Where To Now?

Archie hates Vermont. I know it sounds crazy. Who could hate the beautiful scenery, the verdant forests, the snow-capped mountains? I think it might be the cows that were the tipping point. The black and white Holsteins dotting the hillsides along the road on the way into Burlington.

I should explain. Archie never takes more than five steps off the concrete sidewalks of New York City—Central Park doesn’t count. A dyed-in-the-wool Manhattanite, he considers the Bronx to still be the wilderness it once was. And Staten Island? Well, that’s possibly another country.

It’s my fault, really. Archie is Archie Beck. I created him and gave him a few of my foibles and prejudices, especially where geography was concerned. He’s the hard drinking, wisecracking, very handsome sleuth of the best selling Archie Beck Mystery series, written by me, Sloan Jackson. Most of his cases take place in Manhattan and it’s hard for him, or me, to leave the borough. But leave it we must since I was invited to teach a Master Class in Mystery Writing to the English Literature Graduate Students at the Green Mountain University in Burlington.

Why they invited me, is a mystery in itself. Don’t get me wrong; my Archie books are pretty good. I try to write them with an intriguing plot, interesting characters and a surprise twist or two. Even though they’re best sellers, I figured the boys who lived nearby, like Mamet and King, must have been busy. And, I thought it would be good to get away for a few days.

I’d been living in the Bahamas with my girlfriend, Meg. We were taking a short time out from our relationship and I moved back to my apartment on the Upper East Side. It didn’t take long for me to miss her and, truthfully, I was bored living on my own.

When a letter arrived from the University asking if I’d like to do a Master Class in Mystery Writing, I jumped at the chance. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten this was Vermont we were talking about, a place as foreign to me as Uzbekistan. Thankfully, it was spring and the six feet of snow that had enveloped Burlington for most of the winter was gone.

The ride up the Thruway and Route 7 was uneventful until I noticed those cows. I’d given up my car when I moved to the Islands and rented a snazzy Beemer for the trip. Six hours later, there I was, cruising into the city toward the home base of the English Department.

It was quiet compared to Manhattan. Very quiet. Bubbling brook, softly twittering bird quiet. None of the rumbling trucks or honking taxi drivers my ears were used to. Instead, I cruised past tree-lined streets and old wooden houses many of which looked like they’d seen better days. Some had front porches where students were playing beer pong or just lounging around. With their untucked shirts and long hair, they gave the campus a hippie vibe I hadn’t seen in a while.

It didn’t take long to find the English Department. I pulled up out front and made my way into a building, part of the Historic National Register, as a sign on its lawn pointed out.

A couple of minutes later just as I was about to knock, the door of the Department Chair, Professor Scott Handler, flew open and a man popped out as though released from a jack-in-the-box.

“Mr. Jackson, so good to meet you.” The man, who I assumed was Scott Handler, took my hand in his and shook it with an iron grip.

“Sloan, please,” I said as I tried to take back my hand, which was now covered with both of his.

“Of course, Solan, it is, and I’m Scott. Come in. Come in.” He gestured for me to move inside his office and to take a chair across from his desk. When I was seated, he moved next to me and leaned down close. He put a hand on my shoulder, patting it as he spoke. “I’m a great fan of yours. Read every one of your mysteries. Of course, I have to fight my wife for who gets to read them first.” He grinned at me, perfect white teeth showing through soft lips like a row of kernels on an ear of corn as he walked to the other side of his desk stood over me beaming.

“You know, your book jacket photo doesn’t do you justice. Coffee?” he asked in an awkward disconnect.

Okay, I thought. This was getting a little weird. I nodded yes, to the coffee.  “Black, please.”

As he stepped across the floor to a cabinet against the wall to get the coffee, I watched his reflection in the glass of a large photo hanging behind his desk. A lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead and made him look more like a student than a department chair. So did his stubble coated-chin and his slim physique.

A moment later he was handing me a steaming cup of coffee. “There you go, Sloan.”

“You have no idea how delighted we are to have you here,” he said holding up a copy of my latest novel. “The students are all looking forward to attending your lecture.” He shook his head and beamed at me. “You can’t imagine.”

Now, I really did wonder how my name had gotten on the visiting author list, or if ‘Super Fan Scott’ had engineered the whole thing. I’d have to ask my agent about that.

I smiled and thanked him for his kind words. At least he hadn’t asked me for an autograph.

While I sipped my coffee, Handler and I spoke about the program and the students. Just as I was about to leave and head for my hotel, there was a knock on the door. Before he had a chance to say, “Come in,” the door flew open and a beautiful young, raven-haired woman bolted into the room.

“Scott, I…” she was halfway into the office before she noticed me and stopped. An anxious gaze from deep blue eyes zigzagged between Handler and myself, then she turned and fled, uttering a quick “Sorry,” as she left.

I turned to stare after her, not sure if she needed help—not to mention I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Wow. Just my hero’s type, I thought looking longingly at her curvaceous backside as she departed. My reverie was interrupted by Handler bringing me back to the present.

“That was Amy, my teaching assistant. I’ll catch up with her later.” Handler’s voice had lost some of the perkiness it had earlier. I looked over at him. Had that been a flash of panic I’d seen in his eyes when Amy spoke to him?

It was definitely time to go. I mentioned that I’d like to settle in and take a look around before dinner. The University had booked me into a hotel just down the road, near the center of things.

“Sloan, we should have dinner together. My wife would love to meet you.”

Lying, I told him I couldn’t; said I was expecting a call from my agent to review edits for my next book. There was no way I was having dinner with him and his wife. Instead, we made a date to meet for a drink after dinner at the Rí Rá Irish Pub downtown.

I said my goodbyes, having to retrieve my hand once again, and headed for the hotel. Not exactly the Pierre but not the YMCA either. The room was clean and spacious. It would be fine for one night.

I tossed my suitcase on the luggage rack, bounced on the bed and headed out to take in the city for myself.

All the action was happening on Church Street, the downtown outdoor pedestrian mall. This was obviously the place to be with bars and restaurants sharing space with brand name retail stores and local craft and gift shops. I could smell burgers and fires from a take away place down the block, a staple of student life I remembered well. Some guys on skateboards with baggie jeans were zooming up and down, using the benches along the way to execute jumps. A Goth group standing in front of a tattoo parlor saw me watching and invited me to ‘get a tatt, dude’. A few peace signs were even sent my way. Everyone seemed to be shedding their winter skins at the first taste of spring. Not surprising on such a warm evening near the end of the term.

I snagged an outdoor table at a corner bistro and sat back and enjoyed the view with my steak frites. Who knows where the next one of my hero’s adventures might take him? Maybe it’s time for him to get out and see a bit more of the world.

A little after nine o’clock, I walked over to the Irish pub. When I stepped inside, it took a minute for my eyes to adjust. The light was so low it didn’t make a dent in illuminating all the bodies packed together among the dark wood-paneled bar and tables. I scanned the crown until I found Handler. He was sitting at the back end of the bar with Amy standing next to him. Her back was toward me but I recognized her gleaming black hair. She was leaning in very close, too close for a TA.

I don’t know why I hesitated in walking over but I wanted to observe them for a few moments before they noticed me. I stepped behind a couple of brawny football types in sweat pants and jerseys guzzling from bottles of Magic Hat, the local brew, and watched.

I wasn’t disappointed. They seemed to be in the middle of an intense discussion. One the bartender seemed overly interested in. He kept wiping down the bar in front of the couple, and even when he served other customers, his head tilted toward Handler and his assistant. I’d bet the guy had a crush on her, or maybe even more. I knew how that felt and I could sympathize.

Something made Handler look away from her for a split second and I ducked behind a foursome of girls and guys doing shots before he could see me. I wasn’t ready to talk with Handler yet. As I inched closer, I noticed Amy’s hand resting on the top of his thigh. I was just about to show myself, when she leaned in closer and spoke. Her voice was so low. I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. But one look at the bartender’s surprised face told me her “I’m pregnant,” hadn’t gone unnoticed. I didn’t think anyone else at the bar had heard. It seemed we three were the only ones privy to her proclamation.

They moved apart as soon as they noticed me. Amy stepped around me without speaking and walked off toward the back of the restaurant. The bartender however, seemed to be frozen to the duckboards until a patron from the other end called out, “Hey Duke, get your ass over here. We’re thirsty.”

What the fuck? I thought. What was Handler up to?

I’d looked him up before I accepted the speaking engagement. On paper he seemed brilliant—won more literary prizes and kudos than you could imagine. Had a wife as well, from an old Vermont family. Yet, here he was behaving like a dick with one of his students. If he were lucky, Amy wouldn’t name him as her baby daddy. If not, he could be in major life changing trouble. Campus sex and harassment were one of today’s definite no-nos. Legislators were passing laws to protect the students and professors weren’t exempt. Including married ones. The Me Too Movement would be all over him in a flash.

“Hi,” I said and jutted my chin toward his half-full bottle of beer, “I see you started without me.”

“Yeah. Sorry, Sloan.” His hand landed on my arm as way of apology. “I, um, was having a drink with Amy. You know, my teaching assistant.” He swiveled on his seat toward the back of the pub as if looking for her. “I think she left.”

That they worked together didn’t make it any better. Not in my book. He probably promised he’d leave his wife for her. They’d get married, move away, have babies. Only now they might actually be having a baby. And, it didn’t seem like that would make for a happy ending.

I signaled the bartender who was walking back our way. Kind of gangly and dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, the guy looked like a student who might be working his way through school. At six one or two, he had a solid build and a kind of rugged, handsomeness that made you look twice. He could play Archie in the movie version of my latest book, but he’d have to lose that surly look, learn to smile first.

I ordered a Big Thrill, the signature ginger ale and Bourbon drink I’d created for Archie.

“A special drink, Sloan?” Handler asked. “That’s great,” he added and placed his hand back on my arm. And to think, I used to love getting all this attention.

Duke glared at me, then at Handler. “Sorry. Don’t know it.”

I told him never mind and mentally took him off my list of leading men for the next Sloan Jackson movie thriller. “I’ll have what he’s having instead.”

Somehow that ticked him off even more. Did he think I meant Amy? He must have it bad for her. When he brought me my beer, he practically slammed it on the bar in front of me and stalked off. So much for the laid-back Burlington vibe.

Handler stole glances at the man, as we spoke. Probably afraid Duke would jump over the bar and smack him around.

What now? So far, no one seemed to notice the drama playing out in front of them. Would these guys create a scene with all these people watching? Not a good career move for Handler, that’s for sure. I mentally shook my head. Vermont was turning out to be a very strange place.

We tipped back our beers and talked books and writers for a while with Handler being fan from hell touchy-feely as we spoke. Didn’t he know New Yorker’s liked their personal space?

Nature called and I went to the restroom. When I came back, Duke was there again, bent over the bar, speaking quietly to Handler. His face was arranged with a pasted on smile but close up, I could tell he was reading Handler the riot act. This Amy must be quite a woman to get these two so riled up.

I pulled out my wallet to take care of our drinks. Handler waved me off, said it was on him and that he’d already paid the tab. He finally made some excuse about having to get home. I could see he was itching to leave. To find Amy? Or maybe, go home to his wife? I had my own strung out relationship and his was certainly none of my business. We finished our drinks and called it a night. At ten p.m.

No, Sloan, I told myself, you aren’t in Manhattan anymore.

 

The next morning I rose early. Well, I had gone to sleep about ten-thirty, very early for me. I thought about calling Meg and casually checking in but I realized that wasn’t the way to give someone a little ‘space’. Instead, I showered, dressed and went down to the hotel’s restaurant for a big Vermont breakfast complete with eggs, bacon, pancakes and real Vermont maple syrup as the bright and perky waitress informed me. Afterwards, patting the new bulge in my stomach, I decided I’d walk over to the English Department and have a chat with Handler about today’s class. There were about forty students in the Master’s Program and I was sure there were specific things they’d want to know about the craft and business of mystery writing.

When I arrived, there were two police cars parked out front and several groups of students were standing around whispering to each other.

I walked to the entrance and was stopped by one of the cops. When I explained who I was and why I was here, he let me enter but asked me to wait in the hall until a detective could speak with me.

My curiosity was hitting the stratosphere and I was dying to know what happened. I didn’t have to wait long until the detective crooked his finger and beckoned me over.

Short and squat with buzz cut gray hair and piercing eyes to match, Detective Lieutenant Bruce Lyles of the Vermont Major Crimes Unit introduced himself and asked me to follow him inside. When we were settled in an empty office, he informed me that Professor Scott Handler had been murdered last night.

“Murdered?” I asked. “When? Where?”

Detective Lyles ignored my questions and proceeded to ask some of his own.

“How well did you know Professor Handler?“

“I just met him yesterday. He’d invited me to the University to give a talk on mystery writing to his graduate students.” He nodded that I should continue. “We met here, in his office in the afternoon when I arrived on campus.” I tipped my head toward the hallway. “We spoke for a few minutes and made an appointment to meet at the Irish pub after dinner. I left here to check in at the hotel, then walked around.” I knew Lyles could confirm this with the hotel desk clerk.

“When you were at the pub, did anyone approach the professor or act odd toward him in any way?

That was a loaded question. There was Amy, the teaching assistant soon to be mommy, not to mention Duke, the hovering bartender. A three-way recipe for trouble, or four if you count the wife, the other Sloan Jackson fan I hadn’t met. I acted as if I was thinking about it, than said, “Not that I noticed.”

“The bartender, Duke Nesbit, told us you both left at the same time.”

“We did. I went back to my hotel,” something else he could check, “and I presumed the professor went home.”

Lyles gave me a steely-eyed stare. “You sure of that?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“No, not really. He said he had to get home so I figured that’s where he was going.” There was no way I was going to tell him my impression of last evening. Not until I learned a little bit more.

“Did he mention having a problem with anyone?” the detective was pressing for information.

“Like I said, I just met him yesterday. We were having a friendly drink and talking about the class I’m teaching this afternoon.” My voice got a little testy as my frustration began to take over.

“All his classes have been cancelled.”

I nodded. “I guess I’ll head back to New York then.”

Lyles got up, stood facing me and shook his head. “Not yet. I may need you to help us with our inquiries.” With that euphemism he was gone.

I stayed where I was, thinking things over. Lyles still hadn’t told me where Handler’s body had been found or how he’d been murdered. I thought if I walked around the campus I’d hear the scuttlebutt and at least figure out the how and the when. Maybe even get an idea of the who.

 

Half an hour later I was back on Church Street. The campus was rife with conjecture about Handler, but one thing everyone seemed to know for sure was he been beaten to death and left in the park behind the bar’s parking lot. Yellow police tape marked off the area and a patrolman was stationed outside to make sure no one messed up the crime scene.

Since I was staying in town at least until tomorrow, I thought I’d head back to
to Rí Rá this afternoon and tap some of the regulars for information. I was sure a beer or two would do the trick.

I know what you’re thinking. Sloan, you’re a writer, not a detective. Get over yourself. But honestly, you learn some things along the way.

I was right. By now, everyone had heard the news and many of the regulars had been speculating about Handler. From my seat at the bar, I casually worked Amy into my queries to the other patrons. Their answers surprised me. To the students who knew her, Amy was a great TA and she and Handler were just good colleagues and nothing more. I also learned her boyfriend had recently broken up with her and she was upset by the split. Boyfriend? I hadn’t counted on that.

If she was pregnant, I figured it was probably by him. If that was true, and Handler was just being a friend, there was no reason for Duke acting so angry and jealous toward him.

 

With that thought, the coin dropped. Boy, had and I gotten wrong. Duke wasn’t just jealous of Amy. He was jealous of everyone Handler paid attention to and right now, I was at the top of the list. Those murderous looks Duke was tossing at Handler? They were because of all the attention he was zinging my way. Touching my shoulder, my arm, my hand. Duke got crazy because he thought Handler was falling for me and he couldn’t accept it.

I pulled out my cell and called the Major Crimes Unit. Told them it was Sloan Jackson for Detective Lyles, settled back on my bar stool and informed him I’d solved the case. Ballsy, I know. But hey, I had figured it out.

Explained how it went down: After he left, Handler returned to the pub at closing and waited for Duke in the parking lot behind it. They were walking to their trysting place in a nearby park when Duke exploded and accused Handler of being unfaithful, of looking for someone new. The more Handler protested, the angrier Duke became until he picked up a branch lying on the ground and bashed Handler’s head in.

Duke was scheduled to start his shift soon, so I decided to wait for him in the parking lot. I sat in my car and watched as he exited his. He was carrying a long package wrapped in newspaper and looked around furtively as he tossed it in the restaurant’s dumpster.

Detective Lyles was waiting there, as well. He picked up Duke who confessed in a New York minute. The bloody branch in the garbage sealed the deal.

I’d eventually gotten it right but it was time to leave Vermont and head back to New York. Archie and I were both homesick. He for New York, and me for Meg.