by Liz Bradbury
“It’s impossible to have a conversation with that man. He... oh rats, I sound like a bitch saying this...”
“Your candid opinion...”
She shook her head in dismay, “I’ll just tell you what happened. He tried to make conversation, but I couldn’t follow what he was talking about. He starts every sentence in the middle. I tuned him out. My cell rang. It was the Governor’s office, so I asked Bart to watch for my two bags. A huge brief case and my suitcase, each are blue with a big red stripe... Very easy to identify. I wandered away, taking the call.”
I nodded.
“So when I was done, I came over to the baggage carousel. Both my bags were circling around and Bart was staring off into space. Bart asked me if I wanted him to look for my bags and what color they were,” she said with exasperation. “It was like the Twilight Zone.” I laughed. She went on, shaking her head slightly, “he kept getting in the way, so I asked him to get me a Cafalatte. He looked at me blankly. I explained it was a drink and that I’d seen them at the snack stand. I gave him the money. He scurried off and came back with a Diet Iced Tea.”
“You’re kidding,” I snickered, she was telling it with comic timing.
“Nope... it’s true. So then he got lost on the way home, even though the Airport is, what, five miles from here? When Max nearly suggested Bart drive me to Harrisburg, I almost passed out...”
“I saw the look on your face,” I said smiling. Then I went on more seriously, “Did you know that Jimmy Harmon almost hit Bart?”
“Yes, I heard about that. You think Jimmy might be guilty, don’t you?”
“Well...” I responded slowly, “he had opportunity for Carl and Skylar and the fire bomb and he seems to have a motive.”
“A motive? What motive?” she demanded. “A bad temper? Anyone would want to hit Bart!” Her blue eyes darkened defensively and I felt a bit jealous.
“Kathryn, you didn’t hit Bart when he annoyed you and Bart is one thing, but... Jimmy almost hitting a blind man... for little reason?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that Jimmy is, well, he’s a sweet guy,” she paused considering, then added, “he was on this allergy medication...”
I told her I knew all about Jimmy’s allergy meds. I said, “Jimmy seems to be guilt ridden. I think there was something between Jimmy and Carl that Jimmy isn’t talking about.”
Kathryn thought, then said speculatively, “One time in the Student Union I heard Carl arguing with Jimmy about a piece of music he’d wanted Jimmy’s agent to hear. Carl said something to Jimmy like, ‘It’s not that hard to write popular music, and you’re not the only one who can do it.’ ”
“What did Jimmy say?”
“Um... well, some obscenity.”
I made a note of that then said, “Amanda Knightbridge says she was with you in your class yesterday morning?”
“Yes, my grad seminar. I’d asked her to help me with a presentation. First she’d said she couldn’t, but then just before class she called to see if I might still need her. I was glad because I was... a little tired after a late night,” she said alluding to our snowy encounter in the Mews.
“Uh huh,” I said smiling, “and after the seminar?”
“We went over to the Student Union for lunch. She left and Jimmy came in. You came in right after that.”
“So Amanda left at...?” I asked.
“About 1:35 PM or maybe 1:40, Jimmy came in about 5 minutes after that. What does this all mean?”
“It alibis Amanda and you, and not Jimmy. Now tell me about Carl.”
She said all the things everyone else had said. Nice guy, good at his work, but acted squirrelly lately. She finished with, “OK, here it is, I don’t care how confused he seemed lately, I don’t think he wrote that note. The words... they weren’t his words.” She said this as though stating an indisputable fact.
“Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann. Do you know her?”
Kathryn shrugged, “She speaks at least five languages, masterfully, she might construct sentences in a Germanic way, but I’ve never heard her make a grammatical error. I think... she likes to go to conferences because she likes the superficial relationships. You see people you barely know, but you go out to dinner with them because everybody has to go somewhere to eat. You sit with people, have a drink, meet at the buffet breakfast, go to the lectures, and then it’s all over in a few days. I think she likes the cheerful lack of connection.”
“How do you feel about those types of connections?” I asked using a more personal tone.
“Not my style. Life’s too short.”
I privately agreed. “Rowlina seems very unhappy to me...”
“It was ridiculous for her to marry Josef Holtzmann. He needed US citizenship and personally I think he’s kind of shady, though I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe because he’s in the import business which always sounds like pirates to me. Lina married him last year and they haven’t seen each other since. I can’t believe the INS hasn’t questioned it. As far as Lina is concerned, she may have thought the marriage would quash speculation about her sexual orientation,” Kathryn shook her head, she added,” I don’t understand why people make so much trouble for themselves.”
“Rowlina seemed to have some serious disagreements with Carl,” I suggested.
“It’s odd though, she had no idea what he was angry about. Of course, Lina doesn’t have good interpersonal communication skills. Her self-recriminations seem to literally be cramping her body. She must have neck tension ten times worse than mine.” Kathryn had just become aware that she was kneading her shoulder again. She moved her hand away with irritation.
I changed the subject, “I went to Hadesville today. I found out that Carl was thrown out of a Catholic high school because he was gay. He was caught kissing another boy after school under the bleachers.”
“Sounds like a cliché.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” I told her the rest of Carl’s high school story then I scrolled my notes. “Um... Miranda Juarez?”
“She’s kind of an enigma isn’t she?” said Kathryn leaning back in a more relaxed way. “She’s a fantasy secretary. Has a troublesome ex-husband. What’s his name...?”
“Shel Druckenmacher.”
“Yes, that’s right... and a son and a daughter. The daughter is married and lives in Fenchester, I think she’s about twenty-eight. The son’s two years older and lives in Seattle.” Kathryn remembered something, “You know, when I was in Seattle, just before I went to England, I saw Miranda’s son Enrique. As a matter of fact, I also saw Leo Getty’s son. That was even more of a coincidence.”
“Miranda asked you to get in touch with her son?”
“Yes, she gave me a little book to give to him. He came to my hotel and offered to take me to lunch, I suggested we just have coffee. He asked me anxiously how Miranda was. Then he asked if Druckenmacher had been around. He obviously doesn’t have much regard for his father.”
“So everybody thinks Shel Druckenmacher is a bad egg...” I typed a note, “You happened to see Leo Getty’s son in Seattle too?”
“I’d gone to a restaurant for dinner with my friend Christine, she’s a friend from grad school who lives in Seattle. It was a gay-owned dinner club. Very trendy. We were standing in the lobby waiting for a table and Christine asked me if I was going to try to make a home in Fenchester. This nice looking man standing behind me with a group of three other people said, ‘Excuse me, are you from Fenchester, Pennsylvania?’ When I said I worked at Irwin, he told me his father, Leo Getty, worked there too. I didn’t get to speak to him at length, but I would bet he was gay.”
“No kidding? Leo doesn’t seem to know. He told me his sons were married and had kids. He even has pictures of them in his office complete with wives and grandchildren. The pictures look pretty old though. Things change...” I mused, “I’m sorry, go on.”
“Leo’s son enthusiastically told me they’d all just come from a performance of a jazz symphony that he’d written and conducted. The
n Christine and I were called for a table, so I said goodbye.”
I thought about that for a moment then realized I’d been grilling Kathryn with questions without being a good host. Shame on me. I stood up and said, “Shall we have a glass of wine?”
“That would be nice.”
“I have a Chardonnay and a Sauvignon Blanc, and I have a Shiraz and a Pinot Noir. Which would you like?”
“Too many choices,” she sighed with amusement. I was taken with how she looked smiling and sitting there at my table. The dark windows reflected her like a mirror. I could see myself in the reflection too. She said, “I lean toward the reds.”
“So, let’s have the Shiraz, it’s supposed to be a nice one.” I filled her glass, she held it up to the light, studying the color. Then I said, “Leo doesn’t seem like he’d be too keen on having a gay son. Did you mention seeing his son to him?” I asked after taking a sip of wine. It was a good bottle, satiny finish, rich but easy to drink.
“I did. I’d gone to Seattle to the Union of Art Colleges Convention. I came back the day after Carl died. The College was in turmoil. Everyone was so sad. I had to go to London almost immediately. I only had one day here, but I saw Leo in the elevator of the administration building before I left and I told him I’d met his son in Seattle.”
“What did he say?"
“That’s exactly what Leo said, he said, ‘What did he say?’ I told him we’d had a quick chat and that people on campus should know about him and all he’s done. Then the elevator doors opened and I got out.”
“And... what did you answer Christine?”
“About?”
“About whether you’d try to make a home in Fenchester?”
“I said... I said I wasn’t sure, but that I was tired of traveling.”
I nodded, feeling pleased.
She wanted to know what had happened at Skylar’s so I gave her the short version, downplaying the details, then I asked, “Do you think Connie Robinson could kill someone by whacking them with a glass paperweight?”
“No, not the type... but she did do all those surprising things during the fire,” Kathryn took a sip of wine then said, “Connie’s family goes to a very conservative church. She’s in conflict over it. She just moved into her own apartment in the last few days. The church... the way they present information... those horrible, bogus pamphlets saying we’re all pedophiles, it virtually justifies violence.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her self-identified gay people are statistically far less likely to commit child abuse than heterosexuals.”
“How did she take that?”
“With confusion... she wanted more information. I explained that every reputable medical and psychiatric organization in the country refutes the junk in the pamphlet. She said the Bible was against it. I told her to read the story of Ruth and Naomi in the Old Testament.”
“Whither thou goest...”
Kathryn nodded.
“Did she hear you or just look at you blankly?”
Kathryn shrugged, “She’s not stupid. I think that’s why she’s so confused. She’s not really the type to hate people just because someone tells her to.”
I made some notes about Connie and wrote down the things I needed to check. Then I said, “Georgia Smith?”
“It must be terrible for her. Have you seen her?”
I told Kathryn about Georgia in the hospital room, that she’d said something about a macaroni can.
“I brought Carl’s laptop home. I went over the instruction manual for the voice transcription program during free moments today. I’m fairly clear on how the program is supposed to work, but the program has a much better opinion of itself than I do. I read my own voice into the system so now it’s supposed to transcribe what I say into text.”
I got the laptop from a table near the door and placed the open screen so Kathryn and I could both see it, “Check this out.” I booted up the program and adjusted the mic. I said, “This is what the computer will write if I say this.”
The computer studiously wrote: this is " Cox computers " practical sixth hikes people looking upset
Kathryn laughed out loud.
So I spoke into the computer again: “No really, this is what the computer will write if I say this.”
Word by word the computer slowly wrote: “No leaps the income input MACBETH kaput brokers REPAIR unpalatable.”
“Oh no, stop, stop,” said Kathryn laughing with abandon, as each word popped onto the screen. “Why is it doing that?” she asked when she finally caught her breath.
“I don’t know. It says in the manual that if it makes a mistake and you correct it, then it will remember the correction. So I tried saying the same sentence over and over today and it came out wrong every time, even though I corrected it continuously. And get this; the manual says it will actually type 175 words a minute! It doesn’t mention that they’ll be 175 wrong words. I guess the manufacturer didn’t want to be a stickler for technicalities.”
Kathryn began laughing again each time she looked back at the screen, finally wiping her eyes, she insisted, “Carl used this program every day. I’m sure it worked better than this for him.”
“He must have had a more sensitive mic than the cheap one I’m using. Miranda Juarez also said that the main thing he used it for was reading back text out loud.”
“Show me.”
So I typed in the words: This is how I sound when I am reading in an electronic voice. I pressed the read-back command and a robotic sounding voice pronounced each word precisely, but emotionlessly.
“No, problem there,” she said.
I looked at my watch. A little after 8:30. Still early. Picking up the wine bottle, I glanced at her questioningly. She nodded so I added wine to her glass. She was leaning back in her chair in a relaxed way watching me with that half smile and an intriguing expression I couldn’t quite read.
She rested her elbow on the chair arm holding her glass. “This wine has a wonderful smell. Like chocolate and... cherries. Is it something very special?”
“Actually,” I said, “I have a few simple wine criteria. First and most important, it has to be cheaper than a large pizza,” she chuckled as I went on, “second, there has to be a sign next to it at the wine store saying it’s good.”
“Is there a third criterion?” she asked in an amused voice.
“I’ll think a third one up... um... To be the very best, it has to make beautiful women swoon with joy.”
“Does this wine meet your criteria?” Her voice tone had changed to something slightly more dangerous.
“It meets one and two, but since you seem to be swoon free, it hasn’t met the third.”
“Hmm,” she colored a little, then said, “where can you find wines that even fit criteria one and two?”
“I go to a tax free discount wine store in Sturbridge, Mass. Near the big outdoor antique show in Brimfield. Have you heard of that show?”
“Brimfield? Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Really, do you go to the big shows?”
“Whenever I’m traveling.”
“Did you go to Portobello Road when you were in London?”
“I managed a little time there and I went to Manchester,” she said mentioning a huge British outdoor show.
“What was that like? Did you find anything special?”
“Absolutely enormous. I walked around the booths for days. I did find some lovely little things.”
She was into the chase. Collectors love to stalk the prize. For a person with a Mini Cooper, I wondered how she reconciled the lust for antiques with the need for portability. I also wondered abstractly how hard she’d be willing to pursue something she wanted. I wondered just what it was she wanted from me. I was fairly clear on some of the things I wanted from her. I’m into the chase too.
“Well, have I given you enough information? Are we done with the questions now? Because if we are, I’d like to ask you some.”
/> “You’re entitled.”
“How old are you?” she said raising her eyebrows a little.
“I’ll be thirty-six in February. How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-seven, but it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
I gestured silently, inviting her to go on.
“Are you from Fenchester?”
“No, I was born in Western New York and I grew up there.” I told her the two-minute version of my personal history.
“Why did you choose art school?”
“My mother was a painter and I guess you could say her other passion was advocating for disenfranchised people. She taught me to find solutions to problems in creative ways. Design, composition, visualization. Studying art and going into law enforcement both seemed natural extensions of those early lessons. Natural to me anyway.”
She nodded. “Are those your watercolors? Do you paint regularly?” She motioned toward the big dining table.
“As much as I can. I like to do at least a few drawings a week... keeps me sane. May I do a portrait of you sometime?”
“I’d like that,” she said still leaning back, swiveling the chair slightly from side to side. She didn’t seem tired any more, she looked so fabulous, eyes bright, skin clear and smooth, her soft dark red hair curving in toward her throat... and the voice. Keep talking to me, I mentally begged.
We both paused, then I said, “Anything else?”
“Uh huh,” she said looking directly into my eyes, “I want my massage now. I have to put my laundry in the dryer and use the bathroom first.” She drank the last of the wine in her glass, stood up, gave me the enchanting half smile again. I watched her slowly cross the room.
Chapter 26
I put our wine glasses in the dishwasher, then followed her into the laundry room, “I need this,” I said, pulling a folded sheet off a shelf of linens.
“Wait,” she ordered.
I turned to listen.
She’d put her clothes in the dryer and set the dial. Leaning back against the machine, she tilted her chin up and said in a businesslike way, “I have some ground rules. Just two... to begin with. First, I’m not going to take off my clothes.” She paused looking at me a little defiantly.
