The Semester of Our Discontent (Lila Maclean Series #1)

by Cynthia Kuhn Ph.D.

Overview

"The best cozy debut I've read this year. An engaging heroine, a college setting that will have you aching to go back to school, and a puzzler of a mystery make this a must-read for cozy lovers." - Laura DiSilverio, National Bestselling Author of the Readaholics Book Club Mysteries

"A pitch-perfect portrayal of academic life with a beguiling cast of anxious newbies, tweedy old troublemakers and scholars as sharp as they're wise. Lila's Stonedale is a world I'm thrilled to have found. Roll on book two!" - Catriona McPherson, Multi-Award-Winning Author of the Dandy Gilver Series

"College professor Lila Maclean gets an A+ for her detecting skills in this twisty mystery set at a Colorado university. With suspects and motives galore, solving the murder of department chair Roland Higgins won't be easy, but Lila's got brains and guts to spare. A great book...I can't wait to see what author Cynthia Kuhn does next!" - Maggie Barbieri, Author of the Murder 101 Series

"Cynthia Kuhn takes readers on a mind-boggling safari into the wilds of academia where we encounter thundering pedants, rampaging sexists, slavering narcissists, run-amok egotists-and come to relish the few oases of sanity and kindness. Only an insider like Kuhn can reveal the savagery behind the mask of scholarship and collegiality with such acuity and grace." - Lev Raphael, Author of Assault With a Deadly Lie

"I have a real fondness for academic mysteries and this one is first rate." - For the Love of Books

"Takes the reader into higher education's secrets and shadows, where the real lesson is for the new professor-how to stay alive. If you're smart, you'll read this book." - Lori Rader-Day, Anthony Award-Winning Author of The Black Hour

English professor Lila Maclean is thrilled about her new job at prestigious Stonedale University, until she finds one of her colleagues dead. She soon learns that everyone, from the chancellor to the detective working the case, believes Lila-or someone she is protecting-may be responsible for the horrific event, so she assigns herself the task of identifying the killer.

More attacks on professors follow, the only connection a curious symbol at each of the crime scenes. Putting her scholarly skills to the test, Lila gathers evidence, but her search is complicated by an unexpected nemesis, a suspicious investigator, and an ominous secret society. Rather than earning an "A" for effort, she receives a threat featuring the mysterious emblem and must act quickly to avoid failing her assignment...and becoming the next victim.

Related subjects include: women sleuths, cozy mysteries, amateur sleuth books, murder mysteries, whodunit mysteries (whodunnit), academic mysteries, book club recommendations.

Books in the Lila Maclean Mystery Series:

• THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT (#1)

Part of the Henery Press Mystery Series Collection, if you like one, you'll probably like them all...


Author Bio:

Cynthia Kuhn is professor of English at MSU Denver, where she teaches literature and writing. Her work has appeared in McSweeney's Quarterly Concern, Literary Mama, Copper Nickel, Prick of the Spindle, Mama, PhD and other publications; she also blogs with Mysteristas. The first book in the Lila Maclean series received a William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781635110128
Publisher:	Henery Press
Publication date:	04/05/2016
Series:	Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series , #1
Pages:	246
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.63(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Semester of our Discontent

A Lila Maclean Mystery

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By Cynthia Kuhn

Henery Press

Copyright © 2016 Cynthia Kuhn
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63511-012-8

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CHAPTER 1

When summoned by the department chair, one shows up on time. I hurried past the row of faculty mailboxes with minutes to spare and greeted Millicent Quayle, a squarish middle-aged woman whose dull brown hair perfectly matched her suit. As executive assistant, Millicent presided over the front desk that guarded our leader's inner sanctum. She was practically humming with efficiency as her fingers flew over the keyboard, and I stood quietly until she mustered up the will to drag her attention away from the computer screen.

"And you are?" She frowned, her eyes locked on mine.

"I'm Lila," I reminded her. "New professor? Dr. Higgins wanted to see me."

Not even a blink. I had the fleeting impression she was expecting me to curtsy.

I did not.

Millicent slowly consulted an appointment calendar with gilded edges and made a small check in the page margin. "He's with someone right now. Please take a seat," she said, waving at the upholstered chair by the window. As I complied, she returned to her work.

I gazed across campus towards the wrought-iron gates flanked by a pair of granite gryphons that marked the main entrance. It was an imposing entry, intentionally so. Officially, Stonedale University offered a "liberal arts education to a small number of exceptionally qualified students." Unofficially, it was known as an exclusive school for those who didn't make it into the Ivy League but who were, according to their parents at least, exceptional nonetheless.

Nestled into the foothills southwest of Denver, Stonedale's location was very popular with students. While the administration was more inclined to celebrate the university's curricular rigor and high rankings, part of the appeal for students was its proximity to Rocky Mountain hiking, skiing, and snowboarding. Another selling feature for parents and students alike was the air of sanctuary offered by the campus. Charming stone buildings with all manner of architectural flourishes clustered around a burbling fountain, and numerous tall trees contributed to the sense of being enclosed in a protective haven. There were other structures radiating outward from the main circle, but they were never featured in any of the recruiting publications. This, what we all called "the green," was the carefully calibrated and highly picturesque heart of Stonedale.

Voices rising in the chair's office — muffled, but clearly irate — paused my reflections. The door flew open and my colleague Tad Ruthersford stormed out, his face flushed. He shot me an unreadable look as he departed.

Roland Higgins emerged soon after, carrying a large book. He seemed to be unpleasantly damp from the effort. Or perhaps from the tweed — who wore such a heavy fabric in September?

"File this." He slammed the text onto Millicent's desk. I had to give her credit. She didn't flinch at the loud sound, just pulled open the side drawer of her desk with one hand and swept the offending volume inside with the other.

Catching sight of me, Roland froze, peering through his greasy rimless glasses, which I was certain he would have referred to as "spectacles." After an extended pause, his mouth moved. "You're here."

I agreed.

He stared at me long past the point of politeness, then turned to Millicent. "Faculty meeting today ... what time?"

"The usual time," she replied.

"Two?" he asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "But it's almost one already. What a nuisance. I have important work to finish. Don't you?" He glowered at me, as if I were responsible for scheduling the imposition.

"Yes," I said, practically whispering in the face of Roland's displeasure. He patted his thick thighs a few times as he let his disapproval sink in. With his black suit and white shirt, flapping with exasperation, he looked like an indignant penguin.

"Come in," he said, finally.

I followed him into the stifling mausoleum of a room, which was dim aside from an ineffective reading lamp perched on the mahogany desk. If the shades were jolted open, a tidal wave of dust would surely rise and consume us both. Roland indicated I should take the skeletal chair facing his desk while he lowered himself into a brown leather executive number on the other side. Once we were both situated, he shuffled through the materials cluttering the surface until he located a stapled packet.

"I read your special topics course proposal. The curriculum chair shared it with me." He held the pages at the corner with two fingers, as if they were contagious. "We hired you to teach American literature and the occasional Gothic course, Dr. Maclean. Not mystery."

"Right, but Gothic and mystery overlap —"

He went on as if I hadn't said anything. "I know you've only been here a few weeks, Dr. Maclean, but new professors do not propose courses. We prefer that junior faculty members better acquaint themselves with our program first. Especially those fresh out of graduate school."

I chose to ignore the unmistakable message about knowing my place. "I was reading through the curriculum to acquaint myself, actually, and noticed there weren't any literature courses on mystery, so ..." I gestured to the packet.

Roland leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers. "There's a reason for that, isn't there?"

I conjured up a confused expression, though I already knew where he was headed. "What is the reason?"

He seemed surprised, either by the question or the fact that I had dared to ask it. "Dr. Maclean, our courses celebrate major works. Authors and texts who have made a lasting contribution to literature. Certainly you know the difference."

"I know that even conservative definitions would include —"

Roland cleared his throat, smoothed his tie patterned with fire-breathing dragons, and launched into a diatribe about literature's universal values. During the lecture, he closed his eyes — all the better to avoid pesky interruptions. While he belabored his arguments, the gray mustache curved over his mouth like a misplaced comma nobly rode out the torrent of words. At the conclusion of his tirade, Roland looked at me expectantly.

"Ah," I said.

He inclined his head ever so slightly, as if he were a king granting me a great favor.

A moment passed.

"But —" I began.

"It's a question of significance," he said. "This proposal will not be forwarded. It's not the right time for you to do this."

A drop of perspiration rolled down my ribcage. "Would it be better if one of my colleagues proposed it?"

He lurched forward in the chair and snapped, "I repeat, it's not time for you to do this."

"But isn't it time for someone to do this? Most universities include popular —"

Roland's face grew red and his jowls quivered. "Stonedale is not like other universities. We have our own way of doing things. Period." He pointed at me. "And let me be direct, while we're at it. As a rule, junior faculty members need to talk less and listen more."

"What?" I sat up straighter.

"In meetings and so forth. You'll find your senior colleagues have much to teach you."

Of course they did. But was he really telling me not to speak?

Roland drummed his fingers on the desktop.

I lifted my chin and met his gaze. "You want me to be quiet until I have tenure?"

He narrowed his eyes. "If you are ever tenured. You have six years of reappointment to get through first."

That shut me up.

"Speaking of which, Dr. Maclean, I have some concerns about your research. How is your project progressing?"

"Well ..." I paused. I'd been so consumed by the demands of teaching that I hadn't been able to accomplish much writing yet. But as I tried to formulate a truthful answer that didn't make me sound like a slacker, he kept going.

"Remind me what you are working on," he commanded.

I shifted gears into a well-rehearsed-in-grad-school plan for making the literary world more aware of an unknown mystery writer named Isabella Dare.

"Fine," Roland barked. "That's enough."

He had, since our first encounter, made it apparent that he viewed my choice of an author unfamiliar to him as an intentional affront. I still hadn't figured out the appropriate response. Actually, I'm not sure there was one, other than to suggest he try having a more open mind now and then, which wouldn't go over well.

"I'm still not convinced your topic will be productive enough to meet anyone's expectations. You do have to publish, you know."

I forced myself to sit perfectly still as he continued.

"However, I know you worked with Avery Lane on your dissertation. Although I question her decision to allow you to center your research on such a — let's say unproven — writer, I do know she will have been most stringent in her supervision of your work. Did she mention we have a bit of history?"

"Just that you'd studied at Yale together." I omitted the part about Roland being a pompous ass on a power trip. She had been very clear on that point.

"Avery is a remarkable scholar," he said, almost meditatively, while his eyes wandered to a point somewhere behind my left ear. "If she hadn't called me to sing your praises, you probably wouldn't be sitting here."

I wasn't about to respond to the implications of that.

"Focusing a dissertation on a woman whose work has not been written about before is risky, isn't it?" He smirked.

"I think she's important. Avery encouraged me and convinced the rest of the committee —"

"She's always been persuasive. If Avery thinks highly of you and your topic, I suppose we shall have to keep that in mind." He jerked his head at the door. I gladly walked through it and away from him.

Calista James was waiting outside. In her sleeveless beaded silver dress, she could have been a 1920s flapper. On most people, it would have seemed like a Halloween costume, but it suited the poet, who was my cousin as well as my colleague. There was no visible family resemblance between us — she was blonde and shortish whereas I was brunette and tallish; her hair was straight, mine was wavy; her eyes were gray, mine green. However, we did share an inclination to blurt things out at unfortunate times and a disinclination to suffer injustices quietly, both of which had gotten us into plenty of trouble as we were growing up.

"What was that about?" She gestured me over, the beads on her dress set flailing by the vigorous motions, and pulled me in the opposite direction.

We passed several closed office doors and bulletin boards bursting with multicolored flyers, keeping our voices low.

"Roland didn't like the mystery course I submitted. Also, he thinks I'm not acting appropriately 'junior' as a faculty member."

Her eyes widened. "Seriously? What did you say to him?"

I recounted the entire conversation.

"Brava," Calista said. "Takes most people years to muster up the courage to confront Roland. You stood up to him already."

"I don't know about that. I just tried to state facts. Mostly."

Calista laughed. "Roland does not like hearing facts. He likes giving lectures. And plenty of them."

"He definitely lectured me."

"Was it as boring as it was long-winded?" she asked, smoothing her sharply angled platinum bob. "And as offensive as it was outdated?"

"Indeed."

She grinned at me, the spitting image of my beloved aunt.

"How long do you have to be here before you can propose a course?" I asked her.

"Technically, whenever you like," she said.

"Didn't seem like it. Roland practically called me a whippersnapper. Hasn't anyone proposed a special topics course on popular culture before?"

"Many times."

"So why aren't there any? It's unfathomable in this day and age."

Calista sighed. "Blame it on the system. The chair must sign the forms before they go to the next level, and Roland blocks whatever he wants. It doesn't matter if the curriculum committee approves a proposal or not. It's outrageous, really. If I'd known you were working on a proposal, I would have filled you in."

"It's okay," I said. "But didn't you have a meeting with Roland today too? What happened?"

"Oh, that." She waved it off. "I need to gather some notes before the faculty meeting, so I'll have to tell you later."

She gave me a quick hug before zooming away. I marveled at her energy level. Calista had always been able to do things faster than the rest of us mere mortals.

Maybe if I walked fast enough, I could escape the dark cloud Roland had just positioned above my head.

Twenty minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin, my assigned faculty mentor Judith Westerly popped her head into my office. In an impeccably tailored teal suit, her long white hair swept back in a complicated twist, she put me in mind of an Alfred Hitchcock heroine — cool, collected, and highly capable. She had been at Stonedale for almost thirty years and was an adept guide so far. I especially appreciated the fact that she seemed genuinely glad I was here.

We exchanged pleasantries, and she consulted her dainty gold watch. "Perhaps we should head to the faculty meeting? It's a little early — we all try to avoid it until the last possible minute, of course — but that means we would have our choice of seats and could settle in before all the hubbub. I'll show you the best vantage points."

I followed her into the hallway, pulled the door shut behind me, and locked it.

"Truth be told, I'm not in a hurry to return to the departmental agenda," said Judith as we walked. "At the last meeting of spring term, we spent two hours arguing over the font on our letterhead. Can you believe it? Then the deadlock over Arial and Helvetica went on for another week in an email battle."

"Which font won?" I asked.

"That's the whole point. It was tabled to be revisited this fall." She smiled. "You may be the tiebreaker, Lila."

"No thanks," I said. The last thing I wanted to do was antagonize half of the department.

"Don't worry. It will be a blind vote. We don't want to put you in any uncomfortable situations."

"That's nice of you."

"Not at first, anyway," she added with a wink.

We arrived at the arched entrance to the department library. The intricately carved wooden door swung open slowly when I pushed on it, though the hinges protested loudly.

At the sight of the lifeless form sprawled across the conference table, I shrieked and Judith gasped. One of the fiery dragons on Roland's elegant tie had been slashed in half by the knife embedded in his chest.

CHAPTER 2

About an hour later, Judith and I waited, as we'd been directed to do, in the second-floor hallway. There was quite a crowd working the department library — both campus and Stonedale police had representatives upstairs, as well as crime scene investigators — and they'd moved us out of the way. Police personnel down here were clustered, talking in low voices. The adrenaline surging through my veins had dulled to weariness, and my head was starting to throb. For all I knew, Roland's killer was lurking around a corner somewhere, yet I felt strangely disconnected, numb. Perhaps I was still in shock.

Among the many horrors to be encountered at an English department meeting, a dead body was not usually one of them. I had been prepared for the standard litany of complaints, the political jousting, the barely audible snarling — but not this.

I looked at Judith. "How are you doing?"

She shook her head.

I repositioned myself in the student desk — awful contraptions, yoking together uncomfortable chairs and inadequate writing trays, which seems like a failure on both fronts — and stared at the opposite wall until the door to one of the classrooms opened.

A somber-faced man with sharp cheekbones and a buzz cut stepped outside, the badge on his belt catching the light for a moment. "Thanks, ladies, for your patience. I'm Detective Archer. I need to speak with you, one at a time." He glanced down at the notepad in his hand that was open vertically, reporter-style. "Starting with Liza Maclean."

I stood up immediately.

"It's Lila."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Semester of our Discontent by Cynthia Kuhn. Copyright © 2016 Cynthia Kuhn. Excerpted by permission of Henery Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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