.”
Meredith opened the file and glanced at the title page. “Greek.” She flipped through the sheave of papers. Her brow furrowed as she read. “These are your final calculations?”
“Please don’t consider them mine, President Thornton.” Snelling held a thin hand to the side of his pale cheek. “As you know, I’ve been looking for a viable option for months. I’ve long been capable of producing solutions to problems others couldn’t solve. My idea to expand the Continuing Education offerings to courses appealing to local retirees comes to mind. You’ll recall those programs netted over a hundred thousand dollars last year. But as to the Greek situation the numbers, as my friends in Accounting are fond of saying, don’t lie.”
Meredith ignored his nervous smile. “I’m looking at the enrollment projections. Grim. Have you spoken to Popolapolus? What are his plans?”
“I’m afraid no plans can work on the impossible.” Snelling crossed one thin leg over another. “I blame the public school system. They haven’t taught the classics for decades. Surely a handful of the private preparatory academies do the right thing and teach Greek and Latin. I found myself inspired by the ancients during my own prep years at Andover. But the few students who wish to continue their studies won’t attend a state university with three faculty members in the entire department. They prefer one of the Ivies.”
“Those faculty members turn out important work. We could incorporate Greek as a sub-division into another department,” Meredith offered.
“Please refer to tab five. You’ll find I’ve anticipated your idea and researched the possibilities.” Snelling flipped his own file to the spot he named. “Greek has not had a single student enrolled in eleven years. They are, quite frankly, pure overhead.” Snelling offered the smug little grin that inspired Meredith to fold her hands to avoid slapping him. “There’s no interest on the part of any department to take on three scholars who have no students and no interest in contributing to any work beyond their own. Nor would I want to be anywhere near Popolapolus when Greek being relegated to sub-division status was discussed.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Would you be surprised to know he once threw a glass of ouzo in his dean’s face simply because the poor man said he preferred walnut to pistachio baklava?”
Meredith pictured the passionate, barrel-chested Popolapolus’ response to Snelling suggesting his department be downsized and smiled. She’d pay a hundred dollars to watch that encounter.
“Closing the department would have ramifications,” she said. “Beyond the livelihoods of three noted faculty. It’s the oldest department on campus. It’s really all that’s left of the classical character that established this university.”
“Characters change, President Thornton.” Snelling closed his file. “Unless you have a secret pot of money or some other miracle, I’m afraid we must eliminate the entire department.”
Chapter Seven
Mort walked into the Crystal Tavern just past 5:30, nodded to Mauser behind the bar and headed toward a booth in the far corner. He sat down across from a six-foot-three, two-hundred pound black man with tightly curled graying hair. He’d been meeting L. Jackson Clark for more than fifteen years. Mort made it a habit back in the day to swing into the Crystal, work a crossword puzzle, and drink one Guiness before heading the four blocks home to Edie and the kids.
“I’m buying a beer for anybody knows an eleven-letter word for ‘accident’. Got an n and a d in the middle,” he’d called out all those years ago.
The smattering of teachers, nurses, and stay-at-home dads who made up the Crystal’s afternoon clientele had nothing. Mort shook his head and tapped his pen against his newspaper.
“Serendipity,” a low voice called. “Fate, luck, kismet, accident. Serendipity.”
Mort raised up on his bar stool to see who’d given him the obviously correct word. He waved the man over, bought him his beer, and thus began their weekly ritual. Five-thirty every Thursday. The first day of the week The New York Time’s crossword puzzle gets interesting.
Mort reached for the Guiness waiting for him. “Sorry I’m late.”
His friend glanced at his watch. “I’d say three minutes is well within allotted grace. You look like hell. Anything you care to talk about?”
Mort took a long sip. “Just trying to figure out how I can be such a fuck-up, is all.” He nodded to the newspaper in front of his friend. “You started? I gotta get mine from Mauser yet.”
L. Jackson Clark pulled a second copy of the Times from the seat beside him. “Here. Only three left when I got here.”
“Thanks.” Mort folded the paper to the puzzle and pulled out a pen. The two men worked the puzzle quietly for several minutes. “The prinicipal behind yin and yang. Forty-six down.” Mort looked up. “Make me happy I’m sitting with a professor of religious studies, Larry.”
“Dualism.” Larry counted letters on his fingers. “Or duality. Got a clue for the last two letters?”
“Dualism works.” Mort went back to the puzzle.
“This have anything to do with that young girl found dead at Seattle Center?” Larry asked. “Close to Allie’s age, wasn’t she?”
“She was.” Mort set his paper aside and watched two women at the bar playing cribbage. “What would someone with your oh-so-many years of schooling call someone who let their impatience and ego interfere with
