Chapter 5.1: Three's a Crowd
Clayton must know that I'm angry with him because no matter what I do, I can't get in touch with him all week. He ignores my emails. He doesn't accept my meeting requests. And he always seems to be out when I drop by his office.
I'm beginning to feel like a stalker and even my irritation at his generosity is starting to subside when I get an invitation to the president's welcome party for Friday afternoon. Specifically held for first-year students and new faculty members, I'm pretty sure that as a senior administrator, Clayton will be there. Surely he can't hide from me there.
It turns out that I'm not wrong.
Dean Clayton Ward, with his impeccable fashion sense, perfect jawline, and neatly styled hair is front and center of the action. By the way he's schmoozing up the guests in the residence's garden, you'd think that he was the host—pointing people to the buffet, shaking hands, and telling funny anecdotes.
At least that's what I think he's saying since I don't go close enough to hear. But everyone is making goo-goo eyes at him and laughing at everything coming out of his mouth.
Hanging back by the bar, I nurse my ice tea and silently plot how and when I'll catch his attention, but as soon as one group leaves his side, another appears.
"Quite the charmer, isn't he?" The question comes from a woman standing on my right.
I momentarily consider whether I can pretend that I don't know what she's talking about, but it's too late. I've been ogling Clayton for too long to deny.
"It seems like it," I say, taking a sip of my drink to try to signal that I'm not really up for chit-chat.
It doesn't work.
"You're our new anthropology lecturer, aren't you?" she asks, coming fully into my line of sight.
With a straw hat over her box braids and chunky earrings paired with a colorful maxi dress, she looks like she'd just returned from a fun Caribbean beach vacation and landed in this boring backyard cookout. But her smile is welcoming and I can't ignore the pointed question.
"Yes. I'm Barlow Milligan," I say, extending my hand.
"Althea McRae," she says in return as we shake. "I teach modern literature and an occasional drama class, if our resident thespians happen to be on Broadway. It's nice to meet you, Barlow."
"So you're not new, then?" I ask, my interest suddenly piqued.
Althea shakes her head. "Oh, no child. I just got my twenty-year anniversary pin this past spring. You can call me a lot of things, but new isn't one of them."
She laughs and I politely join in before asking, "What's the point of these things, anyway?" I motion toward the hundreds of people standing awkwardly under white event tens, holding drinks, smiling politely and squinting in the late-afternoon sun. Everyone is at least paired up, although there's one man in khakis and a light blue polo shirt grasping a glass beer bottle off on the side alone. And he's staring right at me.
But then Althea leans in and covers her mouth as though she's about to tell me some huge secret.
"The point is the same as it is with everything we do, now isn't it?" she whispers. When I shrug in confusion, she continues. "Power, baby. You need to show who's in charge before any of your new neighbors can get too comfortable and take your spot."
With that, she directs my attention to a man perhaps in his early sixties, standing more or less in the middle of the party. He's tall, towering over everyone else around him, but not in a lanky or awkward way.
"Is that the president of the university?" I ask, realizing that the silver-haired man looks familiar from the exhaustive website browsing I did prior to accepting this job.
"The one and only Douglas Calhoun," Althea says, grabbing my wrist. "Come, let me introduce you."
I dig in my heels. "Oh, no. Not right now. Thank you," I say with polite force. I'm overwhelmed by so many people being around already and there's no way that I'm meeting that man one-on-one. "Let him focus on the students. I'm sure we'll have another opportunity to speak soon."
I give Althea an innocent smile and it seems to work because she backs off from forcing the issue. Thankfully the staring man has also disappeared, although I find an almost creepier dude looking my way from the other end of the yard. I focus on my ice tea and when I finish my drink, I hope to use the excuse of getting a refill to actually slip away, but the arrival of Clayton's fiancée makes me gasp in surprise.
"She's a stunner, isn't she?" Althea asks from what has now appeared to become her permanent spot beside me.
"Uh-huh," I mutter, now wishing that I had something in my glass to sip again as Gemma Calhoun—with her perfect hair and casual, but expensive clothes—strolls in and hugs the party's host. And that's when it dawns on me.
"Wait. Gemma Calhoun. She's the president's daughter?" I ask, feeling dumb for not realizing the connection earlier.
"Yes. His only child," Althea says. "Why? Do you two know each other?"
I glance at Clayton. He's bowing out of another conversation and heading toward his fiancée and her father.
"Err, no. I mean, we met briefly the other day, but I don't know much about her," I admit, leaving out the sourness of our initial encounter as I get another brief glance of staring beer guy.
"Oh, she's an absolute doll," Althea gushes. "Everybody loves Gemma. I'm sure you will, too."
I'm not as confident, but I force a smile. "Of course. Excuse me."
Before she can object, I slip past a group of students and head toward the bar. Setting my empty glass on the corner, I don't even break my stride as I continue toward the exit. There are still people arriving as I duck out through the garden gate, the sound of the mingled conversations getting fainter and fainter.
My house is near enough for me to have walked. Although the sun is beginning to set, the path between the cute cottages is clear and well-lit enough to feel safe. And yet for some reason, I have a bad feeling.
There's a slight chill in the air and I hasten my steps. I could swear that someone behind me also quickens theirs.
I look behind me, but the path is empty.
The place smells of dry leaves and rain. I continue to walk, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It's also becoming harder to breathe and I realize that I'm on the verge of a panic attack.
This is silly. I need to calm down and compose myself. But that's easier said than done as the hairs on my arm stand on end.
A crow cackles and a light fog rolls over the sidewalk in front of me.
I'm practically running now and if someone saw me, they'd swear I was mad. Just in case, I dig into my pocket and grab my house keys. I'll be ready to unlock the door as soon as I get there. And if worst comes to worst, I can always hold the key between my fingers and use it as a weapon. Not that it would do much damage, but it could buy me a few seconds to escape.
Listen to me. Why am I being so paranoid? Just because it almost sounds like someone is following me doesn't mean that they want to cause any harm. Maybe someone else who lives nearby is also ditching the party early. I don't have any enemies. What am I so worried about?
I turn the last corner with my breathing almost back to normal when flashing red and blue lights come into view. There's a Woodhurst PD police cruiser parked in front of my cottage and my first thought immediately goes to my sister. Was she in an accident? Are they here to deliver bad news like they do on television?
Thankfully I don't have enough time to work myself up again before I'm next to the patrol car. A uniformed police woman approaches me, coming from the edge of the forest that abuts the property.
"Barlow Milligan?" she asks, one hand on the handle of the handgun on her hip.
I swallow. "Yes. Can I help you?"
"We're following up on some leads about the Juliette Kaczmarek disappearance," says the officer as she stops in front of me.
As soon as the girl's name leaves her lips I know I can't stay. "Sorry, I don't know anything about that," I say, turning on my heels and heading toward the house.
"So you didn't see or talk to Juliette the night she was last seen?" she yells after me as though I hadn't just tried to blow her off.
I try to open the door, but my hand is shaking so badly the key keeps missing the lock. It finally goes in and I turn it with a click.
"No," I say, pushing the door open. "And unless you have a warrant, I'd appreciate it if you leave the premises."
"I'm afraid this property belongs to the university and they've already given us permission to looks around," she says as I go inside and start to shut the door behind me. "And now that I've caught you in a clear lie, it won't be a problem to get a warrant to search inside, as well."
I know that I should just keep my mouth shut and close the door, but I can't help myself.
"What lie?" I ask through the crack that I've left in the door.
The officer who is now standing on the porch holds up her cell phone with a paused video. "We have doorbell camera footage from Friday night showing you interacting with the victim who you just denied ever having talked to. Now, which one is it, Ms. Milligan?"
"Firstly, it's Dr. Milligan," says Clayton as he walks up behind her and I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life. "And second, unless you're here to make an arrest, officer, we won't be answering any questions without a lawyer."
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