The Edith Wharton Murders by Raphael Lev

Author:Raphael, Lev [Raphael, Lev]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-07-01T21:00:00+00:00

THAT FRIDAY MORNING, I returned to the Campus Center feeling as apprehensive as a substitute high school teacher facing a class full of malcontents, bullies, and thugs.

What the hell was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to cancel the conference? I couldn’t do that by myself, could I? I’d have to talk to Serena, and more importantly, to Coral Greathouse. What were you supposed to do when a conferee was murdered? I felt dizzy at the blizzard of complications that would engulf me and Serena if the conference was canceled: the Campus Center hotel reservations, trying to change flights, arranging for registration refunds.

And there would be a storm front of complaints moving in.

I wasn’t up to all that, and I wondered if even Serena had the skills to handle such a profound mess.

When I got to the private paneled dining room reserved for all our conference meals, I was surprised by the pleasant buzz of conversation that carried out into the hallway.

It was actually more than pleasant. I could see that when I stepped inside. There was a strangely festive air at the ten round tables draped with generic-looking white tablecloths. Young, pimply student waiters and waitresses weaved among the tables with standard white coffee carafes, murmuring, “Decaf or regular?” About half of the conferees were here, and everyone seemed to be reading the Michiganapolis Tribune with its vile headline, LESBIAN KILLED AT SUM.

Serena saw me and waved me over as familiarly as if we were old friends breakfasting on her terrace. She was alone, swathed in purple.

“It’s amazing,” she whispered as I sat down, nodding in all directions to be polite. “Look at them!”

I did. Instead of casting a pall on the conference, Chloe’s death had jazzed everyone up.

“They love the bad news,” Serena said.

A waiter set orange juice in front of me and pointed out the break fast buffet table at one end of the room.

“But what should we do?” I asked. “How can we keep the conference going now?”

“You mean should we pull the plug? Not a chance! Not unless Coral or someone higher up says so. We soldier on. This is going to be a real success. Can’t you feel it? I do.”

I studied the tables and understood Serena’s assessment: there was some tentative mixing of the two Wharton groups, as if last night’s face-off at the reception hadn’t happened, as if Chloe’s death was a reason to build bridges.

Going over to the buffet table to help myself to some fragrant waffles, I wondered if the buoyant mood in the room wasn’t simply due to people realizing how lucky they were to be alive. But as more and more conferees entered for breakfast, the energy built. They were like a tour group in Hawaii unexpectedly getting to see an active volcano from a safe distance—and at no extra charge. Serena was right. The murder was spicing up their weekend.

“These waffles are terrific,” I said, amazed at how hungry I was.

Serena nodded graciously as if she’d made them herself.

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