All The Pretty Dead Girls. John Manning
then she started getting the death threats in the mail—and so many obscene and threatening phone calls, she had to change her number and keep it unlisted. She filed police reports and talked to a special agent from the local FBI office in Albany, who assured her it was unlikely that anyone would actually kill her, which was only slightly reassuring. It was a rough couple of weeks, especially considering school was starting.
To the college’s credit, the vast majority of parents came down on her side. The board of trustees refused to yield or even listen to the angry fanatics—the school was private, after all, and not dependent on tax dollars—and even Dean Gregory issued a statement of support. Ginny suspected—given the way he’d started treating her—that his statement was more about refusing to be told how to run his college than any actual support for her. The storm lasted about three weeks, and then it died away. Bobby Vandiver and the Concerned American Women found a new cause célèbre—a teacher in Pennsylvania who’d invited a gay author to speak to her student group—but around Lebanon, Ginny Marshall was forever considered a “troublemaker.”
She smiled as Marjorie brought her a cup of coffee and a small saucer full of creamers. In return, Marjorie gave her a half smile and walked away.
What had gotten Ginny into such a snit tonight was Gregory’s treatment of her in front of that harpy Joyce Davenport. It was bad enough that he asked that publicity hound (for that’s all Ginny considered Davenport to be) to speak at the campus welcoming event, but to dress Ginny down in front of her was too much to take. For in fact, during the media storm that had accompanied Ginny’s start at Wilbourne, Joyce Davenport had written a column shredding her and her books, using Ginny as an example of “what’s wrong with higher education in this country.” It was the one instance where Ginny considered suing; the column was full of so many slanders and lies and half-truths, it was hard to believe any newspaper would publish it.
It had taken all of Ginny’s self-control not to choke the bitch to death as soon as she saw her on the stage earlier tonight.
But the worst part had already occurred. There had been a faculty reception at the dean’s house before the welcome address, a semiformal cocktail party that everyone was required to attend. Ginny had considered not attending the party, but that would give Gregory what he wanted: an opportunity to reprimand her. So she’d go—and be perfectly charming to that bitch, and to Gregory and his mousy, smarmy little wife, too.
Maybe, Ginny reasoned as she got dressed for the night, Joyce Davenport was different in real life. No one could be that malignantly cruel and deliberately ignorant, could they? Maybe it was all just an act, a persona Davenport assumed to make money and get herself on television.
Ginny had arrived at the reception late, and slipped over to the bar, hoping to avoid both the dean and and Davenport. But no sooner had she asked for a glass of red wine when Gregory placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Joyce, I’d like you to meet Dr. Virginia Marshall,” he said in his most charming voice. “She’s one of our more famous faculty members.”
“Yes, I know.” Joyce’s face was seemingly friendly. “Isn’t she the atheist?” she asked sweetly.
“No,” Ginny replied. “I am not an atheist. I consider myself a Christian.”
“Well, that’s what makes America great, isn’t it, Dr. Marshall?” Joyce Davenport said, still smiling sweetly. “We can call ourselves anything we wish, even if it isn’t true.”
Ginny opened her mouth to reply, her face flushing angrily, but Dean Gregory cut her off before she had a chance to say anything. “Speaking of which, Ginny,” he said, “I need you to stop by my office tomorrow around one. I’m more than a little concerned by this theory of religion course you’re teaching this semester. I’ve had a chance to look over the curriculum, and I think we need to talk.”
“What?” She stared at him openmouthed. He couldn’t be serious.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” He waved his hand in dismissal, and Joyce gave her a parting smile—not so sweet this time, Ginny thought.
“You need a refill?”
Ginny’s eyes flickered upward. Marjorie stood over her with a pot of coffee in her hand. Ginny nodded. “Thanks,” she said. Marjorie filled her cup to the brim, then returned to the counter where she was talking with some young man.
Ginny sipped her coffee. Gregory was one miserable son of a bitch.
Oh, I’ll come to your office tomorrow, but you’d better be prepared to fire me, because you’re getting it with both barrels. No one interferes with my curriculum—especially not someone who thinks Joyce Davenport is a fine example for my students.
11
All three people in the dining room of the Yellow Bird turned their heads when the bell over the door rang once again and Bonnie Warner stepped inside.
Bonnie was bone tired. She needed a quick cup of joe to take with her, to propel her the last couple of miles back to Wilbourne. She knew the outside gates to the college had already been locked, but that didn’t concern her. It was the eleven o’clock lockdown of Bentley Hall that was more problematic. Once Bentley was locked down for the night, no one was getting in—or out.
“Coffee, please, to go,” Bonnie said, standing at the corner.
Marjorie nodded, and turned to fill the order.
Bonnie’s eyes made contact with the young man seated near her on a stool. She nodded at him.
“You got to Wilbourne?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Bonnie told him.
“Out kind of late,” he said.
She shrugged. “I have a job in town.”
He nodded, returning to the last of the french fries on his plate.
All Bonnie needed was to chug down the coffee and hop back on her bike and she’d be back at the college in practically no time at all. She glanced at her watch. She still had plenty of time, but she knew tonight she was pushing her luck. But Amy had actually been making progress tonight—Bonnie couldn’t just take off in the middle of explaining why x times y equaled z. Tutoring algebra was a delicate assignment. When the kid’s brain was finally showing some signs of comprehension, Bonnie needed to stick with it and make sure all the points were made.
“Here you go, honey,” Marjorie said, handing her the coffee in a large Styrofoam cup with a secure lid.
“Thanks,” Bonnie said, paying her.
That’s when her eyes lit on the woman in the booth, who was also watching her. Shit! It was Dr. Marshall.
She couldn’t bolt. Dr. Marshall had seen her.
Bonnie took a long breath, then walked over to where Dr. Marshall was sitting.
“Hello, Bonnie,” the older woman said.
Bonnie decided simply to throw herself on Dr. Marshall’s mercy. She liked Dr. Marshall. She had a reputation for being fair. She wasn’t whacked out on authority like so many of the other professors at Wilbourne.
“Dr. Marshall, please don’t tell the dean you saw me,” Bonnie pleaded.
The professor smiled. “Bonnie, you know only upper-classmen are allowed to be off campus at this hour.”
“I know. But I have a job.”
“A job?” Dr. Marshall looked perplexed. “Again, only upper-classmen can hold off-campus jobs.”
“I know, I know. But I’m not a rich girl like so many of the other kids, Dr. Marshall. Somehow I’ve got to find a way to pay for books for the new school year.”
Dr. Marshall looked at her kindly. “What kind of job do you have?”
“I tutor a seventh-grader. The kid’s