Death in Paradise (19 page)

Nihilani's eyes opened a little wider and I understood why Lewis Broder had been intimidated by what he called a stone-cold stare. Bernstein had moods. He got mad and he got kind and he got tough and he got friendly. Nihilani was monolithic. He didn't do anything except be there. It was a lot scarier than being yelled at. I swallowed and pushed the words out. "I'm assuming, because you guys were so interested in what I was doing at one-thirty a.m. yesterday morning..." It struck me, then, that Martina had been dead for a whole day. That technically, their first twenty-four hours was over. But maybe it was like in law. Maybe it ran from time of discovery. I didn't know.

Spit it out, Thea.
"I'm assuming that Martina was killed around one-thirty a.m."

"So?" Bernstein was getting impatient.

"Let her talk, Lenny."

"So, I don't know. That's what's in my mind—that she was killed around one-thirty a.m. Anyway... I have no idea who... whom you have spoken with and whom you haven't. From what you've said, you must know that Martina and I had an argument last night, outside the bar. Martina had been drinking. She was becoming loud and out of control. Rory, her assistant, spoke to her and tried to cajole her out of the bar and upstairs to bed. Martina wouldn't go and she was abusive to Rory. She was often abusive when she'd been drinking. Abusive and flirtatious. It seemed like her natural competitiveness toward women and her desire to be attractive to men were both exaggerated by drink."

Bernstein yawned loudly and his eyelids drooped. Nihilani was unchanged. Without any feedback, I had no idea whether I was telling them anything useful or not. There's nothing more depressing than gearing yourself up to bare your soul to someone, only to find that they're simply bored, so I stopped.

"Go on," Nihilani said. Bernstein appeared to be asleep. Neither of them was taking notes.

I stopped my linear account, deciding to go into Martina's character. "Andre says that in order to know the killer, you need to know the victim. Maybe this is extraneous, since you've been talking to people about Martina all day, but people have a tendency to guard the privacy of the victim." It was hard enough to spill my guts when someone was eager for the information. Trying to tell a story in the face of utter indifference required more effort than I was willing to give. "Look, you obviously aren't interested in any of this. There's no sense in wasting your time. Why don't we all quit and go to sleep?"

The only light in the room was the one beside my bed, so I was talking to two figures half-shrouded in gloom. Nihilani snapped on the light beside him. "We're listening," he said. "Go on." I wondered what he did when he wanted to discourage conversation. And I wondered why, even when I was making an effort, I couldn't seem to get along with these guys.

I nudged myself back into speech. "You know that we're here at a National Association of Girls' Schools conference. Martina was the association director, essentially the administrator for the association. The association also has a board of directors. All of the directors are here except one, Sister Mary Catherine of St. Mary's School. Sister Mary Catherine had to cancel because one of her most beloved faculty members was killed by a hit-and-run driver the day she was supposed to leave." Now I really was wandering and Bernstein was right to yawn.

"The other board members are me and my partner, Suzanne Merritt. We essentially share one board position. Then there is Zannah Wu from the Heights School in San Francisco; Jonetta Williamson, founder of the Refuge School in New York City; Shannon Dukes, headmistress of the Colonnade School in Savannah; Jolene Hershey, headmistress of the Caroline Perkins School in Shaker Heights; and Rob Greene, headmaster of the Cantwell School for Girls in Bethesda." I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. "Forget all that. What is important is that the association is Martina's brainchild. She started it about eight years ago."

Nihilani shifted restlessly in his chair. Like a nervous schoolgirl, I started talking faster. "Everyone acknowledges that Martina was an inspiring leader in many respects. At first, she did a great job for the association. But Martina's interpersonal skills, while superficially deft, leave... left... a lot to be desired. She was unable to delegate tasks or share glory. She was equally critical of subordinates and peers. She had stopped listening. Lately a lot of balls had gotten dropped and relationships had become seriously frayed. Everyone was frustrated with her, and angry, and the board was planning to sit down this weekend and decide how best to accomplish her ouster. It wasn't something we were looking forward to, but her irritability and outbursts, her abusive behavior, and her drinking problem were all getting worse. We wanted her to retire before she'd done so much damage to her reputation that she would be remembered as a vindictive, unstable, alcoholic crank instead of a visionary leader."

I was shaking. I didn't know whether it was because the room was cold and I was lightly dressed or whether it was because no matter how much I wanted to be frank and open, it was hard to talk about Martina and reveal her flaws. I think there's an innate tendency to memorialize, to want to preserve the memory of the dead in the best possible terms.

"So Ms. Pullman was a drinker," Nihilani murmured. "Can you elaborate on that?"

"She was what I think of as a 'professional alcoholic.' Sober and hardworking during the day, but when she started to drink, she often didn't stop until she was staggering and incoherent. And along the way, she usually became abusive."

"And she had reached that stage last night? Friday night?"

"She was well on her way. Her speech was still clear... relatively clear. But her walk was a little crooked. And her tongue had become vicious."

I thought that I could hear gentle snores from Bernstein, but Nihilani was very awake. "After she yelled at her assistant, what happened?"

"After she'd been called an incompetent slut, Rory had a few choice words of her own to toss back and then she started to cry and ran out of the bar. Martina went to the ladies' room and when she came out, I grabbed her by the arm and hauled her down the corridor to a quiet place where I gave her a piece of my mind about her public behavior, treatment of employees, and disgracing the group by getting drunk and making a scene in the bar. She told me I was a meddling, obstructionist, empty-headed bimbo and that I would never have gotten anywhere in life if I didn't have a big chest. How that's supposed to have helped me get along with women, I don't know. I realized that I couldn't get anywhere so I gave up and rejoined my group in the bar. About twenty minutes later, Martina left with Lewis Broder."

"About what time was that?" Nihilani asked.

"Midnight or a little after. I was tired, so I finished my drink and went upstairs to bed."

"That's what you called us in the middle of the night to tell us?" Bernstein said. "I heard she hit you."

So he wasn't asleep after all. Just playing possum. "No. There were a few other things. Besides, I didn't call you in the middle of the night. You
came
in the middle of the night. I'm no more pleased about it than you are. As for her hitting me—" Man did this guy have a knack for getting on my nerves. An attractive piece of human sandpaper. Every time he opened his mout, he scratched a sore spot. "She did hit me, if the ineffectual swat of a drunk can be called hitting." I shrugged. "I've played with the pros. It was no big deal."

"Let's see if I've got this straight. Martina had a fight with her assistant, and her assistant went upstairs. Then Martina left with Broder. Then you left, right?"

I couldn't help myself. "Left, right," I said. "But I talked with Broder tonight... after you spoke with him apparently, since he was convinced I was the one who had sent you. He cornered me to complain that I'd set him up, and to find out what I'd told you. I said I hadn't told you anything... which was true... but he was intoxicated... it sounds like we're much more of a hard-drinking crew than we are... and he wanted to talk, so Jolene Hershey and I plunked him down on a bench and... and asked what had happened."

"Which was?"

"Well, he was defensive at first, defensive and belligerent. He's a married man, and his wife is the one with the money. The brains, too, I expect. Anyway, he wanted to tell us how shabbily Martina had treated him, and we were willing to listen if it meant he'd stop sulking.... Stop me if you've heard all this before."

Nihilani surprised me by giving out an actual piece of information. "He told us that he walked her to her door because she was a bit unsteady on her feet and then he went to his room and went to bed."

"Well, he's going to hate me for this, but—"

There was a knock at the door. I admitted the room-service waiter, a well-trained lad who didn't bat an eye at finding me entertaining two gentlemen in my nightie at 2:00 a.m. He gave me a quick tour of what was on the tray. "Coffee. Three cups. Cream and sugar. One hamburger, medium. One cheeseburger, well. Potato skins. Two strawberry cheesecakes, one chocolate cake. Is that everything?" I nodded. "Do you need anything else?" I signed the check, crossed his palm with green, and he disappeared into the night.

I gave Nihilani his cheeseburger and Bernstein his hamburger, and divided the potato skins onto two plates, one for each of them. I poured coffee. Bernstein took his black; Nihilani had cream and two sugars. When my guests had been served in a manner that would have made my mother proud, I poured myself coffee, added lots of cream and sugar, and took my coffee and cake back to the bed. This time I leaned against the headboard and pulled the bedspread up over me. They both had sports jackets on. I was cold.

Nihilani nodded. "Go on." I told my story while they ate with the practical determination of men who might not get another meal for a while.

"Broder says he went back to Martina's room with her. They engaged in a little hugging and kissing and promises of things to come. They ordered themselves a little feast from room service. Champagne and caviar and berries. Martina had gone into the other room to change into something more comfortable when the phone rang. She didn't tell him who it was, and he says he couldn't hear any of the conversation, but when she came back, she seemed very happy about something, and eager to see him gone as quickly as possible. He left, but his ego was badly bruised."

Bernstein sat up a little straighter. "Looks like we need to have another talk with Mr. Broder."

Nihilani nodded, finished the last of his potato skin, and stood up. "Thank you," he said. No follow-up questions. No "Good job." No "Sorry for interrupting your sleep."

I supposed I should be grateful for the grudging thanks, but I wasn't. I was cold and sleepy and my knees ached and my feet hurt and what I had just forced myself to do was hard. I'm as egocentric as the next person. I liked to be appreciated for my sacrifices and for doing my civic duty.

"I'm not finished." Stuffy, head-mistressy tones. Maybe some day I
should
have my own school.

"Oh?" He sat back down, folded his hands in his lap, and waited. He was so astonishingly incurious I wanted to hit him. I want to yell. I wanted to know what mattered and what didn't, what he needed to know, what he already knew, and what he cared about. And he wasn't telling me anything. They'd happily let me buy them a meal—which maybe meant I wasn't a suspect—but they hadn't even shown they'd appreciated it, and they certainly hadn't shown anything else. Someone might have dumped two big lumps of clay in my room for all the human company they offered.

I got up, found my purse, and pulled out the little scrap of satin ribbon I'd gotten from Laura Mitchell. I handed it to Nihilani. He took it carefully between two fingers and then looked up at me. "Where?"

"Apparently from the hallway outside Martina's room."

"Apparently?"

"I didn't find it. Someone gave it to me." Now I was on dangerous ground. I wanted to tell them about Laura. At the same time, I was reluctant to send two such insensitive people after a little girl.

"Someone gave it to you," Bernstein said. "That's very interesting. Who might this someone be?"

I had a question of my own. "When you interview juveniles, do you do it yourselves or do you use a juvenile officer?"

"In this case?" Nihilani asked.

"In this case."

"We'd do it ourselves. What's the big deal? You got it from some kid?"

"Detective, I don't know if it's a big deal or not. The big deal/small deal choices are yours, not mine. What I do know is that on the one hand this child may have seem something which puts..."I wasn't ready to say him or her, so I amended it to, "which creates a dangerous situation. And that means you should be aware of the issue and prepared to protect the witness. On the other hand, from my own experience, it doesn't seem like either of you is..." I searched for words, though I was already in too deep to bother with much tact.

"Come on, Kozak, spit it out," Bernstein said. "You don't think we've got the tact to handle a child. You can say it. We've got hides like alligators, after all the years we've spent talking to people like you."

Bernstein and I were truly simpatico, weren't we? It seemed unfair, when I was trying so hard, but maybe our mutual antagonism was insurmountable. It looked like all that time Dr. Pryzinski had spent trying to negotiate a truce had been wasted. I was tempted to run next door, knock on his door, and drag him into it again. But it was almost three in the morning. "Right," I said. "People like me. People who are willing to give up a whole morning and a night's sleep and endure gratuitous insults just to try and help you out, and who go to the extra trouble of feeding you into the bargain. You should only be so lucky that you have to run into people like me. You could have a whole passel of Lewis Broders instead."

"Don't mind Lenny," Nihilani said. "He always gets crabby when he's tired. Trade him the chocolate cake for the cheesecake and he'll cheer right up."

I looked at my luscious piece of chocolate cake, the thick icing gleaming in the light. Oh, man. I wanted that cake. I picked it up and held it out to Bernstein. Damn my mother for raising me to be so nice.