Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon (8 page)

I spotted Spike's crate under a tree just outside the door and bent down to check on him. The ungrateful little monster lifted his lip in a snarl before curling up with his back to me.

„Fine, be that way,“ I said. „I guess you don't need a walk, then.“

„He's had a walk.“

I looked up to see Jack hovering over me.

„You actually took Spike for a walk and escaped unscathed?“ I said. „I'm impressed.“

„Not exactly unscathed,“ he said. „But I'm not bleeding any-“

„Sorry,“ I said, wincing. „He's had his shots, in case you were worried.“

A sudden hush fell over the parking lot, and I stood up to see what was happening. Dad was standing outside the building entrance, holding one of the doors open for the two men wheeling out the gurney.

I scanned the crowd, trying to observe people's reactions. Not that I expected the killer to jump up and confess or anything; I just found it interesting to see how differently people reacted. Some people stood, heads slightly bowed, as if watching a formal funeral procession. Some stood, frankly staring. Quite a few pretended to be absorbed in conversations or reading papers, but you could tell they were watching4>y the angle of their heads.

The chief spoke briefly with Dad and the ME, both of whom pointed several times at their throats. Explaining exactly how Ted was strangled, perhaps.

It was as if someone had pressed the universe's pause button – everything stayed on hold for the few minutes it took the EMTs to load the gurney into the ambulance, Dad and the ME to climb aboard, and the ambulance to pick its way out of the parking lot. And then, as the ambulance gathered speed and disappeared, the noise level returned to normal.

I glanced over to see what the chief was up to. He was still surveying the scene. So was I, for that matter. I don't know what he was looking for, but I was trying to spot the news media when they showed up, so I could make sure they talked to the right person, like Liz. Or the CFO. Or even me. Anyone, in fact, but Rob.

„How's it going?“ I heard the chief ask the nearest officer.

„What is this, anyway, some kind of cult?“ the officer said. „More than half of these people have the same address.“

„Let's see that,“ the chief said. „Five thousand South River… Why does that sound familiar?“

„It's the Whispering Pines Cabins,“ I said. „Given the housing shortage, it was about the only place a lot of the guys could find to live.“

„Glory be,“ the chief muttered under his breath.

I could understand his reaction. Before Caerphilly's housing crisis, the Pines had been a hot sheets motel. Its transformation into an overpriced residential hotel had been accomplished without any detectable renovation or redecoration. The more discriminating residents usually chose to provide their own bedding, though a card on the back of each room's door still displayed the price of requesting clean sheets at times other than the maid's daily visits.

The door also carried notices sternly instructing motel guests that they were required to open the door immediately if requested to do so by the police, and forbidding them to entertain unregistered male visitors. Since most of the current guests were young men in their late teens or early twenties, living four or more to a room, this last part of the notice was largely disregarded, and the place had taken on much of the rustic charm of a fraternity house.

Another frazzled officer hurried up to the chief. „Don't these people understand that we have a murder here?“ he exclaimed. „They keep demanding that we let them back into the building or bring their computers out here.“

As if on cue, several members of the staff spotted me and rushed over.

„Meg, how much longer are they going to keep us here?“

„Meg, can't you talk to them? We have deadlines!“

„Meg, make them listen – “

„Meg, this is crazy; we can't – “

„Meg, why are they –?“

„Quiet!“ I shouted, and when they all shut up, or at least changed from shouting to muttering, I continued.

„I realize how important meeting your deadlines is,“ I said. „But stop and think a minute. We've had a murder here! A fellow human being – one of our own staff – has been brutally murdered! You can't expect things to just start back up in five minutes as if nothing had happened.“

„Well, yeah, okay,“ one of them said. „But it's been two hours.“

To give them credit, several of his colleagues gave him a dirty look.

„Why won't they tell us anything?“ another asked. „If they're going to keep us out here, at least they could tell us what's going on.“

„They won't even tell us how he was killed,“ one complained. „I mean, maybe we would have some useful information if they did.“

„I told you,“ Frankie said. „He was strangled with a mouse cord! I saw it before Meg chased me out.“

„How do we know you're not just blowing smoke?“

„Or pulling our legs?“

„Gentlemen!“ the chief said. „And ladies,“ he added, though I was the only female within earshot – the few others on staff were scattered about the parking lot, apparently doing useful things. Or at least quiet things that did not involve badgering the police.

„I don't think there's any harm telling you how he was killed,“ the chief said. „As the gentleman said, he was strangled with a mouse cord.“

This set off a muttered chorus of exclamations. One voice rose above the rest.

„Wow!“ one of the graphic artists exclaimed. „Just like Meg showed us!“

Admin

„Just like Meg showed us?“ the chief repeated, glaring at me. „You've been showing these jokers how to strangle each other with mouse cords? Any particular reason why you failed to mention this?“

„Oh, God,“ I muttered. „Purse fu.“

„Beg pardon?“ the chief said.

„I was demonstrating a martial arts technique one day,“ I explained. „My teacher showed me some self-defense moves using a belt. Which works great if you have a belt, and enough time to take it off before you're actually attacked. But I happened to remark that I almost never wear a belt, and neither do many women, and would the same techniques work with a purse strap.“

„And they work great,“ Rob exclaimed. „Meg foiled a mugger with them once!“

„Anyway, the subject came up around the office one day last week,“ I said. „And Rob asked me to demonstrate. And my purse was locked in my desk drawer, so I used what was handy.“

„A mouse cord,“ the chief said, nodding.

„Actually, it was a Kensington security cable,“ Jack said.

„You show him,“ Rob said to me. „I'll pretend to attack you!“

I instantly went into an alert, defensive mode, the way I
usually did when Rob offered to pretend to attack me. I was getting way too familiar with the kind of damage Rob could do when he was pretending to attack. Not that he meant any harm, any more than Katy the wolfhound did when she bounded up to greet me in the morning. But both of them were very young, even for their age; and they didn't know their own strength.

„My hand is still bothering me,“ I reminded Rob.

„You don't have to do it hard,“ Rob said. „Just show how it works, like you did last week.“

„I don't have my purse,“ I said, keeping my eyes on Rob, in case he did something stupider than usual.

„Borrow a belt from someone,“ Rob suggested.

„Are you sure –?“ the chief began.

„Here,“ Jack said, handing me his belt. I gripped it with both hands, which wasn't easy to do, given that the left was still bandaged. I settled for wrapping it around the fingertips of my left hand, which wouldn't work on a real assailant, but would do well enough for a demonstration.

„So pretend I'm a mugger,“ Rob said to the chief. „And I'm going to come up and take a swing at Meg.“

Which he did. A very healthy swing. As usual, he'd forgotten that you were supposed to move more slowly when demonstrating. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see several of the cops start.

I was holding the belt with both hands, leaving about a foot and a half of the strap between them. When Rob swung, I snapped up my arms, bringing the belt taut in the path of Rob's arm.

„And then she – ,“ Rob began, but I'd decided if he was going to swing at full speed and strength, I wasn't going to hold back on my response. With a quick twist of my right hand, I wrapped the belt around his arm. Then I stepped to
the left and pulled down at the same time, trying to take as much of his weight as possible with my good right hand. Rob stumbled and put out his arm to cushion his fall, and by the time he hit the grass, I was standing behind and over him. His right arm was still caught in the belt, and I'd wrapped the rest of the strap around his throat.

„Isn't that cool!“ he exclaimed, sounding slightly choked. Apparently I'd overcompensated for the hand. I loosened the belt and sighed. That was one of Rob's better and more guilt-inducing characteristics: he enjoyed showing off his friends' and relatives' skills and accomplishments as much as his own.

And I had to admit, if he were just a little bit more predictable, he'd make the perfect
uki.
If you translate it literally from the Japanese,
uki
means „receiver.“ If you ask me, it ought to mean either „punching bag“ or „fall guy.“ In the martial arts world, the
uki
was the person whose job it was to pretend to attack the teacher so the teacher could demonstrate how easily you could foil your attacker and do unto him something at least as nasty and painful as he was planning to do unto you.
Ukis
spent a great deal of time horizontal, contemplating their bruises.

I made a fairly rotten
uki
– I had a tough time not losing my temper and playing too hard. But no matter how many times you flipped, tripped, kicked, punched, or knocked the wind out of Rob, he'd get right back up, smiling. He might get up a little more slowly by the twentieth or thirtieth time, but he never seemed to resent being thrown, or to lose his optimistic belief that next time he'd get the drop on you instead of the other way around.

He also knew how to fall down – largely through being an utter klutz. A vastly underrated stall, falling down. Most people tense up and try to resist a fall, which is the worst possible
thing to do. You break and sprain things much more easily that way. Which is why some martial arts teachers spend a lot of time teaching their students how to fall properly – something life had already done for Rob. Tripping and falling was such a normal part of his everyday experience that he almost always landed with the boneless relaxation the rest of us had to work years to cultivate.

From his seat on the grass, he was prattling happily about the wonderful advantage the belt gave me, despite the differences in our weight and size.

„Not bad,“ Jack said as I handed him back his belt.

„Rob*s not hard to impress,“ I said with a shrug.

„I am,“ he said with a slow smile that set off all kinds of alarm bells in my head. Yes, definitely time to bring in the New Year's photo.

Jack looked down at my hand and frowned. „You're bleeding,“ he exclaimed.

„Oh, sorry,“ I said. „I hope I didn't get too much of it on your belt.“

„Never mind the belt,“ he said. „You need a bandage.“

„That's one thing I have plenty of already,“ I said. I loosened the butterfly clip that held the end of the gauze down, unwound a couple of loops, and wrapped them around my knuckles. Time to get Dad to redo my bandage, I noted. I could live with toner, ink, and coffee stains, not to mention Spike's teeth marks, but these days visible bloodstains tend to make people nervous.

„Ms. Langslow,“ the chief said.

„Yes?“

He glanced down, at my hand and frowned. „Should you be doing this with an injured hand?“ he asked.

„Probably not,“ I said.

„What did you do to it, anyway?“ he asked.

„Smashed it with a hammer. By accident,“ I added, rather unnecessarily.

„You did have it looked at by a doctor, I hope,“ he said.

„Yes, by several of them at Caerphilly Community Hospital the day I did it, and my dad every weekday since,“ I said, not trying to hide my impatience at having yet another person fretting about whether I was taking proper care of myself. And then I had to stifle a chuckle when I realized that the chief wasn't worrying about me – he was sizing me up as a suspect.