Mesozoic Murder (17 page)

Chapter 21

Leslie's confession didn't surprise Ansel. The Nick she'd been learning about was capable of anything. An unbidden sense of alarm crept into her mind as she sat on the couch across from the distraught man.

Leslie was truly distressed over Nick and Evelyn's deaths, but were his feelings those of remorse and guilt rather than sadness and loss? Had they blackmailed Leslie? Had Leslie decided to free himself from their stranglehold forever?

“Did you kill Nick and Evelyn?”

Leslie's head snapped up. “My God, no. How could you think that?”

“I don't know what to think. How did Nick blackmail you?”

“I was a senior researcher in the Yale School of Geological Sciences and held an extracurricular job for the
Journal of Earth Sciences
. As a referee reviewer I scrutinized the work of researchers who submitted their papers for publication. Two independent reviewers have to approve a research paper for merit and scientific accuracy before it's printed.

“One day I received a paper from
Earth Sciences
entitled, ‘Pyrolysis Processes in Caustobioliths: Destructive Chemical Breakdown by Heat,' authored by two Harvard researchers. The senior scientist, Carolyn Ryes, had received her first review approval and was one step away from publication.”

Leslie peered nervously over his glasses at Ansel. “I haven't spoken about this for a long time. I'm so ashamed.”

Ansel gave the tortured man an encouraging smile. “Please, go on.”

“At that same time, I was coauthoring a paper on processing caustobioliths via heat with Jack Kittredge, a senior author. Kittredge held a fellowship at Yale and taught as a member of the faculty. Ryes' research resembled the exact research we'd done for two years, but hers demonstrated a more efficient experimental technique and superior writing.”

Ansel was familiar with the “publish or perish” mentality of professorial politics, where research grants and tenure slots depended on the gospel of the printed, scientific Word. The bickering and backstabbing between academic departments and colleges maimed careers. She'd experienced firsthand the corruption and deceit of fellow students chasing a career and big money.

Ansel nodded. “I can see why you'd be upset.”

“I panicked. The research was my final manuscript submission before retirement. My last few years of work would have been for nothing. The odds that Ryes' paper would come to me for review were astronomical. I believed Fate had brought it to me, and I decided to do something about it.”

“What?”

“I rejected Ryes' paper, sending it back to
Earth Sciences
with a recommendation for revision. Before I returned the paper, I sent it to Kittredge. A week later, he sent me an updated copy of his research data, which was transformed into a thoughtful, well-written, and well-documented analysis of our project. We submitted our paper to the
North American Journal of Metamorphic Geology
. It was printed two months later.”

Ansel hitched in a ragged breath as the shock of his words registered. Leslie had tutored Kittredge in the fine art of scientific fraud. Tidying up experimental data or pulling whole scientific experiments out of thin air by copping Carolyn Ryes' work challenged every popular conceit about science being the search for truth through objectivity.

“Did Ryes find out?”

Leslie nodded. “Ryes didn't see our paper in
Metamorphic Geology
until several months later. By then her revised manuscript was going to the
Journal of Earth Sciences
for review again. She went ballistic.”

Maze squirmed in his seat. “Aside from being a top-notch scientist, Ryes was as tenacious as a bulldog. She insisted that Kittredge and I had plagiarized her manuscript. She also charged we conspired to thwart her from getting her work published first. The ensuing upheaval over her claims continued for a year.”

The woman's persevering nature impressed Ansel. Normally such a serious accusation by Ryes would have meant nothing stacked against Leslie's protests of innocence. Only a few staunch college administrators would have questioned Leslie's esteemed judgment or prowess as senior researcher, even if the Maze-Kittredge study wasn't worth the paper it was written on. The academic elite rarely endured the rigorous peer scrutiny that others did and suffered the consequences for their actions even less.

“How did it end, Leslie?”

“The college dean ordered an impartial review audit of Kittredge's experimental data. Kittredge buckled and admitted he saw Ryes' manuscript. On top of that, Kittredge's experimental data didn't add up as authentic. The backlash resulted in our paper being retracted from the
Metamorphic Geology Journal
. The university succeeded in raking over this embarrassing pitfall in their collegiate landscape. None of this ever became public.”

“What happened to Ryes?”

“Her manuscript was published in
Earth Sciences
, and she left Harvard, taking an oil corporation job. Kittredge resigned his fellowship. He acquired a position with the federal government. The Dean of Sciences insisted I take a slightly early retirement.”

Ansel steered the conversation back on track. “How did Nick get the paper?”

“I'm not sure, but he knew about the scandal. He came to see me in January and demanded a thousand dollars. Not a loan. A gift. I refused. He pulled out the paper. From then on, Nick wanted installments every two weeks up until four weeks ago. When Nick didn't show up to collect, I was relieved. I thought he'd gotten what he wanted from me and would stay away.”

“Those payoffs must have hit your wallet pretty hard.”

“It was draining my savings account, but what else could I do? I couldn't have the incident revealed to the newspapers.”

“Surely, a scandal that old wouldn't impact your life here that badly,” Ansel probed.

Leslie looked at her with hooded eyes. “There's something I didn't tell you.”

“What?”

“During the investigation, Ryes made certain allegations about my relationship with Kittredge. I simply can't have those preposterous slanders repeated again. Not after I've become nationally acclaimed for my young adult books.”

His tone told Ansel the truth. “Were they allegations of homosexuality?”

Leslie bobbed his head. “I didn't know Kittredge was gay. I had a wife and family, and the repercussions in my private life were horrible. I won't go through that experience again.”

“You hated Nick, didn't you?”

Leslie gazed toward the living-room windows. His face slackened as if his mind had flown far away from the tiny room. “Yes, but I didn't kill him.”

Ansel stood. “Do you have a copy of the paper?”

Slowly rising from the recliner, Leslie left the living room on shaky legs. Ansel watched as he disappeared into an adjacent hallway. Tired of sitting, she spent the next few moments walking around the room, gravitating toward the TV/stereo wall unit to survey a large color portrait of Leslie and a small elderly, gray-haired woman.

Leslie wore a brown wool suit. The woman wore a long-sleeved, brightly flowered dress with a pleated front. A gold-tone pin fastened over her heart read “Anna.” The bird sculptress. His deceased wife and Shane's grandmother. Ansel wondered how Shane would react if he knew Nick had been blackmailing his grandfather.

Footfalls caused Ansel to turn. Leslie approached carrying a sheaf of folded papers. “Take the damned thing out of here. When you're done, destroy it.”

Ansel took the papers from his trembling, liver-spotted hand. “Thank you. Everything will be all right.”

“I wish I could be so optimistic.” Leslie adjusted the glasses on his hawk nose. “Nick had a sick side to his personality we never knew about, Ansel. He had a devil inside him.”

“We all do, Leslie.”

***

“You want something else?” asked the burly man behind the cheap oak counter at the Red Rose Bar.

For the first time in an hour, Ansel looked up from the wood bar shellacked to a reflective sheen. The shiny surface acted like a fun house mirror, distorting her scowling features into a goblin leer. She pushed two empty glasses toward the huge, muscle-bound Indian and nodded.

“Sure. Make it the same. No ice. I hate ice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Omaha Henry. “I know how you like 'em, Sarcee. You been coming here for years, ain't you?”

Ansel peered at Henry thoughtfully. She'd known the Sioux bartender since he'd lost his job as a professional wrestler fighting under the Mandan pseudonym of Chief Omaha. A spinal injury ended his celebrity status, and he'd taken up tending bar. Henry's calloused hands eclipsed the beer mug and the shot glass, but he handled them with the grace of an Austrian crystal cutter as he carted them away.

Ansel gazed around the seedy interior and pondered the lethargic crowd in attendance. The jukebox pumped out Waylon Jennings' “Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town,” though nobody listened, and the demands for Henry's services were few and far between. A couple of Indians drank beers at a front table, but most of the action was happening in the back. A crowd of five Indians gathered around a large table, watching as a raucous gambling game ran its inevitable course, and the jobless men went broke.

She didn't come to the Red Rose often, only when she felt her Blackfoot bloodlines chafing against her whiteness. Touted in the reservation newspapers as a “Native American Tavern,” the disintegrating wood structure was just off the Fort Peck Reservation so a liquor license could be procured. The joint was nothing but a hooch shack.

Omaha Henry returned and set another boilermaker in front of her. He wiped down the scarred bar with a blue rag that foamed with dish soap and smelled like lemons. “My advice is to slow down. It's late, and I don't want to call your father and have him pick you up because you can't drive.”

Ansel didn't reply right away. When she was seventeen her father had caught her hanging around the bar and accused her of slumming with underage Indian boys for cheap thrills. She paled at the memory. She and her father hadn't spoken for days after the incident. She'd finally gone to Chase and explained that he'd misjudged her. The Red Rose represented one of the few places where she felt truly comfortable. It was far easier to be half-Indian near the reservation than to be half-Anglo near the Arrowhead Ranch.

“I'm not drunk,” Ansel protested, flicking a strand of hair away from her face. “I'm deliciously numb.”

“What's the occasion?”

“I'm going to a funeral tomorrow.” Ansel picked up the whiskey shot, poured it into the beer, and chugged down half the drink in one swallow. She set the mug carefully on the counter.

“Sorry to hear that. Anyone I know?”

“Nobody you'd want to know.”

Henry studied her for several seconds. “What do you have there?” He pointed to a piece of paper in her hands.

Ansel squinted at the small note clutched in one hand. A pencil scrawl read
hmn
-1880. She'd been trying to figure out what type of fossil specimen Nick had scanned into the machines. Maybe she was too close to the problem to see the answer.

Ansel pushed the slip toward Henry. “It's a puzzle. Any idea what this stands for?”

Henry stared at the line with chocolate eyes. “Phone number?”

Ansel sipped her drink. “Nope. I called every area code for 466-1880 in Montana. No such number. Try again.”

“Okay. The first three letters are initials. The last four numbers are a year. Somebody did something in 1880.”

“Without periods between each letter, I don't think they're initials, and the year eighteen-eighty doesn't ring any bells.”

Henry shook his head. “How about a Zip code but with a zero at either end like 01880 or 18800?”

“Tried it. Massachusetts had a 01880 hit at Wakefield Station in Greenwood. There is no 18800 Zip code. Massachusetts doesn't seem related to
hmn
.”

“Then the
hmn
letters are an abbreviation for something. Eighteen-hundred and eighty of them.”

Ansel laughed, the first time in hours. “Yeah, that's the big question, isn't it? What's the something? I thought about abbreviations, so I looked up
hmn
in a book. I found Her Majesty's Navy. That's definitely not it.”

Henry snapped his fingers. “I got it. The number's to a post office mailbox. Maybe
hmn
is a business.”

“No go. Can't find any businesses online called
hmn
, and God forbid it's a postal box. I'll never be able to track it down.”

“No wonder you've been drinking,” said Henry. “That would drive me nuts. Why don't you take a break. Go over and see that chicken with a brain.” He pointed toward the rear table. “Lenny claims that Kangi is over forty and played in Hitchcock's
The Birds
. He's got a great scam going on.”

Something about the “chicken with a brain” statement tweaked Ansel's memory. A red buoy of inspiration floated past her synapses, then sunk out of sight. Damn, she'd almost had it. Disgusted, she swivelled her stool around and watched the betting Indians with sudden interest. Could this be the same Lenny who had driven Freddy to the Arrowhead?

“Maybe I'll do that. Thanks for your input on the note.” She dug deep into her fanny pack and passed a Grant to Henry. “Keep the rest.”

“
Pilamaye
, Sarcee.”

Ansel slid off the stool. The chicken with a brain turned out to be a foot-and-a-half-long crow. Kangi stood on the center of a large pine board table. Ansel could see only the raven's head, thick black beak, and piercing, ebony eyes over the shoulders of the Indians hunched around it. She stood behind the swarm of bettors and watched as the quick, aggressive raven went through its routine for jerky rewards tossed by a short, fat Indian wearing an MSU Bobcats sweatshirt. Lenny.