dreads, possibly last combed shortly after his birth, which had to have been just after the Bicentennial. Dora was dressed in something impeccable and Italian; Cerruti, I was willing to bet, only because she told me so repeatedly, and it was something the gods themselves would have envied.
“Huh, so your paper’s on Raphael Santi, then?” Chuck, whose pronunciation usually reminded me more of West Coast surfers than his actual Maine upbringing, spoke the Italian carefully.
“Yes.” Dora seemed amused, which in itself was reason for curiosity. And reason for caution. She highjacked other people’s lives when it suited her, and generally carried on her own affairs with the noble disregard of a Medici pope. I had reason to know this for a fact: Dora’s insinuation of herself into my affairs several years ago had involved me in a criminal investigation and led me in the right direction to identifying a killer. Two killers, to be exact.
“And you think that it was him, and not that other guy—”
“Perugino, an influence in his early years,” she corrected, a slight trace of irritation barely concealed. Raphael was Dora’s specialty, kind of the way architecture was Frank Lloyd Wright’s. And she was used to getting her own way.
“—who was responsible for the painting? Neat!” Chuck’s enthusiasm was as genuine as it was all encompassing. I think that part of the reason he was a sixth-year senior was that the classes at Caldwell College provided Chuck with an endless kaleidoscope of neat experiences. For my part, I thought Caldwell was probably the safest place for him: The world wasn’t ready for Chuck, and he wasn’t ready for it. Plus, on a more selfish note, despite his occasional trips to the outer rings of Saturn, he kept things going remarkably smoothly at the Anthropology Department.
“Yes.” Again, it was more of a cat watching a particularly playful mouse that characterized Dora’s response. “And now, may I have the slides?”
If Dora was at this stage, they’d been going at it for some time. Her patience—never Olympian—was wearing out, but interestingly, Chuck was immune to the signals that would have had the rest of us scurrying.
“Oh. No, sorry. I can’t let anyone who isn’t in the department take slides. Sorry.”
I watched as Dora drew herself up ever so slightly—this wouldn’t call for all her formidable force of personality—to respond. “Ah, I understand completely. But I need those slides. Surely you can make an exception.”
“Nope.” He shrugged and smiled. “Sorry. Rules.”
“Of course, naturally. But I’m sure the rules are more to keep the undergraduates from running amuck”—Dora wrinkled her nose—“and getting their jammy fingerprints all over the slides. I’m certain that it doesn’t apply to the faculty.”
“Oh, especially to the faculty,” Chuck said, nodding emphatically. “You wouldn’t believe what some of them will do, given the chance. It’s like they didn’t learn how to share in kindergarten or something. They’ll hide things they think belong only to them, they’ll lie, they’ll sneak. Just like the sandbox.”
I watched the amusement leaching out of Dora like water out of a rusted-through bucket, and decided that maybe I could help. “Hey, Chuck. How’s it going? And, hello, Dora—how’s your summer been? Productive so far?”
“Emma!” Dora was pleased to see me, though probably more to do with the slides than anything else. “Perhaps you could help me. This—Chuck, is it?—won’t allow me to take a couple of slides from your slide collection. Now, it’s only a nice detail, but the ruins in the landscape are exactly the sort of thing I need to make my point about the influence of the Urbino countryside where Raphael grew up. A small thing, but just the touch I need to—”
I nodded soberly. “Chuck’s right. It’s not department policy to lend the slides.”
Chuck beamed at me. I beamed back. Then I saw Dora pulling herself together for a really good blast, and decided I would back off. I was too close to ground zero.
“But what if I checked them out, Chuck, took responsibility for them?” I said in a hurry.
“Well, I can’t really…but then…I have no way of knowing what you do with a slide once you check it out, do I, Professor Fielding?” Chuck gave me a big, theatrical wink. “And since you’re so good about turning your slides in when you’re done with them…I suppose it will be okay.”
He slid the key across his desk to me. I resisted sticking my tongue out at Dora, and she successfully held her own tongue, now that she was getting