Kate Carlisle - One Book In The Grave

“It’s a pretty campus,” Mom said. “Did you enjoy your time teaching here?”

“I did, most of the time.” As I gazed around at the students hurrying to classes, I felt a rush of nostalgia for my college days. We passed the student union, and I considered walking inside to indulge in a little vicarious taste of student life, when someone shoved a flyer into my hand. I was ready to toss it in the trash, but happened to notice the large headline: GENIUS ON PAPER.

I stared at the stippled face of the honoree, then glanced up at one of the banners flapping on the light pole. I could finally make out that blurred image. Gazing back at the flyer, I read all about the upcoming retrospective featuring the most important works of that late, great papermaker, Max Adams.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, and scanned the flyer as Mom read over my shoulder. The opening-night cocktail party for the monthlong Max Adams Retrospective was scheduled for two Saturdays from now. The party was to feature several prominent artists, a live jazz band, a cash bar, hors d’oeuvres, and one very special guest.

“Look who the show’s curator is,” Mom said, pointing to the name at the bottom of the flyer.

I read the name, then did a double take. “Angelica Johansen. You have got to be kidding.”

What in the world is Angelica up to?

“Didn’t you suspect she knew Max was alive?”

“Yes, and now I’m sure of it.” I shook the piece of paper. “This could be why she set the whole thing in motion, starting with selling the book to Joe.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course,” I said. “She expects Max Adams to be her special guest.”

Mom and I stepped inside the dark lecture hall and found ourselves on the top tier of an arena-style auditorium. In the front of the class, standing at a podium next to a large slide screen that showed a photograph of the Greek Acropolis, was Solomon.

With a slide-change clicker in one hand and a laser pointer in the other, Solomon was delivering a stirring account of his last visit to the famous ancient ruin.

He glanced up at the top row and I shivered involuntarily. The lights were dimmed and he was busy lecturing, but I felt as though he could see right through me from twenty rows away. He seemed taller, older, better-looking, and more solidly built than I remembered him.

“Do we have latecomers?” he asked acerbically, his deep, smooth voice resonating through the room.

“Sorry, wrong classroom,” I said loudly, and pushed Mom toward the door.

Once in the hall, I had to take a few deep breaths to calm my stuttering heart. I hadn’t seen Solomon in almost ten years, but all it took was a few short seconds in the same room to leave me certain that the man could be a cold-blooded killer.

“I had no idea he was so forceful,” Mom said, breathless herself.

“I’d forgotten,” I muttered, wondering if I’d simply been too young and naive to recognize Solomon’s potent sexual energy, or if his unpredictable, domineering ways back then had blinded me to his magnetism.

“No wonder Crystal is so in love with him.”

“I know. He’s got some lethal pheromones at work.”

Mom’s eyes narrowed in disgust. “Which helps mask the fact that he’s a psychopath.”

I looked at her in amazement. “Well put, Mom.”

“I have my moments.”

Laughing, I grabbed her arm and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

We made one quick stop at the gallery store. I wanted to find a poster of the retrospective to show Max. Wouldn’t he be surprised?

The store had all different retrospective items available, from postcards to wall posters. I chose a medium-sized poster on good-quality card stock. Mom wanted one and so did I, so I ended up buying three.

“Oh, Max Adams,” the salesgirl said with excitement. “I love his work. Don’t you?”

“I do,” I said as I handed her my money.

“If you’re a student, you can get discount tickets to the retrospective.”

I frowned. “I’m not a student.”

“Me, neither,” Mom said.

“Oh,” the girl said, looking disappointed. But she perked up again. “Well, you should buy them, anyway, because it’s going to sell out. The buzz has been incredible.”

“Really? What are you hearing about it?”

“It’s all his most important work, plus a lot of photographs of him during his lectures and appearances. He was so hot, you know? And rumor has it that somebody really important will make an appearance. I hear he worked with celebrities a lot.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Oh yeah. Everyone on campus is crazy about Max Adams. It was an absolute tragedy that he died so young, so we’re all determined to keep his spirit alive.”

“That’s so beautiful,” I said.

“Yeah. Max rocks.” She turned to the cash register. “You can buy the retrospective tickets here if you want.”

I looked at Mom, who nodded, so I asked how much they were, and the price was reasonable enough. Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. “Okay, I’ll take six tickets.”

“Who’s invited to the opening-night party?” Mom asked.

“It’s free and open to the public, so it’s going to be insanely crowded and stupid,” she said. “I’m totally going!”

As we were leaving the sales counter, two young guys in green shirts and matching baseball caps walked into the store, pushing a cart loaded with boxes. I grabbed hold of Mom to stop her, just as the skinnier guy called out to the salesgirl, “Where do you want these, Shelley?”

“Stack ’em over here behind the counter, Bennie,” the salesgirl answered.

“Hey, Bennie,” I said, stepping closer. “Do you remember me? I’m London Wainwright’s sister Brooklyn.”

He looked me up and down, and his mouth curved in a lopsided grin. “Sure, I remember you, Brooklyn. How you doin’?”

“Benjamin Styles?” Mom said. “Is that you? Hello.”

Bennie Styles was at least six feet tall and as gangly as a chicken. He still had adolescent pimples on his face and neck. It was hard to believe that this was the weapons expert who’d taught Solomon everything he knew about ammunition, guns, and survival.

Bennie blinked at Mom; then his eyes widened. “Mrs., uh, Wainwright. How you doin’?”

“I’m dandy, thanks,” Mom said.

Bennie’s coworker elbowed him and Bennie jolted. “Oh, uh, this is my friend Stefan. This is Brooklyn and her mom.”

“Hey, nice to meet you,” Stefan said, flashing us a grin. Melody was right. He was really cute. He winked and gave us both a thumbs-up before grabbing the cart and rolling it over to the counter to stack boxes.

“So, what’re you guys doing here?” Bennie asked.

“We were just purchasing tickets to the Max Adams Retrospective,” Mom said. “Are you going?”

Bennie slapped his forehead in disgust. “If I hear that guy’s name one more time, I’m gonna punch somebody.”

Mom took a half step back. “Why is that?”

“Everybody’s gone crazy over him, that’s why. Especially the girls around here. Hello, the guy made paper. You know how he did it? With paper !” He waved his hands crazily. “Hello, I already got paper! There’s paper everywhere. Who needs more paper? Well, toilet paper, maybe. But what’s the big effing deal about this guy? Pardon my French.”

“I appreciate your opinion, Bennie,” Mom said carefully.

He pointed his finger to make a point. “Oh, it’s not just mine. One of the professors here is totally pissed off about all the publicity this Max Adams dude is getting. I swear, if the guy wasn’t already dead, Professor Solomon would’ve…Well, anyway.” He scratched his neck, unsure where to go from here.