Janet took my arm and pointed discreetly to two people seated on a red velvet sofa. “You can sit with them,” she said, and I noticed she was wheezing pretty badly.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Nothing that a few weeks won't cure,” she said with a wry smile as she clutched her back. “I feel like the Hindenburg blimp right before it exploded. Maybe I'd better sit down.”

“I can introduce myself to the others,” I told her. “You go take care of that baby.”

The man and the woman on the sofa acknowledged my presence and shifted ever so slightly to make room for me to sit beside them. “I'm Helga Van Brackle, Dean of Students,” the woman said in a voice that sounded as if she were used to scolding people.

“And this is Professor Ken Nakamura, the Academic Dean.”

His shock of thick white hair fell into his eyes as Professor Nakamura took my hand and bowed. “I understand you speak Japanese.”

It took me a second to realize he was speaking that language to me. “Only a little,” I automatically responded in Japanese, using the proper and self-deprecating answer that I knew was expected of me. “Are you from Japan?”

He shook his head. “Nisei. From southern California. Welcome to the college.”

His eyes smiled warmly at me, and I could imagine him being the surrogate grandfather of hundreds of young women students.

The three of us chatted for a minute or two until we were interrupted by a student passing a tray of pastries. I took one, then wished I hadn't, since President Godlove tapped his cup with his spoon to get everyone's attention. With a glance at his watch, he announced he had no intention of waiting any longer. The grandfather clock in the corner told me the meeting was twenty minutes late in getting started.

“He's never on time,” Helga mumbled.

“Who?” I asked.

“Shh,” someone cautioned. Helga's infuriated look would have scared anyone, but not the student who had done the deed.

President Godlove introduced me to the stragglers who had just come in, then asked Janet Margolies to go over her plans for Parents’ Weekend. I nibbled at my pastry and admired the furniture while she described at long length the Friday night activities, including a banquet, a tour of the dormitory, a poetry reading in the library, and a short production of The Tempest as adapted by a local playwright and alumna, Oretta Clopper.

From the groans that greeted this announcement, I guessed Mrs. Clopper was not everybody's favorite writer.

Janet shushed the crowd. “I know, I know, but it won't kill any of us to sit through it. This brings us to Saturday. After coffee and pastry in the dining hall, we will all move outside for the reenactment.” She smiled at me and said, “Generously cosponsored by our friends at the Chronicle.” A smattering of applause greeted this announcement.

“As some of you know,” she continued, “The chairman of our board of trustees, Mack Macmillan, has agreed to play the part of the condemned man.”

I jerked around to stare at her. What was she talking about?

She ignored me. “As you all know, Mack Macmillan is a well-known Civil War historian and will provide his own costume. Because of his years in the public sector as a United States congressman, he is highly visible and his participation will be a great asset…”

“Excuse me,” I said rather timidly. “What do you mean by ‘condemned man’? I thought this was to be a Civil War battle reenactment.”

“It is,” Janet said, not looking at me. “Sort of.” She looked relieved as the door opened and a tall, stately man with a vaguely familiar face entered the room. Although he was dressed in the Lickin Creek uniform of jeans, plaid shirt, and boots, he gave off an aura of aristocracy that set him apart from the citizens of the borough.

“Congressman Macmillan,” Ken Nakamura said softly. “The great man himself.”

Mack Macmillan worked his way around the room, shaking hands, slapping the men on the back, and kissing the women, until he reached me. “This is Tori Miracle,” Helga said.

“I had an Aunt Dorie,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “Lovely woman. Lovely name. So nice to meet you, Dorie.”

He moved on before I had a chance to correct him.

“Anybody seen my wife? I thought she was going to meet me here?”

“Problem at the stable,” the security chief said. “She's probably down there.”

“Then I'll just pop into the dining room and see if I can't catch her.” He paused in the doorway with one hand raised. “Carry on. I know Janet's got everything under control.”

I must have looked confused, because Ken said softly. “Stable-table. Tori-Dorie. He had a viral infection five or six years ago that left him deaf. He can only read lips if someone talks slowly and directly at him. Most of the college people can deal with it. The rest of the time he depends on his wife to interpret for him. It's what ended his career in Congress.”

Helga Van Brackle frowned at us, and Ken stopped talking to me and smiled innocently at her.

“Let's get back on task,” she said in a rasping voice. “Where were we?”

I raised my hand as if I were back in school because that's the way she made me feel. “Janet was starting to talk about the plans for the Civil War reenactment.” I turned to Janet, whose face was flushed. “Something you said about a victim confused me. Can you explain to me in detail what's going to happen?”

Janet took the floor as Helga sat down and told us of her plans for the reenactment, while I listened in shock.

I could already hear Cassie saying, “This is not the kind of event P. J. would want the Chronicle involved in.”

When the meeting ended, I left fuming. The least Janet could have done was be up-front with me when she asked me to cosponsor the event. However, the wheels were in motion, the publicity was out, and there was nothing I could do about it now.

CHAPTER 2

IT WAS NOT QUITE NOON WHEN CASSIE AND I arrived at the college and found a vacant spot on the lawn close to the college administration building. Cassie had apparently been to events like this before, because if there was something she hadn't brought, we wouldn't need it. She spread her pink blanket on the grass, urged me to sit next to her, then extracted two ice-cold Diet Cokes from her cooler. As usual, she was perfectly groomed and expensively dressed, today in a gray knit pantsuit that emphasized the silver in her hair. Casual, yet professional. She made me wish I'd worn something other than jeans and my NYU sweatshirt.

Cassie turned around to survey the crowd and waved to several people, who smiled back and nodded their greetings. She believed it was her duty to inform me who everyone was and what they did for a living. “That's J. B. Morgan-president of the Old Lickin Creek National Bank.”

“With a name like that he'd have to be,” I commented.

“Why?”

“Never mind. It was just a silly notion.”

“There's Oretta Clopper-she thinks she's a playwright. Oh good-Marvin Bumbaugh is here with the rest of the borough council.” She continued naming names, which I promptly forgot.

“Lots of unfamiliar faces here,” she mused.

“It is Parents’ Weekend,” I reminded her.

“Out-of-towners! Right here at our own Lickin Creek College for Women. This is so exciting. Tori, I'm finally beginning to think you did the right thing.”

I didn't gloat. Instead, I noted what a beautiful fall day it was, with not a cloud in the sky, and still practically summer-warm. The mountains surrounding the valley looked so close in the clear air that I could nearly count the trees. A perfect day and, I hoped, a perfect way to make my mark as acting editor and publisher of the Lickin Creek Chronicle.