“I’m Marjorie Hansen, the course facilitator, and I’m so happy to have you here,” she said, gesturing to a couple of paint-splattered chairs opposite her desk. “Please, sit down. Would you like some tea?”
I nodded, then realized that was stupid. “Yes, please.”
I expected Mrs. Anders to leave the room in order to fetch tea, but she sat down beside us. Marjorie turned to a small tea tray beside her desk and flicked on a kettle. She gathered chipped cups in bright colors and arranged them on the tray, asking us each for our preference. I noticed braille labels on her tea tins and a small device next to the teaspoons.
Beside her computer were a sloped drafting table and a flat surface stacked with blocks of clay and sculpting tools. Quoth looked over at me, his eyes wide with concern. He squeezed my fingers, checking I was all right. I squeezed back, more fascinated than triggered. Marjorie was the first blind person I’d met apart from Mr. Simson – my father. “Did you create the artwork on the walls, Marjorie?” I asked.
“Most of it,” she replied. “My work is all about movement. I like art that is constantly changing, never static. That’s why I took this corner office – I can open the windows and let in the breeze. On a windy day, it sounds like a heavy metal band in here with all the clanging and clattering.”
I laughed. “I believe it.”
“Tell me, what are your names?”
“I’m Mina.”
“And I’m Allan,” Quoth said.
“Are you both interested in enrolling in one of our art degrees?”
“I am.” Quoth’s voice rang like music. He sounded so light and happy, it made my heart soar. “Mina’s come along to support me, although I’m hoping to convince her to join, as well. She’s incredibly creative.”
The kettle boiled. Marjorie attached the small device to the top of a cup and poured the water. When the level reached just below the brim, the device emitted a loud beep, and she set it aside and handed the cup to me.
“We’ll let Mina make up her own mind,” she said, sitting back and sipping her own cup. “Tell me about your work, Allan.”
Quoth reached for his portfolio, but then must’ve remembered that was pointless. Instead, he described some of his recent pieces, the things he enjoyed to paint, what he felt like with a brush in his hands, and the artists whose work he admired. It was the most words I’d ever heard him speak to anyone who wasn’t me. Something about this woman put him at ease.
She put me at ease, too. From the way she moved about her crowded office, picking up pieces of work to show him or finding books on her shelf for him to read, it was obvious she felt completely at home there. She knew where everything was kept in that organized chaos. I had so many questions I wanted to ask her – about the device attached to her computer that was reading the screen to her, about the little tool she used to measure the water level in the tea, about how she chose which colors to paint even when she couldn’t see them.
Instead, I watched her. This was a successful, capable woman making a career for herself not only as an artist but as a course facilitator. And she was blind. Majorie was exactly the kind of person I wanted to be. I was desperate to know her story, how she’d found the peace she wore like a perfectly-fitted dress. But I couldn’t find the words. I sat, numb and in awe, as Quoth and Marjorie fell into an easy conversation about Mondrian’s use of form and geometry.
“Even my guide dog is named after him.” Majorie nudged her dog, Mondrian, awake so we could pet him. “I didn’t get to name him. People who donate to the charity that trains the dogs give them their names. Each litter is assigned a letter of the alphabet and all the dogs in that litter must have names starting with that letter. Each dog lives with a volunteer for the first year of their life, then they have twenty-six weeks of specialist training before they’re paired with an owner. When I was paired with Mondrian I thought, ah, it’s fate.” Marjorie scratched behind his ears. “And here we are, five years later, and we’re each other’s family.”
Mondrian rolled over so I could scratch his stomach, his tongue lolling out with bliss. I thought about how much fun it would be to have a puppy around the shop, especially if it was as gentle and helpful as Mondrian.
When we left Marjorie’s office twenty minutes later, I felt like I was floating. Meeting her had given me a gift I never expected. My mind reeled with ideas, of new things I could do with the bookshop, of ways I could continue to be creative even when I couldn’t see.
At the front desk, Mrs. Anders handed up both a thick envelope of enrollment material and a course prospectus. “I hope I’ll be seeing both of you back here soon,” she said, giving me a meaningful look.
“You never know,” I replied.
As soon as we were outside and walking toward the bus stop, I asked Quoth the question that had been nagging me ever since we entered her room. “Did you know about Marjorie when you asked me to come here?”
“I swear I didn’t—” Quoth grabbed my arm. “Mina, it’s Brian Letterman.”
I followed his gaze up ahead, where a man walked along the path in front of us, heading toward the administration building. His hand was to his ear, presumably holding a phone, because I could hear him muttering into it. From this distance, I couldn’t recognize him, but if Quoth said it was the publisher, I believed him.
“He said he taught a publishing course here,” I remembered. “I bet it’s on this same campus. Let’s follow him.”
If I’d been with Morrie, he’d already have dived into the bushes, his phone ready to record what he heard. But I was with Quoth, who immediately averted his eyes. “It’s a private conversation. I don’t think we should—”
“Nonsense,” I hissed, dragging Quoth into the bushes and digging out my phone to record what we heard. I had learned far too much from James Moriarty. “I’m not going to let this murder destroy the shop. Brian Letterman is one of our suspects, and we could learn some valuable information. Now shhhh.”
I held my phone up near the top of the bush just as Brian walked past. “…I realize that,darling, but I can’t exactly do anything while the police are snooping around.” Brian’s voice was thick with disdain. He moved toward the bushes, right above our heads.Excellent, excellent.“As soon as things calm down, I’ll be able to move on Danny’s backlist.”
He must be talking about Danny’s books.
Brian continued. “Exactly, luv… according to the lawyer, he didn’t finish the paperwork. Penny would have to begin negotiations all over again, and in the meantime, I can release as many new editions as I like. Thanks to his untimely death, they’ll fly off the shelves. Even if we do eventually give the rights back to Penny, we’ll make a killing in the meantime. It serves that greedy bastard right for trying to self-publish and keep all the royalties for himself. I’m the reason his career is what it is, and he tried to cut me out? Look where that got him, aye?”
