Ceremony

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “That’s Douglas Rheinstaller, correct?”

  Lightman exhaled, long and slow. “Correct.”

  Bernadette pressed on. “What about Tommy’s personal life? Did he have a lot of friends?”

  “He was active in that church. His girlfriend went there, too.”

  She frowned; her notes didn’t mention a girlfriend. “Her name?”

  “Annika Nakrivo. An undergrad transfer student here. She’s an intern—helps out in the lab.”

  Ah—she’d been listed as a co-worker in the file. “Great.” She stepped closer to Woodhead. “Maybe we need to do a wellness check on her, too.”

  “Okay,” Lightman said, fidgeting. “Anything else you need down here?”

  Bernadette looked at Woodhead; his eyes were closed and he was breathing in and out slowly.

  “Dr. Woodhead?” she asked.

  “Oh—sorry. The smell of cleaning products distracted me. I detect bleach in particular. Isn’t that a dangerous chemical to use close to the tanks?”

  “The janitors wash the floors almost every night,” Lightman said.

  “Have they been in tonight?”

  “Uh—no, I believe they get here around eleven.”

  “So why is this floor freshly mopped?”

  “It hasn’t been cleaned since yesterday.”

  Woodhead shook his head. “No. The bleach smell hasn’t dissipated enough for that to be twenty-four hours old. With a regular strength bleach-based floor cleaner, I’d estimate that the cleaning was done this morning—not at midnight.”

  Lightman scoffed. “You can tell by the smell?”

  “I can.”

  “Perhaps the janitors have already been in. I don’t schedule when the floor gets cleaned.” Lightman turned to Bernadette. “If you follow me upstairs, I’ll get Tommy’s girlfriend’s contact information.”

  “Sure.”

  Lightman let Bernadette go first, then stepped in front of Woodhead, who brought up the rear. Bernadette was on the last step from the top.

  An alarm sounded, loud and echoing in the stairwell, and Bernadette clamped her hands over her ears.

  “What the hell?” she said, spinning her head around. Lightman’s eyes opened wide, and his face was taut. Bernadette opened the door at the top of the stairs—and saw a short figure run by wearing an olive sutro jacket.

  “Hey!” Bernadette yelled, and the woman turned her face slightly—a small nose, pale skin, large eyes—then turned and ran down a corridor.

  Bernadette sprinted after her. The corridor was narrow, and the sound of a door opening echoed in the hallway. “Stop! Federal investigator!” Bernadette yelled, but the door slammed. Twenty feet farther and Bernadette pushed the door open quickly and had to grab the handrail to keep from falling down the stairs.

  Another door opening, this one at the bottom of the steps. The woman was lengthening her lead.

  Maybe in the open snow, Bernadette’s boots would serve her well enough to catch up to the woman. The door slammed shut below.

  She raced down the stairs, pushed the door open, and kept running—

  Her feet slid out from under her.

  She hit the icy concrete sidewalk hard on her left hip, the shock reverberating up her side and down her left leg. It was so painful she barely heard the car door close. She tried pushing herself up, but her feet slipped again, until finally she pulled herself forward and got to her hands and knees. She reached inside her jacket—her holster and gun were still there.

  A Subaru WRX across the parking lot turned on its lights and its engine roared to life. Bernadette scrambled to her feet, pulled her badge from her pocket, and sprinted across the lot, her hip shooting sparks of pain down her leg.

  The Subaru backed out of the space, wheels kicking up ice and snow.

  Bernadette sprinted to the car and launched herself onto the hood. She landed facing the windshield, her head toward the passenger seat. Pamphlets—was that a picture of a blue whale?

  The woman in the driver’s seat was visible out of the corner of Bernadette’s eye. Blonde. A round face.

  Bernadette felt the transmission shift. She banged the badge three times against the frigid windshield.

  “Federal investigator!” she yelled.

  The engine hummed, and the indecision hung palpably in the cold night air.

  “You want to drive out of here with a federal cop hanging onto your hood? Not a good idea.”

  Bernadette pushed herself back from the windshield and got a good look at the driver. Scared. Determined. A button nose and a cleft chin; large, wide-set gray eyes.

  “Get out of the car!” Bernadette barked. If she accelerates, I’ll be thrown off. She hopped to the ground. “You have three seconds to get out!”

  The engine turned off and the door opened. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The woman’s voice was high and warbly. “I—I panicked. I’m sorry.”

  “Out of the car.”

  The woman stood, wearing the sutro jacket. About five-two. She held her hands halfway above her head.

  “Turn and put your hands on top of the car.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said, complying. “So sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Bernadette stepped forward and patted her down. No weapons. “What’s your name?”

  “Cecilia.”

  “You have a last name?”

  “Carter. Cecilia Carter.”

  “What were you doing in the building?”

  “I—I—”

  “It’s not a hard question, Cecilia. Do you work in the building?”

  “Uh—no.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “I—I’d rather not say.”

  “We’re investigating a murder, Cecilia. Do you want to rethink your response?”

  Cecilia Carter bowed her head. Her breaths were coming short and quick. She hadn’t taken her hands down.

  “I work—”

  Silence.

  “You’ll need to give me more than that,” Bernadette said.

  “I work for Justice for Oceans.”

  Chapter Seven

  Bernadette grimaced as she and Dr. Woodhead stood in front of the Freshie and watched the taillights of Cecilia Carter’s Subaru disappear down the street. After calling campus security and having them turn off the alarm, Lightman had declined to press criminal trespassing charges, then locked up the building and left in his car a few moments later.

  “Thanks for having my back, Dr. Woodhead.” She hoped he’d catch the sarcasm dripping from her voice.

  He glanced at her. “My contract specifies that I’m not eligible for hazardous duty. I am untrained in the usage of firearms. I would clearly be inept at situational conflict. I fear I’d be a liability, possibly compounding your problems by requiring rescue if I attempted to insert myself into any situation where physical conflict occurs.”

  “You’re doing me a favor, is what you’re saying,” Bernadette said. This was why Barlow wouldn’t ever load the dishwasher: because he said he couldn’t do it the way she wanted it done. Sure, buddy.

  “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

  Again: sure, buddy.

  They both got into the SUV and closed their doors, and Bernadette started the engine as Woodhead turned to her.

  “I still had to retrieve the information about Kymer Thompson’s girlfriend, remember?” He took a paper out of a folder and handed it to Bernadette. “Annika Nakrivo.”

  Bernadette turned the overhead light on and studied the picture. The printout read that she was nineteen years old. She looked young in the photo, too, but her bright, ice-blue eyes were world-weary. Maybe hurt was a better word. She had a shoulder-length bob and light brown hair. A dark black beauty mark, perfectly circular, above her upper lip on the left side was her most distinguishing feature. She had thin lips and a square jaw. She wasn’t classically beautiful—not the way Barlow’s new girlfriend was—but her features were arresting.

&nb
sp; “Do we know anything else about her?”

  “I’ve sent her name and information to Curtis. He’s performing a search for Miss Nakrivo’s background and address.”

  Bernadette nodded. “Do you want to go talk to her tonight?”

  “I believe that would be a wise use of our time.” Woodhead glanced at Bernadette. “Did you figure something out?”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you over dinner.” As if to punctuate the sentiment, Bernadette’s stomach growled.

  “You’ve been staring at the bratwurst restaurant on the other side of the avenue. We may dine at that establishment if you wish.”

  Bernadette looked at her watch. “Ten minutes to nine. I hope their kitchen is still open.”

  They walked across the street and pulled open the door to the bar and grill. The restaurant was empty but for a few patrons.

  The bartender looked at them sideways when they asked if the kitchen was still open. “Just in time. Decide fast.” The bartender handed them laminated menus as they took their seats on the tall stools in front of the wooden bar.

  “Bratwurst, kraut, mustard, side of fries,” she said. “And a Spotted Cow.”

  “Lady knows what she’s looking for,” the bartender said. “What can I get you, man?”

  Woodhead blinked and looked from one side of the bar to the other then looked past the end of the bar. Bernadette followed his gaze. The Wurst of Milwaukee was long and narrow, dartboards in the back, with long tables the length of the building. A chalkboard above the bar said Specials but whatever had been there was erased with a smudge of white chalk.

  “The same,” he said. “Also, do you offer Milwaukee old fashioneds here?”

  “Wisconsin Old Fashioned,” the bartender said. “Sour or sweet?”

  “Uh—I don’t know.”

  “Sweet,” Bernadette piped up. “And let’s get some cheese curds for an appetizer. Since we’re going for the whole Milwaukee experience.”

  The bartender nodded. “You from Wisconsin?”

  “No, but my boss went to school here,” she said. “She gave me some recommendations.”

  The bartender clacked the edges of the menus on the bar twice and went back into the kitchen.

  “Do Wisconsin Old Fashioneds taste good when they’re sweet?”

  Bernadette chuckled. “No. Maura says they’re terrible, but apparently they’re better than the sour.”

  “Why did you let me order it?”

  “Maura said everyone has to try it once.”

  “You didn’t order one.”

  “Nope.” Bernadette grinned. “Taste it. If it’s offensive to your taste buds, order a Spotted Cow after.”

  “What kind of beer is Spotted Cow?”

  “I don’t really know. It’s delicious, though.” She looked at Woodhead out of the corner of her eye. “But I like salmon, so take my beer recommendations with a grain of salt.” She turned toward the front and tapped her fingers on the bar.

  The bartender set the drinks in front of them. A maraschino cherry bobbed in Woodhead’s drink. The golden-hued beer in front of Bernadette had a layer of thick foam on top.

  Bernadette caught the look in Woodhead’s eyes. “Want a taste?”

  “Well—yes. Thank you.”

  She pushed the beer in front of him, and he bent his face down to sniff.

  “Oh,” he said. “Slightly sweet. Malty. Bananas and cream.”

  “Sure, we’ll go with that.”

  He took a tentative taste. “Interesting. Nice and crisp. Not a lot of hops either.”

  “You like hops?”

  “No.” Woodhead licked his lips. “A bit of a corn taste in the back there. But I didn’t smell the corn. Interesting.” He pushed the glass back toward her.

  “Now you’ve had the most famous beer in Wisconsin.”

  “Something to mark off my list.” He placed his hands palms down on the bar. “And now for the Milwaukee old fashioned.”

  “The Wisconsin Old Fashioned.”

  Woodhead raised the glass to his mouth and then pulled the glass away. “What—what the hell is that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ordered it sweet—but I didn’t expect it to be so—so cloying. My pancreas is pained just from the smell.”

  “You know what’s in a classic old fashioned, right?”

  “Bourbon, simple syrup, a splash of soda, orange peel, cherry. There’s an ongoing debate whether the orange peel and cherry should be muddled with the simple syrup.”

  “So in the Wisconsin Old Fashioned: instead of bourbon, this has brandy, and instead of soda water, this has Sprite.”

  He set the drink down on the bar. “You must be joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  He furrowed his brow. “You were aware of the ingredients, yet still encouraged me to order it?”

  “You wanted to try it.” Bernadette smiled.

  Woodhead pushed the drink back on the bar as his glasses slipped down his nose. “Out of my sight! Thou dost infect my eyes.”

  Bernadette tried to stop from rolling her eyes and failed.

  Woodhead turned to her. “In the parking lot, you appeared to draw a conclusion. Do you wish to share?”

  “Professor Lightman is hiding something, much like the Agios Delphi priest.” Bernadette reached over and pulled the Wisconsin Old Fashioned in front of her.

  “What?”

  “I think he’s cheating on his wife.” She picked the drink up and sipped. “Oh, wow, that is sweet. I can feel my teeth rotting out of my skull.”

  “Cheating?”

  “Yes.” Bernadette nodded emphatically. “If I’m right, it’s with Cecilia Carter.”

  “The Justice for Oceans woman who was arrested for trespassing?”

  “Yes. She didn’t want to say what she was doing there.”

  “And you didn’t ask her point-blank?”

  “I did. She wouldn’t say. And it didn’t click for me until you told me she’d been arrested before. I assumed she was nervous because she didn’t want to get arrested, but that’s not right. She was nervous because she was at the Freshie and didn’t want it made public.”

  Woodhead scratched his beard. “Surely she was there to cause some sort of trouble.”

  Bernadette shook her head. “She had time alone in the office to damage computers, steal research, all kinds of things. I don’t think Justice for Oceans knows she was there, otherwise she would have done something in the office. And as far as we know, she didn’t.” She sipped the Wisconsin Old Fashioned again and made a face.

  “So you leap to the conclusion that she and Professor Lightman are engaged in a clandestine relationship?”

  “Think about how Lightman reacted. How he didn’t want us to come up to the office.”

  Woodhead took his drink back, then spun his glass in a circle. “Did you notice the conference room?”

  “I noticed the door was closed.”

  “And the blinds were drawn.” He picked the old fashioned up, sniffed it again, then put it back down. “And Lightman didn’t want you going in there.”

  “I know he was reluctant to offer it as a place to meet.”

  Woodhead nodded thoughtfully. “No one opened the conference room door before we all went downstairs to the fish tanks.”

  “No.” Bernadette thought for a moment. “And this obviously wasn’t their first time. Cecilia knew about the ice at the bottom of the stairwell and jumped over it.”

  “After you chased her out, I went back upstairs and discovered the conference room door was wide open. It’s possible she was hiding in there.”

  Bernadette took a sip from her pint glass. “If Lightman and Carter were hooking up, why would they do it on a day that his grad student had been killed? Are men really that horny all the time?”

  Woodhead nodded. “Many are, yes. Most of them can tamp down their urges at inopportune times, but all it takes for some men to act on those urges is a willing partner.”


  Bernadette rolled her eyes.

  “That’s not hyperbole, Bernie—”

  She shoved a finger in front of Woodhead’s nose. “You start calling me ‘Bernadette’ or I’m dumping that cocktail over your head. I mean it. I hate being called ‘Bernie,’ and I know you’ve got a problem with your ex-girlfriend, but we’ve been having a tenable working relationship up to this point. Stop calling me ‘Bernie’ or it will soon be untenable.”

  Woodhead blinked. “You’re too sensitive.”

  “And you’re not sensitive enough.”

  The bartender came with their bratwursts and fries, setting one down in front of each of them. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Can I get a side of spicy mustard?” Bernadette asked.

  “Comin’ right up.”

  Woodhead exhaled loudly as the bartender scooted off into the kitchen again.

  “Now what is it?”

  He picked up his bratwurst and bit into it. “Nothing,” he said, through a mouthful of sausage and kraut.

  “It’s not nothing.”

  Woodhead swallowed. “Heavily spiced foods reduce your sensitivity to smell.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The spicy mustard.”

  Bernadette turned and looked at him. “You know, when we first found out about this case, Maura asked me to be the poison expert and the super smeller. But no—I told her that I wanted to eat some salmon and spicy mustard on this trip, so she’d have to find someone else.”

  “You’re making fun of me again.” He took another bite.

  “You insult people who can’t smell as well as you. And yes, I’m making fun of you. Your sense of smell is a gift. A wonder of nature. A convergence of fortuitous DNA.”

  Woodhead stared down at his plate. “It’s not a gift, believe me. Do you have any idea what it’s like to go on a date and smell everything? Not only your date’s perfume or her sweat or whether she washed her underwear, but also the slightly rancid cheese at a table across the restaurant, the bubble gum stuck under a movie theater seat, the cocaine snorted in the hotel room by a previous guest. It’s not a recipe for getting along with people.”

  Bernadette chewed thoughtfully.

  Woodhead shook his head. “People expect to have normal conversations with me, and all I can think of is the smell of hard-boiled eggs or propane or the number of ants in someone’s backyard.”