Hangman's Root (11 page)

"Yeah," McQuaid said, refilling my mug.

"Too bad 'bout Harwick," Bob said. He put down the tortillas. "Any idea who did it?"

McQuaid sloshed beer onto the table. "What do you mean, who did it?" he demanded testily, grabbing a handful of paper napkins to stem the tide. "The man hung himself."

"Not 'cordin' to Bubba," Bob said, arranging sour cream, onions, and cheese around the tortillas. "He was in here at happy hour with some real purty blond gal. I heard 'em talkin'. Kind of interestin', I thought. Almost never see Bubba in here durin' the day. He mostly comes in to catch the Spurs on tee vee, play a little pool. Don't know who the gal was. Real purty, though. High class." He set down the guacamole and began wiping up the rest of McQuaid's puddle. "You folks ready for another pitcher?"

I stared at him. "Aren't you going to tell us what they said?"

Bob stopped wiping, perplexed. Then his expression cleared. "Oh, you mean 'bout Harwick."

"Yeah," McQuaid said. "About Harwick."

The jukebox started again, and Bob raised his voice to be heard over Way Ion Jennings. "Didn't catch it all, but it had some-thin' to do with a pipe. Bubba was sayin' that Harwick lacked a

foot of bein able to reach up to this pipe that the rope was slung across. Said the guy couldn'ta done it himself. Little short fella, y'know." Bob held his hand at shoulder height. "'Bout so high. Cocky. Sorta like a kid, or a banty rooster. Not much to crow about, but he loved tVare back on his heels an' let 'er rip."

"Oh, so you knew him," I said.

"You bet." Bob wiped his hands on his dirty apron. "Used to come in, get a beer on Saturday nights, talk to a few of the guys. One in particular, as I recall. Some friend of his. Max somethin' or other." He frowned. "Wonder where Max's been hangin' out lately. Haven't seen him."

"Maybe Harwick couldn't reach the pipe," McQuaid said, "but he could have thrown the rope over it." He began to load chicken onto his tortilla.

"Not so fast," I objected, remembering. "There was only a two- or three-inch clearance between the pipe and the ceiling. It'd be tough to toss a rope through." The skin on my arms prickled. "You know, I didn't think about it," I said slowly, "but Bub-ba's right. The ceilings in that old building are high, twelve feet, at least." I did a rapid calculation. "Harwick was about a foot shy of reaching that pipe. There's no way he could have knotted that rope around it."

McQuaid looked at me. "Maybe he put something on the desk to stand on."

"If he did, he didn't leave it on the desk," I said. "Or on the floor." I was suddenly intrigued, thinking of the chants and the signs in the mall that afternoon. "Hang Harwick instead." Was it possible that sombody else had hung Harwick? He was a small man, and he might not have been fully conscious when he was hung. If he had been subdued first, the autopsy would indicate how it was done. A blow to the head, maybe. I thought of the brown liquid in the bottom of the coffee cup on his desk. Or a sedative.

McQuaid looked up at Bob. "Has Bubba got a suspect yet?"

"The way Dottie tells it," I said, "nobody liked him. There'll probably be a flock of suspects."

Bob raised his shoulders and dropped them in a quien sabe? gesture. "Don't think so." He grinned. "Unless maybe it's that blonde. He was sure watchin' her mighty close."

"She's the chief of Campus Security," McQuaid said, lathering sour cream onto his chicken.

Bob's eyebrows were two bushy red arches. "No shit.'" He whistled. "Boy, I tell you, you can lock me in her jail any ol' time."

"Forget it," McQuaid said. "The guy she's engaged to is one big sonofagun. Real John Wayne type." I grinned, imagining Smart Cookie married to the Duke. It would serve them both right.

Bob shook his head sadly. "Story of my life. How 'bout that pitcher?"

An hour later, after the fajitas, a second pitcher, and a fast round of pool, McQuaid and I adjourned to my place. What happened after that was slow, sweet, and deeply satisfying.

"Romantic enough to suit you?" McQuaid asked, dislodging Khat from the corner of the bed and untangling his long legs from the sheet. Khat flicked his tail to indicate his displeasure with the entire sequence of events and jumped up onto the top of the wardrobe, where he licked one paw and gave us the evil eye.

"I'm with Bob," I remarked, stretching lazily. "If you ain't got romance, a little sex'll do just fine."

McQuaid got up, straightened the sheet and the blanket and tucked them in at the foot of the bed. He climbed back in and pulled me against him.

"How about a lot of sex?" he asked, his voice muffled.

As I was drifting off to sleep a little while later, snuggled up against McQuaid's warm back, I reflected that living together

had certain fringe benefits. It might not be so hard to get used to, after all. Sleepily, I said, "I love you," to McQuaid's back.

He reached a hand around and patted the first thing he touched, which happened to be my hip. "Me, too," he mumbled.

Bob was right. No romance.

The party at Ruby's the next night reminded me of a reunion of sharks. Amy arrived late, clad in black baggies and a black tee with the words "Cows Cry Louder Than Cabbages" on the front and "Eat Your Veggies" on the back. The short red hair over her ears was freshly clipped and the little tail in back was tied with a string and decorated with a black feather. She was sullen, responding to most questions with a muttered "yes" or "no" and inclined to snap. She pointedly refused Ruby's roast beef and concentrated ostentatiously on carrots and string beans.

The other guests behaved with about the same degree of civility. Ruby's mother, a thin-lipped, sharp-chinned woman, never once spoke directly to her newfound granddaughter and spent the entire evening looking as if she smelled something she didn't like. Shannon, Ruby's other daughter, seemed to suspect her stepsister of planning to make off with the family silver. Ruby's sister Ramona made a half-effort to engage Amy, and when she was rebuffed, lapsed into a pout. Ruby tried to paper over everybody's surliness by laughing too loud and being too cheerful, while I attemped to steer the combatants toward neutral territory. By nine-thirty, I was ready to call it an evening.

"It isn't going too well, is it?" Ruby said to me in the kitchen, where we were putting the dessert plates into the dishwasher. Shannon, Ramona, and Ruby's mother were settling down to Trivial Pursuit. Amy had been in the bathroom for ten minutes.

"I'm afraid not," I said. "Your mother and sister don't seem

crazy about adding onto the family, and Shannon thinks Amy is a cat burglar."

Ruby slammed the dishwasher defiantly. "They can think whatever they damn please." She poked the buttons and the dishwasher began to hum. "Amy's my daughter. Fm not going to let my family come between us again."

I swiped the counter once more. "I wish you'd go slow," I said. "Don't charge into a relationship that might not work out."

"Why shouldn't it work out?" Ruby demanded. "There's plenty of room here for two people. She could have her own private entrance."

I stared at her. "You're thinking of asking Amy to move in with you?"

A pan in her hand, Ruby opened the cupboard. "Why not?"

"Doesn't she already have a place?"

Ruby shoved the pan in and slammed the door. "Sure. But you know what apartment rents are like. Living with me wouldn't cost her anything. She could finish school, get a job—"

"Ruby," I said quietly, "you are moving very fast. Give yourself a little time, for crying out loud. What if she isn't the person you think she is?"

"Of course she is who I think she is." Ruby was brisk. "She's my daughter. I have a copy of her birth certificate."

"That's not what I mean," I said. I thought about the vicious Amy I had met that afternoon, the one who had called Harwick a sadist, a butcher. She might be Ruby's daughter, but there was something deep within her—some savage hatred, some ferocity—that Ruby had yet to witness. What was at the root of it? Was it her mother's abandonment that fueled Amy? Was it Ruby herself that Amy hated?

Ruby sounded weary. "I don't know why you're always so negative, China. I've never done anything for Amy. Giving her a place to live seems like a nice way to start."

"I'm not negative," I said, irritated. "Fm realistic. It's not a good idea to jump into a living situation, especially with somebody you don't know. And might not like if you—"

Ruby slammed her hand on the counter. "What's wrong with you, China?" she burst out angrily. "Don't you have any heart} Can't you imagine what it's like to care enough to want to live with somebody? You know, sometimes I really feel sorry for you, stuck forever in that head of yours. Just look at this business with you and McQuaid."

"What do you know about me and McQuaid?"

"I know what you've told me. Here you are, faced with the biggest decision of your life, and all you can think of is how many bathrooms you need. What's so important about bathrooms? Where's/o^^?"

"It's not necessarily the biggest decision of my life," I said, beginning to feel angry, too. "The biggest decision of my life was deciding to go to law school."

"You didn't decide on law school," Ruby reminded me. "Your dad did."

She was right. My father made that choice for me. But even if he hadn't pushed me, I would have jumped. There never was any question who had the power in my family, so there wasn't any choice of role models: I would grow up to be as nearly like my father as possible, to the point of rejecting relationships, softness, the feminine. As the feminists say, I was male identified to the max. Changing hasn't been easy. But I wasn't going to give Ruby the satisfaction of agreeing with her.

"I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions," I snapped. "Then and now."

"Bully for you," Ruby said sarcastically. "So am I. And in this case I am making the right one, so I'll thank you to butt out."

We glared at one another. Ruby and I don't argue often, and when we do, it's queen size. It can go on for days while we hiss

and sputter like twin volcanos, until some sort of earthquake moves one of us to change her position and relieve the pressure. Or until we both explode and bury ourselves in fallout.

"Excuse me," Amy said from the doorway. "My ride's picking me up out front. Thank you for the dinner. It was lovely." Her acid smile and caustic tone gave the lie to her words her words.

Ruby rushed over to her daughter. "Fm so glad you could come," she said with exaggerated enthusiasm, putting her arm around Amy's shoulders. "And don't forget about that lunch. It will be such fun to get together. Won't it?"

I gritted my teeth. Ruby's tone was so sickeningly sweet, it could have attracted flies. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear her call Amy "darling" or "honey."

Amy tossed out a nonchalant "I'll let you know." She glanced at me. "See you."

"I'm leaving, too," I said stiffly. "Thank you for the dinner. Ruby. Please tell your mother and sister how much I enjoyed their utterly fabulous company. It was an evening I won't forget for a long time."

Ruby gave me a hard look. "Don't mention it," she said. "I'm sure Mother and Ramona were enormously thrilled to see you again. They admire you so tremendously, of course."

It really was time to go. The conversation had deteriorated into the satiric hyperbole offending fourteen-year-olds.

Outside, I took a deep breath of the clean March air, spiced with the scent of the junipers along Ruby's driveway. I was glad I had walked over, because walking back would give me a chance to burn off some of the negative energy I generate when I fight with Ruby. Actually, our arguments are always the same argument—not the same subject, of course, but the same two positions, over and over again. Her passion against my rationality. Her right brain against my left. Her impulsiveness against my

caution. The hostilities are high vohage because the conflict is so deep seated, so fundamental. On the surface, our arguments are trivial; underneath, they go straight to the heart of who we are.

Amy walked down the gravel drive beside me, silent. She seemed to be turning something over uneasily in her mind. Finally, she stopped at the sidewalk under the streetlight. When she spoke, her voice was thin and taut.

"Is it true what I heard about Harwick? Did somebody really string him up?"

A campus is like any other small town. News gets around fast, even during spring break. Still, the question surprised me. From suicide to murder in six hours or less. "Where did you hear that?"

"This girl who works with me on PETA projects." The narrow triangle of her face was grayish blue in the mercury light and her freckles stood out like flecks of metallic snow. "She heard it from her uncle. He's a custodian at the campus police station."

"You know as much about it as I do," I said. A van rumbled past, then a motorbike, the small engine revving shrilly in the quiet night. The smell of oily exhaust tarnished the sweet cedar. "Probably more, in fact."

Amy thrust her hands into the pockets of her baggies. She looked like a tall, sad clown with her punk clothes and hair, her face washed with blue light. "I heard your boyfriend was a cop. I figured that he'd have an inside track."

"He isn't a cop anymore." Where was she getting all this information? "What did you hear about Harwick?"

She turned halfway away from me. "That he was doped up when he died." Her voice was so low I could hardly hear. "That he was keeping a roomful of abused animals in the basement under his office." She laughed harshly. "Funny, huh? He planned to hang all those guinea pigs, and hes the one who gets hung."

"Doped? With what? How?"

"In his coffee." She shrugged. "That's just what I heard. You don't know anything more?"

"I didn't know that much." I sifted through the rest of her information. "Who told you about—"

"Here's my ride," Amy said, as a yellow Camaro, one fender bashed in and rusting, pulled up in front of us. "I have to go." She opened the door and climbed in.

"Wait," I said, catching the door before she closed it. "Who told you about the animals?"

"I just heard it," she said. "You know how people talk." She turned to the driver. "Let's go."

"Ok-k-kay," the driver said, and let out the clutch fast, squealing the tires.

I stared after the Camaro as its taillights disappeared around the next corner. I could figure out who had told Amy about the room in the basement, but the answer left me even more puzzled. Amy the animal activist and Kevin the animal keeper—an odd combination. How long had they known one another.^ What had brought them together?

My right-brain emotions had simmered down enough to allow my left brain to get logical, and the argument with Ruby wasn't the only thing I mulled over as I walked home through the dark. Ruby, me. Ruby, Amy. Amy, Kevin. Harwick, Kevin, Amy. I wasn't sure I liked all of the possible connections.

When I got home, I called McQuaid. I was greeted, as I expected, by Brian's taped announcement: The captain and first officer of the Starship McQuaid were in hot pursuit of the Klin-gons through another galaxy and would the caller please leave a message after the beep. I knew McQuaid had driven down to Sally's to pick Brian up and take him for a weekend visit to the elder McQuaids' farm outside Seguin, a little town about thirty miles east. He wouldn't be home until the next day.

"Greetings, Captain McQuaid," I said to the machine, and got down to it without preamble, phrasing my question so it would be suitable for eleven-year-old ears if Brian got to the answering machine first. "Star Fleet wishes you to ask Smart

Cookie whether there's any truth to the rumor that Harwick's coffee had something in it. Brian, if you get this message, please write it down. Live long and prosper, you guys."

What's the good of being intimate with an ex-cop if you can't exploit his connections once in a while?

I

Saturday was one of those days that happens every now and then in a one-person shop. It wasn't the herbs, of course. Plants are pacific and naturally good-natured. They are never rushed or impatient or snappish. But people are all of the above, and that day / was, too, partly because I had Ruby on my mind (we were still doing our volcano act and weren't speaking), partly because of what Amy had told me, and partly because I was coping single-handedly on what was shaping up to be the busiest weekend of the year

I was working by myself because Laurel had gone off to a meeting of the Society of Ethnobiology at the Smithsonian in Washington, where she was giving a paper on capsicums— cayenne and chili peppers. To a botanist, a pepper is a fruit; in the produce market, it's a vegetable; dried, on the shelf, it's a spice, like cayenne. What gives capsicums their personality is a unique alkaloid called capsaicin (cap-SAY-a-cin), which is so potent that a human taste bud can respond to as little as one part per million. Muy picante. When somebody is so foolish as to actually eat, say, a habanero, which is the red hot mama of all hot peppers, the capsaicin irritates pain cells in the mouth. The brain responds with endorphins, the body's natural painkiller. The more ha-baneros, the more endorphins, until you end up with a habanero

high. But you don't need to be a chili junkie to reap the benefits of this savage process. If you suffer from chronic pain, you might try rubbing on some capsaicin cream. If you're a hiker in grizzly country, you can repel the beast with a capsaicin spray called Counter Attack. And if you're a woman who walks dark streets, you can arm yourself with pepper gas instead of Mace. Capsicums aren't just for chiles rellenos.

Hot also described the traffic. The store was crowded, almost without respite, from the minute I opened until the minute I closed. By midafternoon I had completely sold out of the most popular potted culinary herbs—parsley, basil, sage, thyme—and the herb gift baskets my friend Cara had made. It had rained early that morning, and I worried about how the paths were holding up in the gardens. But I didn't have much time to worry. I didn't even have time for lunch. Maggie Garrett stopped in about one, saw my predicament, and sent over a Magnolia Kitchen takeout box containing a generous slice of quiche and a serving of lemon verbena flan. I ate on the run. It kept me going the rest of the day.