From Publishers Weekly
In her third assured Ivy League mystery (after 1999's Blue Blood), Thomas-Graham makes some telling points about race and social justice. When 30-year-old African-American Harvard economics professor Nikki Chase comes to Princeton to present a paper, she also visits her brother, Erik, and their friend and mentor, "Professor Earl Stokes, the country's leading scholar on urban economics and rumored to be an impending addition to Harvard's Afro-American Studies Department." (The parallel with Harvard's wooing of Cornel West is bound to intrigue readers with an interest in that real-life cause célèbre.) When the secretive Earl perishes in a suspicious fire at the site of the new Afro-Am Building, Nikki decides to camp out at Erik's dorm room until the funeral is over and some troubling questions have been answered. As the tension builds, Nikki must not only defend Earl's scholarly reputation but also absolve him of the charge that the fire was of his own making. Thomas-Graham effortlessly reveals the inner workings of a prestigious university in a provocative novel sure to appeal well beyond the ivory tower. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.


From Booklist
Nikki Chase, an economics professor at Harvard, is visiting her brother at Princeton and attending a conference there. She is drawn by chance to spend some time with her friend and mentor, Earl Stokes, head of the Department of African American Studies. The well-regarded Stokes, author of a controversial best-seller, is being courted by Harvard but wants to stay until the construction of his department's new home is completed. But on the night Stokes is honored for his achievements, the new building is destroyed in a fire, and he is found dead. Stokes was in the process of writing a new book, one that would shed unflattering light on Princeton. Was it a motive for murder? To find out, Nikki must cope with a widow suspicious of her husband's colleagues, a racist student opposed to Stokes' legacy, assorted academics in ambition overdrive, and the possibility that what she uncovers will harm Stokes' memory. Third in a series of mysteries featuring a smart heroine and an Ivy League setting. Vanessa Bush
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved


Book Description
Murder stalks the campus in this exciting, witty, fast-paced, and extremely atmospheric novel, the third Ivy League Mystery by critically acclaimed writer Pamela Thomas-Graham. Harvard economics professor Nikki Chase has come to Princeton for the weekend, primarily to take part in a conference on world economy, but also to pay a quick visit to her younger brother, a graduate student there, and to attend a party honoring Princeton professor Earl Stokes, an old friend and mentor who is rumored to be considering giving up his dual responsibilities as head of Afro-Am Studies and professor in the Economics Department and to make a move to Harvard. Nikki is no stranger to the political games that are played among the professorial ranks, both intermurally and intramurally, so she is not surprised that she finds Professor Stokes under attack both from those who don't want him to leave Princeton and from those who definitely do not want to see him at Harvard. Stokes, after all, hasn't just risen in the ranks; he has become a star thanks to his recent controversial bestselling book, Color Counts. So when Stokes's body is found in the smoldering ruins of the new Afro-Am Studies building, which was still under construction, Nikki is reluctant to accept the findings of the Princeton police that his death was an accident. There remain too many unanswered questions and, as Nikki is acutely aware, there are too many people who had a lot to gain from Earl Stokes's death. Soon, despite warnings from his friends, her own department head, and the Princeton police, Nikki Chase has begun her own investigation into her mentor's death, abetted by a Princeton debutante and a wealthy alumna. What she uncovers threatens to cause a major upheaval, not only on the Princeton campus, but back at Harvard as well. Smart and sassy and sexy, Orange Crushed is a thoroughly engaging page-turner that will appeal to all fans of mystery, with a distinctive and entertaining heroine readers will adore.


Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One: 'Dis Side of Paradise The day ended in ash. But it began in snow. Snow, and whining. "Isn't it adorable? You don't see trains like this anymore. It reminds me of when I was a girl. I could've ridden on that little trolley car for hours." The gray-haired woman who had been sitting across the aisle from us could barely contain her excitement. She lovingly patted the side of the silvery metal engine with her white-gloved hand. "For God's sake," my traveling companion snapped. "It's a New Jersey Transit train car that looks as if it hasn't had a bath since the Fourth of July! If I hear one more person cooing over how cute it is I am going to throw up, I swear." It was the second Friday in December, and my best friend Jessica Leiberman and I were standing beside the train station in Princeton, having just stepped off "the dinky," the Lilliputian train that ferries passengers back and forth from the Amtrak station in Princeton Junction. We had just finished the last leg of a seven-hour trek from Cambridge, Massachusetts, that had involved one subway, three trains, two different one-hour delays, and more sugar, fat, and caffeine than were strictly necessary, and we were in no mood for wonder. However, a less cynical and weary traveler would have had to agree with the breathless pronouncements of our fellow passenger. The setting was charming: a rustic stone train station that sheltered a two-car train, an amiable conductor, and a handful of rosy-cheeked riders. The dusting of snow covering the slate roof of the station and the surrounding sidewalk looked as if it had been deposited expressly for aesthetic purposes, and the nearby cluster of carolers flanked by a Salvation Army Santa could only have been supplied by Central Casting. "Merry Christmas!" the effusive woman from the train called to us as she set out across the cobblestone sidewalk. "We don't all celebrate Christmas, you know!" Jess muttered. As she impatiently stamped her feet, I glanced at her and smiled to myself. All over Cambridge, people were thanking me for getting her out of town for the weekend. "Chill out, Jess," I admonished her, taking her by the hand. "Just because he dumped you doesn't give you license to take it out on the rest of us." "He didn't dump me!" she blazed. "I dumped him." How could I forget? We'd only rehashed the saga in excruciating detail three times during the train trip. I knew the story. Our fellow passengers knew -- and had commented on -- the story. The entire eastern seaboard knew the story. I smiled pleasantly without speaking. "Don't patronize me," she snapped. "Did I say anything?" "Just because you're in some kind of Zen state doesn't mean that I have to be, too." Jess turned away, frowning. "I expect you to be on my side, even if he is your housemate." Suddenly, her face lit up. "Ricky!" she exclaimed. Loping toward us across the snow was a tall handsome man in his late twenties with sparkling brown eyes and café au lait skin. In one hand he held a tall paper cup from Wawa's, and in the other, a copy of The Invisible Man. An infectious smile spread broadly across his face at the sound of Jess's voice, and every woman within a hundred-foot radius took note appreciatively. I grinned along with them. My little brother has that effect on people. My name is Veronica Chase -- Nikki to my friends, and Professor Chase to my students at Harvard. Ostensibly, I'd come to Princeton to present a paper at a weekend conference at the Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs on the rise of oligopolies in Eastern Europe. It was just another of the many hoops I was jumping through at age thirty in pursuit of my goal of being the first black woman ever to receive tenure in the Harvard Economics Department. But like Jess, I had left Cambridge on the run -- from an acting department chairman who was driving me mad, from the impatient glares of students more caught up in the whirl of holiday parties than in the necessity of turning in term papers on time. And from male troubles of my own. "What took you so long?" my brother demanded, engulfing me in his embrace. "I was about to send out my posse." "Hey!" Jess demanded. "I need a hug more than she does right now." I met Eric's eyes over Jess's shoulder, and we grinned at each other. Despite Jess's penchant for calling him Ricky, I referred to my brother as Eric -- pairing us as Nikki and Ricky amused Jess, but it was a bit much for both of us. "You've lost weight," he said, regarding me critically. "What's up?" "Not now." I shook my head dismissively. He looked me over again and then shrugged. "All right, your call. We've got the whole weekend to talk. Let's get going, ladies. Your chariot awaits." He nodded toward an orange metal golf cart, the preferred method of vehicular transportation for jocks around the campus. "It'll be tight, but we should make it." "I'd rather walk," I replied. "But do you mind hanging on to this?" My gesture was broad enough to encompass my two fairly large suitcases and my high-maintenance companion. "I've got you covered," he said assuredly. "I'll meet you at the Annex later. What's it gonna be, Jess? Hot fudge at Thomas Sweet's or a martini at Lahiere's?" "I've have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm up for anything involving alcohol, chocolate, or some combination of the two," she replied emphatically. "Let's go." "You remember how to get to Woody Woo, right?" he asked as they loaded up. "Of course! I'll be fine," I replied, suppressing a laugh at the commonly accepted nickname of the Woodrow Wilson School. "I'm going to stop by and say hi to Professor Stokes first." Finally free, I sauntered slowly beyond Alexander Street and up University Place, propelled along by the bracing winter air and the patrician charms of Princeton. I caught glimpses of the leaded glass windows and stone archways of Pyne and Henry Halls, and their promise of grace and order coaxed me farther up the tree-lined street. The campus hadn't changed at all since the first time we dropped Eric off as a college freshman almost ten years ago. It was still a dream of an Ivy League college: towering elm trees, flagstone walkways, stately Gothic buildings. If you closed your eyes and tried to conjure up the ultimate bucolic college campus, this would be it, particularly at Christmastime. Despite the New Jersey locale, somehow the air was scented with a whiff of the Deep South. Perhaps it was the long wisteria vines that encircled some of the windows, which mimicked the look of the moss hanging from the trees of an antebellum plantation. Or maybe it was the tall Grecian columns on a couple of the campus buildings. Or perhaps it was the perfectly coiffed blond hair and well-mannered demeanor of so many of the students. Whatever the ineffable source of the feeling, it was very real. The lawns were invisible underneath their blanket of snow, but I felt certain that they had been lovingly trimmed to a socially acceptable height. I was alone with my thoughts for the first time in days, and I wasn't certain that I was happy in their company. I had spent the past three months in a state of professional and personal chaos, and now all I wanted was silence. Silence and distance from the source of the turmoil. Instead, a cacophony of voices rang in my ears -- police officers, reporters, Harvard faculty. And my own voice, entwined with his -- bitter, angry, and impassioned. Determinedly, I forced myself to focus on the faces of the passersby. I had wanted a change of scenery, and here it was. Although the scene wasn't really much different from Harvard. A trio of young blond men in varsity jackets passed before me, loudly discussing their squash games as they headed toward Dillon Gym. A lone woman in a plaid miniskirt and a black leather jacket walked by in deep reverie. Two older gentlemen in long wool herringbone coats leaned toward each other, gesticulating broadly with their lit pipes as they climbed the stone stairs toward Blair Arch. Then a young black woman passed me, and I suddenly remembered one thing that was different about Princeton. At Harvard, in the crush of people in the square and the Yard, no one makes any particular effort to make eye contact with passersby. In most cases, the denizens of Cambridge are either deep in conversation with their companions, or lost in thought. The phenomenon of being surrounded by people and yet utterly unnoticed holds true across lines of age, race, and gender, and it says a lot about what it means to be at Harvard. But at Princeton, the black people always stare. Not at everyone, of course. Just at the black faces -- especially the new black faces. They do it intensely, almost longingly. As if they are hoping to find kinship, or to express solidarity. The first time it happened to me, I felt almost violated by the scrutiny. Now it just saddens me. When the imploring gaze falls on me, I want to stop and embrace the person. My father says it's just another symptom of "WFO" -- white folk overload. When living in a small community dominated by blond conservatives, perhaps even the most culturally integrated African-American starts to long for a glimpse of brown skin and dark hair. Whatever the reason, in my experience the black students of Princeton tend to have the look of people living in occupied territory -- wary, lonely, and deeply tired. Which was what was so striking about the young black woman who passed me that afternoon. She was none of those things. I watched her, expecting The Look in return, and instead received a cool appraisal that told me instantly that my hair wasn't quite right, my boots were a bit scuffed, and my overall appearance was of absolutely no threat to her. In the moment that it took me to suppress the urge to whip out a compact and freshen my lipstick, she was gone. Perhaps things were changing here, after all. By now I had reached the heart of the campus and was surrounded by Gothic buildings. Straight ahead of me was McCosh Hall -- then my destination: Dickinson Hall, a three-story off-white limestone structure with oversize leaded-glass windows. The building housed Princeton's Program in African-American Studies, and I was planning to make a call on Professor Earl Stokes, the country's leading scholar on urban economics and rumored to be an impending addition to Harvard's Afro-American Studies Department. In addition to being a leading light in Princeton's Economics Department, he was also the head of the university's tiny Program in African-American Studies. Certain circles on the campuses of both Harvard and Princeton were currently in turmoil over the news that Earl might be leaving Princeton to come to Cambridge. He had been born and raised in Princeton, and his departure would be quite a blow to the university's claims regarding the diversity of its faculty. The Stokes family had been a fixture in the town of Princeton for three generations. Earl was a best-selling author as well as a highly respected scholar. His last book, Color Counts, had sat atop the New York Times best-seller list for almost six months, and he made frequent appearances to discuss economics and race on the talk-show circuit and at the White House. Intense and righteous, he had the air of a minister and accepted the reverence that resulted from it with quiet pride. I had met him when Eric ran into some trouble as a Princeton senior and needed to be bailed out, and we'd kept in close touch through the years. He had become a mentor and a role model for me, and had quietly lent a hand from time to time when I needed help understanding the high-stakes game of academic politics. So I was thrilled to hear that he might be coming to Harvard. Thrilled, but a bit bemused. Because I had heard that he wouldn't be coming to lead Afro-Am, which was what one would expect for a man of his stature. The rumor was that he would join as just another member of the department, which was being reinvented by another star black professor, Percy Hubbard. And we all knew that "Butch" Hubbard could be trouble. Butch Hubbard was in many ways the mirror image of Earl. Where Earl was unflappable, Butch was mercurial. Where Earl tended to base his painstakingly accurate arguments on months of tedious research, Butch was just as happy to share his opinions based on nothing more than how he happened to view the world that particular morning. And while it caused Earl great physical discomfort to ask for funding for even his most cherished research studies, Butch Hubbard was the type who'd cheerfully hit you up for money for some new program at Afro-Am if you happened to be stopped at a red light on the sidewalk next to him on Mass Ave. If you had cash, you had his interest. Expensive national surveys, original works by black artists to outfit his office, and high-priced African theme parties aboard yachts were all academic funding opportunities for the rich and famous. Hubbard was always on. Always selling. In fact, my brother used to jokingly refer to Hubbard as "Sportin' Life" because he was so much like the charming rogue in Porgy and Bess. It was a fitting moniker for a man who perfectly blended an Oxford degree with ghetto-fabulous style. He was someone who not only loved to play people, but did it effortlessly. I worried that Earl didn't quite know what he would be signing up for if he decided to join Butch Hubbard's team, but I trusted that he was smart enough to do his due diligence before he made the move. Besides, I wanted Earl in Cambridge. So I was keeping my mouth shut about Butch. I entered Dickinson Hall and went down a narrow flight of stairs. A cramped, extremely damp hallway with stained wooden doors lining both sides surrounded me. The faint hiss of steam grew louder as I walked down the hallway, and I shed my scarf as the temperature began to rise. I felt like I was paying a call to the boiler room. But this was where Princeton had chosen to house Earl Stokes's office. It seemed disrespectful to a man of his stature. Butch Hubbard, his Harvard counterpart, had one of the best offices on campus in Cambridge. Earl's door was ajar when I reached his office. Even though he had his back to me, I knew it was he. The unfashionably long Afro, the tattered sleeve on his brown tweed sport coat. The chatter of NPR on the radio. This was definitely Earl Stokes's office. "Nikki Chase?" A rich baritone voice boomed as two brown eyes peered into the mirror above the desk and a wooden swivel chair spun around. His embrace engulfed me in the scents of wool and 1970s-era Pierre Cardin aftershave. I inhaled deeply and felt a surge of contentment. "What are you doing down here?" he exclaimed. "I came down for a couple of days for a conference at Woody Woo, and of course I had to stop by. Do you have a minute?" "For you? Of course!" he said with a broad smile. "Sit down." "Whew! I see why you're building a new building for African-American Studies. It's like a furnace down here!" I declared as I tossed my jacket over the back of my chair. "How's the construction going?" "Pretty well," Earl replied. "But it's a lot of work." He gestured to a large stack of blueprints on the floor in a corner. "Between fighting with the university trustees over whether this is an 'appropriate use of funds' and arguing with the Princeton building authority over zoning variances, it's a wonder there's time to teach. But when we get this thing built, it'll be a showplace for the department. Almost as good as what y'all have up north at Harvard." He grinned wryly. I sensed my opening and jumped to the topic I really wanted to discuss. "So is it true?" I asked eagerly. Earl leaned in close as his large brown eyes widened for dramatic effect. "You mean the job offer?" "Of course that's what I mean! Tell me the whole story. How did it happen?" He smiled again. "How did it happen?" He paused for dramatic effect and leaned back in his chair. "Well, it was damn near overnight. I'd been working for over a year researching how the economic successes of different American ethnic groups shaped certain American cities. We issued the final report a month ago, and it got covered in Fortune and several academic journals. And then I get a call from President Townsend asking me to come up and give him a hand. We know each other because we served on that Presidential commission on urban development, you know." It took me a moment to note the real news in what he had just said. "Did you say Townsend called you?" I asked sharply. "Don't you mean Butch Hubbard?" A shadow passed over his face, and I leaned forward. "Don't you mean Butch?" I repeated. Earl shifted in his chair. "No, I don't. He had very little to do with it." I stared at him. "How is that possible?" It was completely unheard of that a department chair would have an appointment forced on him. That wasn't the way things were done in Cambridge. "You know Hubbard was a real favorite of former President Barrett," Earl said, leaning forward again. "Sure." Harvard's recently departed president, Leo Barrett, had given Butch Hubbard free rein and significant funding to revive the Afro-American Studies Department. At the time, everyone had assumed that his commitment to the department stemmed from their personal friendship. They were cut from the same cloth, both relatively young, debonair raconteurs who loved being at the nexus of academia and pop culture. As it turned out, President Barrett had a much closer affinity for Afro-American Studies than anyone knew. But that was another story. "So what are you saying?" I asked. "That President Townsend isn't such a big fan of Hubbard's?" "He's trying to restrain some of the excesses that were allowed to flourish during Barrett's presidency. Do you have any idea how much money has been spent on the Afro-Am Department since Hubbard took it over?" I certainly had some idea, having attended a few of the lavish parties organized by Hubbard to mark new appointments, anniversaries, and the like. A couple of years ago, he had established an annual spring gala during which he took over one of the Houses for the weekend and flew in the glitterati from New York and points south. The champagne was always first-rate, the quality of the dancing a bit less so. It had never crossed my mind to ask who was paying for it all. "But what is Townsend expecting that you'd be doing?" I knew the answer before the question passed my lips. Earl would be the new president's spy. "I'd be specializing in urban economics. Much of the same work that I have been doing here. I'd use my Color book, and some other texts." His tone was light, but our eyes met, and I heeded his tacit warning not to pry further. This was varsity-level faculty politics, and I'd be better off staying away from it. "Speaking of which, how would you like to be the guest lecturer for my course on Monday?" Earl continued. "I'd like to get you in front of my students, especially the women. They need to see someone like you." "Are you kidding?" I feigned being taken aback, but I was flattered. "I wish I could, but I'm only staying for the weekend." "Come on, Nikki. Harvard can spare you for one extra day. This class is cross-registered with Afro-Am and Economics, and it meets on Monday morning. I've got some really interesting students in the class." I shook my head, laughing. "We're doing Color Counts. You've read the book. We'll do the class together. It would be fun. You're a role model for these kids. And I'll have you home by Monday evening, I swear. You can meet some of my students and colleagues at the Afro-Am anniversary party tonight, for starters." He turned and rapidly shuffled through a stack of folders on his credenza. "Here, take the syllabus." He passed me a manila folder with some loose papers inside. "You'll see it'll take you no time to prepare." I hesitated for a moment, reflecting on how good it felt to be in his company, and how liberating it was to be away from Cambridge. I would normally have had two sections of Intro Economics to teach on Monday -- but with the end of the term approaching, I had already given the students notice that they should take that time to work on their term papers. This was a no-brainer. "Deal," I replied. We playfully exchanged a high five, and then I tucked the folder into my backpack. "You realize that Irvin is going to kill me for this." "How is that going, anyway? He still exacting punishment?" Carl Irvin was the acting chairman of the Economics Department at Harvard, and had been on a personal vendetta against me ever since I helped put his best friend, the former head of the department, behind bars. "That's putting it mildly. I'm presenting a paper at the ABA convention in January in New York, and he's tormenting me with revisions." Earl leaned forward conspiratorially. "You can't say a word about this. But Townsend has found a replacement to lead the department. Someone who might be helpful to you." "Are you sure?" This was major good news, if it was true. I had gone from racing along the fast track to tenure to dangling on the precipice of termination since my adventures earlier that fall. Somehow, contributing to the downfall of the president of the university and the head of my department had left me persona non grata among the powers at Harvard. And with word trickling back that I'd been involved in some trouble at Yale just before Thanksgiving, I could feel even my few remaining allies starting to distance themselves from me. Not that I blamed them. "I spoke to Townsend about you, by the way." "Thank you for doing that." "I was happy to. Relax, Nikki," he said. I guess he could tell that I had stopped breathing. "He likes you." "Not possible." "Of course it's possible! You're a brilliant young scholar who happens to be black and female, and you almost single-handedly exposed a serious embezzlement scheme that was costing the university millions of dollars. Why shouldn't he like you?" "Not to mention the fact that my discovery helped clear the way for him to gain the presidency." Earl shrugged. "That certainly doesn't hurt your case. The point is, he knows exactly who you are, and he thinks well of you. Just remember my advice." "Get back to work and stay out of trouble. I hear you." "Do you?" he said dryly. "Because I've got a friend in New Haven who says your name was all over town a couple of weeks ago. He sent me an envelope full of articles from the Register and the Yale Daily News. At least two of them were on the front page." The implicit criticism from him stung. "That wasn't planned!" I retorted, defensively. "I went there to comfort a very old friend, and it just got out of control." Earl nodded, a bit skeptically. "That's what I told Townsend, Nikki. But you'd better keep your head down from now on. You're at a critical point in your career, and you've got to deliver. You don't want to have a reputation as a magnet for trouble. Your job is to teach and get published -- not to find dead bodies." "What, do you think I'm seeking this stuff out? Listen, by Monday night I'll be back in Cambridge, and in the unlikely event of murder or mayhem, I will run in the opposite direction." Somehow, I didn't get the impression that he believed me. It was high time to get this conversation onto a different track. "So how would Eula feel about leaving Princeton?" I asked. Earl's wife was apparently painfully shy, so shy that I had never met her in all the years that I had known Earl. Eric said that she kept a very low profile on campus, seemingly content to tend house at their modest colonial off Witherspoon Street. Earl frowned slightly and sat back in his chair. "She's not happy that I'm seriously considering it." I shook my head sympathetically. "That's too bad. Is it that she has a lot of friends here in town?" "Yes, that, and she doesn't think that she'd like Harvard." That was no surprise, given what I had heard. Eula Stokes would be signing up for a lot if she agreed to move to Cambridge. It was going to be nearly impossible for her to be a homebody up there. Faculty spouses had a serious and well-defined role to play in the social scene, and bucking that trend would diminish Earl's stature. "Would it help if I talked to her? You know, give her some idea about what Cambridge is really like? There's a lot more going on up there than there is here. She won't be bored, and there are more black folks there than she may realize." "Perhaps it would help if she heard that from someone other than me. I think she's coming around, anyway. After last week, I think she's convinced herself that I'll have a heart attack if I stay here any longer." Earl snorted at my quizzical expression. "It has nothing to do with my health. It's the idiot cops in this town. They pulled me over again last Saturday two blocks from my house. I've lived here my entire life, and some twenty-year-old white boy asks me to prove that I'm the owner of the vehicle I'm driving." "Get out of here." "That's exactly what I'm thinking of doing. The sight of a black man behind the wheel of a Mercedes obviously offends some deeply held beliefs in this town. I'd be happy to oblige them by getting the hell outta here." I wanted to say that Princeton wasn't the only community where the cops had a hard time grasping the concept of black people driving luxury cars. But he didn't need me to tell him that. "So wouldn't you miss it here, Earl? After all these years?" His words were striking then, and haunting later. "Nikki, believe me. I am already gone." Copyright © 2004 by Pamela Thomas-Graham

FROM THE PUBLISHER

"Harvard economics professor Nikki Chase has come to Princeton for the weekend, primarily to take part in a conference on world economy, but also to pay a quick visit to her younger brother, a graduate student there, and to attend a party honoring Princeton professor Earl Stokes, an old friend and mentor who is rumored to be considering giving up his dual responsibilities as head of Afro-Am Studies and professor in the Economics Department and to make a move to Harvard." "Nikki is no stranger to the political games that are played among the professorial ranks, both intermurally and intramurally, so she is not surprised that she finds Professor Stokes under attack both from those who don't want him to leave Princeton and from those who definitely do not want to see him at Harvard. Stokes, after all, hasn't just risen in the ranks; he has become a star thanks to his recent controversial bestselling book, Color Counts." "So when Stokes's body is found in the smoldering ruins of the new Afro-Am Studies building, which was still under construction, Nikki is reluctant to accept the findings of the Princeton police that his death was an accident. There remain too many unanswered questions and, as Nikki is acutely aware, there are too many people who had a lot to gain from Earl Stokes's death." Soon, despite warnings from his friends, her own department head, and the Princeton police, Nikki Chase has begun her own investigation into her mentor's death, abetted by a Princeton debutante and a wealthy alumna. What she uncovers threatens to cause a major upheaval, not only on the Princeton campus, but back at Harvard as well.

FROM THE CRITICS

Publishers Weekly

In her third assured Ivy League mystery (after 1999's Blue Blood), Thomas-Graham makes some telling points about race and social justice. When 30-year-old African-American Harvard economics professor Nikki Chase comes to Princeton to present a paper, she also visits her brother, Erik, and their friend and mentor, "Professor Earl Stokes, the country's leading scholar on urban economics and rumored to be an impending addition to Harvard's Afro-American Studies Department." (The parallel with Harvard's wooing of Cornel West is bound to intrigue readers with an interest in that real-life cause celebre.) When the secretive Earl perishes in a suspicious fire at the site of the new Afro-Am Building, Nikki decides to camp out at Erik's dorm room until the funeral is over and some troubling questions have been answered. As the tension builds, Nikki must not only defend Earl's scholarly reputation but also absolve him of the charge that the fire was of his own making. Thomas-Graham effortlessly reveals the inner workings of a prestigious university in a provocative novel sure to appeal well beyond the ivory tower. Agent, Esther Newberg at ICM. (June 21) Forecast: Profiled in Ms. as a woman of the year in 2003, the author is a natural for the promotion circuit, but her position as president and CEO of CNBC may not allow her much time. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Professor Nikki Chase welcomes the chance to pontificate at Princeton: she's tired of departmental politics back at Harvard and is fed up with her boyfriend. But Princeton proves a challenge when her mentor, Prof. Earl Stokes, is found dead at the site of the new African American studies building. Police say accident, but Nikki and others suspect murder, possibly racially motivated. Much is made of the perceived conservatism of Princeton, of Nikki's economics expertise, and of her ability to root out the truth. The pace is a bit ponderous at times, but buy for fans of A Darker Shade of Crimson and Blue Blood. Thomas-Graham, a Harvard graduate and president of CNBC Television, lives in Manhattan. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews