With a Minor in Murder, page 3
“Good morning, Professor Hart,” the young woman continued before turning to her coworker. “I put the last lemon bar aside for her—it’s over there by the espresso machine. Professor Hart always has a lemon bar on Monday mornings.”
Libby wanted to protest that she wasn’t as predictable as that, and that she hadn’t been shamefully upset about the lack of lemon bars, but she was glad to have her usual breakfast restored and decided not to press the point. Besides, she was too busy trying to remember her savior’s name to speak. An art history major. Her final paper had been on architectural details in Edward Hopper’s paintings—nothing too brilliant, but an interesting paper…
“Thank you, Cassie,” she said, relieved when the name popped into her mind. She stuffed several bills into the tip jar next to the register and smiled at both of them. “See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Tuesdays in the autumn meant a piece of pumpkin bread and a soy latte. Yikes—maybe she did have a problem. She took a bite of her tangy pastry and brushed powdered sugar off her lips. Oh well, if being predictable meant that people kindly reserved her usual order behind the counter, then why change? Maybe she should post her weekly menu at the police department to ward off any future altercations, although she might be willing to forgo an occasional usual breakfast if it meant she could talk to that beautiful officer again. She tried to pretend that her charitable attitude was a sign of her emotional maturity and not a direct result of getting what she wanted.
She arrived at the crosswalk at Fifteenth Avenue and realized she had caught up to the lemon bar thief. She tried to blend in with the crowd when the officer glanced over her shoulder and caught Libby staring—unfortunately at a place much lower than the back of her head—but there were too few people to provide much cover. She came back to Libby’s side.
“Do I need to bring you in to the station on suspicion of stalking?”
“You wish,” Libby said with a haughty flip of her hair, before she grinned. “I was just admiring the view on my way to work. I teach over there.” She gestured at Gould Hall, across from the police station. It was one of the two buildings housing UW’s School of Architecture. All glass and concrete and straight lines. She grimaced with disappointment at its lack of imagination and turned back to the officer who was visually much more appealing. She was trying to think of something else to say to prolong their conversation, but the walk light came on, and they followed the rest of the pedestrians across the street. She might have been imagining it, but she thought the officer’s sigh matched her own.
“Well, good-bye.”
“Bye,” Libby said with a wave before she turned and crossed the side street toward her building.
* * *
By the time Libby’s second class ended, she felt exhausted. Mondays and Wednesdays were her lightest days of the week, with only the two classes to teach, but the early days of the quarter were always tiring for her. Every batch of students was unique, with different names, goals, and communication styles, and she struggled to learn them in the first few weeks. Although each course would basically follow the syllabus she had created—with scheduled readings, assignments, and exams—she left room in them to be able to adapt to the students themselves. She spent the first weeks of the quarter with part of her attention focused on teaching and the rest on observing the class as they learned and determining how to best adjust to them. Once she had a month or so with a class, she settled into the flow of teaching more easily.
She stuffed a notepad and folder full of handouts into her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. She had held office hours between classes today—with the usual start-of-term nervous students asking questions about quizzes, grading, and the particulars of assignments—so now she was free to go. She headed straight to Denny Hall, walking around the building to enter through the front doors instead of taking the shorter route through one of the side entrances which had boring concrete stairwells. She preferred climbing the wide staircase, flanked by cylindrical towers, that led to the main doors. The revivalist building’s arched windows and spires soothed her after the starkness of Gould and the modernist fiasco that was Padelford Hall, where her Women in Rome class was held.
Libby scanned the facade of the building, with its beautiful blend of curves and points, and felt the tension of the day drain from her, before she climbed the stairs and entered through the somewhat incongruous light wood door. The inside of Denny had been thoroughly renovated into near-sterility before she had come to the university, but she was less concerned about interiors—preferring them to be functional and clean—than exteriors, where she appreciated anything but those qualities.
She went to the second floor, where her friend Tig’s office was. The wood of the door was barely visible under a chaotic collage of photos from trips to Greece, poetry fragments by Sappho scribed in Tig’s elegant handwriting, and a flyer advertising the opportunity to spend the summer rowing around the Aegean Sea in a replica of a trireme. The last one sounded quite awful to Libby, and she tapped on the partially open door and walked into the office, ready to ask Tig about it.
She came to a halt just inside the doorway, her questions fading from her mind when she saw that Tig wasn’t alone. Ariella was sitting in one of the chairs across from her, and Jasmine was perched on the edge of Tig’s desk. They were Libby’s three closest friends, and they were often together at restaurants or in one of their homes, but she couldn’t recall ever having their entire group crammed into the same office. The surprise of seeing them all at once wouldn’t have been as jarring, except that they were looking at her with expressions that somehow made her feel like a prey animal that had stumbled into a predator’s den.
“Hello,” she said, her voice rising enough to make the greeting sound like a question.
Ariella gave her a little wave in return, but Jazz pointed at the empty chair. “Shut the door and sit down, Libby.”
Something about Jazz’s voice always made Libby mentally add the phrase or else to whatever she had said. Jasmine was the director of Suzzallo Library, and she seemed to live her life as if it was her personal mission to completely remove the stereotype of librarians as meek little old ladies from the American psyche.
Libby shut the door and sat down.
“You three are giving me the creeps,” she said. She set her bag on the floor at her feet and crossed her legs. “What’s going on?”
“We just wanted to talk to you,” Ariella said, patting her on the arm in a way that was unusual rather than comforting.
Libby looked at the three of them in turn, confused. “So, you all came here? Why not corner me in my own office?”
“Because we knew you’d be here, but we weren’t sure what your offices hours were.” Tig shrugged. “You always visit me on Monday afternoons.”
“Except for the quarter when she had a late afternoon class on Mondays,” Ariella added. “Then she switched me to Mondays and saw you on Thursdays instead.”
“And I’m Fridays because that’s when she comes to the library to check out books for the weekend.”
Libby was definitely not going to bring up the morning’s story of her near-assault on a police officer because of a Monday lemon bar. “So I have a few routines I follow. Would you rather I came to see you on random days?”
“They’re ruts, not routines, Libby dear,” Jazz said. “And we expect you to break out of them.”
“Not expect, Jazz. We would like to encourage her to change them,” Ariella said in a whisper loud enough for Libby to hear. Because she was sitting Right. Next. To. Her. Libby crossed her arms, too, turning herself into a defensive pretzel. The movement called her attention to the sleeve of her blouse. Her Monday blouse, she realized uncomfortably.
“Is this some sort of intervention just because I visit you on certain days? We have predictable class schedules, so—”
“You’re getting too hung up on that part of it,” Jazz said. “We’re worried about you because you rarely leave campus. You need to find some new hobbies. Make some new friends.”
“I leave campus every day when I go home. Plus, I go downtown all the time.” All the time was a slight exaggeration, but not much. She’d taken the bus to Pike Place Market just a week or so ago. Or was it a month?
“You live five minutes away,” Tig said dismissively. “And you spend most of your time when you’re in the city wandering around and staring at buildings. That’s hardly a change of pace from what you do on campus.”
“I’m an architectural historian. Staring at buildings is what I do for a living. I’m not going to move to the other side of Seattle just for a change in scenery.” She glared at each of her friends in turn, but they didn’t seem intimidated by her. “Although the suggestion that I find three new friends is starting to look better by the minute.”
“We don’t mean for you to replace us,” Jazz said, gently kicking the leg of Libby’s chair. “Just to maybe add some new people to your world. People who are different.”
Perhaps a beautiful woman in uniform? Libby pushed that thought as far out of her mind as she could get it, not because she wouldn’t be interested in pursuing the idea, but because the memory of her morning interaction only seemed to serve as proof of what her friends were saying. She had been standing close to an attractive stranger, actually having a conversation with her, but too much of her attention had been focused on the potential break in her routine rather than on any romantic possibilities that the chance meeting might have provided. Still, her friends didn’t need to know how uncomfortably close to the mark they were. Libby stuck to her defensive position with determination.
“But you’re all very different, and the four of us wouldn’t be friends if I hadn’t brought us together.” Libby loved her small group, even if they were being annoying and intrusive at the present moment.
Tig snorted, adding weight to the annoying side of the scales. “Your three best friends are all lesbian Humanities professors. Fine, two professors and one librarian, so stop hissing at me, Jazz. My point still stands that we’re not exactly a microcosm of the diverse American population.”
Libby shook her head, still unconvinced. “I’m happy. Why should I change?”
Ariella rested her hand on Libby’s forearm. “Are you really? You seem content, but you don’t seem truly happy to us.”
The warmth and concern in her friend’s voice broke through some of Libby’s stubborn resistance to their suggestions. If she was being honest with herself, she hadn’t been feeling particularly joyous lately. She loved her work and her friends, but at the end of the day, when she was in her apartment reading with only a stone gargoyle and a cat for company, she felt something was missing from her life. Maybe this talk—invasive as it was—would spur her on to find that spark of passion again. In a safe way, though. Not in a way that involved chasing down an officer.
“Maybe you’re right,” she admitted reluctantly. “I wouldn’t mind adding something new to my life. I’ve always wanted to learn Russian, so maybe I could audit a class. Or get a book and teach myself. Or sign up for Duolingo.”
“No,” all three of them chorused, making Libby startle.
“Nothing academic,” Jazz added. “If you really want to take a class, you could go off campus and learn how to do something like bread baking or cooking.”
“Not bread,” Tig said. “She’ll just use that as an excuse to stay home in the evening.” She switched to a falsetto and said, “My bread is rising. I’ll have to stay in my apartment and read for the next five hours.”
“I really don’t think I sound so shrill,” Libby protested, trying not to laugh at Tig’s exaggerated impression of her. It didn’t help that she had been thinking almost those exact words when Jazz had made her suggestion. “And I don’t wave my hands like that when I talk.”
“You do when you’re talking about buildings,” Jazz said, pushing herself off the desk. “So it’s settled, then? You’ll find something interesting to do, or else we’ll find something for you. And trust me, if you heard some of the suggestions these two were dreaming up before you got here, you’d be quick about signing yourself up for hot yoga or bonsai pruning or whatever. Otherwise you’ll find yourself engaged in some embarrassing activity that involves other singles who are looking for love. Now, let’s go get dinner because I’m starving. You usually have falafel from that little restaurant on the Ave. on Mondays, don’t you?”
Libby sighed. Had she accidentally emailed everyone her weekly itinerary? They seemed far more aware of her routines—or ruts, as they so impolitely called them—than she herself had been. At least they weren’t forcing her to start by switching her normal dinner routine, because now that Jazz had mentioned falafel, she was having a serious craving for some. She got up, and they headed toward University Way, thankfully talking about subjects other than her life. She wasn’t going to admit it to them, but she felt a little electric ping inside, a flicker of interest in the idea of pushing her boundaries and trying something new. Besides, Jazz had moved from veiled threats to outright pronouncements of the or else consequences. Trouble was, unless it involved books or taking academic courses or staring at buildings, she had no idea what interested her, or what hobby could possibly make her evenings a little less lonely. Libby had better find her own activity, though, before she was forced into an evening of speed dating or an awkward Lonely Hearts Birdwatching Club outing.
Chapter Three
Clare only had to drive around the block three times before she found a great spot on a nearby side street. Her Hyundai might be old and ugly, but it was a dream to parallel park, practically scooting itself sideways into impossibly tiny gaps between other cars. And its garish lime-green paint made it easy to spot in any sea of more tastefully colored vehicles. She had chosen it because of its low price, and the fact that it had turned out to be a perfect city car was a bonus. She manually locked the door—the key remote had stopped working years ago, despite battery changes and repeated smacks against the dashboard—and gave the hood a pat before walking around the corner to the restaurant.
Lassi, one of the city’s trendiest new dining locations, was distinctive even on this eclectic and bright street, its windows glittering with lights and gilded statues. The warm smell of spices wafted around the doorway, changing to an aromatic punch in the face when she stepped inside. Clare knew her friends hadn’t chosen this meeting spot in the Fremont neighborhood in north Seattle because they wanted her to have an easy drive from her Greenwood apartment. They had picked it because it was far from the casual pubs where they used to hang out when she was still with Seattle PD. They might run into a stray cop from their precinct here, but it would likely be someone on a date or dining with the family. Not a crowd of officers getting together for a drink after their shift ended. She wasn’t sure if they were trying to protect her from her own feelings of regret and no longer belonging, or if they suspected that some of her old coworkers wouldn’t be shy about commenting on her defection from the force.
Either way, their choice of venue and obvious attempt to protect her had made her feel a little sad, but one whiff of the place and sadness shifted toward gratitude. And hunger.
She made her way through the crowded lobby to the restaurant’s bar. She paused under the arched entrance and scanned the room, as much looking for her friends as noticing and marking the positions of the other people in the room. It was a habit she had picked up soon after joining the force, and she knew it would always be part of her.
Erin noticed her first, and then Zeke. They both smiled at her, and she felt the impact of their expressions in her gut, as if she had forgotten what it was like to have anyone be glad to see her when she walked into a room. Three weeks with the campus police had been harder on her than she had realized. Everyone in the department was polite to her, answering her questions and offering to help with paperwork or with finding her way around campus, but polite could sometimes be miles away from friendly. She blinked a few times—ready to blame the oily scent of chiles in the air for any tears that might show in her eyes—and made her way to the small booth in the back of the room where her friends were sitting.
They hugged, then spent several minutes getting settled and making the expected comments about how wonderful the place smelled, and what amazing reviews they had read about it.
“How’s your dad?” Clare asked Erin once they had given their orders to a waiter. Clare had glanced over the menu, but the lighting was too dim to read easily, so she had ordered her favorite, saag paneer, having already checked the restaurant’s online menu to make sure they served it.
“Still tired after chemo, but the treatments are finished. His doctors are hopeful.” She fidgeted with her napkin even as she relayed the hopeful news, a small physical sign of how stressful the year had been for her family. “He wanted me to thank you for the Seahawks jersey. He said it was a much better present than all those damned flowers other people sent.”
“Hey!” Zeke said.
Erin mouthed oops at Clare before patting Zeke on the shoulder. “He didn’t mean your gift, of course. Besides, you gave him a plant, not flowers. He loves that plant. Carries it everywhere he goes.” She laughed when Zeke gave her a skeptical look. “Okay, he doesn’t. But seriously, my mom loves it and keeps it on the dining room table. This has been tougher on her than anyone, I think, and she said that having so many growing things around the house makes her feel better.”
Their conversation moved to Zeke’s daughter, who was excited to be in first grade and obsessed with the idea of getting a puppy, then on to Clare’s car and whether they should have a tow truck on speed dial in case it didn’t start when it was time to go home. Clare found the familiar topics and playful teasing comforting. She had avoided getting together with her friends since she had left the department, rationalizing her self-imposed isolation with a variety of excuses. She had worried that seeing them might make her transition harder to bear, and then once the sense of regret had settled inside her belly, she had convinced herself that she’d feel awkward and sad around them. Only minutes into their conversation, she knew she had been wrong to keep her distance. She had been needing this. Their talk flowed naturally, and they paused only while their drinks were delivered. Two beers and one masala chai.
