The Rise of the Red Queen Read online

  Praise for the Red Solaris Mystery Series

  THE RISE OF THE RED QUEEN (#2)

  “With The Rise of the Red Queen, Bourne Morris is poised to become the queen of academic mysteries and suspense.”

  – Gigi Pandian,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of Quicksand

  “Red Solaris is intelligent, tough, and vulnerable, a tricky combination to pull off, yet Bourne Morris does so beautifully and has given us a lead character we care deeply about. The Rise of the Red Queen, second in the series, grabs you by the throat and the heart on page one and never lets go.”

  – Annette Dashofy,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of With a Vengeance

  “Intriguing characters, a complex, inventive plot with nail-biting suspense—I finished it at two in the morning!”

  – Jeanne M. Dams,

  Author of the Dorothy Martin Mysteries

  “Morris has written another delicious pleasure, providing intrigue, plenty of campus drama, and strong female characters. Academic in-fighting, Red’s ambition to become the new Dean, and her detective love interest keep the pages turning.”

  – Karen Penner-Johnson,

  Emerita Professor, Kansas State University

  “The story involved me quickly, the suspense mounting so high that when my e-reader battery ran low, the warning buzzer made me jump. Morris has created a complete mystery with suspense and emotions burning like a Nevada sunset.”

  – Mark Bacon,

  Author of Death in Nostalgia City

  THE RED QUEEN’S RUN (#1)

  “Touching upon a very real subject, this author offers the perfect formula of suspects, mystery, and a handsome police detective to heat up Red’s fire…a great read about what goes on behind those academic doors.”

  – Suspense Magazine

  “Morris has crafted a suspenseful, thoughtful, sexy debut…Her hero, Red Solaris, is vulnerable but tough, complex but straight-shooting, a woman learning how to wield power by remembering what it’s like to have little of it. I’ll read about her adventures anytime. Long live the Queen!”

  – Christopher Coake,

  Author of You Came Back

  “A psychological thriller that reveals the Ivory Tower to be a hothouse full of monstrous egos, where bullying thrives long past playground days and ‘academic discipline’ requires research skills of the detective kind.”

  – Kate Manning,

  Author of My Notorious Life

  “Morris proves herself a masterful storyteller in this compelling debut novel. The Red Queen’s Run is compulsive reading as it takes on the ripped-from-the-headlines topic of campus violence. I can’t wait to follow its smart new heroine.”

  – Alan Deutschman,

  Author of Change or Die

  “A racy and delightful peek into academia’s darker corners. Bourne Morris clearly knows this microcosm as well as anyone, and lucky for us, she also knows how to turn a phrase, twist a plot and spin one hell of a yarn.”

  – Ben Rogers,

  Author of The Flamer

  Books in the Red Solaris Mystery Series

  by Bourne Morris

  THE RED QUEEN’S RUN (#1)

  THE RISE OF THE RED QUEEN (#2)

  Sign up for Club Hen House | Henery Press updates

  and we’ll deliver the latest on new books, sale books, and pre-order books, plus all the #chickenchatter from the Authors of Henery Press.

  CLICK TO SIGN UP

  (Note: we won’t share your email address and you can unsubscribe any time.)

  Copyright

  THE RISE OF THE RED QUEEN

  A Red Solaris Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition

  Digital epub edition | December 2015

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2015 by Bourne Morris

  Cover art by Stephanie Chontos

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Related subjects include: women sleuths, murder mystery series, whodunit mysteries (whodunnit), book club recommendations, mystery series, amateur sleuth books.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-30-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my best friends,

  Miranda and Temple

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost my gratitude and all my affection to the generous readers of my manuscript: Cecelia Pearce, Kristin Felten, Bob Felten, Margo Piscavitch, Wynn Reed and Ryan Kelly. These are the wonderful people who make me possible, keep me straight and let me know when I’ve become self-indulgent, cliché ridden or confusing.

  I am also indebted to Marc Johnson, President of the University of Nevada, Reno, who paved the way for me to the team who handle sexual assault on his university campus. Many thanks to Denise Cordova, Carol Millie and Jo Harvey as well as Ashley Van Broklin and Nichelle Cieri who helped me understand the problems facing both university administrators and students.

  A special thanks to Lori Fralick, supervisor of victim services for the Reno Police Department and to Glen Lovedahl of the Reno office of the FBI. All mystery writers should have such good sources in law enforcement.

  Everyone should have friends as useful and well informed as Valerie Glenn and Alan Deutschman who gave me insights into social media and the book industry and Chris Coake who remains my best and favorite creative writing professor.

  My editors at Henery Press, Anna Davis and Erin George, always help make the book work and I cannot count the many suggestions they gave me that improved the story. I continue to learn from them and am forever in their debt.

  My agent, Kimberley Cameron keeps my spirits up and my vision clear, and I am always thankful to Kendel Lynn and Art Molinares at Henery Press and to the staff at Sundance Books and Music and Book Passage.

  For my reviewers Joe Crowley, Marc Bacon, Annette Dashofy, Gigi Pandian, Stacy Burton and Karen Penner-Johnson, I cannot sing enough praise for all the time and kind words you gave this book. Your own works keep me ever inspired to try to be as skilled as you are.

  My family sustains me. My dear Bob keeps me sane, keeps me going and loves me through all the cranky moments whether I deserve it or not. My daughters, Miranda and Temple, are remarkable women, wives, mothers and professionals who never cease to astonish me with their energy and accomplishments. My stepson and web master, Scott Buss, helps me more than he will ever know.

  Finally, to my friends and former colleagues all over the country and to Priscilla Cunningham who helped me connect with my old Westover classmates, I lift a glass in your honor with humble thanks for your support.

  Jamie’s Mistake

  She was a careful woman. She avoided online requests from people she didn’t know. She never stayed long at parties where people drank too much, never let herself get cornered by a man she wasn’t sure about. She always walked on well-lit paths, her keys a weapon in her pocket, each key lodged between two fingers with the longest held like a knife between her thumb and forefinger, a sharp
, pointed fist if she needed it. Her grandfather had trained her. She knew a few self-defense moves, nothing fancy, just enough to back off some fellow who really didn’t want that kind of trouble.

  Because she was beautiful, men stared at her body, so it developed a built-in alarm system. Whenever it went off, she would feel a series of pinpricks on the back of her neck, and if she was truly unnerved, a brief cramp in her abdomen. It had happened twice in Boston when she was walking from campus to her apartment.

  On one occasion, she’d stopped and hailed a cab that had just come around the corner on her side of the street. The next time, she’d stepped into an all-night convenience store and telephoned a friend.

  She hadn’t felt that sensation since transferring to the journalism school in northern Nevada. But that Monday night she felt it when the tall man came to the door of the journalism lab just as she was turning the lock, and asked if he could use one of the computers. “Just for a few minutes.”

  His manner had been pleasant and friendly. She’d tried to seem sympathetic, but she’d refused entry. The professor who ran the lab and gave her the assistant’s job had been adamant about the hours. “Closed at ten. No exceptions.”

  “I understand. Rules are important,” the tall man said, then turned and left.

  She’d seen him before. Without giving his name, he’d stopped her as she walked to class and invited her to join him for a coffee at the outdoor food wagon on the quad. The man was older, well dressed, well spoken, looked familiar, someone she’d met somewhere. That was why she’d stopped. But there was something about him that made her say, “Perhaps another time.”

  He’d smiled and moved aside. She’d hastened her steps toward the classroom building across the quad. She was aware of him watching her as she walked away.

  A week later she saw him standing by the iron fence that surrounded the library, hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning against the top railing, one long leg crossed in front of another, as if he had nothing else to do but watch her as she climbed the outer stairs to the entrance. He waved. She nodded but didn’t wave back.

  On the night he’d come to the lab, he’d been polite and friendly. He hadn’t insisted, or done anything she regarded as aggressive or threatening, and he walked away from her when she refused his request.

  Once she left the building, the campus around the journalism school felt familiar, comfortable. The night air was warm and soft, and reminded her of her grandfather’s home in Las Vegas.

  To the new transfer student, Mountain West University also seemed smaller and calmer than the urban college she’d left, and safer than the streets where she grew up. Nonetheless, the alarm system in her neck had kicked in, so she stopped at a kiosk to call for a ride from the campus escort service. They would drive her to the garage and up to the third floor where her car was parked.

  After five rings she decided to give up and walk to the garage. Relax, she said to herself, they’re busy with insecure newcomers. This is a university town, not a big city. You’re safe. The tall man was nowhere in sight and, after all, he’d smiled when he left.

  The soft evening enticed her. The lights along the path to the parking garage glowed bright and friendly, illuminating the leaves of the tall maples that lined her path. She’d been sitting all day in class and in the lab. Better to walk than ride.

  Once in the three-story garage she decided to avoid the elevator. She’d been a high school track star and missed the exercise. She took the concrete stairs two at a time to the third floor, then paused, hands on her knees, breathing heavily before she headed for her car.

  The columns of the top floor of the garage rose high above her, and the spaces in the thick walls opened to reveal the lights of the campus below. As she approached her car in the dim light, she turned and saw the tall man standing at the top of the stairs where she’d paused to catch her breath. On the third floor of the empty garage at ten fifteen at night, they were alone together. The pinpricks in the back of her neck returned in force. He walked toward her. Her stomach cramped. He was not smiling.

  Chapter 1

  The first thing I did every morning was wake up my mind. With my eyes barely open and my hair an unruly mass, I clutched a mug of hot coffee and plunged into the online edition of The New York Times. As a trained academic, I knew the importance of priming the cerebral cortex.

  My routine also included mindless but essential activities like feeding my dog. If you’ve ever encountered a hungry Golden Retriever, you know that trying to do anything before feeding the dog is impossible.

  On the morning I was scheduled to meet the search committee for the new dean of journalism, I got up early enough to finish the ritual by seven o’clock. I dressed with great care, pinning my hair back into a bun at the nape of my neck in an effort to look like a serious scholar. It took three times before the bun stayed in place. Then I ate as much protein for breakfast as my nervous stomach could stand.

  Charlie, my Golden, lay on the floor watching me. I leaned down to stroke the fur between his ears and he gave my fingertips a lick in appreciation. Following me as I went out the kitchen door, he crashed through his dog door and stood on the back step. He watched me turn the key in the lock and walk to my car.

  “Wish me luck, Charlie,” I said to his solemn face, knowing luck would have nothing to do with what was likely to happen in the days ahead. I was absolutely confident in my own ability to be the next Dean of Journalism, but university search committees have an unnerving habit of preferring to recommend outside candidates for top jobs, even when highly qualified inside faculty members have applied.

  I was ready to compete. Last year, when I had been temporarily appointed to lead the school, the journalism faculty had been at each other’s throats, impossible to calm down and as difficult to manage as a roomful of trapped feral cats. But I had brought them together and, once united, the faculty accepted my temporary leadership, nicknamed me The Red Queen, and then—surprise, surprise—championed my candidacy for the permanent position.

  My final interview with the search committee was scheduled for nine o’clock that morning. And it was a brilliant morning, the northern Nevada sun so bright it made my eyes hurt. I took that as a good sign. Blue sky stretched over my head as I left my car in the journalism parking lot. Japanese cherry trees, the kind that bloom big pink blossoms every spring, lined the lot. Over the trees’ thick leaves, I could make out the Sierra Nevada, towering from five thousand to nine thousand feet above sea level, with views of Lake Tahoe shimmering below. God, I was glad to live in this part of the country.

  I arrived at the office early, earlier than Nell, my assistant, but not earlier than a tall, good-looking man who was standing in front of the door to my outer office. Cropped gray hair and deep lines etched in skin the color of mahogany, plus a few discernible crow’s feet, suggested he might be sixty, maybe older.

  He introduced himself as Wynan Congers and followed me from the hall outside my outer office, insisting I make time to see him. I knew I didn’t have more than a few minutes before my interview, but the man looked desperate and, as the interim dean of the school, I was responsible for dealing with desperation.

  “My granddaughter, Jamie Congers, is one of your students, and she’s been missing for two days,” said Congers, without sitting down in the chair in front of my desk.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Congers. Please sit and let’s see what we can figure out.” This was not my first time dealing with an anxious guardian unwilling to relinquish the protections and requirements of high school. Their babies had grown up to become college students—on their own, free to skip class (or town) anytime they pleased.

  The old man sat but his expression remained fierce, his eyes bright with apprehension. “Dean Solaris, my Jamie is a good girl, a serious girl. She transferred here from a good college so she could be in your journalism school. She wouldn’t just take of
f without notifying me or her roommate or someone.”

  “When did you discover she wasn’t where you expected her to be?” A year and a half as interim dean had given me time to learn how to phrase an inquiry so I didn’t sound either defensive or indifferent.

  Congers moved restlessly in his chair.

  His dark blue shirt was neatly pressed and fit close across broad shoulders. His hands were strong with telltale signs of arthritis on the fingers.

  “My granddaughter’s roommate, Marilyn Ford, called me Tuesday morning. Jamie hadn’t come home the night before and Marilyn wondered if she’d come to see me in Las Vegas. We spoke later that day when she learned Jamie hadn’t been to any of her classes.” His deep voice quivered.

  “Sounds like a caring roommate.”

  “Jamie and Marilyn grew up together. Marilyn’s the one who persuaded Jamie to transfer here to the journalism school. One of her selling points was that Landry was a small town and safer than Boston.”

  “And Jamie’s parents are…”

  “Gone. My son and his wife were both killed in Afghanistan.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. So Jamie lives with you in Las Vegas?”

  “When she’s not in school.” The man leaned forward and his voice rose. “But Jamie isn’t careless. She doesn’t make stupid choices. Marilyn and I both believe something happened to her. She doesn’t have a boyfriend and hasn’t had a lot of time to make any friends since she transferred here. She works hard on her studies, and she has a night job here as one of your lab assistants.”