I was prevented from responding by the arrival of a very thin and extremely tall man with a shock of white hair. Standing at the lectern, he shuffled his papers, cleared his throat, and directed his gaze around the room. His gold-rimmed glasses glittered in the light as he scanned the audience. Gradually, the buzz of conversation died down.
“‘Beware the Ides of March!’”Professor Walters pronounced loudly. The few remaining voices were silenced. “‘A plague o’ both your houses!’” Putting his hands behind his back, he walked to the front of the podium and paced. “Do you recognize those prophecies? Do you know who spoke them?” A few people raised their hands. The professor ignored the eager students and continued. “Besides the obvious foreshadowing, what is the impact of prophecy in Shakespeare’s plays? And how significant is it that my opening quote was spoken as a warning by the soothsayer in Julius Caesar and the second as a threat by Mercutio to Romeo?” He paused. “That is what we will discuss tonight.”
I felt a nugget of pride that I had recognized both quotes. Yet as the professor continued, another memory from my time at college surfaced. The droning of a lecture provided the perfect opportunity for me to drift into a daydream. I had to admit that my best doodles were drawn during my economics classes. Tonight, though, Professor Walters’s voice didn’t inspire any creative graphics; instead my thoughts centered on the group of men that vied for attention in my brain: Marlette, Jude, Sean, Trey.
A snore from my mother brought me back to the present, and I nudged her just as the professor announced, “My next lecture will be on the role of Death—that’s with a capital ‘D’—in Shakespeare. See if you can prophesize what I will say about that!” He grinned at his own joke.
“That’s one I’ll be sure to miss,” my mother announced as she gathered herself to stand.
“Mama, I need to talk to him. Do you want to wait here?” Anxious to catch Professor Walters before he left, I was poised to dash.
“Naw, sug, you go on ahead. I’ll wait for you in the truck. I’ve got an emergency flask in the glove box.”
I needn’t have rushed. A circle of students surrounded Walters as he tried to make his way out the door. I dug into my purse and pulled out an old press card from the Dunston Herald, hoping it would legitimize my questions about Marlette. I bided my time until the last coed had left, and then I approached the professor.
He looked at me through his glasses, his gray eyes looking tired. “And what can I do for you, my dear? Do you also want an extension on your essay?”
“Oh no. I’m not a student.” At the raising of his eyebrows, I quickly added, “But I thoroughly enjoyed your lecture. It felt good to be thinking about Shakespeare again.”
He smiled. “I’m glad I was able to inspire you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go. These old bones don’t handle the late hours so well anymore.”
“Could I ask you a few questions first? I won’t take up too much time.” I handed him my Dunston Herald card. “I’m looking into the death of a former colleague of yours. Marlette Robbins?”
“Ah yes, Marlette. He was in the news recently. Such an unfortunate situation. I believe he was murdered, wasn’t he?” The professor seemed genuinely aggrieved by the idea.
“He was. He was living as sort of an outcast in Inspiration Valley, and I’m trying to discover how a man who was an accomplished academic could fall into vagrancy.” I omitted the detail of Marlette’s cabin on Red Fox Mountain. “Homelessness is such a prevalent issue these days; we should help those who have to face such a dire circumstance.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He shook his head. “In Marlette’s case, well, he found himself in a compromising situation. His reputation was smeared, the academic community lost all respect for him, and he chose to withdraw from society. I completely lost track of him and had no idea he was homeless. If I had…” his voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
Pulling out a chair for him, I watched him position his long legs as he sat down heavily. In a quiet voice, I asked, “What event precipitated such a significant change?” My reporter tentacles were quivering. I felt like I was on the verge of a breakthrough.
“Marlette was a good man. He volunteered every summer at that camp, running a creative writing workshop for talented teens.” He chuckled slightly. “I used to tease him about risking his life in the woods. He had a severe allergy to bee stings, you know.” My fingers tingled at this revelation. It would explain Marlette’s bloated face and hands. The professor shook his head. “Little did I know it would destroy life as he’d known it in a way we never imagined. One year, a young girl—she was fifteen, I believe—flirted continuously with him, always seeking him out for extra help, carrying herself in a…suggestive manner. He called me from the camp one night in search of advice on how to handle her. He was wondering how to tactfully reject her without damaging her ego. ‘Distance yourself immediately, Marlette!’ I warned him.” Professor Walters sighed.