Okay, I understood their impatience, though it wasn’t my fault they’d neglected to dress for the weather. But I wasn’t letting them in till I knew they weren’t trying to convert us or sell us something.
“May I help you?” I asked. I was polite, though certainly not warm.
“Is this the residence of Professor Waterston?” the woman said. She was forty-something and might have been attractive if she could lose the scowl, though the lines of her face hinted that it was habitual. She wasn’t wearing a hat over her neatly permed brown hair or gloves on her well-manicured fingers.
“Yes,” I said. “May I tell him who’s calling?”
“I am Dr. Wright,” she said. “From the English department. And this is Dr. Blanco, from administrative services.” She indicated the man, who was tall and also fortyish, with a thin, anxious face. He was bareheaded, too, though at least he wore driving gloves.
“May we come in?” Dr. Blanco asked.
“Of course,” I said, stepping back from the door. Blanco I’d never heard of before, but I had the sinking feeling I should know who Wright was. The drama department, where Michael taught, was technically an unloved subgroup of the English department.
They stepped inside with just enough haste to make me feel sorry for them. They both set down slim, expensive-looking briefcases, and the woman carefully set a purse atop hers—a small, sleek bit of leather, probably a designer brand that a more fashion-conscious woman would have recognized instantly. Then they shed their coats and tried to hand them to me.
I gestured to the coatracks, which still had a few free hangers, and stepped a little farther away. It wasn’t just that I resented being treated like a maid. One of them was wearing an overly strong perfume or aftershave that was making my nose tickle. Hard to tell which of them was the culprit—the scent didn’t seem particularly masculine or feminine. Just unpleasant.
“If you’ll wait here in the hall, I’ll tell—achoo!—tell my husband you’re here.” I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue and gestured at some of the dining room chairs.
“Actually,” Dr. Blanco said, “we’re looking for one of Professor Waterston’s students. A Ramon Soto.”
“We understand he lives here,” Dr. Wright added. Her face frowned a little more, as if showing her disapproval of any unorthodox living arrangements. In fact, both of them were wearing the sort of disagreeable expressions my nephews used to call prune faces.
“Ramon Soto is staying here,” I said. “Until the heating plant is back in order and the dorms are habitable. We’ve taken in quite a few students.”
Neither professor appeared impressed. I’d bet anything there were no unruly students disturbing the pristine academic quiet of their homes.
“May we speak to Mr. Soto?” Dr. Blanco asked.
“I’ll see if someone can find him.” I turned and began waddling toward the kitchen, sneezing a few more times as I went.
“See if someone can find him?” Dr. Wright said. “Don’t you understand the—”
“I’m sure it’s just a figure of speech,” Dr. Blanco said, in a soothing tone.
When I opened the door the noise, light, and smells almost overwhelmed me. I grabbed the door frame and closed my eyes for a few moments to fight the dizziness and nausea.
“Mrs. Waterston!” I felt hands gripping me, and had to fight the impulse to push them away. “Are you all right?”
“Just tired.” I opened my eyes to find half a dozen solicitous students crowded around me. “Is Ramon here?”
Ramon emerged from the crowd. His face wore an anxious look that had become habitual over the last few weeks.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing that I know of,” I said. “Two professors are here to see you.”
“Two professors?” From his tone of voice, you’d think I’d said two masked gunmen.
“Dr. Wright and Dr. Blanco,” I said.
“Oh, God,” he muttered, and rushed out of the kitchen and into the hall.
I looked around to see if anyone else had as strong a reaction, but they’d all returned to their conversations.
Señor Mendoza was standing at the stove, stirring a large pot. Was this some advance prep for the paella, or was he also inflicting a very fishy bouillabaisse on my twitching nose?
As I was turning to go, Mendoza fished something out of the pot with a slotted spoon.
“Hey! Perro!”
I heard a familiar gruff bark and looked down to see that Spike was sitting at Señor Mendoza’s feet, looking up at him with fixed attention.