Mistaken Identity Crisis

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2I spent the following morning preparing for my new class, speeding through the lesson plans and syllabus to ensure maximum quality time with my daughter when I visited my parents. Gabriel and Eleanor played various board games with us that afternoon. Even my folks joined in for several rounds of cards and dominoes. Knowing I still had a few hours of work to complete before classes began the next day, I accepted my mother's offer to watch Emma for another night. My daughter reveled in glory, which was all that mattered to me in the insufferable situation with the Castiglianos and Las Vargas.

The evening and my work passed by expeditiously, enabling me to suggest meeting for a beer to Connor. I secretly wanted to find out what'd happened at the Grey estate, but he was too wrapped up in the case to take a break. All I'd learned was that Imogene hadn't been able to identify the jewel thief, despite being at home when the crook had broken in. Connor proposed a new time for our workout later that week, and I fell asleep early in preparation for the start of a new class schedule.

After a fierce battle deciding what to wear on Monday morning, I dressed in my finest professorial duds. The summer term had made its illustrious debut, and I wanted to appear mature enough to command respect yet modern and casual in a way that befitted the television and film industry. The end result: slim cut, well-tailored trousers in traditional checks and stripes; a heather-gray, open-collared dress shirt; a thin cashmere, V-neck sweater the saleslady called the color of eggplant; and sophisticated dark loafers sans socks. Despite Nana D's effusive insistence, I wasn't morphing into a popinjay!

I hurried to The Big Beanery, a student gathering house providing some of the richest and most flavorful coffee and the craziest and most unfortunate hookups in the entire county. Thankfully, I avoided the latter, except when Nana D had set me up on a blind date those few times. I ordered a couple of coffees and apple tarts sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon glaze to go. I needed something to tide me over until brunch at Nana D's. My body craved desserts just as much as it felt energized by my daily workout, which had been fulfilled by a six-mile run earlier that morning. I assumed the two ends of the spectrum balanced each other out and refused to question the greater authority of a god who permitted me to have free will.

Braxton College was comprised of two campuses, North and South, separated by a one-mile tree-lined esplanade of cozy storefronts, student housing, and charming historical points of interest. One campus perched atop a semi-steep incline of the Wharton Mountains, the other sat near the base of a lower hill leading directly into the downtown district. Traditional Victorian and Queen Anne homes, painted in vivid colors and adorned with massive stone turrets and white scalloped shingles, reminded visitors of a smaller and quieter version of San Francisco. Without the Pacific Ocean nearby, Crilly Lake and the Finnulia River generously provided our daily water supply, a source of relaxation, and stunning views. Locals referred to the large estates set atop the hill as Millionaire's Mile, and that's where you'd find folks like the Greys, the Paddingtons, and the Stantons.

North Campus was the college's main site, but I worked on South Campus which catered to scholars in the humanities, communications, and music departments. An electric cable car system, currently under maintenance, transported students back and forth between the two academic spaces. For two weeks each summer, usually when the weather reached a scorching one-hundred-degree temperature, a local company would repair the mechanics and reconfigure the inside panels based on whatever the most recent graduating class had gifted the college. This year, as a dedication to the valiant efforts of a few folks—primarily me, who'd played amateur sleuth to locate a couple of murderers—the theme was a Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, 1930s-style mystery car. Construction had begun ten days ago, and the final ribbon-cutting ceremony would occur at the end of this week.

I climbed the steps to the sturdy but chaotic platform and scanned the sweeping uptown view of mesmerizing foliage-covered hills. My latest routine included a visit to the cable car each morning to inspect its progress with the local contractor leading the effort. Quint Crawford was in his late twenties, had shaggy blond hair, and proudly boasted a full beard. Years of working construction sites had tanned his skin a golden color and transformed his lithe body into a solid machine capable of frequent hard labor. When I called out his name, the suave and shrewd craftsman poked his head out the car doors and saluted. While I dressed up for my first day of summer classes, Quint had chosen a white fitted t-shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans slung low on his hips from all the tools weighing down the thinning denim. Although he only stood an inch below me, a slight slouch made him appear shorter.

When I'd first encountered Quint two weeks earlier, the enigmatic electrician puzzled me. Quint fancied himself quite the ladies' man, evident by his wandering eye whenever an attractive girl would meander near the cable car station. Quint was a tad too full of himself, easily enchanting the women around him by posturing a rakish allure and approach to life. But he'd privately mentioned recent heartbreak over lost love and a desire to convince the ex to proffer him a second chance. Unfortunately, Quint hadn't shared specific details on what had gone wrong the first time between him and his beloved. Nonetheless, I'd been impressed by his mercurial attitude and ability to quickly dust himself off and get in the ring again, despite his painfully obvious attempt to conceal several wounds stemming from the end of the relationship.

Once he'd formally introduced himself, I'd realized his mother and I had met a few times earlier in the year. Knowing Bertha Crawford was such a kind and gentle soul, I settled on believing Quint was a sophisticated yet opportunistic version of his mother who didn't like to hear the word no. “Morning, Quint. How're things looking for your mother this weekend?” I asked, passing a steaming cup of coffee and a warm pastry to him.

“I appreciate you dropping by with breakfast again. You're a good man, Kellan.” His eyes darted to the panel he'd been installing and instantly looked apprehensive about my arrival. “Momma's doing better ever since she retired from the Paddington estate. Being on her feet all day as their housekeeper, slaving away at their every outlandish whim, has taken its toll on her over the years.”

“Does that mean the radiation treatments are going well?” She'd discovered a lump in her breast shortly after I'd met her months ago, then learned she had an advanced form of cancer. The Paddington family also confirmed she'd quit to focus on her deteriorating health. That's when Quint had made it a priority to take extra care of his mother, a widow for the last two decades. His father had perished years ago in an explosion at the Betscha mines.

“So far, the doctors aren't positive,” he mumbled, unscrewing an interior panel near the door.

“That's not good to hear.” From what I could see, the winning design was close to being installed. I noticed a few wires creeping out at the bottom and wondered how the repair portion of the work was going. “The new panels look fantastic. Is the electrical upgrade on schedule?”

“Got two cables to replace, but I'll be done tomorrow afternoon. Then we can run some tests to see how the old girl's working. Should be right smooth!” Quint tapped his knuckles on the side of his head as a sign of luck. As he bent downward, he gingerly flinched and moaned before rubbing his back.

“Did you hurt yourself on the job?” I asked, uncertain what company had been awarded the contract for the redesign project. Hopefully, he'd reported any injuries to the school's administration.

“Nothing to grumble about. A man in my line of work deals with rough spots.” He gently kneeled to the floor and turned away to finish removing the lower panel. “How's that daughter of yours?”

I'd brought Emma to campus with me the previous time because she had reduced hours during her last week of school. Since she'd stayed at my parents' place last night, tagging along today wasn't an option. I'd also scheduled summer camp for her to attend while I'd be teaching my classes over the subsequent seven weeks. Orientation was scheduled for tomorrow. “Emma will visit again soon. I'll be sure to bring her by, so you can say hello. She had fun watching you work last time.”

“That'd be cool of you, Kellan. Don't mean to rush you off, but I've got to finish this today. Fern Terry plans to stop by to check out my progress,” Quint advised with an equal mix of hesitancy and substantial irritation, then winked. “Not that she's too knowledgeable about men's work.”

Fern was the dean of student affairs as well as a good friend of mine. I needed to schedule lunch with her to catch up on the wedding plans. Her son was marrying Timothy Paddington's sister, hence the double wedding on Independence Day. I ignored Quint's shallow and ludicrous comments about Fern, keenly aware we'd already discussed his opinions in the past. He regarded women more as beautiful objects or conquests rather than equals, yet he easily disguised such views when he needed to appear polished enough to charm one into offering her affections.

“I understand. Do you own the company that won the project bid?” I paused and waited for a response, but an unusually long time went by without his trademark riposte. “Quint, did you hear me?”

“Sure did. My apologies, I was thinking about the best answer,” he replied, unlatching a tool from the hook on his belt. “I'm working for someone else who promised me a cheap buy-in. I'll earn a stake in the company once this project is complete. Not to be rude, buddy, but I did mention I was busy. Gotta finish tinkering with this beauty until she's sparkling like a diamond again. Chat another time?”

Quint powered up a drill on full throttle. I waved goodbye to his back—he'd already moved on to his next priority without another word—and walked toward my office in Diamond Hall. My curious nature wanted to ask more questions about whom he worked for, but Fern could supply the answer just as easily. It'd also require less impudence than dealing with my edgy new acquaintance, Quint.

Diamond Hall had previously been a grand colonial home, a mansion by modern-day standards, before its transformation into the communications department's offices. The architecturally stunning building stood three stories high and was covered with a limestone façade mined from quarries owned by the Betscha side of my family. On the top floor were a large open working area and departmental library, and on the second resided offices for academic staff. The ground floor held four classrooms, and for the next seven weeks, I'd occupy the northwest one overlooking Stanton Hall.

As I stepped through the front door, my boss glared at me with a sour expression. It wouldn't be a typical day unless I experienced at least ten minutes of Dr. Myriam Castle's uncalled-for-but-amusing wrath. Even after I'd investigated her wife's stalker the previous month, Myriam still brushed me off with a chilly disposition and delivered ruthless Shakespearean quotes that made little to no sense.

“There's a man here to see you,” she stated curtly, her hands locked on her hips. Adorned in her traditional exquisite couture, her trim frame sported a cream-colored suit and slate-gray blouse assuredly flown in from some European designer's latest collection. It was the spiky, more-gray-than-black, short, no-fuss, no-muss hairstyle that initially captured a person's attention. “He doesn't have a visitor pass, and I don't recognize him. You should tell your ne'er-do-well associates to follow the rules, and if I might remind you, we should be working, not socializing.”