Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (6 page)

Kathryn’s eyes wandered back to the room immediately before her, stopping first on the far worktable just below the great window. It was lined with different sizes and shapes of glass terraria. Her eyes followed the path of the cases around the table to the right; it, too, was completely covered, as was the table on the left and the double-sided counter in the center. The entire room was one vast collection of display cases overhung by long banks of fluorescent lights. She could see that each terrarium contained some kind of plant or rock or limb. Some were lined with sand, others with yellow or gray or chocolate soil. Her eyes came to rest on the terrarium directly before her, not more than twelve inches away. It was covered with glistening sand, with a large flat slab of pink sandstone in the center. It was otherwise empty, except for a shallow dish of water in one corner. Kathryn bent closer to study this strange, lonely landscape. Instinctively, she reached out and tapped on the glass.

From under the stone a brown desert scorpion skittered out, menacing tail aloft, pincers ready.

Kathryn drew a sharp breath and leaped away from the glass. She stumbled backward against the screen door, punching her
elbow through the stiff wire mesh as it crashed open. She staggered back to the gravel driveway and stood, trembling.

At the crash, the studious figure in the office at last turned to stare in Kathryn’s direction—but the lab was now completely empty. He rose, taking the business card from the little man’s hand, and stepped out into the lab.

A moment later Kathryn saw the screen door open. A tall silhouette in the doorway stood silently studying her, carefully rereading the business card in his right hand, then slowly looking her over once again.

From inside the lab the little man urgently pushed his way past and hurried to her side. “My dear, whatever happened? Are you quite all right? Please, come back inside, out of this dreadful sun.”

“If it’s all the same to you, could we speak outside?”

She turned to look at the figure still standing in the doorway. He was holding her business card at eye level now, still glancing from the card to Kathryn and back again, as if he had been handed the driver’s license of a bald-headed man from New Jersey.

It was the little man who broke the silence. “Where are my manners? Ms. Guilford, may I present Dr. Nicholas Polchak. Dr. Polchak, allow me to introduce—”

“Kathryn Guilford,” the tall figure interrupted, “Central Carolina Bank and Trust, Commercial … Mortgage … Capital.” He said the last three words slowly, as if to emphasize the disparity between the dignified title and the disheveled woman who stood before him.

“As I told Dr. Tedesco, I’m not here about banking.”

“What exactly are you here about?”

“I’ve come to talk to you about a matter of utmost importance,” she said with all the solemnity she could muster, but the words sounded ridiculous even to her.

He glanced at the curling shards of screen wire. “Were you in too big a hurry to open the door?” He looked at the little man beside her. “Teddy, we need to fix this. We don’t want any local dermestids paying us a visit.”

At last the tall figure stepped from the doorway, and for the first time Kathryn could see him in detail. He was lean and angular, with very large hands and feet. He wore a white ribbed polyester shirt with a large open collar, which hung open over a blue and
green Fubu T-shirt. Below, a pair of enormous olive green cargo shorts overshadowed two alabaster limbs that protruded into a pair of ancient leather thongs.

He looked about Kathryn’s age. His head was rather large and shaped like an inverted triangle. It narrowed from a wide brow to a strong chin with a deep dimple pressed into the center. His skin was fair and smooth, the skin of a man who spent far too much time under fluorescent light. His hair was dark and straight and his hairline receded slightly on both sides, emphasizing the triangularity of his features. It was a handsome face for the most part, Kathryn thought. She glanced quickly over his features, taking an instant accounting of each, but came abruptly to a halt at his eyes.

He wore the largest, thickest eyeglasses Kathryn had ever seen, which so distorted his eyes that they seemed to float behind the lenses like two soft, colorless orbs. They reminded Kathryn of the pickled eggs that eternally floated in a jar beside the cash register at Wirth’s Amoco. She almost laughed aloud at the mental image.

His eyes never seemed to rest and never focused long on a single object. It was impossible to tell exactly where he was looking at any moment. Kathryn watched the eyes moving over her. They darted to one side, then the other. They floated upward, then slowly sank again. They studied her, they analyzed her, they examined her; they saw everything but focused on nothing. Kathryn wished that his eyes would come to rest on hers; she wished that she could make contact with them—but the eyes always moved on.

“I came here to make a legitimate business proposition,” she said. “If you’re not interested, perhaps I should take my business elsewhere.”

Nick smiled. “I suspect there is no elsewhere, or you wouldn’t be here.”

She softened her tone. “A friend of mine has died—a very old and dear friend. The police say it was suicide, but I think they’re wrong. I’m sure they’re wrong,” she added, then paused for emphasis. “I think he might have been murdered.”

“Mrs. Guilford,” Nick cut in. “Dr. Tedesco and I are members of the faculty of North Carolina State University. We were sent here this summer to do research.”

“You do research on dead people.”

Nick’s eyes darted rapidly over Kathryn once more, as if he might have missed some detail in his initial estimation. “I do research on arthropods—specific insects that inhabit dead people.”

Kathryn opened her purse and removed a folded photocopy. “From the
Holcum County Courier,
” she said, beginning to read. “‘Bug Man Comes to Holcum County.’”

“May I?” he said, taking the photocopy from her hand. “‘Dr. Nicholas Polchak’—that would be me—’Professor of Entomology at NC State University in Raleigh, will spend the summer at the extension research facility here in Holcum County to continue his studies in the emerging field of forensic entomology, the use of insects to solve crimes.’”

He quickly scanned the rest of the document. “Blah blah blah and so on, and—here’s the good part—’Dr. Polchak, a tall, muscular man …’ Now that’s outstanding journalism. Yes indeed, very well put.”

A faint groan came from Teddy, who stood quietly staring at the pavement, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

“Dr. Polchak, I need your help. And I need it right away.”

He handed the photocopy back to her. “Mrs. Guilford, you need to go to the police. If the police won’t help you, you need to call the medical examiner’s office in Chapel Hill and talk to them. Or you can even hire a private investigator. I’d like to help you—really I would—but this summer I’m under strict orders to stick to research.”

He turned back toward the Quonset. “Come on, Teddy,” he said, disappearing through the doorway, “we’ve got some sarcophagids to pin. Let’s not waste any more of the lady’s time.”

Kathryn watched the door swing shut behind him.

“I’m very sorry,” Teddy said, looking truly regretful. “He meant what he said—he really would like to help you. But to tell you the truth, this summer he’s been given strict orders to stay out of trouble.”

“There won’t be any trouble.”

“Trust me. With Nicholas, there’s always trouble.” And with a heavy sigh he turned and followed his colleague back into the lab.

Kathryn turned slowly back toward the path to her crumpled car. She stood motionless for several seconds, staring directly ahead.

Suddenly she wheeled around, fists clenched, her face flushed with anger. She marched up to the broken screen door, flung it open hard, and charged through the open doorway—then just as quickly drew back again. There was the same glass case, now occupied by three brown scorpions. The terrarium at her left elbow contained a tree branch where black, metallic-shelled beetles swarmed up, then dropped off in clusters like thick blobs of oil. In the terrarium on her right, a gray-and-brown wolf spider held a struggling black cricket in its slender, tapering legs.

Kathryn stared desperately across the lab at the large window into the office beyond. Inside she could see the figure of Dr. Polchak already seated again at his work. Her eyes slowly traced the path of the aisleway to her left, pausing at each glass case to imagine the unspeakable horror it might contain. The aisle seemed so much narrower now than at first sight. She measured the distance from her present location to the doorway beside the large window. It couldn’t have been more than fifty feet. Or was it seventy-five? Or a hundred?

It might as well be ten miles.

With her left hand she turned her collar up high and squeezed it tight, completely covering her neck. With her right hand she clutched the front of her blouse, wadding it into a ball. She hunched her shoulders forward and pinned her arms tight against her torso. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, and her legs felt thick and rubbery. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped slowly forward like a tightrope walker on a windy day.

She forced herself to stare directly ahead, though the hideous temptation to turn and look directly into each terrarium was almost irresistible. From the corners of her eyes she watched each glass case pass slowly by—nothing more than blurs of brown and green and tan—but in her mind’s eye she imagined swarms of wriggling insects sucking up to the glass, pressing up against the terrarium lids, their hairlike antennae protruding through the screened tops, probing the air, stretching toward her, reaching for her.

The office door was directly ahead of her now, no more than thirty feet away. She was halfway there, but the thought that kept
forcing its way into her mind was that she was now directly in the center of this living nightmare. She felt herself begin to lose her balance, and a wave of panic and nausea almost overwhelmed her. She imagined falling suddenly to one side, drawn irresistibly by the darkness behind the glass, reaching out to stop herself. Then she imagined her hands crashing through the glass and reaching helplessly into the black abyss.

The panic swelled up within her like a tidal surge. She commanded her legs to run for the office door, but they seemed to move in slow motion. She felt the glass cases begin to slide toward her, and those behind her seemed to swirl in and pursue her like paper boxes whipped into the draft of a passing car. She looked like a toddler taking its last hurried steps before collapsing into the arms of a waiting parent—but to Kathryn, it felt as though she were running down an endless, windowed hallway for all eternity.

With a crash, the office door flew open and Kathryn burst into the room. Nick looked up from his microscope with a start and saw Kathryn, still tightly clutching her collar and blouse, trembling and panting like a spent mare. He rose from his stool and walked slowly toward her.

“Mrs. Guilford,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “are you cold?”

“Dr. Polchak,” she growled through clenched teeth, “I need your help—and I need it right now!”

For a moment he stood perfectly still, observing her. Then he slowly reached out and took hold of the hand still clutching at her collar. He pulled gently but said nothing. She resisted. He pulled again, steadily, until she understood and slowly loosened her grip. With his other hand he tugged at the clenched fist on her blouse. He softly lowered both hands to her sides and then began to straighten and smooth her collar and blouse. As he worked, his eyes began to float over her once again, watching, examining, studying.

“Have a seat,” Nick said as he returned to his stool. Kathryn looked around the office for the first time. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, and impossibly crowded. The largest single item in the office was a tall stainless steel unit that looked like a double-wide refrigerator with glass doors. The back wall was covered with particle-board bookcases of various colors and
sizes, and each shelf sagged under the weight of endless dull-colored volumes with tiny gold or silver titles. Some books were placed well back on the shelf, others stuck out half-returned, and between every few books a manila file or stack of loose photocopies projected. Under the great window was a long worktable, completely cluttered with binders, tweezers, magnifiers, plastic containers, and a hundred other mysterious tools of the forensic entomologist’s dark trade. More than anything there was paper: stacks of articles atop the bookshelves, printouts on the tables, manuscripts on the floor. The only break in the endless clutter was two narrow doorways, one at each end of the room—the only means of escape.

Kathryn stood looking awkwardly about the room. There seemed to be no other place to sit. Nick leaned forward and slid a second stool out from under the worktable, topped with a cascading pile of technical journal articles. With a sweep of his hand he sent the mound of paper back under the table and gestured to the seat.

“Don’t you ever put anything away?” Kathryn asked, sliding onto the stool.

“That is away. Away from me.”

They sat in silence for a few moments as Kathryn gathered her thoughts. Nick spoke first.

“Only one of us knows why you’re here. I’ll bet it’s you.”

So much for formalities, Kathryn thought, and plunged ahead. “As I said outside, I have a very dear friend—”

“Had a dear friend,” Nick interrupted. “When was the body discovered?”

“Early this morning—by some hunters in the woods not far from here.”

“And what was the estimated time of death?”

“They said a week ago. Maybe longer.”

“Now tell me about the disposition of the body.”

She stared at him blankly.

“How it was situated,” he explained, “how it was dressed, the position of the arms and legs, the contents of the hands …”

“I don’t know a lot of … details,” she stammered. “They said he was found lying on his back. He was still holding his pistol in his hand—the one he got in the army. He had … they say he …”
She grimaced, made a gun with her right hand and held it to her temple.