Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto Page A

Tomorrow he’d get on the Internet and learn what he could about plagiarism. When working with the Sun , he’d been asked to track down pilfered sources a colleague was suspected of using: a nasty business. That was a lifetime ago. Well, ten years. Brendan was still alive. No, don’t go there either.
    Peter seemed like a good guy. Their dinner together was easy. Admit it, Noel, you were attracted to him. And what’s wrong with that? Interesting, his thinking he was gay. Or had he gone beyond thinking? Probably not here on San Juan. Bellingham, maybe—a small gay scene, but visible. Likely Seattle, where he could remain anonymous. Was that what made the marriage fail? Or did it fail for some other reason and now Peter just didn’t want to deal with women anymore? Which came first, the sexuality or the sexuality? Yeah, right.
    He turned the radio on, set it to go off in an hour, and let a droning NPR voice take his brain far away. Something about the off switch didn’t work and the voices kept coming at him all night, giving him a Kyra-and-baby-free head but leaving his sleep haunted by battlefields far away, psychobabble too close, experimental music, all interspersed with the latest news, the same words in hourly refrain.
    When the phone rang just after 7:35, he welcomed the ringing—an intrusion most other mornings, but right then a relief. “Hello.”
    â€œNoel. Hi.” Familiar voice . . . “It’s Peter.”
    â€œOh. Hello.”
    â€œHope I didn’t wake you but I wanted you to know I just talked to Jordan.”
    Noel wanted to say, Who? but could only manage, “Oh.” Then he remembered. “Your student.” He leaned over and unplugged the radio.
    â€œYep. He’ll be happy to meet with you, but he’s busy at mealtimes waiting tables. He can see you for half an hour, around ten.”
    â€œThis morning?”
    â€œYes of course. Come to my office. I’ll introduce you and leave you to get to know each other.”
    â€œWe’re talking about fiction versus journalism, that was okay with him?”
    â€œExcited you’re willing to give him the time.”
    â€œExcellent.” No giving of time here; Langley was paying for as much time as Noel needed. And considering what else he needed, he asked Peter, “You have any way of finding out who his friends are? People who might have a good sense of him?”
    A moment of silence, then Peter said, “I’ll try. Might have something by ten.”
    â€œSee you then.” Noel set the phone down and lay back for a final moment, doing nothing. Felt good. A rough night.
    Up, ablutions, clothes on. A quick breakfast? He’d noticed a coffeemaker in the kitchen, maybe coffee too? Yes, in the refrigerator, actual fresh beans, and beside the coffee machine an electric grinder. Provide you well, these Morsely people. Grounds, a filter, and in six minutes he sipped hot coffee from a handmade mug, his computer open. Eggs and bacon would wait till after his conversation with Jordan Beck.
    First he googled Peter Langley. Several dozen hits: Peter’s course descriptions, handouts to his students, advice on essay writing. All natural if the whole of this university was available online. Digging some, Noel found five papers Peter had published, and a reference to his doctoral dissertation, “Transient Sexuality in the Novels of Virginia Woolf.” Hmm. No rabid feminists at Langley’s thesis defense? Five citations later, Noel discovered that the University of Washington Press was publishing a book, Virginia Woolf: Sexual Ambiguist , almost certainly a revision of the thesis. Helpful in the thrust for tenure, Noel assumed. A solid scholar. And from what Noel had seen, a sensitive teacher.
    He next sought out Jordan Beck. He found three: a diagnostic radiologist in Cleveland; the ex-mayor of a small town in the south of England, recently deceased; and