Preface

“Hello, sir! Long time, no see. Just one tonight?”

“Hi Maureen. No, I am meeting someone, a young lady.”

Merrick hadn’t been to The Cellar in well over a year. Yet somehow nothing seemed to have changed at all, Maureen looming over the front station, the hustle and bustle of her family members scuttling around the large open-floor dining area, plates and glasses clinking, the buzz of mixed conversations overlaid by the television showing a football game over the bar. The place was packed as it always had been when he and Watson had come regularly.

“I think she is already here, back in the corner by the kitchen. Hey Mario,” Maureen yelled shrilly to the young man busing tabletops, “take Mr. Landon here back to table 30.”

“I don’t need an escort, Mo.” Merrick waved Mario off dismissively. “I can’t get lost here.”

“Still a charmer, eh, Merrick?” she joked, waving him off as dismissively as he waved off Mario.

Merrick walked away smiling. The cellar was the same as when he and Jeremiah came here all the time, most importantly, spicy, world-weary, sassy Maureen. The dining room had one large gathering in the middle of the room, four tabletops pushed together to accommodate the large group, which was laughing loudly. They blocked his view of the corner where Lindsay would be waiting.

“Hey, Merrick. Nice to see you back.” Karen, Maureen’s daughter, grabbed a couple of glasses from a table as she acknowledged Merrick.

“How you been, Karen?”

“Ah, you know. Never a moment’s rest. Not with Mo up there.”

“What would you do with time to rest, Karen?”

“Hmm. Good question. What have you been doing with your time since we never see you here anymore?” Karen wiped her hands on a red flowery apron tied around her waist.

“Reading. Still have a lot of books in order to catch up.”

“Oh my, nothing but sitting around reading all day. Be still my heart.” Karen raced toward the kitchen with a tray of glasses she had collected. Merrick followed her, noticing to the left of the kitchen doors the pale, stout figure he was expecting: Lindsay Chesterton. She saw him and waved and started to rise to greet him. That’s when Merrick noticed a man sitting across from her. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Hello, Merrick. So good to see you.”

Merrick did not glance at Lindsay, quickly scanning her guest with his eyes: well-groomed haircut, blue and yellow dress shirt, well-known logo on the left chest, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, the left one resting on a portfolio, a kind of portfolio Merrick knew way too well.

“What the hell is he doing here?” he snarled at Lindsay.

Six months earlier

“Katie, why is the name Merrick Landon familiar?” Phil Colasanti stood in the doorway of his office, holding his cup of coffee in one hand and a report in his other. His cup bore the image of a cartoon Viking, a logo he was quickly grow to love.

Katie Williams, his administrative assistant, sat stiffly behind her modular desk in the outer office. Phil was still in his first week as Vice President of Development at Hefford College, certain that Merrick Landon was a name he should know. Given that Landon was on the past donors’ list, he figured the name may have been mentioned in any of hundreds of conversations he had already had with President Willis, other leaders at Hefford, donors, or local community members.

Katie offered a partial smile. “Dr. Landon is the former Dean of Students, sir.”

Colasanti snapped his fingers. “Of course! He was quite beloved here, wasn’t he?”

“He certainly was. He worked here for almost a quarter of a century.”  A student worker had quietly slipped into the office and slid a couple envelopes onto Katie’s desk. Katie nodded in appreciation at the student, then looked back at Colasanti in his white shirt and blue and yellow tie, the official colors of Hefford. It didn’t take her new boss long to stock up completely on college colors.

“I noticed from the past donors’ report that he faithfully gave to the college up until three years ago. Would you have any idea why he stopped?”

“That might be something you need to ask President Willis, sir.”

“But I am asking you, Katie. You’ve been working in the Development Office for nine years, correct? You probably have a clue about the comings and goings of donations and donors.” Colasanti started rolling his left shirt cuff. It wouldn’t take Katie long to figure out that such a small act would be a daily habit, as if Colasanti believed he needed to live out the trite adage of “rolling up your sleeves and getting to work.”

“Above my pay grade, though, sir,” Katie said, smiling more broadly.  She turned to face one of the two computer screens at her desk, leaving him to see only her angular face in profile, blonde bob framing a steely resolve.

“Fine,” he laughed. He went back into his bare office. He still had brought no personal effects outside of a picture of June and the kids, which sat at the corner of his desk. Everything else, which wasn’t much, was leftover from the previous VP of Development, pictures of groundbreakings, basketballs with the Hefford seal, Hefford Viking pennants on the wall, and copious issues of Hefford Highlights, the magazine this office put out for alumni and donors.

He sat back down at his desk and looked at the report. Landon had given between $1000 and $2000 a year between 1997 and 2010, almost $5,000 a year between 2011 and 2022, then donated $25,000 in 2023. However, he had donated nothing since then. He looked up Landon’s record in the employee records and learned that he did retire in summer 2022. So, he upped his donations for that first year, then stopped. What had happened? Just as intriguing was why he donated so much more the second half of his time at Hefford. Katie’s evasiveness piqued his interest even more.

He dialed President Willis’ office number. He was surprised Willis picked it up on the second ring. “Hey, Phil, what can I do for you?”

“Do you have a second if I come over there? Just a quick conversation, I promise you.” Colasanti had learned at his interview that Willis loved to talk, and he had already lost hours when he anticipated just a few minutes with Sherman Willis.

“Sure, I am good until 10:00. Then I have a meeting with the Board chair.”

Colasanti checked his watch. It was 9:10. He’d drag his heels for a few minutes then head across campus to Willis’s office. That should ensure enough time for a quick update on Landon but little else before Willis met with the Board chair. “Great. I’ll be there around 9:30. Thanks, Sherm.”

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Merrick Landon looked at the hill leading back up to his house and groaned. His knees fought with this hill every morning. Determined to walk 4-5 miles every day, Merrick always started downhill, literally, as his Tudor-style home sat at the top of one of Cairo’s many hills; unfortunately, this meant the walks always ended uphill, when he cursed himself a fool.

Still, a slight breeze fluttered, making the June walk rather pleasant.  Donegan no longer pulled on his leash during the last three-quarter of a mile, also a plus. The road also got very little traffic, allowing his mind wander freely. As was often the case, he thought back to Cheryl, remembering how often she would have a fresh batch of lemonade ready for him as well as a bowl of fresh water for Donegan when they returned from the walks. In their younger days, Cheryl would have joined Merrick and the dog (who was mostly Wilson in those days), but that Cheryl hadn’t been struck down by bone cancer.  Even in many of her sickest days, she was upbeat. When Merrick would complain about not wanting to walk the dog if she couldn’t come with them, she’d tease him with “get over it, Merrick.”

Donegan struggled on the hill, so Merrick stopped to let him catch up. “How you doing, old friend?” Merrick asked. Donegan, once he had gotten to Merrick’s side, wagged his tail and panted heavily. It was his answer to almost anything Merrick might ask. “Is there a God in Heaven?” Merrick frequently asked Donegan, getting the same wag and pant every time. He tried to see that as a good sign, even if it was the same sign as when Merrick asked Donegan if he had rolled around in dog poop.

When he got back to his house, Merrick grabbed the mail and used his key to come in the side door leading to his kitchen. He tossed the mail on the table and went to the sink, pouring himself a glass of cold water while also filling a small pitcher that he took to Donegan’s bowl by the basement door.

While both enjoyed their water, Merrick rifled through his mail. Two bills, a catalog, and a form letter from the alumni office at Penn State University. He ripped the catalog and letter in half and dumped them in his recycling bin. Hemingway awaited him. He filled his glass with more water and made his way to his den.

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“Merrick Landon, eh?” asked Sherman Willis, all six foot three, two hundred fifty pounds, leaned back in his desk chair, feet on his cherry desk, sound muted on the television set across his office. It showed, thankfully silently, MSNBC, a frequent broadcast in Willis’ office Colasanti had noticed.  “What specifically about him?”

“Well, Sherm, I was looking through a former donors’ report and his name, meaning his donations, stood out prominently. He was quite the financial supporter of the college until a few years after his retirement, then he stopped.” Colasanti had taken a comfortable peach-colored leather chair angled to view both the president’s desk and the television screen on the wall.

“Merrick’s a tricky old bugger.” Willis offered no additional explanation.

Colasanti was taken aback by the president’s sudden Calvin Coolidge impersonation. “Maybe so, but at $25,000 a year, we should be welcoming those tricks with open arms.”

“You’re probably right. Now that Merrick’s wife has passed, I hear he’s even crankier. Hangs out in his big old mansion on Cascade Hill with his faithful Labrador. He’s rather a recluse.”

Colasanti’s ears perked up. Widower, alone, just a dog. In the world of fund-raising that formed the holy trinity. “Does he have any kids?” he asked hesitantly.

“No. He never did. I’m not sure what family he has. From what I hear, he has a housekeeper come in once a week but that’s about it for his human contact.” Willis had begun to rifle through his desk drawer.

Colasanti smiled, probably too obviously. Luckily, Willis was concentrating on something in his desk drawer. “I’d like to see if we can get him donating again. Anything I can find out about him beforehand would help, especially about circumstances that might have stopped his donations.”

Willis shifted in his seat to look directly at Colasanti. “Well, you might need to talk to some of the other leadership. Merrick pretty much stopped associating with the place about the time I became president.”

“I can do that, Sherm. Did you know he donated over $100,000 up until 2022? His donations made a big jump to $25K that last year, but then nothing. So many questions.”

“I don’t really know. Perhaps the others can help you with that too.” Willis was back to watching the television.

“Thank you, I will check around. I hope this can be a pretty big fish we can reel in.”

Willis waved him out of the room. “Well, good luck. By the way,” he started back up, pointing at the television, which showed a basketball highlight, “did I ever tell you about the time I took on Larry Campbell in a one-on-one game before homecoming?”

“You did, sir. At my interview.” Colasanti sensed the loquacious Willis returning. He looked at his watch. “I should get out of here. You need to meet the Chairman in a few minutes.”

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“So, how has your first week gone, Phil?”  Miranda Teasdale was cutting her Danish with the cheap plastic knife provided by the Hefford cafeteria. She had draped her white sweater over the back of her chair, showing her bare arms in her black sleeveless top. Colasanti noted that she still looked pretty good for being almost sixty. Her grey hair contrasted elegantly with her dark eyebrows. She wore just a hint of make-up, which allowed the strength of her high cheekbones and lines around her eyes to show through.

“It’s gone well, Dr. Teasdale. A lot to learn but everyone has been so helpful.” Colasanti swiveled his half-empty coffee cup.

“Good to hear,” Provost Teasdale responded, “but please call me Miranda. Titles seem so off-putting in casual conversations.”

“Understood, Miranda. I also won’t keep you too long, as I am sure you have a thousand things to do.”

“Enough time for a coffee and Danish break, Phil. Besides it’s not as busy during these summer months.” Teasdale sipped at her coffee and took a bite of her cheery Danish.

“I’m looking for a little more information about Merrick Landon. President Willis suggested I talk to you all who knew him the best.”

“Mmm,” Teasdale mumbled, wiping a crumb from her lips. “I knew him for about a dozen years, I suppose,” she offered, closing her eyes in thought. “That may not mean I knew him the best. He was a great colleague, but we weren’t especially close in any non-work way.”

“That’s o.k. I noticed that he was a dedicated contributor to the college for years then stopped suddenly. I was hoping to find out if anyone could explain the sudden cut-off.”

“Let me guess. This was around 2022?”

“Technically 2023 was the last year he contributed.”

“Well, things got pretty ugly between him and President Collins in 2022. That precipitated his earlier-than-expected retirement.”

“How old was he when he retired?”

“67, but until that last year he had shown no indication of retirement. We often joked he’d stick around long enough to get a 30-year service pin, which would have been a record for an administrator.” Teasdale was collecting the Danish crumbs on her plate, pressing down firmly to get them to stick to her fork. “I hope to God I am not still around in fifteen years to earn that distinction.”

“I have no doubt you would still be as sharp. Besides, you’d barely be 50 then?”

“Hmm?” Miranda facetiously fluttered her eyebrows at Colasanti. “You fundraising guys are all alike.”

“Some lines always come in handy,” Colasanti joked. “Anyway, what was the specific dispute with Collins?” Colasanti’s stomach rumbled. He should have ordered something to eat.

“Usual kind of b.s. New president wants to restructure departments. Merrick was adamant that the reductions in his advising staff would hurt students. Eventually, Collins went around Merrick and implemented a new structure.”

“How could he even do that?” Colasanti had seen plenty of turf battles over departmental restructuring, but never one where the executive responsible wasn’t at least part of the final decision.

“He and HR managed it. Did it while Merrick was on FMLA taking care of his wife.”

“You must be joking?”

“Sadly, no. Merrick was fit to be tied, obviously, when he found out. He submitted his retirement on the spot.”

“Pretty sad.”

“It certainly was. A lot of employees were pretty upset about the whole thing, not helped by the fact that Collins left us a couple years later for a different presidency. As you may know, we have had three Dean of Students since Merrick left. You’d find a few people around here who wish Merrick had been brought back, even temporarily.” Teasdale had pushed her plate aside and drank the last of her coffee.

“Did anybody ever ask him?”

“I don’t think so.”

Colasanti swirled the last of his coffee and drank it in one gulp. “This is explaining a lot.” He hesitated. “Or maybe not. He made one last big donation in 2023, the biggest he had ever made, and then nothing after that. That timing is weird, given what you have described.”

“Well, his wife died around Christmas 2022, if I remember correctly. That may have contributed, pun not intended.”

Colasanti gave a half smile.

“You knew his wife was a faculty member here, right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Yep, Cheryl Austin. She never took his name. She had been on the faculty before Merrick got here. Taught English.”

“So, they met here.”

“Absolutely. Got married when they were both in their 40s, I believe.”

“That could explain the lack of children.”

“Careful there, big guy. I can see you salivating.”

“Is it that obvious?” Colasanti looked around the room nervously, as if there was a whole crowd able to see his intentions.

“No, but like I said, all you development guys are the same. This ain’t my first rodeo, you know. Anyway, she was diagnosed with late-stage cancer sometime before Merrick left. That was the FMLA he was on when Collins did the restructuring.”

“Jesus.” Colasanti never swore, but he couldn’t stop himself. “What a mess. And yet he still donated $25,000 that year after his wife died. I wonder what was going on?”

“Hmm. I can’t help you there, Phil, but it is certainly an intriguing detail. Somebody somewhere must know the story there.”

“Hmm. You’re probably right, Miranda. I guess I’ll go back to Katie.” Colasanti was beginning to feel the frustration of being a one-man department with only a devoted, but reticent, long-term administrative assistant.

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Donegan stood at the front door wagging his tail furiously waiting for Rochelle Collier to come in the door. It was Tuesday morning and he knew the routine: Collier would come with her buckets of interesting smells, spend a few minutes petting him, then start removing the familiar smells of his home with other smells, always interesting but not as comforting.

“Get away from the door, you dumb dog,” Merrick muttered as he slowly walked to the door. He could hear Rochelle using the key he gave her, but he still opened the door for her. “Morning, Shelly.”

“Hello, Dr. Landon. Hi there, Donnie. How you been, boy?” Rochelle knelt to one knee to get face to face with the happy Labrador-mix, who licked her face feverishly. “Oh my, lots of wet kisses today.”

“It can be the usual today, Shelly. Donegan did have an accident in the den a few days ago, which I tried to clean as well as I could, but you might have to do a little more there. You’ll see the stain on the carpet to the right of the small bookcase.”

“Will do, Dr. Landon.” Rochelle had stood up, smoothing her grey and navy-blue skirt. Her red hair was tied in a ponytail, as it was most weeks, and she had pulled some nylon gloves out of her bucket and started to put them on. “So, how’s your week been?”

“Quiet. Finished three Hemingways. ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ awaits me next.” Merrick was determined to read the entire works of major 20^th century writers. He felt it was something to do to make up for what he hadn’t done for his wife all those years she faithfully taught literature classes.

“That’s good. I don’t know how you do it, sir. I love to read but not at the rate you do.” Rochelle was setting up cleaning supplies by the door, her arms showing off the strong muscles of a working woman.

“It’s not like I have a whole lot else going on, Shelly.”

“So, you didn’t go out at all this week?” Rochelle grabbed his arm and frowned.

“Just to the store. But that’s o.k.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Dr. Landon. Man cannot live by books and dog alone.” She flashed him a big smile, “even a dog as faithful as Donny boy.”

“I’m doing quite well so far, Shelly.”

“Far be it for me to say, sir, but don’t you think you need to socialize a little more? Why don’t you go back to the college and attend a concert or a game?”

Merrick snorted. “No thanks.”

Rochelle rolled her eyes. “What was it your wife used to tell you? Get over it, Merrick!”

Merrick ignored her and started to walk to the stairs.

Rochelle persisted. “What happened to that colleague from the college you used to meet for a drink?”

“Watson? He died. You remember, I went to that funeral a few months ago.”

“I may not remember that specific one. You deal with too many of those.”

Merrick smiled. “You got that right, Shelly. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. I will be upstairs showering and changing.”

Part Two