More Bitter Than Death (23 page)

“Eeeyuw, yes. Spreading it a bit thick for my taste.”

“Well, I was in one of those pictures.”

“Impossible.” She reclined. “Roche covered every single picture. I counted them. Had slides of them all. I didn’t see you in one of them.”

If anyone would have noticed, it would have been she.

Laurel wasn’t done. “But there was that one of Oscar, wasn’t there? If I was going to put money on any of them, it would be that one. Am I right?”

I nodded. “You wouldn’t have recognized me. I was right behind Oscar, a bit to the side. I didn’t like Garrison much in those days, and liked him even less as time went on. But I’m there.”

“Interesting. I’m surprised that Roche didn’t mention it.”

I was about to explain when Laurel got it on her own. “Ah. Oscar was at the edge of the group. The frame covered you.”

I nodded again. “I doubt Garrison would have bothered to cut me out, even. He barely noticed me as it was.”

She pointed at me. “But he did something for you to notice him.”

“Jeez, Laurel, have you ever thought of taking up therapy, as a profession I mean? You just home in on the jugular!”

She laughed, which made me all the more annoyed. “Well, Emma, if the way her ladyship stormed out of here is any indication, you were doing a little prying yourself.”

I sighed. “Yes. You’re right. Again. I’ve been trying to figure out why anyone would want to kill Garrison. Apart from the obvious reasons.”

“Hmmm” was all she said to my guilty admission. “So tell me about the photo.”

“You know I spent summers with Oscar.”

She nodded.

“Garrison was on one of the committees that voted on funding for various projects, including one of Oscar’s, up on Cape Mary. One of his visits was captured in that photo. He and Grandpa were violently in disagreement about the interpretation of the site and its dates, that was par for the course, with them. But after Garrison lost Oscar his funding, he never dared to come back to our sites again. They didn’t speak after that.”

“That makes sense. But what did he do to you?”

“It was before the blow up. It wasn’t anything, but it really pissed me off. Like I said, he never paid much attention to me. But once…”

“Yes?” Laurel steepled her fingers.

“Once he saw me and for some reason, said that little girls with red hair were thought to be witches in the old days, and did I think I would like burning at the stake.”

“What a prick.”

“Well, I’m sure it was just generational humor or social disconnect, or whatever, but it really bugged me,” I said in a rush. I felt petty just bringing it up. “Oscar was never around when Garrison said something like that, but I told him. He told me to ignore Garrison, who was just ‘an old idiot,’ or I could tell him to stop, but essentially, it was no big deal and I could take care of myself. But the last time Garrison did it, he pulled on my hair too, so I decided that if he really thought I was a witch I would make a potion for him.”

“More and more interesting. How old were you?”

“Nine, maybe. Maybe ten.”

“And?”

“And the potion was just booger berries—you know, just the red berries you find on any shrub in New England—mashed up good, some old seaweed that would stink to high heaven when it dried out, and one of those little coffee creamers that had been sitting out in the sun all day. Stuff a
ten-year-old would think was nasty. I waited until they were on the other side of the site. Garrison’s car windows were left open, of course, so I went to the far side, opened the door, and pulled up the floor mat. Poured just enough to make a good layer, but not so much that it would stink too quickly—I wanted a little distance between me and the event, of course—and replaced the mat. To this day, I don’t know what happened. If he knew it was me and told Oscar, I never heard about it.”

Laurel laughed and signaled the waiter. “You have unsuspected depths, Emma. I never would have believed you capable of such retribution. Easily done, carefully considered, and yet costly and a righteous pain in the ass. Remind me never to call you a witch. But may I make two potentially unpleasant observations?”

“Who’s going to stop you?” I said wearily. Reliving the past was like carrying an anchor around with me, and my shoulders and neck ached.

“You’d be surprised. One—no disrespect intended to the memory of your grandfather, but if he couldn’t do more than tell you to ignore a jackass making hurtful remarks to you, young as you were, he wasn’t doing his job.”

My stomach dropped away, like someone had opened a trap door beneath me. She was right. “And the other?” I said, after a moment.

“If you are thinking that Garrison was murdered, you’ve just given me all sorts of reasons to suspect you. Professional rivalry with your beloved grandfather, loss of some income and possibly the right to dig on an important site, personal hurt that might have festered over the years. And who knows what you haven’t told me? Didn’t you both have words at the site on Wednesday? All that careful planning for vengeance, even at that early age—and you get away with it? You sound like a fabulous suspect to me.”

“M
ARTINI
,
PLEASE
,”
SHE TOLD THE WAITER
. T
HEN
she turned back to me. “That’s why the cops might be keeping you so close. Are you having anything?”

“Uh, no. No, thanks,” I told the waiter, and he left. “Laurel, you know I didn’t have anything to do with Garrison’s death.”

“You’re not my favorite suspect at the moment,” she admitted with a rueful little grin.

“Well, I didn’t. Just so you know. Damn, Laurel, how can you be so cold-blooded about this?”

She shrugged. “Simple. I don’t have any skin in this game.”

It was such a perverse thing to say that I got up and left without a word. Soon I found myself on the fourth floor, and I knocked on Chris’s door. I heard the television get turned way down; the door opened, and Chris looked bleary-eyed, a beer in one hand.

“Hey, man,” I said. “I’m glad I caught you. Where is Brad’s room? It’s this floor, right?” I didn’t just want to call Brad and warn him that I was on my way to see him.

“Uh, yeah, just taking a nap.” He rubbed his face, which was red. “He’s in four-sixteen.”

“Great, thanks. Sorry to disturb you.”

The image of the television reflected in the mirror caught my eye, and I quickly looked away. When I take a nap, I like watching professional golf. I find the low murmur of the voices soothing. Apparently when Chris took a nap, he liked to watch naked women washing a truck.

“No problem. See you tonight.”

He shut the door hurriedly; I heard the television volume rise, but just a hair. I went down the hall to Brad’s room and knocked.

When he opened it, I saw he was fully dressed, and didn’t seem sick at all, although his color was not good.

“How you doing?” I asked.

He scratched at his head. “Oh. You know. Okay.”

“You had a meeting with Garrison the night he died, didn’t you?” I said.

I’d hoped he’d be taken off guard by my directness; I was more than surprised. Brad grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his room. He shut the door behind us.

“What do you know about this?” he hissed.

“You’re hurting me,” I said as calmly as I could. When he didn’t immediately let go, I jerked my wrist toward his thumb, and freed myself.

“How did you know that?” he repeated.

“Petra Williams said that you’d been after him.” I glanced around his room; it was immaculate. The only thing out of order was the rumpled bedspread; I noticed family pictures on the nightstand. “What time were you supposed to meet him?”

“I…I didn’t…he never showed up,” Brad said.

“You’re lying.”

His mouth twitched. “I…Emma, I think I killed Garrison.”

Now if he was trying to shock me, I don’t think he could
have succeeded any better. “You…think…you killed Garrison?”

“I might have, I don’t know.” He burst into tears.

I was horrified. “Brad, have you spoken to the police?”

“Yuh—yes, and I told them the truth.”

“What?” That couldn’t be…

“I answered their questions truthfully,” he insisted. They asked if I’d seen Garrison after eleven o’clock. I hadn’t. We were supposed to meet at ten-thirty.”

“Oh my God, Brad!” My hand flew up to my mouth.

“But we didn’t,” he insisted. He snuffled, and managed to pull himself together. “I ran into him earlier in the evening, down by his room, and I spoke to him, asked him if he wanted to chat sooner. You know, so we could both get to bed early.”

“And?” I wanted to shake him for the answers, comfort him…

“He said no.”

“And that was it? Is that when you killed him?”

He recovered enough to look indignant. “I only said I thought I did. I don’t know for sure.”

“This isn’t the time for playing with semantics, Brad!” I said, clutching his arm. “When did you go outside?”

“Outside?” He shook his head, puzzled. “We didn’t go outside.”

“Brad!” I exploded. “He was found outside, in his winter clothing, on the lake! If you ‘think’ you killed him, how did you manage to do it without going outside?”

“Well, here’s what happened.” He paused, wringing his hands. “I’m scared Emma.”

“I know, I know. Just tell me.”

He took a deep breath. “I went up to him, in the hallway. I said hello. He didn’t answer. He was going through his pockets, looking for his key. I spoke a little louder, he turned around. His eyes seemed really unfocused, like he was sleepwalking, or something.” Brad paused.

“Yes?”

“So I asked him if we should talk now, rather than waiting until so much later. He mumbled something about not wanting to talk to me at all. I asked if another time would be more convenient. He told me to go to hell.” Brad buried his head in his hands; I could barely hear his next words. “Emma, I can’t even look at you.”

“Tell me what happened.” I tried to keep my voice as calm and uninflected as possible.

“I—I never did anything like this before. I grabbed his arm. I didn’t want him to just walk off on me like that, like I was nothing, not even worth answering. I didn’t mean to…but…I grabbed his arm…just to keep him from going into his room right away. I didn’t mean to, I mean, I just wanted him to stop. But he…his arm was so thin. I…I must have hurt him, I didn’t mean to. He cried out. I let go, and he stumbled against the doorjamb.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

“What happened next? Did he fall?”

“No, the door wasn’t open. He just…sort of bumped himself against it. He might have hit his head. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell.”

“But…you didn’t see any blood?”

“No, I don’t think so. No, I would have seen it. Maybe…he sort of bumped his forehead. Maybe.”

“Brad, the cops said that Garrison’s wounds were all on the back of his head.”

“That’s why I didn’t think it was important, at first,” he said eagerly. Then Brad drooped. “I wondered whether he didn’t go out afterward and then fall down. I think that’s what happened, Em.”

“But then, that would be an accident, Brad, wouldn’t it? That’s…that’s not murder.”

“But I was so angry. I was so tired of being dismissed. Things…things have been really bad lately. I always knew
something bad would happen if I ever lost…things got out of control.”

For Brad, with his planning and schedules…“Things have been out of control for a while now?”

He nodded. “Francine is leaving me. No matter how many therapists we see, I don’t see how she’s going to be happy. I should be grateful she stuck around while I was sick—”

“You were ill?”

“Sick.” He swallowed. “Cancer-sick.” He could barely bring himself to say the word, much less give me any other details. “She waited until we knew I was out of the woods, then she said she wanted to leave.”

“My God.” I sagged. “And you never said anything, to any of us?”

“I wanted to make sure, one way or the other. It’s been a horrible year. I don’t know what to do, I love my kids, I can’t live without them.” He started to cry again, softly.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “And the Connecticut University job?”

“I hoped a change would be good for us, I thought it would help. She says we’re in a rut, I thought if we moved, shook things up a little…” He shrugged weakly; he could barely lift his shoulders. “It’s not good to feel desperate, Emma. I…I can’t tell you how awful it is.”

I thought about what he was saying. It didn’t fit. “But what about the artifacts?”

“What artifacts?”

“Bea’s stolen artifacts. The stuff that was taken from the book room.”

“I have no idea.” His face brightened, but then took on a different degree of puzzlement. “Wait, yes I do. Bea’s found her artifacts. She’d left them behind the chair in the bar.”

I swore to myself. “Are you
kidding
me? When was this?”

“Yesterday. Friday.” He shrugged again, happier to have one answer, at least.

“Jeez, I guess it’s not surprising that she wouldn’t be as vocal about having found something as having lost it, but you’d think she’d at least tell people so they didn’t think there were thieves around.”

Brad shook his head. “But there are. There were a few break-ins. And there was the book room, don’t forget.”

I rubbed at my forehead. “The detective has been trying to tie them in with Garrison, but I don’t think they’re related.”

I thought about the other things I had questions about. Was whoever came after me looking for something that had nothing to do with Garrison? That didn’t seem likely. “Where were you yesterday afternoon?” I asked Brad. “We haven’t seen you since Thursday night. Now it’s Saturday; that’s a long time to be out of sight at a conference.”

“But there was the session that I was chairing, all afternoon. And then there was a meeting into the evening. Why?”

“There was another incident, last night. I was shot at and the police think the two were connected.” I looked at him. “I think the fact that you had a hundred people watching you at the session would be a pretty good alibi.”

Brad looked relieved. “Still I think you need to talk to the police,” I said. “Maybe they’ll be able to tell you that you weren’t responsible for Garrison’s death, and if by some remote chance you…it’s as you said, then they’ll know and they’ll find out it was an accident, and all of this will be over.”

At this point my head was spinning, and it wasn’t even that I needed to focus on sorting things out; I needed to reboot entirely. I didn’t feel safe enough alone in my room, and I was in no mood for the bar any longer. It was that awkward part of the day when you have finished the day’s papers but are between cocktail parties, and too early for dinner. My feet,
however, knew exactly what my head needed, and they marched me right over to the pinball machine at the side of the lobby.

I had a pile of quarters still in my pocket from my poker winnings, and I set three of them down on the Plexiglas, after I loaded one up. It had been way too long since I’d played pinball, and I spent the first quarter recalling my old skills. I’m not a brilliant player, no one will ever play
Pinball Wizard
when I walk into an arcade, but I play well enough to shut everything else out and keep my brain happily distracted for minutes on end. This was an old-fashioned type of machine, a Wild West motif with the bare minimum of electronic gadgets, for which I was grateful. I barely know what to do with the games I pass in the cinemas or at the mall, the few times I’ve ventured into that juvenile wonderland.

The tension gradually left my shoulders as I got the feel of the table. If you aimed the ball toward the saloon girl in the fancy red dress, you could bank it off and hit the steer target for double points. I noticed that one of the flippers was a little sticky and learned to compensate for it.

I was racking up a respectable score and had just gotten a free ball, when I noticed Katie Bell hovering just within my peripheral vision. I tried to ignore her, but she wasn’t going away; I furrowed my forehead with a feigned concentration, and kept playing. Finally, she inched her way closer and closer, until she was finally standing right alongside the table. She wouldn’t be wished away.

She waited until I pulled back on the plunger and had launched my third ball before she started speaking. I didn’t have to look at her—I was still trying to get another free play—but she started talking anyway. She was too young to know better, I suppose, having grown up with games that could be paused; and I felt bad, thinking I sounded too much like Noreen with her uncharitable description of “Katie Car
Alarm.” But she really shouldn’t have waited until I pulled the plunger.

“I feel like that ball in there,” she was saying.

“Uh-huh,” I answered, whacking the ball with the small flipper at the top of the table. Then realizing that it was actually a pretty nasty way to feel and that I was at least partly responsible for it, I asked: “How’s that?”

She looked at the leering card sharp whose mechanical voice was coming from the back of the machine and frowned. “Batted around from here to there, too much noise, too much everything.”

“I can see that.” There—a bit of luck; rather than going down the chute that led to the place behind the flippers from which no ball returns, the ball actually wavered in my favor and slid back down to where I could flip it back to more targets. I looked at her suddenly. “You haven’t been attacked, or burgled, or anything?” I suddenly remembered Duncan had “lost his temper” with her. “No one’s been mean to you, have they?”

“No, nothing like that.”

I paused, then turned back to the table. “Okay. Who’s doing the batting?”

“I am, I guess. It’s the conference. I just feel like I want to see everything, and I can’t. I can’t sleep either, because everyone keeps coming in at all hours. Even before the break-in, it was the same. Meg snores.”

I tried not to smile. “You can’t do everything. You have to prioritize. If you miss something, you can always follow up with emails after.” I was within ten thousand points of another free ball and it was the closest I felt to good all day. “You remember what I said at dinner the other night? There’s no rule that says you can’t take a break, get a nap, order some real food, get a little fresh air—I noticed it stopped snowing earlier. You’ll be sharper if you take care of yourself.”

“I suppose.” She knew she knew better, but was just overtired and overexcited and on a low. “That looks complicated.”

“It’s not really, once you get the hang of it. The trick is to just relax, most of the time. Keep your shoulders from tensing, keep your eye on the ball, and don’t react to every bit of the racket. The racket is just a distraction. That’s when you lose. Actually, if you just wait for things to come to you, that’s the best way. Just chill out and make small moves, wait to pay attention to the really important stuff.” Here the ball fortuitously drifted toward my flipper, and I batted it away toward the big bumpers.

I risked a quick look at Katie. “And when you get really familiar with things, you can even tell by sound where the ball is, and you can reorient yourself, if you need to. You buy yourself the time you need, when you learn not to react and overreact.” I turned back to the table just in time to grab the ball with the middle flipper and send it away again, just in time to be rewarded with a free ball. “See?”