When The Bough Breaks

"I honestly can't, I'm afraid. I had no contact with the nonacademic employees - there's a tendency to pretend they're invisible that's acquired over time. He was a big brute of a fellow, that I do recall. Slovenly, seemed quite strong, may very well have been bright - your information certainly points in that direction, and I'm no social Darwinist with a need to dispute it. But that is really all I can tell you. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. One last thing - where can I get a map of Brindamoor Island?"

"There's none that I know of outside the County Hall of Records - wait, a student of mine did an undergraduate thesis on the history of the place, complete with residential map. I don't have a copy but I believe it would be stored in the library, in the thesis section. The student's name was - let me think - Church? No, it was something else of a clerical nature - Chaplain. Gretchen Chaplain. Look under C, you should find it."

"Thanks again, Professor. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Margaret Dopplemeier sat at her desk, glaring at me.

"I'm sorry for being rude," I said. "It was important."

"All right," she said. "I just thought you could have been a little more polite in view of what I've done for you." The possessive look slithered into her eyes like a python into a lagoon.

"You're right. I should have. I won't trouble you further." I stood up. "Thanks so much for everything." I held out my hand, and when she reluctantly extended hers, I took it. "You've really made a big difference."

"That's good to know. How long will you be staying?"

Gently I broke the handclasp.

"Not long." I backed away, smiled at her, finally got my hand on the knob and pushed. "All the best, Margaret. Enjoy your blackberries."

She started to say something, then thought better of it. I left her standing behind her desk, a circle of pink tongue - tip visible in the corner of her unattractive mouth, searching for a taste of something.

The library was properly austere and very respectably stocked with books and journals for a college the size of Jedson. The main room was a marble cathedral draped in heavy red velvet and lit by oversized windows placed ten feet apart. It was filled with oak reading tables, green - shaded lamps, leather chairs. All that was missing were people to read the august volumes that papered the walls.

The librarian was an effete young man with close cropped hair and a pencil mustache. His shirt was red plaid, his tie a yellow knit. He sat behind his reference table reading a recent copy of Artforum. When I asked him where the thesis section was, he looked up with the astonished expression of a hermit observing the penetration of his lair.

"There," he said, languidly, and pointed to a spot at the south end of the room.

There was an oak card catalog and I found Gretchen Chaplain's thesis listed in it. The title of her magnum opus had been Brindamoor Island: Its History and Geography.

Theses by Frederick Chalmers and O. Winston Chastain were present, but Gretchen's rightful place between them was unfilled. I checked and double checked the Library of Congress number but that was a fruitless ritual: The Brindamoor study was gone.

I went back to Plaid Shirt and had to clear my throat twice before he tore himself away from a piece on Billy Al Bengston.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for a specific thesis and can't seem to find it."

"Have you checked the card file to make sure it's listed?"

"The card's there but the thesis isn't."

"How unfortunate. I would guess it's been checked out."

"Could you check for me, please?"

He sighed and took too long to raise himself out of his chair. "What's the author's name?"

I gave him all the necessary information and he went behind the checkout counter with an injured look. I followed him.

"Brindamoor Island - dreary place. Why would you want to know about that?"

"I'm a visiting professor from UCLA and it's part of my research. I didn't know an explanation was necessary."

"Oh, it's not," he said, quickly, and buried his nose in a stack of cards. He lifted out a portion of the cards and shuffled them like a Vegas pro. "Here," he said, "that thesis was checked out six months ago - my, it's overdue, isn't it?"

I took the card. Scant attention had been paid to Gretchen's masterpiece. Prior to its last withdrawal a half year ago, the last time it had been checked out was in 1954, by Gretchen herself. Probably wanted to show it to her kids - Mummy was once quite a scholar, little ones…

"Sometimes we get behind on checking on overdue notices. I'll get right on this, Professor. Who checked it out last?"

I looked at the signature and told him. As the name left my mouth my brain processed the information. By the time the two words had dissolved I knew my mission wouldn't be complete with a trip to the island.

24

The ferry to Brindamoor Island made its morning trip at seven - thirty.