An Uncharted Corpse: The Charlotte Anthony Mysteries, #4

By Meg Wolfe

The strange appearance of a mummy at a conference sets off a chain of events with repercussions that go far beyond the staid world of academia. A suspicious death, a secret code, and a powerful sect combine to intimately connect the past to the present.

As in the previous Charlotte Anthony mysteries, the action takes place in Elm Grove and features characters both new and familiar. Charlotte's daughter, Ellis, returns to the typical small Midwestern town much more grown up than when she left, attracting the attention of both Tread, the scion of a political dynasty, and the handsome and slightly mysterious Selim. But she is plagued by an inexplicable sense of dread—and wonders if the answer lies in mysticism.

Charlotte again teams up with Detective Barnes to solve the present-day crimes, with the hope that she will finally unravel the remaining mysteries of her partner Donovan's colorful ancestry.

An Uncharted Corpse is the fourth installment of the Charlotte Anthony Mystery series, preceded by An Uncollected Death, An Unexamined Wife, and An Undisclosed Vocation.

449 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meg Wolfe
• Release date: Dec 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781393059387

Meg Wolfe

Meg Wolfe is the author of the Charlotte Anthony Mysteries and other fiction and creative nonfiction, having finally settled down after a lifetime of varied and interesting careers in garden design, cooking, and art. She lives in Northwest Indiana with her husband, photographer and artist Steve Johnson. Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

Prologue

Monday, October 17th , late morning

Something heavy was coming up the stairs. Four men in dark coveralls struggled with a large wooden crate. They brought it around the hall to Aubrey Jefferson’s office and carefully set it in the middle of the room, where it barely fit. Then, without comment, they left.

The crate was covered with FRAGILE and THIS END UP labels in various languages, many of which Charlotte didn’t recognize.

A handful of curious faculty members peered in from the doorway, intrigued by the mystery. The distraction was probably welcome.

Margaret Milligan pushed her way past them. What on earth, Aubrey?

Jefferson shrugged. You tell me.

The Bishop Hall custodian came in with his bag of tools and pried open the top of the crate. Charlotte helped Jefferson and Margaret remove the packing material, and shivered, thrilled at the colors that appeared, brilliant blues, golds, and reds—

—and black-lined eyes that stared at nothing.

It was a mummy case. A five-and-a-half-foot-long replica of an Egyptian woman’s mummy case.

Jefferson let out a breath of surprise. Well, I’ll be damned!

Several people leaned in to take pictures with their phones and others helped Jefferson lift out the case and then set it crosswise on top of the crate.

The custodian drew out a fine-bladed chisel. I think I can get it open without damaging it.

Margaret’s eyes widened. Do you think we ought to open it? What if there’s a mummy inside?

Might as well find out. Jefferson nodded to the custodian. Have at it.

The lid came off with just a little bit of coaxing.

There were many gasps. Charlotte covered her mouth with her hand.

There was, indeed, a mummy inside, only not the Egyptian kind wrapped in bandages.

The corpse was dark and shiny, and appeared to be lacquered. Her strawberry blonde hair appeared to be real and intact. Her gauzy, long-sleeved gown was also intact, in a style from about a hundred years ago. She’d been mummified and then dressed. And her hands were folded over a small blue book.

Margaret whispered, as if afraid to waken the dead.

I think this is the mummy that killed Seamus O’Dair.

Chapter One

Sunday, October 16th , the day before

I’M ON MY WAY

Ellis was coming home! Charlotte could barely restrain herself from doing a dance in the middle of the bookstore when she saw the message on her phone. Her to-do list ran through her mind for the hundredth time. There was orange juice in the fridge, an extra robe and slippers and set of towels, the guest room was aired out and spotless, and the boxes of things that Ellis had packed up to keep before she left for Paris were in the closet, in case she wanted to go through them. Would she like the room? The new apartment? The bookstore?

It was only for a week or so—would they get to spend much time together, or would Ellis have to spend most of it practicing for the concert? Or would she rather see her friends? She was still a teenager, after all. It was so hard to say. But the main thing was, Ellis was coming home!

A customer asked where the cookbooks were, and Charlotte pulled herself back into the here and now. They maneuvered around Donovan, who was adding more books to the New Arrivals shelf, and past the mother and little girl who were picking out a new book to read together, something they did every Sunday. Then Charlotte helped her customer find a particular cookbook, quietly proud of the fact that she was finally becoming familiar with the stock.

Benny Ramona came out of the back room carrying a cardboard display unit provided by the publishing company that was reissuing the fiftieth-anniversary edition of Seamus O’Dair’s Elton Quench trilogy. The back of the unit was formed by a life-size cutout of the author.

Donovan looked pained. Do we really have to have that thing in here?

Benny affirmed it. Every business needs its hook.

The little girl, in a frothy pink princess dress and plastic tiara, walked up to look at the display unit, then turned and pointed her tiny star-topped magic wand at Donovan. That’s you.

Donovan was working on the lower shelves of books, and already down at her level. No, Piper, that’s my father. Long time ago.

Piper thought about it for a moment. Was he nice?

Donovan’s eyes widened. Um, I never got to know him, actually. I do know he was smart.

Are you smart?

Not that smart.

You’re nice.

Thank you, Piper. So are you.

Piper’s mother finished paying for their book and the little girl turned to wave at Donovan as they left.

Well, he said, rising stiffly and pushing up his black-framed glasses. It doesn’t get better than that, does it?

Customer for life, Benny chuckled.

Donovan filled Charlotte’s big red mug with more coffee from the sideboard, then his own brown one, and leaned against the checkout counter. It was the official grand opening week for Sibylline Books, which was timed to coincide with the O’Dair Society conference at Corton University.

I’ve been looking forward to this week for months, but now I’ll be glad when it’s over. Donovan shook his head at the irony.

Charlotte knew exactly what he meant. That’s the way I feel about the conference. She was nervous about the talk she was scheduled to give.

Benny came out from the back room with another carton of books, half-talking to himself. I still think ‘Mysteries and Histories’ makes a catchy slogan for a bookstore. He set the carton on the long table in the middle of the shop and pulled out several different books—many with crows, ravens, or blackbirds on the cover.

Charlotte found them appealing. We can do a raven-themed window for Halloween.

That’s not a bad idea, said Donovan. I’m getting tired of all the O’Dair books.

You won’t if you sell a lot of them, Benny pointed out. But could I make a suggestion? Add some books on mysticism to the display this week. Many O’Dair fans are really into that.

Shamus, the large black cat sunning himself in the shop’s front window, rose and stretched as he arched his back and kneaded his paws. He let out a weird howl as he yawned. Then he nonchalantly turned to face them, twenty pounds of black fur with a white tuxedo shirt front and white toes.

Our familiar approves. Donovan scratched Shamus’ head. Are there a lot of, um, mystics coming to the conference?

There are, actually, said Benny. This is what’s going on at the campus right now. He handed his phone to Donovan. Charlotte leaned in for a look.

The video showed dozens of people congregating at a small wooded park in the older part of Corton University. Several were wearing ancient Egyptian costumes, complete with headdresses, ankhs, and serpents. Several others sported Druid cloaks, some wore togas or chitons, and one was in a sort of turbaned genie getup. Then Benny’s partner, Aslan, turned the camera to herself and waved. She was also in costume, dressed up as a buxom earth mother, her long blonde mane of hair hanging wild and crowned with a wreath of flowers and leaves.

What in the world is this? asked Donovan.

Benny’s eyes twinkled. The O’Dairicon.

Donovan glared at him. Alright, that’s enough with the O’Dair jokes already—

Charlotte interrupted him. Um, that’s actually what it’s called, Donovan. O’Dairicon.

Donovan saw that she was serious. You’ve gotta be kidding me.

It’s like Comic-Con, said Benny, "but for O’Dair’s worlds, especially his Elton Quench trilogy. They believe there are strong magic forces at work in the park. That’s why Aslan’s there."

Now it was Charlotte’s turn to look surprised, but Benny explained.

Aslan is pagan. Very spiritual. She loves the trees on that part of campus.

I see. Charlotte juggled two new facts at once: Aslan, Benny’s life and business partner, was pagan, and an actual group of costumed mystics was congregating at the university. I did know that there’s a large fan base that believes Seamus O’Dair was a prophet, because so many things in his novels have come true.

Donovan handed the phone back to Benny. "There are quite a few role-playing games based on Elton Quench. He looked at Charlotte. Ellis plays them online, doesn’t she?"

Yeah—there’s even a kind of scavenger-hunt game that’s popular in Europe. It uses GPS, apparently.

There’s a whole new generation of O’Dair fans. Benny was quite a bit younger than Charlotte. We grew up with the Harry Potter books and now we’ve got a taste for big long sagas.

A young man in a well-cut suit entered the shop, and immediately looked askance at the books with the birds on the covers. Charlotte took matters in hand and greeted him, asking if he was looking for anything in particular, and he relaxed.

Yes, actually, he said, I was looking for something on Seamus O’Dair, maybe critiques or something on his work.

Certainly! We have quite a few. Are you in town for the conference?

He followed her to the shelves where she had assembled such books a few months before.

I am. Just got in from Indianapolis.

Charlotte didn’t reveal her own connection to the conference. He would find out soon enough.

She spent a pleasant twenty minutes talking with him and highlighting two essays in one particular book, which he then purchased. As he left, she noted that he carried himself as if he thought he was on camera, in a generic-politician kind of way.

Donovan brought over several books that Benny had picked out.

She looked over the titles, which included How to Read the Tarot and Secret Societies Through the Ages. Going with the flow?

He laughed at himself. Business is business.

You wouldn’t do it, otherwise?

Nah. It wouldn’t even occur to me, to be honest. But Benny’s right—it’s interesting to a lot of the fans, and a chance to show the range of books we carry here.

Benny again came in from the back room, this time staggering under the weight of a very large pumpkin. Got room for this in here? I got it for the Oktoberfest, but I’ve got second thoughts about leaving it out for kids to smash on the street, you know?

You’re right about that, said Donovan, who then turned to Charlotte. Could we put it in the window?

Let me think for a minute.

The window display was currently a welcome to the O’Dair Society, plus a mix of the various editions of O’Dair’s books and others directly related to them. She set to work making the changes, with Donovan’s help, Shamus’ interference, and sundry props, using the pumpkin and the mystic books as a third element of the composition.

Among the books that Benny selected was one with NORWICH in gold lettering at the top and STONEHENGE across the bottom, overlaid on a dark and dramatic shot of the ancient ruins.

Your old boyfriend can certainly take a picture, can’t he? said Donovan.

She poked him with her elbow. You know you have other talents.

They watched as Shamus rubbed his chin on the corner of the book.

Have you heard from them? Charlotte asked. Simon Norwich and his long-time love, Philippa Dawson-Jones, were doing a segment on Donovan and the bookstore for Philippa’s BBC 2 arts program.

Donovan rolled his eyes. Oh yeah. From her. More than once. They’ll be here tonight or tomorrow. That’ll be the third ring of the circus, as far as I’m concerned.

Customers came and went throughout the afternoon, and more and more people arrived in town for the O’Dair Society conference and the O’Dairicon. By tea time, Charlotte was more than ready for a break, and sat on the sunny bench in front of the bookstore’s window with her good friend, Donovan’s Aunt Helene.

You must be so excited about seeing Ellis again, said Helene, whose white hair shone like a halo in the afternoon light.

Oh, I am! Charlotte couldn’t help but notice the extra glow in Helene’s expression. And I know you have been looking forward to it, too.

Helene had been Ellis’ piano teacher for many years, and now they were going to perform together in a concert.

I am, of course, but I’m also a little worried. A concerto for two pianos means that we are going to have to put in a lot of practice time together, in addition to rehearsing with the orchestra. I know you were disappointed when she didn’t come home for the summer.

Ellis had planned to spend her break back home until she was accepted, along with three other piano composition students from around the world, for a prestigious eight-week summer workshop with a famous composer.

Oh, sure, I was, but, Helene—it means she’s on her way to a great career.

Helene’s expression was almost wistful. I like knowing that she’s doing so well, that something of mine will go on after I die.

I doubt you are going to die anytime soon, though.

Helene shrugged. Nonetheless, this will be my last public performance. I am glad it will be with Ellis, so I can pass on the torch, so to speak.

CHARLOTTE WELCOMED every distraction, whether it was Ellis’ visit home, the grand opening of the bookstore, the Oktoberfest, or even the current jostling of her Jeep over the railroad tracks as she made her way to the parking lot for the train and bus service.

Anything, anything at all to stem the rising tide of panic about giving that talk at the conference.

At first, Charlotte was proud of the work she did with the notebooks written by Donovan’s mother, Olivia Bernadin, Seamus O’Dair’s second wife. It even garnered her an invitation to speak at the O’Dair Society conference. Then came the backlash from the academic establishment. She tried to back out of the invitation, but it was too late. And the fact that Ellis had been invited to perform at the same conference made her feel even more cornered.

She’d had enough experience with academics, not the least her former husband and Ellis’ father, Jack Anthony, to know that many of them would think her opinion wasn’t worth much without a PhD to back it up.

From there her thoughts went to Shelley, aka Mrs. Jack, who was something of an O’Dair enthusiast herself. Shelley was supposed to be coming to the conference. Would she be on the airport bus, too? Ellis hadn’t said one way or the other.

Charlotte again checked her emails and messages, but nothing new had come in, so she scrolled through her Twitter news feed and saw several links and comments concerning the culpability of a company for an oil spill in the Pacific Ocean. Evidently the company’s guilt was proven, thanks to the release of hundreds of documents by hackers working for a social justice group called Domino. In between she saw some retweets from people whose friends were attending the O’Dairicon. The world was becoming smaller in so many ways.

Charlotte heard a bus pull into the lot and turned to look, but it was just the mini-shuttle for the Corton Inn. She shook off the disappointment.

It was quickly getting dark, and a bit chilly in the dampness. Her stomach rumbled. As always happened when she was already battling anxiety, she had the growing fear that something more was amiss—

Snap out of it! Her anxiety was getting worse the closer it got to the day of her talk. Breathe. The main thing was that Ellis’ plane had landed safely, and any time now she would—

Sharp headlights arced across her windshield.

The airport bus had finally arrived. Her heartbeat quickened as the bus rounded the parking lot and stopped next to the ticket office. Several people emerged, some heading to their own cars or to people waiting for them. A few seemed to know one another and collected into a group; one of them pointed to the Corton Inn shuttle, where its driver now stood with a sign that said O’Dair Society. Then at last Ellis came down the steps, slinging a carry-on bag over her shoulder. She joined the group that had formed, laughing and chatting with one young man in particular as if he were an old friend.

Charlotte’s jaw dropped when she saw how much Ellis had changed. For one thing, she had grown at least two inches—maybe even three. She was slimmer than ever, but also shapelier, curves accentuated by skinny jeans tucked into boots and a simple dark sweater. And there was such a gracefulness and air of confidence about her—like she was seventeen going on twenty-five. Could the six months since she saw her last have made so much of a difference? Or was it an illusion, caused by the mixed light of the street lamps and the remains of red sunset?

As Charlotte approached, Ellis turned with, thankfully, a still-familiar grin.

Mom! her voice broke a little as she grasped Charlotte in a bear hug.

Wow! Charlotte exclaimed, when she finally stood back, still holding on, taking in the new sensation of looking at Ellis nose-to-nose. You’ve grown!

Ellis wiped away a happy tear, and nodded. I know.’

They just looked at one another for a moment, Charlotte taking in her daughter’s precious, beloved face, the freckles, the long dark brown curly hair, the bond she had with those blue eyes, and the slight difference in them now, perhaps from jet lag or growing up—

Ellis suddenly turned and stretched her hand out to the group standing nearby. Hey, this is my mom!

Charlotte found herself shaking hands and hoping she got the names of the various men and women who were happy to meet her and looking forward to her presentation at the conference, but one of them lingered as the others boarded the Corton Inn shuttle bus.

Ellis explained, Selim is a friend of Shelley’s. He’s studying at the Sorbonne, and he’s giving a paper at the conference, too.

Oh! Well, welcome!

Selim smiled and spoke with an expensive English accent. Thank you, Ms. Anthony. I am very much looking forward to your talk.

And what are you speaking on?

The influence of magic-based thinking in O’Dair’s life and work.

That I definitely want to hear. What day—

A shout from the Corton Inn bus made him turn, and he nodded and waved to the rest of the group.

I am sorry, but I must not keep them waiting, he said, placing a hand on Ellis’ arm. I will see you both again soon, yes?

Ellis’ expression alone confirmed that they would. Bye, Selim. I’ll text you.

Charlotte’s mom-calculator was whirring, analyzing the relationship between Ellis and Selim, and Selim’s intentions, even as all of this pleasantry was taking place. He was most likely around twenty-five, but still too old for Ellis. If he knew Shelley, then he would realize that Ellis was just seventeen, wouldn’t he? But what if seventeen wasn’t too young in whatever culture he was from, English accent or no? And where was Shelley, anyway?

Will Shelley be at the conference?

Ellis’ expression sobered as she shook her head. Changed her mind.

The bus driver called out to Ellis, asking if two very large cases were hers.

To Charlotte’s surprise, Ellis said yes.

Charlotte joked, as she lugged one of the heavy bags into the Jeep, Brought home your laundry?

But Ellis wasn’t laughing.

And there, in the halos of mist surrounding the tall street lamps in the parking lot, Ellis changed the whole game:

I’m moving back home.

Chapter Two

Sunday, October 16th - Monday, October 17th

It had been a restless night, and as soon as daylight broke Charlotte got up and put on the coffee.

Mornings were a magic time of day in the apartment, with the bubbling of the coffeemaker, the cat crunching on kibble, the refrigerator humming, and the old building snapping and creaking. But once in a while, like now, the thoughts whirling around in her head drowned out everything else.

I’m moving back home.

Charlotte would have liked nothing more than to get a few more details from her daughter the night before, but Ellis had pleaded jet lag and crashed shortly after having a bite to eat.

Donovan’s reaction to the news was a single raised eyebrow. He said nothing, and had to get back to the bookstore to oversee a poetry slam. She knew he had compartmentalized it for later discussion.

This was also exactly what she had to do, as she had an appointment that morning with Aubrey Jefferson about her presentation for the conference.

The door to Ellis’ room was shut; she was probably still asleep. Donovan, who didn’t get in until well after midnight, was also still asleep. It was driving Charlotte crazy waiting to find out why Ellis wanted to move back home, and how this was going to impact her own life. There was nothing she could do, however, except stir up some breakfast. A frittata would be good, even at room temperature, in case everyone was coming and going at different times.

Shamus was sitting on the window seat between two base cabinets in the kitchen, washing his face. She refilled his food and water bowls, then started to assemble the things she needed to cook.

Donovan came in, yawning, rubbing his hand through his auburn hair, which made it stand up higher than ever.

Mornin’ Charlotte. Coffee smells g—

A door closed off the living room and Ellis appeared, bright-eyed and energized, as if she had been out for a run. She stopped when she saw Charlotte, then Donovan, and her face reddened as she realized he was clad only in his pajama bottoms—and that his torso was crossed with long scars.

He saw her expression. Ah, right. Now I remember. He turned around and went back into the bedroom.

Oh, I’m sorry, Ellis sputtered, I didn’t mean to—

Charlotte shook her head. It’s okay, Ellis. He’s just tired and forgot you were here. Out for a run?

Um, no, I was using the exercise room. I hope that’s okay.

Absolutely. Want a frittata?

Um, yeah. Ellis took a deep breath and looked around. Can I help? I don’t know where anything is, though. She still seemed ill at ease.

Good. Maybe making her nervous will get the whole moving-home story out of her. Charlotte handed Ellis the eggs and mixing bowl, then began to dice up onions, peppers, and mushrooms while the skillet heated.

Do you ever miss our old house? asked Ellis.

No, not really. After you went to Paris, it just didn’t feel like home anymore. What I missed was our life together.

Ellis said nothing for a moment. That’s what I’m missing, too. But it’s all different now, isn’t it?

Charlotte looked up at Ellis, but she was looking down and cracking another egg into the bowl.

So! Donovan returned, this time dressed in jeans and a tee shirt. Good morning! Sorry that I forgot you were here—

Ellis stood awkwardly, holding out her egg-sticky hands. Oh, please don’t apologize, I’m still on Paris time, you know—

Charlotte wanted to bring the painful exchange to an end. Got time for breakfast? She added the veggies to the skillet and started beating the eggs with herbs and grated cheese.

Donovan came around to her side of the island and began to fill his mug with coffee.

I’ve got a lot on today, so I’m going down to the office to get started, and I’ll come back up for breakfast in a little bit. You two could probably use some time to—catch up.

He hoisted his mug in their direction. Cheers.

Then made his escape.

Ellis immediately looked up, but still spoke quietly.

I’m so sorry I hurt his feelings, Mom, but I had no idea—the scars? What happened to him?

The veggies were ready. Charlotte added the egg mixture to the skillet.

He was nearly beaten to death by the same guys that killed his mother. Took him a long time to recover, even to walk again. That’s why he put in the exercise room, and the massage table. Pain management.

Didn’t that happen, like, a year ago? Ellis moved to the sink to wash her hands.

Charlotte nodded and checked the underside of the frittata. And it’ll probably be like that the rest of his life.

Ellis was quiet as she watched Charlotte. Do you find them, you know— Her expression was part dubious, part distaste.

What, the scars? Charlotte smiled and shook her head. Adds character.

Ellis said nothing, but looked as if she was considering a different way of looking at things.

It was time to confront the elephant in the room. What’s really going on in Paris?

Ellis immediately became more guarded. Nothing’s going on. I just miss being home with you, and talking with Helene. I need a chance to think about where I’m going with my music.

What does your dad have to say about this?

Ellis shrugged, and smiled enigmatically. You know dad. He and Shelley are wrapped up in their own lives.

Charlotte ran the skillet under the broiler and took a deep breath. Well, what will you do about school?

Ellis waved her hand over her shoulder. That’s what I want to talk about with Helene, and in fact I’ve got practice with her in a few minutes.

The frittata is finished. You are going to have some, right?

Sure, I can eat it on the way over. I need to shower and change. She went down the hall to her room.

Ellis was being evasive, but for the next few hours Charlotte would have to put it out of her mind.

I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU do it, Charlie, but every time I see you, I’m thirty-eight all over again.

Aubrey Jefferson enveloped Charlotte Anthony in a hug, and she herself felt twenty again for about ten seconds. Then she placed her hands on his biceps as she stood back, affirming the connection but not letting things go any further.

Still, she couldn’t help but smile. It’s good to see you, too, Jeffers.

He gently grasped her hand as they parted and looked at it.

Nice rocks. When’s the wedding?

The date keeps shifting. We were going to have it this week, while so many friends and family were in town, then thought better of it. Donovan wants it to be the only thing we have to think about, to make it special.

Jefferson’s expression had gradually shifted from flirtatious to tender. A romantic, huh? That’s all right.

She just nodded. After all, this wasn’t really a social visit.

Nonetheless he stepped closer, put his hand at the back of her head and kissed her on her forehead. His thick mustache tickled. Congratulations, my dear. You deserve nothing but happiness.

Oh! said a woman standing in the doorway. "Am I interrupting something?"

Charlotte’s mood immediately dropped from warmth to embarrassment. Of all the people who could have walked in at that moment, Margaret Milligan had to be the worst. Even Donovan would have been better. Far better. He’d at least trust her and they’d have a laugh about it.

Jefferson held her exactly where she was. What is it, Margaret?

The dumpy, red-faced woman picked up on his irritation and turned to leave. Nothing. Conference matters. I’ll come back later. Her heels clacked all the way to her office.

Jefferson sighed and let Charlotte go. Tiresome biddy.

His phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and apologized. Have a seat—this shouldn’t take long. He sat down at his desk and took the call.

She moved to the tall 19th-century window opposite his desk and took in the view of the wooded park, where the oaks and maples were reaching the height of October color, and where canopied booths were going up as for an art fair. There was also something being built in the clearing in the middle. A bonfire? It must all be part of the O’Dairicon. She would never have imagined such an event happening next to Bishop Hall, either back when she was a student, or later as an instructor there.

Charlotte settled in the armchair that didn’t have books stacked on it. Jefferson’s corner office was still decorated in Late Period Ratty English Professor, from the coffee-stained mug with the chipped Corton University logo to the squeeze bottle of mustard off to the side of his desk. The former stacks of student papers and academic notebooks had been replaced by a grubby computer and a couple of note pads. She caught a whiff of the fresh, unsmoked pipe tobacco that now served as a sort of potpourri in his old heavy glass ashtray. The gum wrappers were new and there had been spearmint on his breath.

The sun shot a beam straight across the room to the back of Jefferson’s head, turning his wavy white hair gold. His style was a little more Sam Elliot than Albert Einstein. He’d been a favorite of female students and faculty alike, appreciative rather than rapacious. And on occasion, extra appreciative. She caught herself smiling, then shook off the memory.

That’s out of the way, said Jefferson, swiveling around in his chair. I really appreciate your coming by this morning. There’s a guy from the Rose Endowment in town for the conference and he has a couple of questions about my grant application. Since the premise of my research was inspired by your work on Olivia Bernadin’s notebooks, I thought it would be a good idea to have him meet you, as well.

A Rose Grant was lucrative—worth about two years of a full professor’s salary.

Do you think your chances are good?

Jefferson shrugged. It’ll be whatever it’ll be. I’ve never gotten one before, but this time— His voice revealed his hopes. Then he shifted gears. But now about your keynote address.

They spent half an hour talking in detail about their respective presentations, and which elements they would each tackle. It was a typical day in the building; the door to the office was open, and the sounds of footsteps going up and down the wide and creaky stairs of Bishop Hall, knocking on doors, murmurs of passing conversation were much the same now as when she once had an office there, herself. Then one set of footsteps came closer, followed by a quick rap on the door frame, and a well-groomed young man stuck in his head.

It was the customer in the suit from yesterday, the one who wanted the book of critiques on O’Dair. Professor Jefferson? I’m Tread Rose. He came into the office and they shook hands.

Jefferson introduced Charlotte as he removed books by Noam Chomsky and Umberto Eco from the other armchair.

This is Charlotte Anthony, whose work I mentioned was the catalyst for mine.

Tread recognized her. We met at the bookstore yesterday! Very pleased to meet you, Professor Anthony.

Oh, no, said Charlotte. I’m not a professor. Just an editor.

But a very keen one, said Jefferson, who began to run on a bit about how her work inspired his. I wouldn’t be doing this project at all without her. I’ve long had a theory about O’Dair’s subliminal message, but Charlotte’s transcription of Olivia Bernadin’s notebooks provided a road map toward the proof—

As he rambled on, Charlotte realized why Tread had looked familiar—he was almost certainly a member of the state’s powerful Rose family, and he looked a great deal like Senator Larch Rose. Son? Nephew? Most likely nephew.

In his suit and tie, Tread Rose looked more like someone who was trying to sell insurance or financial services than deciding who to fund in the arts. Perhaps he was doing this with no more consideration of other options than many sons still faced in this day and age, whether Dad and Grandpa were farmers, lawyers—or owners of Rose Agricultural Products Corporation. Tread was a Rose, and this was apparently the sort of thing a Rose would do.

Tread raised his hand slightly to bring Jefferson’s somewhat nervous speaking to an end, and Jefferson complied, looking as if he feared he was going to be disappointed.

Before we go any further, Professor, Tread interrupted, I’d like to inform you that you’ve been short-listed for the grant.

Jefferson’s face lit up with relief and he grasped Charlotte’s hand in excitement. That is good, very good news.

Tread smiled at the enthusiasm. And now, in light of that, we have an interview and observation process. It came to my attention that the O’Dair Society conference is being held here at Corton University this week, and that you’re an organizer as well as a speaker. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to come up from Indianapolis and take it all in, get a better feel for this author’s work and what your proposal would contribute toward it. So, I’d like to do two or three short interviews with you over the next few days, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes each time.

Yes! That would be fine.

Tread looked from Jefferson to Charlotte, as if he had an idea. How about now? Your colleagues are welcome to be part of it, as well, with their own contributions.

Right, right, nodded Jefferson. None better than Charlotte.

Great! Let me get comfortable here and set things up, it will only take a moment.

Tread did a spot-on campaign ad imitation of his high-profile uncle, the