Angel Food and Devil Dogs (31 page)

"Oh, hi, yeah, no, you didn't." She couldn't decide whether to be pleased or nervous that I was there.

"Arturo signed me up to help you. So, what do we do?"

"Oh wow, you're a volunteer? That's great, yeah, I could really use some help." She glanced at a dozen piles of dirty dishes along the counter. She showed me how to operate the commercial hot water hoses and we started working. It was kind of fun. We developed a rhythm after a while. Near the end, as we got a little tired, we were squealing and laughing and fooling around. When we were all done with the stacks, I high-fived her.

We grabbed rags and bleach cleanser to wipe down the counters.

She asked idly, "How did you know I was here?"

"I called the number Miranda had for you and your mother answered..."

Her head snapped up, "You talked to my mother!?!"

"Why? What's the big deal?"

"Well, she's always... she doesn't like me working here. It's not
Christian
... she thinks people who don't go to our church are hell-bound."

"She's entitled to her opinion."

"It's not just her opinion, it's in the Bible," Connie held her cleaning rag in mid-air as she waited curiously for my reply.

"It's in the Bible that everybody has to go to your mother's church? C'mon Connie, you don't really believe that, do you?"

She didn't say anything for several moments, intently rubbing the same four inches of counter. Then she erupted. Religion questions gushed out of her like beer from a broken keg.

Finally she cried, "Do you know the part about Hagar? Why does God say Sarah is wrong for being angry with Abraham for sleeping with the maid? Why is it OK? Because that was a long time ago?"

"It was thousands of years ago, and he wanted to have a male child," I said, watching Connie's forehead crease with consternation. She was having one of those crises of faith you hear about. I went on gently, "Are you wondering if that means people get to pick and choose what to believe in the Bible?"

"Well, yeah!" she nearly shouted, "yeah, why isn't that true for everything?"

I said simply "Connie, I think each person has to decide what's right and what's wrong."

"But how do you know what sin is!?!" she demanded.

"I'll tell you what I think, but you have to make up your own mind. OK?"

She nodded, near tears.

"I don't think right and wrong is arbitrary. I think that a sin is something that causes harm. Stealing, killing, bullying people, being cruel, polluting the environment, abusing animals, you know what I mean? The Bible has all sorts of good messages like, Love Thy Neighbor, but it also has what some people call
legalistic
sins, that are interpreted to keep women from being ministers, or people from eating shrimp or pork, or that wearing a gold ring is bad, or even that a person from a different religion is a sinner. They aren't about something that hurts someone and I don't think they apply to the world the way it is today."

Connie was still wiping the same patch of counter. She said, "Pastor Mason read an article about Dr. Rasmus... This was before Dr. Rasmus killed himself... And the pastor asked me if I knew Dr. Rasmus from work. He said I should get him to come to church so they could make him to stop being gay. So, I called him, Dr. Rasmus, at his apartment. He wasn't there so I left a message." She laughed nervously. Connie had just answered my question as to what her message on Carl's answering machine was about.

Connie said, "But, after I called, I started to think that I couldn't come up with a good reason for him to stop being gay... I used to talk to Daria about this kind of stuff..."

"Daria Webster? You knew her?"

"She worked here, well, she was here part of the time for her job... she got, she... um... died, right after her party. I'd just seen her... I feel so sad... there's nobody to talk to about anything..."

Of course Connie had known Daria, and been at Daria's party just before she was murdered. Daria had invited everyone from work. Poor Connie, so many things happening in her young life all at once and no friends to talk to. I said softly, "Maybe you should find a church that helps you work things out in a more positive way."

"Are there churches like that?" she asked in disbelief.

"Sure," I named some progressive denominations. She nodded her head, but the fog didn't clear.

I said gently, "I think it's good you're asking yourself these questions, the worst thing is believing things just because people tell you to..." She was staring off into space, folding the rag she was holding absentmindedly.

"Connie?" I said trying to get her attention again.

"Huh?"

"About the day of the fire..."

"What?" she asked tensely.

Why was she so anxious about this? She was a hero during the fire. You'd think a kid this age would be telling the story ad-nauseum. I forced Farrel and Jessie to listen to me tell it twice while they fought off the nearly unbearable stench of
eau de burnt ceiling tile.

"You had to put the drinks on the table, right?" I asked.

She just stood there looking at me. Finally she whined, "I heard Dr. Bouchet say it might have been a bomb to one of the security men, he talks so loud... I wasn't, like, eavesdropping or anything... but really I don't know anything. It wasn't my fault."

"I'm not saying it was your fault, I just need to know what happened
.
Haven't the police already interviewed you?"

"I guess... I answered their questions, they didn't ask much." Her voice was shaking.

"What's the whole story, Connie? Tell me everything that happened."

She frowned, trying to recall, "You and Dr. Anthony, Mr. Edgar and Miranda, went into the President's office. I had a list of the beverages that I was supposed to get ready. I also had some typing to finish so I... yeah... I did that until Dean Getty and Dr. Carvelle came in. President Bouchet had told me to unlock the conference room when the people started to come, so I did and they went in and sat down..."

I nodded for her to go on.

"OK, so I... I went into the... um... I can't..." she strained to recall, squeezing her eyes shut trying to visualize the sequence, "OK, yeah, then Miranda came out of the President's office and she went into her office. She looked into the conference room and I guess I figured the meeting would start soon, so I went into the storage room to get the drinks. I got out the tray and wiped it off and put one of those white paper mats on it." She stopped, biting her lip, "Then I got another tray. I got the cookies out of the refrigerator. We keep them in there so bugs won't get in them."

I nodded and she went on, "I dumped the cookies on a plate and arranged them a little and then I opened the fridge to get the drinks. But... I forgot the list. I'd left it on my desk. So I went back to get it and I saw that Dr. Knightbridge and Professor Harmon were in the Conference Room. The elevator doors were opening and I'm pretty sure Dr. Roth-Holtzmann was getting out. Anyway, I got the list from my desk and went back in the storage room."

"This is really good, Connie, tell me the rest," I encouraged.

"Um, so I read the list and I got all the drinks, and that's all," she ended abruptly.

"Do you remember which drinks you put on first?"

"No, why?" she shot back nervously.

There was something about the drinks eating her. "Connie, think hard. Bart Edgar and Georgia Smith were seriously hurt. Dr. Carvelle is dead. Everyone at the College is ..."

"Dr. Carvelle? What does he got to... I didn't... you mean he got killed by the person who... who put the fire bomb... but..."

"Connie, what is it? Tell me," I spoke sternly. She looked up at me on the verge of tears, torn by indecision.

She sniffed twice and then asked, "Did the person who killed Dr. Carvelle set the bomb?"

"It looks that way," I said simply.

"I don't know what to do... I lied to the police. Will they put me in jail?" she sobbed.

I pulled one of those course brown paper towels out of a wall dispenser and handed it to her to wipe her nose. "Connie, just tell me what happened."

She took a deep breath then said rapidly, her voice rising with every word, "I looked at the list and I took the bottles out and I checked them... against the list, ya know? I was supposed to buy all the drinks and I thought I did, but I missed one. This thing I'd never heard of. Hoohoo. It's chocolate milk."

"It's called Yoohoo and it isn't really chocolate milk."

"It's not? Miranda said it was. Um, well, this was the first time we were going to do the drink thing. President Bouchet and Miranda wanted it to work good, so I was afraid to tell them I messed up. I didn't know what to do, so I just put another drink on the tray."

"Which one?" I asked, suspecting the response.

"It had a funny name. I'd never heard of it either."

"Grape Nehi?"

"Uh huh, that was it. Do you think it was the drink that had the bomb in it? Was it my fault? What is it anyway?"

Gee, doesn't this kid watch TV? Well, I guess she's too young to have seen MASH.

"No, Mr. Harmon drank the Grape Nehi. It didn't have the bomb in it." This took so much weight off Connie, I could see her shoulders rise an inch. "But why did you think it did?"

"I told someone I messed up and then he said that it was all my fault. He said the police would arrest me for lying. They would arrest me even just for... omission."

"Who told you that?"

"Mr. Druckenmacher. Miranda's husband. He works here, fixes the lights and like that. Well, he did until about two weeks ago. He talked to me, he asked me about Miranda and my job. He seemed nice... so I decided to tell him what happened and ask him what I should do, but he just laughed at me. He said he'd tell the police I lied unless I... um..." She turned beet red from her neck to the tops of her ears like a human thermometer.

"Unless you what?"

"Unless I did sex with him, then he wouldn't tell. He said... blow him... but I told him I wouldn't, not ever. So he said to give him money. Now, every time I see him, he... you know... he gets this look and then he... rubs himself." She glanced down to her own crotch area in explanation.

"I saw him here today. If he doesn't work here any more, why is he hanging around?" I was so pissed at this dirty scumbag that I was all set to make sure he wouldn't hang around here any more.

"He stays here sometimes... Yeah, he's always here."

"Connie, do
you
volunteer here every day?" I asked incredulously.

"Oh no, just Thursday, Friday and Saturday, washing dishes," she said as though that was nothing. A twenty-year-old kid, with a full-time job, giving up her weekends for the homeless. I vowed to at least put an end to Shel Druckenmacher's blackmail career.

"Connie, I'll make sure Druckenmacher doesn't bother you any more and I'm going to explain about the Nehi to President Bouchet and Miranda too. I think you should too. They won't be mad at you." I won't let them, I decided privately. "Listen, aren't there any volunteer jobs where you could work with some people your age?"

Connie was so relieved she looked like she was about to do a cheer. Instead, she thanked me twenty times as I got ready to leave.

Unless Connie had the theatrical gifts of Meryl Streep, she was innocent of the bombing and Skylar's murder. There was just no way she could have made up her story and performed it that well. Abstractly, Connie had been the most likely suspect because of her control of the beverage bottles, but now she was out of the running. Without Connie, the list of suspects was down to four.

In the lobby, Arturo Murciélago was still seated behind the desk, watching the action inscrutably. I went up to him. "You run this place don't you?"

"Executive Director," he nodded.

"Mr. Murciélago, Connie Robinson just now told me that Shel Druckenmacher," I nodded toward the group of men near the door where Druckenmacher was still hanging, "has been trying to blackmail her."

"Really?" said Arturo Murciélago in an even voice, "that might be great news. I hate that guy. Finally fired his ass just a little while ago. I want him out of here, but I need a reason."

"Has Druckenmacher been a problem here?"

"I've had three reports that he's selling drugs, but no hard evidence."

"OK, so what would be a
good reason
to ban him from this shelter
?"
I asked curiously.

"Starting a fight, punching somebody..." Murciélago suggested matter-of-factly.

"Do I
have
to let him hit me?"

"You look like you could take it," he grinned suddenly, then his face became unemotional again.

"Geez," I said resignedly, shaking my head and turning toward the group of guys still standing at the door.

"Mr. Druckenmacher, may I speak with you a moment please?" I said loudly, but politely.

Shel Druckenmacher swaggered out of the group toward me. He smelled of liquor, which was in my favor. When he was quite close I began speaking in a low tone, "You have been trying to blackmail a friend of mine. Get out of here and don't come back." I added under my breath, "I've already removed you from one place. You should be tossed out of here, too."

He didn't like women telling him what to do. With a furious expression he drew back his arm to throw a right at my face. I stepped close into him and took it short on my shoulder, drawing gasps and a few screams from some of the people in the lobby. Everyone in the place turned to watch. His punch had looked hard but since he hadn't had a chance to get any weight behind it it didn't hurt more than a slap on the back. The movement had thrown him off balance so I just hit the side of his knee with my own, sending him sprawling onto the floor. This was accompanied by gales of humiliating laughter from his (now former) friends.

Arturo Murciélago got to his feet and ambled toward us with a cell phone to his ear. He was phoning the cops. I just stood there looking innocent. Druckenmacher had had too much to drink to realize he was out-matched. All he could see was me and red. He scrambled around to get to a standing position, then reached in his pocket and fumbled out a flick knife. West Side Story in slow motion.