A Fugitive Truth

by Dana Cameron

  And speaking of sane—“Honey! You cooked for me!”

  I was mildly shocked to see Michael, fully dressed, subdued smart-casual, overcoat, and all, practically waltzing into the kitchen.

  “Michael?”

  “Gooood morning, Auntie!” He pirouetted over to the counter and helped himself to a cup of coffee.

  This was not the enigmatic, secretive man I remembered from the evening before. “Pardon me for saying so, Michael, but you seem…happy…about something.”

  “Oh I am, Emma, I am.” He set his cup down and, hopping backwards, tried to hoist himself up to sit on the counter. His right arm buckled, and with a little groan, he missed the counter, smacking his butt hard on the floor.

  Although he winced when he rubbed his wrist, even that didn’t seem to faze him. Michael reached up for his coffee and continued as if he’d achieved precisely what he’d intended. “The gods punish me for attempting to be spry: I offer them the fit meat of hubris, and every time, they eat it up. But still I resist, I try.” He thought about that and then frowned briefly. “Unfortunately, that’s the clinical definition of hubris and one doesn’t really beat the gods at their own game. But no matter.”

  “Look, Michael, I’ve been thinking about what you said last night—” I began.

  His dopey adolescent grin returned. “Last night? Last night? What happened last night?”

  “Well, we both used the word callous, and I think—”

  I stopped when Michael continued to look confused. For a minute, I thought he was trying to embarrass me into recounting the entire situation, but then his face cleared. “Oh. That? You actually listened to what I said? And then you thought about it? To borrow a phrase from Jack, dearie gracious me. Ah, no matter. I’m pretty certain there should be no lasting harmful effects.” He vaulted up onto his feet, actually no mean trick as he was still entangled in the loose tails of his coat. “Down, boy, down!” he said, slapping the overcoat away. “My editor said that those tests that the FDA performed on my last book were inconclusive at best.”

  “As long as there are no hard feelings—” I offered.

  Michael abruptly coughed violently, spraying a mouthful of coffee all over the sink. Startled, I tried to pat him on the back, but he waved me off while he tried to draw a clear breath, coughing all the while. And standing so close by, I was forced to notice that he was wearing an unabashedly musky cologne; I was suddenly and forcefully reminded of all the documentaries I’d seen where they described how male animals marked their territory and attracted mates by smell. Jack’s Brut seemed like a meek afterthought, by comparison.

  “Ach, Nicole Miller ties are not enhanced by staining—good thing I had my overcoat, eh?”

  I shook my head sadly.

  “You speak of hard feelings,” he continued, “not knowing I’m about to meet the vituperative Wife Number Three. She rang up this morning, trying to get more alimony out of me, when she knows there can’t possibly be a farthing left in the coffers. Numbers One and Two—”

  My jaw dropped. “You’ve been married three times?” He couldn’t have been too far off forty-five, at most.

  “Four, actually.” Michael looked annoyed. “I was about to say, Numbers One and Two are currently plotting with Number Four. I think Number Three is acting on her own this time—the other Weird Sisters would never consider anything so banal as mere finance. The four of them are constantly scheming, fighting, dispersing, regrouping. And yet, always to my disadvantage.”

  He went on thoughtfully, index finger raised as if trying to articulate a bit of life wisdom. “Never marry anyone who teaches at the same college you do, Emma, you wouldn’t believe how it can work against you.”

  Michael raised a second finger to tick off the next of his tenets. “And if you do marry someone who teaches where you do, make sure you don’t do it more than three times—I’m pretty sure now that four’s beyond the safe limit.” He sipped. “Anyway, Number Three is meeting me in Boston today to wrangle.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” I remembered that I had been meaning to ask him about the quote in Madam Chandler’s diary, but other events had distracted me. “Well, maybe after you get back, you’d be willing to look at a quote for me. I think it’s a Classical philosopher, but I don’t know for certain. That might cheer you up—”

  Michael was impatient and forgiving all at once. “Dear child, there’ll be no need of cheering.” He explained: “When Number Three says she wants to discuss money, she really means that she wants to work herself into such a violent froth of animosity that the only relief for the little piranha is to rend our mutual clothing and attempt to subdue me through coitus. I’m happy to say that I give in every time.”

  I was still trying to wrap my head around this when Michael took his leave, still looking uncharacteristically jaunty.

  “Ta-ta, Auntie. Send the SWAT teams to the Parker House if I’m not back by Sunday night.” He rubbed his hands together greedily. “With any luck, there’ll be a hostage situation!”

  I watched as Michael started up his rattletrap Mazda and roared off with one of Edith Piaf’s melancholy songs blaring through the rolled-up windows. He had to be the most outlandish, most mercurial person I’d ever met; jaded and charismatic, incisive, rude, brilliant, and at times, just plain weird.

  And if I was being perfectly honest, damned attractive. I’d found myself carefully resisting his odd charm a little more vehemently than I liked. I frowned. Michael was exactly the kind of guy who would have gotten me into trouble in high school, whispering rude and witty things so that I laughed and got busted while he wore an angelic look on his face. I didn’t want to find him amusing. I didn’t want to think him attractive.

  I also noticed that I never did get around to asking him about his relationship with Faith.

  After a brisk walk to the library, I decided I’d spend my time tracking down some data on Reverend Blanchard, but what I found in my carrel was enough to detour me from that mission. A handwritten note on top of my stack of reference books was waiting for me.

  Emma,

  You are certainly not forgiven for being such a bully. I am not the dunce that everyone seems to think I am and I would consider it a tiny kindness if you might keep that in mind.

  JACK

  P.S. I’m sure you’ll be extremely pleased to know that I did think of something else, and will be discussing it with the detective shortly.

  Whew! Jack certainly has his priorities straight, tick me off first, then let me know that he did actually come up with something about Faith’s movements early Thursday. I looked around but he was nowhere to be found, and I couldn’t tell when he’d written the note.

  I worked for a while after that, but Jack’s comment about the authorities got me wondering about a number of things, and I realized with a start that I actually knew someone who might be able to answer my questions. I dug out my cell phone and getting a tolerably good signal in the lobby, punched a number that I never suspected I remembered and hardly believed I would ever use again.

  “Fordham County Sheriff’s Office. How can I direct your call?” a crisp voice with a mild Maine accent answered.

  “I was wondering if I could leave a message for Sheriff Stannard to call me when he gets in on Monday.”

  “Ma’am, he’s in the office today, would you like me to put you through?”

  “Thanks, yes.”

  A momentary pause was followed by Muzak. Sheriff Dave Stannard had stood by me when others had pressured him to arrest me as a suspect in a murder; he’d also been willing to listen to my opinion when he was out of his depths in looking at clues, where they overlapped with my professional expertise.

  Part of me realized that I’d given Dave Stannard’s name and number to Detective Kobrinski for exactly the same reason that I was calling him and not Detective Bader, even though Bader lived and worked in Massachusetts. I didn’t have much of a personal relationship with Detective Bader; I kept in touch with Dave through
occasional e-mails and cards that had followed me doing a talk about archaeology at his girls’ schools, but he was in Maine and I was now living in Massachusetts. Brian had a much higher probability of running into Detective Bader than he would of finding out I’d been asking questions of Sheriff Stannard.

  Almost as though the thought of him summoned him, the man himself answered. “Dave Stannard.”

  “Sheriff, this is Emma Fielding. The archaeologist. You remember, I—”

  “It’s been a while, Professor Fielding, but I doubt I could forget you.” His voice was as warm and comfortable as buttered toast with tea. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just had a few questions, but if you’re busy right now…”

  “Naw, there’s nothing going on.” The sheriff chuckled pleasantly. “I’m just in today because so many folks called in with the flu. Good thing I’m not partial to college basketball, or I’d be out sick too. What can I do for you?”

  I knew better than to be fooled by that down-East, good ol’ boy patter. Dave Stannard was indeed down East and the Yankee equivalent of a good ol’ boy, but there was nothing but shrewd thoughtfulness behind it all. Recalling that, I was suddenly a little shy about telling him the reason I called.

  “I’m sort of…helping out with…another investigation.”

  There was a pause before he spoke. “I guess by investigation you don’t mean some fraternity pranks over at Caldwell College,” he said briefly.

  “No, I’m not in Caldwell right now, I’m in western Massachusetts, near Monroe.”

  Another barely detectable pause before he said, “Okay, what have you got?”

  I told him about finding Faith and about my confrontation with Detective Sergeant Kobrinski. “But what I was really wondering about was…well, how Faith died. I know it sounds stupid, but I don’t know what happens when someone drowns. Could you answer some questions for me?”

  There was such a long silence that I almost imagined I could hear the waves crashing on the wintry beach just five miles away from the Sheriff’s Department. “You know, Professor, I’m not sure I’m real comfortable second-guessing a fellow officer—”

  “Oh, no, I’m not trying to get involved,” I hurriedly reassured him. “I was just the first one to find Faith. And…I sort of…knew her from a while ago.”

  Another moment passed while Stannard digested that little morsel.

  “Look, I really am just trying to do a little research,” I pleaded. “Faith’s death, accidental or not, has been bothering me, and I thought if I understood a little about what actually happens when a person drowns, physically, I mean, I might be able to sort of…calm down. Focus on my own work again. Honest. Can you help me out? What about…the person I met in your office a couple of years ago?”

  There was a long pause. “You mean Dr. Moretti?”

  “Yes, I think that’s right.”

  He took so long to answer me that for a moment I wondered if he was going to.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m still here,” Stannard replied. “I’m just thinking. She’s got a really odd way about her sometimes. I wonder if you wouldn’t be better off just looking in the encyclopedia or online or something.”

  Suddenly, my stomach went queasy as I recalled my first encounter with the ME. I realized that although I had intentionally blotted her manner from my memory, she was exactly who I needed to talk to. “You think she’d be willing to answer a couple of questions?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes. You won’t have any trouble getting her to tell you all you want to know. The trick is to get her to…well, to be honest, getting her to stop.” Dave Stannard sounded a little reluctant.

  “Look, at this point, I’ll take anything,” I reassured him. “Can you give me her number? And is there any chance she’d be in on a Saturday too?”

  “I’m almost positive; she’s dangerously in love with her work.” He gave me Dr. Moretti’s number.

  I scribbled it down. “Okay, thanks, Sheriff. I really appreciate this. And don’t worry. I just need to know these things so I can make sense of them for myself. I won’t be a nuisance to the detective. I’ve got my own work to do.”

  “I’m sure you’ll try,” Stannard said. “You know, Emma, I kind of got the impression that you’re one of those folks who can’t help themselves when they get an idea in their heads. Now, I’m not going to tell you what to do, and you already said that you’re going to let the police do their work. But look after yourself. Take care.”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure, Dave. Thanks for your help.”

  “Talk to you real soon.” The sheriff hung up.

  I looked up at the clock and figured I had enough time for one more quick call before I went back to the house. Then I dialed the number that Dave Stannard had given me hesitantly.

  “Morgue,” came the impatient answer. It was a woman’s voice, a 1940s-cinema soprano loaded with creosote and cigarette smoke.

  Even though I recognized it immediately, I stumbled mentally, remembering the gnomelike woman. “I’m trying to reach Dr. Theresa Moretti.”

  “Well, don’t strain yourself too hard, chickie-pie, you got her.”

  I cringed at her creaky joviality. “Sheriff Stannard gave me your number, thought you could answer a question for me—” I started.

  “Well, isn’t that nice of him! Boy-o thinks I got nothing better to do than be the Shell Answer Man!”

  “It won’t take long,” I promised. I’d dealt with plenty of cranky folks; I could handle her, I thought.

  “Who is this, by the way? Momma told little Terry never talk to strangers. Speak up, I got a couple of friends here that aren’t getting any sweeter waiting on me! Oh, hang on a second—”

  I heard the phone’s mouthpiece muffled ineffectually, and the voice carried on like a rusty coffin hinge haranguing someone who was apparently in the room with her.

  “No, no, no, Ernie! For the love of…Nooo!”

  There was a very long pause on the other end of the line.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake…Well, pick it up. G’wan, it won’t bite! I know it’s got dirt on it, but I won’t tell if you won’t…Just wash it off, little dust ain’t gonna bother him any, now…Weigh it before you put it back in!”

  Eeeeyew! I thought to myself. As the hapless Ernie received more abuse, I remembered that Theresa Moretti had reminded me of a diminutive version of the Wicked Witch of the West, voice, attitude, and all. Make that the Wicked Witch of the Down East, and you’d have it just about right.

  “—What? Half a kilo? Jeez Louise, I guess we know what got him, huh? No, you figure it out—what are they teaching in schools these days? No, I can’t! I’ve got some chippie on the phone thinks I’m a public servant or something…”

  Chippie indeed! I thought. “Hello!”

  That brought her back to my world. “What?”

  “My name is Emma Fielding, and right now I’m out near Monroe, Massachusetts. I believe we met when a friend of mine was murdered several years ago, Pauline Westlake.”

  “Out by the Point?” the voice demanded, now giving me full attention.

  “Yes, that’s right—”

  “The crushed skull? Then that other, the convallotoxin poisoning? You the archaeologist?”

  I was torn between relief, having found a connection at last with this odd creature, and irritation that my dear Pauline should be reduced to the description of her demise. “That’s me. I was wondering—”

  “I remember. I thought you did ’em both, and pretty bold work, far as I could tell from what I could tell. Bodies just seemed to start piling up when you wandered into town—”

  Maybe Dave Stannard was right, I thought crazily to myself. Surely the encyclopedia would have been a better idea.

  “—but his nibs says not, not that he ever caught anyone else.”

  I felt obliged to come to the sheriff’s defense, not that he really needed any help from me. “The sheriff solved the case; it was just that the
real killer, well one of them, escaped—”

  Dr. Moretti snorted, obviously not convinced. “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, the straight party line. Well, so long as you weren’t actually busted. What do you want to know?”

  I paused, amazed that she should wave her suspicions around like that and yet still offer to answer my questions. But my desire to defend myself lost to my curiosity and my fascination with this ghoul. I said, “I’ve got a question about drowning.”

  “Drowning, huh? We do some of that around here, occasionally.”

  We must have had a bad connection: I distinctly heard lip smacking. “Well, what generally happens to a person who’s drowned?”

  The medical examiner giggled. “Well, generally, they die.”

  I shuddered. “I mean, what changes does the body go through? Is it easy to drown someone?”

  “Depends,” she said, warming to the subject. “Have you got atelectasis following aspiration or do you suspect laryn-gospasm?” Relish of her work and a clear love of the professional jargon dripped from every word. “Atelectasis” was pronounced like it was a beloved name.

  I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Dr. Moretti sighed; obviously I had joined Ernie among the ranks of the hopeless. “Have you got lots of fluid in the lungs—and it doesn’t have to be water—so that the cells stiffen and the lungs can’t expand? Or was there just a little fluid, enough to constrict and close the airway?”

  I hated admitting my ignorance. “Um, I don’t know.”

  Rather than pouncing on my lack of knowledge, the medical examiner seemed convinced she’d made a point. “That’s the problem with drowning”—I heard a slap on a counter, emphasizing her argument—“Even when you got some idea, you still don’t know! You can never prove drowning, you can only rule out everything else, and it’s damned tricky stuff.”

  The ME sounded like she was describing an admirable adversary as she continued. “And do you know for sure, fr’instance, that it was murder? Drowning’s a real unusual means of killing or suicide. Hell, you get close to four hundred bathtub drownings every year, and I’d be willing to bet that most of the accidental drownings involve alcohol. Asking for it, just begging! Have a drink, slide down into a nice, hot tub, and never come up again! Why not just lie down in front of a Mack truck with no brakes? At least that way, you’d have your clothes on when they found you!”