The Art of Vanishing (A Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Book 2) Read online

  Praise for the Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series

  THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT (#1)

  “The best cozy debut I’ve read this year. An engaging heroine, a college setting that will have you aching to go back to school, and a puzzler of a mystery make this a must-read for cozy lovers.”

  – Laura DiSilverio,

  National Bestselling Author of the Readaholics Book Club Series

  “A pitch-perfect portrayal of academic life with a beguiling cast of anxious newbies, tweedy old troublemakers and scholars as sharp as they’re wise. Lila’s Stonedale is a world I’m thrilled to have found. Roll on book two!”

  – Catriona McPherson,

  Multi-Award-Winning Author of the Dandy Gilver Series

  “A very intricate, cool story featuring the depth of an institution where everyone is dying to climb the ladder of success.”

  – Suspense Magazine

  “Takes the reader into higher education’s secrets and shadows, where the real lesson is for the new professor—how to stay alive. If you’re smart, you’ll read this book.”

  – Lori Rader-Day,

  Anthony Award-Winning Author of The Black Hour

  “College professor Lila Maclean gets an A+ for her detecting skills in this twisty mystery set at a Colorado university. With suspects and motives galore, solving the murder of department chair Roland Higgins won’t be easy, but Lila’s got brains and guts to spare. A great book.”

  – Maggie Barbieri,

  Author of the Murder 101 Series

  The Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series

  by Cynthia Kuhn

  THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT (#1)

  THE ART OF VANISHING (#2)

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  Copyright

  THE ART OF VANISHING

  A Lila Maclean Academic Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition

  Trade paperback edition | February 2017

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2016 by Cynthia Kuhn

  Author photograph by Angela Kleinsasser

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-169-9

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-170-5

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-171-2

  Hardcover Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-172-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my family

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to the following...

  Kendel Lynn, Art Molinares, Erin George, Rachel Jackson, and everyone at Henery Press—for fantastic, thoughtful guidance. You are all superstars and lovely people! Special shout-out to Erin George, who edits like a dream and always responds to my overly plentiful queries both efficiently and compassionately.

  The Hen House—for all of your collegiality and support. Chicken hugs!

  Readers and bloggers who have welcomed Lila and/or have introduced her around. Very grateful for you.

  Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Colorado Authors’ League, Women Who Write the Rockies, and Mysteristas. Appreciate the inspiration and community.

  Friends and colleagues responsible for assorted kindnesses during the writing of this book (adore you all): Jill Adams, Dru Ann, Gretchen Archer, James Aubrey, Maggie Barbieri, Donnell Bell, Francelia Belton-Briscoe, Mary Birk, Peg Brantley, Becky Clark, Theresa Crater, Laura DiSilverio, Karen Docter, Sandra Maresh Doe, Sebastian Doherty, Margarita Barceló Flores, Erin Webster Garrett, Elsie Haley, LS Hawker, Nancy Hightower, Lorna Hutchison, Sybil Johnson, Maria Kelson, Mylee Khristoforov, Ryan Lambert, Kate Lansing, Mindy Richards Louviere, Russell McDermott, Catriona McPherson, Jason Miller, Josie and Stuart Mills, Barbara Nickless, Mikkilynn Olmstead, Jon Pinnow, Keenan Powell, Jordyn Redwood, Christy and Bob Rowe, Craig Svonkin, Art Taylor, Wendy Tyson, LynDee Walker, and Kristopher Zgorski. And extra thanks to my incredibly generous readers: Ellen Byron, Marla Cooper, Wendy Crichton, Dotty Guerrera, Jennifer Kincheloe, Ann Myers, Shawn Peterka, Renée Ruderman, Hank Phillippi Ryan, and Diane Vallere.

  My beloved family: Guerreras, Kuhns, Crichtons, West-Repperts, Peterkas, Hundertmarks, Abneys, and Welshs. Hugs, gratitude, and much love. (To my amazing mom, dad, sister, and husband, who have been reading and cheering me on forever, no words can adequately express my heartfelt thanks. Also: apologies for subjecting you to so many unsolicited poems over the decades.)

  And to Kenneth, Griffin, and Sawyer: a million thanks for your endless patience and encouragement. And for being your wonderful selves (and my sunshine)…love you so much.

  Chapter 1

  The campus was cloaked in pale gray light. Softly descending flakes muted the frozen landscape and cast a tranquil spell, as if I were inside of a snow globe.

  Until a booming voice shattered that all to bits.

  “Dr. Maclean, I presume?” Trawley Wellington, former literature professor and current Stonedale University chancellor, descended the stairs of Randsworth Hall, where the muckety mucks were housed—him being the muckiest of them all. “Might I have a word?”

  I paused. Chancellor-speak tended to be gentled versions of direct actions, like “have a word” instead of “insist that you report for reprimand” or “borrow you for a minute” rather than “command you to scurry to my side.” Although they sounded polite, they were iron-clad demands, make no mistake.

  “Hello, Chancellor,” I said, waiting until he had reached the bottom step. He didn’t move to the sidewalk but remained literally and metaphorically above me. As he intended. I don’t know why he thought he needed the step—at well over six feet tall, he already looked down on most of us anyway, and his uncanny resemblance to Franklin Delano Roosevelt augmented his air of authority. “I was on my way to Crandall Hall to deliver the materials,” he informed me.

  At my blank look, he made a sound of exasperation. “You’re on the Arts Week committee, are you not, Lila?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Arts Week” was an abbreviated version of the official title, “Twenty-First Century Arts and Culture Series,” during which notable individuals taught workshops and gave creative readings or lectures. It was very popular with students and faculty alike. This spring, we were bringing in celebrated aut
hor Damon Von Tussel.

  The chancellor cleared his throat. “Seems like an actively participating committee member would be up to date on what is happening...” He leaned heavily on “actively participating” so I didn’t miss the subtext, which was that he considered me a slacker.

  Perfect. When department chair Roland Higgins had passed away, his interim replacement Spencer Bartholomew had suggested I join the planning committee, closing the deal by pointing out that the event was one of the chancellor’s pet projects. It would not only put me in contact with the most powerful person at Stonedale but would likely earn me some goodwill, which, after last semester—when the chancellor basically accused me of murdering Roland—was sorely needed.

  So far, I didn’t seem to be racking up much goodwill at all.

  “Most of the planning was done before I started working here,” I said evenly, aiming for factual but not apologetic. “I do know Damon is arriving next week.”

  A smile played over the chancellor’s lips. “That’s absolutely incorrect. He’s already in Colorado, and he is giving a reading in Denver tonight.” He raised the piece of paper he held in his slim fingers. “Here is the list of questions we need you to ask him. We’ll run the interview in the school paper and on the website on Friday.”

  There was a long silence while the chancellor waited for me to take the page from him. I didn’t. When he pulled his thick brows together, my palms started to sweat inside my thin gloves.

  “Unfortunately, I have plans this evening.” I knew it was unwise to decline, but I was going to a meeting of the recently formed Stonedale Literary Society, and I was looking forward to our discussion of Toni Morrison’s Beloved. Plus, I really didn’t want to put myself in the position: Von Tussel was known to torment interviewers if he couldn’t dodge them altogether. I tried to appease the chancellor with an offer of help. “Would you like me to deliver the questions to Spencer? I’m sure he has someone lined up to take care of this.”

  “No. I’d like you to do it.” The man was used to making pronouncements and having them instantly followed. I’d rejected the easiest option for him, which was to hand the questions off to the first person he saw, so now it had become a power thing.

  I willed my brain to summon up an effective excuse, stat.

  “Is the interview confirmed?” I asked, stalling.

  “Of course. We’ve made arrangements through his agent’s office. All you have to do is show up and read from this list.” He shook the page he still held in his outstretched hand impatiently. “Do you think you could manage it, Dr. Maclean?” The chancellor tightened his lips.

  “Well...”

  “I’d certainly appreciate it,” he added, with a crisp edge to his tone that I read as a warning.

  “All right,” I said, resigned. “I’ll do it.” I took the list from his hand. A flash of triumph crossed his face.

  “Oh, how very kind of you,” he said, as if I’d volunteered, though we both knew I hadn’t. “I’ll expect your email tomorrow.”

  He turned to go, then looked back. “Don’t let us down, Dr. Maclean.” He held my eyes for a moment before marching up the stairs into Randsworth.

  I spun around and plodded home. The last thing I wanted to do was drive to Denver tonight—it was an hour each way—in the snow, in the dark. No time to ponder the complexities of the journey, however; I was now on a mission to retrieve answers from a notoriously reticent author who would almost certainly refuse my efforts to interview him.

  Several hours later, I was standing in front of The Savoy. One of Denver’s newest venues in the Art District along Santa Fe Drive, it had been transformed from a dilapidated auditorium into a dazzling Art Deco masterpiece. I paused at the black-and-white poster of Damon Von Tussel out front, all barrel-chested and bearded with his arms crossed in a serious pose, likely cultivating the frequently mentioned similarities to Ernest Hemingway, both physically and verbally. Damon’s first book had a strong minimalist style but a dizzyingly fragmented structure; “Hemingway in a blender,” some critic had called it.

  Inside the theater, I took a minute to appreciate the bold geometric designs and soaring ceiling before locating agent Tally Bendel down by the stage. She denied knowing anything about an interview. Linear in a black tunic, miniskirt, and boots, she appeared almost translucent beneath her overly processed blonde hair, aside from a slash of deep crimson lips. Her black-rimmed eyes were fixed above my head the whole time we spoke. I fought the urge to jump into her line of sight.

  Even though I’d explained that the chancellor wanted to generate positive publicity for Damon’s upcoming visit to Stonedale, she shook her head and said, “Sorry, doll—my assistant must have forgotten to tell me. In any case, Damon’s not in the right mindset. You’re better off sending me the questions, and I’ll try to get him to answer them soon.”

  I knew a brush-off when I heard one, though I took the pink neon business card she dangled in front of me just in case.

  Plan B was to try my luck backstage, as soon as I could get past security in front of the stage door on the left. All I needed was someone to leave the doorway unattended briefly. We had an hour to go until the reading started, so I took a front-row seat and watched the parade of muscles, all wearing black turtlenecks, cargo pants, and earpieces, guarding the door: one hulk replaced the next every ten minutes or so. I remained poised and ready to strike. For the thousandth time, I reached into my bag to make sure the questions were still there. Once I’d confirmed they were safe, I formulated Plan C. If I couldn’t get in to see Damon before the reading, then afterwards I would need to sprint backstage, find the author, and throw myself on his mercy. And even if Von Tussel wouldn’t answer my questions, I hoped that emphasizing our enthusiasm about the upcoming visit might persuade him to say something—anything—we could use in print.

  The chancellor had made it clear that failure was not an option.

  I opened the program, which had been thrust though the glass window of the box office with my ticket. It explained that Damon Von Tussel had been a wunderkind of sorts, publishing a critically celebrated novel, The Medusa Variation, while in his twenties. The novel was about a young wounded soldier who takes a position as secretary to a crusty old retired colonel writing his memoirs. The soldier helps the colonel go through a lifetime of material—letters, diaries, military paperwork, news clippings, and more; their resulting conversations attempted to make sense of war but inevitably failed. Eventually the colonel commits suicide and the young soldier promises to share his story with the world.

  The novel struck a chord with those haunted by Vietnam, became an instant bestseller, and won him numerous awards. Academics were intrigued by the philosophical premise as well as the novel’s metafictional structure, which constructed a memoir through myriad textual fragments, and scholars began churning out a veritable cornucopia of work on Von Tussel’s book. After several decades of silence, he had recently stunned the literary world by producing a controversial array of prose pieces. The book, In Medias Res, was comprised of stories without beginnings or ends, which he called “irrelevant for the new millennium” in a round of interviews showcasing his abrasive and grandiose personality. None of the characters were named, he explained further, in order to allow the reader to “imagine their own protagonist.” Devotees had even gone so far as to claim that he had created a new genre, the “medion.”

  The program didn’t reprise the rumors that although Von Tussel had been offered faculty positions by all of the best creative writing programs, his classes were always taught by others. Von Tussel had never shown up on campus to fulfill a single teaching obligation. Accordingly, the educational gigs dried up. For years he had been a recluse, holed up in a Tribeca loft in New York City, so everyone was shocked when Damon emerged to publicize In Medias Res. There was also no hint at the fact that Damon had begun to act out during his year-long book tour, something I was
n’t sure the chancellor was aware of. While many events went off without a hitch and audiences raved about his charming performances, other reports depicted him sneering at interviewers, turning belligerent with fans, cutting readings short, or not showing up at all. There were those who delighted in reporting on social media which Damon Von Tussel had appeared in their reading—#angelDVT or #devilDVT. Such attendees were more fascinated by the potential behavioral issues than the literary ones. His unpredictability only contributed to his mystique.

  I was not much of a fan, but here I was, plotting ways to get close to him like a groupie. The things you must do in the hopes of getting tenure.

  I waited, checking the stage door incessantly until it was time for Damon Von Tussel to take the stage. A slender man in a dark suit punctuated by a green bow tie meandered through a gushing introduction, his hands shaking so hard that he dropped his index cards and had to scoop them up from the stage. I suspected the spill brought us to the end much more quickly than we might otherwise have dared hope for.

  “Without further ado,” he said when he stood up, “the amazing Damon Von Tussel.”

  The author strode onto the stage, waving energetically. He set his book down with a thud on the black lectern and loosened the tie he wore with his blue suit.

  “Good evening,” he said into the microphone. His voice was low and raspy, advertising years of whiskey and cigars. “Thanks for that generous introduction,” he said, glancing back into the wings. “Far better than I deserve.” He gazed out into the audience, turning his head slowly to take in the whole crowd and smiled. “And thank you, kind folks, for coming out on this snowy evening. I know it wasn’t the easiest trek to make, and I appreciate you being here.”