Chapter One: Shortcut

(I)

On Friday the cat disappeared, the White House phoned, and Jeannie's fever--said the sitter when Julia called from the echoing marble lobby of Lombard Hall, where she and her husband were fêting shadowy alumni, one or two facing indictment, whose only virtue was piles of money--hit 103. After that, things got worser faster, as her grandmother used to say, although Granny Vee's Harlem locutions, shaped to the rhythm of an era when the race possessed a stylish sense of humor about itself, would not have gone over well in the Landing, and Julia Carlyle had long schooled herself to avoid them.

The cat was the smallest problem, even if later it turned out to be a portent. Rainbow Coalition, the children's smelly feline mutt, had vanished before and usually came back, but now and then stayed away and was dutifully replaced by another dreadful creature of the same name. The White House was another matter. Lemaster's college roommate, now residing in the Oval Office, telephoned at least once a month, usually to shoot the breeze, a thing it had never before occurred to Julia that Presidents of the United States did. As to Jeannie, well, the child was a solid eight years into a feverish childhood, the youngest of four, and her mother knew by now not to rush home at each spike of the thermometer. Tylenol and cool compresses had so far defeated every virus that had dared attack her child and would stymie this one, too. Julia gave the sitter her marching orders and returned to the endless dinner in time for Lemaster's closing jokes. It was eleven minutes before ten on the second Friday in November in the year of our Lord 2003. Outside Lombard Hall, the snow had arrived early, two inches on the ground and more expected. As the police later would reconstruct the night's events, Professor Kellen Zant was already dead and on the way to town in his car.

(II)

After. Big cushy flakes still falling. Julia and Lemaster were barreling along Four Mile Road in their Cadillac Escalade with all the extras, color regulation black, as befitted their role as the most celebrated couple in African America's lonely Harbor County outpost. That, at least, was how Julia saw them, even after the family's move six years ago out into what clever Lemaster called "the heart of whiteness." For most of their marriage they had lived in Elm Harbor, largest city in the county and home of the university her husband now led. By now they should have moved back, but the drafty old mansion the school set aside for its president was undergoing renovation, a firm condition Lemaster had placed on his acceptance of the post. The trustees had worried about how it would look to spend so much on a residence at a time when funds to fix the classrooms were difficult to raise, but Lemaster, as always with his public, had been at once reasonable and adamant. "People value you more," he had explained to his wife, "if it costs more to get you than they expected."

"Or they hate you for it," Julia had objected, but Lemaster stood his ground; for, within the family, he was a typical West Indian male, and therefore merely adamant.

They drove. Huge flakes swirled toward the windshield, the soft, chunky variety that signals to any New Englander that the storm is moving slowly and the eye is yet to come. Julia sulked against the dark leather, steaming with embarrassment, having called two of the alums by each other's names, and having referred half the night to a wife named Carlotta as Charlotte, who then encouraged her, in that rich Yankee way, not to worry about it, dear, it's a common mistake. Lemaster, who had never forgotten a name in his life, charmed...

 

In this rich and complex thriller about the sources and uses of power in America, Lemaster and Julia Carlyle, leaders of an African-American elite, are involved (but how, exactly?) in a murder that rattles the Yale-like university, of which Lemaster is president, and the highest office in the United States, of which Lemaster's college roommate (Squinchy to his intimates) is president. Bahni Turpin's voice is gorgeous, and her vocal acting is over-the-top superb. With a flawless ear, she makes the most of the accents, subtle jokes, and speech tics with which Carter peoples a broad canvas full of colorful characters. Her pacing is perfect as the plot, constructed like a dark high-stakes treasure hunt, ricochets from academia to Harlem to the White House. A sensational performance. B.G. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award (c) AudioFile 2007, Portland, Maine

 

"In the richness of his characters, both major and minor, and the intelligence of his writing, Carter rivals Scott Turow. Expect another bestseller."

 

"[An] irresistible--and highly intelligent--thriller. Carter strikes again."

 

New England White by Stephen L. Carter
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