“No, I don’t. His family probably did, but there could have been other people.”
“Other members of his secret society?”
“Possibly. I didn’t really meet any of them except his assistant. But the door locked when it closed. The killer could have been invited in there, killed P’tar’houn-Hoc and left, and the door would have closed behind him. He didn’t need a passcode.”
Rabinowitz decided to try another avenue. “Did he have any enemies?”
“We both spent much time condemning the forces of conservatism and repression, but he only mentioned one specific name, someone who was a bastion of hypocritical public morality.”
Dinh closed her eyes and tried to think. “What was the name? It sounded something like ‘cantaloupe,’ but I don’t remember exactly. P’tar’houn-Hoc said this person was giving speeches all the time, calling him names and urging his destruction. Sorry, but I don’t know any more than that.”
“That’s fine, it gives us a motive. We’ll let it simmer for a moment while we concentrate on something else. The murder scene. You said it was a smaller building behind his main house. What was it, a private office or den or something?”
“Actually, a kitchen and eating area.”
“I guess that makes sense. What was it like? Give me as much detail as you can.”
“Not very large, sort of like the kitchen and dining area of a small efficiency flat. It was rectangular. The walls were sea green, and there were pictures of food on them. There was a phone built into one wall so he could conduct business while he ate. There was a countertop along one of the long walls with a small sink and several cupboards underneath it for storing dishes and food. Against the opposite wall was a small square table with two chairs. The counter and sink were to the left as you entered the room, the table and chairs on the right. There was only the one door, and no windows. That’s basically it. Very simple.”
“If it only were,” Rabinowitz said with a sigh. “OK, what normally happened when you visited him there? You said you cooked him some meals.”
“Prepared them,” Dinh corrected. “I would add spices and things, but the K’tolu’tanou eat their food raw. Bunches of things like kelp and lots of fish and hard-shelled little creatures. I think some of them may have been alive, too. I hadn’t had a chance to do much research yet, we were too busy talking about the sinister social repression. Anyway, P’tar’houn-Hoc would sit at the table and eat what I prepared while I stood beside the table and watched him. We would talk about my book, and how it would deal a crushing blow to the enemies of social progress. I asked him questions about—”
“You stood beside the table? I thought you said there were two chairs. Weren’t you allowed to sit in his presence?”
“I don’t think he would have minded—but he always sat in the big chair and I couldn’t fit in the smaller one.”
“A big chair and a small chair? What is this, ‘Goldilocks’?”
“The second chair was like a child’s highchair. My body didn’t fit in it. Do you think it’s important?”
“I don’t know. Did they rent you the wrong size body?”
“They said it was the only size they had, but it wouldn’t fit in that chair. I didn’t mind, since I was just teeping. I could sit comfortably at home while the rented body was standing.”
“Now think hard. Was there anything different about the room when you went there last night?”
“I didn’t take much time to look around.” Dinh closed her eyes to better visualize the scene. “The counter and sink area looked the same. Both chairs had been tipped over, and P’tar’houn-Hoc was lying beside his chair with the knife sticking in him. Now that I think of it, it was the same knife I used for cutting up kelp; there were ceremonial engravings on the handle.”
She shook her head. “No, other than that everything looked as it normally did.” She paused and looked into the phone at her old friend. “I haven’t been much help, have I?”
Rabinowitz shrugged. “As Dostoevsky said, God sets us nothing but riddles. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to find a few answers.” She sighed again. “But sometimes it takes a lot more luck than others.”
The police on K’tolu’tan were not at all helpful. They would not transmit visually and refused point blank to answer Rabinowitz’s questions—and once she explained she was investigating on behalf of Bian Dinh, they became downright rude. Even if she teeped to K’tolu’tan, Rabinowitz would not be allowed to inspect the murder site. She had no authority in this matter, and the police intended to keep it that way.
“Something brilliant, the man says,” Rabinowitz muttered as she broke the connection. “I feel about as brilliant as a velvet rhinestone. Bian was always good at digging her own grave. I don’t know if I can exhume her this time. I don’t even know if I should bother.”
Her computer reminded her she had a conference call scheduled, and for the next hour and a half she put her friend’s problems aside to deal with her own business. She finished the call and started to make herself some lunch when the phone rang with a call from K’tolu’tan. She didn’t recognize the person’s name, but she took the call anyway.
“Shallow tides, Deborah Rabinowitz,” said the person at the other end of the line. Dinh had been right; the K’tolu’tanou did look like soft-shelled crabs. “I am called F’tim-Saa. Your beloved, Bian Dinh, told me I must speak with you.”
“My what?” Despite almost two decades of dealing with approximate translations over interstellar data loops, the term still caught her by surprise.
“ ‘Beloved.’ At least, that was how my machine interpreted Bian Dinh’s word.”
“I’d better have a talk with Bian,” Rabinowitz muttered to herself, adding more loudly, “Does your machine have a term for old friend, comrade, buddy?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Well, those terms are probably more accurate these days. I presume your call has some bearing on the death of P’tar’houn-Hoc.”
“I believe it does. I was his second-down, in charge of implementing his business.”
“Ah yes, now I remember your name. Bian did mention you. You may turn out to be a godsend, someone who can fill me in on local customs and practices. Bian is very intelligent, but she has a tendency to leap into the middle of situations without fully analyzing them. Always with the best of intentions, but… well, I’m sure you understand the problem. Any help you can give me in understanding what’s happening on K’tolu’tan will be greatly appreciated.”
She paused. “Um, for instance, I apologize for my ignorance about your customs, but is there some honorific or title I should address you by?”
“A shortened form of my name, F’-tim, will be quite sufficient.”
“Thank you. And the same for me. ‘De-BOR-ah’ will do nicely. I’m trying, just as a friend with no official position, to find out what happened to P’tar’houn-Hoc. Having known Bian for many years, I honestly don’t believe she’s capable of murdering anyone. Do your police have any special reason for believing she did it?”
“They don’t tell their minds to me, but I can guess. She’s a stranger, an alien. She was in his private dining room beside the body.”
“But no apparent motive whatsoever. Unless your world is vastly different from mine, mentally balanced people don’t often kill one another for no reason at all. Did P’tar’houn-Hoc have any enemies?”
F’tim considered this. “As a successful business leader he had competitors, but none 1 believe who would do such a thing.”
“Greed’s always a good motive. Who inherits his publishing firm?”