THE STUDY OF SECRETS Read online

  Praise for the Lila Maclean Academic Mystery 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

  “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

  “Entertaining, intricate, and oh-so-smart! The talented Cynthia Kuhn treats mystery lovers to an insider’s look at the treacherous world of academia—seething with manipulation, jealousy, and relentless ambition. A terrific plot.”

  — Hank Phillippi Ryan,

  Mary Higgins Clark Award-Winning Author

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

  – Suspense Magazine

  “Tightly plotted with a deliciously memorable cast of characters, The Art of Vanishing kept me guessing from start to finish, and Kuhn’s smart sense of humor made every page a pleasure.”

  – Marla Cooper,

  Author of the Kelsey McKenna Destination Wedding Mysteries

  “Absolutely addictive.”

  — Kathleen Valenti,

  Agatha-Nominated Author of the Maggie O’Malley Mysteries

  “Whether Stonedale University English professor Lila is confronting a backstabbing colleague or investigating a murder attempt on a cantankerous bestselling author, readers will root for this enormously likeable heroine.”

  — Ellen Byron,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of Plantation Shudders

  “Smart, action-packed, and immensely satisfying, The Subject of Malice had me from page one. I love this series, and it just keeps getting better.”

  – Wendy Tyson,

  Author of Ripe for Vengeance

  “A pure delight from page one. Cynthia Kuhn’s Lila Maclean mysteries will cure what ails you. Funny and fantastic.”

  — Becky Clark,

  Author of the Mystery Writer’s Mysteries

  “A twisty mystery with a gentle, gracious humor and a touch of whimsy. Reading it is like spending the afternoon with a best friend. You laugh. You smile. And you want to see her again very soon. I can’t wait for the next Lila Maclean mystery.”

  — Keenan Powell,

  Agatha-Nominated Author of the Maeve Malloy Mystery Series

  “Papers, and panels, and murder, oh my! Everyone’s favorite professor, Lila Maclean (secret powers include reading and finding bodies), is back and she’s on the case (officially)! Lila’s latest adventure is full of high drama and high crimes. Such FUN!”

  — Julie Mulhern,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of the Country Club Murders

  “An intelligent, witty mystery that will keep you guessing to the very end.”

  — Libby Klein,

  Author of the Poppy McAllister Mysteries

  The Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series

  by Cynthia Kuhn

  THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT (#1)

  THE ART OF VANISHING (#2)

  THE SPIRIT IN QUESTION (#3)

  THE SUBJECT OF MALICE (#4)

  THE STUDY OF SECRETS (#5)

  Copyright

  THE STUDY OF SECRETS

  A Lila Maclean Academic Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | May 2020

  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 © 2020 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: 978-1-63511-615-1

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-616-8

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-617-5

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-618-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my family (near and far)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Henery Press—for your terrific work on this series.

  The Hen House, Sisters in Crime (National, Guppies, and Colorado chapters), Mystery Writers of America (National and RMMWA), International Thriller Writers, Malice Domestic, Left Coast Crime, Short Mystery Fiction Society, House of Clues, and MSU Denver—for the community and inspiration.

  Mary Angela, Gretchen Archer, Jim Aubrey, Mark Baker, Margarita Barceló, Francelia Belton, Mary Birk, Micki Browning, Lori Caswell, Wendy and Seth Crichton, Annette Dashofy, E.B. Davis, Sandra Doe, Amy Drayer, Dru Ann, Claire Fishback, Debra Goldstein, Dorothy and William Guerrera, Elsie Haley, Elena Hartwell, Sybil Johnson, Jennifer Kincheloe, Libby Klein, Dennis and Ursula Kuhn, Kate Lansing, Catriona McPherson, Margaret Mizushima, Julie Mulhern, Sandra Murphy, Barbara Nickless, Nora Page, Vincent Piturro, Keenan Powell, Christy and Bob Rowe, Renée Ruderman, Harriette Sackler, Angela Sanders, Meredith Schorr, Nancy Cole Silverman, Craig Svonkin, Wendy Tyson, Susan Van Kirk, LynDee Walker, Wendolyn Weber, Kristopher Zgorski, and the entire SinC-CO book club—for generous words and/or encouragement.

  Ann Perramond—for being such a brilliant and inspiring critique partner; Jane Brucklacher—for excellent proofreading; and Dorothy Guerrera—for providing essential commentary and delightful asides.

  The fabulous Chicks on the Case—Ellen Byron, Becky Clark, Marla Cooper, Vickie Fee, Kellye Garrett, Leslie Karst, Lisa Q. Mathews, and Kathleen Valenti—for everything blog, book, and way beyond.

  Amazing family (Guerreras, Crichtons, Kuhns, Peterkas, West-Repperts, Hundertmarks, Abneys, and Welshes), friends, and readers—for your support. It means the world.

  My dearest Mom, Dad, and Wen—for your kindness and laughter, since forever.

  My beloved Kenneth, Griffin, and Sawyer—for your epic patience, sweetness, humor, and sunshine.

  Endless gratitude and love.

  Chapter 1

  “Have you found any buried treasure in the study?” Bibi asked, pouring me another cup of tea. I pretended to consider this. How could I admit outright that there was not a single item I didn’t find fascinating? I had examined every page, list, scrap, and scribble I’d come across. Even her jar of paper clips seemed meaningful.

  I didn’t usually pay that much attention to people’s desks, but when you are allowed to rifle through the study of your favorite writer, it’s almost as though you’ve been granted a glimpse into the other side of a magical spell. Here is where they created the world into which you have immersed. Here is where they developed the characters you love and sent them on their journeys. Here is where they put word after word onto the page, through sheer will and imagination. Here is where the author Isabella Dare lived.

  I’d met Isabella, whose married name was Bibi Callahan, at the Malice in the Mountains literary conference we’d attended last spring. It had been one of the greatest shocks of my life, recognizing that the woman standing before me was the author of the books I’d devoted my life to studying over the past decade. Then I realized that she’d heard me talking about her books all weekend at the conference. Before I knew who she was, I’d even held forth on the subject for quite some time while the two of us waited in line to get coffee after a panel.

  Still blushed every time I remembered that.

  But she had been intrigued by what she’d heard, and at the end of the conference, she’d offered me the use of her guest cottage during my sabbatical from Stonedale University. In return, I had agreed to organize her study at Callahan House, which was a Victorian Painted Lady—in shades of ruby, amethyst, emerald, and citrine—with towers, gables, carved bands, decorative shingles, and other delightful ornamentation. It was famous as the first home built in Larkston, Colorado by silver mining magnate Godfrey Callahan. The previous generations of Callahans had sold off parts of their land to create the college that bore their name and to the town of Larkston as it grew but retained a large swath of forest around the mansion and Silver Rush Lake behind it to preserve privacy. I’d heard bits and pieces of the history from Bibi, who had married into the Callahan family. As the only remaining member, she had inherited the responsibility of taking care of the site. Visitors were drawn to the whimsical style and priceless antiques; tours were allowed to parade through the home by appointment. She graciously allowed access to everything except for any occupied bedrooms and the study, which were cordoned off with velvet ropes on such days.

  Currently, she was perched on the window seat in the library, where we ate our lunches. I was on the other side of the small wooden table with a view of the long driveway that meandered gracefully
through the snowy pine trees toward the house. We were surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Most of them were filled with mysteries, including the Isabella Dare books, which were modestly tucked in among the others rather than displayed prominently. Additional shelves held intriguing items from Bibi’s world travels, and a splendid painting of moonlight on the nearby lake hung above the fireplace. The black curved leather sofa and club chairs were worn to perfection and arranged around an oversized round ottoman. It was an altogether welcoming room.

  The grandfather clock in the hallway—large enough for us to climb into if we had the notion—chimed softly. Bibi set down her teacup and smoothed her white braid. She was wearing a thick maroon cardigan over a long black dress. The sweater was a homemade concoction with some lumps and gaps. She’d taken up knitting after her retirement from teaching English and frequently commented on her lack of mastery, but I thought her pieces were downright artistic.

  “Everything in the study is interesting,” I admitted finally.

  She laughed. “I find that very hard to believe.”

  “It is,” I insisted. Although officially I’d spent much of the fall revising the book on which my tenure bid next year would hang, which was a study of Isabella Dare’s mysteries, I was also trying my hand at a mystery novel—a secret I’d shared only with a select few. Thus, being in the study was inspiring in more ways than one.

  The lines around her vivid green eyes creased pleasantly when she smiled. “I still plan to stay out of the way until you have organized it completely—nothing worse than someone hovering over you as you try to make headway on a project, is there?—but I do confess that I’m curious as to what you’re finding. My method is to scurry into the room, put the paperwork on top of any available pile, then scuttle out again. When I retired from Callahan College, I dumped the papers in there without even a smidgen of organizational purpose. As you can see.”

  “No worries,” I assured her. “I’ve already sorted everything into folders. Do you have any thoughts on the order in which you want things filed?”

  “Oh no,” she said, clearly horrified. “I detest sorting things. Just file them however you see fit. Or shove them into the cabinets willy nilly. I’ll adapt to whatever you come up with. As long as they’re out of sight, I’ll be ecstatic, thank you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help.”

  I nodded. “It’s the least I could do. Thank you so much for letting me stay here.”

  “It’s been a pleasure.”

  I pushed away the thought that in mid-January—just one short month—spring term would begin. I was already becoming somewhat despondent at the thought of having to leave this little scholarly utopia. At least the holidays were in between, as a buffer.

  “I’m anxious about tonight—” she began, then shook her head slightly. “Scratch that. I’m more anxious about getting some writing done this afternoon, so let’s get back to work.”

  Bibi didn’t like to talk about her books while they were in progress, I’d learned. I didn’t know what this one was about or how far along she was. All I knew was that she wrote at different locations throughout the mansion. Once she’d told me that the regular change of scenery was a valuable part of her creative process. And in this place, she had plenty of rooms to choose from.

  The first floor had a stunning foyer with a wrought-iron-and-crystal chandelier. On the left was a parlor, kitchen, and dining room; on the right was a library, powder room, and study. In the center was a great room so large it echoed. All of the rooms had been painted in jewel tone colors and furnished primarily with heirlooms. The bedrooms upstairs were as exquisite as the rooms on the first floor. Two of them were round, like the parlor and library below; the towers were by far my favorite element of the house.

  I followed Bibi into the kitchen, where we quickly cleaned the lunch dishes, then began gathering items together for this evening’s book club meeting. She had asked me to lead the conversation, which I had agreed to do as long as we read the first Isabella Dare book. Bibi had reluctantly acquiesced, though I suspected now that the day had arrived, she was having second thoughts. I was confident that afterwards, she would be glad we’d done it.

  “I have to tell you something before everyone arrives,” Bibi said, handing me a stack of yellow plates.

  I set them on the granite island. “What is it?”

  “You weren’t planning on me saying anything, right? I mean, about who I am.” She rolled her hand toward me. “As an author.”

  “Your friends don’t know that you’re Isabella Dare?”

  Bibi extracted water glasses from a cabinet and passed them to me, one by one. “They never knew me by that name. My sister Ilse couldn’t pronounce Isabella, so she called me Bibi, which stuck. When my father passed away and our mother remarried, we took my stepfather’s last name. Then we moved from New York to Larkston, my mother enrolled us in elementary school as Ilse and Bibi Smithson, and that was who we were from that point on. My stepfather didn’t last long as a member of the family, but his name persisted.”

  I admired the delicate etched daisies on the glasses as I put them with the plates. “I see. And you don’t want anyone to know that you’re a mystery writer?”

  “It was all so long ago. We could discuss the book as if it were written by someone else, couldn’t we?” Bibi retrieved two oval platters with a sunflower pattern from a nearby shelf, then went back for matching serving bowls.

  “We could.” I didn’t want to pressure her, though I believed the book club members would be overjoyed to realize that the author was their friend. “Did anyone know about the books?”

  “My grandparents—on my mother’s side—did. I lived with them in New York while I went to graduate school, and the books were published during that time.” She smiled wryly as she removed white cloth napkins from a drawer and placed them next to the platters. “I never imagined that I’d end up back at Callahan College, but after I married Jamie, who proposed at graduation, the family encouraged the English department to make a place for me.”

  “And you were happy there?”

  “Oh, yes. But prior to that happening, I worried that having written popular fiction might count against me as a candidate for any literature position, that schools wouldn’t take me seriously. It was different in those days…” she paused. “Or maybe it wasn’t. Anyway, you know what I mean.”

  Oh yes, I knew. During my first conversation with Roland Higgins, the then-chair of our department, he had gone apoplectic when I’d asked if I could teach a mystery course. He’d taken the opportunity to lecture me on what counted as literature and what didn’t.

  In his opinion.

  Which differed greatly from my own.

  Bibi emerged from the pantry with two vases. “So for the novels, I used a name that both was and was not mine at the same time. It was somehow easier to think of Isabella Dare as the writer and Bibi Callahan as the academic. If the books had become bestsellers, I would have told everyone in the universe that I wrote them. But they didn’t even make a ripple. It was a small publisher who went under soon afterwards, and that seemed to be that. I swore my grandparents to secrecy and as far as I know, they kept my secret until the end. Gradually, the books came to seem like something I’d done in another lifetime.” After rummaging around in a drawer, she held up a green tablecloth and shook it triumphantly. “Aha!”

  “What about Jamie?”

  “He knew everything, of course, but the rest of the Callahans didn’t know my original name, so they didn’t make the connection. I never saw fit to tell them.”

  It was the first time she’d talked this much about her personal life other than to say that her husband had passed away, I realized with a start. All of our conversations had been neatly steered toward books.