Aromatherapy oils the author makes and sells on her website www.dunravenhouse.com

The evening was clear and mild. I’d left the university to take a short walk downtown and buy a book on aromatherapy that Brianna had recommended in class. While I was at it, I stopped by The Trident for a quick double espresso and pain chocolat to tide me over until pizza time. Not exactly diet food, but I was in too good a humor to fret about my waistline.

I strolled back to campus, enjoying the balmy June weather. Somehow springtime had slipped into early summer without my noticing. Although it was not yet dark, a big full moon had already risen, brightening the Sistine blue sky in the East with its white light. To the west, the sky over the mountains had turned a deep valentine rose color with the setting sun.

By this time of evening, most students had left. I made my way along almost empty sidewalks with only the sound of my footsteps and the stirrings of nature in the shrubbery to keep me company. Suddenly a crow cawed and I glanced up to the canopy of great, old oaks that spread a mantle above me. How many generations of students, faculty, and staff had these trees witnessed pass under their boughs? It made me realize how fleeting our individual lives and concerns are considered against the backdrop of history.

The air was redolent with the intermingled fragrances of damp earth and conifers, and as I passed the botanical garden, I drank deeply the smells of night-scented phlox and spicy musk roses. In class, Brianna had told us that the rose was the queen of the flower kingdom, and jasmine, the king.

I stepped under the old-fashioned, electrified lantern that lit the stairs to the College Theater just as it lighted up for the evening. The theater’s front doors stood wide open to let in the fresh air during the rehearsal. Suzanne’s voice rang out, carrying all the way to the sidewalk where I stood. Perhaps she, indeed, had missed her calling as an actress. I wondered whether the stage crew had figured out the problems of the platforms and the rose petals.

Turning away from the theater, I headed along a tree-lined walk toward the department, the moon illumining my path. Colonial Americans aptly named the June full moon the Rose Moon after the quintessential flower of love.

The moon, with its perfect roundness, always held a special fascination for me. From a TV nature show I’d learned that the moon’s gravitational field pulls the earth away from water to cause the tides and influence weather patterns. The show mentioned that since people are largely composed of water, the moon also affects the flow of the fluids within our bodies, creating fluctuations in our biorhythms as well as hormonal shifts. It is said that more babies are born at the full moon, more suicides and more murders occur then, and emergency hotlines are flooded with calls.

Since I was little, the full moon filled me with excitement and anticipation. Certainly tonight I felt lunar energy coursing through my veins. I recited the old folk verse,

“Pray to the Moon when she is round,
Luck with you will then abound,
What you seek for shall be found,
On the sea or solid ground.”

What would I discover on this enchanted evening fraught with possibilities? Would I at last, find love?

As I approached the department, I saw that several of the professors’ office windows were lighted up, including Juventino’s, whose office was the first to the right of the entrance. Evidently my colleagues, like me, had procrastinated, and were now hurrying to finish their paperwork before the end of the short, first five-week summer term.

From a distance, I recognized the chairman and Clive Hinckey in conversation under the portico. Clive’s gangly outline gesticulated wildly like a scarecrow flapping at birds to Vigil’s stout, stiff figure. By the time I reached the door, they both had disappeared inside.

I descended the stairs through the stale air of the empty TA rooms, and headed to my office. I didn’t expect to see any grad student slaving away at teaching assistant matters on such a lovely evening. In the dark hall by my office, I felt for the keyhole, and fit my key into my office door lock. As I stepped in and snapped on the light, my foot squashed something soft that had been left against my door.

Bending to pick it up, I saw that I held a kind of poppet. Made from dark
purple material with a floral pattern, it had been fashioned into the likeness of a female with black curly yarn for hair. A big black hatpin pierced the figure’s heart. A Voodoo doll!

From its mop of frizzy black hair, I understood that the doll was meant to represent me. I dropped the disgusting effigy on my desk like it was a piece of burnt toast.

I collapsed into my chair and stared at the poppet. It stared back with brown button eyes and a red-beaded mouth that sloped down in a frown. I had passed off the scorpions as a student prank, but this doll was an entirely different matter. Growing up Latina, I’d seen the results of spells too many times not to take the dark side of magic seriously. I shuddered. Evidently someone bore me a tremendous grudge.

Not wanting to touch the effigy again and let its bad vibrations penetrate my aura, I took two pens from the pencil holder on my desk, and gingerly lifted the doll. I was about to take it to the bathroom trashcan, but hesitated. Something about the figure looked familiar, but I couldn’t think what.

I carried it to my filing cabinet. Opening the empty bottom drawer with the toe of my shoe, I shoved in the poppet, and slid the drawer closed like a body drawer in a morgue. Then I went into the bathroom and washed my hands with plenty of antibacterial soap and water to remove the faint odor of patchouli that had emanated from the poppet and soiled my hands.

Back in my office, I tried to work on the letter of recommendation, but the words did not flow easily. Little noises—creaking, rustlings, clanking pipes, imagined or real footsteps above my head—disturbed my concentration, and my mind kept wandering to the file cabinet drawer.

When the phone rang, I almost jumped out of my skin

“I’m back in my office,” said Eddy. “Come on up and we’ll go for that pizza.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said. “I need to finish writing this letter.”

“Oye. Suzanne, Dolores and Javier want to join us for a while.” He sounded apologetic. “Suzanne has been itching for us all to get together. And it does help with building cast solidarity. They won’t stay long, I promise.”

“No problem,” I said, but my heart sank.

“Also, I keep forgetting to tell you that you left your scarf hanging on the back of my door last week.”

“You’re right! I’d forgotten all about it since the weather warmed up. I’ll be sure to retrieve it.”

I hung up and dashed off the letter. It wasn’t purple prose, but it would have to do.

Rats! I thought as I combed my hair in the bathroom and applied fresh lip gloss. Suzanne and Dolores kept turning up like bad centavos practically wherever I went with Eddy. Well, it couldn’t be helped. I checked my watch. Somehow I’d let twenty minutes slip by.

I sped up the two flights of stairs and down the corridor to Eddy’s office. I slowed my pace as I got closer, not wanting to appear too eager. His door was ajar and the light was on.

“Sorry I’m late.” I announced as I entered, “but it took forever to finish that—.” I stopped short as I collided with something solid. Eddy was stretched face-up on top of his Indian rug with my scarf wound around his neck. His red-rimmed eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling and his face and neck had turned dark red.

“Eddy!” I cried.

I knelt by him and with one hand, ripped away the scarf. It had left a deep horizontal contusion around his neck. I bent close to his face and registered a very sweet fragrance with a tart finish to it. I put my shaking hand to his nose and mouth to check for breath then felt his pulse. Lifeless.

Shivering uncontrollably now and blinking back tears, I scrambled in my purse for my cell phone. At the same instant I heard the voice at 9-1-1 come on the line, Suzanne, Dolores, and Javier appeared at the doorway. On seeing Eddy’s body and me crouched over it with my scarf in one hand and my cell phone in the other, a look of shock overcame their faces.

“What have you done?” Suzanne shrieked.

“You’ve killed him!” shouted Javier.

Dolores screamed, “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”