Falls Creek? I frowned as I pushed the accelerator to the floor. Did Cynthia live out this way? Maybe she'd forgotten something she was supposed to do this evening and was hurrying home to do it. But by the time she turned left onto San Gabriel, I began to suspect that this was something more than a forgotten errand or an afternoon visit with a sick friend. When she made another left on Sycamore, I was sure of it. Three blocks later, she was pulling to a stop in front of a long, low, brown-shingled ranch, almost out of sight behind a screen of yaupon holly and cedar.
Dottie Riddle's house. And Dottie's Blazer was in the drive.
Cynthia was out of her Plymouth and halfway up the walk when I whipped a quick U-turn at the corner. I parked on the far side of the vacant lot, angled through the weeds at a lope and came up on Dottie's backyard. It was empty, and there was no one in the cattery except a hundred and fifty-some cats and God only knew how many guinea pigs. I looked in the garage and the treatment room. There was no sign of Dottie. She—and Cynthia— must be inside.
I went to the back door, put my ear to it and my hand on the knob, and listened. Hearing nothing, I turned it soundlessly and stepped inside, hesitating in the semidark of the kitchen entry. Ariella brushed up against my leg like a vagrant ghost, startling me. I stifled my squawk just in time. But I don't think I would have been heard, because from the sound of the voices down the hall, Dottie and Cynthia were in the living room. I crept down the hall to the living room doorway, looked in, and quickly ducked back.
Cynthia Leeds, both feet planted firmly on the floor and her purse in her lap, was sitting at one end of the sofa, at right angles to the doorway. Dottie was in the overstuffed chair to her right, her back to me. There was no way to get Dottie's attention, but Cynthia was in a position to see me unless I was very careful. I flattened myself against the wall.
"I still don't understand," Dottie was saying, "why youVe come all the way out here for a United Way contribution, Cynthia. The fund drive was over two weeks ago."
I heard a rustle and the zip of a purse opening and took the risk of another look. "YouVe right," Cynthia was saying, as she pulled something out of her purse. "It is over. All over." She rested her right hand on the arm of the sofa. In it was a handgun. It was small and silvery but very businesslike. "I'm here about Miles Harwick's murder."
"What are you doing with that thing?" Dottie demanded irritably. "Put it away!"
"No," Cynthia said crisply, "I don't think so. I'm very sorry it has to come to this, Dr. Riddle, but I'm here to kill you."
Dottie laughed.
Cynthia's hand tightened on the gun. "That's just fine," she said bitterly. "Laugh if you want to. Don't take me seriously. But it won't help. You're going to pay anyway."
"But I didn't kill Miles!" Dottie exclaimed, misunderstanding.
"I know you didn't," Cynthia said. "/ did."
Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. Maybe I should have guessed. But I had put so much faith in the rational process. Kevin and Amy, intent on revenge for a dead brother's suicide, logically could have killed Harwick. Frank Castle could have done it too, for Harwick was a threat to his continued prosperity. That it might have been Cynthia Leeds had never even occurred to me.
Nor to Dottie. "You're kidding." She was incredulous. "K?«?"
"Why is that so hard to believe?" Cynthia asked, nettled. "What makes you think I couldn't kill somebody? Really, Dr. Riddle, you're every bit as bad as the men. Thinking that a woman—a mere secretary among all the glorious beings of the biology department—can't do something really big and important."
"No," Dottie said lamely. "I don't think that." For once, she seemed almost at a loss, and I was, too. Had I overlooked Cynthia as a suspect because it hadn t occurred to me that a mere secretary might be capable of planning and executing a murder? Was I as guilty as the males in Cynthia's department of failing to accept her as a real person, with real feelings and therefore a real motive for murder?
"But I don't understand, Cynthia," Dottie said. ''Why did you kill Miles? What did he do to you?"
Cynthia's laugh was short and harsh. "You worked with the man for ten years. Didn't you ever want to kill him?"
"Well, sure," Dottie said. "At least twice a day. But I didn't. Whydidjvow?"
"Because," Cynthia said heatedly, "he was an absolutely terrible man, a tyrant. He was nasty to the staff and the faculty, and even worse to students. Every week we got a complaint. His grading was unfair, he didn't hand back quizzes, he didn't read what the students handed in. And his research—" She made a distasteful mouth. "You weren't the only one criticizing him, you know. Several of the other full professors went to see him. They asked him to drop that research project and choose something that was less . . . well, flammable. Something with more scientific credibility. Less damaging to the department's reputation. The week before he died, he even got a letter from the funding agency asking for a more detailed protocol so they could review it. They'd gotten complaints, too."
Dottie laughed shortly. "No kidding. And I thought I was the only one who cared that he was making a fool out of the department." She shook her head. "You're right about Harwick's shortcomings. But I still don't see why you killed him."
Cynthia's voice was level. "I suppose I wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for Dr. Castle. I felt so sorry for him. He was always having to soothe irate students and explain to people why Dr.
Harwick had done this or that horrible thing. Last year, after a fuss about one of Harwick's finals, several of the other full professors even told him they wanted to hold a hearing and revoke Harwick's tenure. That would have been^o embarrassing."
"Amazing," Dottie said. "All this shit was coming down and nobody ever told me?"
"Frankly, Dr. Riddle," Cynthia said, in the voice of a friend telling a friend she has denture breath, "you'd be the last to know. You aren't very well liked, either. You're always challenging, questioning, making things difficult. What do you expect?"
''And I'm the only woman."
"Well, that, too." Cynthia shook her head. "Sometimes I felt sorry for you, because you were so out of touch with what was going on. But the one I really suffered for was Dr. Castle. He didn't like Dr. Harwick any more than anybody else did. But he had hired him, and he was determined to be loyal if it killed him."
I was beginning to get a cramp in my leg from crouching down, but I couldn't move. Of course, it wasn't loyalty that drove Frank Castle to defend Miles Harwick. It was their earlier collusion, from which Castle could never extricate himself. A Latin phrase popped into my mind from one of my old law books. Fac-inus quos inquinat aequat. Villainy makes equals of all those whom it links. Once yoked with the devil. Castle could never cut the tie that bound them together.
"I still don't understand—" Dottie began, but Cynthia was going on with her story.
"And of course there were the bomb threats, which put everybody on edge, and all those animal rights protesters, marching around, chanting and yelling and carrying those awful signs. And the phone ringing for simply hours on end. It was impossible to get any work done. But the final straw was two weeks ago, when I found the blackmail letter in the computer."
"What blackmail letter?"
I started. Cynthia had found the letter Kevin and/or Amy had written? Even before Rose ran across it?
Cynthia spoke with the air of an informed insider. "I don't know the details, of course, and I couldn't tell who wrote it. Anybody could have gotten on the computer. But it seems that Dr. Harwick did something ten years ago, and somebody found out about it and was threatening to make it public. When I read it, I knew I had to tell Dr. Castle. It upset him terribly. He went to talk to Dr. Harwick, and when he came back, he was absolutely shaking. I'd never seen him in such a state. It was about that time that we got another bomb threat. I knew I needed to do something, immediately. Dr. Harwick was making a mess out of everyone's lives."
So I'd been wrong. It wasn't Harwick who had told Castle about the blackmail le
tter. It had been Cynthia. She had started this whole thing.
Dottie made a noise, half sympathetic, and Cynthia looked gratified.
"I'm glad you understand," she said. "The hard part, of course, was deciding to do it. But I'm a fairly logical person, and once I'd decided that it was the only way to save Dr. Castle—the whole department, really—I just went through it, step by step. It wasn't difficult. And I didn't think I'd be found out. After all, secretaries are invisible." The bitterness again.
"Why hanging, though?" Dottie shuddered. "It seems pretty grisly."
"Poetic justice," Cynthia said. "All those poor guinea pigs, you know. And I thought hanging might make it look more like a suicide, which would take everybody off the hook." She paused. "But then I happened to find your hairbrush—"
"My hairbrush?"
"You left it in the ladies' restroom one afternoon when we
were both in there. I saw it lying on the counter, and it gave me an idea. I kn^v^ you had good reason to want Dr. Harwick dead. He was writing you those nasty Httle notes about your cats—"
"You knew about those.^"
Cynthia pulled herself up. "Of course. He was using the computer, wasn't he? Really, Dr. Riddle. You underestimate me. Anyway, I knew there was bad blood between you. If you weren't around, life would be a lot easier for Dr. Castle. So I took some hair out of your brush, and then used the master key to return the brush to your office. I'm sure you didn't even miss it."
"I didn't," Dottie said ruefully. She shook her head. "I can't believe you killed him and framed me.''
Cynthia sounded apologetic. "Well, I didn't actually think of it as framing you. I just thought that if for some reason the police didn't believe it was suicide, they'd want to suspect somebody, and I certainly didn't want that somebody to be me. But I got to worrying that the hair might not be enough, so I stopped by your house when you weren't there and left a length of the rope I planned to use on the shelf in your garage. And then I decided to use that euthanatizing drug you give your sick cats . . ." She paused. "From your point of view, I can see how you'd think I was framing you."
"It sounds like a good plan," Dottie said, "but carrying it out—"
"It wasn't easy," Cynthia admitted. "The hardest part was getting him up on the desk and into the noose. Believe me, I was glad he was such a little man." Her laugh was self-deprecating. "That's why I'm using a gun this time. I'm not fool enough to think I could get you into a noose, even though it'd be more convincing that way."
"But don't you see how crazy this is?" Dottie asked. "The police fell for your frame-up. They've already charged me with the murder Why don't you just let me take my chances with the jury?"
There was a sudden movement against my ankles, and I looked down, trying not to move my head. It was Ariella, rubbing. I pressed myself backward as far as I could, praying that the cat's movement wouldn't attract Cynthia's attention.
Cynthia's face had grown hard. "Unfortunately, that won't work," she said. "That drop-out friend of yours—the one who used to be a lawyer—found out about the insurance papers. She and the Campus Security chief came over to see Dr. Castle."
I breathed a sigh of relief as Ariella abandoned my leg and walked into the living room, the white tip of her orange tail waving like a pennant. I lost sight of her as she went behind Dottie's chair.
"What insurance papers?" Dottie sounded irritated. "Really, Cynthia, you're making this 5*0 complicated!"
"It doesn't matter. You don't have to know all the details. To make a long story short, China Bayles and Chief Dawson have come up with some very good reasons why Dr. Castle might have murdered Dr. Harwick. I'm afraid they'll get you off the hook, and I couldn't bear it lihe were charged with Dr. Harwick's murder. So you're going to type a note confessing to Dr. Harwick's death and saying that you're killing yourself because you don't want to stand trial. That way, people will forget about pursuing Dr. Castle and that silly insurance— Yeiii!"
All hell suddenly broke loose.
But it wasn't the devil, it was Ariella, who had jumped onto Cynthia's lap. It was a friendly move, but Cynthia didn't know that. She wasn't expecting a furry creature the size of a lion cub to suddenly catapult into her lap. Startled, she shoved Ariella onto the floor. Ariella hissed and bared her fangs. Cynthia pointed the gun at her. Her finger tightened as she took aim.
"No!" Dottie yelled. With her hammer-throwing arm, she grabbed a heavy glass ashtray off the table beside her chair and coldcocked Cynthia.
And that was the end of it. Cynthia fell sideways on the sofa, stunned, a sizable cut opened up at the hairline. Dottie scrambled to pick up Ariella and made crooning noises into her orange fur. I kicked the gun under the sofa, safely out of reach.
Seeing me, Dottie's eyes widened, then narrowed. "How long have you been here?" she demanded.
Cynthia moaned and put her hand to her head.
"Long enough to hear her full confession," I said.
Dottie was irate. "Really, China, you couldVe let me know you were there. I sat in that chair for a whole goddamned hour with a gun trained on me, thinking she was going to kill me! And she would've shot Ariella if I hadn't stopped her."
"I had to let her go through the whole thing, didn't I?" I asked defensively. "Anyway, it wasn't an hour, it was only ten minutes. Less than that, maybe. And Ariella isn't hurt."
Cynthia moaned again and put her hand to her forehead. Dottie turned on her. "And you've got your nerve," she scolded. "Trying to make it look like / was the one who killed Miles. Honestly, Cynthia, if I weren't a law-abiding citizen, I'd—"
"Dottie," I said, "just call the sheriff, okay?"
Dottie turned to look at me. "The sheriff? Shouldn't I call Chief Harris? He's the one who arrested me."
"No," I said firmly, "call the sheriff."
Somehow I thought it might be easier to explain all this to Blackie. It was his jurisdiction, anyway.
"Have another piece," I said, passing the plate. "There's plenty."
"What is it?" The Whiz asked, helping herself to a slice of the sweet tortelike cake. "Tastes pretty good."
"Castagnaccio," I said. "It's supposed to be made with chestnut flour and rosemary. But chestnuts don't grow around here and chestnut flour costs mucho dinero. I used ground pecans."
Ruby took a slice of pecan castagnaccio and handed the plate to Sheila. "China can give you the recipe," she told Justine.
The Whiz shuddered. For her, cooking is a fate worse than death. "No, thanks. I'll stick with Sara Lee." She frowned. "If you ask me, this Dottie business turned into a very complicated
case.
"A Riddle inside an enigma, you might say," Ruby remarked brightly. In unison, we gave an exaggerated groan.
"What I want to know," Sheila said, taking a slice of castagnaccio and passing the plate to me, "is exactly what Bubba Harris said when Sheriff Blackwell took Cynthia Leeds in."
I grinned. "No, you don't," I said. "It would blister your pretty shell-like ears." Sheila was wearing a yellow suit this afternoon (the day after Ariella jumped into Cynthia's lap), with a yellow-and-white polka-dotted blouse. I always thought blondes couldn't
wear yellow. I was wrong. "As far as Dottie was concerned," I added, "the operational words were 'charges dismissed.' Dottie's home with her cats to stay."
"And another seventeen guinea pigs," Ruby said. "As of this morning."
A look of distaste passed across The Whiz's face. "How many does that make?"
"God knows," I said. "Why are you asking? Would you like to adopt a hundred or so?" I put a piece of castagnaccio in my mouth. It was good. Maybe I had invented a new dish.
"A hundred guinea pigs? Me}'' The Whiz hastily poured herself another dry sherry—not exactly the drink to accompany an Italian sweet, but who cares?
Ruby turned to Sheila. "Now that the murder's cleared up, what's going to happen to Frank Castle? Will the university throw the book at him?"
Sheila leaned back, kicked off her dyed-
to-match yellow pumps, and propped her pretty, pedicured feet up on my antique milking stool. Some women would kill for toenails like that.
"The whole thing's under discussion at the highest echelons," she said, "and probably will be for some time. Internal Audit confirmed that the embezzlement itself took place just over ten years ago. That's when Harwick talked Castle into the scheme."
"Says who?" The Whiz asked skeptically. "Says Castle, I'll bet. Good thing for him his partner isn't around to contradict him."
Sheila shrugged. "I talked to Long this morning. It was his impression that Harwick was the prime mover. Castle wasn't opposed, of course. Anyway, ten years ago is when they got Long to move the money out of the grant account."
"So it's outside the statute," I said. Khat came out of the bathroom, where he had been sitting on the counter, admiring himself in the mirror, and asked for dinner. It was five-thirty, so I got up
and went to the refrigerator to look for his chicken Hver.
"Maybe not," Sheila said. "They left the money in the Houston bank account for eighteen months or so, under the name of Blue Star Scientific Supply The university attorney says, technically speaking, that the crime itself wasn't committed until they transferred the Blue Star money into their own accounts. Which means that it's still within the statute. If so, the university will prosecute Castle."
"Will they?" The Whiz asked with heavy irony. "Are you sure?"
Sheila shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they will, maybe they won't."
"Maybe they'll take a plea," I said, still searching for Khat's chicken liver. There wasn't any. "Sorry, Khat," I said. "You'll have to settle for canned food."
The Whiz snorted. ''Might take a plea? Bet your boobs they'll take a plea. They'll never wash that dirty linen in open court. They'll seize as much of the money as they can get their hands on, revoke Castle's tenure, fire his ass, and sweep the whole mess under the nearest executive carpet. Then they'll give him his four stars and tell the world he retired early." She frowned. "What about Long?"
Hangman's root : a China Bayles mystery Page 22
