“Oh.”
He recognized my tone. “I know Mark can be difficult and . . . er, emotional sometimes, but we need to support him the best we can. Your brother is tougher than you think. But the Blocken family . . . oh, to lose a child. I can’t think of anything worse in this life.”
My eyes teared when I allowed myself to remember.
“Will Mom visit the family?” My mother, in her capacity as minister, often calls on Stripling families in times of tragedy.
“She thought it wise if she didn’t under the circumstances. She did call Bill Myer over at the Lutheran church, and he promised to drop in on them. The Blockens are members of that church, if you remember. Bill had planned to officiate at Olivia’s wedding.”
And now he will officiate at her funeral, I thought.
“I’ll talk to Lew,” my father said. “I’ll ring you back when I hear from him.”
After I hung up, I called my brother’s apartment. No answer. I had left a message on his voicemail to call me immediately, using the word “urgent” an excessive number of times. I couldn’t leave a message about Lepcheck’s announcement.
Hanging up the phone for a second time, I hovered beside it, trying to decide if I should call my sister on her cell phone or my mother at work or the Pope at the Vatican about Mark’s suspension. Maybe Ina was right, and I would make a good Catholic. I thought better of any more calls. My mom and sister—though probably not His Holiness—would learn of the situation soon enough. I wasn’t in the mood to discuss it, especially when I had yet to tell Mark.
Templeton was suspiciously MIA. I perched on the couch next to Theodore, who had made himself quite comfortable in my home, when the phone rang.
“India,” the voice rasped as consequence of two packs of cigarettes a day for forty years. “Lewis Clive. I just got a call from your old man and said that I’d call you myself. I’ll get the ball rolling on my end to take legal action against the college on Mark’s behalf. It’s unreasonable for the college to suspend him when he hasn’t even been officially charged by the police.” He paused, and I heard him inhale deeply through the end of his unfiltered cigarette.
“Legal action?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Nothing too serious, only making noise about contract and compensation violations to let them know that we mean business.”
“I see. Is there any chance that Martin could suspend me too?”
Lew barked another laugh that turned into a ragged cough. He cleared his throat noisily. “They wouldn’t dare. They cannot dismiss you for something your sibling allegedly did. Martin may be a private college, but they take state and federal money like everybody else for scholarships, grants, and the like. They’re susceptible to state and federal law.”
I nodded before remembering I was on the phone. “I understand.”
“Terrific, terrific. When I’m done with those patsies, they won’t have a leg to stand on,” he said with unmitigated glee. “However, without Mark’s consent, I can’t move much further in this case except to become an irritant in the backside of Martin’s admin. It is imperative I speak to him ASAP. Your father implied that you know where Mark is most of the time. I need to find your brother, the sooner the better. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
“Terrific,” he rasped. “I should be in my office until eight tonight.” He gave me his office and cell phone numbers. “Remember, the sooner you find Mark, the sooner we can nip this thing in the bud.”
After hanging up, I called my father back to tell him that I had heard from the lawyer and planned to look for Mark. Dad agreed to stay home in case Mark called, but his tone implied that he would have preferred to actively search for his son. He promised to call Carmen and Mom.
I changed out of my skirt and blouse into an outfit more conducive to a suburban manhunt, as it were. It was a little past five when I left my apartment, and the sun was still well above the horizon.
When I turned onto campus, I envisioned Lepcheck behind every stately oak and under every overpruned shrub with a fresh pink slip in hand—though the logical side of my brain argued that Lepcheck wouldn’t be on campus after five during the summer. I drove through Martin’s grounds without incident and parked in the Dexler lot.
Dexler Math and Science, a squat two-story brick building, held few of the Western Reserve airs as the other structures scattered around campus did. When Martin’s board of directors vowed to improve Martin’s math and science reputation in the 1970s, they did so with half-hearted intentions. Martin trustees tended to be elderly alums, who had majored in pretentious subjects like Latin.
The building was quiet, the result of summer campus hours, but unlocked. I tiptoed past a classroom with a lecturer waxing on to a classroom of drone-faced undergraduates. The mathematics department resided on the first floor of the building, but my brother’s office was on the basement level, the result of constant overcrowding. In addition to Mark’s office and an astounding number of cobwebs, the basement level housed the boiler room, chemistry lab, and offices of other low-ranking faculty. The cement-walled hallway was dark and the air was damp and musty.
No light showed underneath Mark’s door, but I knocked anyway, I didn’t get an answer, nor had I expected one. Thinking maybe I’d leave a note, or pick up a clue where he was, I tried the doorknob—locked. Security has never been first and foremost in the Martin mindset, and the lock appeared flimsy enough. Taking a cue from television cop shows, I removed a spare library card from my wallet and slipped it in between the doorjamb and the lock. With a click, the lock gave way.
Inside the tiny room, I shut the door behind me, elated with my exploit. My smugness evaporated when I turned on the light. On the desk sat an overturned picture frame, which immediately struck me as odd. Mark wasn’t one to decorate his office with personal items. The only bit of his personality he’d ever displayed in the room was an old classroom slide rule that he’d bought at a sale of out-of-date school supplies held at Stripling High School several years ago. The slide rule hung on his wall beside a College-issued calendar. I was happy to see that the calendar in his office at least displayed the current year.
I walked around the desk and turned over the eight-by-ten picture frame. The sound of broken glass clattered as I moved the gilded frame. The glass was cracked, but I recognized the photograph immediately. It was Olivia and Kirk’s engagement picture, the one that had appeared in the Stripling newspaper. The matte photograph showed the couple looking at each other. They were wearing matching sweaters.
Why does Mark have this? Where did he get it? I thought.
My stomach turned. I thought of Lepcheck’s threats and the Blockens’ accusation against my brother. Wasn’t it my job to protect him? Wasn’t that what was drilled into me by my family? It was those thoughts that spurred me to do what I did next, even though the more logical side of my brain begged me not to.
I picked up the frame and stuffed it in my oversized canvas bag. As I tucked it away, I heard the sound of feet thundering down the basement steps. I turned off the overhead light.
Seconds later, someone pounded on Mark’s office door. “Mr. Hayes, Mark Hayes, this is the police. Open up. We have a warrant to search your office.”
My heart dropped into my shoes. I had nowhere to hide. The tiny subterranean office didn’t have a window and the only sizable piece of furniture was Mark’s desk. For a millisecond, I thought of hiding underneath it. In the dark, I felt for the tiny space, but discarded the idea when I remembered the cobwebs in the hallway. Who knew what lurked under his desk.
“Open it.” A key slid into the lock. Before the key could complete its turn, I opened the door and pasted a polite smile on my face as if I had every right and reason to be there. Which, of course, I didn’t.