The Professor and the Puzzle

  A moment later, movement in the shadows of the storefront caught my eye. A figure, all dressed in black and wearing a hood, emerged from the murk and began approaching Dr. Stone from behind. She was so immersed in her reunion with Sophocles that she must not have been paying attention, because she stayed kneeling at his cage.

  The figure was almost upon her now. Mustering all my strength, I raced toward them, closing in on the last bit of distance between us.

  Faster! Go faster!

  Suddenly the figure raised his arm, and I saw something gripped in his hand that glinted in the lamplight.

  Finally, I was close enough to scream.

  “Stop!”

  Dr. Stone leaped to her feet in surprise, and then, seeing me rushing toward her, looked utterly confused and said, “Nancy?” But the dark figure was undeterred. He lunged at her with the thing in his hand.

  “Behind you!” I cried, and threw myself at her attacker. Dr. Stone dodged out of the way, leaving the figure and me to land on the asphalt in a heap, my hands and knees scraping painfully into the gravel. The thing in his hand skittered across the ground—an insulin syringe.

  The attacker shoved me off and got quickly to his feet. He started to make a run for it across the parking lot, but not before I could raise myself to sitting and shout, “There’s no use running, Dr. Brown. It’s over.”

  The dark figure stopped in his tracks and stood with his back to us for a moment. But then he turned around to face us and pulled off his hood.

  “Fletcher?!” Dr. Stone exclaimed in shock. “What were you—? Why—?” She then turned to look down at me and say, “Nancy, I demand you explain to me what’s going on here!”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Dr. Stone, but these accidents that have been happening around you lately—Bash’s fall at the gala, Sophocles going missing, and me tumbling out of your office window—they weren’t accidents at all. Dr. Brown orchestrated them, and they were all meant to hurt you.”

  Dr. Stone looked stricken and turned to face Dr. Brown. “Fletcher, this isn’t true . . . is it?”

  Dr. Brown didn’t answer. His handsome face had twisted into a grotesque mask of rage and fear and disbelief. He was shaking visibly as he finally opened his mouth to speak. “How did you know?” he asked me.

  “For a long time, I didn’t,” I confessed. “In fact, I barked up quite a few of the wrong trees. But it all came together when I found this.” I pulled the file folder that I’d found in Dr. Brown’s office out of my bag and showed them both the lengthy paper inside.

  Dr. Stone pointed at it, surprised. “Where did you find it? That’s—”

  “The late Cameron Walsh’s unpublished paper, yes. The note from your editor, Dr. Brown, mentioned that the title of the work you were submitting was ‘The Lost Truth,’ and it reminded me of what Dr. Stone said about the paper Dr. Walsh had been working on before he died. A big discovery about one of Protagoras’s lost texts. Once I saw this paper—which is written about Protagoras’s On Truth—I knew it was one and the same.”

  “But I thought it was buried somewhere in Cameron’s things!” Dr. Stone said.

  “It was,” I agreed. “Until Dr. Brown found it. He probably discovered it when you were all cleaning up Dr. Walsh’s office, realized what he was holding, and secretly kept it for himself.”

  “Why would he do that?” Dr. Stone asked.

  “Because he knew that with Dr. Walsh gone, the classics department would need a new chair. And he very much wanted it to be him.”

  “I deserve it!” Dr. Brown broke in. “The students at this school worship the ground I walk on! The staff loves me—and I have every academic honor imaginable. Why shouldn’t it be me?”

  “Because,” I continued, “despite all of that, you didn’t have the scholarship. Papa George said that you just needed a big publication to have it made—but you hadn’t written anything of note yet. And knowing that, when you saw this major academic breakthrough fall into your lap, you knew you had to take it for yourself. Dr. Walsh was notoriously secretive about his work, and now he was dead. No one would be the wiser if you published it under your own name. Except there was one problem.” I raised the paper and shined my light on it, so that they both could see it clearly. “This paper was covered in notes and comments, written in purple ink. That meant that one person had read it and knew that this was Cameron Walsh’s work, not yours. And I’m guessing you identified that person because you knew that only one professor on campus uses purple ink on her papers: Dr. Stone.”

  Dr. Brown shook his head in disgust, and I knew that I was right.

  “And knowing Dr. Stone, you knew she would blow the whistle on you the moment she saw the paper in the Prometheus. If she barely tolerates texting in her classroom, there’s no way she’d let plagiarism of this severity go by. She was too ethical to be bought or convinced to keep her mouth shut. You knew that. So you needed to get her away from Oracle—by whatever means necessary.”

  Dr. Stone was silent as all this started to sink in. Now she didn’t look confused—she looked angry. “Bash is in the hospital because of you? Because of this . . . blind ambition?”

  The young professor wrung his hands in anguish. “I didn’t mean for that to happen!” he said. “When I heard you were going to give the speech at the gala, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to . . . get you out of the way. I went in early under the guise of helping with setup”—I nodded, remembering how Iris and I had seen him come in on the security feed—“sabotaged the balcony, and everything was good to go. But then I saw Bash up there, not you. I wanted to stop him, wanted to say something—but it would have given me away. So I kept my mouth shut and hoped for the best.” He swallowed hard and wiped a film of sweat from his forehead.

  “You coward,” Dr. Stone growled. “You’re lucky Bash is still alive!”

  “You could have ended it there,” I continued. “But the editors at the Prometheus were expecting your paper—and with Dr. Stone still in the picture, and not on some kind of extended medical leave, you couldn’t send it. So you tried again.” Dr. Brown’s eyes flicked to the cage, where Sophocles was bobbing his head, seeming to listen to every word being said. “Yes, you decided to kidnap Dr. Stone’s beloved bird. Using Sophocles as bait, you set up a trap in Dr. Stone’s office, hoping to cause her to fall out of her office window looking for him. Another explainable ‘accident.’ But you didn’t count on me showing up instead of Dr. Stone.”

  Dr. Brown sighed, and buried his face in his hands.

  “You must have only realized the plan had gone awry when you heard me calling for help instead of Dr. Stone. That’s when you ran over, ready to play the role of the hero.”

  “What else could I do?” he asked. “I didn’t want yet another injury on my conscience. It’s not my fault you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Dr. Stone looked at her colleague with raised eyebrows. “Why, Fletcher,” she said, sarcastically. “I never knew you were such a raging narcissist. Now you’re blaming Nancy for almost getting hurt in a trap you set?”

  “Well,” I added, “his hero act worked very well to throw me off his scent. I never suspected him after that. But there was something later that stuck out as strange to me. When I ran into you rummaging around in the bushes on my way to the classics building tonight, you were looking for your dictation machine. You said it fell out of your bag that morning, but I think you put it there the night I fell.”

  “What? Why would you think that?” Dr. Stone asked.

  “Because when I was hanging from the window after hearing Sophocles calling for help, I didn’t see your parrot anywhere. That’s because Sophocles was never actually there. Dr. Brown must have recorded him talking on his dictation machine. He knew that you had late meetings that night and would return to an empty building. I’m guessing he waited outside until your light went on, pressed play on the recording and hid it in the bushes. He probably used something to magnify
the sound. Knowing that you would lean out the window to listen for the bird, he ran up the stairs to literally pull the rug out from under you.”

  Dr. Stone blew out her cheeks. “Indeed, and quite creative, I’ll give him that,” she said.

  “Once I knew that you were the person who had stolen Sophocles, I knew that Dr. Stone was in trouble tonight. You were running out of time to deliver your alleged masterpiece to the Prometheus, so in a panic, you devised this final plan.” I bent down to pick up the tiny syringe from where it had fallen from his hands. “You knew you could lure her out here with a fake story and the promise of Sophocles’s return. And you knew that Dr. Stone was diabetic and sometimes a bit forgetful when it came to her injections.”

  Dr. Stone gasped. “You were going to put me in a diabetic coma?”

  Dr. Brown shrugged. “Probably only for a little while. It’s just a small overdose, really.”

  “Just a small overdose?” Dr. Stone spluttered.

  “In your best-case scenario,” I said, “Dr. Stone would have been laid up in the hospital with no memory of the incident, and probably put on temporary hiatus. I guess that would give you the opportunity to get your stolen paper published, and, with Dr. Stone out of the running, you’d be the clear choice for chair of the department. But I still have one question, wouldn’t there always be the chance Dr. Stone would read the article and know what you did?”

  Dr. Brown balked at my accusing gaze. “You have to understand—I did it for the good of the school! For Oracle—and for the students! Agatha may be brilliant”—he gestured toward Dr. Stone—“but she doesn’t have what it takes to lead! Passion! Charisma! The ability to inspire young minds! And, deep down, I think Agatha knows this too. I was sure she only had to see how successful I was as the chair. I would explain everything to her and she would see that I am the best choice for the job, that I did the right thing. She would agree to keep my secret. For the good of the school.”

  I looked back at Dr. Stone, expecting to see her fuming at his pompous speech, but she looked solemn. “Hamartia,” she whispered.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a term from Aristotle’s Poetics. It refers to a fatal error or flaw made by a hero that eventually leads to a tragic end. One bad decision that starts a chain of events leading to his downfall.” She looked at Dr. Brown, who seemed to wither like a sun-scorched flower under her burning gaze. “When you set out to steal Dr. Walsh’s work, you started down a path to ruin. At that moment, you ceased to be the kind of man who was worthy of Cameron’s position.”

  The words struck Dr. Brown like a blow. It was as if Dr. Stone, like Artemis herself, had aimed her arrow straight at his heart and drove the point home. Dr. Brown collapsed to his knees. “I—I—” he stammered. “I’m so sorry, Agatha.”

  Dr. Stone nodded, the moonlight shining in her eyes.

  At that moment, the sound of a car engine roared toward us, and within seconds a large white SUV tore into the parking lot and came to a screeching halt, its headlights shining in our eyes. Dazzled by the glare, I barely could make out the two figures that jumped out of the car and approached us.

  “Oh, Nancy,” said Iris, her curly dark hair a wild halo around her head. “Thank goodness you’re all right.” Her cell phone was gripped in her hand—my flurry of text messages probably displayed on the screen. I’d told her where I was going and why as I was running to my car. “We came as soon as we could.”

  Papa George loomed over the crumpled figure of Dr. Brown, like a great and powerful god looking down upon a poor, misguided soul. “Fletcher, look at me,” he commanded.

  Dr. Brown squinted up at him, blinking into the blaze of light.

  “Is it true?”

  Dr. Brown hung his head. “Yes.”

  Papa George frowned, his craggy face wrinkling with disbelief. “But you had such a bright future . . .”

  “I was so close,” Dr. Brown moaned. “So close to greatness, I could almost reach it!”

  “Greatness comes from small beginnings,” Papa George told him. “It is not stolen from the hands of others. You flew too close to the sun, my friend. Now you must pay the price.”

  With a nod, Dr. Brown allowed himself to be led into the SUV. Before getting back in his car, Papa George asked Dr. Stone to help Iris and me retrieve some gas for my car while he accompanied Dr. Brown to the police station. “And Nancy,” Papa George added, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Thank you. I should have known never to doubt my Little Fox when she tells me there’s villainy afoot. Oracle College owes you a great debt. There might even be a scholarship with your name on it—when you’re ready.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Papa George,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”

  Iris, Dr. Stone, and I watched them drive away into the night. As the sound of their engine faded into the distance, the growing silence was pierced by a squawking cry. “Mama!” it said.

  “Oh!” Dr. Stone exclaimed. “My baby! How could I forget you?” She ran over to Sophocles’s small cage and knelt down to open the door. The African gray parrot hopped out and onto her arm, side-walking up to her shoulder, where he nuzzled her with his beak and cooed. “Mama!” he repeated.

  “Well, Nancy,” Iris said, coming to stand next to me and watch the happy reunion. “Looks like this case is another feather in your cap. Get it? Feather? Because of the bird . . . ?”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “Your jokes are almost as bad as your spying skills,” I said with a smirk.

  “Yes, well,” Iris huffed, “that may be true, but if I’d been around, I would have told you those shoes are not appropriate for long-distance running or chasing perps.” She indicated my black flats, which indeed looked the worse for wear. My feet didn’t feel so good either.

  “Touché,” I agreed. “I guess that’s why we make such a great team.”

  “Darn right, we do,” she said, clapping me on the back. “Now, how about a late-night milk shake to celebrate our combined genius?”

  “Great idea!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Icarus Rises

  GOING TO THE LOCAL HOSPITAL wasn’t exactly on my list of things to do while visiting Oracle College, but the afternoon after my confrontation with Dr. Brown in the parking lot, that’s exactly where I was. Thankfully, the reason for my visit was a happy one.

  Bash was awake.

  I’d gotten a text message from Iris late that morning, after a long, dreamless sleep—she said she’d heard from her father that Bash had regained consciousness overnight, and was talking and answering questions like his usual self.

  After a quick breakfast, Iris and I jumped in my car and drove over to the hospital to see him. I walked through the automatic front doors, carrying a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a bouquet of get-well-soon flowers in the other. “Ugh,” said Iris, balling up the corner of her pink skirt in annoyance. “I knew I should have picked up a gift at the store. You’re going to make me look bad.”

  “There’s a gift shop inside,” I told her. “You can always pick up a balloon or a stuffed animal or something.”

  “Do you think they have one shaped like a bust of Socrates?” she asked.

  I wrinkled my nose. “A balloon or a stuffed animal?”

  “Either?”

  “Probably not.”

  She shrugged. “Alas. He’ll have to make do with a box of chocolates, then.”

  As she sashayed over to the gift shop, I made my way to the elevator bank. When it arrived, I stepped in and pushed the button for the third floor. But just as the doors were closing, I heard a voice call out, “Hold the elevator!”

  I shot my arm out to block the doors, and they automatically reopened. A woman ran inside, her long salt-and-pepper braids streaming out behind her. She was dressed in a golden yellow silk blouse and a high-waisted, ankle-length skirt, printed in a colorful geometric design. She looked like a bird-of-paradise in human form, or some other kind of tropical plant that made the o
nes in my hand look drab in comparison.

  “Dr. Stone!” I said in surprise. “You must have heard about Bash as well!”

  She nodded and smiled, a dazzling smile that lit up her entire face. “Yes, isn’t it wonderful?”

  “You look . . . different,” I observed, not sure how to describe the transformation I was seeing. She looked like a new woman, more energetic and vibrant than I’d ever seen her before.

  “Bash’s recovery wasn’t the only good news I received this morning,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Dr. Pappas called first thing to ask me to be the new chair of the classics department!”

  I gasped. “That’s fantastic! Congratulations!”

  Dr. Stone beamed. “Thank you. I can hardly believe it myself.”

  I pushed the button for the third floor once more, and we rode the elevator in comfortable silence for a few moments. I cast a look at the professor and noticed her biting her lip—a look of concern furrowing her brow. “What is it?” I asked. “You are excited about the position, aren’t you?”

  Dr. Stone looked up. “Oh—yes, of course. It’s just . . . all those things Fletcher said last night, I can’t get them out of my head. About how I don’t have the ability to lead. That I’m brilliant but uninspiring. And now—I’m going to be the chair of the department! It’s a well-known fact that I’m not the most popular woman on campus. What if he’s right about me? What if I don’t have what it takes?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t you remember what you told me back in your office? ‘The good and the wise lead quiet lives.’ That’s you! The good and wise. You don’t need to be everyone’s best friend and biggest crush to be an inspiration. Just giving people what they want doesn’t help make a difference in their lives. You push people to be better. They don’t have to like it—but at the end of the day, I think they will really appreciate it.” I put a reassuring hand on the professor’s arm. “I think you’re going to be great, Dr. Stone.”