Angel Food and Devil Dogs - A Maggie Gale Mystery

by Liz Bradbury

  “I’ll tell you what I think, but you have to make up your own mind. OK?”

  She nodded, near tears.

  “I don’t think right and wrong is arbitrary. I think that a sin is something that causes harm. Stealing, killing, bullying people, being cruel, polluting the environment, abusing animals, you know what I mean? The Bible has all sorts of good messages like, Love Thy Neighbor, but it also has what some people call legalistic sins, that are interpreted to keep women from being ministers, or people from eating shrimp or pork, or that wearing a gold ring is bad, or even that a person from a different religion is a sinner. They aren’t about something that hurts someone and I don’t think they apply to the world the way it is today.”

  Connie was still wiping the same patch of counter. She said, “Pastor Mason read an article about Dr. Rasmus... This was before Dr. Rasmus killed himself... And the pastor asked me if I knew Dr. Rasmus from work. He said I should get him to come to church so they could make him to stop being gay. So, I called him, Dr. Rasmus, at his apartment. He wasn’t there so I left a message.” She laughed nervously. Connie had just answered my question as to what her message on Carl’s answering machine was about.

  Connie said, “But, after I called, I started to think that I couldn’t come up with a good reason for him to stop being gay... I used to talk to Daria about this kind of stuff...”

  “Daria Webster? You knew her?”

  “She worked here, well, she was here part of the time for her job... she got, she... um... died, right after her party. I’d just seen her... I feel so sad... there’s nobody to talk to about anything...”

  Of course Connie had known Daria, and been at Daria’s party just before she was murdered. Daria had invited everyone from work. Poor Connie, so many things happening in her young life all at once and no friends to talk to. I said softly, “Maybe you should find a church that helps you work things out in a more positive way.”

  “Are there churches like that?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Sure,” I named some progressive denominations. She nodded her head, but the fog didn’t clear.

  I said gently, “I think it’s good you’re asking yourself these questions, the worst thing is believing things just because people tell you to...” She was staring off into space, folding the rag she was holding absentmindedly.

  “Connie?” I said trying to get her attention again.

  “Huh?”

  “About the day of the fire...”

  “What?” she asked tensely.

  Why was she so anxious about this? She was a hero during the fire. You’d think a kid this age would be telling the story ad-nauseum. I forced Farrel and Jessie to listen to me tell it twice while they fought off the nearly unbearable stench of eau de burnt ceiling tile.

  “You had to put the drinks on the table, right?” I asked.

  She just stood there looking at me. Finally she whined, “I heard Dr. Bouchet say it might have been a bomb to one of the security men, he talks so loud... I wasn’t, like, eavesdropping or anything... but really I don’t know anything. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “I’m not saying it was your fault, I just need to know what happened. Haven’t the police already interviewed you?”

  “I guess... I answered their questions, they didn’t ask much.” Her voice was shaking.

  “What’s the whole story, Connie? Tell me everything that happened.”

  She frowned, trying to recall, “You and Dr. Anthony, Mr. Edgar and Miranda, went into the President’s office. I had a list of the beverages that I was supposed to get ready. I also had some typing to finish so I... yeah... I did that until Dean Getty and Dr. Carvelle came in. President Bouchet had told me to unlock the conference room when the people started to come, so I did and they went in and sat down...”

  I nodded for her to go on.

  “OK, so I... I went into the... um... I can’t...” she strained to recall, squeezing her eyes shut trying to visualize the sequence, “OK, yeah, then Miranda came out of the President’s office and she went into her office. She looked into the conference room and I guess I figured the meeting would start soon, so I went into the storage room to get the drinks. I got out the tray and wiped it off and put one of those white paper mats on it.” She stopped, biting her lip, “Then I got another tray. I got the cookies out of the refrigerator. We keep them in there so bugs won’t get in them.”

  I nodded and she went on, “I dumped the cookies on a plate and arranged them a little and then I opened the fridge to get the drinks. But... I forgot the list. I’d left it on my desk. So I went back to get it and I saw that Dr. Knightbridge and Professor Harmon were in the Conference Room. The elevator doors were opening and I’m pretty sure Dr. Roth-Holtzmann was getting out. Anyway, I got the list from my desk and went back in the storage room.”

  “This is really good, Connie, tell me the rest,” I encouraged.

  “Um, so I read the list and I got all the drinks, and that’s all,” she ended abruptly.

  “Do you remember which drinks you put on first?”

  “No, why?” she shot back nervously.

  There was something about the drinks eating her. “Connie, think hard. Bart Edgar and Georgia Smith were seriously hurt. Dr. Carvelle is dead. Everyone at the College is ...”

  “Dr. Carvelle? What does he got to... I didn’t... you mean he got killed by the person who... who put the fire bomb... but...”

  “Connie, what is it? Tell me,” I spoke sternly. She looked up at me on the verge of tears, torn by indecision.

  She sniffed twice and then asked, “Did the person who killed Dr. Carvelle set the bomb?”

  “It looks that way,” I said simply.

  “I don’t know what to do... I lied to the police. Will they put me in jail?” she sobbed.

  I pulled one of those course brown paper towels out of a wall dispenser and handed it to her to wipe her nose. “Connie, just tell me what happened.”

  She took a deep breath then said rapidly, her voice rising with every word, “I looked at the list and I took the bottles out and I checked them... against the list, ya know? I was supposed to buy all the drinks and I thought I did, but I missed one. This thing I’d never heard of. Hoohoo. It’s chocolate milk.”

  “It’s called Yoohoo and it isn’t really chocolate milk.”

  “It’s not? Miranda said it was. Um, well, this was the first time we were going to do the drink thing. President Bouchet and Miranda wanted it to work good, so I was afraid to tell them I messed up. I didn’t know what to do, so I just put another drink on the tray.”

  “Which one?” I asked, suspecting the response.

  “It had a funny name. I’d never heard of it either.”

  “Grape Nehi?”

  “Uh huh, that was it. Do you think it was the drink that had the bomb in it? Was it my fault? What is it anyway?”

  Gee, doesn’t this kid watch TV? Well, I guess she’s too young to have seen MASH.

  “No, Mr. Harmon drank the Grape Nehi. It didn’t have the bomb in it.” This took so much weight off Connie, I could see her shoulders rise an inch. “But why did you think it did?”

  “I told someone I messed up and then he said that it was all my fault. He said the police would arrest me for lying. They would arrest me even just for... omission.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mr. Druckenmacher. Miranda’s husband. He works here, fixes the lights and like that. Well, he did until about two weeks ago. He talked to me, he asked me about Miranda and my job. He seemed nice... so I decided to tell him what happened and ask him what I should do, but he just laughed at me. He said he’d tell the police I lied unless I... um...” She turned beet red from her neck to the tops of her ears like a human thermometer.

  “Unless you what?”

  “Unless I did sex with him, then he wouldn’t tell. He said... blow him... but I told him I wouldn’t, not ever. So he said to give him money. Now, every time I see him, he... you know... he ge
ts this look and then he... rubs himself.” She glanced down to her own crotch area in explanation.

  “I saw him here today. If he doesn’t work here any more, why is he hanging around?” I was so pissed at this dirty scumbag that I was all set to make sure he wouldn’t hang around here any more.

  “He stays here sometimes... Yeah, he’s always here.”

  “Connie, do you volunteer here every day?” I asked incredulously.

  “Oh no, just Thursday, Friday and Saturday, washing dishes,” she said as though that was nothing. A twenty-year-old kid, with a full-time job, giving up her weekends for the homeless. I vowed to at least put an end to Shel Druckenmacher’s blackmail career.

  “Connie, I’ll make sure Druckenmacher doesn’t bother you any more and I’m going to explain about the Nehi to President Bouchet and Miranda too. I think you should too. They won’t be mad at you.” I won’t let them, I decided privately. “Listen, aren’t there any volunteer jobs where you could work with some people your age?”

  Connie was so relieved she looked like she was about to do a cheer. Instead, she thanked me twenty times as I got ready to leave.

  Unless Connie had the theatrical gifts of Meryl Streep, she was innocent of the bombing and Skylar’s murder. There was just no way she could have made up her story and performed it that well. Abstractly, Connie had been the most likely suspect because of her control of the beverage bottles, but now she was out of the running. Without Connie, the list of suspects was down to four.

  In the lobby, Arturo Murcielago was still seated behind the desk, watching the action inscrutably. I went up to him. “You run this place don’t you?”

  “Executive Director,” he nodded.

  “Mr. Murcielago, Connie Robinson just now told me that Shel Druckenmacher,” I nodded toward the group of men near the door where Druckenmacher was still hanging, “has been trying to blackmail her.”

  “Really?” said Arturo Murcielago in an even voice, “that might be great news. I hate that guy. Finally fired his ass just a little while ago. I want him out of here, but I need a reason.”

  “Has Druckenmacher been a problem here?”

  “I’ve had three reports that he’s selling drugs, but no hard evidence.”

  “OK, so what would be a good reason to ban him from this shelter?” I asked curiously.

  “Starting a fight, punching somebody...” Murcielago suggested matter-of-factly.

  “Do I have to let him hit me?”

  “You look like you could take it,” he grinned suddenly, then his face became unemotional again.

  “Geez,” I said resignedly, shaking my head and turning toward the group of guys still standing at the door.

  “Mr. Druckenmacher, may I speak with you a moment please?” I said loudly, but politely.

  Shel Druckenmacher swaggered out of the group toward me. He smelled of liquor, which was in my favor. When he was quite close I began speaking in a low tone, “You have been trying to blackmail a friend of mine. Get out of here and don’t come back.” I added under my breath, “I’ve already removed you from one place. You should be tossed out of here, too.”

  He didn’t like women telling him what to do. With a furious expression he drew back his arm to throw a right at my face. I stepped close into him and took it short on my shoulder, drawing gasps and a few screams from some of the people in the lobby. Everyone in the place turned to watch. His punch had looked hard but since he hadn’t had a chance to get any weight behind it it didn’t hurt more than a slap on the back. The movement had thrown him off balance so I just hit the side of his knee with my own, sending him sprawling onto the floor. This was accompanied by gales of humiliating laughter from his (now former) friends.

  Arturo Murcielago got to his feet and ambled toward us with a cell phone to his ear. He was phoning the cops. I just stood there looking innocent. Druckenmacher had had too much to drink to realize he was out-matched. All he could see was me and red. He scrambled around to get to a standing position, then reached in his pocket and fumbled out a flick knife. West Side Story in slow motion.

  Druckenmacher yelled, “Fuckin’ dyke!” at me and began to lunge. I spun to the side. As the knife slashed past me, I high kicked his hand. Not only knocking the knife to the floor but breaking three of his fingers with a satisfying triple snap. He screamed and fell on his knees in agony.

  Surprisingly fast for a man of his size, Arturo Murcielago made a lightning grab for the knife, scooping it up in one movement. Druckenmacher was in no condition to try to get it back.

  By then, the cops were arriving. Fenchester police response time is very fast, and it didn’t hurt that the police station was just a block away. I think the guys ran over. Tito Rodriguez and Jim Trexler were part of the pack that showed up. Pals from my years on the force. In fact, I rode with Tito as a partner for a while. They both took one look at me and began to chuckle.

  “Officers,” I said formally.

  They both snorted in unison, then turned their attention to Murcielago, who patiently explained that Mr. Druckenmacher had punched me, then pulled a knife in a threatening manner and lunged at me, calling me a derogatory name in the process. Five or six witnesses corroborated the story, including Taylor the teenager, who kept saying awesome.

  Under Pennsylvania’s Ethnic Intimidation Law, the yelling of a minority class name during attempted murder could make this a hate crime, which would elevate the sentence. I considered that as I promised the police I’d press charges to the fullest. When all that was over, it was 5:00 PM. From my van I called Miranda Juarez, asking to come and see her.

  Five minutes later I found her waiting at her foyer door in a small apartment building near the College. Work had seemed to be her whole life, but the inside of the apartment showed otherwise. Pictures of her son and daughter at all ages, her daughter’s wedding, and dozens of pictures of her grandchildren were everywhere. Miranda asked if I wanted coffee. Though I did, I said no. This wasn’t a social call. We sat on the couch in the living room while I told her about Connie and her Yoohoo vs. Nehi mistake.

  Miranda shook her head, tsking with disdain. “It is hard to train people today, they do not take the job seriously.”

  That fried me. The pressure she’d put on Connie had caused a great deal of this evening’s problems and I didn’t need her holier secretary than thou attitude.

  “Honestly Miranda, get down off your pedestal and give the kid a break. Connie’s twenty and inexperienced but she takes her job and the rest of her life very seriously. If the College wanted a super-secretary they should have hired another you and paid for it.” Miranda stared at me wide-eyed.

  I softened my tone, “Druckenmacher’s been blackmailing Connie. And Connie was tough enough to say no to Shel, though she thought it would mean losing her job and going to jail. She seems pretty brave to me, even if her efficiency level isn’t all it could be.”

  Miranda covered her mouth and turned her face to the wall. She didn’t want to hear any more but I wasn’t going to let her off the hook just because she was uncomfortable. Connie had dealt with this nightmare for three days, Miranda could take it for at least five more minutes.

  “Shel gave Connie two options, money or oral sex,” I told Miranda, who shook her head, but didn’t look up. “Less than an hour ago Druckenmacher hit me and lunged at me with a knife. He’s in jail, arrested for assault and attempted assault with a deadly weapon. He will call you to post bail. He’ll only get one phone call today. The caller ID will say Fenchester City Jail. DON’T ANSWER IT! Turn off your message machine. Ignore him.”

  I sat staring at her. Finally Miranda lifted her head. “He had not been around for a long time,” she said plaintively. “Then... last week, like the bad penny, he was at my office. Very angry, very upset, demanding money. When we were married, he... there was a lot of debt. I have worked for a long time to reestablish my credit. I do not have much, but I gave him what I had. I thought he would leave me and the children alone, but
the last few days, he has contacted me often, in a desperate way. I had no more to give him.”

  Maybe Shel Druckenmacher’s drug selling sideline was getting him in trouble with a local gang, or even more likely, he owed some supplier a bundle of cash. He probably wanted money to help himself get out of town.

  “Why do you put up with him?” I asked her softly.

  A long moment passed before she answered, “He is not the father of my son, Enrique. He has threatened me that he will tell both my daughter and Enrique. They will not... I am afraid they will not understand.”

  “Miranda,” I said looking directly into her eyes, “deal with this now. Conference call your son and daughter immediately and tell them. I’ll bet Enrique will be relieved that Druckenmacher isn’t his father.”

  “I don’t think I...”

  “Do it, Miranda. You’re a strong woman. Do it now. Then he’ll have nothing to hold over you.” I slid the phone across the coffee table, then pushed myself up from the couch and left her apartment, clicking the door shut. Out in the silent hall I waited, crossing my fingers, listening at the door.

  Miranda Juarez the super personal assistant, could set up a three-way conference call in seconds, and she did. She spoke Spanish to her two adult children, confessing her darkest secret to the dearest people in her life. Miranda’s love for her children rang in her voice, but I wondered if she would be able to break the cycle of abuse she’d endured from Shel Druckenmacher all these years.

  I sat in my van for a few minutes, typing notes on the Connie, Shel and Miranda Triangle. Then took off. It was 6:00 PM. Images of Kathryn flooded my mind.

  Chapter 31

  I parked next to Kathryn’s car in the Language Arts Building parking lot on College Street. It was freezing out. The air deposited a penetrating layer of frigid mist on my skin and then blew on it. On the sidewalk, I bumped into Leo Getty. Literally, he slammed into me. It was dark and he wasn’t paying attention. He gasped in surprise and grabbed his chest with both hands.

  “I’m terribly sorry Dr. Getty,” I said as sincerely as possible, although it was his fault, he’d really whacked into me. His thick fireplug body was harder than I thought.