Quick Study

by Maggie Barbieri

  He rolled over and put his arm around me. “Well, we’re going to question everyone she’s spoken to in the last forty-eight hours, for starters.”

  And that could be me, I thought.

  “And everyone she’s dealt with in a sales capacity.”

  Me, again. But I was sure that Crawford would make it so I wouldn’t be dragged into this.

  “So, let me know your schedule so we can get you down to the precinct or so Carmen and Moran can stop by your office.” He rolled onto his back again. “Obviously, my questioning you would be a conflict of interest.”

  I sat up. “You’re not serious?”

  He chuckled. “As a heart attack.”

  “I’m going to be questioned in relation to this?”

  “Yep.”

  I lay back down. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  Considering my lawyer was Crawford’s brother, the conflict of interest had just gotten more complicated. And more conflicted.

  Crawford reached over me and turned on the light next to my side of the bed. I could see that he was smiling. “Relax. It’s just procedure. Carmen knows you had nothing to do with this. But you and Madeleine might have talked about something that will give us a clue as to who did this.”

  I relaxed a little bit. “Do you have any ideas at all?”

  “Not a clue.” He rolled out of the bed and pulled on his pants. “So, if you think of anything, let me know.”

  “Our conversation ranged from which fake apartment did I want to which other fake apartment did I want. Nothing more.”

  He sat back down on the bed and prepared to put his shoes on.

  “How’s your sciatica?” I asked.

  He contemplated that. “It still hurts a little bit.”

  “Do you think you need more massage?” I asked.

  “I think I might.”

  I pulled him back down on the bed. “You won’t need your shoes for that. Trust me.”

  Twenty-Two

  Just like a year earlier, when my car had been stolen, I was taking the train to work. I had returned Crawford’s car to him the day before and was awaiting the return of my own car, which would have four new tires when I got it back. But because of an “extreme backup” they wouldn’t be able to get my car back to me until early the following week, leaving me to trudge back and forth from the Dobbs Ferry train station and the station near school. By the time I got to school that morning, I was cranky and tired.

  Crawford had stayed almost the whole night, leaving at five in the morning. Because of the strenuous activity that we had engaged in during the night, I didn’t want him to go to work without having breakfast, so I heated up some leftover chicken francese and pasta from the party over the weekend and sent him off full, albeit a little green around the gills. He admitted that he wasn’t used to having copious amounts of garlic so early in the morning and by the time he was done eating, he was a little queasy. He even passed on a cup of coffee, opting instead for a glass of seltzer.

  Good thing I was so amazing in bed; my skills in the kitchen certainly weren’t going to keep him around.

  He looked exhausted, but despite my desire to see him again that night, I told him to go home as early as possible and get some sleep. I had a full day of teaching and didn’t know if I would be up to another night with him. The man was wearing me out.

  But in the best way possible.

  I arrived at my office promptly at nine and bid good morning to Dottie, who was engrossed in the daily jumble from the local paper. She was painstakingly circling letters that corresponded to the puzzle clues and barely acknowledged me, so intent was she on finding the right answers. I decided to leave her to the business at hand and went straight to my office to get started on the day.

  My phone was ringing as I inserted the key in the lock and I fumbled for a few seconds with the doorknob before getting in. I threw my bag onto the guest chair that fronted the bookcase and grabbed the phone a half ring before it went to voice mail. It was Max.

  “So, Madeleine Cranston,” she said, mid-conversation even though I had just picked up.

  “I know. Isn’t it awful?” I asked, moving around my desk and falling into the wheeled desk chair behind it. The force of my body propelled the chair backward and I careered into the file cabinet next to my desk, a framed picture of Mark Messier falling on me. I grabbed the top of my head.

  “You OK?” Max asked.

  I groaned. “Yes,” I said. “Did Fred tell you about Madeleine?”

  “First thing when he got home. And you know he never talks. I think he was in shock.”

  “Crawford, too. You never expect something like that, but with Hernan going missing, I’m sure they assumed it was him.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Did Crawford say anything about the medical examiner?”

  “Are you still on that?” I asked. This was getting old already and it was only the second time that she had brought it up. Was I this whiny? Wait—I didn’t want an answer to that question.

  “No,” she protested weakly. “Not really.”

  “Because I saw her and she’s just a short lady with red hair. She’s no Morag Moragna,” I said dramatically. “And she’s really no Maxine Rayfield.”

  “Oh, but who is?” Max said, laughing softly. I could tell that a nerve had been touched but I still couldn’t figure out why. Fred worshipped Max and anyone could see that. “Really? Is she fat?”

  “Fat? Obese! I think she has a hump on her back, too.” I waited a minute, thinking about whether to ask her what this all stemmed from. If Fred had a thing for this woman, I certainly couldn’t see it. He had a gorgeous, successful wife whom he had waited a long time for. What would make him risk it all for a short redhead in scrubs?

  Max returned to the subject of the case. “They said the cause of death was blunt force trauma,” she said. “The old hard object to the cranium. That’s gotta hurt.”

  “I’ll say,” I agreed. “The weird thing is that she was found in her car. Did you see that in the paper?”

  “I did.”

  “I wonder what that’s about.” I would have loved to get Crawford’s thoughts on that but I knew that none would be forthcoming. “Who would want to kill her? Any ideas?”

  “What do you think? You’re pretty good at this stuff. You must have some idea.”

  I thought for a moment. “Not a clue. But guess who has to go down to the Fiftieth Precinct for questioning?” I asked, not giving her the opportunity to venture a guess. “Me!”

  “How come?” she asked, digging into what sounded like a plate of ball bearings.

  “Oh, I went down there the other day and pretended I was interested in buying an apartment because I wanted to snoop around.”

  “Now that’s a really smart thing to do. Way to go, Nancy Drew.” She ate some more ball bearings. “Who’s questioning you? Not Hot Pants, I presume?”

  “No,” I said, rubbing the top of my head some more. I rolled the chair closer to my desk, careful to avoid the broken glass on the floor from the framed photo. “Carmen Montoya. Or maybe Arthur Moran.”

  “She of the giant derriere? He of the tight polyester pants?”

  “Yes. And yes.”

  “Take my advice,” Max said, soberly. I listened carefully, thinking that she had some kind of sage advice for me. Why don’t I ever learn? “Make sure you leave the room first. You don’t want her getting wedged in the doorway and holding you hostage until they grease her up and get her unstuck.” She let out a huge guffaw, really impressed with the image and her own sense of humor. Or lack thereof.

  “Will do,” I said, not realizing that she had already hung up on me. I laughed sarcastically to myself. Why was nobody concerned that I had to be questioned by the police but me? Even the police didn’t seem too concerned—Montoya or Moran hadn’t been waiting for me at my office or even left me a voice mail.

  I turned my attention to my e-mail and began to
answer the twenty or so students and colleagues who had sent me messages on a variety of topics, including what kind of cheese was appropriate for the English Honor Society meeting that would be held later in the week. I was the default cheese chooser, given my heritage and known relation to half of the cheese makers in Canada. I kept it simple: a wheel of Brie and some kind of hard cheese. I really hoped that Sister Mary didn’t take that to mean Velveeta.

  I launched into a virtuoso performance, sotto voce, of a conversation about Velveeta between me and Sister Mary. I do a wicked Sister Mary impression but I’m really the only one who appreciates it. Kevin would, but he’s just too damned kind and holy. Crawford would, but Sister Mary scares the bejesus out of him so I’m not allowed to say her name around him, let alone mimic her thick Irish brogue and love of arcane Latin phrases. And Max had been a math major and had never crossed paths with Sister Mary during her time at St. Thomas. So I was left to crack myself up with the sound of my own voice querying, “Quid pro Velveeta? Carpe Velveeta, my dear?” I asked solemnly, then turning to my favorite. “Veni, vidi, Velveeta, Alison?”

  Not befitting her usual custom, Sister Mary knocked and entered simultaneously, catching me mid-Latin. I spun around and faced her, my face turning a deep red. “Sister! Hello!”

  She stood in the doorway for a few seconds regarding me, her hand on the knob. I couldn’t discern the look on her face; she always looks pissed off and today was no different. After a few seconds, she revealed her intent. “By ‘hard’ cheese, do you mean something in the Parmigiano-Reggiano family or something in the cheddar family?” she asked, her tone neutral.

  My voice had left me so I cleared my throat. “Either.”

  She nodded slowly. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. But cheddar is much less expensive so that might be a good choice.”

  “And a crowd-pleaser,” she said in a monotone, narrowing her eyes. Her miraculous medal, a round gold circle with the Virgin Mary emblazoned in the center, caught the sunlight from my giant windows, nearly blinding me. Serves me right, I thought. Blinded by the holiest woman who ever lived.

  “And a crowd-pleaser,” I repeated. I smiled broadly.

  “Thank you, dear.” She exited, pulling the door closed behind her but not before giving me a withering look.

  I put my hand to my heart, which was thudding in my chest. What is wrong with you? I asked myself. I didn’t have an answer. I remembered the broken glass on the floor behind my desk and busied myself cleaning it up, hoping that the previous thirty seconds would vanish into thin air and I could begin the day again.

  A second knock at the door startled me and I narrowly missed hitting my head again on the underside of my desk. Two possible hematomas in one day; that was a record, even for me. I couldn’t say that I didn’t deserve them, given my less than Christian behavior toward my saintly, albeit kind of cranky, boss. I went to the door, my hand on top of my still-throbbing head.

  “This day is getting better and better,” I muttered when I laid eyes on Detectives Carmen Montoya and Arthur Moran.

  He hitched his pants up by his belt and gave me a smirk. “Not happy to see us, Dr. Bergeron?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, holding the door open wide. “Please come in.”

  Carmen sashayed in and took a gander at the floor-to-ceiling windows that took up one side of my office. “Nice view,” she said.

  Actually, it’s not that nice a view. It looks onto the back steps of the building and beyond that, the nuns’ cemetery. But I was done being contrary, so I smiled, nodded, and made a little sound in agreement.

  She settled into one of the chairs across from my desk while Moran stood sentry at the door to the office, which he had closed. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t going anywhere, but Crawford once told me that he’s a little trigger happy so I didn’t want to give him any reason to fill me full of slugs. He rested his hand lightly on the gun on his hip and I got a little queasy.

  Carmen smiled. “Now.” She pulled a little notebook and pen out of her leather bag and held them on her lap. “Let’s talk about your relationship with Madeleine Cranston.”

  I held up a hand. “No relationship. Let’s be clear about that.”

  She wrote in her notebook “no relationship.” Or so I assumed. It could have been a notation on my stupidity for even speaking to Madeleine Cranston and mucking up their investigation. “Well, what would you call it?”

  I thought that over. Moran fidgeted by the doorway and I looked at him again, watching his hand caress the gun. I looked back at Carmen. “Can I be honest?”

  Her dark eyes narrowed and I realized she was smiling. “Please.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, you know that I know . . . well, you know that I know Mr. Escalante,” I stuttered. I took another deep breath. “I wanted to help the Escalante family, so I thought I would snoop around Riviera Pointe a little bit to see what I could find out about Jose Tomasso’s murder.”

  Carmen waited a beat before asking, “And?”

  I don’t know how her backside was doing, but mine was falling asleep in my uncomfortable desk chair. I blurted out the next part, more than a little embarrassed by the confession. “So I pretended I wanted to buy an apartment so that I could talk to Madeleine Cranston and visit the sales office I know it was a stupid thing to do but I couldn’t help myself do you know how expensive those apartments are?”

  She kept looking at me but she had stopped smiling. “You pretended that you wanted to buy an apartment so you went to the sales office?” she asked, looking over at Moran, who had gone into some kind of fugue state at my admission. Montoya looked at me for a good two to three minutes before she could speak again. “And what were you going to tell her when it came time to make a commitment?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” My voice sounded small. Nothing like a confident and assertive woman with a real excuse to sleuth to make me feel like a giant moron. I had to admit: she was much better at making me feel guilty than Crawford. You don’t learn that stuff in school, yet she was a professional. Must have been the mom gene.

  I looked down at my desk. The good thing was that my head didn’t hurt anymore.

  “You know you were one of the last people to see Madeleine Cranston alive?” Moran asked. I could tell by the way that Montoya looked at him that she had had a few more questions to ask me before they got to that little tidbit. He looked down, a little shamefaced.

  That couldn’t be good. “What about Richie?” I asked. In my mind, all roads led to Richie.

  “What about him?”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  Montoya was losing patience with me and it was apparent. “About what?” she asked.

  About killing her? I thought, but I kept that to myself. “About all this?”

  Moran leaned on my desk with both hands and got in my face. “He said that he’s very sorry. Now, what about you?”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said. Jeez, wasn’t that obvious? I wheeled a few inches back from Moran’s sweaty face. I was glad that I wasn’t the only perspiring person in the room. The mood had suddenly gotten very tense and I wasn’t sure why. I resisted the urge to break the tension by asking Montoya if she considered cheddar cheese a crowd-pleaser and/or a hard cheese.

  Montoya stared at me for a few more minutes. In those moments, I could see that she had decided that I didn’t warrant their time and while she was disgusted that I had mucked around in their case, wasted the dead woman’s time, and made a general nuisance of myself, I really was quite innocuous, not to mention innocent. And an idiot. It was all there, written on her face. She smiled and stood. “We may have more questions for you so we may contact you in the coming days,” she said, holding out her hand to me to shake. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Moran stormed out. These two needed to watch more television to see how to behave. One of them was supposed to be the good cop, the other the bad cop. Even Crawford and Fred knew that.

  I
watched Montoya make her way through the office area, mesmerized by her behind. That was one amazing set of hindquarters. The ringing phone in my office finally brought me back to consciousness and I rushed in to pick it up before it went to voice mail.

  Crawford. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up,” he started.

  “They just left.”

  “Oh.”

  I waited a few seconds and when he didn’t say anything else, I erupted. “Don’t you want to know how it went?!” I shouted.

  “Sure,” he said calmly.

  “Not good!”

  “They think you did it?”

  “No! They think I’m a moron who’s not good enough for you!”

  “That’s what they said?”

  “They didn’t have to. It was written all over their faces.” I put an arm on my desk and laid my head on top of it.

  “Do you even care what they think?”

  “Yes,” I said, and then relented. “No!” I took in a gulp of air. “Sort of.”

  He was silent. “I’ve got to go,” he said finally. “I’ll call you later. Love you.”

  I hate being questioned by the cops and my mood was sour. “I love you, too,” I said, my heart not in it.

  “Gee, thanks,” he said, and hung up.

  That didn’t go well. I turned back to my computer in the hopes of cleaning out some of my e-mail before going to class. I opened my browser, and my home page, that of our local newspaper, flashed on the screen; a full-size picture of Madeleine Cranston stared back at me.

  I read the headline and got a little queasier.

  Never in a million years would I have pegged Madeleine Cranston for an undercover FBI agent.

  Twenty-Three

  If I had been smart, I would have gone home, gotten into bed, and tried to wipe that day completely from my mind.

  But I’m not that smart.

  I’m not such an idiot that I don’t understand that Crawford has to keep certain things from me. But the fact that he had known all along that Madeleine Cranston was an FBI agent, yet had chosen not to tell me, made me irate.