Angel Food and Devil Dogs (7 page)

A minute later the doctor came in and told me my chest x-ray had shown no smoke damage and I could go. I was glad that Miranda Juarez was a model of efficiency, because now I had my cell phone.

Outside I called Sara's cell but it was on voice mail, so I left a message saying I was all right. My sister Rosa was out of town so I figured I could call her when I got home. I called the office where Evelyn told me both Sara and Emma were in court. Evelyn said, "Where are you?"

"Evelyn listen carefully, I'm at the hospital, but I'm OK."

Evelyn said, "
Ohmigod!"
several times as I explained what happened.

I still needed a ride home. It was fourteen blocks on a dark December night and I didn't even have a scarf. In fact, my new jacket hanging on the reception room coat rack, was probably ruined. Another expense account item. Damn, I'd really liked that jacket. I called my best friend Farrel Case. Before I could even get past, "I'm in the hospital..." Farrel and her partner Jessie were on their way to pick me up.

Both Farrel and Jessie leapt out of the car to hug me after they pulled up at the hospital. Farrel, who is taller than I am, a little over-weight but strong looking in a traditional old time lesbian way, and Jessie who is smaller, slighter and quieter than Farrel, kept asking me if I was all right and I kept saying yes. It was a pain but it's also nice to have friends who really care.

I was in the front seat with Farrel driving. I was telling them the story of the fire like I was on a rollercoaster and had to be finished before the ride was over, still on a rush from a successful life saving situation. Cops can begin to crave this sort of thing because the adrenaline high is addictive. Half way through the second recounting, Farrel rolled down the car window. I barely noticed the freezing air blasting in.

She shouted over the icy wind, "Do you know how bad you smell?'

"Why? What do I smell like?" I asked, because I really couldn't tell.

"Like a burning pile of used tires," said Farrel.

"Not even
new
tires?"

"No, definitely used," said Jessie who was sitting in the back seat holding her nose.

"Maybe with a bucket of model airplane glue mixed in," said Farrel.

"Uh huh," said Jessie, "and there's a little essence of... what is that...?" she sniffed, "industrial solvent?"

"Yes, exactly," said Farrel.

"Yeah, OK, I get it. Take a shower when I get home," I said.

Farrel said, "Take two."

"You'll never get that smell out of your clothes," said Jessie.

I looked down. I was streaked with soot and tar-like stuff. "I'll trash 'em," I said decidedly. "I wonder if I can save the shoes?"

"No," said Farrel and Jessie in unison.

When we got to my place, Jessie made me dinner while I took a shower and put on clean clothes. I was starving. While I ate a broiled mushroom and red pepper sandwich with a generous layer of Jarlsberg cheese, I told them the story of the fire all over again until they insisted I talk about something else. So I told them about meeting all the people on the Tenure Committee. Farrel, who teaches woodworking and furniture design at the College, knew most of them already.

"I'm sorry about Bart and Georgia," said Farrel. "However, I have to say, Bart is one of the stupidest guys I've ever met. He's a disproof of the Peter Principle because he's risen way, way above the level of his incompetence. Does that sound too mean, since he just got hurt?" I shrugged so Farrel rolled on, "Amanda Knightbridge always seems to perceive things. She's nice, but she can be uncanny. Georgia Smith is kind of odd. I think she takes her job very seriously and does it well, but she's so naive about life!"

"Explain," I said.

Farrel ran her fingers through her short gray-blond hair thinking, then said, "She's a good person and all, but I think Georgia wants to be perceptive like Amanda Knightbridge. Georgia thinks you get that way by being all new age and mystical. She goes on vision quests and fasts and meditation retreats. Her current husband Adam seems like a nice guy but I think Georgia wants a Svengali. She's looking for the
answer.
"

"What's the question?" I asked half humorously.

"Georgia doesn't have a clue. Enlightenment could bitch slap her in the face and she wouldn't recognize it."

I told them about meeting Kathryn Anthony.

"I've met her at the college. She's really something, isn't she? Kind of electric, and that voice! Do you think she's gay?" Farrel asked.

"I was going to ask you."

"Why don't you ask her?" said Jessie intelligently. "What does she look like?" We described her and Jessie said, "I think I've seen her in the neighborhood, she might live in one of the apartment houses, the Hampshire or Dakota."

"Let's
google
her," Farrel said.

I got my laptop, plugged it in and searched her name. "Lots of women's studies stuff... and work on gay and lesbian history in one of her on-line bios... seems promising."

Jessie said, "Why don't you just ask her?"

Farrel and I scanned the list of articles, then Farrel turned to me and said, "You could always ask her."

Jessie slapped her forehead, "I just said that twice!" Then she muttered, "Nobody listens to me."

"Because it's more fun to sleuth," I said yawning. "Hey, don't you have to go to a show in North Carolina sometime soon?" It was only 9:00 PM but I was suddenly very tired.

"We were packing when you called," said Jessie. "It opens Wednesday."

I shook sense into my head, "Wednesday's tomorrow! When are you leaving?"

"Well, you called..." said Farrel.

"Oh my God, you have to go now!" I looked at my watch, "You'll have to drive all night!" Like many antique dealers, Farrel and Jessie just did high volume shows. They packed up their stuff, set it up at a show for a few days, sold stuff, bought stuff and then packed it all back up and came home. Sometimes the shows fit in between Farrel's classes. Sometimes Jesse did the shows on her own.

They reminded me that Cora Martin, their elderly next-door neighbor, would be looking after their black cats Griswold and Wagner, but I'd have to shovel their walk if it snowed. Cora was also an antique dealer, but usually did different shows. They often took turns watching each other's pets. Cora had a yippy little dog named Cynthia.

I thanked Farrel and Jessie profusely. Before they left, Farrel took me by the shoulders and said very seriously, "Are you sure you're all right?" Farrel is ten years older than I am and Jessie is almost 20 years older. I consider them part of my family, they feel that way too.

"Yeah, I'm OK, thanks," I said hugging them both.

A few minutes after they left, the phone rang. It was Sara.

"Are you all right? Do you want me to come over? Were you hurt?" she asked.

"I'm OK, but I was right there. I'm a hero. I saved people... but now I'm totally tired." I yawned again wanting to hang-up, but Sara made me tell her the whole story.

"Maggie this all sounds very creepy. Do you think Carl was murdered?"

I said yawning again, "Maybe... that's what I'm supposed to find out..." I yawned again, even bigger this time, I was crashing.
"
Look, would you call Rosa and Emma and tell them I'm OK?" (Our sister Rosa is a court reporter, she'd be hearing about the whole thing in no time from people at the courthouse.) "I really am very tired and I don't feel that great. Don't tell her all about the case though. Should we call Mom?"

"Mom's in Thailand..." said Sara conversationally.

"Mom's in Thailand!?!" I jolted back. My stepmother was always full of surprises.

"Yeah,
spur of the moment
trip, two days ago."

"Well, I guess I don't have to worry about her hearing about the fire on the radio...
yawn
." By now I could barely stand, I really needed to go to bed.

"Right." Then Sara said with sincere concern, "Are you sure you're OK, querida?"

"Uh huh, just sleepy... coming off an adrenalin high. Have you...
yawn
... done anything about Mickey?"
Huge yawn
.

"I'm working through the arguments for his arraignment,
yawn,
geez Maggie, you're making me yawn! Go to bed querida, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

I went into the bathroom and noticed it smelled a little like a pile of used burning tires. The odor came from the shoes I'd left on the floor. I put my shoes in the trash bag I'd thrown my stinking clothes in and carried it downstairs to the curb. It was bitterly cold. The dark sky was cloudless. I looked up at the stars for a minute and took a deep breath of arctic air, which did nothing to cure my exhaustion. My smoky lungs ached. I made a wish on one of the stars. I always do that when I take the garbage out. I went back upstairs and stumbled into bed. I fell asleep immediately and slept for five hours. Then, I was suddenly wide-awake and very hungry. I got up and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it at the kitchen table looking out the windows over the Mews. Going over the day, I tried to remember each thing that happened before the explosion.

I thought about Carl Rasmus falling six stories through freezing December air to the cold hard sidewalk.

I went back to bed. On the edge of a dream I could hear Dr. Kathryn Anthony's alluring voice. I just barely sensed her handshake again.

When my alarm went off at 7:30 AM, I was stiff and sore and my lungs hurt when I took a deep breath. I took another shower because my hair still smelled like burning tires, albeit
new
burning tires. After the shower, I seemed to be stink free. I wore Nikes because my work shoes were now in a landfill somewhere and my leather jacket because my parka was undoubtedly a melted stink sponge, unfit for human use. I also brought along my 9 mm Berretta. I don't always carry a gun. It's too easy to kill people with them. However, my profession requires heat. I have licenses and as a matter of fact, I'm a good shot. I got a medal for marksmanship when I was on the force. Whether the explosion at Irwin yesterday was an accident or not, I was packing a burner.

Miranda Juarez waved me to a seat when I arrived to interview her at 9:00 AM. She was using Bart Edgar's office because Edgar was still in the hospital. Miranda was on the phone.

"
Si bueno, pero es importante que tu vayas a las classes todos los días, hijito... Si, mañana. Si, para la cena. Hasta mas tarde, querido."

She was speaking to a child, probably her grandson, telling him he had to go to school every day and that she would be having dinner with him soon. From her tone, she obviously loved this child very much. She hung up.

"I'm glad you're here Ms. Gale. The President wanted me to give you this as soon as you came in." She handed me a small piece of paper. It said Daniel Cohen had been speaking at a conference in Virginia during the time Carl Rasmus died. Bouchet was letting me know that if Carl was indeed pushed, Professor Daniel Cohen had an alibi.

"This is Bart Edgar's office. I dislike not being in my own." Miranda gestured at the papers in the corner. "Those were on his desk. I feel guilty just moving everything to the floor, but I will go through all the papers and get them in order."

I opened my mouth to make a comment but she sighed, "Please do not say that you are sure I will be able to straighten out all of Bart's..." she waved over at the papers. "You will be the sixth person to have done so this morning."

I nodded sympathetically, "Bart does seem to have... issues. Anything new on his or Georgia Smith's condition?"

"First, I must tell you that Dr. Leo Getty will not be free for your appointment this morning. He must attend a meeting. He asks to meet you this evening in his office after 5:00 PM." I nodded as I changed my schedule on my laptop. "I will relay the confirmation to him. Yes, you are right," Miranda agreed, "Bart has... as you say,
issues
. I had no idea how he got to this employment level, until yesterday." I understood her meaning; nepotism was the glue that held Bart in his job. "Georgia Smith's injuries are more serious than Bart's, however, both were very lucky. Especially lucky that you were willing to risk your life."

I shrugged like Gary Cooper, but skipped saying, "Tweren't nothin."

She went on efficiently, "Georgia Smith received third degree burns, her synthetic clothing melted onto her skin. The burns are very serious but they do not cover much of her body. The back of her right leg was the most injured. She is in extreme pain and under heavy sedation." Miranda shook her head, then went on quietly, "It will be a long recovery, months, and there is risk of infection."

I nodded, "Anything else?"

"The firefighters think it may have been an accidental gas explosion from a pipe in the wall. Fire reached almost everything..."

"How was Bart able to dodge the impact of the explosion?"

"Shielded by something, perhaps..."

"Yes," I said thinking back, "I saw him." I formed a mental picture of yesterday. "Bart was reaching toward the back table, but he was kneeling on a chair, leaning over the back of it."

"Ah, well, he frequently chose the illogical way. It appears choosing the illogical way saved him this time. And he was wearing an all-natural fiber shirt. His arm... it was burned, but not like Georgia's. It turns out Bart is allergic to synthetics, so he does not wear them."

"He was unconscious... not breathing."

"He was thrown back. He had a concussion. He was very lucky that you, President Bouchet and Professor Daniel Cohen got him out when you did. It may have been the fumes that caused him to stop breathing, the CPR you performed was critical to his rescue. As it is, he may have to take several weeks off to recover. He will need therapy for the burns on his hand."

"Do the fire inspectors or the police have any more theories?"

"They were here much of last night but they say nothing yet. Do you want to go up there?" she asked, glancing at the ceiling.

"Where's Max Bouchet?" I asked.

"His personal office, in the President's mansion."

I paused then asked, "Would you say Bart's mistakes make people angry?"