More Bitter Than Death

by Dana Cameron

  Brad gets five more minutes, I thought grumpily. I hated returning from that happy place that distraction takes you when you’re working out. Two more minutes, just to polish my form, and then I’m out of here. He should know better than to mess with—

  “Ah, good morning, Emma!”

  I kept staring at myself in the mirror, trying to keep my stance correct. I threw a very nice left hook, followed by a rather impressive, fully loaded right uppercut. Too bad all my best moves were always made out of the sight of my instructor, Nolan. Can I help it if my native modesty keeps me from doing my best when someone is watching?

  And he knows full well that cheery crap is exactly the wrong tack to take with me, I thought, sighing. “Yeah, morning, Brad.” I glanced at the clock: six forty-eight. “You’re late. What’s up?”

  “Still not a morning person, Em.” He shook his head and slung his towel over a chair. He was wearing loose drawstring trousers and a T-shirt with a Chinese dragon on it. “I wouldn’t have asked to meet you so early if it wasn’t important.”

  I personally couldn’t think of anything important enough to warrant being out of bed at this hour. Or even in bed, not asleep. Brian and I had an agreement: I wouldn’t try anything when American Chopper was on, and he didn’t make a pass at me before ten or eleven in the morning, if we had the opportunity to sleep in. I nodded, but I also pretended that it was Brad’s head I was smashing with my knee, before I finally stopped and got a drink from the water cooler. “No. What’s up?”

  Instead of answering me, though, Brad started doing yoga stretches. He made some interesting breathing noises, but sticking his butt out in the air like that was extremely ill-advised considering my present state of mind. I’m pretty good at kicking, especially when someone offers me a target like that. I drank some of my water and tried to think past my burgeoning headache.

  A few moments later, he looked up, dreamy-faced. “Sorry, I needed to get some good, deep breathing in. Breathing is so important.”

  “Yeah, I’m fond of it myself. What’s up?” And if you don’t answer me this time, I’m leaving.

  He sat up and twisted to one side, exhaling deeply before he answered. “It’s really important, and a bit personal. I didn’t want to talk in front of the others.”

  I nodded, trying not to cross my eyes with impatience. I also attempted one of his poses, the one I recognized as “the tree.” I made it, barely getting my right foot against my left knee as I stayed balanced, but it was harder than it looked. As I sat down, I revised my opinion of Brad’s perpetual look of anxious malnutrition; he was stronger and more flexible than I thought.

  “I’m thinking about making some changes in my life, Emma. I was wondering whether you would be willing—Hey, Carla!”

  Carla stuck her head inside the door; she was dressed in another abbreviated suitlet and already had makeup on. “Hey, Brad, Emma. Em, you look like shit.”

  “Don’t start with me, Carla, I’ve already got Brad over here picking on me and he—”

  “What can we do you for, Carla?” Brad interjected hastily. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes this time. He was worried I would reveal what we were talking about, and he hadn’t even told me yet.

  “Either of you seen Scott?”

  “Hell, no,” I began, but Carla looked really serious, even more so than she usually did before a session. For which she was also up too early. “Why would he be up yet? What’s wrong?”

  “I just gotta find him, in a hurry. Tell him I’m looking for him, if you see him, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Anything we can do?” I asked.

  “Just let him know I need him.” And she vanished.

  “She needs to relax a little,” Brad said absently. “I wonder if she’s getting enough fiber.”

  “Brad, if you don’t tell me what you called me down here for, at this ungodly hour, I will scream. Then I will hit you repeatedly until I feel better about us both.”

  He was foolish enough to think that was hyperbole, and did more painful-looking stretches and deep breathing. Thing was, I could tell he was trying to get himself screwed up to deal with something important. “Emma, it’s hard for me, okay? But I appreciate your eagerness to help.”

  “Let’s not confuse it with an eagerness to get out of here and get some coffee.” As soon as I said it, I felt bad. Brad’s face fell. He wasn’t the dearest of friends, and his earnestness was excruciating at times, but that didn’t mean I could treat him so casually. “I’m sorry, Brad. I’m a jerk. I’m not really up yet. What is it?”

  He took another deep breath, and the door burst open again. This time, it was Lissa. Her eyes were barely open. “Scott?”

  “Not here,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Carla’s looking for him” was all she muttered, and turned around to leave, walking straight into the doorjamb. “Aaoow.” She found her way out, but clearly not by sight. The door clicked behind her, and I looked expectantly at Brad.

  “Okay, now, quick.”

  “This isn’t going the way I wanted,” he muttered. “I’m usually much more together than this.”

  That much was true: If Brad were any more together, he would collapse in upon himself and implode. “You had a favor you wanted to ask me?” I tried.

  “Yes.” Relief on his face was palpable. “It’s just that I was hoping I could get you to—”

  The door opened a crack, and Chris stuck his head in. “Emma, have you—?”

  “No, I have no idea where Scott is,” I said. “Look, if you could just give us—”

  “I don’t care where Scott is,” he interrupted back. “I was going to ask if you had anything going during the first session. Something’s come up, and we need a moderator, post haste.”

  I did have something, but it was recreational and not nearly as important as whatever was making Chris look so worried. “Yeah, sure I can do it. What session is it?”

  “It’s the session on early sites assemblages, eight-thirty. It’s first thing, over in the Manchester Ballroom A.”

  I frowned, trying to recall the schedule. “So where’s Garrison, that he can’t moderate like he was supposed to?”

  Chris shook his head. “No one can find him. Scott went round to get him for the breakfast meeting—past presidents and board—and he wasn’t in his room. We have no idea where Garrison is.”

  Garrison was missing? That wasn’t so unusual—like his performance last night, he pretty much came and went as he liked—but it was strange for Scott to be concerned about it. “Okay, I’ll go get dressed,” I told Chris. He nodded, a look of relief on his face.

  “Thanks, Em,” he said, slipping back through the doorway.

  I turned back to Brad. “Okay, I’ve got to get going. Is it something you can tell me real quick?”

  He hesitated, weighing the unsatisfying choices, then he blurted, “Yes. I want a letter of recommendation from you. I’m thinking of moving from Pennsylvania to Connecticut, and I don’t want it to get around. I’d appreciate your discretion in this, Emma.”

  I wasn’t surprised that he wanted to be discreet; this would be a big move, from one tenured position, presumably to another. “Where to?”

  “The Connecticut University job.”

  “Lot of competition, I’ll bet.” I wondered why I hadn’t heard about the opening there yet. Not that I was particularly interested in moving from Caldwell College in Maine—it had the advantage of being close to my areas of study and I’d recently gotten tenure—but one always liked to keep an ear to the ground. What did surprise me was that Brad was willing to uproot his perfect family from their perfect home and resettle them in a different state. Still, it was good money, I’d bet, and a lot of prestige. It had been Garrison’s first tenured position. “Wow. How’s Francine feel about it?”

  He wobbled a bit as he moved through a “moon salute.” “I haven’t said anything to her yet. I don’t want to, until I know I’ve got a chance.”

  Well, he’
s going to have to tell his wife when he starts flying off for interviews, I thought. I’d be nervous if I had to spring something like that on Brian, too, but Brad was good at what he did, and the job would be a good fit. “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said. “We can talk about this later, okay? I guess I have to hustle, if I’m going to help out with the session.”

  “Sure, thanks, no problem. I’ll catch you later.” And Brad went back to happily tying himself up in knots, smiling sincerely for the first time that morning.

  I ran back upstairs, took a brisk shower—it started out okay, but the water came in cold bursts as more people woke up and caused competition. I got dressed as quickly as I could because it was still freezing in my room. I called down to the desk while I toweled my hair, and this time, got an answer and reassurances that they were working on the problem with the schizophrenic thermometer and would have it fixed soon. A few more minutes of preening, and it was just past seven-thirty. I had time for a cup of coffee and a muffin before it was time to go on, if they still needed me. That was good, as I wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors if I went down to the session sans caffeine.

  The General Bartlett Hotel had two restaurants, one a diner-themed coffee shop that did quick breakfast and lunch items. The other was a fancier sit-down affair, all dark greens and heavy wood, that seemed to be having a breakfast buffet at the moment and was packed to the rafters. I didn’t care about anything so much as coffee now, and found that the coffee shop was full, too. Luck was with me in the guise of Lissa. I forced my way through the crowd as politely as I could—which was straining it, by this time—and found she’d saved me a seat at her table for two.

  Whatever else we did not agree on—and sometimes that seemed to be almost everything—Lissa and I understood that there were some things that were sacred. For both of us morning coffee and its worship was one of them. Lissa nodded at the chair, and I nodded back as I took it. I turned over the mug and poured from the carafe on the table, sniffing at the coffee before I sipped. So far, I’d been unimpressed with the workings of the hotel, however great it might have looked on the outside and in the public spaces. To my surprise, the coffee was great: hot, strong, flavorful. I didn’t focus on the exact nature of the flavors because I was functioning only on lizard brain; gourmet identifications came only after more basic functions were up and running.

  Lissa waited until I’d got through the first cup, and then didn’t bother with the preliminaries. “I still haven’t seen the waitress since she dropped that off. We’ll have to stand on the chairs and scream if she doesn’t show up soon.”

  I nodded. Drastic times called for drastic measures. More coffee flooded into my system and I began to acknowledge my extremities.

  I’d made my way through the second cup when our server shuffled over.

  “HiI’mEleni.” She said it all as one word, looking away from us to the cashier, who seemed to be of far more interest to her. “I’ll be your server. What can I get you?”

  “More coffee,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Lissa.

  “And a bagel, toasted, with cream cheese,” I said. “Please.”

  But Eleni did not seem to be registering our presence, much less our needs. She was looking at the cook, a young man frenetically wielding a spatula by the grill.

  “Busy today,” I observed, trying to get her attention back to us and our order.

  She sighed. “I had a helluva night last night.”

  Eleni didn’t strike me as having a lot on the ball, so I asked her to bring my check, too, when she returned with the food. She nodded, distracted again, and shambled away. Her feet scuffed along the ground like she was wearing bedroom slippers.

  “She had a helluva night last night,” I informed Lissa.

  Lissa put down her cup and glared at Eleni’s back. She drew a deep breath, as if she was going to tell me exactly what she thought of Eleni’s late night, then found the effort too much, and settled for another sip of coffee.

  Ten long minutes later, we got another carafe of coffee, and I got my bagel. The coffee was again surprisingly good, and Lissa and I had eventually worked our way up to communicating with meaningful grunts and squeaks.

  “Eve didn’t eat an apple,” Lissa said, at last.

  “Huh?”

  “She ate coffee beans. That was what was on the tree of knowledge.”

  “Ah.” I wiped my mouth and pushed my chair back.

  “Emma, mind if I take your place?” Jay had materialized behind me; he looked like he’d been up way too late last night.

  “Knock yourself out,” I said, throwing my napkin down.

  “Lissa says you saw the ghost last night,” he said, sitting down and shoving my cup out of his way.

  “Lissa’s a drama queen and a damned gossip,” I replied. “I didn’t see anything, I heard a noise. There was no ghost.”

  She stuck her tongue out at me, then said, “Someone’s got to keep things from getting too serious around here.”

  “Like that’s a problem. I’ve gotta run, I want to get down to the session a little early to introduce myself,” I said. “Later, guys.”

  “Knock ’em dead, Em,” Lissa called after me.

  I waved and headed for the partitioned ballroom where I found Scott pacing once again at the back of the meeting space. He was so big and the space so small that he could have used a tug boat.

  “Good, Chris found you?” he said. He was wearing a blue rosette that said “President.” It might as well have been a target.

  “Yep. No sign of Garrison?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Scott’s pen was clicking away like mad. “He’s always done this, decides that he’s not bothered, or uninterested, or that this is all beneath him, or is off staring at dust motes or something. But you’d think this once, he’d cut it out.”

  I shrugged. “If he shows up, I’ll hand it over to him.”

  Suddenly, a burden had tumbled off his back and the sun broke through the clouds. “Thanks, Em. I appreciate it. I’ll get you a drink later.”

  “You can get me two drinks later; I was supposed to be taking it easy this weekend,” I groused. “Half the reason I worked so hard to get off the board was to get out of getting up so early.”

  He smiled broadly, knowing that I was only kidding, and I remembered why we were friends. “Okay, two drinks. The good stuff. You’re a peach.”

  I find it absurdly sweet when Scott calls me a peach, for some reason. Maybe it’s the novelty of the name, which is so old-fashioned, maybe it’s Scott himself, who really did work hard to make things come out right for everyone. Scott left to see if he could locate Garrison—again—and I introduced myself to the members of the session. Since I was just there to keep time and introduce folks, I didn’t have to say anything particularly clever, which was good, because the session was on European tobacco pipe manufacturers. While, like every good archaeologist, I have a set of drill bits in my bag—to measure the diameter of the pipe stem bores to get an idea of the manufacturing date—any further expertise was limited to where to get started looking in the library. Maybe I’d pick up something edifying today.

  After I checked in with the presenters and made sure they were all ready and accounted for, I explained to the audience that I’d be moderating instead of Dr. Garrison, who was presently unavailable, and got right down to the business of introducing the first thirty-minute paper.

  Instead of sitting down in the front row, I hung out over by the side of the room, near the light switches, to keep that end of things running smoothly at least. Standing up kept me from falling asleep, and it gave me a good view of the audience as they settled in for the talks. A few latecomers straggled in, glancing nervously around to make sure they weren’t disturbing anyone, but the last stayed by the door, holding it open to finish a whispered conversation with someone outside the room. I frowned, and was just about to sneak back and ask whomever it was to come in or go out, when the door quietly shut, and I realized I was glar
ing at Duncan Thayer. That jerked me out of the sleepiness that was stealing over me.

  Unlike the others, he didn’t seem to mind whether he was disrupting anyone, and he stepped into room, but stood to the side of the door, as if he wouldn’t be staying long. He eventually glanced around, an old trick of his, to see who was here, and saw me staring at him. He gave me a casual nod of the head, a you-know-how-it-is-at-these-things gesture, and I raised an eyebrow, and pointedly returned my attention to the speaker, who was going on about the change in marks over time in a pipe factory in southwest England. Nothing drove Duncan crazier than the idea that someone could resist him.

  The next two papers rounded out the first ninety minutes, and in the middle of the fourth, there was another, louder disturbance by the door. Again I could see that Duncan was involved, and now faces—including that of the speaker—were turning toward them and back to me. I rushed to the back of the room while the speaker continued hesitantly, not knowing whether he should stop.

  “Could you please keep it down,” I hissed. I looked from Duncan to the person he’d been speaking with and saw to my surprise that it was Scott, who looked pale as a sheet of paper and slick with sweat. “What’s wrong?”

  He took my arm and pulled me out of the room. Duncan followed.

  “We found Garrison, Em.” Scott swallowed a couple of times. “He’s…he’s dead.”

  “Oh, jeez,” I said, shoulders slumping. “What was it, his heart or something?”

  “They found him outside. They think it was exposure, but it might have been his head.”

  “What do you mean? Like a stroke?”

  “I dunno, it could be.” Scott looked off, then straight at me. “He was out on the pond behind the hotel. Out on the ice. There was a hell of a lot of blood. His head was split open.”

  Chapter 5

  “THEY SAID IT LOOKED LIKE HE FELL ON THE ICE, and cracked his head open,” Scott continued. He was shaking like a leaf, and it scared me to see him so. He exchanged a look with Duncan, and I found myself suppressing an urge to shoo Duncan away.