Braxton Campus Mysteries Collection - Books 5-8

Excerpt from Braxton Campus Mysteries Collection - Books 5-8

“Are you certain she didn’t kill him? Let’s postpone until next week.” I scraped several cinnamon roll crumbs off the coffee table, concerned the feisty secretary would bestow her trademark death look upon me again. Three times in under ten minutes had broken her record.

“Pop a squat and settle that keister, Kellan. Your incessant pacing has inflamed my arthritis. President Power will oust Cain Endicott in a jiffy.” Prior to stomping toward the door, Ursula’s dictatorial and ornery assistant switched off her Victorian lamp and locked her vintage mirrored desk. “If that rocky discussion shudders your innards,” she added, flicking her pearl-adorned neck in the opposite direction, “yesterday’s bickering would’ve ruptured your blood vessels. Professors and students congregated outside the building to identify the source of the ruckus.”

I shrugged noncommittally while she hastily escaped Prentiss Hall in her high-performance jogging shoes, charcoal-gray pantsuit, and festive pashmina, precariously dangling four-inch pumps and a bedazzled handbag from her fingertips. A terse mention of her husband purchasing almost-impossible-to-locate theater tickets for that night accompanied her plummy voice. Attending a hot new musical sounded way more appetizing than performing my imminent song and dance routine.

After tossing the dirty napkin into the trash bin, I tiptoed closer to Ursula’s door to listen for any death blows signaling the end of their argument. I wasn’t normally prone to eavesdropping, but snooping occasionally happened when something important—okay, yes, it was true—I listened to other people’s conversations ad nauseam. Nana D suggested I inherited my nosiness from her, but mostly I believed it was my adorable charm and unique dedication to pursuing the truth. An occupational hazard for academic folks with a keen love of mysteries and drama. After fifteen months back home, I fully embraced my innate tendency to solve unusual homicide cases, only because I couldn’t retain any self-control for minding my own business.

Behind the wood-paneled interior door, Ursula shouted something about thousands of dollars over budget and lacking the proper authority, to which Cain retorted, “African art is expensive. Did you honestly think I would be the laughingstock of all the institutions in our immediate academic circle? Come on, President Power, this is unnecessary. Surely you’d agree I am capable of….” His voice dropped too low, so I pressed my five-foot-nine frame against the door to overhear the remaining conversation.

As Ursula responded, the outer door from the main hallway blasted open, and Dean Fern Terry raced inside like a galloping giraffe. A single drop of sweat trailed the center of her creased forehead. We were both scheduled to meet with Braxton’s esteemed president, but I wanted to disappear like the rabbit in a cheesy magic trick to avoid whatever hell fury was about to rain down. Especially when Fern trapped her foot under the corner of a leather ottoman, tumbled to the floor, and inadvertently hurled her giant stack of folders in my direction. Ursula and Cain must’ve heard the commotion, because within the subsequent five seconds I fell backward against the interior office door just as Cain opened it. I landed spread eagle on the carpet, littered with Fern’s ridiculous paraphernalia, and cringed as Cain’s cup of hot tea puddled on the front of my khakis—in an overly sensitive and embarrassing spot.

“Argh! What the—”

Cain interrupted my soon-to-be blasphemous outburst with his profusive apology, brushing back a rogue chunk of blackish-brown curls from his high and broad forehead. “I’m so sorry. What happened out here? Looks like a tornado swept through the office.” Among his classic Roman features—wide-set eyes, a hooked nose, and a powerful jaw—lurked an inquisitive yet angry gaze.

“There can only be one reason you’re in the fetal position, Kellan,” Ursula chastised in between chuckling and offering me a bunch of wadded up tissues. Her almond-shaped emerald eyes sparkled from the sun piercing through the windowpanes. “You’re a magnet for unnatural disasters. I hope you understand if I don’t help clean that mess. I’m dealing with enough HR issues these days. Pour some club soda on it before it stains.”

Fern organized her papers while I blotted and spritzed water on my pants. Ursula had readily handed over a spray bottle, filled to the brim explicitly for painstakingly misting her exotic plant collection. I sighed before yielding like a trapped critter, then uttered, “No worries. I’ve got this one all by myself. Maybe we should defer our chat until the inclement weather subsides?”

“Huh? It’s sunny and clear out. What are you babbling about?” A moment later, Cain craned his neck and realized I was being facetious. He vigorously shook his head, stretched for his briefcase, and pointed an accusatory finger in Ursula’s direction. “Over my dead body will I concede. You know I’m right, President Power. We’re shelving it tonight and will address what’s best for Braxton on Monday.”

While Ursula and Cain exchanged a handful of professional but incisive jibes, Fern and I regained our composures inside the presidential office and scouted for two spots near the bay window. We’d been asked to show up for a six o’clock discussion but had no knowledge of the meeting’s purpose. All Ursula’s austere secretary had articulated that morning was, “She asks. You appear. Need I explain more?”

I’d reached an unbearable limit of authoritarian women. Our spring graduation had just concluded, and my boss, the doughty and acerbic Dr. Myriam Castle, insisted I cover the next term even though I’d been assured no classes that summer. Braxton would soon convert from a college into a university, and I sat on the committee to facilitate the relaunch. I had non-existent time to teach a six-week compacted lecture in foreign literature and films, but when the irritable despot who also happened to be married to the college president mandated something, the word no wasn’t an option.

As if Myriam weren’t slinging enough abuse, Nana D—my spitfire grandmother, also the mayor of our secluded north-central Pennsylvania county—had stepped up her regular harassment routine and prodded me daily on several urgent matters. Ever felt two red-hot pokers jabbing your derriere like twin needles on a sewing machine? Not a pretty sight! Given the recent immense tragedy in my life, I craved essential downtime before my head exploded from stress and sorrow.

While I settled into an uncomfortably petite sofa, Cain stormed out of Ursula’s office, and she gracefully ensconced herself behind a white pine desk. “That man has a death wish!” Performing a calming yoga technique, she switched gears and said, “I’ve always loved this building. So much history! Don’t you agree?”

“Over two hundred years old. Must be difficult to concentrate with everything to admire.”

Prentiss Hall, an architecturally stunning, four-story Georgian structure overlooking the South Campus cable car system, housed many of Braxton’s vital administrative departments. Resplendent with exquisite symmetry, the exterior masonry boasted dozens of pediments, arches, and columns, including an English ivy-covered facade. Ursula’s office commandeered the penthouse level, which had been divided into the presidential suite, encompassing a private bathroom and bedroom; an octagonal antechamber, accommodating the secretary’s desk and a waiting area for guests; and a large conference room, used for board meetings and other executive-level summits. With a flair for European minimalism, aerodynamic design, and pale, airy, and lustrous decor, she insisted on spending her own money rather than Braxton’s. The room’s color scheme primarily drew from blue, gray, and beige tones, easily relaxing guests and suggesting a place of harmony. Except, apparently, for that day.