Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I didn’t have to ask, however. Patience is one of Hark’s signature virtues, along with sturdiness, reliability, et cetera. I imagined that he was pleased. Delighted, probably. Overjoyed.

  Ruby didn’t get to answer. Her cell phone dinged briskly. She reached for it, spoke, listened, and then said, “That’s great news, Kitt! Where?” To me, she mouthed, They found Gretchen.

  “Wonderful!” I said and waited for the details.

  Her eyes widened as she listened. “Well, things can be replaced. They’re positive she’s going to be okay?” A long exhale, more listening. “Of course,” she said finally. “It’s good that they’re keeping her overnight. You never can tell about concussions. Thanks for letting me know.” She closed her phone with a snap. “That’s a relief,” she said to me.

  “Where in the world was she?” I asked urgently.

  “In the janitors’ closet in the basement of the communications building on campus. The door was locked from the outside. One of the custodians heard her banging on the wall and let her out. A good thing, too.” She shivered. “It might have been Monday before she was found.”

  “The basement?” I was startled. “What in the world was she doing down there?”

  “It’s the quickest way to get from the parking lot to the elevator,” Ruby said. “I know, because Kitt wanted to show me around the media lab a couple of weeks ago, and that’s the route we took. Since it’s summer, there are a lot more parking spaces around the back of the building. Kitt and Gretchen have been parking back there and using the basement door. It’s a little spooky, but there was no reason to think it wasn’t safe.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said dryly. “Nothing is ever not safe, until it isn’t.”

  Ruby nodded. “Well, it wasn’t safe this time, obviously. Gretchen was waiting for the elevator when it happened. She’s got a mild concussion, and of course she was plenty scared, especially when she began to think she might not get out for a while. But otherwise, she’s going to be okay. The guy who hit her snatched her camera—her purse, too.”

  “Hit her?” I asked, thinking immediately of Karen. And then, “Took her camera?”

  Ruby nodded. “Her camcorder. It’s one of the digital cameras the girls are using to record their documentary—a really nice one. Apparently somebody saw her go in, knew that the basement was likely to be deserted, and wanted a camera. This one was just too tempting to pass up, so he grabbed it.”

  “Her purse.” I narrowed my eyes. “What about her purse?”

  “Kitt said the janitor found it in a trash can just outside the basement door. Empty, of course. The only thing in it was her car keys. I guess he didn’t want to be charged with auto theft.”

  Her camcorder. One of the cameras the girls were using to record their documentary. My skin prickled. Something was going on here—something besides the opportunistic theft of an expensive camera and the contents of a purse.

  “They’re keeping her overnight at the hospital?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Ruby frowned. “You said her parents are in Belize. What about her sister? Will she be okay by herself?” She paused, concerned. “I wonder if anybody has thought to let her know what’s happened.”

  I hoisted my bag over my shoulder. “As it happens, I’m on my way to pick up her sister. She’s having supper with us tonight. I’ll tell her about Gretchen—if she doesn’t already know—and ask if she’d like to stay at our house overnight.” I gave Ruby a knowing grin. “You and Hark have a wonderful time. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to see on the front page of the Enterprise.”

  “That leaves it pretty open,” Ruby said.

  I was halfway to the door when I thought of something else. I turned. “This other girl, Kitt. She’s a friend of Amy’s, I understand.”

  “Right,” Ruby replied. “In fact, they’re neighbors. I met her at one of Amy and Kate’s get-togethers.”

  “What’s her living situation? I mean, does she live alone? With a girlfriend?”

  “She’s married,” Ruby replied. “Her husband is also a grad student, in engineering, I believe.” She looked at me. “Why are you asking?”

  “No reason,” I said. “Just curious.”

  But it was more than that, of course. The bits and pieces were beginning to add up. And I didn’t like what I saw on the bottom line.

  • • •

  THAT pizza had to wait for a while. Five minutes before I got to the Keenes’ house, someone from the police department called Jake to tell her that her sister had been in an accident. She was frantic to go to the hospital and make sure that Gretchen was really okay, so that was where we headed. But the Adams County Hospital is only a short drive from the Keene house, and I managed to stall Jake’s questions about what had happened to her sister.

  “I don’t have the details,” I said. “Let’s save all that until we see Gretchen. She can tell us.” Jake—upset enough already—complied.

  Julie Paprock, whom I met when she helped out with Caitie’s Girl Scout troop, was on duty at the hospital reception desk. She’s a platinum blonde with a trim figure and plenty of bounce—which she needs to keep up with all of her volunteer work in the Pecan Springs art community. I introduced Jake and explained who we wanted to see.

  Julie gave Jake a sympathetic look. “Your sister is feeling much better. I know she’ll be glad to see you.” To me, she added, “Gretchen’s friend Kitt just went to the cafeteria to get some supper, so both of you can go in.” She gave us the room number. “But when Kitt comes back, one of you will have to leave. Okay?”

  We thanked her and went down the hall to the room.

  At twenty-three, Gretchen is a grown-up version of Jake, not quite as athletic, a little more well-rounded, a little less blond, and very pretty. But not at the moment. Her head was bandaged; there were abrasions on her arms, her cheeks, and her forehead; and she was going to have one heck of a shiner in the morning. Jake burst into tears when she saw her, and I was startled at the damage. From the abrasions, I guessed that after she was knocked unconscious, she was dragged facedown across the cement basement floor and into the closet.

  “I’m okay, guys,” Gretchen said weakly. “Really I am.” She reached for Jake’s hand, managing a chuckle. “Or I will be tomorrow, when they let me go home.” She closed her eyes. “Right now I’ve got one humongous headache. It just won’t quit.”

  “But what happened?” Jake burst out. “All the cop said was that you were in an accident, and I was scared to death. Is the car okay? Where is it?” To me, she added, “It’s our mother’s car. She told us we could use it as much as we wanted while she and Dad were gone.”

  Gretchen opened her eyes and glanced at me. I shook my head just a little, letting her know that I hadn’t told her sister what had happened.

  “It wasn’t that kind of accident, Jake,” Gretchen said. “The car is perfectly okay. Kitt says it’s right where I’ve been parking it this summer. Behind the communications building.”

  Jake let out her breath. “Well, that’s good.” She paused, trying to figure this out. “But if it wasn’t the car, what kind of accident was it?”

  Gretchen sighed. “I was waiting for the elevator in the basement of the communications building. Somebody conked me over the head and snatched my camcorder and my purse.”

  “Oh, no!” Jake exclaimed, horrified. “Oh, Gretchen, poor you!”

  “Afraid so. I woke up in a cleaning closet, but the jerk who hit me had bolted the door on the outside. I was in there for hours and hours. Somebody finally heard me banging a bucket against the wall and let me out.” She grinned crookedly. “The only serious damage is to my head. And that’s not permanent, so there’s no need to alarm Mom and Dad. The news will keep until they get home. There’s nothing they can do, anyway.”

  “Did you get a glimpse of your assailant?” I asked.

 
“I wish.” Gretchen sighed. “As I told the cops, Ms. Bayles, I didn’t hear a thing. I have no idea what he hit me with—or even whether it was a he or a she.”

  “So you’ve already been questioned?” I asked.

  “Yes. Twice. By a policeman and then by the chief.” She managed a smile. “I feel important.”

  “I can think of less painful ways to be important.” I frowned. “The video that you and Kitt were working on—had you deleted the files from your camera?”

  “No,” Gretchen said. “They were all still there, although of course I’ve backed everything up on my laptop. The camera has a thirty-two-gigabyte memory card, about four hours of recording. There were two other cards in my purse, with more of the footage. Kitt and I were going to download everything—her files and mine—to the computer in the media lab this morning. We need to start editing if we’re going to get finished by the end of the term.”

  “I see,” I said. “Did you get your purse back?”

  “Yes, and I’m glad. It’s my favorite purse. Why?”

  “Just an idea,” I said. “If you’ll tell me where it is, I’ll check for those memory cards.”

  “In the drawer here beside the bed.” Her head must hurt, because she gestured with her eyes, careful not to move. “They’re in the side pocket, in a plastic sleeve.”

  I took out the purse and explored the side pocket with my fingers. “I can’t find them,” I said. “You look, Jake.” I handed the purse to her, but Jake couldn’t find them, either.

  “Damn,” Gretchen exclaimed, disgusted. “The jerk took my camera and the memory cards. And my credit card. But at least he left the car keys.”

  “And as long as the files are backed up, you still have everything,” I said.

  “Yes, but—” Gretchen stopped, frowning. “The camera. Those memory cards. You don’t suppose—”

  She was silent for a moment, and I wondered where she was going with this. When I heard her next question, I knew she had made the same connection I had.

  “Ms. Bayles, how is Dr. Prior? I asked a couple of nurses, but nobody on this floor seems to know. That seemed a little odd to me, but . . .” Frowning, intent, she searched my face.

  That was when I had to tell the girls that Karen had died. The next few moments were difficult for all three of us. We wept, talked, and wept some more. By the time we had dried our tears, Kitt—a short, wiry, high-energy young woman with pink-streaked brown hair spiked in a punk cut—had returned from the cafeteria, with a milk shake for Gretchen. I had never met her, so I introduced myself, then turned to Jake, remembering what Julie had said about one of us having to leave.

  “Brian and Caitie will be wondering what’s happened to supper. I’d better go pick up that pizza.” I paused. “You can stay here with Gretchen or come with me—and stay overnight, if you want. The guest room is always ready.” That’s the thing about living in a house that’s big enough for a B&B. There’s plenty of room for a guest or two.

  Jake was indecisive. “If I hang out here, I guess Kitt can take me home.”

  “No, Jake,” Gretchen said firmly. “I want you to go with Ms. Bayles—and spend the night at their house, too. I’ll feel better if I know you’re there.”

  “But I think I should stay with you,” Jake protested.

  “It’s an order from your big sis,” Gretchen said, taking the sting out with a smile. “I’m in good hands. And Kitt and I have some talking to do.”

  I understood. Gretchen had to tell Kitt about Karen’s death. But I also wanted them to talk about the other business, the camera. To nudge them toward that, I said, “Maybe you could discuss those missing memory cards.” I added, casually, “Gretchen, how about if Jake and I stopped at your house and picked up your laptop—just to be on the safe side? We could take it to my house.”

  “The safe side . . .” Gretchen pulled her brows together. “Do you really think—” She stopped, considered, and came up with the right answer. “Sure,” she said. “Good idea. Okay, Jake?”

  “I don’t see why,” Jake said with a shrug. “But it’s fine with me. Listen, Gretch, is it okay if Ms. Bayles and I swing past the communications building so I can pick up Mom’s car?” She patted her purse. “I have my keys.”

  “Another good idea,” Gretchen said approvingly. She looked at me. “Let’s talk tomorrow morning. Could you call me?”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “You rest now. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Sleep?” Kitt grinned. “Are you kidding? There are some really hunky docs out there. I’m gonna load this girl into a wheelchair. We’re goin’ cruisin’.”

  “Hey, Kitt,” I said, “I thought Ruby told me you were married.”

  “I am,” she said. “And I love my guy. But a little eye candy never hurt—and it doesn’t even have any calories.”

  Jake and I laughed. Gretchen sighed.

  “Kitt,” she said, “I don’t think I’m up to cruising. Not tonight, anyway.”

  On the way out of the hospital, I stopped at Julie’s reception desk. “Keep an eye on Gretchen and Kitt,” I said with a grin. “Kitt is threatening to take Gretchen cruising, looking for hunky docs. But the hunky docs just might come looking for them.”

  Julie is a mother and grandmother who likes to be involved in her kids’ lives, so I knew she would understand. “Oh, to be young again,” she said with a twinkle.

  • • •

  IT was after eight when McQuaid got back from Austin. Brian and Jake were playing a video game, in Brian’s room with the door open, standard operating procedure at our house when we have kid guests. Caitlin was putting her girls to bed in their coop, a ritual that involves saying a personal good night to each chicken, with congratulations and thanks for the egg laid that day. I had finished folding two loads of laundry and was curled up in my reading chair with the latest issue of The Herbarist (the annual journal of the Herb Society of America) and a glass of wine. McQuaid came into the room with a Lone Star beer and a bowl of stick pretzels and sat down in his recliner.

  “Whew,” he said. “Friday night traffic in Austin is a bitch, pure and simple.” He crunched a pretzel. “Make that ‘any night traffic in Austin,’” he said. “That city has gone from bad to worse, traffic-wise.”

  “Did you have any supper?” I closed the journal. “If not, you’ll have to forage. We finished the pizza, but there’s some bean salad left, and plenty of sandwich fixings.”

  “Thanks. I picked something up on the way home.” He paused. “Have you heard from the hospital today? How’s Karen Prior doing?”

  I took off my reading glasses and gave him the bad news. McQuaid had known Karen longer than I had and had worked with her on several faculty committees. He was as shocked and saddened—and angered—by the news as I had been. And when I related what had happened to Gretchen, his eyes grew even darker.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He chewed on the information for a while, adding it up. He came to the same conclusion I had. “You say you’ve got Gretchen’s laptop?”

  “Yes. Upstairs, in my bottom bureau drawer. I felt a little awkward about asking, but Gretchen seemed to get the point.”

  McQuaid put his beer down. “Let’s see if I have this right,” he said, in his cop voice. “Karen Prior was supervising the filming of a student documentary about a murder that took place thirteen or fourteen years ago here in Pecan Springs. She was attacked in the mall parking lot, but her purse wasn’t taken—doesn’t look like a robbery, and the circumstances suggest a prearranged meeting, maybe having to do with the documentary. One of the students was attacked two days later. Her camera and its memory cards were stolen.” He frowned. “So tell me about this cold case the students are filming.”

  “Here’s what I know.” I began to relate Ruby’s story about Christine Morris’ murder. I didn’t get very far.

  “W
hoa.” He held up a pretzel like a baton. “Christine Morris.”

  “Yes. She was married to—”

  “Douglas Clark. The developer.”

  “That’s right.” I eyed him curiously. “What do you know about the marriage?”

  “Nada. But I might know something about the divorce.” McQuaid nipped off the end of the pretzel. “In fact, my trip to Austin . . .” He paused, gave it a second thought, then said, “Okay. Go on with your story.” He popped the rest of the pretzel in his mouth.

  “You’re not going to tell me, huh?”

  I was not being snarky. Sometimes McQuaid discusses his cases with me; sometimes he doesn’t. When he first hung out his shingle, I promised myself I wouldn’t nag him for details, no matter how tantalizing the case might be or how much I might like to sink my lawyerly teeth into it. I’ve kept my word.

  “Maybe later,” he said, taking another swig of beer. “Go on.”

  I gave him the story at length and in detail, and not omitting my tangential connection to the case via my Houston ex–law firm buddy Johnnie Carlson, attorney for the defense, now deceased. And Johnnie’s theory of an alternative suspect, which the judge had kept from the jury. But which had turned out not to be necessary, because the jury had acquitted.

  McQuaid listened and worked on his beer. When I was finished, he said, “I need to let Charlie know about this. It might have some bearing on his reason for sending me to Austin today. Any problem with that?”

  “Of course not.” I added wryly, “But you might just ask Charlie if there’s any problem with your sharing your trip to Austin with me. Not that I’m curious, of course.”

  “What? You curious? Never.” McQuaid picked up his empty and heaved himself out of his chair. “I’ll talk to him right now. If he’s sober, that is.”

  “Good luck,” I said, putting on my reading glasses and picking up the journal again. Charlie is one of my favorite people, but he’s developed a serious drinking problem, especially on weekends. His weekend usually starts on Thursday night and ends, oh, around Tuesday, sometimes Wednesday. The drinking may be affecting his legal practice, but his clients are mostly local folks who have known him a long time and like him enough to take his failings in stride. At least they know what they’re getting into.