Braxton Campus Mysteries Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 1-2

slap his bottom silly,supposedlythatThe sun disappeared as I parked the Jeep at my parents" house and scampered toward the trunk to get my bags. Given the temperature had slipped to the single digits, and the icy snow wildly pelted my body, I hurried to the front door. Unfortunately, fate opted for revenge over some past indiscretion and struck back with the vengeance of a thousand plagues. Before long, I skated across a sheet of ice like an awkward ballerina wearing clown shoes and fell flat on my back.

I snapped a selfie while laughing on the frosty ground, to let Nana D know I"d arrived in Braxton. She loved getting pictures and witnessing me make a fool of myself. I couldn"t decipher her reply, given my glasses had fogged over, and my vision was equivalent to Mr. Magoo"s. I searched for a piece of a flannel shirt untouched by the falling sleet or the embarrassing crash to the ground and wiped them dry. A glance at the picture I"d sent caused the most absurd guffaw to erupt from my throat. My usually clean-cut dark-blond hair was littered with leaves, and the four days of stubble on my cheeks and chin was blanketed in mounds of snow. I dusted myself off and rushed under the protection of a covered porch to read her text.

Nana D: Is that a dirty wet mop on your head? You"re dressed like a hooligan. Put on a coat. It"s cold out. I miss you!

Nana DIs that a dirty wet mop on your head? You"re dressed like a hooligan. Put on a coat. It"s cold out. I miss you!Me: Thanks, Captain Obvious. I fell on the walkway. You think I"m normally this much of a disaster?

MeThanks, Captain Obvious. I fell on the walkway. You think I"m normally this much of a disaster?Nana D: And you"re supposed to be the brilliant one? Have you given up on life, or did it give up on you?

Nana DAnd you"re supposed to be the brilliant one? Have you given up on life, or did it give up on you?Me: Keep it up, and I won"t visit this weekend. You"re supposed to be a sweet grandma.

MeKeep it up, and I won"t visit this weekend. You"re supposed to be a sweet grandma.Nana D: If that"s what you want, go down to the old folks" home and rent yourself a little biddy. Maybe you two can share some smashed peas, green Jell-O, and a tasty glass of Ovaltine. I"ll even pay.

Nana DIf that"s what you want, go down to the old folks" home and rent yourself a little biddy. Maybe you two can share some smashed peas, green Jell-O, and a tasty glass of Ovaltine. I"ll even pay.After ignoring Nana D"s sass, I ran a pair of chilled hands through my hair and entered the foyer. Though the original shell of the house was a wood-framed cabin, my parents had added many rooms, including a west and an east wing bookending the massive structure. The ceilings were vaulted at least twelve feet high and covered in endless cedar planks with knots in all the right places. A pretty hunter-green paint coated three of the walls where the entranceway opened into a gigantic living room. It was anchored by a flagstone fireplace and adorned with hand-crafted antique furniture my parents had traveled all over the state to procure. My father was passionate about keeping the authenticity of a traditional log cabin while my mom required all the modern conveniences. If only the Property Brothers could see the results of their combined styles. Eleanor and I referred to it as the Royal Chic-Shack.

Property BrothersRoyal Chic-ShackI dropped my bags to the floor and called out, “Anyone home?” My body jumped as the door to my father"s study creaked open, and his head popped through the c***k. Perhaps I had the paranormal and occult on my mind, knowing Dark Reality"s next season was unfortunately in my foreseeable future.

Dark Reality"s“It"s just me. Welcome back,” replied my father, waiting for me to approach the study. “Your mother"s still at Braxton, closing on the final admissions list for the prospective class.”

“How"s the jolly retiree doing?” I strolled down the hall toward him.

“I"m not retired yet,” my father countered with a sneer. “I finished writing my speech for the party tomorrow evening. Interested in an early preview?”

Saying no would make me a bad son. Eleanor and I had promised one another at Christmas we"d try harder. I really wanted to be a bad son today—just kidding! “Sure, it must be exciting. You"ve had a bountiful career, Dad. It"s undoubtedly the perfect example of oratory excellence.” He loved when I stretched my vocabulary skills to align with his. I shuddered thinking about the spelling bees of long ago.

no“Yes, I believe it is.” My father squinted his eyes and scratched at his chin. No doubt he was judging my borderline unkempt appearance. I"d forgotten to shave and taken that classic nose-dive on the ground. Sometimes I preferred the messy look. Apparently, so did that airport barista!

I ambled to his desk, studying the frown lines forming around his lips. “Everything okay, Dad? You look a little peaked.”

“Yes… a few things on my mind. Nothing to trouble you with, Kellan.” He nodded and shook my hand—standard, male Ayrwick greeting. At six feet, my father stood only three inches taller than me, but the dominant Ayrwick genes made him look gargantuan. Lanky and wiry, he hadn"t worked out a day in his life, but he also never needed to. His metabolism was more active than a thoroughbred, and he ate only the healthiest of foods. I was lucky enough to inherit the recessive Danby genes, but more on those cruel legacies another time.

lucky enough“I"m a good listener, Dad. Tell me what"s going on.” I felt his bony hand pull away and watched his body settle into the worn, mustard-yellow leather chair in front of the bookcase. It was his only possession my mother hadn"t yet replaced—purely because he"d threatened divorce. “It"s been a while since we"ve talked.”

My father stared out the window. I waited for his right eyebrow to twitch, signaling the onslaught of a battle, but the high arch never came. “We"re having some problems at Braxton with a blogster. A bunch of articles or post-its, whatever you call them these days… trash is what I"d like to say.” He closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair. “This isn"t the way I pictured my pre-retirement weeks.”

I stifled a laugh, hoping not to drive another decisive wedge between us. He"d opened up a little more than usual, and it didn"t matter if he used the wrong terms to explain whatever fake news p********a had developed at Braxton. “What"s the blogger saying?”

“Someone has an ax to grind about the way I"ve supported parts of the college. He claims I"m favoring the athletics department by giving them more money this term.” My father crossed his legs and cupped his hands together. His navy-blue corduroys and brown loafers seemed out of place.

Was he taking retirement seriously? I"d normally seen him in suits, or occasionally a pair of Dockers and a short-sleeve polo when he"d meet friends at the country club for a round of golf. I hoped it didn"t mean he"d be wearing jeans soon. The shock of suddenly embraced normalcy might bury me in an early grave before that doomed airplane.

“Is the blogger going after you specifically or Braxton administration in general?”

My father quickly typed a few words on the iPad"s keypad and handed the device to me. “That"s the third message in two weeks. The links for the rest are at the bottom.”

It"s unlike my father to worry about this type of nonsense, but he"d become more sensitive about people"s opinions as he grew older. It seemed the opposite of what I thought ordinarily happened as one aged. Nana D was the first to spill whatever was on her mind or laugh when others said anything negative about her. She almost delighted in their criticisms of her behavior. I couldn"t wait to get old and say anything I want the way she did!

I scrolled through the recent post. The explicit focus on my father alarmed me the most.

Wesley Ayrwick, in his archaic and selfish ways, has struck another blow in eradicating the true purpose for Braxton"s existence. His continued support for a failing athletics department while neglecting the proper education of our beloved student population has made it impossible for me to stand down. A recent six-figure donation was carelessly handed over to Grey Sports Complex for improving the technology infrastructure of the athletic facility, returfing the baseball field, and securing a modern bus for the players traveling to opposing teams. At the same time, the communications, humanities, and music departments suffer with minimal software programs, deteriorating equipment, and lack of innovative venue spaces for live performances. When asked about the decision to split the anonymous donation ninety percent to ten percent in favor of the athletics teams, President Ayrwick claimed they"d been waiting longer and were in danger of not being able to compete in the upcoming sports season. This is the third occurrence of his favoritism in the last two months, which clearly explains why the petition to remove Ayrwick from office sooner than the end of this semester is gaining momentum. Let"s hope we can say goodbye to this crooked figurehead before Braxton"s ship has sailed too far adrift from its proper course. Retirement must already be on the old coot"s brain, or perhaps he"s just one of the worst presidents we"ve ever had. My fondest wish is for Wesley Ayrwick"s memory to be buried and long forgotten by the end of this term.

Wesley Ayrwick, in his archaic and selfish ways, has struck another blow in eradicating the true purpose for Braxton"s existence. His continued support for a failing athletics department while neglecting the proper education of our beloved student population has made it impossible for me to stand down. A recent six-figure donation was carelessly handed over to Grey Sports Complex for improving the technology infrastructure of the athletic facility, returfing the baseball field, and securing a modern bus for the players traveling to opposing teams. At the same time, the communications, humanities, and music departments suffer with minimal software programs, deteriorating equipment, and lack of innovative venue spaces for live performances. When asked about the decision to split the anonymous donation ninety percent to ten percent in favor of the athletics teams, President Ayrwick claimed they"d been waiting longer and were in danger of not being able to compete in the upcoming sports season. This is the third occurrence of his favoritism in the last two months, which clearly explains why the petition to remove Ayrwick from office sooner than the end of this semester is gaining momentum. Let"s hope we can say goodbye to this crooked figurehead before Braxton"s ship has sailed too far adrift from its proper course. Retirement must already be on the old coot"s brain, or perhaps he"s just one of the worst presidents we"ve ever had. My fondest wish is for Wesley Ayrwick"s memory to be buried and long forgotten by the end of this term.“What do you make of it?” he hesitantly asked.

A quick perusal of the earlier posts revealed similar sentiments, all fixated on my father for some perceived sense of unfair balance with the generous donations bestowed upon Braxton. The last line read like a death threat, but that might"ve been my imagination running wild since learning the startling truth about the Castigliano side of my family. “Who"s the anonymous donor? Are you responsible for choosing where to allocate the funds?”

My father wrinkled his nose and raised his eyebrow. “No, you know better. When it"s anonymous, even I"m not supposed to know. Sometimes the benefactor has a specific request on where to distribute the money. I can offer my insight and suggestions, but the Board of Trustees and its budget committee ultimately decide where the funds go.”

“I meant you have some influence.” I stepped into the hallway to drop off my keys and wallet on a nearby bench. “Should it have gone to the athletics department?”

My father"s scowl indicated his annoyance over my lack of unconditional support. “Yes. While I agree the purpose of a college education is to prepare for life in the real world, to study and learn a trade or a skill, it"s also about developing interpersonal relationships and opening one"s eyes and mind to more than amassing facts.” He crossed to the window, shaking his head back and forth, clearly distracted by something. “Sports build camaraderie, teamwork, and friendships. It provides opportunities for the college and the town to unite in support of their students. Leads to a stronger foundation and future.”

I couldn"t argue with his logic and pondered the past as I kicked off my shoes. “You"ve put that rather well. I believe you, Dad. Not to change topics, but I had a question about Abby Monroe. She mentioned attending—”

He never heard me as the door to his study slammed shut. I"d been home for ten minutes and already stuck my foot in my mouth. Between our off-the-charts intelligence and arrogant, stubborn streaks, neither of us could back down nor develop a normal relationship. I"d never learn how to bond with the indomitable Wesley Ayrwick. At least I could count on my quick wit and devilishly handsome face to make things seem better!

I dragged the luggage to my old bedroom, which my mother had once fretted over, harboring some foolish notion I might move back home. Did she really think a thirty-two-year-old would want to sleep in a room still wallpapered with Jurassic Park and Terminator paraphernalia? Before settling in to digest Derek"s show materials, I scurried downstairs for a light meal. The incident in the study had left me zero desire to eat dinner with my parents. I"d just turned the corner when I heard my father"s voice on the house phone.

Jurassic ParkTerminator“Yes, I read the latest post. I"m aware of our predicament, but we"ve already discussed it. Terminating the employee isn"t an option.”

It seemed the posts were causing major troubles, but my father had previously acted like he didn"t know who was behind the blog.

“I understand, but I"ve no intention of revealing this secret. I"m only keeping quiet because of the benefit to Braxton. If they discover the truth, we"ll figure out the best solution. For now, I can handle a little hot water. You need to calm down,” my father advised.

It sounded like the blogger was telling the truth about underhanded chicanery. Was my father involved in a potentially illegal or unethical situation?

“You should"ve thought about it before taking a foolish approach to… now wait a minute… no, you listen to me… don"t threaten me, or it"ll be the last thing you do,” he shouted angrily.

When he hung up, I ducked into the kitchen. Between the elusive Abby Monroe"s connections to Braxton, the ruthless blogger publicly denouncing my father, and the hostile call I"d just overheard, this weekend might turn out more eventful than expected.