“There’s always stuff that isn’t made public. You know that.”
Remembering his pain about Marnie, I tried to keep the asperity out of my voice. “Howard, you must have a dozen cronies in the Crown Prosecutor’s Office who can give you inside information.”
“I don’t want them to know I’m asking.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” I said. “Nothing I find out about Kyle Morrissey is going to bring Charlie any comfort.”
“Damn it, Jo. Don’t give me a hard time. Just do it.” Then Howard added a word he didn’t often use with me. “Please.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll ask around. What’s your number there?”
“I’ll call you.”
The phone went dead. I stared at the blank display screen, aware that once again I’d been handed a task I could neither embrace or refuse. As I snapped on Willie’s leash, I remembered how, on dismal mornings after Rose, my old golden retriever, died, I had clung to the thought that, come spring, my new dog and I would amble around the lake, taking time to smell the flowers and whatever else of interest came our way.
I looked into Willie’s anxious eyes. “Time to hit the street, bud, but those flowers are going to have to wait.”
When I arrived at the Political Science office, I noticed two things: the vase beside Ariel’s picture was filled with daffodils, and Rosalie Norman was already at her desk. She was reading, but as soon as she heard my step she slapped her book shut. “Caught me,” she said.
“Something steamy?” I asked.
“I wish,” she said gloomily. She held up the book so I could see the cover. It was an ancient edition of The Joy of Cooking.
“I don’t think reading Irma and Marion Rombauer is an indictable offence,” I said. “Are you planning a special meal for Robert?”
“If only it were that easy,” she said. “Joanne, I’m going to have to confess this to someone, sometime.” She closed her eyes, and the words tumbled out. “I’ve never learned how to cook. I don’t even know how to boil an egg.”
“How did you get by all these years?”
“Mother. She was a born cook, and since she passed away, I’ve just had my main meal at noon here at the university, and warmed up a bowl of soup for supper.” Rosalie handed me The Joy of Cooking. “Mother swore by this, but it was published in 1951. Do you think it’s still okay?”
I looked at the page Rosalie had marked. The heading was “Sweetbreads, Brains, Kidneys, Liver, Heart, Tongue, Oxtails, etc.,” and Irma and Marion Rombauer recommended their use for girls who knew there was no substitute for a juicy steak or a glistening roast but whose slenderized pocket-books made them feel “as broke as the ten commandments.”
“Well?” Her voice was anxious.
“The prose is a little dated,” I said, “but the recipes look good. What kind of meal does Robert like?”
“Anything that starts with a slab of meat and ends with whipped cream.”
I handed the cookbook back to her. “Let the Rombauers be your guides,” I said. “You couldn’t make a better choice. Now, I’d better move along. This is my first day with Ariel’s class.”
Rosalie winced, but she squared her shoulders, obviously determined to soldier on. “Good news there, at least,” she said. “There was a copy of Political Perspectives propped outside the office door when I arrived this morning. It’s in your mailbox.”
When I checked the front page, I saw that the name and office number were Ariel Warren’s. I turned back to Rosalie. “No note?”
“Not if there isn’t one inside.”
I leafed through the book. It was heavily annotated, but there was nothing explaining where it had come from. I told Rosalie I’d see her later and headed for the office of the one person who might be able to shed light on the mystery, but when I rapped on Kevin Coyle’s door there was no answer. It was the first time in two years that he hadn’t been there when I’d stopped by. As I headed for Ariel’s class with the folder containing her class list and syllabus in my hand, I was uneasy. The world was out of joint, and when I walked into Ariel’s classroom, nothing I saw suggested an imminent return to harmony.
In a configuration that was as rare as it was disturbing, all the women were sitting on one side of the room, all the men on the other. The room was layered with emotions: tension, confusion, and grief. There was nothing to gain by adding my own feelings to the mix.
I kept my approach coolly academic. I introduced myself, explained that I’d be teaching the rest of the course, then wrote my name, office and phone numbers, and e-mail address on the board. When I turned to face the students again, they were bent over their notebooks, writing. We were back on track, and I wasn’t about to take any chances.
“I understand from your syllabus that your mid-term is this Thursday. Here’s what you’ll need to know.” An hour and ten minutes later, I had given them a lecture that was comprehensive and deadly boring. It was what an Australian academic I knew referred to derisively as “a chalk and talk class,” but it had done the job. Immersed in a familiar ritual, the students relaxed. As the class ended and they began throwing their notebooks and texts into their backpacks, the tension knotting my shoulders eased. Ariel’s Political Science 101 class and I were on our way.
Relieved, I turned to clean the boards and discovered that I’d exhaled too soon. Solange Levy was waiting in the hall outside the door. She was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, and her trademark Converse high-tops. Her henna-burnished hair was slicked back from her face. It had been only three days since Ariel’s death, but Solange, whose marathon bike rides had kept her strikingly fit, already had the gaunt, smouldering-eyed look of heroin chic once prized by fashion photographers.
“It’s okay to come in?” She brushed past me without waiting for an answer. “I have an announcement about Ariel.” The room fell silent. Solange raised a slender arm towards the side of the room where the men had been seated. “Go, if you wish,” she said. Her action was both stunningly rude and uncharacteristic. Solange’s deeply felt feminism had never affected her rapport with male students. The men’s faces hardened, but none of them left.
For a beat, Solange stared at them, then she gave them a curious half-smile. “I’ve set up a Web page for Ariel on the university’s site. There’s a guest book for anyone who wishes to share her memories of our friend.” She took a step towards the women’s side of the class, then chalked the page’s URL on the blackboard. “If you have thoughts about the manner of Ariel’s death, don’t feel constrained about expressing them.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic bag; it was filled with the kind of round metal lapel pins I was familiar with from political campaigns. Without explanation, Solange began distributing them to the women. When one of the men held out his hand, she hesitated, shrugged, and gave him one. The other men in the class approached her, and she gave them pins, too.
Finally, it was my turn. The design on the pin was striking: a stylized line drawing of a sunflower on a black background. Across the upper arc of the circle the words “Never Forget” were inscribed in flowing script. When I put the pin on, the sharp metal point pricked my finger. I watched numbly as a delicate tracery of blood flowed from the stem of the sunflower onto the white silk of my new summer blouse.
CHAPTER
6
When I got back to my office, Kevin Coyle was sitting behind my desk, staring at my computer.
“You should lock your door,” he said. “Vermin are afoot.”
“So it would seem,” I said. I dropped my books on the top of the filing cabinet and sat down in the chair opposite him. It was the chair reserved for students, and a person of sensibility would have taken the hint. Kevin didn’t. He had replaced the missing lens in his Coke-bottle horn-rims. The Dali-esque look was gone, but his
