"Right," I said.
Ruby stared at me as if she'd lost her tongue. Her mouth soundlessly formed the words "Assistant investigator?"
I bent over her and whispered into her ear. "Be cool." Out loud, I said, "I'll locate something to go with that sherry." I headed for the refrigerator to find the caviar that had escaped being tucked into an omelet that morning.
Physically, the Whiz reminds me of Janet Reno, upon whom may the heavens heap blessings for being so forthright about the difference between appearance and substance and the incontestable significance of the latter as compared to the former Justine is sturdy, with broad shoulders and ample hips. Her usual costume is a dark, baggy jacket with the lining hanging a half inch below the hem, a dark skirt (wrinkled), and a white blouse (untucked). Her chestnut hair looks as if she combed it before the hurricane, and her glasses are always crooked because she takes them off and swings them by the temple, using them to punch out her words. She does not dress for success. She doesn't have to.
Notes sorted, more or less, she sat down and yanked off her glasses. "Number one, the warrant. Your police chief was after a drug, a hairbrush, and a rope. Why did he want all that crap?"
"The drug was pentobarbital sodium." I put caviar and wheat crackers on the table. Ruby was getting up to open the sherry and locate glasses. "One empty fifty-milliliter multiple-dose vial of Beuthanasia-D Special, and one full vial. Both were located in the medical supply cupboard of Dottie's cattery. The M.E. found the same substance in Harwick, and the lab identified it in the dregs of his coffee. Not a lethal dose. Just enough to render him groggy. Groggy enough," I added, "to submit to being strung up."
Ruby put down the sherry glasses, being cool. "Beuthanasia is used for—"
"For euthanizing animals," I said. I poured sherry.
The Whiz reached for her glass. "How'd you find all this out so fast?"
"Superior intelligence," I said. Ruby giggled, then remembered what we were talking about and straightened her face.
"Seriously," The Whiz said.
"Hey," I said, injured. "No insults. Or you won't get the rest of it."
The Whiz sighed. "Let's not waste time."
"He wanted the rope for comparison to the one that hung Harwick."
"But why the hairbrush?" Ruby asked.
"There were some hairs caught in the noose," I explained. "Bubba's trying for a match. The leak," I added, "is the chief of Campus Security." I grinned. "Smart Cookie. She doesn't think Dottie did it."
"Hubba hubba." The Whiz grinned back, appreciative. "Keep that leak dripping. Hot Shot." She sat back, sipping her sherry. "Beuthanasia," she mused. "If not Dottie, then who? Harwick himself?"
Good question. If Harwick was trying to frame Dottie, Beuthanasia was almost as good as a fingerprint. But Dottie wasn't the only one who might have had access to the drug.
"Harwick was planning to euthanize his research animals when he was finished with them," I said. "There ought to be some Beuthanasia, or something close to it, in his lab or in the animal holding facility in the basement of the science building. If that's true, Harwick had access to it. And so did one or two other people."
Other people. As I spoke, my stomach tightened. Other people, like Kevin the animal keeper, who could have taken it from the holding facility. Did he have a motive to use it? Or had he given it to Amy? I pulled in my breath. I had congratulated myself for diverting Ruby's attention from Amy to Dottie. I hadn't stopped to think that the investigation might circle back to Amy.
"Other people." Justine was slathering caviar on a wheat cracker. "Yeah, right. Uncover as many suspects as possible. Rve,
ten, a dozen. Let's people the landscape with possibilities. Confuse the D.A. with options."
Ruby sat down and sipped her sherry, looking thoughtful. "The thick plottens, as Kinsey Millhone says."
"Kinsey Millhone?" The Whiz was blank.
"A famous PL," I said, and hastily added "fictional" before The Whiz could suggest that we hire her.
"Oh." Justine dismissed famous fictional detectives with a wave of her hand. "The problem is," she said, "that we don't know diddly-squat about Harwick. That's a good job for you. Ruby. Check him out, top to toenails." She began rattling things off "Who he buddied with, what he did for fun besides torturing beasties, what his colleagues thought about him, who his mother was, what he wanted for his birthday. Get your hands on anything and everything worth knowing about the guy And do it lickety-split. Fm hoping to head this one off before it gets to the grand jury. Got it?"
Ruby's "Got it" was crisp, incisive. She was already practicing her new persona.
I looked at Justine. "Did Dottie come clean in the interrogation about the letter she forged?"
"You bet," she said. "I doubt if the chief believes her, though. He can't afford to. The letter is his motive."
"He'll believe her when he brings in a handwriting expert," I said.
"We need our own expert. See who's available." She loaded another cracker with the last of the caviar. "You eat like this all the time?"
"Fve gone totally decadent since I left the rat race," I said. "So what you want from Ruby and me—"
"Is anything you can dig up on Harwick." She stuffed the cracker in her mouth. "And Riddle."
"On Dottie?" Ruby asked dubiously. "But she didn't do it."
"So?" Justine was imperative even with her mouth full. "You
believe that. But the cops don't and the prosecutor probably won t either. So talk to her. Dig out what she knows.'' She banged the knife on the table to emphasize her words.
"Okay," I said mildly. The Whiz obviously relished the opportunity to order us around like legal clerks. "We'll come up with a game plan. When will you be back?"
"For the preliminar)^ hearing tomorrow afternoon." The Whiz chugalugged the rest of her sherrv^ and fished among the papers in her briefcase, coming up with a dozen business cards. She handed them to me. "Put your names on these and use them," she instructed. "And just remember. A woman's been accused of murder. If we do right by her, she might not have to stand trial. If we don't, she might w ind up in Huntsville. Simple as that." She turned to me. "And if we gotta go to court, let's get a not-guilty on the first go-round, okay. Hot Shot? I hate monkeying with appeals."
With that final rah-rah. The Whiz banged her briefcase shut and charged out the door.
Ruby looked at me. "Hot Shot?"
I rolled mv eyes.
"Oh." Ruby took several cards, pensive. "Well, all I've got to say is if anybody can get Dottie off, she will."
"Yeah," I said, almost grudgingly. Maybe The WTiiz's exhortation to the troops would have had more effect on me if I hadn't heard it a half-dozen times from my senior partner But I had to admire the drama.
The door opened again. "Excuse me," The Whiz said, somewhat abashed. "I forgot to give you a message from Dottie. She wonders if you'd feed her animals and shoot Ariella, whoever that is." She frowned. "I hope it's legal."
"Ariella's a diabetic cat," I said. "The Lioness of God. She gets shot ever)^ day."
"We'll take care of it," Ruby said. "Feeding wont take long."
"Are you kidding?" I asked. "That woman's got over a hundred and fifty cats. Plus a hundred guinea pigs—maybe two hundred, by this time. It'll take hours." I looked at The Whiz. "It'd be faster with three of us."
"I bill at one fifty an hour," The Whiz replied. She looked at me. "By the way, what are you and Ruby billing at? I need to factor it in."
"Who's paying?" Ruby asked quickly. "You or Dottie?" The Whiz was aghast. "The client always pays." Ruby and I traded glances. "It's on the house," I said. "That's what I call loyalty," The Whiz said, and shut the door
It took thirty seconds to shoot Ariella and ninety minutes to feed the cats and the guinea pigs. I got back just in time to meet McQuaid. We came up empty-handed again. One of the houses had a kitchen the size of my refrigerator and the other was across the street from the middle school, which in my view made it the House from H
ell. Anyway, feeding Dottie's cats and dealing with her problem, on top of a half-day's work in the shop, had left me as edgy as if I'd been sacking rattlesnakes. McQuaid dropped me at my door with a quick kiss and a cheerful promise to keep me up to the minute on Sheila's leaks. Friendship is easier to live with than romance.
Thank heavens the shop is closed on Monday. Ruby and I rendezvoused over the phone at eight A.M. to lay out Monday's game plan. I would head for the jail to interview Dottie, then to the university to see what I could dig up. Ruby would shoot Ariella, then drive to Wimberley to scout out Max Wilde, the elusive woodworker, who might be of some help in piecing together Miles Harwick's background. We would meet at Dot-
tie's at three to feed the animals—although by that time, The Whiz might have gotten Dottie bailed out so she could feed them herself.
I had a reason for dividing our efforts this way. I wanted to keep Ruby occupied while I located Kevin and talked to Amy. If Amy was involved in this thing, I wanted to know it up front and as soon as possible. I couldn't shield Ruby from unpleasant information about her daughter, but at least I could see which direction the fire was coming from.
So instead of hotfooting it to the jail, I tucked my notebook into my purse and drove to the campus, where I sweet-talked a visitor's permit and gate card out of the surly guard at the kiosk and drove to the lot behind Noah's Ark, letting myself in through the card-controlled gate. The students were back en masse, tanned and hung over from a solid week of boozing at the beach. But Rose Tompkins, one of the women I had come to see, was alone in the departmental office suite.
The sizable reception area contained two desks, Rose's next to the entrance and Cynthia Leeds's squarely in front of Dr. Castle's door. Rose was studying a piece of paper on her desk, her round face squeezed, worry lines furrowing her forehead. She looked up and saw me and was distracted for a moment from what she was reading.
"Hello, Rose," I said. "I hope you're feeling better." I didn't think she was. Her face was gray and her eyes were puffy. I could detect the scent of rosemary, coming from a small diffuser on her desk. In aromatherapy, rosemary is a pick-me-upper.
Rose's breath came out in a puff of a sigh. "It was such a shock. I can't get the sight of Dr. Harwick out of my mind." She gave a little grimace, her eyes going back to whatever it was she was reading. She looked up again. "Miss Leeds said I made a terrible fool of myself. She said I embarrassed the department."
"That's easy for Miss Leeds to say. She didn't walk in on a dead man. And I don't know why the department ought to be
embarrassed." I nodded at the diffuser. "YouVe chosen the right scent, Rose. It should make you feel better."
Rose sat up straighten "You're a friend of Dr. Riddle's, aren't you.^ Could you let her know something for me? I would have called, but I wasn't sure ..." She left her sentence unfinished, but I got the meaning. She wasn't sure how to get a message to Dottie in jail.
"I'll be glad to," I said. "What do you want me to tell her?"
She spoke absently, as if a quarter of her attention was on me, three quarters somewhere else. "Tell her we've canceled her Monday classes, because ..."
This sentence stalled out too, and her eyes went to the paper she had been studying. Either she didn't want to say something as blatantly rude as "because she's in jail," or she was preoccupied with what was on the paper, or both. I tried to read upside down. It looked like a letter. Another threat from the animal rights people? But surely that kind of thing had stopped with Harwick's death.
Rose looked up with an effort, recalling her attention to me. "Fm sorry. I'm slightly distracted this morning. Miss Leeds isn't in yet, and I've been dealing with everything myself. We've cancelled Dr. Riddle's classes for the week because we don't have anybody available to cover for her while she's ..."
I hate unfinished sentences. Three in a row were too much for me. I finished this one for her, since her meaning was so clear.
"While she's in jail? That won't be too much longer. I'm expecting her to be out on bail momentarily, so don't bother to cancel her classes."
She looked shocked. "I don't handle that. Dr. Castle phoned Miss Leeds from Boston, where he's attending a meeting. He told her to cancel Dr. Riddle's classes, period. He'll hire a replacement as soon as he gets back."
I frowned. Castle was jumping the gun. He could at least hold off until Dottie was indicted, which wasn't going to happen, if I
had anything to do with it. But that's the way this business works. The minute somebody's arrested, the popular imagination renders a guilty verdict. Forget the trial, the evidence, the jury—go straight from "charged" to "guilty" in one fast move.
"Boston?" I frowned. "I guess that means I can't see him until he gets back. Which is when?"
"Wednesday. If you'll let Miss Leeds know when you want to see him, she'll make an appointment for you."
"You can't do that?"
Her eyes widened. "Me? Oh, no. Miss Leeds takes care of Dr. Castle's calendar, and she's at the dentist this morning, getting a new crown." She paused. "I don't suppose there's anything I could do for you." Her remark was so diffident that it invited a "no, thanks," but I tried anyway.
"I'm anxious to talk to the young man who's employed in the animal holding facility. His name is Kevin Scott. I need his address and phone number, and his work schedule."
Involuntarily, her eyes went to the paper in front of her. "Kevin?" She was suddenly flustered. Without looking up, she slid the letter under a purchase order. "We ... we don't have anybody by that name working here. Perhaps you should try the chemistry department."
I knew Rose well enough to suspect that the best way to get something out of her was to pull rank. I straightened up, organized my face into the most lawyerly look I have in my repertoire, and tuned my voice to match. I felt like Clark Kent emerging from a phone booth.
"I spoke to Kevin last week. He identified himself as a part-time employee of this department. It is imperative that I talk with him again. I believe him to have important information regarding the death of Dr. Harwick, with whose murder my client is charged."
''Your client?" Rose's eyes were as round as her face, and fixed on me with a new awareness. Suddenly she wasn't talking to the
friendly owner of her favorite herb shop. She was talking to a lawyer, and the thought of it scared her. I pushed.
"I am a member of Dr. Riddle's defense team. At this preliminary stage, our investigation is informal. Later, we will subpoena the evidence and the testimony we need." I let that sink in for a moment, then let my eyes wander to the purchase order lying on top of the letter. "I assume you are willing to cooperate?"
An interruption saved Rose from answering my question. The man came into the office, tall, gray-haired, bearing himself with the authority of a full professor. "I need thirty quizzes run off," he barked. "Right away, if you don't mind."
Academic departments are like law offices. The people at the top expect the people at the bottom to jump when they give an order, reasonable or not. The people at the bottom are trained to jump, convenient or not. Rose was torn for a moment between defending her desk and doing her job. If the request had come from an assistant professor, she'd have balked. But in this case there was no contest. She jumped.
"Of course. Dr. Schmidt," she said, getting up and going swiftly to the door. Hand on the knob, she turned, glanced at her desk, then at me. Habits of social intercourse die hard. She could not bring herself to say something as rude as "Come with me so I can keep my eye on you," or even "Wait outside until I get back," much less "Keep your filthy hands off that letter on my desk." She settled for a meek "I'll be back in a shake." n.,
"I'll wait," I said helpfully, mentally calculating the time it would take her to warm up the copier and run off thirty quizzes. It would certainly be longer than a shake. Rose and Herr Doktor Schmidt were scarcely out of the office when the letter was in my hand.
It was a dot-matrix copy in draft mode, dated ten days before Harwi
ck's suicide, with a salutation but no closing and no signature. It took thirty seconds to read it, and about four times that long to scrawl it into my notebook.
Dear Dr. Harwick:
You don't know me, but I know you, and what you did ten years ago. You may think you've gotten away with it, but you haven't. Unless you abandon your research, the whole world will know what you did, and your career will be totally ruined. You have one week from today in which to decide. If you have not announced by then that you are giving up your project, you can expect to read about your crime in the campus newspaper. And just in case you're thinking that a research project might be a cheap price to pay to get off the hook, think again. This is only the beginning. You should pay the highest penalty for what you did.
At the top of the letter was written, in pencil, a seven-digit number and the name "Kevin Scott."
I stared at the letter. It was exactly what The Whiz was hoping for, of course—evidence of a clear motive for suicide. She could argue that with blackmail hanging over his head like a heavy sword, Harwick had chosen to kill himself rather than face public embarrassment. Or worse. I reread the last three sentences, wondering how I would feel if someone vowed to dog my heels forever for something I had done ten years ago.
But suicide was not the only possibility raised by the letter. The deadline had passed several days before Harwick died, and he hadn't recanted his research plans. Had the letter writer decided that public exposure wasn't punishment enough? Had the blackmailer turned murderer and exacted the "highest penalty" for Harwick's crime? What crime? What could the man have done that had festered in somebody's heart long and deeply enough to produce such a deadly poison?
I looked again at the name at the top of the page. If Kevin had written the letter, how did he come to know about something
Harwick had done ten years before? He couldn't have been more than nine or ten at the time. If Kevin knew, did Amy know too? And if Amy knew that, what else did she know? But maybe Kevin hadn t written it. Amy's words ran in my mind. Sadist. Butcher. Maybe Amy—
Hangman's root : a China Bayles mystery Page 12
