Bernadette grimaced as she and Dr. Woodhead stood in front of the Freshie and watched the taillights of Cecilia Carter’s Subaru disappear down the street. After calling campus security and having them turn off the alarm, Lightman had declined to press criminal trespassing charges, then locked up the building and left in his car a few moments later.
“Thanks for having my back, Dr. Woodhead.” She hoped he’d catch the sarcasm dripping from her voice.
He glanced at her. “My contract specifies that I’m not eligible for hazardous duty. I am untrained in the usage of firearms. I would clearly be inept at situational conflict. I fear I’d be a liability, possibly compounding your problems by requiring rescue if I attempted to insert myself into any situation where physical conflict occurs.”
“You’re doing me a favor, is what you’re saying,” Bernadette said. This was why Barlow wouldn’t ever load the dishwasher: because he said he couldn’t do it the way she wanted it done. Sure, buddy.
“I don’t like it any more than you do.”
Again: sure, buddy.
They both got into the SUV and closed their doors, and Bernadette started the engine as Woodhead turned to her.
“I still had to retrieve the information about Kymer Thompson’s girlfriend, remember?” He took a paper out of a folder and handed it to Bernadette. “Annika Nakrivo.”
Bernadette turned the overhead light on and studied the picture. The printout read that she was nineteen years old. She looked young in the photo, too, but her bright, ice-blue eyes were world-weary. Maybe hurt was a better word. She had a shoulder-length bob and light brown hair. A dark black beauty mark, perfectly circular, above her upper lip on the left side was her most distinguishing feature. She had thin lips and a square jaw. She wasn’t classically beautiful—not the way Barlow’s new girlfriend was—but her features were arresting.
“Do we know anything else about her?”
“I’ve sent her name and information to Curtis. He’s performing a search for Miss Nakrivo’s background and address.”
Bernadette nodded. “Do you want to go talk to her tonight?”
“I believe that would be a wise use of our time.” Woodhead glanced at Bernadette. “Did you figure something out?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you over dinner.” As if to punctuate the sentiment, Bernadette’s stomach growled.
“You’ve been staring at the bratwurst restaurant on the other side of the avenue. We may dine at that establishment if you wish.”
Bernadette looked at her watch. “Ten minutes to nine. I hope their kitchen is still open.”
They walked across the street and pulled open the door to the bar and grill. The restaurant was empty but for a few patrons.
The bartender looked at them sideways when they asked if the kitchen was still open. “Just in time. Decide fast.” The bartender handed them laminated menus as they took their seats on the tall stools in front of the wooden bar.
“Bratwurst, kraut, mustard, side of fries,” she said. “And a Spotted Cow.”
“Lady knows what she’s looking for,” the bartender said. “What can I get you, man?”
Woodhead blinked and looked from one side of the bar to the other then looked past the end of the bar. Bernadette followed his gaze. The Wurst of Milwaukee was long and narrow, dartboards in the back, with long tables the length of the building. A chalkboard above the bar said Specials but whatever had been there was erased with a smudge of white chalk.
“The same,” he said. “Also, do you offer Milwaukee old fashioneds here?”
“Wisconsin Old Fashioned,” the bartender said. “Sour or sweet?”
“Uh—I don’t know.”
“Sweet,” Bernadette piped up. “And let’s get some cheese curds for an appetizer. Since we’re going for the whole Milwaukee experience.”
The bartender nodded. “You from Wisconsin?”
“No, but my boss went to school here,” she said. “She gave me some recommendations.”
The bartender clacked the edges of the menus on the bar twice and went back into the kitchen.
“Do Wisconsin Old Fashioneds taste good when they’re sweet?”
Bernadette chuckled. “No. Maura says they’re terrible, but apparently they’re better than the sour.”
“Why did you let me order it?”
“Maura said everyone has to try it once.”
“You didn’t order one.”
“Nope.” Bernadette grinned. “Taste it. If it’s offensive to your taste buds, order a Spotted Cow after.”
“What kind of beer is Spotted Cow?”
“I don’t really know. It’s delicious, though.” She looked at Woodhead out of the corner of her eye. “But I like salmon, so take my beer recommendations with a grain of salt.” She turned toward the front and tapped her fingers on the bar.
The bartender set the drinks in front of them. A maraschino cherry bobbed in Woodhead’s drink. The golden-hued beer in front of Bernadette had a layer of thick foam on top.
Bernadette caught the look in Woodhead’s eyes. “Want a taste?”
“Well—yes. Thank you.”
She pushed the beer in front of him, and he bent his face down to sniff.
“Oh,” he said. “Slightly sweet. Malty. Bananas and cream.”
“Sure, we’ll go with that.”
He took a tentative taste. “Interesting. Nice and crisp. Not a lot of hops either.”
“You like hops?”
“No.” Woodhead licked his lips. “A bit of a corn taste in the back there. But I didn’t smell the corn. Interesting.” He pushed the glass back toward her.
“Now you’ve had the most famous beer in Wisconsin.”
“Something to mark off my list.” He placed his hands palms down on the bar. “And now for the Milwaukee old fashioned.”
“The Wisconsin Old Fashioned.”
Woodhead raised the glass to his mouth and then pulled the glass away. “What—what the hell is that?”
“What do you mean?”
“You ordered it sweet—but I didn’t expect it to be so—so cloying. My pancreas is pained just from the smell.”
“You know what’s in a classic old fashioned, right?”
“Bourbon, simple syrup, a splash of soda, orange peel, cherry. There’s an ongoing debate whether the orange peel and cherry should be muddled with the simple syrup.”
“So in the Wisconsin Old Fashioned: instead of bourbon, this has brandy, and instead of soda water, this has Sprite.”
He set the drink down on the bar. “You must be joking.”
“I’m not.”
He furrowed his brow. “You were aware of the ingredients, yet still encouraged me to order it?”
“You wanted to try it.” Bernadette smiled.
Woodhead pushed the drink back on the bar as his glasses slipped down his nose. “Out of my sight! Thou dost infect my eyes.”
Bernadette tried to stop from rolling her eyes and failed.
Woodhead turned to her. “In the parking lot, you appeared to draw a conclusion. Do you wish to share?”
“Professor Lightman is hiding something, much like the Agios Delphi priest.” Bernadette reached over and pulled the Wisconsin Old Fashioned in front of her.
“What?”
“I think he’s cheating on his wife.” She picked the drink up and sipped. “Oh, wow, that is sweet. I can feel my teeth rotting out of my skull.”
“Cheating?”
“Yes.” Bernadette nodded emphatically. “If I’m right, it’s with Cecilia Carter.”
“The Justice for Oceans woman who was arrested for trespassing?”
“Yes. She didn’t want to say what she was doing there.”
“And you didn’t ask her point-blank?”
“I did. She wouldn’t say. And it didn’t click for me until you told me she’d been arrested before. I assumed she was nervous because she didn’t want to get arrested, but that’s not right. She was nervous because she was at the Freshie and didn’t want it made public.”
Woodhead scratched his beard. “Surely she was there to cause some sort of trouble.”
Bernadette shook her head. “She had time alone in the office to damage computers, steal research, all kinds of things. I don’t think Justice for Oceans knows she was there, otherwise she would have done something in the office. And as far as we know, she didn’t.” She sipped the Wisconsin Old Fashioned again and made a face.
“So you leap to the conclusion that she and Professor Lightman are engaged in a clandestine relationship?”
“Think about how Lightman reacted. How he didn’t want us to come up to the office.”
Woodhead took his drink back, then spun his glass in a circle. “Did you notice the conference room?”
“I noticed the door was closed.”
“And the blinds were drawn.” He picked the old fashioned up, sniffed it again, then put it back down. “And Lightman didn’t want you going in there.”
“I know he was reluctant to offer it as a place to meet.”
Woodhead nodded thoughtfully. “No one opened the conference room door before we all went downstairs to the fish tanks.”
“No.” Bernadette thought for a moment. “And this obviously wasn’t their first time. Cecilia knew about the ice at the bottom of the stairwell and jumped over it.”
“After you chased her out, I went back upstairs and discovered the conference room door was wide open. It’s possible she was hiding in there.”
Bernadette took a sip from her pint glass. “If Lightman and Carter were hooking up, why would they do it on a day that his grad student had been killed? Are men really that horny all the time?”
Woodhead nodded. “Many are, yes. Most of them can tamp down their urges at inopportune times, but all it takes for some men to act on those urges is a willing partner.”
Bernadette rolled her eyes.
“That’s not hyperbole, Bernie—”
She shoved a finger in front of Woodhead’s nose. “You start calling me ‘Bernadette’ or I’m dumping that cocktail over your head. I mean it. I hate being called ‘Bernie,’ and I know you’ve got a problem with your ex-girlfriend, but we’ve been having a tenable working relationship up to this point. Stop calling me ‘Bernie’ or it will soon be untenable.”
Woodhead blinked. “You’re too sensitive.”
“And you’re not sensitive enough.”
The bartender came with their bratwursts and fries, setting one down in front of each of them. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Can I get a side of spicy mustard?” Bernadette asked.
“Comin’ right up.”
Woodhead exhaled loudly as the bartender scooted off into the kitchen again.
“Now what is it?”
He picked up his bratwurst and bit into it. “Nothing,” he said, through a mouthful of sausage and kraut.
“It’s not nothing.”
Woodhead swallowed. “Heavily spiced foods reduce your sensitivity to smell.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The spicy mustard.”
Bernadette turned and looked at him. “You know, when we first found out about this case, Maura asked me to be the poison expert and the super smeller. But no—I told her that I wanted to eat some salmon and spicy mustard on this trip, so she’d have to find someone else.”
“You’re making fun of me again.” He took another bite.
“You insult people who can’t smell as well as you. And yes, I’m making fun of you. Your sense of smell is a gift. A wonder of nature. A convergence of fortuitous DNA.”
Woodhead stared down at his plate. “It’s not a gift, believe me. Do you have any idea what it’s like to go on a date and smell everything? Not only your date’s perfume or her sweat or whether she washed her underwear, but also the slightly rancid cheese at a table across the restaurant, the bubble gum stuck under a movie theater seat, the cocaine snorted in the hotel room by a previous guest. It’s not a recipe for getting along with people.”
Bernadette chewed thoughtfully.
Woodhead shook his head. “People expect to have normal conversations with me, and all I can think of is the smell of hard-boiled eggs or propane or the number of ants in someone’s backyard.”
“Ants have a smell?”
Woodhead nodded. “You know how a certain percentage of the population thinks cilantro tastes like soap? Well, it’s the same thing with ants.”
Bernadette turned quickly to Woodhead and stared at him wide-eyed. “You think ants taste like soap?”
“No, no—oh, you’re joking. Ha ha. This is serious. A small percentage of the population can identify the smell of ants.”
“I think I understand.” Bernadette swallowed her bratwurst bite. “My daughter has misophonia. She can’t tolerate the sound of other people eating.”
Woodhead hesitated, then said, “That is a common way that misophonia expresses itself, yes.”
“She also hates the sound of a cat cleaning itself with its tongue. Coughing. Sneezing. People drinking.” Bernadette took a sip of her beer. “Getting through a meal with her is tough. Whatever you want to talk about, serious or not, all she can hear is the lip smacking and chewing and swallowing.” She set the beer down. “Is that what it’s like for you, too?”
“I suppose so. I’ve learned to compartmentalize it the last few years.”
“How do you do it?”
“It’s easier when I have something to focus on. For example, this bratwurst. I’m focusing on eating it, so I don’t concentrate on the spilled margarita on the floor that’s at least two days old.”
“I didn’t even notice that.”
“If I have a case to focus on,” Woodhead continued, “it’s much easier. A case provides a reason to shut out the distracting smells.”
“Did you do that today?”
“Yes, many times. For instance, at the lab, I was compartmentalizing the old cottage cheese in the trash in the aquarium room so I could focus on the smell of the lamprey ammocoetes.”
“Is that the fishy smell you recognized in the chapel? And blamed on my breath?”
“I believe so.” He wiped his hands on the napkin and laced his fingers together, elbows on the bar. “My theory is that Mr. Thompson spilled some of the water from the lamprey tank on himself at work. Perhaps a lamprey had even touched him—jumped out of the tank, or what have you. I suppose that could have happened if he was transferring some lampreys to other tanks, or if he was removing sick ammocoetes so they wouldn’t infect others.”
Bernadette picked up her bratwurst and took another bite. “How can that help us find the killer?”
“I don’t have enough information to answer that. However, if Cecilia Carter and Professor Lightman are covering up a sexual relationship, neither will be helpful to the investigation.” He took his last bite. “One genuine Wisconsin bratwurst eaten. It is accomplished.”
“You need to have at least one sip of the old fashioned, Dr. Woodhead. I did.”
Woodhead shook his head. “Not a chance.”
The bartender appeared. “Everything good?” His eyes dipped to the untouched Wisconsin Old Fashioned. “The drink isn’t your speed, huh?”
“He was expecting something a little closer to a classic old fashioned,” Bernadette said.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.” The bartender chortled. “Oh—you never got your curds. I’ll see if—”
“It’s okay,” Bernadette said. “I think we’re done—those brats are pretty big.”
“I’ll get your bill.”
Bernadette turned. “Was the bratwurst worth it, Dr. Woodhead?”
“Since our short-term plan is to work closely together, would you consider referring to me as ‘Kep’ instead of being so formal? ‘Dr. Woodhead’ was my mother.”
Bernadette smiled. The bartender set the bill down between them.
Kep eyed the bill as he took out his phone. “I just received a text with Annika Nakrivo’s address from Curtis. She lives in the university’s dormitories.”
“You want to interview her next?”
“Or we could divide and conquer.”
“What? You mean split up? One of us interview Nakrivo, one of us interview Carter?”
“Two interviews, two of us.”
“As your case analyst—and as an official federal investigator—I need to be with you during questioning at all times.”
“I believe you will find that to be a guideline and not a rule.”
“You have a reputation for taking advantage of that particular guideline, Kep. For our first case together, let’s make sure to color inside the lines.”