Not knowing was going to annoy me to no end. I had a sudden suspicion that was why Kanesha had told me she knew the killer’s identity. If so, I supposed it was adequate payback for the annoyance I had caused her.

It was time to head back to the reception. I would have to be careful about what I said, and to whom, though. I had pushed Kanesha far enough.

I stood in the doorway and looked around, searching for Julia. After a moment, I spotted her in the far corner to my right, talking to someone, but I couldn’t see who it was. As I moved closer, I could peer through the crowd, and I recognized Godfrey’s agent, Andrea Ferris.

At the same time I also spotted one of the campus blowhards, an elderly English professor named Pemberton Galsworthy. Many suspected the name was his own invention because it was so pompous sounding. But in that respect it was apt. He was a self-important windbag who never had an opinion he wasn’t willing to share with anyone within hearing distance.

I almost turned away, knowing that I could be stuck there for an hour if I joined the group. Galsworthy never had conversations. He performed soliloquies.

But Julia caught sight of me, and I couldn’t ignore the plea in her eyes. I didn’t know why she thought I could do anything to stop the deluge of words. We had suffered through Galsworthy’s sophomore literature course together, and she knew him as well as I did.

I moved forward and sidled up next to Julia.

Galsworthy noticed me—in itself noteworthy—and interrupted himself to acknowledge my presence. He peered at me. “Harris, isn’t it? Librarian, aren’t you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he resumed his peroration, peering now at Godfrey’s agent. “Contemporary literature has obviously been bastardized to the point of utter banality. Crass commercialism, naturally. Publishing was once the profession of gentlemen—educated, sophisticated, cultured—who chose works for their literary merit and their ability to enlighten and transform. Not because they would sell in the millions and cater to the tastes of the lowest common denominator, so sadly low these days, one fears for the intellectual survival of the species.”

He had more to say in that vein, but I tuned him out for a moment, though I faced him with a rapt expression. I had learned to do it in his class, and thankfully it was a skill I hadn’t completely forgotten.

I sneaked a glance at Andrea Ferris, dressed smartly in a dark suit and spike heels that made her stand about five-two. She had that glazed look common to anyone in Galsworthy’s presence for more than ten seconds.