Gone Crazy by Terry Korth Fischer

After a full hour devoted to hob-knobbing, everyone finally headed to the presentation room and the ceremony began. The Guild members sat at the front tables. A particularly distinguished looking gentleman stood at the podium. Rory held Esther’s chair as she took her seat. “What is it that you are so anxious to tell me?” she asked.

“In a moment,” he said, “Do you have the program?”

Esther pulled the pamphlet from her bag and handed it to him. “What are you looking for?”

“A woman in a tuxedo.” He opened the program and scanned the contents. It contained a short bio for each featured poet, including an author photograph. Phoebe Sheehan, retired librarian, Winterset Community College graduate, would read two selections from her chapbook. Her photograph was more glamor shot than portrait—and dated because her locks were more brunette than white.

Perry Benson, Winterset Library Poet-in-Residence, would present two works from his collection titled, Midwest Muddle. His picture revealed both arms tattooed from forearm to wrist, giving him the appearance of a shouting Prisoner-in-Residence at a state penal institution.

And last but not least, Lillie Anderson, comparative literature professor, Winterset Community College, reading from her published work, Wildfire Lies. Professor Anderson’s author shot confirmed she was the tuxedoed assailant—but not why she’d threaten Phoebe.

He turned to Esther. “I overheard Lillie Anderson and Phoebe Sheehan in the bar. Anderson accused Sheehan of plagiarism and following in her father’s footsteps, whatever that means. She said that if Phoebe didn’t admit her fraud, she, Professor Anderson, was willing and able to expose her.” Esther’s face clouded as he continued. “It sounded more like a disagreement about Phoebe being considered for tonight’s award than to the actual plagiarism. I’m guessing it wasn’t Lillie’s poetry in question.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And Professor Anderson manhandled Phoebe Sheehan.”

“What does that mean?”

“Grabbed her by the arms and retained her against her will. You know, manhandled.”

“To be politically correct you should use the term strong armed.”

Rory opened his mouth but decided it was better to remain silent.

The waiter appeared, lit the candle on the table centerpiece, then took their orders for wine. When he stepped away, Rory said, “I’ve always heard the academic world can be vicious but didn’t believe it. Plus, this Lillie Anderson is dressed like a man.”

“How does a man dress?” Esther asked.

Rory cleared his throat and studied the program.

“There’s Phoebe now,” said Esther gesturing to the white-headed woman making her way up front to join the dignitaries by the stage. She stumbled, then reached out to a nearby table to steady herself. “It looks like she’s drunk.”

“She wasn’t an hour ago,” he said, “but a couple stiff ones…”

“She’s having a hard time finding her way.” Esther stood, hesitating and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I think I’ll see if she’s okay. It might just be nerves.”

Rory let her hand slip away. Patrons milled around in a confused manner, taking time to find their assigned seats, and seemingly reluctant to end conversations they’d started in the bar. He watched Esther thread her way through the tables and make her way to Phoebe. With an arm the poet’s shoulder, Esther helped her take a seat by the temporary stage and sat next to her, their heads bent in conversation. He wondered at the exchange. Soon she returned.

“Well, is she drunk?”

“No. But she isn’t feeling well. She says she started to feel ill this afternoon.”

“Presentation jitters then?”

The man at the podium tapped the microphone and a loud thump exploded from the overhead speakers. “Looks like we might be starting,” Rory said.

Esther fingered her pearls. “I think it’s more than being nervous or simple stage fright. Phoebe looks pale and if she complained that she felt nauseous…after all, she was in the bar trying to get a soda to settle her stomach. Which she didn’t manage to do. You were there along with the crowd, it was chaos. I think I’ll order her a hot tea.”

Esther waved at a waiter as he passed. Failing to get the waiter’s attention, she stood. “They’ll be a minute getting started. I’ll just pop into the bar, order the tea, and be right back.” Before Rory could object, she was gone.

The guests slowly took their seats. The man at the podium thumped again. “Testing. Testing. Can everyone hear me?” The guests at the tables quieted. Those roaming made for their seats.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Winterset Literary Guild Awards banquet. I’m George Martin, Guild President.” There was some modest clapping, and more chair scraping. “We have a lovely evening planned for you. Our State Poet, Adeline Yost will open, followed by three Winterset distinguished poets: Phoebe Sheehan, Lillie Anderson, and Perry Benson. From these talented poets, one will end the evening as the first Winterset Poet Laureate.” Gentle applause followed. “But first, let me introduce the literary board members.” He motioned for the front row to stand, and one-by-one introduced them, followed by more clapping. Rory hoped Esther would hurry. He didn’t want her to miss the presentation.

George Martin introduced Adeline Yost who, along with him, had a seat by the podium on the stage. Still no Esther. The overhead lights dimmed, and Adeline read a poem about open space and shooting stars that ended in glowing horizons. Rory was impressed with her melodic voice but thought poetry ought to rhyme. Less along the lines of “By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water”, and more “high-diddle diddle, the cat in the fiddle.”

Where was Esther? Should he check on her?

Yost finished and introduced Lillie Anderson. The professor mounted the stage with encouragement from the crowd, then confidently crossed the stage to join Adeline at the podium where she accepted the accolades with grace. Her tuxedo clad figure was a stark contrast to Adeline’s simple long skirt and flowing tunic top. In Rory’s mind the long coarse hair falling past Lillie’s shoulders was ubiquitous in academia, her suit a blatant statement against the role women played in a male dominated world. He recalled the menace in her voice as she accosted Phoebe Sheehan in the bar. Professor Anderson would make a formidable enemy.

As the spotlight highlighted the poet, Adeline Yost explained the structure for the piece Lillie had selected to read. “From her chapbook, Wildfire Lies, Professor Anderson will read a villanelle.”

Villanelle? It sounded as menacing as her accusations in the bar. Rory listened but continued to be more concerned by Esther’s absence.

“The villanelle,” Yost explained, “is a most difficult poetic form. Many artists avoid them, as it can be quite intimidating. The form has nineteen lines, adheres to a particular structure, and offers a rhyme scheme.”

Good. A rhyming poem. Right up my alley.

Adeline continued, “Five three-line stanzas, followed by a four-line stanza. You will notice the first and third lines are repeated three more times throughout the poem at dictated locations. Composing a villanelle is no easy feat. It is so difficult to write that I, myself, have only done so, once. And, I have no intention to attempt a second.” There was mild laughter. She paused for effect, then announced, “Professor Lillie Anderson, reading The Plains Echo.”

Adeline stepped from the spotlight, allowing Anderson to step to the microphone. She looked out over the room and waited for a silence to settle over the audience. When all was quiet, she took reading glasses from where they were tucked into her cummerbund, put them on, situated her printed page on the podium, and began.

Rory wasn’t impressed, but what did he know? Anderson had a stage presence and a flair for the dramatic. And Adeline Yost had set the tone by announcing the piece’s excellence. It was as Anderson raised her voice in the required repeated first stanza line that he saw Esther step into the room. Moving deftly through the tables with a large mug between her hands, she threaded her way to the front tables where Phoebe sat and drew the audience’s attention as she advanced. So intent was Esther in keeping the sloshing contents within the mug that she didn’t notice the disturbance she created.

Her advance, however, didn’t escape Anderson’s notice. The professor’s reading glasses slid down her nose and she glared over the rims. Clearly flustered, she said to George Martin. “Mr. President, are you going to allow this interruption? Must I ignore this blatant attempt by Phoebe Sheehan to undermine my poetry reading?”

Red-faced, Mr. Martin stood and stammered, “I a…assure you. Th…this is not the conduct expected from our members.” His focus on Phoebe, he demanded, “Miss Sheehan, are you quite finished?”

Phoebe, taking a gulp from the mug, froze. From Rory’s position at the back, he watched her rise. Once on her feet, she swayed and put a hand on Esther’s shoulder, and steadied herself. Esther took the mug from her hand.

“George…” Phoebe croaked, drifting to the left before righting herself. “George…” She fell forward and collapsed into a heap before the stage.

The audience gasped. A black clad waiter appeared from nowhere and rushed to the crumpled poet. He bent over her for a moment then announced, “Call an ambulance.”

George Martin took over the microphone. “Is there a doctor in the house?”

Wide-eyed, Esther met Rory’s gaze.

The detective nodded. Then reached for the light switch and flipped on the overhead lights.

***

Excerpt from Gone Crazy by Terry Korth Fischer. Copyright 2024 by Terry Korth Fischer. Reproduced with permission from Terry Korth Fischer. All rights reserved.