Phoenix Noir

“So you put any liquid in any other liquid and don’t stir it, the first liquid will still move—slowly—at a constant rate. Diffusion?”

From wariness to blankness. I sighed.

“You can figure out what that rate is, roughly. The pool water wasn’t disturbed until the waterfall came on; the cloud of blood was intact—and you can see the edges of it in the photo. So you can tell about how long it would have taken for blood to spread that far through the water after it stopped pumping out of Dr. ap Gruffydd.”

“They teach you that in the Boy Scouts, Kolodzi?” Mary-Anne asked.

“High school physics. We need to give it to the cops,” I repeated. “You want to do it, M-A? Or me?”

She shook her head.

“You. They’re gonna want to talk to whoever took the picture. See if you can trade it for an unofficial time of death. Then see if the Desert Botanical Garden is missing a visiting botanist. Fast.”

I didn’t see a patrol car in the DBG parking lot, but a small knot of employees was clustered between the Membership table and a glass-fronted Admissions booth, talking excitedly—the cops were here.

“Director’s office?” I asked the woman at Membership, polite but authoritative. “I’m here about Dr. ap Gruffydd.”

She was flushed from the heat, but pinked up even more with excitement.

“Oh! Oh. Yes, of course. I think they’re all at the main office, that’s up behind Dorrance Hall—go past the cactus and succulent houses and turn right, there are signs. Oh, no—wait!” She snatched a sheet of little purple stickers, each one adorned with a butterfly, and affixed one carefully to my lapel. “There you are.”

I thanked her, and flashing my purple butterfly at the gate, went in. It wasn’t just the employees who were buzzing; the trees were full of cicadas, and the whole place hummed like it was electrified.

A big thunderhead passed over, and I breathed shade, grateful. The monsoon rains were coming, but not here yet. I passed the cactus and succulent houses, side-by-side series of huge metal arches covered with steel mesh, and wondered whether they were a lightning hazard; I could see the flicker of heat lightning over the Superstitions to the east.

I shucked the jacket I’d worn to impersonate authority. My shirt was sweat-soaked, but dried almost instantly; clouds or no clouds, the humidity was maybe six percent. Yeah, it’s a dry heat. Meaning that instead of being poached when you walk outside, you’re flash-fried.

I turned up the Quail Path and blinked at something—a cactus? It had stickers—that looked like an orgy of underfed octopi, skinny bewhiskered tentacles writhing over twenty square feet of ground and up into the branches of the nearest tree. And that wasn’t even the weirdest thing I passed.

The administrative offices were in a discreet building above a little café with an enclosed patio. I was about to crash the party when I caught a glimpse of the Scottsdale homicide lieutenant from the Pratts’ pool deck and went down to the café instead.

I bought a bottle of water and asked the girl behind the counter if she knew where Dr. ap Gruffydd’s office was.

“Oh, are you with the police?” she breathed, excited. “Isn’t it just awful?”

“Yes,” I said. “Did you know the doctor?”

“Oh, not really.” She looked torn between regret and relief. “He’d only been here three months or so, and he wasn’t around most of the time because he kept going down to Tucson to see people about orchids—the Mexican government wouldn’t let him go in anymore, something about his visa, so he’d have these orchid hunters come meet him at the border.”

That was interesting; Harvey hadn’t had much time, but you don’t get a lot of random hits on a name like Howarth ap Gruffydd. He was an expert on the orchidaceae of Latin America; had written two books on orchids, contributed to botanical journals, and otherwise seemed not to have gotten his name in the media. The girl was still talking.

“I helped with the catering for the reception for him up at the Wildflower Pavilion, though, and he talked to me a little bit then.”

“Yes? What did he say, do you remember?”

She giggled, but then put a hand over her mouth, shocked at herself.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to laugh! It’s just—he was talking Welsh to all the ladies; it was so cool. And he said something to me in Welsh too, and he smiled and winked so I think it was a compliment, but I don’t really know what he said, you know?”

A few minutes further conversation got me the information that Dr. ap G had had a temporary office behind the herb garden, to which she helpfully gave me directions.

The herb garden wasn’t hard to find. Aside from signs and the pungent smells of everything from oregano and pineapple sage to ten different varieties of mint, it was marked by a fifteen-foot turquoise metal sculpture that looked like a twisted tree trunk, until you got close enough to see that it had feet, rudimentary wings, and several openings out of which live rosemary plants were growing. St. Earth Walking, read a bronze plaque behind it.