by Liz Bradbury
“No,” said Farrel and Jessie in unison.
When we got to my place, Jessie made me dinner while I took a shower and put on clean clothes. I was starving. While I ate a broiled mushroom and red pepper sandwich with a generous layer of Jarlsberg cheese, I told them the story of the fire all over again until they insisted I talk about something else. So I told them about meeting all the people on the Tenure Committee. Farrel, who teaches woodworking and furniture design at the College, knew most of them already.
“I’m sorry about Bart and Georgia,” said Farrel. “However, I have to say, Bart is one of the stupidest guys I’ve ever met. He’s a disproof of the Peter Principle because he’s risen way, way above the level of his incompetence. Does that sound too mean, since he just got hurt?” I shrugged so Farrel rolled on, “Amanda Knightbridge always seems to perceive things. She’s nice, but she can be uncanny. Georgia Smith is kind of odd. I think she takes her job very seriously and does it well, but she’s so naive about life!”
“Explain,” I said.
Farrel ran her fingers through her short gray-blond hair thinking, then said, “She’s a good person and all, but I think Georgia wants to be perceptive like Amanda Knightbridge. Georgia thinks you get that way by being all new age and mystical. She goes on vision quests and fasts and meditation retreats. Her current husband Adam seems like a nice guy but I think Georgia wants a Svengali. She’s looking for the answer.”
“What’s the question?” I asked half humorously.
“Georgia doesn’t have a clue. Enlightenment could bitch slap her in the face and she wouldn’t recognize it.”
I told them about meeting Kathryn Anthony.
“I’ve met her at the college. She’s really something, isn’t she? Kind of electric, and that voice! Do you think she’s gay?” Farrel asked.
“I was going to ask you.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” said Jessie intelligently. “What does she look like?” We described her and Jessie said, “I think I’ve seen her in the neighborhood, she might live in one of the apartment houses, the Hampshire or Dakota.”
“Let’s google her,” Farrel said.
I got my laptop, plugged it in and searched her name. “Lots of women’s studies stuff... and work on gay and lesbian history in one of her on-line bios... seems promising.”
Jessie said, “Why don’t you just ask her?”
Farrel and I scanned the list of articles, then Farrel turned to me and said, “You could always ask her.”
Jessie slapped her forehead, “I just said that twice!” Then she muttered, “Nobody listens to me.”
“Because it’s more fun to sleuth,” I said yawning. “Hey, don’t you have to go to a show in North Carolina sometime soon?” It was only 9:00 PM but I was suddenly very tired.
“We were packing when you called,” said Jessie. “It opens Wednesday.”
I shook sense into my head, “Wednesday’s tomorrow! When are you leaving?”
“Well, you called...” said Farrel.
“Oh my God, you have to go now!” I looked at my watch, “You’ll have to drive all night!” Like many antique dealers, Farrel and Jessie just did high volume shows. They packed up their stuff, set it up at a show for a few days, sold stuff, bought stuff and then packed it all back up and came home. Sometimes the shows fit in between Farrel’s classes. Sometimes Jesse did the shows on her own.
They reminded me that Cora Martin, their elderly next-door neighbor, would be looking after their black cats Griswold and Wagner, but I’d have to shovel their walk if it snowed. Cora was also an antique dealer, but usually did different shows. They often took turns watching each other’s pets. Cora had a yippy little dog named Cynthia.
I thanked Farrel and Jessie profusely. Before they left, Farrel took me by the shoulders and said very seriously, “Are you sure you’re all right?” Farrel is ten years older than I am and Jessie is almost 20 years older. I consider them part of my family, they feel that way too.
“Yeah, I’m OK, thanks,” I said hugging them both.
A few minutes after they left, the phone rang. It was Sara.
“Are you all right? Do you want me to come over? Were you hurt?” she asked.
“I’m OK, but I was right there. I’m a hero. I saved people... but now I’m totally tired.” I yawned again wanting to hang-up, but Sara made me tell her the whole story.
“Maggie this all sounds very creepy. Do you think Carl was murdered?”
I said yawning again, “Maybe... that’s what I’m supposed to find out...” I yawned again, even bigger this time, I was crashing. “Look, would you call Rosa and Emma and tell them I’m OK?” (Our sister Rosa is a court reporter, she’d be hearing about the whole thing in no time from people at the courthouse.) “I really am very tired and I don’t feel that great. Don’t tell her all about the case though. Should we call Mom?”
“Mom’s in Thailand...” said Sara conversationally.
“Mom’s in Thailand!?!” I jolted back. My stepmother was always full of surprises.
“Yeah, spur of the moment trip, two days ago.”
“Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about her hearing about the fire on the radio…yawn.” By now I could barely stand, I really needed to go to bed.
“Right.” Then Sara said with sincere concern, “Are you sure you’re OK, querida?”
“Uh huh, just sleepy... coming off an adrenalin high. Have you... yawn... done anything about Mickey?” Huge yawn.
“I’m working through the arguments for his arraignment, yawn, geez Maggie, you’re making me yawn! Go to bed querida, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I went into the bathroom and noticed it smelled a little like a pile of used burning tires. The odor came from the shoes I’d left on the floor. I put my shoes in the trash bag I’d thrown my stinking clothes in and carried it downstairs to the curb. It was bitterly cold. The dark sky was cloudless. I looked up at the stars for a minute and took a deep breath of arctic air, which did nothing to cure my exhaustion. My smoky lungs ached. I made a wish on one of the stars. I always do that when I take the garbage out. I went back upstairs and stumbled into bed. I fell asleep immediately and slept for five hours. Then, I was suddenly wide-awake and very hungry. I got up and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it at the kitchen table looking out the windows over the Mews. Going over the day, I tried to remember each thing that happened before the explosion.
I thought about Carl Rasmus falling six stories through freezing December air to the cold hard sidewalk.
I went back to bed. On the edge of a dream I could hear Dr. Kathryn Anthony’s alluring voice. I just barely sensed her handshake again.
Chapter 5
When my alarm went off at 7:30 AM, I was stiff and sore and my lungs hurt when I took a deep breath. I took another shower because my hair still smelled like burning tires, albeit new burning tires. After the shower, I seemed to be stink free. I wore Nikes because my work shoes were now in a landfill somewhere and my leather jacket because my parka was undoubtedly a melted stink sponge, unfit for human use. I also brought along my 9 mm Berretta. I don’t always carry a gun. It’s too easy to kill people with them. However, my profession requires heat. I have licenses and as a matter of fact, I’m a good shot. I got a medal for marksmanship when I was on the force. Whether the explosion at Irwin yesterday was an accident or not, I was packing a burner.
Miranda Juarez waved me to a seat when I arrived to interview her at 9:00 AM. She was using Bart Edgar’s office because Edgar was still in the hospital. Miranda was on the phone.
“Si bueno, pero es importante que tu vayas a las classes todos los dias, hijito... Si, mañana. Si, para la cena. Hasta mas tarde, querido.”
She was speaking to a child, probably her grandson, telling him he had to go to school every day and that she would be having dinner with him soon. From her tone, she obviously loved this child very much. She hung up.
“I’m glad you’re here Ms. Gale. The Pr
esident wanted me to give you this as soon as you came in.” She handed me a small piece of paper. It said Daniel Cohen had been speaking at a conference in Virginia during the time Carl Rasmus died. Bouchet was letting me know that if Carl was indeed pushed, Professor Daniel Cohen had an alibi.
“This is Bart Edgar’s office. I dislike not being in my own.” Miranda gestured at the papers in the corner. “Those were on his desk. I feel guilty just moving everything to the floor, but I will go through all the papers and get them in order.”
I opened my mouth to make a comment but she sighed, “Please do not say that you are sure I will be able to straighten out all of Bart’s...” she waved over at the papers. “You will be the sixth person to have done so this morning.”
I nodded sympathetically, “Bart does seem to have... issues. Anything new on his or Georgia Smith’s condition?”
“First, I must tell you that Dr. Leo Getty will not be free for your appointment this morning. He must attend a meeting. He asks to meet you this evening in his office after 5:00 PM.” I nodded as I changed my schedule on my laptop. “I will relay the confirmation to him. Yes, you are right,” Miranda agreed, “Bart has... as you say, issues. I had no idea how he got to this employment level, until yesterday.” I understood her meaning; nepotism was the glue that held Bart in his job. “Georgia Smith’s injuries are more serious than Bart’s, however, both were very lucky. Especially lucky that you were willing to risk your life.”
I shrugged like Gary Cooper, but skipped saying, “Tweren’t nothin.”
She went on efficiently, “Georgia Smith received third degree burns, her synthetic clothing melted onto her skin. The burns are very serious but they do not cover much of her body. The back of her right leg was the most injured. She is in extreme pain and under heavy sedation.” Miranda shook her head, then went on quietly, “It will be a long recovery, months, and there is risk of infection.”
I nodded, “Anything else?”
“The firefighters think it may have been an accidental gas explosion from a pipe in the wall. Fire reached almost everything...”
“How was Bart able to dodge the impact of the explosion?”
“Shielded by something, perhaps...”
“Yes,” I said thinking back, “I saw him.” I formed a mental picture of yesterday. “Bart was reaching toward the back table, but he was kneeling on a chair, leaning over the back of it.”
“Ah, well, he frequently chose the illogical way. It appears choosing the illogical way saved him this time. And he was wearing an all-natural fiber shirt. His arm... it was burned, but not like Georgia’s. It turns out Bart is allergic to synthetics, so he does not wear them.”
“He was unconscious... not breathing.”
“He was thrown back. He had a concussion. He was very lucky that you, President Bouchet and Professor Daniel Cohen got him out when you did. It may have been the fumes that caused him to stop breathing, the CPR you performed was critical to his rescue. As it is, he may have to take several weeks off to recover. He will need therapy for the burns on his hand.”
“Do the fire inspectors or the police have any more theories?”
“They were here much of last night but they say nothing yet. Do you want to go up there?” she asked, glancing at the ceiling.
“Where’s Max Bouchet?” I asked.
“His personal office, in the President’s mansion.”
I paused then asked, “Would you say Bart’s mistakes make people angry?”
“No hay duda.” It was the Spanish idiom for, No doubt about it. Then her eyes widened and her veneer of composure slipped. “You think someone may have been trying to... to ... kill Bart Edgar... because of some stupid thing he did? It was an accident, was it not?” she asked incredulously. “I find this hard to comprehend.”
“Ms. Juarez, isn’t what happened yesterday and what happened to Carl Rasmus, generally hard to comprehend?”
She pulled herself together and said, “Yes...” she thought for a moment, then began again slowly, “last month Bart was working with a fundraising committee with Professor Jimmy Harmon. It had to do with the preservation of old time music from the... is it “Ozark” Mountains?” She pronounced it Oh-sark.
“Ozark,” I said with more of a zee sound.
“Ozark,” she repeated. “Bart had volunteered to be in charge of invitations. This was to be a $1000 dollar a couple black-tie event. Professor Harmon gave Bart all the information written on a sheet. All Bart had to do was give the sheet and the design to the printer. But he did not. For some reason he rewrote the information into an email. As time got closer, Professor Harmon asked Bart if he had checked information with the printer. Bart said yes, which was not true.”
She went on, “The printed invitations, which were embossed and goldleafed, were reviewed at the next meeting. The date and time were wrong. Even the name of the event was misspelled. Professor Harmon was furious, he called Bart names, he moved to hit Bart, but others restrained him. Professor Harmon walked out of the meeting and called out that they must cancel the entire performance.”
Huh, quite a shadow on Jimmy Harmon. I asked, “Have there been other people...?”
“Yes, many. It is Bart’s job to provide each of the departments with enrollment data to project costs and apply for state reimbursement. Every Department Chair has had strong words with Bart due to serious mistakes in his data. You see, these mistakes make the Department Chairs look inefficient. Most produce the data themselves, now.”
“Can you tell me if any of the other Tenure Committee members have had problems with Bart Edgar?”
“Ms. Gale, he irritates everyone.”
“How does he irritate you?”
She paused looking at me, then said honestly, “He volunteers for jobs he does not have time to do and then either does not do them, or makes a mess of them. At the same time, he excuses his poor job performance by saying he was busy doing the things he volunteered to do. Frankly, I think his best choice would be to claim disability from these recent injuries.”
I nodded. “What can you tell me about Carl Rasmus?”
“Dr. Rasmus did his work, he was pleasant, but just a few months ago he began to change. He became rude and I guess you would say paranoid. Then he would calm down again. He yelled at people and accused them of odd things. He sent very rude emails.”
“Was any of this directed at you?”
“No... well, one mass email he sent to everyone in Administration and the Tenure Committee. Very bitter. That was just a day before he killed himself.”
“How well did Carl type, I mean, was it possible that some of the email he sent or received was just poorly written or had typos...?”
“Yes, that can happen. Someone writes I can go, when they mean to say I cannot go... but the tech department set up a voice translation system for Dr. Rasmus. He could talk into the machine and it would write his words and read them back to him. Quite amazing, really. He had the technology to know just what he was writing. The words were not mistakes. They were from a very angry and sad man.”
“Do you know anything about his personal life?”
She paused searching her data bank brain, “Not really.” She seemed disconcerted that she hadn’t been able to answer a question fully.
“Do you remember where you were when Carl killed himself?” I was planning on asking everybody this question.
“Oh... I...” she reached for the desk calendar and flipped to the previous week. “Yes, I was in Becks County, arranging for the production of the next College Catalog at the printer in Doonestown. I left at 12:30 and returned at 6:00. I went directly home, as it was so late.”
This was not a great alibi for her. If indeed Carl was murdered, she had a window of time.
“The drinks Connie Robinson brought in on the tray, what was the procedure for that?”
Miranda Juarez was unfazed by the change of subject, she said, “President Bouchet has just started that. He feels that the per
sonal attention makes people feel valued. Everyone who regularly attends a meeting has already indicated what his or her beverage preference is. We have a small refrigerator in the storage room next to my office. Connie gets the list and fills the tray with the choices of those attending.”
“What’s your preference?”
“I usually have water in a bottle but I left it on the tray. I’d just had coffee,” she added as an after thought, “the President drinks iced tea.”
“President Bouchet told me there had been witnesses near Carl Rasmus’s office on the day of his death...”
“Two students and a graduate assistant,” said Miranda Juarez. “I have their contact information here.”
I glanced at the sheet she handed me. The undergrads were: Caitlyn Zale and Mike Jacobsen. The grad assistant’s name was Jack Leavitt.
“I’d like to look at the top floor now.”
She gave me the keys. I left the well-lighted office and climbed the stairs to what was now a burned-out disaster scene. The reception area was a shambles. The police had sealed the conference room with a piece of yellow tape across the door. I didn’t really think the thin piece of plastic would keep anyone out, but I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to go in. It stank. Would I ruin another of my clothing ensembles just by absorbing the smell, the way one’s clothes do in a smoky bar?
Looking in the conference room, I had a flashback. When I’d been in graduate school, a small house I’d rented with friends caught on fire during a rainstorm from an electrical short in the attic. Luckily, we were all out for the evening. One of my roommates, Adrienne, had a girlfriend who was quite a bit older than the rest of us. Come to think of it, she was the age I am now. I digressed for a moment wondering why a 35-year-old woman would want a 19-year-old girlfriend, but that wasn’t the point of the flashback.
This “older woman” had given Adrienne a gift of a spice rack, complete with two dozen bottles of assorted spices. The rack hung on a wall in the kitchen but the girlfriend was over protective of it and constantly insisted Adrienne and the rest of us not waste the spices by using them. It became an in-house joke, but we did painstakingly conserve them, thus making all the food we cooked consistently bland.
