Chapter Eight #2
Dr. Naomi Ruger was a hard-core laboratory scientist who liked to compare herself to Ed Ricketts, the marine biologist who had befriended John Steinbeck and was the inspiration for the character of Doc in Cannery Row.
But if Harper remembered the novel correctly, and she did, Ed Ricketts was a lot more open-minded than Naomi, who had little time for the humanities, even less for history, and none at all for Harper.
Harper’s closest ally on the faculty, Gabe Ruiz, a popular and high-profile professor of performing arts and the college’s other “department of one,” informed Harper that Naomi had argued passionately against hiring her, insisting her research was unworthy of a serious scholar and lobbying in favor of hiring a chemical engineer instead.
But Gabe had marshaled support in favor of expanding the humanities faculty and ultimately carried the day.
Naomi took out her frustrations with passive-aggressive jabs at both Harper and Gabe whenever she had the chance.
Today Naomi was dressed, as usual, in a flattering silk dress and high heels that looked as if they had cost a small fortune, and her long blond hair was curled and sprayed. She was a few years younger than Harper and would have been quite fetching had her face not been frozen in a perpetual scowl.
Harper admired Naomi’s sense of style but loved that here in informal California she could get away with wearing simple slacks and jackets, and keeping her auburn hair in the same pageboy cut she had rocked since high school.
Harper was the first to admit that her fashion sense lacked imagination, but she could live with that.
And the less time spent in front of a mirror, the better.
“Good morning, Naomi,” Harper said politely. She knew Naomi would inevitably vote against her when she came up for tenure, but it behooved her to be professional. “Yes, it was a ghost tour. I lost a bet.”
Naomi leaned in closer. “Did you see the body?”
“She was still alive when I saw her. It was very sad. Traumatic, even.”
“Was she really…I mean, I hear it was gruesome?”
A physics professor entered the mail room, nodding pleasantly at Harper and Naomi.
“Are you asking for the gruesome details of how I found poor Delilah Mason?” Harper said loudly, and Naomi’s face turned red.
“No, of course not,” Naomi snapped. “I don’t have time for such nonsense.” She grabbed her mail and left.
“What’s her problem today?” the physics professor asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the communal coffeepot.
“Must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of the bed,” Harper replied.
Settling into her office, Harper opened her email to find a message from the dean asking to meet with her as soon as she came in.
Her stomach clenched. Dean Willis was gray-haired and avuncular, a well-known scholar of presidential history, and had gone to graduate school with Harper’s advisor at Berkeley.
But she had had limited interaction with him since she’d arrived.
The only thing she knew about the dean personally was that he was a fan of hot-air balloons, and the only reason she knew that much was because he had decorated his office with color photographs of hot-air balloons with himself in the gondola.
Maybe he was going to invite her to go ballooning? Fat chance. She took a deep breath and went upstairs to the dean’s office.
“Go on in, Dr. Grae,” the dean’s secretary said. “He’s expecting you.”
“Dr. Grae! Thanks for coming by,” Dean Willis said from behind his expansive desk. “Have a seat, please.”
She sat and waited.
“How are you liking it here at Monterey College?” he asked.
“I like it very much. Wonderful colleagues, and the students are so engaging.” It was an exaggeration, because what else could she say?
“Good, good. Happy to hear it.” The dean paused.
“Is there a problem?” Harper asked, her heart beating faster. Am I getting fired…again? She had a contract, but without tenure she could be let go at any time.
“No, not a problem. At least, I hope not,” Dean Willis said, and cleared his throat. “How shall I say this? Best just to plunge in, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.”
“Here’s the thing: It has come to my attention that you recently took part in some kind of ghost walk. Is that correct?”
“It was a joke.” I am going to kill Tariq. “I only went because I lost a bet with a friend.”
“And when you were on the ghost walk you found the, er, the body of Delilah Mason?”
“Sort of. I mean, she wasn’t dead until…later.”
Dean Willis nodded. “Dr. Grae, I believe you know that there are some on the faculty who don’t, shall we say, appreciate your area of research.”
“I am aware of that, yes. I hope you don’t think—”
“I had a long chat with your advisor at Berkeley before we invited you to campus, and he assured me of the quality of your work. I also read your recent article on the symbolism of being buried alive. Fascinating stuff. Really first-rate.”
“Thank you.” Harper glanced at his photos of hot-air balloons for reassurance. Surely someone who loved such things must have a sense of whimsy, and thus be open to different ideas? “I’m actually expanding on that article now; it feels like there’s enough there for a book.”
“Excellent. A book under your belt would be excellent…” He cleared his throat and brushed something nonexistent off his desk blotter.
“But if I am to be honest, the concerns about your research are not entirely without weight given Monterey College’s emphasis on the STEM fields.
I am also given pause by the rather strange coincidence of what happened to Delilah Mason. ”
“I assure you that I had nothing whatsoever to do with that.”
“I did not imagine you had. But a word to the wise, Dr. Grae: Focus on your research and teaching, work on your book, and get some peer-reviewed publications out quickly so that tenure will proceed without difficulty.”
Monterey College was much smaller and more focused on teaching than the large research university Harper had been at previously, and thus the pressure for winning research grants and the like was less intense.
Nonetheless, as Dean Willis just reminded her, Harper still had to prove herself to her new colleagues by publishing her work in reputable historical journals.
For at least the next few years, she needed to put her head down, get to work, and do whatever she could to make topics such as the history of witches and vampires and zombies and poisons as palatable to the academic community as they were to the general public.
Why, oh why, had she not thought to research something safe, and dry, and boring, like presidential history?
Because it’s safe, and dry, and boring. That’s why.
“Understood,” said Harper. “And thank you.”
“Of course. Thanks for coming by.” As Harper opened the door to leave, the dean added, “Dr. Grae? Stay out of the papers. And no more ghost tours!”
“No more ghost tours,” she gladly agreed.