Page 86 of Suspicions on the Stage
“This is Morgana LeCiel, Dean of State University,” I say, rolling out the title with enough self-importance to keep him from asking if I’m the secretary. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with Mrs. Beauregard.”
A judgmental pause has me wondering if I sound like someone who dines with Senators, or someone he’s going to hang up on. Finally, there’s a cough and then he speaks again. “Please hold,” Reginald intones, and just like that, I’m demoted to the waiting room of the damned—hold music.
Of course, not the usual canned symphony or the faint, ghostly moans of NPR fundraising season; this is opera. Specifically, a child soprano singing a piece I can’t quite place. Something in Italian, all trills and melodrama, punctuated by brief stabs of audience applause. The effect is haunting, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel comforted or intimidated.
Probably both, knowing this woman.
I lean back in my chair, sighing to myself. The bourbon is doing its work, but my hands want to tap-dance on the desk. Instead, I open my inbox and start flagging the panicked emails from campus police, legal counsel, and the Board. Apparently, someone has already leaked Rialto’s death to the campus message boards, where students are having a field day with words like ‘killing spree’ and ‘untimely end.’ The top headline there is ‘Heir Apparent Found Dead: Foul Play Abounds at State U?’
The university PR team will try to bury it before it spreads, but I know from experience that the only thing more persistent than asouthern matriarch is a juicy rumor, even if it's unconfirmed. By the time I hang up, there will be three new conspiracy theories on the campus media boards, and at least a dozen calls for my resignation.
Not that I could resign even if I wanted to, but people aren’t always the brightest when they’re in a mob mentality.
The hold music switches abruptly from Italian opera to a scratchy, jazz-age ballad. It’s a woman’s voice, bourbon-smooth, singing about diamonds and men who can’t be trusted. I smirk; she’s not wrong about the majority of them for sure. I check the time: seven minutes have gone by.
My mouth tastes of impotent fury and resentment. I look over the Beauregard file again, searching for some chink in the matriarch’s armor. The only thing that comes up is a note in Channing’s sharp, cursive hand: ‘She loves animals. Don’t mention zoos.’ I can’t imagine why that would come up, but even if it did, I’d shy away from anything adjacent to the rumors about her husband’s sketchy safari death anyway.
At nine minutes, Reginald returns. His voice is even colder than before. “The Lady will speak to you now. Please remain on the line for transfer.”
It’s not a request, nor is there any apology in his tone. I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain an optic nerve, then put the phone back to my ear. My fingers find the bourbon glass and cradle it like a worry stone. The line clicks, and I inhale sharply—thank fuck, it’s time.
“Dean LeCiel. This is Regina Adelaide Beauregard.”
She doesn’t say, ‘how do you do’ or even, ‘thank you for calling.’ Instead, she makes her title a weapon, slicing my own in half. She sounds like ice cubes in a cut-glass tumbler.
“Thank you for speaking with me,” I say, aware that I sound like a courtier summoned to the throne room. I hate it, but I also can’t help the tremor that comes out as respect. “I’m afraid I have some hard news regarding your son, Rialto.”
She inhales so subtly that if I hadn’t spent years reading the tells of power-drunk donors, I would have missed it. “I trust the situation is not salvageable.”
Guess it’s not his first go-round with authority figures then.
It is not a question, but I answer anyway. “I regret to inform you that he was found deceased in the theater building last night. The police have ruled out suicide and are investigating as a homicide.”
A pause longer than her first one practically fills the air. For a moment, I think the line has dropped, and then she speaks. “I see,” she says. “Has the local press been informed?”
“No, but I highly doubt it will remain contained for very long. There are reports circulating online, but the official university statement is pending your notification. My office is coordinating with campus police and the city.”
“Of course you are,” she says, and I hear the faint creak of a rocking chair, or maybe the bones of her enemies. “You were efficient, Dean LeCiel. That is appreciated.”
I try to fill the silence with protocol. “If there is anything we can do to assist you or your family in this time?—”
“That will not be necessary. I have dispatched legal counsel and a family representative to your campus. Please have all evidence and personal effects secured for them.”
She doesn’t even attempt grief, nor hide that she was already making plans—indicating a leak somewhere. I wonder briefly if her heart is a rare gem, locked in a glass box somewhere and polished daily by Reginald. Maybe she just keeps it in the freezer.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, with genuine effort.
She makes a sound that could be a laugh or a cough. “Young men are a renewable resource, Ms. LeCiel. It is the principle that counts. Do you have children, Dean?”
Everyone knows I don’t after the trial; what’s her game?
“No,” I say carefully. “Just the university.”
“Then you don’t know yet,” she says, and her voice softens, just a millimeter, “that sometimes sacrifice is required for the advancement of the institution.”
That is a warning, delivered in the velvet voice of someone who has personally overseen several bloodless coups. It isn’t direct, but I feel it in my bones. “Rest assured, Dean, that whatever steps you take from here, the Beauregard name will not be tarnished. We will see to it.”
There is a cold, dry click, as if she has just snapped shut an expensive cigarette case. I can picture her in a wingback chair, dogs at her feet, a legion of lackeys ready to spill blood or serve tea at her whim.
