Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(27)
I have no doubts that when Matthew manages to impose a discipline on his capacious imagination, he will produce some truly outstanding work…
I have encountered no student writer with a more impressive technical mastery of the craft. Certainly someday Andrea will have acquired the life experience necessary to give depth to her work. Until then, her keen editorial eye will make her an asset in any graduate writing program…
A file marked Home included drafts of homework assignments written by Alyssa and Thomas Jr. and critiqued by their father. These too displayed Huston’s delicacy and tact. He managed, for example, to remonstrate his daughter for her reliance on clichés and words such as cute and sweet while praising her sense of pacing and narrative structure. He underlined numerous misspelled words on his son’s paper and wrote in the text: Spell-check, Tommy! You’re being lazy. But he also wrote I love this description! A beautiful phrase. And Very clever!
Huston’s Misc Notes file revealed another aspect of his character, and these random thoughts intrigued DeMarco:
for essay about fathers and sons: Sometimes I think that the lucky boys, the lucky men, are the ones who grew up despising their fathers.
story about obit writer: It’s all in the obituary, trust me. Easy to read between the lines once you get the hang of it. Easy to tell if he was a brotherly man, a joiner, a glad-hander and friend to all, or maybe a loner, curmudgeonly and mean, a small-spirited recluse not even his family is going to miss.
short story, possible title “Dry Wood”: A couple goes into the wilderness for a weekend in an attempt to get their passion (fire) back. But their planning is bad; it’s late in the season; an icy rain catches them off guard. As they search for dry wood to build a fire, they blame each other more and more for their predicament, bring up old wounds, until the fire of rage causes the woman to attack her husband…
essay: Close to death, closer to life.
essay: I don’t mind a little poetry now and then but I have no time for poets.
No time for poets? DeMarco wondered. Referring to Denton? He made a mental note to probe the poet a bit, poke around for soft spots and old bruises. Then he returned to the Misc Notes file, read through three more pages of brief glimpses into the writer’s mind. Something about the rhythm of Huston’s prose seemed to match DeMarco’s rhythm. He found himself thinking that he and Huston were tuned to the same frequency.
“Difference is,” DeMarco said aloud, “you’ve got talent and I’ve got sleep deprivation.”
The file labeled Office Emails contained more messages between Huston and Denton. All but one series were concerned with departmental matters. Carmichael had listed these in chronological order beginning with one from Denton. The emails made DeMarco lean forward in his chair.
Turns out C’s “writer-in-residence” position cost him $300/week! Available to anybody! No duties, no application process. There are as many as 20 “artists-in-residence” at any given time. It’s little more than a hotel that caters to wannabes. B
Bob—Keeps digging his own grave, doesn’t he? However, he never claimed it as a sinecure or award, did he? Do you still have a copy of the faculty newsletter? Tom
“…spent the month of July as writer-in-residence at the James Bryce Carwell Institute in Palo Alto…” The writer-in-residence! Subtle but misrepresentative nonetheless. The devious bastard. B
Bob—Okay, another nail in the coffin. Share it with the committee next week and let’s see how they take it. Tom
Will be more effective coming from you, don’t you think? My credentials are legit too but admittedly obscure. Better to have the condemnation come from the king rather than from a mere princeling, eh? B
DeMarco leaned back in his chair. C for Conescu, he told himself. He read the emails again. It seemed clear that professors Denton and Huston were intent on exposing Conescu as a fraud, a poseur. The emails also suggested that Denton was leading the attack but attempting to position Huston as point man.
“Very interesting,” DeMarco said.
He went online then to access the English Department’s telephone number, punched it in, and spoke with the secretary. When he asked if Denton was expected in that day, she pulled his schedule. “Monday, Wednesday, Friday, he teaches from two to two fifty, then from three to three fifty. Office hours on Monday and Friday but none today.”
“How about his home address? You have that?”
There was a pause, then a timid response. “I know you’re the police but…I’m not sure I’m allowed to give that out.”
“No problem,” DeMarco told her. “Wouldn’t want to get you in dutch.”
Next, he telephoned the county courthouse, asked Cheryl in the Recorder of Deeds office to search the database for Robert Denton. Two minutes later, he wrote the address on his notepad: 619 Locust Drive, Greenwood Valley.
Greenwood Valley was an eighties subdivision of sprawling ranch and mock-Tudor homes. DeMarco calculated that Denton would need ten minutes to get from his home to campus, maybe more if he ran any errands on the way or stopped for a cappuccino. In any case, he probably wouldn’t leave the house before one in the afternoon. It was now only 10:47.
“Plenty of time for me to ruin his day,” DeMarco said.
Twenty
Robert Denton’s house in Greenwood Valley was a vinyl and brick split-level on a quarter-acre lot of grass that probably hadn’t seen a mower blade since mid-August. The mulch beds were overrun with creepers gone wild, the flower beds full of leaves. DeMarco arrived in an unmarked silver Impala from the motor pool, parked half a block from the poet’s house, then approached by foot.