Though his tone has been nothing but polite so far, he seems haughty to me—taking his time to answer the door, dropping the quote fromMacbeth, the way he keeps his chin slightly elevated.
And there’s something else, I realize, something odd. From the moment I’ve arrived, he’s trained his gaze at a spot in the middle of my forehead instead of looking me directly in the eye.
Chapter 10
Am I making him uncomfortable? Perhaps he fears I’ve come hoping for a pity party about a girl he probably can’t even picture anymore.
“I appreciate you saying that,” I tell him. “And I won’t use up much of your time. I know Melanie studied creative writing with you, and I was hoping you could help me get my hands on her old schoolwork. I already have some of her poems and a couple of longer works, but it occurred to me I might be able to access more through the school.”
Handler looks off, tapping his fist to his mouth in thought, then returns his gaze to me—or at least to my forehead. If I didn’t know better, I’d think a giant boil had erupted there since I left the inn this morning.
“You mean, do I have copies of the literary magazine from back then?” he asks. “I don’t, unfortunately, but surely the library does. I’d be glad to speak to someone and see if there are extras—or at the very least have them photocopy pages for you.”
I smile politely. “Thank you, but I already have copies ofThe Musefrom the time Mel was here. I’m talking about anything from, let’s say, the poetry workshops you taught. I know the college uses Blackboard, and I thought that some of her writing assignments might still be archived online.”
For a few seconds his face goes blank, expressionless, like he’s been turned to stone by an ancient curse.
“Ah yes, of course,” he says finally. “Let me have my assistant investigate and see what we can find ... Was there anything else I could be of help with?”
“No, that’s all, and thank you. See you Thursday night.”
“As a matter of fact, you’ll see me again today. My wife and I are attending the dinner at President Williams’s house in your honor.”
“Oh great. See you tonight, then.”
He offers a second handshake before I depart.
It’s not until I’m outside, feeling the chill in the air, that I realize I’ve stupidly left my coat behind. I return to the building and make my back to the second floor. As I reach the anteroom, I see that Handler’s door is half open now, and I hear the murmur of someone’s voice coming from his office. A woman’s voice. Almost without thinking, I step closer and peek through the doorway.
Handler is sitting at his desk, and the woman is standing right next to him, rather than on the other side of the desk. She’s so close, in fact, that if she reached out a little, she could easily touch the tip of his nose. And she must be a student because she’s young, with her hair in a long braid and a backpack slung over her shoulder.
Hearing my footsteps, they both glance over and spot me. Handler’s face is a blank, but the girl steps back a foot, appearing flustered.
I grab my coat and hurry off.
A couple of blocks from campus, a coffee shop appears on my right, and I slip inside, taking a seat at a table by the window and ordering a cup of chamomile tea. I’m feeling unsettled, I realize, by my experience with Handler, especially the part involving the young woman by his desk.
Taking a sip of tea, I try to look at the situation from his vantage point. He’s forced into an uncomfortable meeting with the mother of a murdered student, so how can I blame him for seeming ill at ease? As for the student, I know kids that age can sometimes act entitled and overly familiar. Maybe the girl was pushing for a higher grade on a paper and inadvertently violated his personal space.
Mel, I know, thought highly of Handler. In her view, he was a talented poet and mesmerizing to listen to, and though he could be demanding in class, he apparently treated students with respect. On warm days he sometimes held class in his backyard, and once or twice his wife had even joined the group. She is, or at least was, an artist of some kind, and she’d contributed thoughtful comments on the similarities between art and poetry.
Mel hadn’t toldmethis, of course. I’d overheard her sharing it with Logan.
I chase Handler from my thoughts, finish my tea, and walk briskly back to the inn. It’s time to make the phone call to the West Coast, which I need to do from the privacy of my room.
I’m still not in the mood to see Logan, but he’s, of course, right there in the lobby when I arrive, standing in line at the desk behind a woman whose long hair has been colored in a blond ombre style. At her feet is a Louis Vuitton duffel bag the size of a wolfhound. She’s busy asking Shelly—in a voice too loud for the space—how soon she can get several of the small plates sent to the room.
As I close the door behind me, it makes a thud, and Logan turns around.
“Bree,” he says, a little too loudly himself. “There you are.”
“I’ve been at the college. Has something happened?”
“Nothing significant, but I spoke to Halligan, and I wanted to update you.”
The semi-blonde has spun around, too, as if we’ve piqued her curiosity. She’s in her mid-forties, I’d guess, and doesn’t exactly read as some college student’s mom, so she’s probably in town for another reason.
Logan crosses his arms, looking suddenly awkward, and takes a step closer to me.
