Hangman's Root (19 page)

Spoken like an ex-quarterback who still jogged five miles every morning and worked out with weights three times a week. But his response pointed up the essential difference between us. Never having been married, I was focussing on the difficulty of day-today living. Having been married and divorced, he was focussing on what might happen at the end. Either way, it was scary.

"Not to change the subject," he went on, "but I talked to Sheila a few minutes ago. Got your bucket?"

I sat up straight. "Another leak?"

"It's not going to make you happy. Remember the hairs Bub-ba found in the noose? There were three, stuck in the knot, as if they'd been caught when it was tied. The hair from Dottie's hairbrush looks like a match. Ditto the nylon rope from her garage."

"You've made my day."

"What do you think? Harwick sneaked into her house, stole some of her hair and a clothesline, and used them to frame her for his death?"

"Could be."

"Sure," he said skeptically. "How could Harwick be sure that the hair in the knot would be spotted? Somebody could have cut him down and destroyed the evidence. That's how the prosecution will rebut, you know. With the hairs and the Beuthanasia, the case against Dottie is pretty solid."

I set my teeth. "You've made my whole day. Let's hope the evening is better."

"I was just giving you the other side."

"Yeah," I said, "thanks." I tried to make it Hghter. "Tell Sheila I really appreciate it, huh?"

"I will. She's a little miffed just now. She thinks Bubba's closing her out of the loop and she doesn't like it."

"I can understand that," I said. "After all, it happened on her turf. But I'm sure Smart Cookie will find a way to put things right."

He laughed. "She likes the nickname. Said it was a real compliment. She's got one for you, too."

I wasn't sure I wanted to hear it. "Oh, yeah?"

"Sage Woman," he said.

I put down the phone, grinning.

Lunch was an avocado-and-sprout sandwich and milk. While I ate, I phoned Laurel to find out how the pepper paper had gone and to ask if she could mind both my shop and Ruby's for the rest of the week, in case the thing with Dottie was still unresolved. She was happy to do it. What's more, her sister would be available, too, if business was more than Laurel could handle alone.

I had just finished eating when the phone rang. It might be Leatha, making good on her promise. I let the answering machine screen the call, but when I heard the voice, I picked up the phone myself.

It was Amy.

"I need to see you," she said, low and tense, as if she didn't want to be overheard. I heard somebody laughing behind her. Maybe she was calling from work.

"Have you talked to Kevin?"

"No." She hesitated. "This has nothing to do with Kevin." She repeated herself, for good measure. "Nothing. Really."

Hangman 'd Root l'^9

I didn't believe her. "Where do you want to meet? When?" "Can I come to your place? Say, six? I don't get off work until

five-thirty."

I rapidly calculated the time it would take to feed a clowder of

cats and a plague of guinea pigs. "Six ought to work," I said. "See

you then."

44 4

Beulah Bracewell's office was in the administration building, on the other side of the quad from Noah's Ark. The Spanish-style buildings on the campus, most of which are more or less ersatz, at least have some historical referent. They connect to places and people and ideas. The administration building connects only to itself. It has no personality. It's nothing but a big pink brick box, with a fake colonnade across the front and seven floors of offices concealed behind reflective windows that insiders can see out of but outsiders can't see into—a perfect metaphor for what happens in bureaucracies.

I found Personnel on the third floor, in a large multistation, open-plan office that took up the whole south side of the building. Beulah's desk was in the far corner, behind a bank of lateral file cabinets topped with an impressive set of large ring binders and a lanky philodendron whose leaves were green on the side that faced the window and yellow on the other side.

Beulah was sixtyish, white haired and slender, with soft pink skin, a low voice, and a contained manner. She reminded me of my grandmother, whose improbable name my father had bestowed on me. She had the look of someone who would go quietly about her work while everybody else was searching for towels to throw in. She motioned me to a chair, her shrewd gray eyes sizing up my denim skirt, blue plaid blouse, loafers, and grubby nails. She was probably measuring me for one of the openings

described in the brochure on her desk: Job Opportunities at CTSU. People Working Together for Higher Education, Good Citizenship, and Strong Stewardship. The title sounded Hke something hammered out by an undergraduate marketing class. It had enough buzzwords to make your ears ring.

"Perhaps you've heard that Dr. Riddle was arrested yesterday," I said, after I introduced myself. "I'm working with her lawyer to try to fill in some of the details of the case."

"Of course I heard it," Beulah said. She made an impatient gesture. "Last week everybody was talking about Dr. Harwick. This week it's been nothing but Dottie." Her mouth turned down at the corners. "How's she holding up?"

"About as you'd imagine," I said. "She's mostly concerned about her cats."

Beulah's dark eyes snapped. "Those cats! I love Dottie, but I'll never in the world understand why she spends so much time and energy on animals." She frowned. "Is anybody taking care of them while she's in jail?" Beulah had no trouble with the word.

"Ruby Wilcox and I are helping out."

She looked at me, eyes flinty. "China Bayles. Aren't you the one who runs the herb shop? Why 2s^you working with Dottie's lawyer?"

"I used to be a trial lawyer in a former life," I said. "I'd like to help Dottie clear up this misunderstanding."

"Well, I certainly hope to God somebody straightens things out," Beulah said, pushing up the sleeves of the gray sweater that topped her tailored white blouse. Her tone was testy. "How Bubba Harris can be fool enough to arrest that woman is totally beyond my comprehension. Somebody's getting away with murder while he's wasting time picking on an innocent person. In fact, I told Bubba's wife Gladys that very thing when I ran into her at the post office this morning. I told her to tell Bubba, too." She frowned. "Now, how can I help you?"

"Fm hoping to trace out a lead or two."

She picked up a pencil and twirled it like a miniature baton. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"Miles Harwick's personnel file. Fm specifically looking for the name and address of next of kin, information about prior employment, and address at the time of initial application. At this point, Fm making an informal request for the material," I added, to show her I meant business. "Dr. Riddle's attorney will subpoena it later."

She shook her head. "Fm sorry, but you're too late. Sheila Dawson, the new head of Campus Security, came up on Friday and took it." She pressed her lips together. "I believe she planned to turn it over to Bubba Harris."

"I see," I said. I wasn't surprised. Maybe Fd have better luck with my second request. She furrowed her brow and stood up when I gave her Kevin's name.

"Terminated last week? Let me check."

She was gone about five minutes, while I sat, listening to the buzz of voices in the open office behind me. When I came in, I had noticed the spirit of good-natured camaraderie that energized the office—telephones ringing, people moving from desk to desk, lots of chitchat. The clerical staff was almost a hundred percent women, of course. In any bureaucracy, they're the ones who keep the paper-stream flowing, input the data into the computers, and do the nitpicky things that make institutional life halfway bearable for everybody else. The trouble is that they're usually pretty much invisible. People count on them, get used to them, fail to notice them. Fd bet it would take three, maybe four of the female clerical staff to equal the salary of the male personnel director. He'd certainly miss them if they left. I wondered if anybody would miss him.

When Beulah came back, she was carrying a manila folder. She laid it on the desk and glanced at her watch. "I usually take a break right about now."

I looked up at her, grateful for her tact. "Thank you," I said.

"Don't mention it," she said with emphasis.

Kevin Scott's file was pretty thin. But it did contain a Pecan Springs address, which I copied down. I also copied his social security number, the rest of his personal data, and the name, address, and phone number of his parents, Anne R. and Charles I. Scott, who lived on Mesquite Drive in San Antonio. I put the folder on Beulah's chair with a hastily scrawled thank-you, and threaded my way through the busy office to the elevator, where I punched the down button.

Campus Security is located on the first floor of the administration building. The elevator and the quad entrance open onto a lobby where students and faculty can apply for IDs and parking stickers and pay their parking fines, a revenue source which no doubt covers the salaries of half the Security force. A young girl with deeply waved chestnut hair was sitting behind the counter, concentrating on a computer monitor. She stood up when I came in, and I noticed that she was wearing a button with the catchy slogan "God Is Coming and Is She Pissed." When I told her who I was looking for, she took my name, sauntered through a door between a file cabinet and a computer station, and came back a minute later.

"The chief says to come on in. She's in her office, third door on the right."

I knew where the chief's office was because I had been there once with McQuaid, who was a buddy of the man who preceded Smart Cookie. When I opened the door, I saw that the office had undergone an extraordinary change. The gray metal desk, green plastic sofa and chair, and beige tile floor were gone. In their place was a polished wood desk topped with a tasteful gold reading lamp, across from a soft coral upholstered sofa and chair, on a forest green carpet. On the wall was a poster depicting a giant green pea pod, with the caption "Give Peas a Chance." The north-facing window sill was crowded with pots of pink and

mauve African violets, one of which sported a heart-shaped "I Love You" balloon.

Behind the desk, Sheila looked up and smiled. "What do you think?" she asked, with a gesture that included the African violets.

"Bob Dylan was right," I said. "The times really are changing."

"Maybe, maybe not," Sheila said. She stood and came around the desk. "He said that almost thirty years ago. And there's more to it than redecorating." Her silky cream blouse was a mute contrast to her beige suit, her shiny blond hair was smoothed back beneath a beige hairband, and her nails and lipstick matched. "Mike told you about Chief Harris making the hair match?" She took the upholstered chair and motioned me to the sofa.

I nodded and sat down. "Any possibility that Dr. Riddle's hairs could have been planted?"

"That was my first thought," she said, showing a length of slender thigh as she crossed her legs. "But if it was a plant, it was carefully done. I saw the hairs myself when we took the body down. They were tied in with the knot."

"Yes," I said. "So McQuaid told me."

She looked at me. "McQuaid? I thought you two were like that." She held up two fingers, close together.

"We met professionally," I said. "I was on one side of a case, he was on the other. We got used to last names. But to answer your question, yes, we are like that. We're looking for a house together." That last sentence surprised me when I heard it. I hadn't mentioned our househunting to anybody but Ruby. Had I told Sheila because I wanted to make sure she knew where the boundaries were?

"It's a big step," she said.

"Is it ever," I said fervently.

She kicked both beige pumps off and wiggled her stockinged toes in the carpet. "Look. I'm trained as a police officer, but I've

learned to rely on my intuition. When I listened to Riddle's answers to the chief's questions Saturday morning, I got the very strong feeling that she didn't have anything to do with the crime, although she certainly was'antagonistic toward the victim. That's why I've been willing to help."

"Do you have an alternative theory about Harwick's death?" "I guess I lean toward planned suicide, with an attempt to frame Riddle for murder. It seems consistent with Harwick's personality and his relationship to Riddle. He lived right next door. If he had wanted to set her up, it wouldn't have been hard for him to get into her house. All he needed was some hair, which would never be missed, and a length of rope. Or he could have brought the rope and planted it in her garage, keeping enough for his purpose." She hesitated. "Unfortunately I haven't yet turned up Harwick's motive for killing himself."

Wait until she saw the blackmail letter, I thought, thinking I'd show it to her as soon as The Whiz had seen it. It gave Har-wick a very strong motive for suicide. But I still had to dig into the connection between Kevin and Harwick, which troubled me deeply. I took out my notebook. "I talked to Beulah Bracewell in Personnel a few minutes ago. I understand you have Dr. Harwick's file."

Her face was bland. "Chief Harris requested it." I cocked my eyebrows. "You wouldn't happen to have copied it, would you?"

Her mouth twitched. "What makes you think that?" "Because that's what I would have done if I were in your shoes." I glanced at the dress-for-success pumps she'd kicked off. Mine had gone to Goodwill, along with my power suits.

Sheila got up, padded to the desk, and took a file out of her bottom drawer. "Riddle's attorney will get this sooner or later," she said, handing it to me. "You may as well have a look at it now." The file held an application form, a copy of Harwick's W-4

listing only himself as a deduction, and the usual college transcripts. There was also a computer check-sheet showing which bank his paychecks were automatically deposited to, which health and life insurance packages he had opted for, how much he paid into his retirement fund, and how little he gave to United Way. I noticed that a couple of years ago he had changed the beneficiary of his life insurance from a Mrs. Letitia Harwick, Mother, to Central Texas State University, with the cryptic note, "bio. exper acct. only." At the same time, he had increased the benefit from a fairly standard seventy-five thousand to a cool million. The "bio. exper acct.," whatever that was, would be receiving a nice round sum.