The Quirky Casebook E-Book

Debbie De Louise

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A collection of three cozy mystery novels by James J. Cudney, Janie Owens & Debbie De Louise, now available in one volume!
Academic Curveball: After returning home for his father’s retirement from Braxton College, Kellan Ayrwick finds a dead body in Diamond Hall’s stairwell. Unfortunately, Kellan has a connection to the victim, and so do several members of his family. It seems like someone is playing games on campus, but none of the facts add up. With the help of his eccentric nana, Kellan tries to stay out of the sheriff’s way. And if that wasn't enough already, his own past comes spiraling back to change his life forever.
Haircut and Highlights: Determined to find her friend Rose, Abby - the owner of Goldilocks Hair Salon - becomes an amateur sleuth. Her relationship with Jack, a Daytona Beach Police Sergeant, is blossoming, and in the wings is also the handsome neighbor and fireman Mark. The first book in the Daytona Beach Mysteries series, 'Haircut and Highlights' is a mystery involving love of humanity, coming of age and romance.
Sea Scope: Sarah Collins needs an escape and returns to her childhood home in South Carolina, where her family operated an inn. She hasn’t been back to Sea Scope for years; not since she and her brother Glen discovered a body by the nearby lighthouse. After Sarah returns to the inn, she has to deal with long-buried memories and strange text messages. Something is not right in Sea Scope. As the past and present collide, can she figure out what's going on in her childhood home?

Leseprobe

THE QUIRKY CASEBOOK

A COLLECTION OF COZY WHODUNITS

JAMES J. CUDNEY

JANIE OWENS

DEBBIE DE LOUISE

Copyright (C) 2023 James J. Cudney, Janie Owens, Debbie De Louise

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

CONTENTS

Academic Curveball

James J. Cudney

Acknowledgments

Who's Who in Braxton?

Overview

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About the Author

Haircut and Highlights

Janie Owens

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

About the Author

Sea Scope

Debbie De Louise

Prologue

1. Long Island, present day

Chapter 2

3. Sea Scope, Two weeks later

4. Long Island

5. Sea Scope

6. On the Road to Sea Scope

7. Sea Scope

8. On the Road to Sea Scope

9. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

10. Cape Bretton, South Carolina: Present day

11. Sea Scope, Twenty years ago

12. Sea Scope: Present day

13. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

14. Sea Scope: Present day

15. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

16. Sea Scope: Present day

17. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

18. Sea Scope: Present day

19. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

20. Sea Scope: Present day

21. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

22. Sea Scope: Present day

23. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

24. Sea Scope: Present day

25. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

26. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

27. Sea Scope: Present day

28. Cape Bretton, South Carolina: Twenty years ago

29. Sea Scope: Present day

30. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

31. Sea Scope: Present day

32. Long Island: Nineteen years ago

33. Sea Scope: Present day

34. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

35. Sea Scope: Present day

36. Long Island: Nineteen years ago

37. Sea Scope: Present day

38. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

39. Sea Scope: Present day

40. Sea Scope: Present day

41. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

42. Sea Scope: Present day

43. Long Island: Two years ago

44. Sea Scope: Present day

45. Los Angeles: Two years ago

46. Sea Scope: Present day

47. Los Angeles: Two years ago

48. Sea Scope: Present day

49. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

50. Sea Scope: Present day

51. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

52. Sea Scope: Present day

53. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

54. Sea Scope: Present day

55. Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

56. Sea Scope: Present day

Acknowledgments

About the Author

ACADEMIC CURVEBALL

BRAXTON CAMPUS MYSTERIES BOOK 1

JAMES J. CUDNEY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a book is not an achievement an individual person can do on his or her own. There are always people who contribute in a multitude of ways, sometimes unwittingly, throughout the journey from discovering the idea to drafting the last word. Academic Curveball: A Braxton Campus Mystery has had many supporters since its inception in June 2018, but before the concept even sparked in my mind, others nurtured my passion for writing.

First thanks go to my parents, Jim and Pat, for always believing in me as a writer, as well as teaching me how to become the person I am today. Their unconditional love and support have been the primary reason I'm accomplishing my goals. Through the guidance of my extended family and friends, who consistently encouraged me to pursue my passion, I found the confidence to take chances in life. With Winston and Baxter by my side, I was granted the opportunity to make my dreams come true by publishing this novel. I'm grateful to everyone for pushing me every day to complete this third book.

Academic Curveball was cultivated through the interaction, feedback, and input of several beta readers. I'd like to thank Shalini G, Lisa M. Berman, Didi Oviatt, Misty Swafford, Tyler Colins, Nina D. Silva, and Noriko for providing insight and perspective during the development of the story, setting, and character arcs. A special call-out goes to Shalini for countless conversations, helping me to fine-tune every aspect of the setting, characters, and plot. She read every version and offered a tremendous amount of her time to help advise me on this book over several months.

I'd also like to thank my editor, Nicki Kuzn at Booktique Editing, for helping fix all the things I missed along the way. She's been a wonderful addition to the team and has been very focused on making this book a success. Between coaching and suggesting areas for improvement, she's guided me in all the right directions.

Thank you to Next Chapter for publishing Academic Curveball and helping pave the road for more books to come. I look forward to our continued partnership.

WHO'S WHO IN BRAXTON?

AYRWICK FAMILY

Kellan: Main Character, Braxton professor, amateur sleuthWesley: Kellan's father, Braxton's retiring presidentViolet: Kellan's mother, Braxton's admissions directorEmma: Kellan's daughter with FrancescaEleanor: Kellan's younger sister, manages Pick-Me-Up DinerNana D: Kellan's grandmother, also known as Seraphina DanbyFrancesca Castigliano: Kellan's deceased wifeVincenzo & Cecilia Castigliano: Francesca's parents

BRAXTON CAMPUS

Myriam Castle: ProfessorFern Terry: Dean of Student AffairsConnor Hawkins: Director of Security, Kellan's best friendMaggie Roarke: Head Librarian, Kellan's ex-girlfriendJordan Ballantine: StudentCarla Grey: StudentCraig 'Striker' Magee: StudentBridget Colton: StudentCoach Oliver: Athletics DirectorAbby Monroe: ProfessorLorraine Candito: Wesley's AssistantSiobhan Walsh: Communications Department Assistant

WHARTON COUNTY RESIDENTS

Ursula Power: Friends with MyriamEustacia Paddington: Nana D's frenemyAlton Monroe: Abby's BrotherApril Montague: Wharton County SheriffMarcus Stanton: Braxton Town CouncilmanOfficer Flatman: Police Officer

OTHER VISITORS

Derek: Kellan's Boss in Los AngelesMrs. Ackerton: Abby's Neighbor

OVERVIEW

When I decided to write a cozy mystery series, I adhered to all the main rules (light investigations, minimal violence or foul language, no sexual content, murder happens off-screen, protagonist is an amateur sleuth, and set in a quiet, small town). Some authors push the boundaries with variations, and in the Braxton Campus Mysteries, I followed the same route… just differently. Kellan, my protagonist, is a thirtyish single father, whereas traditionally a woman is the main character. Children aren't often seen in most series, but Kellan's family is important to the story. Kellan is also witty and snarky, but intended in a lovable and charming way, just like his eccentric grandmother, Nana D. Both are friendly, happy, and eager to help others, and they have a sarcastic or sassy way of interacting and building relationships… hopefully adding to the humor and tone of the books.

Cozy mysteries are different from hard-boiled investigations, thrillers, and suspense novels; the side stories, surrounding town, and background characters are equally important to building a vibrant world in which readers can escape. I hope you enjoy my alternative take on this classic sub-genre.

CHAPTERONE

I've never been comfortable flying. My suspicious nature assumed the magic suspending airplanes in the sky would cease to exist at some master planner's whim. Listening to the whirr of a jet propeller change speeds—or experiencing those jolting, mysterious pockets of rough air—equaled imminent death in an aluminum contraption destined for trouble. I spent the entire flight with my jaw clenched, hands clutching the armrests, and eyes glued to the seatback in front of me, impatiently hoping the diligent crypt keeper didn't claim another victim. Despite my uncanny knack for grasping anything mechanical and Nana D always calling me brilliant, I was entirely too doubtful of this mode of transportation. My gut promised I'd be safer plummeting over Niagara Falls naked and in a barrel.

After landing at the Buffalo Niagara International Airport on a miserable mid-February afternoon, I rented a Jeep to trek another ninety miles south into Pennsylvania. Several inches of densely packed snow and veiled black ice covered the only highway leading to my secluded childhood hometown. Braxton, one of four charming villages surrounded by the Wharton Mountains and the Saddlebrooke National Forest, felt impenetrable from outside forces.

As I changed lanes to avoid a slippery patch, my sister's number lit up the cell screen. I paused Maroon 5 on my Spotify playlist, clicked accept, and moaned. “Remind me why I'm here again?”

“Guilt? Love? Boredom?” Eleanor chuckled.

“Stupidity?” Craving something of substance to squelch the angry noises radiating from my stomach, I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from a bag on the passenger seat. The extra-tall, salted caramel mocha—free, courtesy of a pretty red-haired barista who'd shamelessly flirted with me—wouldn't suffice on its own. “Please save me from this torture!”

“Not gonna happen, Kellan. You should've heard Mom when I suggested you might not make it. 'He's always inventing excuses not to return home more often. This family needs him here!' Don't worry! I calmed her down,” shouted Eleanor over several dishes and glasses clanging in the background.

“Did she already forget I was here at Christmas?” Another cookie found its way into my mouth. I was powerless to desserts—also known as my kryptonite—hence why I'd always thought they should be a major food group. “Two trips home within six weeks is one too many by my count.”

“How did our darling siblings invent acceptable excuses to skip the biggest social event of the season?” Eleanor said.

“I gave up competing with them years ago. It's easy to get away with things when they're not disappointing our parents like the rest of us.”

“Hey! Don't take me down because you can't escape the awkward middle-child syndrome.” Eleanor placed me on hold to deal with a customer complaint.

My younger sister unhappily turned thirty last month, given she still hadn't met the right man. She also insisted she wasn't morphing into our mother, despite every hour of every day steamrolling those figments of her imagination into oblivion. Truth be told, Eleanor was the spitting image of Violet Ayrwick, and everyone saw it but them. Twinsies, as Nana D always taunted with the cutest lilt to her voice. Eleanor would definitely be at our father's retirement party, as there wasn't a snowball's chance in you-know-where of me going to that boondoggle by myself. The man of the hour had been the president of Braxton College for the last eight years, but upon turning sixty-five, Wesley Ayrwick stepped down from the coveted role.

Eleanor jumped back on the line. “Was Emma okay with you visiting by yourself this time?”

“Yeah, she's staying with Francesca's parents. I couldn't sign her out of school again, but we'll Facetime every day I'm gone.”

“You're an amazing father. I don't know how you do it on your own,” Eleanor replied. “So, who's the woman you plan to meet while gracing us with your presence this weekend?”

“Abby Monroe completed a bunch of research for my boss, Derek,” I said, cursing the slimy, party-going executive producer of our award-winning television show, Dark Reality. Upon informing Derek that I needed to return home for a family obligation, he generously suggested adding extra days to relax before everything exploded at the network, then assigned me to interview his latest source. “Ever heard the name?”

“Sounds familiar, but I can't place it,” Eleanor replied in between yelling orders to the cook and urging him to hurry. “What's your next storyline?”

Dark Reality, an exposé-style show adding splashy drama to real-life crimes, aired weekly episodes full of cliffhangers like reality television and soap operas. The first season highlighted two serial killers, Jack the Ripper and The Human Vampire, causing it to top the charts as a series debut. “I've got season two's massive show bible to read this weekend… ghost-hunting and witch-burning in seventeenth-century American culture. I really need to get a new job. Or kill my boss.”

“Prison stripes wouldn't look good on you.” Eleanor teased me frequently.

“Don't forget, I'm too handsome.”

“I'm not gonna touch that one. Let Nana D weigh in before I crush you for saying something so pathetic. Maybe Abby will be normal?”

“With my luck, she'll be another bitter, scorned victim rightfully intent on justice for whatever colossal trauma Derek's inflicted,” I replied with a sigh. “I vote she's another loose cannon.”

“When are you gonna interrogate her?”

I'd meant to schedule a lunch to get the basic lowdown on Abby, but I barely made the flight cutoff at the gate in the last-minute rigmarole. “Hopefully tomorrow, if she isn't too far away. Derek confirmed she lives in central Pennsylvania. He has no concept of space or distance.”

“It's getting busy here. Gotta go. Can't make dinner tonight, but I'll see you tomorrow. Don't commit any murders until we chat again. Hugs and kisses.”

“Only if you don't poison any patrons.” I disconnected the phone, begging the gods to transport me back to Los Angeles. I couldn't take the stress anymore and devoured the last two remaining cookies. Given my obsession with desserts, the gym had never not been an option. Exercise happened daily unless I was sick or on vacation, which this trip didn't count as. There would be no beaches, cabanas, or mojitos. Therefore, I wouldn't enjoy myself.

I navigated the winding highway drive with the heater set to die-from-sauna max and the wiper blades on maniacal passive-aggressive mode to keep the windshield clear of heavy sleet and snow. It was the dead of winter, and my entire body shivered—not a good thing when my feet needed to brake for deer or elk. Yes, they were common in these parts. No, I hadn't hit any. Yet.

No time like the present to suggest a meeting to Abby. When she answered, I wasn't surprised at her naivety regarding my boss's underhanded approach.

“Derek said nothing about meeting anyone else. You got a last name, Kellan?” Abby whined after I'd already explained who I was in the first minute of the call.

“Ayrwick. I'm Kellan Ayrwick, an assistant director on the second season of Dark Reality. I thought we could review the research you prepared and discuss your experience working in the television industry.”

A few seconds of silence lingered. “Ayrwick? As in… well… don't a few work at Braxton?”

I was momentarily stunned how a groupie girl would know anything about Braxton. Then I speculated she currently attended the college or previously went to school with one of my siblings. “Let's have lunch tomorrow. One o'clock?”

“Not really. I wasn't prepared to chat this weekend. I thought I'd fly out to Derek in the next few days. The timing is off.”

“Can't we meet for a brief introduction?” Derek sure knew how to pick the dramatic ones. I could picture her twirling her hair and blinking her empty eyes despite not knowing what she looked like.

“I'm in the middle of an exclusive exposé about a crime in Wharton County. Might be something to pitch to Derek for… well, it's too early to say anything.” Her voice went limp. She'd probably forgotten how to use the phone or accidentally muted me.

“Is this what you proposed to him for a future season of Dark Reality? I'm more interested in true crimes and investigative reporting. Maybe I could help with this scoop.” Once I realized she was in the same county as me, I tried all angles to snare a meeting.

“Are you Wesley's son? He's got a whole slew of kids.”

My mouth dropped two inches. Nana D would've counted the flies as they swarmed in, given how long it remained open. Who was this girl? “I don't see how that's relevant, but yes, he's my father. Do you attend Braxton, Abby?”

“Attend Braxton? No, you've got a few things to learn if we're going to work together.” She laughed hysterically, reaching full-on snort level.

“Great, so we can meet tomorrow?” The woman's tone annoyed me, but perhaps I'd misjudged her based on Derek's normal taste in women. “Even thirty minutes to build a working relationship. Are you familiar with the Pick-Me-Up Diner?” Eleanor ran the joint, so I'd have an excuse to step away if Abby became too much to handle. My sister could arrange for a waiter to dump a bowl of soup on Abby, then lock her in the bathroom while I escaped. There was nothing more I disliked than foolish, clueless, or vapid people. I'd had enough of them while dating my way through a sorority years ago. If I ran into one more LA valley girl, I'd let Francesca's family, the Castiglianos, take control of the situation. Scratch that, I never said those words out loud.

“No, sorry. I'm gonna be tied up, investigating all the nonsense going on around here. I'll see you on campus tomorrow night.”

I shook my head in frustration and confusion. I clearly heard her stifling an obnoxious laugh again. If she weren't a student, why would she be on campus? “What do you mean tomorrow night?”

“The party celebrating your father's retirement.”

Derek would owe me big-time for this ordeal. If he didn't watch himself, I'd give her his real cell number and not the fake one he initially dispensed.

“How do you know my—” A harsh tone beeped when she disconnected.

I continued on the main road into the heart of Braxton, tooting the horn as I passed Danby Landing, Nana D's organic orchard and farm. I was especially close with Nana D, also known as my grandmother, Seraphina, who'd turn seventy-five later this year. She kept threatening to bend our town's councilman, Marcus Stanton, over her lap, slap his bottom silly, and teach the ninny how things ought to be done in a modern world. It's my second job to keep her in check after the incident where she was supposedly locked up in jail overnight. Lacking any official records, she could continue to deny it, but I knew better given I was the one who had to convince Sheriff Montague to release Nana D. I hoped never again to spar toe-to-toe with our county's ever-so-charming head law enforcer, even if it's necessary to save Nana D from prison. I felt certain that had been a onetime card I could play.

The sun disappeared as I parked the Jeep at my parents' house and scampered toward the trunk to get my bags. Given the temperature had slipped to the single digits, and the icy snow wildly pelted my body, I hurried to the front door. Unfortunately, fate opted for revenge over some past indiscretion and struck back with the vengeance of a thousand plagues. Before long, I skated across a sheet of ice like an awkward ballerina wearing clown shoes and fell flat on my back.

I snapped a selfie while laughing on the frosty ground, to let Nana D know I'd arrived in Braxton. She loved getting pictures and witnessing me make a fool of myself. I couldn't decipher her reply, given my glasses had fogged over, and my vision was equivalent to Mr. Magoo's. I searched for a piece of a flannel shirt untouched by the falling sleet or the embarrassing crash to the ground and wiped them dry. A glance at the picture I'd sent caused the most absurd guffaw to erupt from my throat. My usually clean-cut dark-blond hair was littered with leaves, and the four days of stubble on my cheeks and chin was blanketed in mounds of snow. I dusted myself off and rushed under the protection of a covered porch to read her text.

Nana D: Is that a dirty wet mop on your head? You're dressed like a hooligan. Put on a coat. It's cold out. I miss you!

Me: Thanks, Captain Obvious. I fell on the walkway. You think I'm normally this much of a disaster?

Nana D: And you're supposed to be the brilliant one? Have you given up on life, or did it give up on you?

Me: Keep it up, and I won't visit this weekend. You're supposed to be a sweet grandma.

Nana D: If that's what you want, go down to the old folks' home and rent yourself a little biddy. Maybe you two can share some smashed peas, green Jell-O, and a tasty glass of Ovaltine. I'll even pay.

After ignoring Nana D's sass, I ran a pair of chilled hands through my hair and entered the foyer. Though the original shell of the house was a wood-framed cabin, my parents had added many rooms, including a west and an east wing bookending the massive structure. The ceilings were vaulted at least twelve feet high and covered in endless cedar planks with knots in all the right places. A pretty hunter-green paint coated three of the walls where the entranceway opened into a gigantic living room. It was anchored by a flagstone fireplace and adorned with hand-crafted antique furniture my parents had traveled all over the state to procure. My father was passionate about keeping the authenticity of a traditional log cabin while my mom required all the modern conveniences. If only the Property Brothers could see the results of their combined styles. Eleanor and I referred to it as the Royal Chic-Shack.

I dropped my bags to the floor and called out, “Anyone home?” My body jumped as the door to my father's study creaked open, and his head popped through the crack. Perhaps I had the paranormal and occult on my mind, knowing Dark Reality's next season was unfortunately in my foreseeable future.

“It's just me. Welcome back,” replied my father, waiting for me to approach the study. “Your mother's still at Braxton, closing on the final admissions list for the prospective class.”

“How's the jolly retiree doing?” I strolled down the hall toward him.

“I'm not retired yet,” my father countered with a sneer. “I finished writing my speech for the party tomorrow evening. Interested in an early preview?”

Saying no would make me a bad son. Eleanor and I had promised one another at Christmas we'd try harder. I really wanted to be a bad son today—just kidding! “Sure, it must be exciting. You've had a bountiful career, Dad. It's undoubtedly the perfect example of oratory excellence.” He loved when I stretched my vocabulary skills to align with his. I shuddered thinking about the spelling bees of long ago.

“Yes, I believe it is.” My father squinted his eyes and scratched at his chin. No doubt he was judging my borderline unkempt appearance. I'd forgotten to shave and taken that classic nose-dive on the ground. Sometimes I preferred the messy look. Apparently, so did that airport barista!

I ambled to his desk, studying the frown lines forming around his lips. “Everything okay, Dad? You look a little peaked.”

“Yes… a few things on my mind. Nothing to trouble you with, Kellan.” He nodded and shook my hand—standard, male Ayrwick greeting. At six feet, my father stood only three inches taller than me, but the dominant Ayrwick genes made him look gargantuan. Lanky and wiry, he hadn't worked out a day in his life, but he also never needed to. His metabolism was more active than a thoroughbred, and he ate only the healthiest of foods. I was lucky enough to inherit the recessive Danby genes, but more on those cruel legacies another time.

“I'm a good listener, Dad. Tell me what's going on.” I felt his bony hand pull away and watched his body settle into the worn, mustard-yellow leather chair in front of the bookcase. It was his only possession my mother hadn't yet replaced—purely because he'd threatened divorce. “It's been a while since we've talked.”

My father stared out the window. I waited for his right eyebrow to twitch, signaling the onslaught of a battle, but the high arch never came. “We're having some problems at Braxton with a blogster. A bunch of articles or post-its, whatever you call them these days… trash is what I'd like to say.” He closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair. “This isn't the way I pictured my pre-retirement weeks.”

I stifled a laugh, hoping not to drive another decisive wedge between us. He'd opened up a little more than usual, and it didn't matter if he used the wrong terms to explain whatever fake news propaganda had developed at Braxton. “What's the blogger saying?”

“Someone has an ax to grind about the way I've supported parts of the college. He claims I'm favoring the athletics department by giving them more money this term.” My father crossed his legs and cupped his hands together. His navy-blue corduroys and brown loafers seemed out of place.

Was he taking retirement seriously? I'd normally seen him in suits, or occasionally a pair of Dockers and a short-sleeve polo when he'd meet friends at the country club for a round of golf. I hoped it didn't mean he'd be wearing jeans soon. The shock of suddenly embraced normalcy might bury me in an early grave before that doomed airplane.

“Is the blogger going after you specifically or Braxton administration in general?”

My father quickly typed a few words on the iPad's keypad and handed the device to me. “That's the third message in two weeks. The links for the rest are at the bottom.”

It's unlike my father to worry about this type of nonsense, but he'd become more sensitive about people's opinions as he grew older. It seemed the opposite of what I thought ordinarily happened as one aged. Nana D was the first to spill whatever was on her mind or laugh when others said anything negative about her. She almost delighted in their criticisms of her behavior. I couldn't wait to get old and say anything I want the way she did!

I scrolled through the recent post. The explicit focus on my father alarmed me the most.

Wesley Ayrwick, in his archaic and selfish ways, has struck another blow in eradicating the true purpose for Braxton's existence. His continued support for a failing athletics department while neglecting the proper education of our beloved student population has made it impossible for me to stand down. A recent six-figure donation was carelessly handed over to Grey Sports Complex for improving the technology infrastructure of the athletic facility, returfing the baseball field, and securing a modern bus for the players traveling to opposing teams. At the same time, the communications, humanities, and music departments suffer with minimal software programs, deteriorating equipment, and lack of innovative venue spaces for live performances. When asked about the decision to split the anonymous donation ninety percent to ten percent in favor of the athletics teams, President Ayrwick claimed they'd been waiting longer and were in danger of not being able to compete in the upcoming sports season. This is the third occurrence of his favoritism in the last two months, which clearly explains why the petition to remove Ayrwick from office sooner than the end of this semester is gaining momentum. Let's hope we can say goodbye to this crooked figurehead before Braxton's ship has sailed too far adrift from its proper course. Retirement must already be on the old coot's brain, or perhaps he's just one of the worst presidents we've ever had. My fondest wish is for Wesley Ayrwick's memory to be buried and long forgotten by the end of this term.

“What do you make of it?” he hesitantly asked.

A quick perusal of the earlier posts revealed similar sentiments, all fixated on my father for some perceived sense of unfair balance with the generous donations bestowed upon Braxton. The last line read like a death threat, but that might've been my imagination running wild since learning the startling truth about the Castigliano side of my family. “Who's the anonymous donor? Are you responsible for choosing where to allocate the funds?”

My father wrinkled his nose and raised his eyebrow. “No, you know better. When it's anonymous, even I'm not supposed to know. Sometimes the benefactor has a specific request on where to distribute the money. I can offer my insight and suggestions, but the Board of Trustees and its budget committee ultimately decide where the funds go.”

“I meant you have some influence.” I stepped into the hallway to drop off my keys and wallet on a nearby bench. “Should it have gone to the athletics department?”

My father's scowl indicated his annoyance over my lack of unconditional support. “Yes. While I agree the purpose of a college education is to prepare for life in the real world, to study and learn a trade or a skill, it's also about developing interpersonal relationships and opening one's eyes and mind to more than amassing facts.” He crossed to the window, shaking his head back and forth, clearly distracted by something. “Sports build camaraderie, teamwork, and friendships. It provides opportunities for the college and the town to unite in support of their students. Leads to a stronger foundation and future.”

I couldn't argue with his logic and pondered the past as I kicked off my shoes. “You've put that rather well. I believe you, Dad. Not to change topics, but I had a question about Abby Monroe. She mentioned attending—”

He never heard me as the door to his study slammed shut. I'd been home for ten minutes and already stuck my foot in my mouth. Between our off-the-charts intelligence and arrogant, stubborn streaks, neither of us could back down nor develop a normal relationship. I'd never learn how to bond with the indomitable Wesley Ayrwick. At least I could count on my quick wit and devilishly handsome face to make things seem better!

I dragged the luggage to my old bedroom, which my mother had once fretted over, harboring some foolish notion I might move back home. Did she really think a thirty-two-year-old would want to sleep in a room still wallpapered with Jurassic Park and Terminator paraphernalia? Before settling in to digest Derek's show materials, I scurried downstairs for a light meal. The incident in the study had left me zero desire to eat dinner with my parents. I'd just turned the corner when I heard my father's voice on the house phone.

“Yes, I read the latest post. I'm aware of our predicament, but we've already discussed it. Terminating the employee isn't an option.”

It seemed the posts were causing major troubles, but my father had previously acted like he didn't know who was behind the blog.

“I understand, but I've no intention of revealing this secret. I'm only keeping quiet because of the benefit to Braxton. If they discover the truth, we'll figure out the best solution. For now, I can handle a little hot water. You need to calm down,” my father advised.

It sounded like the blogger was telling the truth about underhanded chicanery. Was my father involved in a potentially illegal or unethical situation?

“You should've thought about it before taking a foolish approach to… now wait a minute… no, you listen to me… don't threaten me, or it'll be the last thing you do,” he shouted angrily.

When he hung up, I ducked into the kitchen. Between the elusive Abby Monroe's connections to Braxton, the ruthless blogger publicly denouncing my father, and the hostile call I'd just overheard, this weekend might turn out more eventful than expected.

CHAPTERTWO

When I stirred on Saturday morning, thick paste coated the insides of my mouth. The room was dark, and a low-rattling noise emanated from the far corner. I sat straight up in bed, smacked my head into a wood beam, and freaked out that I'd gone blind and a possum had snuck into the walls. I soon determined the obnoxious sound was the hissing of the radiators delivering much-needed warmth to the room.

Once the initial shock of my surroundings wore off, I stretched and grunted at the crunch in my lower spine from sleeping on the firmest mattress known to man. Between jet lag from the red-eye and the time difference, I'd dozed off early but woken up several times throughout the night. I checked my phone only to learn it was a few minutes shy of noon. That's also when I saw a message from my father chastising me for not bringing Emma home. Based on the timestamp, it'd come in the previous night shortly after I'd overheard his argument. Did he know I'd been listening outside his office?

Wesley Ayrwick was not a frequent complainer, and if he elected to vent, it was only on important topics. The last time I'd pressed him for thoughts on something vital, he revealed how much he'd disliked my wife, Francesca. This had occurred when I asked for his help to plan her funeral after she'd been hit by a drunk driver in West Hollywood two years ago. Francesca and I had left her parents' house on Thanksgiving in separate cars, as she'd been staying with them while I was working on an out-of-town film project. I'd always be thankful Francesca's mother, Cecilia Castigliano, had strapped Emma into my car's safety seat that night. Thinking about the alternative scenario consistently brought me to tears. I wasn't anywhere ready to talk about losing my wife at such a young age, nor being a single parent, so let's allow that to sleep longer.

After brushing my teeth, I called to check on Emma, but she was swimming in the neighbor's pool. Her grandparents would contact me as soon as she returned home. I'd only been away for twenty-four hours, yet it felt as if a part of me was lost whenever we were apart. The connection felt fuzzy, as though the distance prevented me from truly knowing whether my six-year-old daughter was okay. I'd give up a lot of desserts to swing her in my arms right now. Or watch her dance to some silly cartoon on her iPad. My heart melted at the pure innocence of her smile.

Before summoning the courage to start the day, I tossed on some clothes and descended the staircase two steps at a time. Walking around the house in only my snug black boxer briefs wasn't an option. I trotted into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee, noticing my mother preparing lunch. I still needed to ferret out the detailed agenda for tonight's retirement party.

“How's the best mother in the world doing?” I embraced her the way only a son could remind his momma she's loved. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pinned back with the jade butterfly clip Eleanor had given her for Christmas, and her face looked like she'd started applying makeup on one side but had forgotten the other half. I'd bet money on today's slipshod appearance resulting from something Nana D had done.

“Oh, Kellan! I wanted to come home early last night, but… the rehearsal for the party… talking to the planner about the seating chart… a near disaster. Do you know she had Nana D sitting next to Councilman Stanton at a table in the back row? I've told that planner ten times if I told her once… Marcus will make an important speech and needs to sit at the main table with your father. Nana D can't be anywhere near him based on their last public argument when she called him a—”

I interrupted before my mother prattled on for hours, bless her soul. “Got it. Makes total sense. You did the right thing, but I thought Nana D declined your invitation?” I suddenly remembered reading a text before falling asleep where Nana D clarified she'd rather spend an afternoon with her mouth crammed full of lemon wedges, her fingers pricked by a thousand tiny needles, and her feet glued inside a bumblebee's nest than attend another Braxton event for my father. “And what's with the crazy portrait-of-a-lady-with-two-faces look?” I cocked my head to the side, reached for the fruit bowl at the end of the island, and stepped a few inches away, certain she'd swat at me for that comment.

My mother, somewhere in her mid-fifties, had feverishly obsessed over her appearance for as long as I could remember. Despite my father telling her she's beautiful, or how he had to prevent all his friends from hitting on her, she put herself down. Even when my father explained how all his golf buddies called him a cradle robber because of my parents' ten-year age gap, she still went on a two-week hunt around the world for the latest wrinkle prevention products and anti-aging miracle cures.

“Whaaat? That woman is gonna be the death of me. She called while I was putting on my face and wanted to know if your father had changed his mind about retiring. She'd heard some rumor about his real intentions, then asked who wrote the scathing blog post. Any idea what she's talking about?” She ducked into the half-bath and applied a colorful powder to her right eyelid.

“We'll chat when you're done. Beauty first,” I quipped, changing the topic and preparing a sandwich. “So, Nana D's not going? That's gonna make this party a lot less interesting.”

My mother's lack of awareness surrounding the blog posts surprised me. She read everything about Braxton she could get her hands on—it was important to know what's being written about her college to prepare for questions from prospective or current students. Then again, she could've been craftily testing me to see what I knew and wasn't confessing. Often the little charade of trickery we played in the Ayrwick family got complicated—somewhere between a game of Who's on First? and Russian Roulette.

My mother smacked her lips together like a blowfish. “What did you say, Kellan?”

“Nothing. I'm glad to be home.” Eleanor would have to agree that I'm being such a good son.

She retreated into the bathroom while I devoured the sandwich. When she reappeared, her face sparkled. Eleanor better watch herself, or people might ask questions like who's the older sister between the pair of them. Maybe I'd even start that rumor. It'd been an ice age since I stung Eleanor with a perfect zinger.

“What's the plan for tonight?” I blurted out while swallowing the last crumb of my sandwich.

“We'll greet early arrivals for the five o'clock cocktail hour. Then we present your father with a service award, and a few folks make speeches between six and seven. They'll serve dinner between seven and eight. Everyone can mingle afterward for an hour before it ends.” She collected her breath, then popped a strawberry in her mouth. “I need to take lunch to your father. Please get there early. He wants to introduce you to people.”

“Eleanor and I plan to arrive exactly at five. Cross one less worry off your list.” I had to motivate her sometimes, or she'd fret over the tiniest things. “We'll be on our best behavior.”

My mother kissed my cheek before ascending the stairs to deliver my father's meal. “I'll always worry about my children. Even Gabriel, despite not hearing from him for over seven years. Hugs and kisses!”

As she exited, I caught my reflection in the window and rolled my eyes at her lipstick marks. If I survived the night, I'd exact revenge on Nana D for avoiding it all. I sent her a text to remind her she'd promised to bake me a cherry pie for brunch tomorrow. There was no better dessert, especially the way Nana D prepared them with the cherries on top and the crust only on the bottom. She'd attach little pastry donuts on the side, so we could pull them off and dip them into the cherry filling. Mmm, delicious. Don't get me started on pie.

Nana D: Arrive by 10. Have fun without me tonight. Please piss off your father for me.

Wow! She had it in for him. I returned to my bedroom and dove into the show bible sitting on the night table. The next page was Abby's email to Derek from a week earlier. It read:

I'm so glad you selected me to provide the research on Dark Reality's next season. I received the contract and will send back a signed copy next week. When do we meet again? I had so much fun drinking cocktails with you last month. You're adorable in that recent picture you sent from Tahiti.

I have tons to share re the birth of witch covens in Pennsylvania and the Beguiling Curse of 1689. Should I book a flight to Hollywood soon? Will the network cover first-class tickets? This is the beginning of a lasting partnership. I've also stumbled upon something controversial going on in my hometown. It's worthy of a future season for our TV show, but I've got more research to do. I'll keep you posted.

How come I keep getting your voicemail? Can you please try to reach me tonight? I'll be home waiting for you to respond. In case you need my cell number, it's…

Derek had gotten himself into trouble again. Ever the talented rascal, Derek was known for dumping his crazy groupies on colleagues and getting everyone else to do his job for him. The last girl he'd assured a walk-on part on the set of Dark Reality hopped a series of red-carpet ropes during a season-one screening party, claiming Derek had promised her a front-row seat. When security called him over, my boss looked her right in the eyes and said, “Never met this woman. Kick her out.” I was there. I saw the confusion plastered on her face. I also noticed him blink twice, then his lip quivered. Derek had a tell I'd pegged from the first day we met.

Between yesterday's call and this email, a decisive picture of Abby Monroe popped into my head—twenty-six, blonde, hourglass shape, perky, and bubbly. She hadn't even known Derek blew her off and put me in the middle of this explosive atom bomb. I scrolled through the call log for Derek's number and patiently waited to connect. What was I walking into with Abby Monroe? Although I'd done most of the work on the first season, my name wasn't listed in the credits, nor were my contributions recognized by anyone at the network. Since I was way more experienced and intelligent—or maybe the better word was talented—than Derek, I'd learn everything I needed to earn my own award and escape his drama.

“Wussup? You should see the waves at this hour. Primo!” shouted Derek.

I'd forgotten he was in Hawaii and quickly converted the time before realizing the sun was just rising over countless breathtaking beaches. For some reason, I'd been gifted with the ability to retain way too much useless knowledge. “Oh, I hope I'm not waking you up.”

“I haven't gone to bed yet, Kel-baby. We're about to rent surfboards. You should be here, man.”

Any traces of guilt I had about rousing him from a blissful slumber disappeared, knowing he's the one who'd sent me on this foolish diversion. “No can do, Derek. Trying to pin down your source is proving to be difficult. How is Abby Monroe connected to Braxton?”

The waves intensely crashed against the sand as he mumbled about paying for rental surfboards. Someday I'd learn to extricate myself from these situations, but until then, it was best not to get on his nasty side. The last time we'd had creative differences, he hired my replacement to trail me all day, threatening to cut me loose if I didn't acknowledge his authority.

“She's a piece of work, ain't she? Never would have guessed Abby looked like that. You meet her yet? Thanks for dealing with this one, Kel-baby.” He ignored the question about Braxton.

“It's Kellan.” I'd told him before not to call me Kel-baby. It reminded me of a high school girlfriend who'd forced me to watch every episode of Saved by the Bell one summer, trying to perfect her acting skills. I'd had enough of the Kelly Kelly Duo and never again would someone mistakenly call me Kel or Kelly as a nickname. “What's Abby look like? Is this another awful Tinder date I should know about?”

“Dude, I'm innocent, I swear. She's hot for an older babe. And it's about time you got some—”

“Stop right there. My personal life is off limits,” I said, knowing he irritated the most patient of people. “How much do you know about Abby?”

“I was going to say attention. You're acting holier-than-thou lately, and it's time you took off that faulty halo and engaged in some fun. Seriously, man. Let loose and take some risks while the network's paying for your trip. I gotta jet. My date's getting antsy, and these waves are fierce.”

“Wait! Answer my question about Abby.”

“I barely know her. We met at a conference in New York City last month. I gave her my number and email address. Didn't you read the show bible with all the open questions? Abby needs to fill in those blanks. I'm counting on you, Kel-baby. Later.”

“You mean you gave her your fake number, right?” Various methods of revenge formulated in my head. I wanted to remind Derek-baby what people said about payback, but halfway through my witty comeback, he hung up.

Derek was the second person since I'd arrived in Braxton who'd chosen that route. Was I doing something wrong? What happened to proper manners? There were rules. One person initiated a goodbye sequence, and the other held it up to share remaining thoughts. There's an awkward moment how to end the call, and then you both said goodbye at the same time before the actual disconnect. Either I was getting old, or other people were getting crazier. I mentally added it to the list of things to ask Nana D the next time I saw her. Despite her age, she had all the answers about the new etiquette system of my generation's people.

Hoping to shake off the conversation and alleviate the knots in my back, I went for an hour-long run in Braxton's fresh mountain air. Many parts of the town—topping out at about three-thousand citizens—offered natural, untouched beauty everyone had protected for three hundred years. Shortly before Pennsylvania had become a state, my ancestors developed the sheltered land where the Finnulia River emptied into Crilly Lake at the base of the Wharton Mountains. Though the landscape was intoxicating, I had little time left before the party. I returned home, showered, and dressed for the event.

Promptly at four thirty, I stood outside Memorial Library, assuming Eleanor would be late. Inevitably, there would be some crisis at the diner—a lost car key or a last-minute wardrobe change. It's lucky my sister's saving grace had always been she's the most intelligent, loyal, and caring person in my life. If not, her constant tardiness and indecisiveness would drive me batty and send me running in the opposite direction.

The Paddington family originally erected Memorial Library. A fire damaged the first floor in the late 1960s during a Vietnam War protest that had gone off the deep end. The powers-that-be in charge of the campus at the time had rebelled against old-world charm and preserving history. The result was a cheap repair of the antiquated structure and an institutional, utilitarian-looking addition reminding everyone of a grammar school cafeteria gone wrong. It needed to be demolished and redesigned more than our town's government.

While waiting for Eleanor, a woman on a cell phone wandered past me. She was explaining how she'd already finished marking the exam and was on her way to enter the results in her grade book. It sounded like an unhappy student was trying to change the professor's mind about his or her grade. The last line I caught before she was out of range made me laugh, thinking about how far someone would go to demand a better mark. “Yes, come to my office at eight thirty. But trust me, you won't alter my decision. Nada. Zilch. You're killing me with this persistent pressure and the multiple diversion tactics,”she chastised.

My gaze switched to several students milling in and out of Memorial Library, surprising me how popular it was on a Saturday evening. Although I'd been a decent student during my time at Braxton, I had reserved weekends for fraternity parties, off-campus troublemaking excursions, and strenuous visits with my family. Saturday nights at a library were uncool a decade ago. It seemed much had changed.

I considered following a student inside to gander at the dreary interior décor, but stopped when two snowballs slammed into my shoulder. Not one to back down from a challenge, I ducked to the ground to gather a handful of snow and steadied myself to throw a powerful curveball. Had an immature student taken advantage of my distraction, or was the professor using me to express her frustration with the caller?

“So, he can clean himself up for the proper occasion,” taunted my sister, throwing another snowball. “I'd have placed a bet you'd wear the usual jeans and a gray t-shirt tonight.”

Nope, my expensive black suit and herringbone topcoat looked quite dapper. I rolled both eyes in her direction several times with enough emphasis that they almost got stuck on the final lap. “Funny! I'd have placed a bet you wouldn't be here until five thirty, so you could tell Mom it was my fault we were late.”

Eleanor meandered over and gave me the biggest hug I'd received since the last time I was in town. “I miss you so much. Why do you leave me here in this boring arctic tundra alone with our parents? Can't you work from Braxton part of… oh, fine, I'll stop. The stars are telling me not to pester you anymore tonight.”

I agreed about the arctic part. I'd never get used to it, especially after gazing at palm trees and listening to ocean waves in Los Angeles. When we separated, I scanned her shocking and brilliant transformation. Her curly, dirty-blond hair was pinned to one side of her head with a bright crimson bow matching the color of her dress. She wore heels, which I hardly ever saw her in for two reasons—one, she was a tad clumsy, and two, she claimed it made her tower over potential male suitors. We were the same height, but in the sparkling Christian Louboutin stilettos she'd chosen, I couldn't reach her on the tips of my toes.

I only knew the brand and type of shoes because Francesca had trained me well. We spent many Sunday afternoons window shopping up and down Rodeo Drive, guessing the prices of everything she loved but for which she refused to pay full cost. Despite being raised with money, my wife had loved a good bargain.

“You could always move to the West Coast if you can't hack it here.” I smiled at how grown-up my baby sister looked in her red-sequined gown. She possessed a unique fashion sense, imposing her own spin on each outfit. Today, it was the dark-gray sash worn across her hips. Eleanor had always been sensitive about inheriting the Danby bone structure and found ways to either accentuate or hide it—whichever improved her look, depending on the garb and the position of the moon that day. She was a fanatic about horoscopes, astrology, and numerology. “Or consult that crystal ball of yours to see what's in store for your future.”

“Oh, shut your trap door. Someday we'll live closer together. The cards have already decided so. Tell me, who do you think will be there tonight besides the usual stuffy colleagues and friends? I've had a premonition about something dark happening. Not sure who's in trouble, but someone's aura is dust!”

As she said her last line, thunder struck in the nearby Wharton Mountains. We both jumped. Our eyes bulged with indeterminate shock. “Yeah, let's get to the party before you invoke some sort of ancient curse on us. You've got the worst luck lately.”

CHAPTERTHREE

Eleanor grabbed my hand, leading us toward Braxton's main entrance gate. As we walked, I summarized the incendiary blog posts and our father's mysterious phone conversation.

“I hope the blogger does nothing to embarrass Dad tonight,” Eleanor said.

“He can take care of himself.” We agreed not to confront him since it wasn't our business.

Braxton's campus was spread out across two parts of town and connected by a charming, antique cable car service covering the one-mile distance in between. The trendy transportation system functioned like an airport trolley between terminals—leaving North Campus every thirty minutes to make the return trip back and forth to South Campus. When the weather cooperated, it was a brisk fifteen-minute walk to reach either end. Quaint shops, the occasional college bar, and student rental housing lined the streets.

“Even though most of the primary academic buildings and student dorms are on North Campus, I've always found South Campus more idyllic.” Besides hosting the executive offices and the campus coffeehouse, The Big Beanery, South Campus also housed the music, humanities, and communications departments. Paddington's Play House and Stanton Concert Hall were the big entertainment attractions keeping me from being bored as a student.

“True. I'm looking forward to seeing Mom's artisanal handiwork. She thought it would be a fun twist to rearrange all the tables in Stanton Concert Hall to face the center of the room. Even brought in a temporary dance floor and a raised platform for the speeches.” As the cable car arrived, Eleanor filled me in on her exciting day at the Pick-Me-Up Diner. Braxton's baseball team had caused a big ruckus at their impromptu lunch. “It was odd when the cheerleading squad showed up too. They should've been discussing strategies to win the opening game.”

“Aww, were you jealous? Did it stop you from flirting with the players?” I was on fire today.

“Bite me, Kellan. Even Coach Oliver couldn't control them when he handed out the team's newest college jackets. The burgundy and navy-blue colors looked like a cool design.”

I quipped, “We both know the real reason the team's onset annoyed you is because cash-limited students are notorious for leaving no tips.”

When all the passengers disembarked, Eleanor and I squeezed into a two-seater near the back plastered with characters from Marvel comics. Each year, the graduating class presented a gift to the college to redesign the cable car as their outgoing mark on Braxton.

“Bring back any memories, gladiator-man?” asked Eleanor.

I'm ashamed to admit my class had chosen a Spartan theme since the movie 300 had just hit theaters. At the unveiling ceremony, they forced me to wear an extremely short, body-hugging tunic while wielding a plastic shield and spear. I'd almost died of embarrassment when the fabric split open as I kneeled for a picture. I hadn't looked as handsome back then as I did now. Yep, you gotta get used to this humor!

We arrived at Stanton Concert Hall, aptly named for Lavinia Stanton, an elderly spinster ancestor of Marcus Stanton's who'd left her entire life savings to Braxton in the early twentieth century. A lippy security attendant greeted me, snapped my picture, and typed in a few commands on a keypad. Thirty seconds later, he returned a badge with a bunch of codes and symbols.

“Can you make the machine explode when you create Eleanor's ID?” I asked the attendant, who unfortunately didn't find me hilarious. The process completed flawlessly.

The guest list topped out at two hundred colleagues, family members, and friends. I skimmed the expanse of the room with a fleeting thought that I could pick out Abby, but no one matched the imagined description.

My mother had outdone herself. She transformed the hall into a full-on party atmosphere complete with authentic, old-fashioned lampposts retrofitted as conversation tables where we could eat endless amounts of hors d'oeuvres; ornate beverage carts rolled around by penguin-clad waiters serving a fizzy blue cocktail; and a fine mist spraying jasmine from the ceiling. Eleanor went in search of our parents while I tested the aqua concoction. A bit tart for me, but I saw the appeal.

While mingling, I caught up with my former art professor and shook hands with Councilman Marcus Stanton—his palm was so clammy I'd never wipe off the pungent pool of sweat. The handshake was also too weak for a real politician. No wonder Nana D had it in for him.

When an incoming text vibrated, I hoped it was Abby, but it was from my daughter, Emma. She was back from the neighbors and wanted to tell me she missed me and loved me. I sent a video of a papa bear cuddling with his baby bear—our way of sharing a hug when we weren't in the same place together. She was intelligent and intuitive for her age and loved our quirky relationship. Six going on sixteen!

Before putting away the phone, I texted my father's assistant. Lorraine Candito had served as my father's right-hand woman for twenty years, including following him from his prior position at Woodland College across the river. I was certain she was the only reason I'd gotten birthday cards or frequent packages from my father. My mother was too busy and had her own way of showing how much she cared, but Lorraine was like a favorite aunt you could always count on. My phone buzzed with her response:

Let's connect after dinner. Need to get your gift. I left it on my desk.

Curiosity brewed, then I remembered something from Christmastime. She'd probably bought me a present with the new Braxton logo. I texted back a confirmation and caught sight of my father approaching from the dance floor.

“Let me introduce you to someone, Kellan,” he began. A woman with short, spiky gray hair followed nearby. Her natural black shade had faded and rather than dye it, she'd accepted the graceful aging process. I commended her. If my hair color ever began to change, I'd be the first in line at the salon. I could be a bit vain about these things. Although her hair was striking, her pursed lips and icy stare stole my attention's focus.

I reached my hand to her, hoping the councilman's sweat had dissipated, or she'd be in for her own unpleasant shock. “Pleased to meet you… Mrs…. Miss…?”

My father continued talking when she failed to engage. “This is Dr. Myriam Castle. She's a professor in our communications department and has been at Braxton for… what, three years now?”