by Dana Cameron
“Okay.” He nodded, but hesitated a moment longer when he saw the handkerchief. “Is there anything—?”
“Thank you, Scott.” The handkerchief vanished back up her sleeve and Petra moved steadily along.
“Okay.” Scott shook himself and left without another glance at me.
I decided I should just keep stretching back there, let everything I’d heard sort of fade away before I made my presence known again.
“Presumably you know? About Garrison?” She didn’t even turn around to ask me, but rather asked the reflection in the mirror, looking back to where I was trying to be invisible. Her voice started off shakily, then firmed up.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t know whether you’d heard the news yet.” I got up and moved down so that she could look at me directly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Even when it’s not unexpected, it still takes one unawares. Scott wouldn’t have said anything, if you hadn’t known. He worries about that kind of thing, though he pretends not to.” A businesslike sniff, then a pause. “I suspect many people are learning, now. How did you hear?”
“By accident. I thought Scott was looking for me, but he was actually passing it along to someone else. We’re old friends,” I finished, as if that explained everything.
“Who was he telling?” she asked, suddenly switching off the machine.
I took a breath. “Duncan Thayer.”
“Of course he was. Partners of old.” She nodded her head. “It’s natural to turn to your friends at such a time.” Then she regarded me sharply in the mirror. “But then, perhaps that’s how you know him. You’re Oscar Fielding’s granddaughter, aren’t you? Didn’t recognize you, at first, with your hair short like that, but you’d been seeing Mr. Thayer before he came to us, hadn’t you? Garrison told me.” A small smile crossed her face, and it gave me the shivers. “Quite the affair, as I understand it.”
Then Garrison was better informed than most of our colleagues, I thought. “It was a very long time ago” was all I could manage safely. Anything more and I would have begun explaining too much.
“Oh-o,” Petra said. It sounded like a thousand other things more condescending and complex, though, to my ears, and I suddenly felt like a fourteen-year-old. My face burned.
“Well, we’ll make the announcement tonight,” she said. “I don’t want them to be too formal or too grief-stricken. It wouldn’t have been what Garrison would have wanted.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I knew him as well as anyone, having been married to him, as long ago as that was. In fact, we were both in this very spot last night. About nine.” She frowned and her words became sharper, almost accusatory. “He didn’t like not being able to go outside, but his balance has been so bad, recently. I tried to get him to use the treadmill up here, I tried, but the old…grump was too upset at not being able to get his constitutional as he wanted. He just sat here with me while I walked. There was no need for him to go out there, he could just as easily have used the…”
She took a breath, calming herself. “I walked him back to his room, made sure he could get into bed all right. He hated it, but he would have hated being found in a heap someplace even worse.” She looked at my reflection straight in the eye. “I never could talk him out of anything he’d decided. I guess he decided he was going outside anyway, stubborn old man.”
“I guess.” It seemed to me that Petra needed to believe that she’d done everything she could to look after Garrison. Divorce or no, she cared about him.
Maybe Petra felt she’d showed me too much of herself. As the machine slowed and turned itself off, she announced, “Well, now that I’ve satisfied the letter of the law, maybe I’ll violate the spirit of it by having an early Bloody Mary as a reward.”
She stepped off the belt with care, but marched briskly out of the room without a glance back at me.
I rested my head on my knees, letting the tension that had built up during our talk dissipate. Hard enough, to offer someone condolences, worse to watch her struggle between the desire to talk about it and the urge to maintain composure before a total stranger.
Not a total stranger, I reminded myself. And she certainly didn’t mind chewing over my discomfort over Duncan.
Shoot, Emma, you can’t even let the woman have that much distraction? It didn’t cost you anything. A lot of folks of that generation don’t like to talk about personal things, emotional things, even as they’re trying to deal with them. Imagine what you’d feel if you’d done everything you thought you could to look after someone, and they still…
But…Garrison had told her he was going to bed, had actually gone to bed, but then got back up? Sometime close to nine-thirty? It made no sense to me, for all Petra was willing to chalk it up to his stubbornness.
I turned around, and seeing the dopey, puzzled face that stared back at me from the mirror, scowled. Then I composed myself and put on my best game face, the neutral one that Nolan, my trainer, was trying to get me to wear, even when I got hit or hurt during sparring. It took some effort, because surprise is a strong reflex, but I was getting better at it.
Following the lead my face was setting me, I began to shadow box, throwing lefts and rights, then working in a couple of combinations of threes and fours. Slipping imaginary punches, bobbing, weaving, I was starting to lose my self-consciousness and began to throw in some kicks as well. Then I really let myself go for a minute, paying attention to my footwork, trying to keep loose, and trying to form planned combinations and then execute them, all at once.
Duncan was there, in the doorway.
I saw him as I laid out a sidekick. I’ve learned, the hard way, to always look at your target when you are attacking, and although my balance was pretty good, the sight of him watching me—how long had he been there?—threw me for a loop. I fumbled a little, but thought, hell with him, and managed to follow through with a fairly convincing back kick. I decided I wasn’t up to ignoring him while I did more, and cooled down again with simpler combinations. I caught sight of my face and was impressed by the serious lack of humor. Now that was a game face.
“That’s new. Lotta stuff new, about you. Looks good on you.”
I wasn’t getting dragged into this, but I also bit my tongue before I asked him whether he wasn’t keeping an eye on me full-time now. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Why didn’t he just go away? If I could have wiped him away, along with all the memories of our relationship, I would have.
“Scott just left, if you were looking for him.” I didn’t stop my boxing, and used all my focus to ignore him.
“I am looking for Scott. I meant it, though. It suits you.”
I kept working. “I’m pretty much the same as ever.” But that was mostly a lie: I was changing. I was just contradicting him for the sake of it.
He nodded and left. I kept throwing punches, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore; I wanted to go up to my room and hide under the covers, but I didn’t.
The cocktail party had already started and, as usual, was a mob scene. The drinks were ridiculously overpriced, filled with weak liquor, and there were only four harassed bartenders to cater to the ever-increasingly desperate needs of over four hundred thirsty archaeologists who were let off the leash, and that included the ones hunting for data, jobs, gossip, references, or connections. Still, I noticed that the usual frenzy was tempered: word about Garrison was getting around. I got my drink and tried to find some of my friends to hang out with. Instead I got rushed by people who wanted a copy of my paper and a couple of students who were asking about my classes in the Caldwell College archaeology program. That was fine, and got finer still when I saw that my tall friend with the bad breath was craning his neck, peering over the crowd, his hands hanging straight down at his sides like a meercat. Dear God, a meercat with halitosis. Looking for me. I kept my head down, leaning into my own conversation more intimately than I was used to.
But the last student had other schools
to investigate, and he flitted off sooner than I would have liked. I looked around and instantly made accidental eye contact with Widmark, but he only waved offhandedly and kept peering around. I began to worry that I’d offended him, by trying to duck out on him earlier, and then decided that I was willing to pay the price of that guilt. Someone bumped into me, and if I had been drinking from a glass, it would have spilled all over the place. Drinking beer from a bottle is not merely a matter of machismo.
“Jay, take it easy, huh?” I said. Jay, my recent poker victim, was plastered, well ahead of schedule, and mumbling into his cell phone.
“Sorry, Em,” he mumbled. Stepping away from me, he knocked into Laurel.
“Watch it, asshole,” she barked. Maybe recognizing him stemmed the flow of profanity I expected to follow. “Oh, it’s you, Whitaker. Learn how to walk, would you?”
“Sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”
“Well, put the damn cell phone down, this is a social event.”
He swayed slightly, beet red and not just from the press of the room. “You don’t really think I’m an asshole, do you, Laurel? I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“No.” She flicked at Jay, who was trying to brush at her to wipe the martini off her jacket. “Just…just take it easy.”
“But you still love me, don’t you Laurel?”
“Of course I still love you, but now you’re becoming a lachrymose and fuckwitted nuisance.”
“Lachrymose?” He turned to me, his eyes welling, confused.
“She means you’re getting maudlin,” I answered.
“Oh, okay. I’m all right now,” he said, and lurched away, still clutching his cell phone.
“I very much doubt it,” Laurel mumbled, as she tried to mop up. She turned to me. “Em.”
“Hey, Laurel. Where’d you get the martini? Didn’t think they were getting that fancy in here.”
“They’re not. I brought it from the bar. I refuse to drink the shit they serve at these things. Self-preservation.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Drinking vodka is self-preservation?”
She shrugged. “Well, you know. Besides, it’s good vodka, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. How’s it going?”
“Not too bad, I’m just trying to avoid someone. But I think he’s found another target.”
“Who’s that?”
“Tall guy, skinny, gormless, some kind of archaeologist wannabe. Boring, boring, and if I include his breath, boringer still. As in, it would bore a hole through you.” I looked around apprehensively, trying to find him.
Laurel did the same, much less obviously than I. “Sounds scary. Oh, I got him. Someone needs a visit from the Fab Five, don’t they? He’s looking over here.”
“Just don’t make eye contact. Pretend we’re talking.”
“We are talk—ooph!” Laurel lurched again, and this time lost most of her drink. “Jay! God damn it! Now you are officially an asshole!” she called to Jay’s retreating back. “Walking around with that freaking phone! If you can’t handle your liquor, do it in your room where you won’t spoil it for the rest of us, you useless sot.”
But by the time she’d got to the word phone, Laurel’s anger had dissipated, and she was on autopilot. “I thought he was supposed to be getting his act together,” she said to me. “Business has been picking up after a dry spell, or so I heard.”
“Beats me. I haven’t had a chance to catch up with him about work. But I’m glad to hear it.”
By now Scott had made his way to the front to make a few announcements, but he was accompanied by a couple of uniformed officers. At the same time, my friend Widmark had suddenly found a need to depart, rapidly. Again, he snaked through the crowd, and something about the way he moved struck me as oddly familiar, and not at all in character with what I’d observed of him at lunch. I couldn’t place it, so by the time he left, I turned to hear the official announcement. People began to quiet and turn toward the front of the room.
“Ordinarily now’s the time when we’d move into the ballroom for a brief business meeting. I’ve met with the board and we’ve decided that we need to make an announcement while I’ve…we’ve still got you all here.”
Someone whooped, to a small pocket of laughter—someone who didn’t know, apparently—but Scott wasn’t smiling. “I’m afraid it’s bad news. We learned this morning that our guest of honor, Julius Garrison, passed away during the night.”
Dead silence was followed by a murmur of distress, which quickly grew. I frowned. Surely, this shouldn’t be so great a shock to everyone? He was about six hundred years old, and as he said himself, they don’t start giving you lifetime achievement awards unless they think you’re going to kick off soon. A surprise, certainly, but an anticipated fact of life as well.
“We are still looking into the details and trying to fix the time of his death. If everyone who saw him last night will come forward so that we can get a statement, well, I’m sure that his family will be very glad to hear whatever we can put together of his last evening. After all, he was among those he loved best.”
Oh, please, Scott. That’s a bit much.
“Hear, hear,” someone called out. It was echoed strongly across the room, riding the budding crest of whispered exchanges.
I looked around, puzzled. This was not what I was expecting.
“So, I don’t know, maybe we can all lift our glasses and say goodbye to a fine scholar, a righteous man, and a hell of an archaeologist. To Julius Garrison.”
“Julius Garrison!” came the overwhelming reply.
I turned around to see what was going on, still frowning, then sipped automatically.
“Em, you okay?” Laurel asked. She was sipping from her glass, drinking the toast herself.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just not…” I shrugged. “Toasts? This is Garrison we’re talking about, right? Am I losing my mind, or what?”
Laurel looked around then shrugged. “A lot of people thought he was really important.”
“Yeah, sure, but this?” All around us people were somber, some looked shocked, and a few had handkerchiefs out, visibly upset. “What’s with all the crocodile tears?”
“Maybe not crocodilian, Em. Lots of people liked him.”
“Lots of people were afraid of him. He messed with people, bad. And, ‘righteous man’? I don’t know what Scott is thinking.” I couldn’t stop shaking my head. “Doesn’t sound like the man I knew.”
She sipped her drink. “Emma, I doubt very much that these people knew him the way you did.”
I turned on her. “And what does that mean?”
“Just what I said. I think that—”
At that moment, an uproar broke out near the door. A crackle of radio static and words that were loud but barely audible broke over the muted hubbub like an unwelcome drunk at a wake: shots had been fired outside.
People turned toward the noise and the announcement, and then turned toward me. I looked behind me, only to see everyone looking in my direction as well. A uniformed officer and a man in a red parka—Detective Church—spoke to some folks, the only one I could make out was Noreen—and they all pointed toward me. I turned around again, but this time it was unmistakable: The police were coming for me. I was still surprised when they stopped a few feet away from me.
“Emma Fielding? We’d like you to step outside with us for a few moments.”
“Why, what—?”
Detective Church said, “We have a few questions about where you were last night.”
The words carried across the now-silent ballroom, filling my ears until there was nothing else in my head. Numbly, I followed the cops out of the room, feeling every set of eyes in the place on me.
Chapter 7
“CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT?” I asked Church. We were walking across the lobby now, and though he was perhaps an inch shorter than I, close to five-eight, he matched my stride. “Have you found out anything new? Officer Walton said he’d give me a call�
�”
“Did he?” This was with humor. “Actually we’ve got a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not, but I’m pretty sure that I told you everything that I saw when I was out on the stairs—”
He stopped. “Why were you out on the stairs?”
“I told you. I was looking for Dr. Tomberg.”
“Actually, I meant last night.”
“Like I told Officer Walton. I was taking a walk. I needed some air.”
He flipped through a notebook. “So you did. And earlier today? You seemed interested in what was going on. You seemed really curious about the deceased.”
“Well, yeah.” Then it occurred to me that my interest might not be as self-explanatory as it seemed to me. The tone of his voice was deceptively neutral. “You’re right. I was curious. It’s just…it’s just…”
I realized that I was about to say the words out loud for the first time, and I was a little reluctant, as if saying them would seal my fate forever. “I’m thinking that maybe…I’m going to look into forensics, maybe forensic anthropology. I mean, I’m an archaeologist now, and I’ve become…I’ve seen…” I took a deep breath. “I’ve been considering getting training so I could work with the state police crime lab, or coroner, or something like that. Stuart Feldman—he’s with the Massachusetts State Police Crime Lab? He’s been trying to get me to look into it.”
Detective Church nodded slowly, like this seemed logical to him. “Lot of people here are archaeologists. They don’t seem like they are all rushing down the stairs to see a corpse. A corpse that looks like it died by accident.”
If was an accident, then why the continued police presence here? Why is everyone rushing around like it wasn’t an accident? I was at least smart enough to keep all this to myself. “Like I said, I knew the deceased. So I had a couple of reasons.”
“Plenty of people here knew him, from what I can see. How did you?”
“I knew him through my grandfather. He used to come visit our sites, years ago.”
