Dark Mural Read online

  As I walked to my office, I had an idea for getting in touch with Teresa Zannetti. It was possible someone she knew from high school in Mansfield had come to Fuchs College and enrolled in one of my classes—someone other than Devon, that is.

  When I got to my office, I looked at the rosters for my three courses. There were thirty-five students in one section of art appreciation, thirty-three in the other, and ten in art history, for a total of seventy-eight. It took me a while to type each of those names into the search box on BudStem. By the time I was done, I had found two students from Mansfield, both from my afternoon section of art appreciation. I remembered seeing them in class, but hadn’t spoken to them individually.

  I sent a request to each of them, hoping they might like to be buddies with one of their professors. If they did, I would send a request to Teresa, and, if she knew either or both of them, she might agree to be my buddy. That was a lot of ifs, but it was the best chance I had.

  Professor Jacob Schumacher lived in one of the Victorians on College Avenue, across and down a ways from the chapel. These were not grand pieces of architecture, but rather homes for a professional class of people in a style typical of the early 1900s. His two-story house had a square tower on one corner. The wide front porch and generous proportions promised comfort well beyond basic shelter. In other words, this house had nothing in common with the Rabbit Hutches.

  He answered the door wearing a brown suede vest over a black shirt, black slacks, and black shoes with pointy toes.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Noonan,” he said.

  “Please, call me Nicole.”

  “And you must call me Jacob.”

  He gestured toward the living room. “Please have a seat.”

  This was not in the same universe with the Rabbit Hutches: built-in bookcases along one wall, a bay window at the far end of the room with two wing chairs, armchairs and a loveseat clustered in front of a hearth, all under a high ceiling, and lit by casement windows with leaded glass. Part of my brain understood that he had been on the faculty here for probably thirty years, while I had been here about thirty days, but another part of my brain said, “Kill this man and take his house.”

  I sat on the loveseat and admired a collection of porcelain in a tall display case by the fireplace. There were two dinner plates and a few smaller plates, all painted with decorative borders and pastoral scenes. There were also teacups and saucers and a few figurines.

  He smiled as he sat back and clasped his hands over his belly. “Do you like my collection of Meissen?”

  “It’s lovely,” I said, “although I can’t say I know much about it.”

  “Meissen is significant,” he said. “In the early eighteenth century, they were the first Europeans to discover how to make white porcelain. Up to then it had to be imported from China.”

  “Very nice,” I said.

  Changing his, tone he said, “I want to offer my condolences on the death of your student. It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

  At that moment, I felt the shock as much as I had Saturday morning. “Yes, it was. Thank you.”

  “I know only what the dean put in his email on Saturday, and I’m afraid I’m not very good about following news reports. Is anything further known about how she died?”

  “I’m not aware of anything,” I said.

  I decided to change the subject, because any further talk of this would bring me to tears. “I appreciate your offer to help with my research.”

  “I hope I can help. As I recall, you want to look in the archives for references to the mural?”

  “Yes. In my dreams, I would find the artist’s sketchbook so I could see how he or she collected images and developed themes. But, really, any mention of the artist or the mural would help.”

  “Of course. Let me give you a quick tour.”

  He picked up a laptop computer from the coffee table, navigated to a page, and handed it to me. On the screen I saw a page from the library catalogue. “All the items in the archive relevant to the years of the Eden Commune, 1851 to 1883, are listed as collections named for the families who donated them to the library,” he said. “As you can see, there are quite a few. A single collection might give you a large number of documents. There’s one, for instance, at the top of that page, a collection of letters written by a member of the commune between 1863 and 1869.”

  I clicked on the title of the item and saw that the file contained 104 letters, most on sheets measuring four and a half inches by seven inches. “I suppose it would take a few days to read them all,” I said.

  Jacob nodded. “That’s right, and reading them would be the only way to know if the letters mention the mural, because only a few of these collections have been indexed. I’ve already checked those that are, and I didn’t find a reference to the mural or to painting or artwork.”

  “So I would have to read through more than a hundred collections, each one containing perhaps hundreds pages?”

  “Some more, some less.” He took the computer from me, clicked on another entry, and handed it back. “This one, for instance, contains only a diary from 1877. It’s a pocket-sized book, two inches by three inches, with forty pages.”

  “Still, there must be thousands of pages,” I said. “Why don’t we have the National Endowment for the Humanities give us an enormous grant to hire an army of scholars to index all these pages. If we hire enough of them, they could be done by Christmas.”

  Jacob chuckled. “If we could predict that somewhere in these documents is a cure for cancer or a formula for renewable fuels, I’m sure we could get the funding. A lost sonnet by Shakespeare might even do it.”

  His laugh brought on a fit of coughing. He turned away from me and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth.

  When he turned back, I noticed a spot of blood on his lower lip. “You have something on your lip,” I said, touching my own lip in the same place.

  Startled, he turned away again and wiped his lip repeatedly, checking his handkerchief each time. Apparently he wanted to make sure no more blood showed.

  I made a few notes about the items Jacob had shown me. “Thanks for the introduction. Perhaps I’ll spend some time reading through the catalogue entries to see if anything stands out for me.”

  Jacob nodded. “That’s a good idea. And let me know if you have any trouble with the German. Some of the vocabulary is peculiar.”

  My mouth was dry and my heart was speeding up. “The German?”

  Chapter 12

  “Yes,” said Jacob. “Most of the documents from the commune are in German. For instance, that collection of letters was addressed to relatives back in Germany. In general, members of the commune had little need for English. When they did business with English-speaking farmers from the area, rough translations sufficed.”

  When I was twelve, my family went to Lake Tahoe to stay with another family at a cabin. I had taken swimming lessons at Rossi Pool for several years, so I didn’t hesitate to jump off a pier. By doing so, I learned that the water of a deep, mountain lake is frigid compared to the water of a pool in a neighborhood recreation center. Learning that the documents I wanted to read were written in German was a similar experience.

  “Well, Jacob, I must confess, I do not read German.”

  “If something looks promising, perhaps I can help.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “I could at least glance at it or I might have an advanced student who would like to translate it for an independent study credit.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  He shrugged. “It would also contribute to making the documents more accessible to others. Oh, there’s one other thing to look for. Some of the documents are written in Gabelsberger.”

  “Gabelsberger? What is that?”

  “It’s a system of shorthand writing that was invented in Germany in 1834. Some of the more literate members of the commune learned it before they came here. Paper was re
latively expensive back then, so shorthand was used to avoid filling pages with longhand writing. It was also useful for recording a lecture or sermon.”

  “So I would have to get someone to translate the shorthand into German before I could have the German translated into English?”

  “Yes. Gabelsberger hasn’t been used since the 1920s, but I know of two scholars in Germany who can read it, although one of them is fairly old now.”

  I did my best to smile. “Jacob, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I hope I haven’t discouraged you.”

  “Well, I had hoped for better news, but thank you for filling me in.”

  “You’re welcome, and let me know how it goes.”

  As I left the building and walked back to my Rabbit Hutch, my feet felt heavy. My imaginary road that lead from Fuchs College to academic stardom was now blocked by an avalanche of German written in shorthand.

  Maybe I could find an alternate route. When we met in the chapel, Jacob had mentioned that a building from the Oneida Commune still existed. I could find out if there was a mural there. I might also look outside the world of communes and see how many buildings survived in Ohio from the mid-1800s. One of them might have a mural. If its style matched the mural in the chapel, they might have been done by the same artist, who might be identifiable. I was speculating wildly, but often that kind of thinking can show you where to look.

  When I came to the intersection of College Avenue and Ohio Avenue, the chapel was only a short walk away. I thought a few minutes with the mural might rekindle my enthusiasm for studying it.

  The afternoon light from the west-facing windows was spotty, and it shone unevenly on the mural, but there was enough to see the panorama of community life. I saw again the long noses of the farmer, the preacher, and the man in the orchard, which lead Jacob to suspect the muralist had depicted Felix Fuchs. It was a pleasure to revisit these images and themes, and to let my eyes skip around the mural, taking in more details.

  I found it odd that in the preaching scene the preacher and congregation were shown with the exterior of the church in the background. Why wouldn’t the muralist have shown them inside the church? Also between the preaching scene and the choir-singing scene was one in which men were completing the skeletal framework of a building. Why would that have been placed alongside scenes of worship? I pulled a notebook out of my bag and made a quick schematic drawing of this part of the mural. I also made a note to remind me to ask Jacob if he could meet me in the chapel on Thursday afternoon to take a look at these vignettes.

  As I sketched and wrote, I felt calm. My brain seemed to unlock, and my thoughts flowed freely once more. I promised myself I would drop in here for an hour at least every other day, and collect my impressions. I got excited about moving forward with an article on the mural. Routine chores like grading quizzes, preparing classes, buying groceries, and even doing laundry began to seem possible once more.

  I learned to do this when I was a girl. When Mom took me to the de Young Museum, about ten blocks from our house, I didn’t want to leave. I started crying when she said it was time to go home. When we got home I used my crayons to make copies from memory of paintings I had seen at the museum so I wouldn’t forget them. When I was older, I took art lessons and started studying art, but the real lesson from my childhood was that copying and thinking about a picture could make me feel better.

  I went back to my office, revised my to-do lists, and checked the email in my Fuchs.edu account, which I hadn’t opened in a few days. As I worked my way through the long list of messages, my fingers froze on the keyboard and I held my breath when I saw “Kate Conrad” in the sender column. I’m not superstitious, but for a moment I hesitated to click on the subject line, “My Research on the Mural,” as if opening the message might unleash her ghost. I shook off the feeling and clicked.

  Hi Dr. Noonan,

  Just wanted to let you know I have a pretty good idea what I want to write my paper on. I got some good notes and sketches in the chapel yesterday afternoon. In the library today, I found some art history books that gave me some good ideas about what one of the coffins in the mural might mean. The bibliography in the back of the textbook was a big help and I found things online. Have a good weekend. I’ll see you in class on Monday.

  Kate

  I cried. All the fun of teaching Kate about art history, all her quick insight, all the writing she might have done, and the career she might have had, now were like a great cargo ship disappearing over the horizon. I had lost family members—an uncle and a cousin—and not felt this bereaved.

  When I dried my eyes, I re-read the email and stopped at the word “coffins.” I hadn’t noticed any coffins in the mural. I made a note to look for them Thursday afternoon, when I would again have time to spend in the chapel. If I could find out what she was researching, maybe I could mention her work in a footnote when eventually I published something.

  I slogged back to my Rabbit Hutch, ready to heal up from the shocks the afternoon had delivered by listening to some music, doing some exercises, and preparing a meal. Twenty yards from my front door, I stopped and looked. Something was different. My car. The hood was clear. No spray paint!

  I hurried over and took a close look at it. No black paint remained. Running my hand over the surface, I felt no uneven spots. Byron Hawley had made good on his offer.

  I choked up and felt tears in my eyes. Maybe a good deed could make up for a bad deed. Maybe I hadn’t been a fool to move far from home to take his job. Maybe I’d call home this evening and let Mom and Dad know how this one turned out.

  Wednesday morning class was uninspired. I took the conventional route, covering the material. The students seemed satisfied with conventional. Ursula Wilmot was in seventh heaven.

  Around lunchtime, Sheriff Adams called and asked to meet with me again. I told him I could see him after my afternoon class.

  Chapter 13

  Sheriff Mason Adams arrived at me office at three o’clock. He really was as tall as I remembered. cHe wasted no time coming to the point. “Were you aware that Devon Manus has a history of abusing women?”

  I took a moment to think about my answer, which must have made me look guilty. “I was not aware of it when we spoke on Saturday.”

  Now it was his turn to pause and think. “But you have since become aware of it?”

  “Devon came to see me on Monday. He was upset over Kate’s death, so I referred him to the counseling services on campus. He blurted out this story about how he was accused of abusing his girlfriend in high school.”

  Adams leaned toward me as he asked, “Why didn’t you call me and tell me about this?”

  I remained sitting straight up in my chair. “I didn’t know whether he was telling the truth about it.”

  Adams kept the pressure on. “You do understand, Doctor, it is my job to determine whether people involved in a criminal case are telling the truth.”

  “I didn’t know Devon was involved in a criminal case.”

  “I had just asked you about him on Saturday.”

  “When I spoke to you on Saturday, you wouldn’t say whether she died accidentally or was killed deliberately. So I had no reason to think this was a criminal case.”

  He paused and leaned back. I could see his jaw muscles clench. “We now know her injuries are not consistent with being struck by a vehicle. We believe she was killed by a blow to the head.”

  Though it was not a total surprise, the sheriff’s statement shocked me. “Well then,” I said, “You seem to have found out about Devon’s past without my help.”

  “The Mansfield police have been helpful.”

  “And what is their version of the story?”

  “Instead, why don’t you tell me Devon’s version of the story?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you ask Devon?”

  “I will. This is your chance to tell me your side of the story.”

  “I don’t have a side,” and paused when I noticed I ha
d raised my voice. “I just want him treated fairly. He’s my student. ”

  “I will treat him fairly. Right now all I have to go on is what the local police told me. Is there anything else I should know before I talk to him?”

  Since he put it that way, I felt okay about sharing what I knew. “Devon told me he was out one evening with his high school girlfriend, and she slipped and fell. She got mud on her dress and scratched her face, and she was crying. A man came along and thought it looked like Devon had abused her, so he called the police.”

  Adams jotted a few notes as I spoke, and paused to look them over. “So Devon says he did not abuse his girlfriend, but this man assumed he did.”

  “Yes.”

  Adams rested his eyes on the woods outside my window. “That’s possible. People are sometimes overzealous about calling the police, especially when it involves women or children.” He closed his notebook and tucked it in his pocket along with his pen. “Thank you, Doctor. As I said, I’ll talk to Devon. I’ll approach the interview with an open mind.”

  “Sheriff, before you go, there’s something else you might like to know. As I was leaving campus Saturday morning, I saw the crime-scene tape and I noticed it’s across the road from the field where there’s a footpath that goes into Blanton.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “If Kate Conrad was walking back to campus on Friday night, it seems more natural that she would have turned left at the end of the path, and walked along the road facing traffic. She would have had no reason to cross the road and walk on the side where she was found unless it was to speak to someone she knew or accept a ride from someone.”

  Adams stared at the wall behind me as if visualizing the place where Kate died. “I see what you mean. Of course, in a murder investigation, we always start with the assumption that the victim knew her attacker because statistically that’s most likely.” When he looked at me again, his expression was softer. “But thanks for mentioning this. I hadn’t thought of it.”