CHAPTER ONE
I
jammed both feet on the brake and brought my old yellow
convertible
to a screeching halt mere inches from the groin of a
dragon. Okay, not
a dragon in the fairy tale sense of the word. This dragon
was the flesh-and-blood
human variety – one Z. Archibald Puffer, a former JAG
officer turned
law professor who was often referred to as Puffer the
Dragon. He was
called that not just because of his last name, but also
because of his
ability to destroy the bravest law student in one fiery
blast of fury.
My
personal name for him was Snapdragon, because he had a
habit of snapping
pencils in two and hurling the eraser half at the head of
the student
whose answer had displeased him. He went through so many
pencils
that he bought them in bulk, made to his specifications --
glossy black
barrels with his initials monogrammed in silver to look
like bolts of
lightning: ZAP.
I had been struck several times
and even bore a tiny scar on my forehead from his last
attack, which
came with his pronouncement that I was never to step foot
in his lecture
hall again. That was followed in short order by my
expulsion from law
school, which, in turn, prompted my then fiancé, Pryce
Osborne II,
to break off our engagement and leave town until his
humiliation over
my failure had faded. His humiliation.
It
had occurred to me back then that the old maxim of bad luck
coming in
threes was true. Now, as Puffer glared up the shiny hood of
my reconditioned
1960 Corvette with his spiteful, ice blue eyes, and my
heart pounded
and my clammy hands clasped the steering wheel so hard my
knuckles hurt,
my gut feeling was that the Rule of Three had begun
again. Which
meant I still had two to go.
The
irony was that the only reason I had come to the law
school – a place
I tried my best to avoid -- was to deliver a flower that
Professor Puffer
had ordered. However, I didn’t think now would be the best
time to
hand it over. He might snap it off and chuck the vase at
me.
“You
red-headed fumigant,” he jeered, as college students
gathered on both
sides of the street, “You nearly killed me.”
I
wasn’t sure what a fumigant was, but I knew it couldn’t be
good.
“Sorry,” I squeaked, slumping down as far as I could.
Considering
that I was short, it was pretty far.
Was
it my fault he hadn’t used the crosswalk? Was it my fault
he was talking
on his mobile phone instead of paying attention to traffic?
I didn’t
think so. Had it been anyone else, I would have told him as
much. But
that steely glare brought back so many bad memories that
all I could
do was duck.
“Hey,
there is someone inside,” one curious student said,
coming
up for a look.
I
raised my head just enough to peer over the dash.
Mercifully, Snapdragon
had moved on, but not before stopping at the curb to
deliver a parting
shot. “Be expecting a call from the police,” he sneered,
working
his cell phone buttons. “I’m turning you in for reckless
driving.”
Great.
Just what I needed to make my morning complete.
ZAP.
I
knew what his fury was really about. Puffer was still
indignant about
the night he’d spent in the slammer over three years ago on
a Driving
Under the Influence charge. I’d had nothing to do with it,
of course
-- I was still downstate at Indiana University at the time -
- but that
hadn’t mattered to Puffer. What had mattered was that the
dragon had
been publicly disgraced by a Knight -- my father, Sgt.
Jeffrey Knight,
then of the New Chapel police department -- and once I
stepped foot
in his classroom and Puffer made the connection, he never
let me forget
it.
So
it really shouldn’t have surprised me that this new trio of
unpleasant
events would begin with Snapdragon. In fact, my first clue
should have
been the strange order that had been waiting for me when I
walked into
my flower shop, Bloomers, this overcast Tuesday morning:
one black rose
suitable for funeral display, noon delivery, to Professor
Z. Puffer,
New Chapel University School of Law. I mean, who would
order a single
black flower for a funeral? Bugs Bunny?
Knowing
my history with Puffer, my assistant Lottie had tried to
talk me out
of making the delivery. But no, I’d decided I needed to
face the dragon
to conquer those irrational fears I’d held onto way too
long. After
all, Puffer had no power over me now. I wasn’t that
frightened first
year law student any more. I owned a business, or at least
I owned the
mortgage for a business. It took courage to run a flower
shop at the
age of twenty-six. It also took money, which was something
I hadn’t
yet managed to produce in quantity. Which reminded me. I
still had to
deliver the flower and collect my money.
I
glanced over at the dark red rose (the closest I could get
to black
since there was no such thing) in its slender chrome vase,
the entire
package wrapped in black-tinted cellophane, tied with a
solemn black
ribbon and wedged securely in a foam container in front of
the passenger
seat -- and tried to imagine Puffer’s reaction when he saw
who the
delivery person was. Maybe I should take Lottie up on her
offer after
all.
Horns
honked behind me. I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw
a line of
cars waiting to turn into the law school’s parking lot, so
I pulled
into a visitor’s space, shut off the engine, and took deep
breaths
to calm my nerves. What was the big deal anyway? All I had
to do was
put the vase on Puffer’s desk and leave a bill. If I was
lucky, he
might even be in the cafeteria, in which case I could just
give everything
to his secretary Bea, who always ate lunch at her desk.
A
car pulled into the space to my right. I glanced over at
the metallic
green Mini Cooper and saw Professor Carson Reed at the
wheel. Great.
Of the hundreds of people I could have seen at the college
that day,
I had to find the only two on campus who held grudges
against me.
From
the corner of my eye I watched Reed polish off the last of
a burger,
crumple the wrapper, check his teeth in his rear view
mirror and get
out. He eyed my Vette but ignored me as he strode off,
briefcase in
hand.
Professor
Reed was a tall, vain, handsome, single man in his late
thirties with
a fondness for poetry and black clothing (including a black
eyepatch
and cape, if he was feeling particularly dashing). He
thought of himself
as a modern day Lord Byron and frequently could be seen
strolling the
campus grounds reciting odes to the starry-eyed female
students that
seemed to follow him everywhere. Sad to say, Reed enjoyed
the benefits
of having his own fan club and had left many a broken-heart
in his wake.
However
much I found his behavior offensive, Professor Reed had
been one of
the few teachers whose lectures I’d actually understood,
even if I
hadn’t always passed his exams. Plus he’d written papers
and often
spoke on the importance of taking a stand against
injustice – a subject
dear to my heart. I’d even memorized his favorite Byron
quote on that
subject:
“As the Liberty lads o'er
the sea,
Bought their freedom, and cheaply,
with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will die
fighting, or live free . . .”
Then
Reed became the legal advisor for Dermacol, a new cosmetics
laboratory
in town, and suddenly his poetic ideals were replaced by
dollar signs,
causing my respect for him to take a nose dive. Dermacol
tested products
on animals kept in wire cages, something I couldn’t -- make
that
wouldn’t -- tolerate. In fact, just a week ago, during
a demonstration
to protest Dermacol’s policies, I was arrested for
obstruction. Apparently,
Reed hadn’t welcomed the picket line I’d organized to block
the
entrance gate and had called the police.
As
I was being led away in handcuffs, I told him in a voice
loud enough
to carry to the reporters on hand that I’d do it again if
it meant
saving the lives of innocent creatures, and I’d take on
anyone who
advocated torturing helpless animals -- including him. Then
I called
him a hypocritical snake-in-the-grass for selling out to
corporate greed.
The local newspaper even quoted me on that.
Needless
to say, Reed was no fan of mine, especially since photos of
the protest
made the front page of the New Chapel News,
and the accompanying article painted him in a particularly
unflattering
light. For a man with Reed’s arrogance, I didn’t imagine it
had
been an easy pill to swallow and I was certain the less he
saw of me
the better. Then again, I wasn’t in any rush to see him,
either, but
since his office was next to Puffer’s, the odds of it were
high.
I
toyed again with the idea of letting Lottie come back with
the flower,
but that just wasn’t my style. I’d never shied away from a
challenge
before -- my parents would attest to that. To hear them
describe it,
they’d stumbled around in a zombie-like stupor for the
better part
of a decade due to their sleepless nights of worrying about
me.
My
cell phone rang, so I looked at the screen, flipped it open
and said,
“Nikki, I’m so glad you called. You’ll never believe
what
happened.”
I
knew I’d get lots of sympathy from Nikki. She was my best
friend,
confidante and roommate. We had a bond so strong that when
one of us
was in distress, the other felt the pain.
“I
don’t have time for that right now, Abby. I’m standing here
on the
curb waiting for a guy from the gas station to put a spare
tire on my
car so I can make it to work this afternoon. And do you
want to know
why he’s putting on a spare tire? Because your cousin
Jillian punctured
my Toyota’s good tire. That’s why.”
Obviously
there were times when Nikki’s distress and my distress
canceled that
whole share-the-pain thing. “To be fair, Nikki, Jillian
didn’t puncture
your tire. Something sharp punctured it.”
“Why
did it get punctured in the first place, Abby? Why?”
Two
professors strolled past my car, so I whispered, “Can we
discuss this
later?”
“Here’s
why. Because Jillian parked her car in my designated
space, forcing
me to leave my car on the street in front of the
house that’s
being remodeled.”
For
someone who didn’t have time to talk, she was doing a good
job of
it.
“Jillian
has also taken over one of my shelves in the bathroom
medicine cabinet,
and that’s just unacceptable.”
“At
least you’re not the one sleeping on the lumpy sofa.”
“Whose
fault is that?” she snapped.
There
was a protracted silence on both ends. Nikki and I had been
friends
since third grade -- nothing had ever come between us --
yet in the
short time my cousin had squeezed herself into our lives,
we were reduced
to taking pot shots at each other. Truthfully, if Jillian
hadn’t been
a blood relation -- first cousin on my father’s side -- I
wouldn’t
have defended her. But having shared many sister-like
experiences with
her, such as first bras, bad vacations and painful
sunburns, I felt
duty-bound.
“She
has to move out, Abby. That apartment is not big enough for
the three
of us.”
“I
absolutely agree with you, and she will -- soon. I
promise.”
“That’s
what you said weeks ago.”
“So
now it’s even sooner. Don’t hiss at me, Nik. You know
Jillian is
coming out of a severe depression. How many girls get
jilted on their
honeymoon?”
Nikki
couldn’t argue that. However, she could have pointed out
that not
many girls had jilted four men at the altar, either, which
had been
a hobby of my cousin’s until her recent marriage. “Fine.
But
promise me you’ll talk to her tonight about getting her own
place,
okay?”
“Okay.
Now do you want to hear what happened?”
“Make
it fast. The guy is almost done.”
As
I rattled off the story I glanced in my rear view mirror
and saw a squad
car pull up behind me. “Oh, great. The cops are here.
Puffer called
them after all.”
“Get
a hold of your dad, for Pete’s sake, and let him handle the
cops.”
I’d
already thought of calling my father but somehow, being
almost twenty-seven
years old, I felt foolish asking him to haul me out of a
scrape, especially
one as silly as this. Besides, I’d already tapped him to
get me released
from jail after the protest march. I didn’t think he’d be
too pleased
to receive another call.
“Well,
well. Would you look who we have here?” a droll male voice
to my left
said.
Resigning
myself to embarrassment, I stowed my phone, got out of the
Vette
and turned to face my bud, Sgt. Sean Reilly, a good-
looking, forty-year-old,
Irish-American police officer with intelligent brown eyes
and a perturbed
scowl. Okay, we weren’t exactly buddies, but over the past
several
months we had come to a point of mutual respect. . . I
hoped.
“Top
o’ the lunch hour to you,” I said, trying to prompt a
smile. It
didn’t work.
“It’s
not the top of my lunch hour,” he grumbled.
“I’d
say not, if they have you making routine traffic stops.”
My
second attempt at humor didn’t work either. Reilly planted
his hands
on his thick black leather belt. “I don’t make routine
traffic stops.
I heard dispatch read your license plate number and
volunteered to take
the call as a favor to you.”
Ouch.
And Nikki had laughed when I’d paid extra for a vanity
license plate
that read: PHLORIST R ME. “Gee, that was really sweet of
you,
Reilly. Does that mean I can go?”
“No.
It means you can tell me why you tried to run down
Professor Puffer.”
“Let’s
clear up that misconception right now. I didn’t try to run
him down.
He stepped out in front of me.”
“He
said you came within an inch of taking his life.”
“Pfft.
It was at least two.”
Reilly’s
scowl deepened.
“He’s
a drama queen, Reilly. Okay, so maybe I was fiddling with
my radio for
a second. That’s beside the point. The point is, he has it
in for
me because my father hauled him in on a DUI once.”
“Did
you, or did you not, almost hit him?”
I
scratched the end of my nose, trying to think of a way
around the question.
Clearly, I should have paid more attention in those law
classes.
“Yes, I almost hit him but--”
“Uh-uh,”
he said, wagging a finger at me. “No buts.”
“Mitigating
circumstances!” I cried. Wow. I had remembered
something. “Puffer
walked out from between two cars blabbing away on his phone
and never
checked to see if anyone was coming.”
Reilly
studied me for a long moment, then finally growled, “All
right.
Get out of here.”
“I’m
free to go?”
“On
one condition. That I don’t get any more calls about your
driving.
Got it?”
“You
bet.” I blew him a kiss, then checked the time, saw I had
five minutes
to get the flower up to Puffer’s office and scrambled for
the package.
#
A
knot of fear the size of Rhode Island took over my stomach
as I tucked
the wrapped rose in the crook of my arm and headed toward
the stately,
two-story brown brick building that housed New Chapel
University’s
law school. The university covered an area approximately
fifteen square
blocks, encompassing ten buildings, three dormitories, and
a handful
of Greek houses. It was a small, private college, but it
had an excellent
reputation, and its law school held its own with any in the
country
-- not that they could prove it by me.
I
paused at the curb to let a white Saab pass. I recognized
the car as
belonging to Jocelyn Puffer, Snapdragon’s wife, a subdued
woman who
seemed the exact opposite of her belligerent husband. Rumor
had it that
Jocelyn had come from a well-to-do Connecticut family that
had disowned
her when she married Puffer, not that I ever trusted
rumors. Jocelyn
wasn’t beautiful, but she knew how to dress and was always
courteous
whenever I met her in town, usually at the used book store
where she
worked. It was unusual to see her at the university. Then
again, if
I were her, I’d do my best to avoid Puffer, too.
I
took a breath and continued on toward the double glass
doors, but as
soon as I stepped into the entrance hall and saw the sights
and smelled
the smells that had greeted me every day for nine miserable
months,
I broke out in a cold sweat. Focus on the flower, Abby.
That’a
girl.
Straight
ahead was the student commons -- a small area with a
grouping of worn
sofas, a few round table-and-chair sets, a long table
against a wall
that held a big coffee urn, a stack of paper cups and other
coffee supplies,
and a bottled water/soft drink machine. To my right was a
hallway that
led to the lecture halls, and to my immediate left was a
wide, stone
stairway that led up to the professors’ offices -- the only
access
other than a private elevator farther down on the right
that was strictly
for the use of the three professors on that side of the
building. (Apparently,
before six more offices had been squeezed in, everyone had
been able
to access it, but not anymore.) Beyond the stairway was a
law library
that didn’t get much use now that everything could be found
on the
Internet.
I
trudged slowly up the steps, berating myself for letting my
fear of
a bully like Puffer get such a grip on me. I was making a
delivery,
for heaven’s sake, not taking an oral exam. At the top I
entered the
large, central secretarial pool that served the nine
offices around
it, three on a side, plus a computer lab, washrooms, and a
conference
room. To my right were the offices with the most prestige,
having access
to a private elevator through a shared vestibule in the
back -- Myra
Baumgarten’s, Carson Reed’s, and Puffer’s. To my relief, no
light
showed through the glass in Puffer’s door. In fact, the
entire floor
seemed to have emptied out, except for Professor Reed and
the one person
I’d been hoping to find there -- Beatrice Boyd.
Known
as Aunt Bea by those of us she’d consoled after we’d limped
out
of Puffer’s inner sanctum emotionally bruised and verbally
beaten,
the fifty-something secretary worked for two of the full-
time professors,
Puffer and Carson Reed. Originally from Seattle, Bea was a
product of
the hippie generation and still dressed in long, colorful,
cotton skirts
and full, gauzy blouses belted at the waist by a fringed
leather sash.
She wore silver hoop earrings and turquoise rings, but
never used make-up.
Fortunately, her smooth complexion and big blue eyes were
attractive
enough without them. Her hairstyle was another throwback to
the sixties
-- a waistlong, heavy braid of gray-brown hair, usually
with a yellow
pencil stuck through the base like a hair pick.
I’d
always thought of Bea as the ultimate earth mother, yet
she’d never
had children. I wasn’t even sure she’d ever married,
although photographs
of herself with a man named Zed taken on various back-
packing adventures
sat on her desk. Seeing her now, I remembered the last time
she’d
come to my aid -- when I’d learned that I’d been booted out
of law
school. She’d held me when I cried, wiped my tears, bundled
me into
her car and shuffled me to a coffee shop, where I’d drowned
my sorrows
in her favorite remedy -- hot, spiced soy chai tea.
It
was Bea who’d urged me to forget the law and search my soul
for what
I truly wanted out of life. She’d encouraged me to explore
the idea
of buying the floundering Bloomers, a place I’d worked
during the
summers of my college years. It had been the best decision
of my life
and I’d thanked her many times over for her guidance.
Unaware
of my approach, she took a woven leather drawstring purse
out of a file
cabinet drawer and rose, a distracted look on her normally
serene face.
When she saw me she gave a little gasp, then covered it
with a forced
laugh. “Abby! You gave me a start.”
“Sorry.
Guess what I have? A delivery for Professor Puffer.” I held
up the
wrapped rose and scrunched my nose to show my
displeasure.
“He’s
not in,” she said, backing toward the stairs. “Just set it
on his
desk and leave the bill beside it. I wish I had time to
chat but I have
an appointment.”
“Sure,
thanks. I’ll catch you later.” I watched her hurry off,
hoping everything
was all right -- it wasn’t like her to be so agitated --
then I remembered
my reason for being there and turned to gaze anxiously at
Puffer’s
closed office door. Okay, I could do this.
Holding the package in
front of me like a shield, I walked toward the dragon’s
lair, trying
to ignore the knot in my gut. As I passed Professor Reed’s
office
I could hear him talking in a sharp, but hushed, voice. No
one answered
him, so I figured he was on the phone, and from the sound
of it, he
wasn’t a happy camper.
I
stopped at Puffer’s door, knocked, waited a few moments,
then took
a deep breath and stepped inside, extremely relieved to
find that Bea
was right. The dragon was gone.
His
office was just as I remembered it, even down to the smell
of pine disinfectant.
It had a wall of shelves with the books arranged not only
by color,
but also by size; another wall of awards, photos, and
mementos from
his JAG days; a small table that held a battlefield map
covered with
tiny soldiers and cannons; a desk with metal legs; a high-
backed swivel
chair; a door at the back that led to the elevator
vestibule; and, finally,
the small, wooden chair upon which I had sat many times,
fighting back
tears while he ridiculed my papers.
The
memory brought an angry flush to my face, which, on a
redhead’s fair
skin, was bright enough to look feverish. I plunked the
flower on the
desk, next to his computer monitor, propped the bill beside
it, and
was ready to leave -- then I spotted the can of glossy
black pencils
sitting on the far side of his desk and couldn’t resist the
temptation.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was there,
then snatched
one of the sleek tools and held it as if I were going to
snap it in
two, imagining the satisfaction of hurling the eraser end
at Puffer’s
head.
Suddenly,
the rear door opened and in charged the dragon in all his
intimidating
glory -- head up, shoulders back, spine stiff and nostrils
flaring,
as if he were a general in the military embarking on a war
campaign.
And
there I stood like an enemy soldier within firing range,
holding his
pencil.