More Bitter Than Death

by Dana Cameron

  That was a bit too much for Church and he broke in. “That’s not something we can discuss with you right now. Suffice it to say, Special Agent Widmark was working on a case and you wandered into the middle of it. Why was that again?”

  “Same as I said before,” I said with a sigh. “I wanted to know why he was outside when everyone else was being kept in the ballroom. I thought he might have something to do with Garrison’s death.”

  “And you didn’t call us because…?”

  “Because he might have just been going for a walk! Because it might have had nothing to do with anything here! And if I hadn’t followed him, he might be dead now. What was he doing out there anyway? Was he following someone?”

  “He was working on a case and I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you,” repeated Detective Church.

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry I snapped. I’m tired and I feel like…I don’t feel so great. I think you know I wasn’t the one responsible for his shooting—can you at least tell me if they might be coming after me again?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine if you stay inside the hotel. We’re working on it and we’ve got some valuable leads now. I wish I could tell you more, but I’m not—” He stopped at the familiar phrase and shrugged.

  I nodded wearily. “I know. Look, like I said, I’m not feeling so hot, and I’m afraid Meg is losing out on her dinner because she stopped to help me. Is it okay if I go now?”

  I sounded pathetic, perhaps even as bad as I was starting to feel. Meg did her best to look hungry and waiflike—she was surprisingly good at it—and we were eventually given permission to leave.

  We went into the hotel lobby, and it was nearly empty. We could hear the sounds from the banquet taking place in the ballrooms that had been opened up on the second floor.

  “What were you doing out there anyway?” I asked Meg. “Not that I’m not grateful. Thanks for being out there.”

  She held up a large paper bag. “Liquor store. You’ve seen what they’re charging at the bar.”

  As I fumbled getting my key out of my pocket, I looked down at my trembling hands. They were a mess. I could feel that there was a pretty good scratch on my left cheek, and a bunch of scrapes on my chin. My jeans were torn where I’d fallen. They and my boots were soaked through.

  Meg was okay. She probably wanted to talk. I guess I wanted to talk too. I was reluctant to bring Meg any further into this, but I owed her something, though I wasn’t sure what it was, outside of thanking her for helping me. Again. She’d acted quickly, not asking questions until she saw that whatever was going on was behind us. She was good in a bad spot.

  That was it: I kept being in the right place to get insider information. Meg kept being in the places near me, and had stuck her neck out—literally and figuratively—on more than one occasion to help me. Maybe it didn’t strictly follow, but suddenly I had the notion that if I expected to be accepted as a source of help—professional or not, bystander, insider or whatever—then maybe I should afford Meg the same opportunity.

  Besides, it wasn’t as though anyone else was going to tell me about what rumors were flying around, about Garrison, about the conference, about me. Meg would.

  “Okay, we’ve missed most of the banquet anyway, and so thanks to me, you’ve missed dinner. Come up to my room and we’ll order food and talk. No one will miss us for an hour or so, not any more than they might have already.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We got up to my room and, suddenly, I was limping and exhausted. I couldn’t decide what to do first. I stood there, then moved to the phone, then thought of the bathroom and a hot shower, then of cleaning my scratched hands, then moved back toward the phone as my stomach rumbled.

  “Why don’t you go clean up and I’ll order the food. Get warmed up,” Meg suggested. I’d almost forgotten she was there, but she was already digging out the room-service menu.

  I nodded and turned for the bathroom; she called after me, “What do you want?”

  “There’s a steak salad. Blue cheese dressing on the side. A big bottle of water. A glass of red wine, whatever cabernet they have.”

  “I’ll have a glass too. Want to get a bottle?”

  “Why not?”

  “Unless you’d rather have something harder?” She nodded to the bag from the State Liquor Store.

  “No thanks. You bought that for the troops; I’m not going to steal it. Wine is fine.”

  The scratch wasn’t deep, but there were some other abrasions that I hadn’t noticed, until now. There was also a good scratch on my left cheek that I remembered getting on the way through—rather than around—a sticker bush. I cleaned them out good.

  I looked in the mirror. My hair was standing out at angles, sweat plastering it off my face, which was red with exposure and exertion. The scratch gave me a vaguely roguish look that I might have enjoyed any other day. Now I just felt beat up.

  It took me a while to peel off my clothing, stuck to me with sweat, slush, and, here and there, a bit of drying blood. I got into the shower, then got back out, and pulled my bathrobe on. I retched over the toilet, as quietly as I could, wiped off my face, and then got back into the shower, shaking as if my arms and legs would come off. Eventually, by adding more and more hot water, I felt warm enough to get out and dry off. I’d stopped shivering so much, but now just felt weak as I put antibiotic ointment on my cuts and scrapes. I tried not to think about the fact that Church had said there were two shooters, tried not to think about the shots coming at me from below the porch roof Friday night. Last night.

  “So what are we doing?” Meg asked as I returned. She had the chair by the desk, so I sat on the bed, leaning on the headboard, my feet stuck under the covers. I was still in my robe, a towel wrapped around my head. Apart from my skirt and heels, everything else I had was either dirty, drying, or lying soaking wet in the tub until I had the energy to hang them up.

  “We eat, we talk. But here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m not real comfortable talking about what I do know, never mind figuring out what the hell Widmark got me into. I don’t like talking about people who you might know, and airing what may or may not be their dirty laundry when it all might be completely innocent. On the other hand, if I don’t tell you, now that you’ve been seen with me and talking to the cops, you might be in trouble too.”

  She shook her head, palms upraised. “That’s my business.”

  “I’m not sure I wouldn’t feel responsible.” And more than simply involving another person, I had to keep in mind that Meg was still my student. Until she graduated or left the program, that would complicate our relationship and I had to be aware of it.

  Meg shrugged, and pursed her lips. “Too late, Emma. I’m in it. So let’s talk.”

  She was right; she was in it as soon as she picked me up. And I owed her. “What I’ll do is give them names to discuss them by,” I said finally, staring at the television cabinet opposite the bed. “If we think we find something incontrovertible, I’ll tell you who it is then. Otherwise…I guess I hope I’m not messing with innocent people too badly.”

  “Emma, you got to fish or cut bait,” Meg said. “Either you’re in this, or you aren’t, and you can’t afford to worry about other people. Especially when you might be in danger. Besides, they won’t know you’re talking about them.”

  I closed my eyes and tried not to scream at Meg, but she was right.

  “Okay, let’s take them one by one.” I paused, saw the dessert menu advertising pie. “We’ll start with Apple.”

  She looked at me.

  “What? You want vegetables? We’ll throw some vegetables in there too.”

  Meg picked up the hotel notepad from beside the phone and marked down APPLE.

  “Apple,” I began, thinking of Sue, “like everyone I’m going to mention, either had reason to fear, hate, or want something from Garrison. In this case, Garrison had put the kibosh on a major project of Apple’s. That wou
ld be fine, Garrison has done this to a lot of people, including yours truly, but—”

  Meg looked up sharply.

  I shook my head. “Only by association, but Garrison had his finger in every pie. Apple’s project had taken up several years and a lot of energy; it was something to expand a career with. Additionally, Apple was also not where his or her original statement said. Apple was seen arguing with Garrison when Apple claimed not to have met with him that night.”

  Meg nodded. “Any way of finding out what Apple was up to when Garrison died?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  “What about…what would the benefit be to killing Garrison after the project was quashed?”

  “None, I guess. Call it a crime of passion. Revenge. Apple also stopped talking to me about the same time I mentioned that I was looking into formalizing my role with the investigators. Seeing how I can parley my archaeological skills into some form of forensic investigation.”

  Meg’s mouth dropped open.

  “Sorry, I forgot that I hadn’t said anything about it to you.”

  “What! But…you’re going to keep teaching? Right?”

  The alarm in her voice shook me. “Oh, yeah. No doubt about it. Just…going to see…what’s what, that’s all. A sideline.” I realized that people relied on me to keep teaching, and I had to be careful about making them think that I was opting out entirely. “But with regards to this other thing, I wondered whether Apple wasn’t worried that I might find out something and pass it along to the police.”

  Meg wrote that down too, and since I was not going to talk any longer about my bombshell, continued. “Okay, what about Banana?”

  “Banana,” I said, moving onto Brad, “Banana is a little more tricky. Banana is interested in applying for a job at a place where Garrison had strong connections. Banana claims to have no problem with Garrison, but I’ve discovered that there was no way that Garrison would have allowed Banana to get said job.”

  “That doesn’t seem like much of a motive,” Meg said, doubtful.

  “No, but if Banana was desperate to get this job, well, you know exactly how many opportunities there are in this field. You know how rare they are. If it meant the world to you…?”

  “Maybe.” She looked doubtful. “Aren’t there safeguards against that kind of thing, though?”

  “Yeah, sure, but they don’t always work,” I said. “Banana was also supposed to be in bed at the time they think Garrison went outside, but again, this was proven false. And Banana admits to having physically confronted Garrison, though claims he was alive at the end of the encounter.”

  Meg looked up from her notes, horrified. “Shit, Em!”

  I shook my head, even though I remembered what Brad said about losing so much, feeling so desperate. “I don’t know. It still doesn’t feel right to me. Carrot is tricky too.” I thought about Duncan and was surprised at how easy it was to imagine him acting impulsively, violently, even. Nothing I saw this weekend indicated to me that much had changed in him. Laurel had said that someone was reviewing his work, and Petra had told me that Garrison had been asked to review some site reports. “I have reason to believe that Carrot might have had material being reviewed by Garrison. Perhaps there was something that he didn’t want discovered. If that was the case, and Garrison made it known, it could ruin Carrot’s career.” I sighed heavily; did I really think Duncan was capable of killing Garrison? This seemed like the best motive of anything I’d come up with so far. “Okay. What’s a D fruit?”

  “Durian? Daikon?” Meg offered.

  I looked at her askance.

  “A durian is a stinky, spiky pear,” she explained. “A daikon’s a radish. Not really a fruit.”

  I tried to think of what I could say about Scott. “Well, Durian has just been acting oddly around me. I understand that Garrison heaped plenty of abuse on him years ago, but Durian claims to have gotten past it. I also discovered that Durian is not as over Garrison’s treatment of him as I was led to believe.”

  “Em, that’s not much to go on. Even less than the last one.”

  “You’re right.” A thought struck me, the connection between the Haslett site—Duncan’s dissertation site—and the nineteenth-century exploration of the site by Josiah Miller. I was beginning to suspect that Duncan had used the Miller data in his research and not cited it. Leary, the presenter at the session I’d been hiding in, had mentioned that the Miller report was recently discovered, but that was impossible if I’d seen the report on Duncan’s desk all those years ago. If Garrison had discovered that Duncan had used a work and not cited it, it could be disastrous for Duncan’s career. Was Scott covering up for Duncan, afraid that I would expose him?

  “It’s also possible,” I said slowly, still tasting the idea, “that Durian is covering up something for Carrot and may be complicit.” I wracked my brain. “I’m not doing a very good job of this; I don’t want to go into details that might have nothing to do with the case.” I could also be mistaken about having seen the Miller report, but I didn’t think so. “That’s why I feel funny talking to the cops about this.”

  “That’s why you should formalize your role with them,” Meg said practically. “That way, the way you make your decisions is more clearly defined.”

  Again, I wasn’t thrilled with how close Meg cut to the problem. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “And maybe it’s time for another session with me and Sally down at the shooting range? If you’re going to be hanging out with cops?”

  Sally was Meg’s Heckler & Koch. “Meg, the whole point is that I would be amply protected by being in the midst of the establishment.”

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged. “You seemed to have fun, last time, and you caught on quick. It’s just paper punching.”

  I hate guns. I hate how people treat them casually, like toys, and seem to forget what they are made for. I hate the noise they make, even when you’re wearing ear protection. I hate how they fascinate, cleverly contrived mechanisms with a heft that is damnably, seductively appealing. I hate that I enjoyed the target practice, and I hate that I was good at it.

  I turned back to the television cabinet. “We’ll see. Anyway, that’s all I got for now. Problem is, I don’t know whether it has something to do with the thefts of reproductions from the book room. Who’d want reproductions?”

  “Someone who didn’t know they weren’t real.”

  I nodded. “And I don’t know how any of these might tie in with Widmark, and why the FBI is involved in all of this. I might be missing lots of important things.” Like whether there were other reasons besides friendship that Petra might have had for going to his room that night, or whether it was possible that she concealed that fact for more than discretion. Like what any of this might have to do with Widmark’s investigation.

  Room service came up about then, probably speeded up by the fact that dinner was mostly over for ninety percent of the rest of the hotel’s denizens at the banquet. I signed for the food and Meg moved her chair over to the other side of the cart. As soon as she took the covers off the food, hunger and thirst overtook me. I sat down, poured a glassful of water, chugged it down, then tore into the salad, spearing a big forkful of steak and blue cheese into my mouth. For the sake of a balanced diet, I swilled down more water, then a mouthful of lettuce. The salad tasted so good that I went for another big mouthful of meat and cheese, and this time chased it down with a big sip of wine: Meg had thoughtfully poured me out a glass.

  When I realized that I’d been head-down in my food for several minutes, I looked up and saw that Meg was eating, but more slowly. She was also regarding me with a mixture of worry, awe, and amusement.

  I wiped my mouth and swallowed a too-big mouthful. “Sorry, I’m behaving like a pig.”

  “No, please. Day you’ve had, I say go for the gusto.”

  “More wine?” I picked up the bottle and gestured.

  “Sure. I saw Professor Fairchild ordering this one n
ight, so I figured it must be okay.”

  “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?” I finished topping Meg up and looked at the label. I’d have to run the name past Bucky and see if she’d heard it. She was the oenophile in the family.

  “Yeah, I guess.” She took another cautious sip, shrugged, and drank more deeply. Booze was booze, as far as she was concerned. “So, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Shoot.” Although I’d slowed down eating, I was still making steady progress through my food. Good thing the hotel plates were sturdy; they were taking a beating tonight.

  Very businesslike: “You have a problem with me and Neal?”

  I shook my head, trying to finish my mouthful and reassure her all at once. “No, Meg, I honestly really don’t. God, no. Like I said, I think you guys are great together.”

  “Then why…you seemed hesitant, when we were out at the site, when I told you. Something more than surprise.”

  I sighed, then sat back with my glass of wine. “It’s an old reaction, Meg, that’s all. I tend to think that it’s problematic when people in the same department get involved. It’s me, my own baggage. Nothing at all to do with you guys. I swear to you.”

  She nodded, drinking thoughtfully. I think she finally believed me. “So, was it someone I know?”

  “Damn, Meg, I don’t know if I want to go—”

  “Because I heard something about you and Duncan Thayer.”

  Oh shit—but I caught myself. I had to stop treating this like it mattered, like it was a state secret. It was neither material nor secret. “Who’s so stuck in the past that they told you this?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t anyone here. It was before I transferred to Caldwell, I was trying to find out about you. It came up. I can’t remember who told me. Someone older, someone senior.”

  “And how did it affect your decision?”

  “It wasn’t pertinent.” She looked at me, curious. “So was it?”

  I sighed. “Yes. A million years ago. I fell hard, and then he dumped me, out of nowhere, as far as I could see. It hurt like hell.” I shrugged and leaned over to work on the salad again. “I didn’t understand then that it wasn’t anything personal, it was just that Duncan always tries to trade up. Girlfriends, colleges, jobs…we met when he transferred to Boston in our junior year. Collided, exploded might have been a better word. But he’s always had one eye open for the next best thing.”