Клео Коул - Murder by Mocha

Now, as we crossed the lush green of the manicured campus, Madame openly admired the main library’s High-Victorian Gothic style. We quickly checked the brass plaque for the architect’s name and I noticed the building was a national landmark, which housed the college library, a collection of rare first editions, and the Juliana Gregg Saunders Archive and Reading Room.

Madame pointed at the plaque. “Who knew Juliana Saunders had a philanthropic bone in that venal body of hers?”

“You know the woman?”

“I’m afraid so. She’s one of Otto’s more disagreeable clients—and in oh-so-many ways. Last year she bid on a Chuck Close self-portrait because ‘it was just the right size’ to fit her two-story Park Avenue living room and the colors matched her brand-new Aubusson.”

“Ouch.”

“Thank goodness she lost the auction.”

“Yes . . .” I was smiling now but not because of the story. I realized Madame’s acquaintance with Ms. Saunders might be the miracle we needed, right when we needed it.

The Essen Library, a private institution at a private college, required a student or faculty ID to enter. Rather than try to explain ourselves at the dean’s office, I thought my work-around would save us valuable time.

“Do you think you can channel this Juliana Gregg Saunders? Imitate her mannerisms? Her attitude? Convince people you’re the real deal?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Madame suppressed a shudder.

I pointed out the security issue, and Madame agreed. As we ascended the steps to the library’s entrance, she slipped into her role and boldly took the lead.

The student working the front desk didn’t bother to look up from her iPad as we approached. “ID, please,” she said, hand extended.

Madame squared her shoulders. “My good woman, one does not need a common ID when one’s name is on the door!”

The girl looked up. “Excuse me?”

Madame tapped a manicured nail on the polished desk. “My name is Juliana Gregg Saunders, and I wish to see my room!”

“Room?”

“The Juliana Gregg Saunders Archive and Reading Room, young dolt. I pay a steep annual stipend for the privilege, and because the room bears my name, I would like to see it . . . Now .”

“Oh . . . oh! I’m so sorry Mrs. Gregg—I mean Saunders, er, Mrs . Saunders.”

Madame sniffed and the student jumped to her feet. “You can go up right now. It’s almost lunchtime, but I’m sure Ms. Themis will be happy to give you a tour.”

“Announce us,” Madame said. “Immediately.”

“Of course!” The girl lifted the receiver and with shaky hands dialed a three digit extension. She waited. “Ms. Themis isn’t picking up. She’s probably working in the stacks. If you want, I can escort you—”

“I’m capable of following directions, if they are accurate.”

The girl appeared relieved. “Okay. Take those stairs one flight up, to the second floor. Then make a left.”

“Come, Clare. Let’s see how this institution spends my largess!”

A wide staircase behind a granite arch led upstairs. Halfway to the top, Madame sighed. “That was quite distasteful. Imagine going through life behaving in such a ghastly manner. It’s so taxing . . .”

“Don’t drop your newfound nasty just yet. We’re not out of the woods.”

I opened a heavy door and we entered the archive. The walls were lined with darkly stained shelves packed with volumes thin and thick. A half-dozen reading tables, arranged to take advantage of the western sun streaming through the tall windows, were empty now. In fact, we saw only one occupant—an elderly woman with wild gray hair, sorting books beside a wheeled cart.

Madame cleared her throat. “Excuse me—”

Without facing us, the woman raised a hand for silence. With her other hand she fished a pair of false teeth out of a Mason jar and slipped them into her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, facing us at last. “I can’t say a comprehensible word without my teeth. Someday I’ll be gone from this room, but these choppers will still be in that jar, chattering away like the voice of the Cumaean Sibyl!”

The woman approached us, her teeth roughly in place, which gave her a crooked, toothy smile. Not much younger than Madame, she had that same spark in her eyes and spring in her step. Dressed appropriately tweedy, her jacket actually had leather patches on the elbows. But her outspoken attitude and wild gray-white hair were far from retiring.

“I’m Miss Themis, the head archivist. But please call me Phoebe,” she said, extending a hand.

“I’m Juliana Gregg Saunders,” Madame said solemnly. “And this is Clare, my personal assistant.”

“Now that’s odd,” Phoebe said, “because the Juliana I know is just now rolling out of bed with a bad hangover and worse disposition.”

The woman leaned close and lowered her voice. “And between you and me, after a typical evening in her cups, the last thing Juliana would ever do is visit her reading room.”

My knees felt suddenly shaky. Madame paled. Phoebe simply cackled and slapped her knee. “Look at you two! Your faces are white as whippletree petals!”

“Whippletree?”

“Dogwood. Part of Chaucer’s nomenclature from “The Knight’s Tale.” Did you know Boccaccio was the source of that tale? His was an epic, of course, and old Geoffrey changed the genre to romance, although, inspired by Boethius, he added an undercurrent of philosophy.”

“I see.”

“Too much information?” She cackled again. “Oh my. Why so serious?” she leaned close. “Nothing to fear. Your secret little masquerade is safe for now. But, of course, with good scholarship, most secrets are revealed, sooner or later.”

“Sooner is better,” I replied, offering my hand. “My name is Clare Cosi and this is Mrs. Dubois. We apologize for crashing your reading room, but we need information. It’s a matter of life or death—”

“Tea!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Earl Gray. There’s nothing better than a strong tea served hot with a story well told.”

“We don’t have time for—”

“Sounds delightful ,” Madame cut in, squeezing my elbow.

I forced a smile. “Thank you so much.”

Minutes later, tea was served under a tall, open window, in the warmth of the noontime sun. A flowering laurel tree stood just outside, swaying in the spring breeze. The sea-tinged air flowed in off the manicured quad along with sounds of laughter from passing students.

The cups were cardboard, the sugar in little packets, but the hot tea, freshly brewed from imported loose leaves, could have raised the dead, and the home-baked mini chocolate-chip scones, rich with butter and cream, were perfectly balanced—the lighter flavors rescued from complete obliteration by the judicious control of the chocolate’s darkness.

When we were all settled in, Madame tactfully explained our quest. “We’re searching for a thesis written by one of your alumni. Unfortunately, we don’t know the author’s name. We only know the subject.”

Phoebe patted Madame’s hand. “Never fear, Mrs. Dubois. All of our papers are cross-referenced.”

I jumped in. “This paper mentions words or perhaps names. One of them is Laeta, another is Severa—” I was ready to spell them out, but Phoebe was way ahead of me.

“Laeta, Severa, and Rufina. You don’t have to be coy, ladies. If you wanted to see ‘The Romance of the Vestals’ by Thelma Vale Pixley you need only ask—the dean of the college, that is.”

Aphrodite’s real name is Thelma Vale Pixley?

Phoebe rose and fetched a thin, worn volume from a shelf. “Once upon a time, this notorious thesis was referenced each and every semester,” she said. “That’s not true anymore. Time has passed, and the school has done its best to make everyone forget.”