More Bitter Than Death (26 page)

“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 night, 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.”

Meg nodded.

I continued. “I hadn’t seen him for ages, actually; out on the site on Wednesday was the first time in a long time.”

Comprehension lit her face. “I thought you looked edgy.”

I nodded. “And the time before—a long time ago—it wasn’t pretty.”

“And now?” she said. “Does it bother you?”

I fished a bread roll out and began to butter it. “I think it’s more that I suddenly remember the emotions, remember things that I haven’t thought about in years,” I said. And I
hadn’t
thought about them in years, I realized. “It’s kind of like going back to your hometown, after you’ve been away for ages and things have changed. Buildings go up, buildings
come down, new houses and roads are built and there’s suddenly a new mall where there used to be a farm stand and a field. But even though none of it seems even vaguely recognizable, you kinda know your way around, and that’s surprising. And then you remember things, and emotions, and you’re surprised by the fact that they’re still there. I’m startled, I guess,” I corrected, trying to keep myself on track, “that they’re still there. And it’s not even nostalgia, just…”

“Muscle memory. Reflex.”

“That’s it. Habit. You wonder why you feel nothing or you remember something suddenly and why it’s still there and how it’s all connected. It’s a bit existential, I guess,” I said apologetically.

“No, I get it. It’s cool.”

“I’m just surprised, that’s all, that the memories are still there, that they’re as strong as they are. I guess I’ve been sitting on them for a long time.”

She nodded. “And now that you’re looking at them?”

“Curiosity, I guess. It’s a little startling—another life. I can live with it because it really has nothing to do with me now.”

“I can see how it would put you off the notion of intradepartmental romance.” She nodded slowly, then looked at me unblinkingly, the way she did when she was challenging herself. “I’m worried about getting married.”

Holy snappers. Well, I’d brought it on myself, I thought. “Is it just the usual stuff, or something specific?”

“I’m not sure what usual is, but I’m just not sure that I know
how
,” she said. “To be married.”

“You guys have been living together for how long now? Couple of years, right?”

“Since that first season at Penitence Point. Almost four years.”

“And how’s that been?”

“Fine. Good, even. I mean, Neal’s great, but where there
are two personalities, there’s bound to be friction, occasionally. And while I’ve lived with men before—I mean, my brothers and my dad—sometimes, it’s like living with another species, you know?”

I thought about Brian’s blood all over Kam’s basement. “Oh, yeah. So what’s the problem?”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I just don’t know…I’m worried we’ll end up getting divorced.”

“It’s a possibility.”

Meg looked at me liked I slapped her.

I shrugged. “No, it is a possibility, a remote one, maybe, but it exists in the universe of things that could happen. I had the same worry. When my folks divorced, well, it wasn’t like they weren’t better off, but it made me wonder if I was built for marriage. Whether anyone was. I decided Brian was worth giving it a shot. Don’t let the past dictate your future.”

“Yeah, but I’m worried that I’ll change. Or that I won’t change. Or that we won’t be friends anymore.”

It was interesting to see Meg so overtly anxious about anything, but I suspected that everyone who was part of a couple had fears of permanent stasis or of spiraling out of control or leaving their partner behind. “Look, nothing’s going to change. Or rather, it will, but you’ll probably be able to sort it out together. You’ll grow, but you’ll also continue being best friends. Only with sex and joint taxes.”

“Hell, Emma, I didn’t know you were such a freaking romantic.” But she looked happier now, and that was fine with me.

“I am. It’s just not in the fluffy kittens-and-paper-lace hearts mold. Let’s go downstairs and get dessert with the others.”

I got dressed, feeling hugely restored by the shower, food, and rest, and we went downstairs. The banquet was over, but people were still gathered at their tables, talking and laughing loudly. I urged Meg to go join up with the others—I was
fine now, thanks to her—but asked her not to say anything about where she might have been.

She gave me a dirty look for insulting her intelligence and then left.

It took me a moment to notice a couple of things. The first was that I realized I was trying to get an idea of who was here, and who wasn’t. Impossible of course, but I just wanted to see whether there were any obvious absences. Sure the cops had said I’d be safe inside the hotel, but that wasn’t going to stop me from trying to improve my odds. I also noticed that as I neared some tables, people tended to clam up when they saw me. At first, I just figured they were wondering about the scratch, and then I realized that Lissa was right: People had been talking, and this weekend had focused a lot of that gossip on me.

I saw a group clustered around one table, each examining the label of a wine bottle minutely. It was the same group who brought their own wine with them every year.

“Hey, that’s a pretty nice merlot,” I exclaimed to the ringleader, Hank.

“You bet your ass, it is,” one of them said, head back, eyes closed in worshipful ecstasy. Hank tilted his chair back onto two legs and opened his eyes. “Emma!
Quelle surprise
. I had you down as one of the beer-swilling barbarians.”

I smiled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Well, like I said”—he exchanged glances with the rest of the party, who all suddenly became engrossed in their glasses—“just a surprise, that’s all,” he finished weakly.

I nodded; I got it. “See you.”

As I moved on, I heard a roar across the room. A crowd at another table was intent on Duncan, no surprise there, but apparently he and Chris were engaged in a monumental contest of drinking and storytelling. At one point, Chris climbed on top of his chair and beat his chest.

As I shook my head, I bumped into someone. I recognized
the fringe of blond hair and the awful Captain America tie right away; he’d been wearing the damn thing for years, as both a protest and a sop to formality. “Hey, Mickey.” I gave him a buss.