Author: Editor

The young girl’s hands tingled. The ropes that bound her wrists and ankles dug into her flesh, and her shoulder burned, scraped by the cart’s rough planks. Night’s mantle pressed the tears in her eyes, while a frightened moan escaped her saliva sodden gag. She struggled to rise. The heavy wheels creaked and bumped over brambles and stones, telling her that the oxen had left the rutted tracks. A sudden lurch forward and all motion stopped. Weightlessness overpowered. She closed her eyes and held her breath.

 

*     *       *

 

A cloak is a useful companion, I thought as I gazed at the iron gates. It can shadow the biggest, most sinister culprit from the light, and in my diminutive case, I was no exception. The moonlight threatened my vigil on the archway, but I regressed into the shadow, cheating Luna of any satisfaction. The marble column beside me, just one in a row lining the atrium of my father’s villa, met my hand with its furrows of cool, polished stone, and I waited.

 

Our gatekeeper finished lighting the torches braced to the villa walls. Feeling a slight chill, I clutched the woolen folds around me. I must be patient. Juniper waves rippled through my curls, and I rounded a fallen tendril behind my ear. Even in the spring’s gentle wind another escaped and laughed at me in the breeze as I subdued it beneath my hood. My curls were as stubborn as I could be at times. The missive addressed to Lady Arria had been cryptic. It requested an audience with me, concerning a disappearance. It had been signed—Desperate.

I was not surprised. My reputation as an investigator spread throughout the Tuscian countryside. A mystery concerning a series of demonic symbols carved into our wheat fields was solved by my skills of observation and deduction and my willing involvement by status as the landowner’s daughter. Of course, our bishop sermonized that there was no longer room in fifth century Italia for lingering strains of pagan practices that allowed for Satan’s grip on the land and Christian souls. I had thought differently; my father had seen to this, and I looked to the ways of men rather than demons for an explanation. However, the mystery of Satan’s symbols had awakened in me a passion for investigation into baffling matters.

 

When my father, the esteemed Senator Felix, heard of my involvement and resolution of this agrarian mystery, he summoned me to his study. I seated myself before him. His graying hair, dark brows, and long nose portrayed his intelligent nature well. He shook his head. “Why wasn’t I informed about your investigation?”

 

“Forgive me, Father. My passion for the truth drove me.”

 

He frowned. “Since your mother’s death, Arria, I have sanctioned your education and independence. Other fathers would expect you follow the domestic traditions of a Roman lady.” Folding his hands on the desk, he leaned forward. “My peers have criticized me, but I’ve held to my conviction. In times of upheaval, knowledge and strength can be your allies.” He sighed and relaxed into his chair. “Arria, I pay an overseer to manage this estate and any problems it may encounter. Spend your days in more pleasant pursuits.” Pushing a scroll across his desk, he smiled. “I’ve acquired a treasure. One of Cicero’s philosophic writings, On Ends. Aetius was quite envious. I informed him that when he returned from chasing that barbarian, Attila, I would lend it to him.” His smile turned to a full grin, “The General was definitely annoyed.”

 

“Really Father, if you weren’t fast friends, I would question this rivalry over antiquities.” My father chuckled. I gave him a serious look. “I crave something that will intrigue me. Since Marcian’s death, I feel empty… that I lack… purpose.”

 

“Marcian was a good soldier and husband. He is sorely missed, but you’re just twenty years.” My father observed. “There will be time for adventure, even love. Rest, study. Grief will dull. I long for the sparkle in your green eyes.”

 

“But Father,” I insisted, “with my help the farmers discovered that the symbols were not carved by the hand of Lucifer, but by our neighbor, Sagittarius. I used the knowledge I was taught and put the fears of our tenants and slaves to rest.”

 

Again, my father shook his head. “You’re as stubborn as you are smart. The demon symbols may have captured your interest, but be careful. Although Sagittarius pleaded a drunken prank, your disclosure embarrassed him—cost him a heavy fine. A vindictive man plays hard.”

 

“A stubborn and smart woman can play just as hard.”

“Temper your confidence, Arria,” my father cautioned. “This isn’t a game. When a man’s reputation and wealth, are threatened, it may become a deadly affair.”

 

Y

 

In the pale shade of moonlight, my father’s warning echoed in my mind. Instinctively, I clutched my pendant, an alabaster heart. A gift from Marcian, it was a comfort. I felt safe on our villa grounds. The initiator of this rendezvous was meeting me here, but I thought it best to hide myself. I wanted the first assessment.

 

Before long, a hooded figure approached the archway. The gatekeeper snored in a chair propped against the wall. The stranger avoided the bell hanging for visitors and rattled the gate. Startled, the gatekeeper jumped up. They exchanged words and the slave ran toward my quarters. The stranger’s size indicated that it was a man, but his hood and the shadows hid his features. He gripped the bars of the gate, and his leather boots measured him a person of means. Upon seeing the bewildered gatekeeper return, I boldly approached the stranger. “Who is requesting to see the Lady Arria?”

 

“Someone seeking answers,” the stranger answered.

 

“Uncover your head or leave this place.”

He hesitated, then dropped his hood. Sad brown eyes confronted me. “Are you the Lady Arria?”

 

I shifted uncomfortably. “I am. But before I let you enter, tell me your name.”

 

“I’m Darrifius.”

 

            “Why an audience at this late hour?”

 

“Excuse my need for secrecy—the girl I love is missing. The locals say that you have the powers of observation. Lady Arria, please help me.”

 

I judged Darrifius a bit younger than my twenty years. His black hair and angular cheekbones lent handsomely to a smooth face that reflected his innocence. His eyes searched my face. “What’s her name?” I asked.

 

“Placidana.”

 

“The daughter of Arminius, the magistrate?”

 

“Yes. She’s disappeared. I’ll die if I do not discover her whereabouts.”

 

“Come,” I answered. At the wave of my hand, the gatekeeper unlocked the gate.

 

Darrifius entered. “Thank you, Lady Arria, I’m most grateful.”

 

“Follow me. You can explain further over a spiced wine.”

 

I felt uneasy. Placidana was the only daughter of the provincial magistrate, Arminius. Was Darrifius a welcomed suitor or a lovesick boy beneath the girl’s station? And, where was Placidana?

 

In my quarters, Samuel, my trusted slave and confidant, approached us. Taking our cloaks, he motioned Darrifius to a chair beside the burning brazier. Samuel and I exchanged glances.

I took a seat opposite Darrifius. “Tell me what concerns you about Placidana’s absence? Perhaps, her parents have sent her away.”

 

“I think not. Two nights ago, I learned she was missing when I went to her villa. We’ve been meeting secretly for a while. We first met at a party thrown by my father, Sagittarius.”

 

I stifled a frown. “Sagittarius, the owner of the estate to the north?”

 

Darrifius bit into a honeyed fig Samuel offered him from a tray. “Yes.”

 

“Your father is quite famous in the province for his unusual love for architecture… and design,” I quipped, “but go on.”

 

“We met again on the feast day of St. Martin. Her father held a banquet for all the prominent landowners in Tuscia. Were you and the Senator not invited?”

 

“We were, but as my dress reveals, I’m in mourning. My father wouldn’t leave me.

A slight color rose in Darrifius’ cheeks. “I’m sorry for your loss, my lady.”

 

“Thank you,” I replied, then added quickly, “Was the gathering wonderful?”

 

Darrifius’ eyes shined as he licked the honey from his fingers. “It was beyond my expectation. Seeing Placidana made it even more exciting. The young people, with an older woman as a chaperone, were allowed a room for conversation and games. When the chaperone fell asleep, Placidana went to the terrace for some air. I followed. We held hands. She giggled when I recited a love poem in her ear.” Darrifius paused, the picture stealing his thoughts. “After that night, I begged my father to arrange our introductions. He did inquire, but with little luck.”

 

            “Why is that?”

 

“Placidana’s mother favored us, but her father did not. My father felt disgruntled. He felt the magistrate was holding out for a better prospect.”

 

“So, how do you know she’s missing?”

 

            “A week after my father’s inquiry, a slave girl from the market place approached me. Raising a finger to her lips, she handed me a sealed parchment and disappeared between the fish stalls. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Behind a flower cart, I opened the missive. A drawing revealed Placidana’s villa, the garden beside it and a tree. Beneath the drawing was written: If you love me, find your way to this tree and my heart when the moon shines highest.” The young man’s gaze met mine but darted upward as if the beams would comfort him.

            I glanced toward Samuel’s reassuring smile and reached for Darrifius’ glass. “Drink,” I said.

 

He took the cup. “I must seem the fool.”

 

“Quite the contrary,” I answered and tasted my wine. “Surely, Placidana knows her good fortune. Why do you believe she’s been missing for two days?”

 

“If one of us cannot meet, we leave a note in a small chest beneath the vines in her father’s garden. Two nights ago, when she didn’t appear, I checked the box. There was nothing. Worried, I slipped into the villa through the slave’s entrance and questioned a passing servant. Pretending that I was a newly arrived slave, I asked where I might find the Lady Placidana. I explained that I was to deliver her a message from her brother, Proculus. The servant seemed suspicious and replied, ‘The Lady Placidana has been missing since morning. Has her brother forgotten?’”

 

            What did you do?” I interrupted.

 

Darrifius leaned in, “I froze. Then a fire leaped inside of me and I snapped, ‘Her brother hasn’t forgotten, you oaf! He wants that his sister should find a welcome note upon her return!’ I pulled Placidana’s love letter from beneath my tunic and waved it before the servant. ‘He prays she’s found and you should pray, too!’”

 

“‘Oh, I will,’” he answered and pointed to a door just above the courtyard. ‘The Lady is loved by all.’ Then he gave an eerie chuckle and disappeared into the dark corridor.”

 

“An odd reaction,” I commented, while Samuel in a servant’s chair, nodded in agreement.

 

Darrifius continued, “I hurried home determined to find her. In the morning, I rode the land near her villa. I hoped I would find her cold, tired, and perhaps with a bruised or broken ankle, but safe—alive. Night fell, forcing me home without success.” He took a gulp of wine and sat back. “However, I remembered the day in the market, before Placidana’s slave found me. The women were speaking about Felix’s daughter, Lady Arria, proving that the symbols carved in the fields came not from demons but drunken men. They cackled like hens. I listened with some embarrassment having heard of my father’s part in the affair.” Darrifius glanced away.

 

            I raised an eyebrow. Could this be a trick posed by Sagittarius? Who better than a son to perpetrate a man’s revenge? Yet, Darrifius’ concern for the girl seemed quite genuine. “In the morning, I’ll arrange a visit to the magistrate’s home. I’ll inquire about Placidana. I need a woman companion to join me in my widow’s pilgrimage to Rome. Why not a lady from a respected family?”

 

            Darrifius grabbed my hand and pressed it to his lips. “Thank you!”

 

“I’ll soon bring you news. The hour is late. Please, stay the night. Samuel will show you to your room.”

 

“You’re most gracious. Good night, my lady.” Darrifius bowed and followed Samuel.

 

“Sleep well, Darrifius.” Taking a seat beside the copper brazier, I held my alabaster pendant and stared into the coals. What had happened to Placidana? Or, was this an act of revenge?

 

Y

 

“My lord, Arminius, thank you for seeing me. And Lady Deuteria, it’s always a pleasure.” I sat in the chair offered by a servant. My gaze floated over the ferns and grasses edging the veranda. A vista of red poppies, reborn beneath the April sun, held the Tuscian countryside and my attention captive.

“A marvelous view!” I sparkled and sipped the wine served to me. I answered the magistrate’s questions concerning my father’s health and my welfare. Although cordial, Deuteria seemed strained and somewhat absent. “I hope you’ll forgive this sudden visit, but I’m making a pilgrimage to Basilica Apostolorum in memory of my late husband, Lucius Marcian. It occurred to me that your lovely daughter, Placidana, might accompany me to Rome, if you approve. It’s said that she’s most amicable. Her companionship would be welcome and would allow her to visit this sacred shrine. Soldiers will safeguard our travel and the accommodations will be of the highest quality. Would Placidana find this excursion to her liking?”

 

Deuteria glanced at her husband.

Arminius cleared his throat, “Lady Arria, our Placidana has been missing for several days. She’s vanished.”

 

“Vanished, my lord, how so?”

 

“It’s not known. Her slave found her missing when she went to wake her for the day. The soldiers searched the house and grounds, but my daughter is gone.” I glimpsed a fearful uncertainty in his eyes, but they quickly hardened. “If she’s been kidnapped, her captor, when caught, will beg for a quick death.”

I straightened in my chair. “Do you believe she was abducted?”

 

“There’s no reason for her to run away,” he snapped, gripping his armrests. “She lives a privileged life. She has a brother who adores her. Her mother is devoted to her welfare, and I’ve always considered her happiness my highest priority. For months, I’ve searched for a husband suitable for her, with no result.” A reverence filled his voice, “There are few men worthy of my beautiful, Placidana.”

“I’m afraid I’ve come at a bad time. Have hope. If I can help, please call on me.” I rose and lifted my palla over my shoulders, then paused. “This might seem an odd request, but may I see Placidana’s bedchamber?” I gave Arminius a confident look.

 

Arminius looked wary for a moment, then curious. “I’ve checked the room numerous times, but a fresh pair of eyes might find something missed.”

 

Along the corridor leading to the stairway to Placidana’s room, I noted a passageway to an outer gate. “What a beautiful villa, you have. The courtyard is majestic and the garden outside its walls is remarkable. Can the back gate be accessed any time of the day?”

 

“The servants use that gate to come and go, but after dark, I require it be locked. Although, I suspect that on occasion this household rule goes unobserved.”

 

“So, the servant’s gate is the only way in or out besides the main entrance?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Does the gate show signs of a forced entry?”

 

Arminius abruptly faced me. “The wood planks are solid and the lock is intact. Do you believe she left her home, willingly?” His question hinted anger.

 

“I’m only curious,” I answered discreetly. We arrived at the girl’s bedchamber and I waited as Arminius let me in. He called a slave who flung open the shutters, filling the room with light. I was drawn to her bedroom slippers, still neatly placed beneath her bed. It was obvious that she’d either been carried away, her feet bare, or she left on her own accord.

I moved to her wardrobe. “How many pairs of shoes does Placidana own?”

Arminius glared. “Would I know the inventory of my daughter’s apparel?”

“Of course, forgive me. Would her mother know?” I turned my gaze on Deuteria.

Deuteria’s impassive face gazed back at me. “I believe she has several: a pair for walking, the household, and dress, of course.”

 

I looked. A pretty pair of sandals studded with pearls sat beside soft leather slippers.

 

I noted the absence of boots, but kept my observation to myself. I walked on to the balcony and noted the flowered trellis leading to the ground. I faced them. “Thank you, I’ve seen enough.”

 

The magistrate’s eyes narrowed. “Does anything seem out of order?”

 

“I believe everything is in order. In fact, too ordered to be a kidnapping, don’t you think? And your daughter’s walking boots—they’re gone.”

 

“You’re implying that my daughter ran away.”

 

“Not in the least. But, if this room has been untouched since her disappearance—there is no sign of a struggle. And the matter of the shoes. Would Placidana’s abductor stop to get her walking boots?”

 

Deuteria finally spoke. “What if my daughter had a lover?”

 

“Silence, woman!” Arminius hissed.

 

Arminius’ outburst took me off guard, but I recovered quickly, “I must leave. If your daughter has had a flight of fancy, I pray that she’ll return unharmed.”

 

“We thank you for your visit and your interest in our daughter’s welfare. I don’t believe she would desert her loving family for a fancy and my men will keep searching until we find her.” Arminius replied, resolve set in his tightened jaw.

 

I did not doubt that Arminius’ words were true.

 

Outside the atrium, while a slave fetched my horse, I noted a cloud of riders advancing on the villa. My curiosity piqued, I decided to linger. Reins in hand, I fed my horse a biscuit. Arminius, absorbed in the arrival of what I determined to be his soldiers, stood under the arched entrance. Slowing to a trot the horsemen came before the magistrate. It was apparent that a blanket hung over the saddle of the second rider.

 

Arminius ran to the inert bundle as two soldiers rested it on the ground before his feet. “Open it!” he cried hoarsely.

 

I positioned myself for careful observation. I noted that Deuteria only moved several paces closer; yet, dread filled her eyes. We held our breath and stared. The centurion in charge tenderly revealed the body of a delicate young girl. In the sun, her alabaster skin, like my pendant heart and her rich brown tresses, shined. A wounded creature cradled silent, she rested on the woolen blanket, a coarse contrast to her lifeless beauty.

 

Arminius fell to his knees and clutched his daughter to him. Placidana came limply into her father’s arms, while her fragile fingers scraped the dusty earth. Her vacant stare validated her death. The blue hollows of broken bones, bruises, and her blood crusted brow and skull were a perverse insult against her budding youth.

Deuteria ran and knelt beside her husband, crossed herself and began to weep. I stood transfixed by the sight before me. It was only after a few minutes that the centurion and an old slave knelt beside Arminius and whispered their concern. The body had been found in a ravine among the broken planks of a wooden cart and the battered ox that apparently led the wagon and rider over the cliff above. The cool weather and surrounding juniper had kept the decay minimal and any serious scavengers away. I wondered what had happened to the driver or had Placidana been at the reins?

 

With help from the guards, Placidana was taken to the house and her body was placed in one of the storerooms. Arminius and Deuteria retired to their quarters, while I pursued the old servant. “I’m here to assist your master. Where are the women who’ll prepare the girl for burial?” The servant hesitated, but knowing that I had been in his master’s company nodded and directed me to a storeroom where a few curious slaves lingered and two women bent over the body. I entered and all stepped back. Candles burned, while fragrant spirals of sandalwood drifted from a hanging censer and floated over Placidana’s body.

I approached her ashen face and peered intently at the mouth, now blue. The beauty shaped by God but lost to death had begun to fade. Only days before, her lips were vibrant and sweet. I imagined her and Darrifius kissing for the first time and my own first kiss from my beloved husband chased the lovers’ image away replaced by ours. Unconsciously, my fingers found my lips, but as quickly, I rejoined my cause and scanned her face. Bits of dried blood nestled in the corners of her pale blue lips. Was Placidana gagged? My gaze roamed her neck, then her breast. Her torn dress still covered her. Bare arms broken in several places rested awkwardly at her side. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that a purple bruise circled each wrist. They had been bound. There was no question; Placidana was taken against her will. Had the person responsible for her death led the ox driven cart to the cliff, then forced its plunge to the ravine below?

I was pulled from my thoughts when Deuteria entered and came beside me. “She was a good daughter,” was all Deuteria said, and placed her hand on the lifeless hand before her. Even in the dim light, I noticed two red lines stretched across the surface of Deuteria’s hand.

 

“Your pain must be difficult to bear,” I replied and turned to leave.

“Arria, wait.”

 

I turned back. Deuteria paled and Placidana’s face reflected momentarily before me.

 

“There was a boy, you know. ”

 

“Do you think him responsible?”

 

“Who else could it be? All loved Placidana, especially her father. My daughter was the light in his eyes.” Her tone rang strangely bitter.

 

“I imagine she was. She appears to have been very beautiful.”

 

“Yes. She is—even in death.”

 

Deuteria’s hollow glance and staid demeanor made my blood shudder, but I quelled the odd sensation and turned once again only to be called back.

 

“The boy caused her death,” she accused.

 

“Would he kill the object of his desire, forcing her bound and gagged over a cliff in an ox driven cart?”

 

Deuteria’s brow raised just a fraction. “She may have resisted him.”

 

“Or someone else,” I interjected and then took my leave.

 

Y

 

Into the sunlit court, I rested on a bench near the central fountain. Looking for a drinking ladle, I was approached by a lad with a cup.

 

“Are you the lady that is spoken of in town?” he asked.

 

“I don’t know,” I answered brightly. “I imagine many women in town are the subjects of gossip. What do they say about the lady in question?”

 

“That she’s Felix’s daughter and sees what most cannot perceive.”

 

I realized that by his question and my forthcoming answer, I had found my purpose. “I’m Arria Felix. I unravel perplexing mysteries.”

 

Hearing my affirmation, the boy smiled and looked about, then pulled a leather glove from his tunic pocket. “This belonged to my sister, Placidana. I’m Proculus, her brother. I found it at the bottom of her bedroom trellis the morning of her disappearance.”

 

“Did she climb down the ladder, often?” I asked softly.

Proculus looked about again. “She loved her gloves and wore them whenever she rode. If she misplaced them, she would make me search until they were found. She confided that they were a gift from an admirer, but bound me to secrecy.” Clasping the glove in his fist, he shoved his hand inside his pocket.

 

“Why are you telling me?” I continued.

 

“My sister didn’t lose them, they were taken from her.

 

“By whom and why?”

 

“I don’t know. You’re the investigator…I loved my sister. Find the one who killed her.”

 

“You think it not an accident?”

 

“Placidana would never drive an ox cart, without her gloves, in the middle of the night.”

 

            “Where’s the glove’s mate?”

 

            “Proculus! I’ve been looking for you!” Deuteria approached the fountain and ordered her son, “Funeral preparations must be made. Find the steward, he’ll direct you.”

Proculus glanced quizzically at Arria and scampered away.

 

“He meant no harm. In fact, he was quite helpful.” Arria dipped the cup into the fountain and took a sip, watching Deuteria over the rim.

Deuteria smiled thinly. “I’m glad he was of service. Forgive my lack of hospitality, but I must rest now.”

 

Uncomfortable in her presence, I felt that her sorrow was mistress over her emotions. “Deuteria, please take your recess. The loss of a child is a difficult cross.”

 

She acknowledged my condolences with a nod and swept past me. I noticed a leather edge peeking from her pocket. Did Deuteria find the missing glove? If so, where?

 

Y

 

The next day, Placidana was buried. My father and I attended the funeral. The following morning, I acted as a witness for the inquiry into his daughter’s death. Arminius’ grief and desire for justice made his actions swift. What were once guarded whispers now had reached the ears of an angry, mournful father. Learning of the romance between his daughter and the love-struck, Darrifius, Arminius could not be calmed. The magistrate dispatched soldiers to the home of Darrifius with an order demanding his presence.

Darrifius came before Arminius trailed by his father, Sagittarius. The entire household, including my father and Samuel, was seated in a semi-circle facing the magistrate. Arminius’ hate shined in his steely gaze. A person found guilty of murder was subject to execution. Darrifius stood visibly shaken, while Sagittarius kept wiping his brow, despite the cool day.

 

“Were you and my daughter lovers?” Arminius snarled at Darrifius.

 

“In our hearts, my lord.”

 

“Don’t lie to me, boy. Were you lovers?”

 

“Not in the flesh.” Darrifius replied, adamantly.

 

A distrustful look crossed Arminius’ face and he glanced at Deuteria who showed signs of bridled stress. “Did you meet at night in the vineyard garden?”

 

“We met, but not every night—not that night.”

 

“That’s not true, my lord!” A sudden voice rang out from among the servants. A clamor erupted as the handsome slave stepped forward.

Arminius stood and shouted, “Quiet! What are you saying, Cyrus?”

“Master, Darrifius was in the courtyard. He pretended to be a servant.”

“Is this true Darrifius, were you in the villa?”

 

I silenced Darrifius with a sharp look, while my father and I stepped forward. Samuel, who arrived earlier from an errand confirming a suspicion of mine, stood behind me. My father glanced at me and I spoke, “My lord, Darrifius never came to the villa the night that Placidana disappeared. He was at home in the company of his family, celebrating his father’s birthday. It was the following night that he came to meet with Placidana. When she didn’t appear, he searched for some explanation of her whereabouts, but finding nothing, he entered the villa and spoke with a slave who confirmed her missing. Darrifius then returned to his home where he penned and delivered to our gatekeeper a note addressed to me. This morning, my servant, Samuel, confirmed with the gatekeeper that the person who carried the missive to my home was indeed the Darrifius who appeared at my villa the next night.”

The magistrate’s slave, Cyrus attempted to speak, but Deuteria stopped him with a slightly raised hand.

 

I continued, “My lord, Darrifius did speak with a servant, but it was a day later. It would have been impossible for him to travel the distance between our homes, return to your villa and abduct and kill Placidana all before morning. Besides, what reason would he have to kill the girl he loved?”

 

“Anger,” Arminius spat, “I refused him as a suitor. Perhaps this rejection has bred his spite’s revenge.”

 

“Then I think it would be aimed at you Arminius, not Placidana.”

 

Arminius crumpled in his chair and stared at those before him. He was caught in despair. “Who would gain by hurting her?” he hissed.

 

“Earlier in the day, I spoke with Proculus. Your son indicated that his sister never traveled without her gloves, and that he found one at the foot of the trellis the morning after her disappearance. I believe Placidana left the house that night in good faith. Her gloves were lost when her hands were bound and she was gagged.”

 

“Gagged! Bound!” Arminius roared.

“Your daughter’s wrists were bruised by rope and the corners of her mouth scraped and cut. Someone who lived in your house saw to her demise.” Silence permeated the room, but Arria continued, “There’s the servant that Darrifius saw the night after Placidana went missing.”

“It was Cyrus!” Darrifius cried, pointing an indignant finger at the handsome slave.

My voice rose, “My lord! Cyrus mocked to Darrifius that your daughter was loved by all. Who desired your daughter, possibly making her an object of envy or even hatred?”

 

Arminius glared at Cyrus and clenched his fists.

 

Cyrus looked desperately about, and then leaped toward the nearby centurion. Stealing his sword, he held it to the soldier’s throat. “I’ll not die for his crime,” he screamed. “Tell them Deuteria! Tell them!”

 

The entrance guards immediately focused on the crazed Cyrus. One circled before him, while the second jumped him from behind, freeing the centurion. The soldiers wrestled Cyrus to the ground, and the centurion relieved him of his weapon. As the soldiers hauled Cyrus to his feet, he shouted. “I’ll not pay for their crime!”

“Quiet! You fool!” Like a chorus in unison all eyes turned toward Deuteria.

 

“I would die for you mistress,” Cyrus choked, “but not for him.”

 

“Tell them, Deuteria,” I demanded and walked to her side. I pulled the leather edge peeking from her dress pocket. Displaying the missing glove, I lifted her resistant hand in mine. “These scratches were the parting gift of a frantic daughter who realized what you were about to do. Cyrus bound and gagged Placidana after you led her down the trellis. She believed you would bring her to Darrifius. Why did you lie to your daughter? Why did you kill her?” I entreated, letting her now limp hand, drop. Deuteria’s voice scorched the room. “You don’t understand. I saved her… from a monster.”

 

“What monster do you speak of Deuteria?” I prodded.

 

A frightening monster. One who creeps into a girl’s room at night. The monster guardian fallen from the grace of God, who knows only his perverse lust.”

 

“Deuteria, of whom do you speak?” I insisted.

 

For a second, she glanced behind her toward Arminius, and then her lips parted. A dull thud arched her back and a thin, ruby line trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her anguished eyes met mine. Slowly, she sank to the ground at my feet.

Before me the room spun and Samuel grabbed me to him, while my father’s shouts “Arrest him!” reverberated in my ears. I watched in horror as Cyrus, breaking free, bent over Deuteria her blood seeping onto the stone tiles, and the centurion and his men apprehended Arminius.

 

Y

 

Several days later, Darrifius came to see me. His boyish good looks were brighter in the daylight as we shared the knowledge of a painful loss.

 

“My lady, what will happen to Arminius? Will his punishment be just or lost in political friendships?”

“My father has gone to Rome to relate the circumstances of Deuteria’s crime and death to the Emperor’s court. Mercy is constrained for a man who defiles his daughter. Placidana’s murder won’t go unpunished.”

 

“Will Cyrus suffer for leading the cart off the cliff?”

 

“He will live his life in a prison or face the horrors of a battlefield. My father thinks it will be the latter. Rome needs soldiers more than ever. Attila and his Huns grow closer.”

 

Darrifius’ voice grew hollow, “Why would a mother kill her own daughter?”

 

“It’s a difficult question. The answer lies buried with them; but perhaps, Deuteria envied Arminius’ love for Placidana beyond loyalty and nature. Or, maybe her damaged heart sought to protect her daughter from something she believed worse than death. I suspect that Arminius was not only Placidana’s monster but Deuteria’s as well. Possibly, Arminius succeeded another monster in Deuteria’s life. We’ll never know.”

 

Tears welled in Darrifius’ eyes. “I’ll never forget my beautiful, Placidana.”

 

“I know,” was all I could offer, but my pendant heart rested heavy on my chest.

The End

What goes by at seventy-five miles an hour beyond the glass barriers of windshields and windows, what catches your eye when everything is whizzing by, Ralph Bettinger knew, was the pearl in the oyster. He prided himself on framing picturesque shots of Americana, scenes found just off U.S. highways, nestled in the heartland.

Yet, everything he saw outside his car was on its way to oblivion.   The vintage landscapes of Grant Wood and Norman Rockwell were being swallowed up by a social virus called progress.   All those beautiful vistas were vanishing! Indeed, disappearing acts were happening all around him, like his own long-gone youth, like common decency and good music, like Leah.

After Leah died, Ralph determined to record what he could with his camera and leave it as a testament to future generations, detailing a time when journeying involved more than merely driving as fast as the law allowed to reach a destination. He wanted the future to know that at one time, folks found solace in open spaces.

Cruising down an old, Farm-to-Market road in northwest Oklahoma, Ralph pondered the fate of dinosaurs. The great beasts had been destined for extinction by a changing world. That was exactly how he felt. If men like him were categorized by today’s young techno-freaks, they would be labeled obsolete. Sure as hell, the evolution of technology had doomed his kind.

It was difficult to stand alone, or rather, to drive alone from destination to destination without a real sense of arrival. If Leah were still here…Ralph pushed that thought away, turning his attention instead to modernity’s monster eating away more and more of the world where he once lived. One-of-a-kind cafes and shops disappeared daily, replaced by McDonalds and Wal-Marts. The age of cloning, Ralph acknowledged, began long before Dolly, the sheep.

Sooner or later, his antiquated soul would join those already passed. That thought didn’t bother him much. The method of passing might be frightening or unpleasant, but the idea of escape offered some comfort. At least I’ll be with my own kind, the old man thought.

Until then, Ralph vowed to photograph the remnants from his time. “I will record all that I can until I reach the road’s end or until my car quits on me, whichever happens first.” A rusting ’65 Chevy Biscayne parked outside a Craftsman bungalow with a cistern in the yard, a butter churn at a flea market, an empty porch swing in front of a farm house, all were documented with Ralph’s camera.

Ralph didn’t like to stop the car for too long. People grew suspicious of a man standing outside their property with a camera in his hand. He could talk to them and explain his desire to capture a vanishing world with his camera, but the thought of explaining himself made him tired.

“It’s exhausting,” Ralph spoke aloud. More so since retirement, more so since his wife Leah died, more so since he sold his home and converted the proceeds into a gasoline fund.   Still, a man had to keep driving if that was what he set out to do. Didn’t he?   Ralph raised his hand imploringly from the steering wheel, before answering himself with a silent nod.

Up ahead, a dilapidated billboard caught his eye. Ralph lifted his foot from the accelerator, and the car slowed as he approached the faded image. Flaps of curled paper clung to the board as though staking a claim against time. It deserved a closer look, not a fly-by glance, but a deep study.

“What was it advertising?” Ralph muttered. He felt an old familiar excitement as he parked his car on the side of the road. He was confident he could get a great shot of the wild shrubs growing up beside the furling paper, peek-a-booing through the branches. The woman’s smile was preserved, though one eye was completely gone and her neck seemed to disappear, bleached out by the harshness of too much sunlight.

The billboard, with its fraying advertisement, stood in front of a small copse of trees and brambles. He walked closer to inspect what words, if any, were still visible, noting a familiar slogan: “You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby.” He raised his camera and focused before the familiar click of the shutter assured him that he got the shot. Shifting a little to the left, he focused his camera again for another take.

He took several shots from different angles, gradually edging into the copse to survey the board from behind. The highway and clouds made an appealing backdrop. As his foot sunk a bit into what appeared to be a dry gully, Ralph spied a small heart-shaped object poking through the red Oklahoma dirt.

It was attached to a key chain. A tug brought it loose from the earth along with its six, rusty keys and a small leather strap, brittle from exposure, with the word, “wow,” etched into it.   But it was what Ralph saw beneath the spot where he had uncovered the key ring that caused the old man to jump back, almost dropping his camera. There, in the gully, was a lady’s wrist watch on what appeared to be a skeleton’s hand.

Ralph dug deeper, too intrigued to stop, despite the fact that he knew he should. It was a crime scene, after all, but if not for him, it would still be undiscovered. He figured that gave him some claim to explore a bit more, tantalized by the idea of uncovering something hidden long ago.

After a small amount of excavating, Ralph caught sight of rotting fabric and a partially exposed rib cage. He dug a little more and found the grinning, fleshless skull. The image was macabre and instinctively, Ralph grabbed his camera. He snapped seven shots. It wasn’t charming Americana, but it was worthy of documentation. Maybe more so than anything else he’d seen on his driving odyssey.

How long had that poor woman been there without discovery?   Ralph thought of Leah resting in the cemetery lot that they had chosen together. Whoever this was had been denied a decent burial. No headstone, no place for a family to pay their respects.   It was a cruel injustice that needed to be rectified. With that thought in mind, Ralph placed the key ring in his pocket and trudged back to his car.

The nearest town was twenty-two miles away. Willkommen, Oklahoma, population 4,850, appeared proud of its German heritage, evidenced by street names such as Muenster Avenue and Berlin Boulevard. An Oktoberfest announcement was placed in the window of a café that advertised a bratwurst lunch special. Ralph liked what he saw. He was of German heritage himself. He had spent many holidays at his grandparents’ home where potato bread and goulaschsuppe and apfel schnee were served regularly. Willkommen revived those fond memories, and despite the gruesome discovery Ralph had recently made, he found himself smiling as he drove around the town square.

The sheriff’s department occupied a highly visible corner location. Ralph parked his car and went inside. There was one large room with several desks, all but two were empty.   Two curious faces looked up as Ralph walked in. “Excuse me,” he began, “but I believe I have stumbled upon some human remains just outside of town and–”

“Oh, no,” a heavy, middle-aged, brunette gasped, bringing her hand to her bosom as though Ralph’s words had struck her.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Ralph replied. “About twenty miles east of here. I was stopped at an old billboard to take a picture when I found what I think is a woman’s remains.”

At this point, a tall, young, blonde man rose from his chair. He swaggered toward Ralph with obvious confidence. Cocky, Ralph thought. Power and youth, an unpleasant mixture. The young man put forth his hand. “I’m Sheriff Kurt Eisenberg. Didn’t catch your name.”

“Ralph Bettinger. I am an amateur photographer, and I was just taking a few photographs of your area to include in my travelogue.” Ralph quickly offered his identity and his hobby, thinking an explanation for his activities would establish his credibility.

“A travelogue, huh? And you’re going to include Woods County, Oklahoma? My goodness. We are finally going to be put on the map, Aileen,” Kurt Eisenberg directed his remarks toward the woman before fixing his gaze again on Ralph. “You said ‘human remains,’ right? You sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Unless livestock around here wear watches and carry key chains.” Ralph responded in turn. He didn’t like being treated like an old coot when he was only doing his civic duty. He reached in his pocket for the heart-shaped trinket on the set of rusting keys.   “These were beside the body.” He handed the key chain to the young sheriff who stood studying it without a word of response. Ralph waited for the sheriff to speak and when he didn’t, Ralph continued.

“The skull and ribs are intact. One of the hands has broken off, but I imagine there is enough there to link it to a missing person’s report,” Ralph paused, noticing the sheriff’s attention to the brittle piece of leather. “There’s a word etched on the other side. I believe it says ‘wow,’ which might be helpful.”

“Let me get my hat, and you can show me what you found,” Sheriff Eisenberg said before turning to the older woman at the desk behind him.   “Aileen, give Lance a call. Tell him to meet me out by…where did you say you found this?”

“On FM 336 behind a billboard on the south side of the road. The board has an old Virginia Slims ad on it.”

The sheriff turned back to the woman and said, “By Mitch Werner’s place. He’ll see my car. Tell him what you just heard.”

Ralph chose to drive his own car with the sheriff following close behind. He figured he could point out what he had found and then leave the gruesome discovery in the sheriff’s hands. Ralph wanted to locate a hotel for the evening. He was tired and needed to get some rest. He assumed the sheriff might not want Ralph leaving town right away, and that was fine. In fact, it felt rather good to be involved in something important, if only peripherally.

He led the sheriff to the spot behind the billboard. “It’s amazing no animal has dug the bones up and destroyed them. I would have thought a coyote or a dog or something would have smelled the corpse and destroyed it.” The sheriff remained quiet. “The key chain should provide a great clue, as should the teeth. That leather strapped marked ‘wow’ has got to be homemade, and probably by some kid. I’d run that down, if I were you.”

Ralph hated the way his advice sounded. He wasn’t a cop, and he had no training, and here he was telling the sheriff how to do his job simply because the sheriff was a kid. “Sorry,” he apologized.

“For what?” Kurt Eisenberg appeared not to have been listening.

“Well, I was just commenting on the key chain and the leatherwork with ‘wow’ stamped into it. That should be some kind of clue.”

“It’s not wow.”

“Pardon?”

“The leather piece says ‘mom.’ If you’d turned it right side up, you’d have seen it.”

“Really?” Ralph inquired, curious how the sheriff would have known such a thing.

As if reading Ralph’s thoughts, Kurt Eisenberg explained. “I know because I made it fifteen years ago.” The young man sighed and scanned the sky overhead, avoiding Ralph’s face and the shallow grave as he continued. “It was a Christmas gift for my mother.   I gave it to her two weeks before she ran off with a petroleum landman from Tulsa.”

Ralph wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m sorry,” seemed inadequate, but it was the only thing he knew to say.

“All these years, no cards, no calls, no visits. I could forgive her for leaving my dad, but not for leaving me. And now, here she is, back home. Maybe she was leaving that bastard, and he chased her down and killed her.”

“Maybe, but maybe not,” Ralph offered as he considered other possibilities.

The young sheriff made eye contact with Ralph as though really seeing him for the first time. “Well, it’s been so long, I doubt we will ever know.”

Two other vehicles pulled up about that time and parked behind Eisenberg’s cruiser. The three officers listened as Ralph explained once more how he happened upon the shallow grave. Immediately after hearing his account, Ralph was excluded from any further discussion, and after a few more moments, he was dismissed entirely from the scene. He felt both relieved and rebuffed, but he also felt hungry, so he headed back toward Willkommen with the idea of getting a room for the night and something to eat.

Ralph found a room at The Deutschlander, a moderately priced hotel with a restaurant in the lobby that looked out on Berlin Boulevard, the main artery of Willkommen. The convenience of the hotel restaurant suited him. Ruth Anne, an attractive, redheaded waitress, was talkative, and Ralph was grateful. It was nice to hear a living, breathing female voice. Leah’s memory was a comfort, but there was no substitute for human interaction. Ralph casually asked about Kurt Eisenberg, claiming they had just met. Ralph didn’t reveal the reason for their meeting.   Instead, he inquired if Kurt had grown up in Willkommen, and when the waitress said that he had, Ralph asked about Kurt’s parents.

“Sue and I worked together at Larry’s Lunch Counter. It’s not called that anymore. Larry died and now, it’s called The Depot,” Ruth Anne explained. “Kurt’s daddy was the sheriff before Kurt. Kurt’s okay, but his daddy was mean, more so when he drank, which he did a lot, especially after Sue left him. But most folks overlooked it. I guess they felt sorry for him, though I’d heard enough from Sue not to waste my pity on the guy. Besides, he didn’t stay lonely. Aileen Watts couldn’t wait to comfort Hank. She and about half the other desperate women in this town.” The waitress smirked.

“Yeah, Hank Eisenberg took advantage of his status as a jilted husband and single parent. But none of the gals were like Sue. Sue was a real beauty.” As Ruth Anne described Sue, Ralph flashed to the grinning skull in the gully. It was impossible to recall that scene and connect it to a beautiful woman. An expression from his German grandmother popped into his mind: “der Tod as Leben schandet.” Death mocks Life.

“A bit of a flirt,” Ruth Anne was saying, “but I never thought she’d bail. It crushed Kurt when she left. That boy loved his mama. She never even called or wrote.   I suppose she was afraid Hank would come after her. But to abandon your only child, that’s cold. Anyway, Hank raised Kurt by himself, for which he deserves some kudos.”

“Who did Kurt’s mother take off with?” Ralph asked. It occurred to Ralph that if the man were still alive, he might be able to provide some clue as to how the woman ended up behind a billboard just outside of town.

“The guy was Nolan Deaver, and he was gorgeous. We all thought so. I was only nineteen and looking as good as I ever would, but it was Sue who got his attention.” Ruth Anne paused and pointed out the window in the direction of the establishment where she and Sue Eisenberg had worked together. “That’s where Nolan Deaver liked to eat. He was friendly to all of us girls, but Sue was the one he liked most. Tittle-tattle is what she used to call flirting with the customers for bigger tips. I guess there must have been more than that to it, but I was naive, so I believed her when she swore there wasn’t.”

“Didn’t she have parents or siblings that she contacted after she relocated? Somebody with whom she maintained contact?”

“Sue was raised by her grandparents, and they had both passed on by the time she ran off with Deaver. It’s a blessing, really, that they were already dead because the scandal would have killed them.” Ruth Anne gave Ralph his ticket and then excused herself to seat some other customers. As he reached for his wallet, Ralph made a note of the name Nolan Deaver with the idea that Kurt Eisenberg should question the guy, if he could be located.

The next morning, Ralph had breakfast at The Depot where Sue Eisenberg had once worked. He had his camera with him, loaded with fresh film, as he anticipated photographing some of the more novel spots around Willkommen. The buzz in the diner was about the new Wal-Mart that was being built on the west side of town. Ralph overheard a young girl reporting what she had learned. “There’s going to be a McDonald’s inside the Wal-Mart! Lyle Vickers is on the construction crew, and he said they might put in a drive-through window, too. That way, we can get McDonald’s without having to go inside Wal-Mart.”

The news excited everyone in the diner, except Ralph. The charm of this isolated community would soon fade, Ralph lamented, and nobody in Willkommen had the power or the will to stop it from happening. What they perceived as gain, Ralph perceived as loss, and once more, he felt the intense isolation of his age. As he finished his coffee and paid his check, he weighed the loneliness he felt among people against the loneliness he felt when all alone. Sometimes, it felt like a toss up.

The news was out before the day was through. The skeletal remains found by the Werner farm were believed to be those of Sue Eisenberg, the runaway wife of the late Hank Eisenberg, the missing mother of Willkommen’s present sheriff. Ralph heard it everywhere he went. The name of Aileen Watts, the brunette who worked as a dispatcher for Kurt Eisenberg, came up repeatedly. “Aileen hated Sue. Maybe she killed her,” one older citizen said.   “Kurt better locate that fellow she left with. He may be a psychopath. There may be more bodies buried all over Oklahoma. What was his name?”

“Nolan Deaver, wasn’t it?” Ralph volunteered, inserting himself into the conversation.

“Yeah, that’s it. How did you know? Are you the photographer?” The suspicious tone in the questioner’s voice somewhat amused Ralph. Strangers are always suspect.

“I overheard it,” Ralph replied. “And yes, I am the photographer.” He motioned toward his camera. A crowd began to gather and Ralph was asked repeatedly to tell how he came across the remains of Sue Eisenberg.

The more he told the story, the more involved he felt. And the more he learned of Sue and Hank’s volatile marriage. Sue was a flirt, no doubt. Hank was a jealous, controlling husband, empowered by a sheriff’s badge which ensured he wouldn’t be arrested for roughing up whoever triggered his wrath.   Aileen Watts had been his mistress and perceived Sue as her nemesis, even after Sue was gone, though most agreed, there was never any real competition.

“Aileen imagined she was more important to Hank than she actually was. Hank had a dozen Aileens,” an old codger volunteered, and those around him agreed, naming a few before someone told them to knock it off. Those ladies were now grandmothers in the community, and what was past was past. Hank was dead and his personal history shouldn’t be dragged up when it could hurt some of those still living.

Because Ralph had no real deadline for completion of his personal travelogue and because he had no strict schedule to keep, he booked his room for a week, waiting in anticipation of news regarding the now infamous Nolan Deaver. No longer in Tulsa, Deaver had been located living in Oklahoma City. An oil and gas landman for Connor Petroleum, he and his wife Donna had four children. He was a member of the Lions’ Club and a Boy Scout Leader. When he learned he was wanted for questioning, Nolan Deaver offered to drive to Willkommen immediately. “To assist in any way I can,” he was quoted as saying, but Ralph noted the inflections used by those telling the story indicated sarcasm.

Nolan Deaver was described as a womanizer, a city slicker, a possible murderer. The people of Willkommen spoke with a conviction that Ralph found frightening.   He pondered the xenophobia of the tiny community. It made him wonder if he had romanticized small towns and their charm. Bigotry, self-importance, and small-mindedness were abundant. But where else could you find a waitress as sweet as Ruth Anne or a bakery that charged only a quarter for a cup of coffee? Ralph asked himself these questions as he wandered around the square, observing the crafts on display in shop windows while picking up more than his share of town gossip.

Deaver’s arrival was equivalent to a visit from the governor.   Ralph recalled Ruth Anne previously describing Deaver as “gorgeous.” The man stood five foot, ten inches max, with a balding dome and the ruddy face of one who had spent too much time in the sun, surveying oil and gas wells and securing mineral rights from farmers. “Gorgeous,” Ralph thought was the one adjective he would never have applied to Nolan Deaver.

The protocol for criminal investigations might be standard around the country, perhaps, everywhere except Willkommen, Oklahoma.   Aileen Watts made sure of that.   Kurt Eisenberg interviewed Deaver all afternoon, and Ralph, like the rest of the town, waited for Aileen to report the details. She appeared periodically in the bakery to pick up coffees and pastries.

“He’s such a liar,” she declared on her first visit to the bakery. “Deaver claims he never had an affair with Sue, and we all know he did.   My lord, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other in plain sight. She would pat him every time he sat down at The Lunch Counter. It was sickening,” Aileen spewed.

“Sue patted us all, as I recall.” One older gentleman sitting in the corner spoke loud enough to draw the attention away from Aileen momentarily.

“Oh, right, Darryl. She touched you all. You liked that, didn’t you?” Aileen came back. With a tray of coffees, she headed for the door. “But if they weren’t having an affair, why did she leave with him? Can you answer me that?” With that remark, Aileen pushed out the door, not waiting to hear any replies.

“Funny how riled Aileen gets whenever Sue Eisenberg’s name comes up,” someone observed. “You’d think she’d get over it after all these years.”

“It ain’t right to speak evil of the dead,” another voice weighed in.

“Well, it ain’t right to leave a body in a ditch, either. But somebody did just that. Poor Sue.”

“Poor Kurt,” the baker added. “I hope Aileen has the sense to keep her mouth shut around him. He doesn’t need to hear her opinion of his mother.” On that, everyone agreed.

By evening, Ralph had heard several versions of Deaver’s story.   But each one maintained his claim that he never had an affair with Sue Eisenberg. A boy named Jody who worked afternoons at the sheriff’s office as Aileen’s assistant, reported to the congregation gathering at the bakery, waiting for more details. “Deaver says that he and Sue were friendly at the diner, but nothing more than that. He did say that Hank threatened him more than once, accusing him of messing with Sue.   He’s offered to take a polygraph.   Aileen got real indignant when he said that.”

There were more than a few folks willing to put Aileen Watts at the top of the suspect list, but Ralph couldn’t picture Aileen as a murderer.   Aileen’s self-image, Ralph surmised, depended on her being a nobler woman than Sue Eisenberg. A murderer was lower than an adulterer. Aileen wouldn’t have been able to judge Sue so harshly if Aileen had committed a worse offense. Her self-righteousness justified her affair with Hank. Hank Eisenberg was a wounded husband and she, Aileen Watts, was his Florence Nightingale. Ralph thought he might ask to photograph Aileen at her desk the next day. There was something about her face that he understood. He wanted to document it so when he felt a surge of self-righteousness coming on, he could quell it quickly by staring into Aileen’s face.

Later that evening while Ralph was having his dinner, Ruth Anne told him, keeping her voice low as though she were conveying a secret, “Deaver’s gone. There was no evidence linking him to anything. Only old rumors, and most of those from Aileen Watts, who nobody listens to.” Ruth filled Ralph’s water glass and then seated herself across from him as though it was natural for waitresses to join diners while they ate. “The thing is, Kurt can’t be objective. Somebody should tell him that.” Ruth Anne stared at Ralph for a moment.

“Don’t look at me,” Ralph said, shaking his head. “I’ve already been the bearer of bad news, and you know what they say about killing the messenger. What has Kurt said? Is he locked into Deaver as the only suspect?”

Ruth Anne glanced up over Ralph’s shoulder before answering.   “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” She nodded in the direction of the door, and Ralph turned to see Kurt Eisenberg heading toward them.

The young sheriff didn’t look near as tough as he had when Ralph first approached him in the sheriff’s office. That cocky, confident kid was gone. In his place stood a shaken, injured young man, and Ralph felt oddly responsible.

“May I join you?” Kurt asked, and Ruth Anne quickly scooted out of the booth making room for Eisenberg to sit down.

“Certainly,” Ralph said.

“An iced tea for me,” Kurt called out to Ruth Anne as he took a seat.   “More pictures?” He asked as he glanced over at Ralph’s camera.

Ralph nodded and wiped his mouth before responding. “Yeah, I’ve taken three rolls of your charming town. I’m glad I stumbled onto Willkommen, though I wish I hadn’t been responsible for so much commotion. How’s the investigation going?”

Kurt Eisenberg sighed. There was a tremor in his sigh, and it moved Ralph. He assumed that Kurt knew the truth. Ralph had suspected it all along and now, the son had to deal with reversing the feelings he had carried for fifteen years.

“This case will most likely remain an unsolved mystery,” Kurt began.

“But you know something, don’t you?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Kurt quoted Ralph’s own comment made early on when they first met, back when Kurt still had his swagger, when Nolan Deaver could still be considered a cad, when Sue Eisenberg was still considered a runaway mother.

“Something always bothered me,” Kurt admitted. “My mom had purchased three new blouses the day before she disappeared. Why would she leave those behind? Those blouses were hanging in her closet with the tags still on for about a week. In fact, all her clothes appeared untouched. Then, they were gone. When I asked my dad about them, he claimed I was mistaken, that my mother had packed up everything before she left. I knew what I had seen in her closet. My dad was lying to me. When I noticed the tags still on those three blouses, I felt confident that my mom had just taken off for awhile. My folks argued a lot. Sometimes, they’d spend the night apart, letting each other blow off steam. But if she had been planning to leave permanently, why buy new clothes and not take them?”

“That does seem strange,” Ralph agreed.

“It was. My dad’s version of events changed over time. He told everybody that Deaver pulled up in front of the house for my mom, arrogantly honking the horn. He claimed she told him she was leaving with Deaver and would not be back. But after talking with that guy, I don’t believe it. Deaver said my dad threatened him one night at the diner shortly before Deaver was to leave town. Deaver said something smart. He wishes he could take it back. He fears he may have triggered my father’s rage.”

“What did he say?” Ralph pushed his plate away and waited for Kurt to relay Deaver’s story.

“He told my dad, ‘if you aren’t man enough to keep your woman, you’ll have to kill every real man that comes along. But even if you eliminate all the competition, you still can’t make her want you if she doesn’t.’ Deaver said he felt real clever after delivering that little speech.   He left town thinking Willkommen had a jackass for a sheriff and that he, Nolan Deaver, had for a moment, put the guy in his place. Now, he feels guilty, like maybe he started some trouble that got my mom killed.”   Kurt stopped briefly and then added, “I think maybe he’s right.”

Ralph understood that the murder of Sue Eisenberg would probably remain officially unsolved as far as the town was concerned. But Hank Eisenberg had been found guilty by his own son. Ralph’s arrival had given Kurt his mother back, but her return came with a price.

Outside the restaurant, the two men shook hands.   “You’ve got a great little town here,” Ralph offered in parting. “Not many left like Willkommen.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the young sheriff replied. “I don’t travel much.” And with that, he gave Ralph a final wave and turned away.   Watching Kurt Eisenberg disappear down the street, Ralph doubted the young sheriff would ever want to see Ralph in his town again. And that was a pity, Ralph thought, because he liked this town. Leah would have liked it, too.

The End

I hate to point the finger at anybody, but Kirby, my bumbling partner in the heist, isn’t cut out for this line of work, or any other kind for that matter. The careful planning and painstaking work on my part went for naught, or worse, because of his lack of business sense. Come to think of it, I have only myself to blame. Kirby is Kirby. I should have known better.

 

The bank was an old one, built before the brain trusts of big business gave much thought to security except for a guard whose only weapons were a cell phone, steel toed shoes and a gun with no bullets. The vault was older than Adam and had a lock that could be picked with a hairpin. Easy pickings, you say? My thoughts exactly as I first got the idea to pull off the caper. But the best laid plans often go awry.

 

I should have known things were not going to go well when Kirby showed up dressed in orange pants and a sports coat that could be heard in Duluth.

 

“Jeez, you’ll be spotted by everyone in town. We’re robbing a bank, not riding the Hallelujah Trail.”

 

Kirby blinked and shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “I didn’t wear my flashy clothes,” he said, puffing his chest out defiantly. “These are my work duds.”

 

I let it pass. Maybe it was for the best. Nobody would suspect a man dressed like that was planning a bank robbery.

 

“Did you get the car?” I said

 

“Yeah,” he said. “And it’s a beaut! One of them

foreign jobs with mag wheels and chrome pipes.”
I groaned. “Kirby.   You are the dumbest meathead that ever walked. Why don’t we send the cops a map of our escape route and save them the trouble of looking for us?”

 

“Why would we want to do that, Joe?” Kirby scratched his head, puzzled. I was being too subtle for him.

 

“Forget it,” I said. “I’ll find another car.”

 

Kirby went into a pout, as he always did when I scolded him. He had his heart set on driving a flashy car. I consoled him by telling him he’d have enough money to buy any car he wanted.

 

“Really?” He beamed like a Broadway marquee. “Wait’ll I tell Mitzi!”

 

That was another of Kirby’s faults. He talked too much, and to anyone who would listen. He was as friendly as a puppy, although not half as cute.   If truth be told, he was downright ugly.

 

“No!”   I said. “You don’t tell anybody. Especially not Mitzi. If there is anybody on this planet who talks more than you do, it’s Mitzi.”

 

I was beginning to have second thoughts about the whole caper.   Considering what happened, I should have listened to myself. But, optimist that I am, I believed we could pull this caper off in spite of Kirby’s shortcomings. I needed an accomplice, and there was no one other than Kirby whom I could trust.

 

Optimism is a wonderful trait. Seeing the glass as half full is admirable. But when it comes to robbing banks, optimism is definitely a liability.   I hadn’t learned that lesson yet.

 

The plan to rob this particular bank had been made over a period of time, after careful observation of the employees, customers and security. I had spent three months taking notes, drawing floor plans and generally making sure I had all my ducks in a row. Nothing would be left to chance. No surprises.

 

Then there was Kirby. “Surprise” could be his middle name.

 

It was early afternoon on a Wednesday. It was an ideal time.   The bank had very few customers, the guard was at lunch, and most of the bank officers were out drinking martinis or whatever it is they do when they are not at their desks disapproving loans or thinking up new ways to cheat their customers.   I believe the official term for their activities is “service charge”. In any event, the fewer the better. At most there would be three tellers, one or two loan officers and a safe deposit box guardian. Add to that two or three customers and conditions for a bank robbery are as close to ideal as one could hope. I had found from past experience, (this was not my first caper), that customers and tellers are easily intimidated, not at all prone to resistance. The loan officers would be immobilized by fear.

 

“Remember what I told you,” I said to Kirby as we got out of the car. We had parked in a fifteen minute zone directly in front of the bank.

 

“Yeah,” Kirby said.

 

“OK.   Repeat it to me.”

 

Kirby shrugged. “I stay by the door while you get the dough. Then I throw the tear gas just as we leave.” He looked at me expectantly, a childlike grin on his face.

 

“Good,” I said. “Now don’t forget it. Let’s go.”

 

I took a few steps toward the bank door and peered inside. There were three customers at the tellers’ windows. A loan officer sat at a desk by the back window, pretending to be busy. Who knows?   Maybe he was.

 

The only other person visible was a middle-aged man with a paunch and a nose that didn’t fit. He stood by the door looking as though he was waiting for a bus. I realized that this guy was a substitute who filled in for the guard at lunchtime. Probably an insurance requirement. Since the only weapon he carried was a nightstick. I wondered about the intelligence of the insurance company. This guy wouldn’t scare my grandmother. I nudged Kirby. “This’ll be a piece of cake. Keep an eye on the guard.”

 

Kirby grinned. “Don’t worry, Figgie,” he said, using my nickname. “I got him in my sights.”

 

That last statement made me a little uneasy, but I let it pass. That was my second mistake of the day, and we hadn’t even gone into the bank yet.

 

I opened the door to the bank, nodded politely to the guard and stepped over to the counter. Kirby was by the door, or so I thought.

 

There was one teller who had no customer. She eyed me expectantly, a bright smile on her face. Tellers always smile, even if they had just murdered their spouses. It was a bank requirement. I looked around to see if anyone was paying any attention to Kirby or me. Then I stepped forward and took a note from my pocket.   I was about to hand it to the teller when a commotion broke out behind me. Before I had a chance to look around I heard Kirby shouting.

 

“OK, you landlubbin’ mother hubbards! Don’t nobody move or the guard gets it. This is a holdup!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Truly this couldn’t be happening. We had gone over this a dozen times and Kirby had never given any indication that he was crazy. Oh, a bit of a flake, I admit. And not too bright. But even a total idiot would know better than this.

 

Everyone in the bank stared at Kirby with varying degrees of fear and surprise.   One of the customers, a gray-headed woman, dropped to the floor and put her hands over her head. The account officer disappeared under his desk. All of the tellers froze in the middle of what they were doing and stared open mouthed at Kirby.

 

I rushed over to my (now) ex-partner.

 

“Are you out of your mind?” I shouted.   “Take that gun away from this man’s head or I’ll break your arm!”

 

“Hey, Figgie,” Kirby said. “I…”

 

I cut him off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know you.”

 

His mouth dropped open. Before he could say anything more I grabbed his arm, twisted it until he let go of the gun, and kicked it across the room.

 

By now the account officer had come out from behind his desk. He ran over and picked up the gun. Holding it between his fingers as though it were a snake, he looked at me helplessly.

 

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not loaded.”

 

The officer looked blankly at the gun, then at me. I realized as soon as I said it that I had made a gigantic booboo.   How would I know the gun wasn’t loaded?   Come to think of it, maybe it was.   Kirby wasn’t good at most things, but he was capable of doing something stupid, like carrying a loaded gun into a bank.

 

The substitute guard, his face the color of wet cement, retreated to the back of the room. So much for security.

 

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, until three squad cars pulled up in front of the bank. One of the tellers must have pushed the button to alert them. In a matter of seconds, six policemen, guns drawn, rushed through the door of the bank.

 

“Police!” One of them shouted, just in case we had any doubts. I shoved Kirby toward the nearest cop.

 

“Here’s your man,” I said.

The policeman looked from me to Kirby and back again, not knowing who was whom or what he should do next. Kirby was looking at me as if I had two heads. The pitiful look in his eyes would have made me feel sorry for him under normal conditions. But needless to say, the conditions at the moment were not normal.

 

“He tried to hold up the bank,” I explained to the police officer.   “Luckily I was able to get the gun away from him.” I glared at the guard. “This buffoon has no right pretending to be a guard.”

 

One of the other officers stepped forward as the first one was putting cuffs on Kirby.

 

“What is your name?” he asked.

 

I was about to tell him when Kirby interrupted.

 

“It’s Joe,” Kirby yelled as he was being led away “Joe Burns.”

 

“You know this man?” the cop asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What’s going on here?”

“I’ve seen him around town,” I said, which in itself was not a lie. “He’s a small time hood. But I don’t know anything more than that.”

 

“A lie!” Kirby shouted. “Me and him were goin’ to rob the bank.”

 

“He’s lying,” I said. “He’s a desperate man caught in the act of a felony, and looking for someone to share in his disgraceful conduct.”

 

I could tell by the look on the cop’s face that he didn’t believe a word I was saying. Whatever happened to the dumb cop on the beat? Let’s face it, crime is not nearly as easy these days.

 

“Officer,” I said in one last desperate attempt to extricate myself from an untenable situation. “I am a law abiding citizen who just happened to be in this bank when this hoodlum tried to rob it. By intervening in the interest of justice, I am now being regarded as a participant in this crime. It’s not fair. Don’t listen to this man. He’ll say anything to save himself.”

 

It didn’t work. I suppose if I were in the officer’s shoes I wouldn’t believe me either.

 

“Let’s take a trip to Headquarters,” the cop said. How trite! He must have watched too many Humphrey Bogart movies. One of the other cops stepped forward, produced a set of handcuffs and snapped them on my wrists. I protested—loudly as I recall—to no avail. Kirby was put in one squad car and I in another.

 

At headquarters, Kirby and I were booked, frisked, stripped of all our worldly possessions, and placed in separate rooms. That was indeed unsettling. If Kirby were with me, I could keep an eye on him and just possibly keep him from saying anything stupid. That wasn’t too likely, I admit. But at least I would know what he was saying. As it was I could only imagine what he was telling them. And what I imagined did not exactly warm the cockles of my heart—or any other part of my body.

 

If ever I needed my ingenuity to get me out of a tight situation, now was the time.   And, while I may have not stood out academically—my GPA was 1.5—I nevertheless possessed a keen imagination that could get me in and out of trouble with equal ease.

 

“Officer,” I said in a voice intended to convey obeisance, or whatever it is that would make me appear contrite and—more importantly—innocent. “I helped prevent a bank robbery. I am a hero in a manner of speaking. Why am I being held? What have I done?”

 

No answer. The officer, a beefy man with a face that needed ironing was writing in a notebook.   After what seemed an eternity, he pulled a recorder from his pocket, placed it on the table and leaned forward.

 

“Today is March 24th, 2007. My name is Fred Patrick, a captain on the Regalville Police Force. I am interrogating a suspect in a bank robbery.”   He looked at me.

 

“Your name?”

 

I considered the question, saw no harm in answering it. Kirby had already provided that tidbit of information at the bank.

 

“Joseph Burns.”

 

“Age?”

 

“Twenty-seven,” I said. “And four months.”

 

“Occupation?”

 

That question posed a problem. I was currently unemployed unless one considered bank robbing an occupation. I shrugged.

 

“Occupation?” Patrick said again.

 

“I want my lawyer.”

Patrick leaned back, a trace of a smile on his lips.

 

“You need a lawyer to answer a simple question like that?”

 

“I’m entitled to a lawyer. I know my rights.”

 

Patrick turned the recorder off, stood up and crossed to the window. “You have the right. But if you cooperate and answer a few questions you can be out of here before a lawyer could get here.” With his back still to me, he added, “Unless, of course, you were involved in this heist. Then I would suggest you get your lawyer.” He chuckled and threw me a look. “Which will it be?”

 

“That’s my only two choices?”

 

“You have other ones?”

 

He had me there. By calling for a lawyer I was telling the cops I was guilty. That didn’t seem fair. I decided to wing it. After all, I didn’t have a personal lawyer and could not afford one. A good lawyer would cost more than my annual income, (which at the moment was less than the price of a bleacher seat at Yankee Stadium).   I was between a rock and the proverbial hard place.

 

“Self employed,” I muttered.

 

“Come again?” Patrick said.

 

“I’m between jobs.”

 

“What were you doing in the bank?”

 

“I was just in the bank. Is that against the law?”

 

“It is if you’re there to rob it,” Beefy snarled.

 

“I told you. I was an innocent bystander. When this guy started yelling, I instinctively grabbed the gun. And this is the thanks I get.”

 

“Admirable,” Beefy said. The tone of his voice made the word anything but admirable.

 

“Look,” I said. “You guys took everything away from me when you arrested me. There wasn’t any gun. There was nothing to make you think I would be robbing a bank.” I sat up straight, a look of righteous indignation on my face. “I demand to be released. Immediately.”

 

Beefy grinned, or appeared to grin. It could have been indigestion. Slowly, he leaned forward, took a piece of paper from the file folder in front of him and placed it on the table. I glanced at it, then stiffened.

 

A holdup note! In my handwriting! I had forgotten all about it when I was arrested. So far, the day hadn’t gone very well for me.

 

“I can explain,” I said.

 

“Explain?” Beefy grunted, sat back and turned the recorder back on. “Go ahead. This I gotta hear.”

 

What did he want to hear? My “explanation”? Come to think of it, so did I. A good convincing explanation of a note demanding money from a bank I was in at the time—and in my handwriting—would be indeed interesting.   I wish I had one.

 

I stood up, indignation on my face. “I don’t have to answer any more questions,” I said. “I know my rights.”

 

Beefy held up a hand. “Call your lawyer,” he said. He indicated a phone on the wall by the door.

 

I considered that. The only lawyer I knew was Stumpy McGraw, a shyster who specialized in plea bargains, police payoffs and bribes. Stumpy was inches away from disbarment, and the only reason he had not been thrown out of the legal profession was that a few crooked judges were profiting from his bribes.

 

And he was incompetent. Most of his clients ended up serving time. Of course, most—if not all—of his clients were guilty. I took small consolation in this.

 

Stumpy hung around the bar where the two-bit hoods congregated, passing out business cards and generally making a pest of himself. I hung around the same bar, which makes me a two-bit hood, I suppose.

 

I reached for my wallet where I kept Stumpy’s card. Then, realizing that the city had impounded it when they brought me down here, I frowned at Beefy.

 

“I need my wallet to call my lawyer.”

 

“The call is free.”

 

“I need his phone number.”

 

Beefy rubbed a hand over his fleshy face and grunted.

 

“What’s the name?” he asked.

 

“McGraw.”

 

“Ha!”   Beefy exploded. He sat back and laughed some more.

 

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

 

Beefy coughed up another laugh and pointed at me.

 

“You might as well represent yourself,” he said. “Either way you’ll be serving time. Why pay that shyster to do what you can do yourself?” He laughed again, harder, wiped a tear from his eye and clapped a hand on the table. “Five hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.”

 

“What expenses?” I asked.

 

Beefy squinted at me with amusement all over his face. “Among other things, a small bribe to the right judge will get a few months off your sentence.” He shrugged.   “That’s a minimum of two thousand dollars. Hey, you’re better off serving the time. In your case, two thousand is more money than you make in six months.”

 

He had a point. Still, the thought of going to jail was not a happy one. I might be able to work out a fee with Stumpy. If I gave him nothing it would be exactly what he was worth.

 

“I don’t care,” I said. “I have the right to call a lawyer.”

 

Beefy nodded curtly. “Suit yourself.” He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table. It was Stumpy’s business card.

 

“Passes them out like peanuts down here at the station,” Beefy said in way of explanation. “Sort of like planting seeds. Maybe a few of them will grow.”

 

I took the card and started for the phone. Before I could pick it up, the door opened and a policeman I recognized from this morning strode into the room. He glanced at me, sat down next to Beefy and muttered a few inaudible words.   Beefy looked at me, grinned, and waved the policeman away. I was, naturally, curious.

 

“What was that all about?” I asked.

 

“Your partner in crime,” Beefy said.

 

“What partner? What crime?”   I tried to sound confused, which in a way I was. Of course I knew who and what he was talking about, but it wouldn’t help my case to admit it.

 

“Kirby Manor,” Beefy said. “Bank robbery.”

 

“Kirby Manor?” I knitted my brow. “You mean the guy in the bank with the gun? What about him?”

 

“He has a great singing voice. Just like a canary.”

I swallowed hard, hoping my nervousness didn’t show. If it did, Beefy didn’t seem to notice.

 

“So he confessed?” I said. “Good.   Now you can let me go.”

 

“Uh uh,” Beefy said.

 

“You got your man,” I said. “And there’s no way he

could implicate me. I hardly know the man.”

 

“Well, he knows you. Quite well, I would say. He knows where you live, what kind of car you drive, who your latest sugar baby is.”   Beefy showed his oversized stained teeth in a bad cop grin.

 

I was sunk. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to come to that conclusion. Perry Mason couldn’t help me. So why should I worry about getting a lawyer, especially Stumpy? I could throw myself on the mercy of the court and spend the next six months as a guest of the state. It wouldn’t be the first time. I had nothing on the agenda for the near future, except for another bank heist. After today’s disaster, I was having second thoughts about that as well. I resigned myself to my fate. At least my room and board was free.

 

I looked to Beefy, who was sitting like a giant bullfrog on a stool two sizes too small.

 

“What’s the maximum for attempted bank robbery?” I said.

 

“Are you confessing?” Beefy asked.

 

“Just asking,” I said.

 

Beefy hooked his thumbs in his belt, leaned back and studied me like I was a lab specimen.

 

“Six months for first offenders, I would say. Nine or so for repeaters.” He smirked. “Repeaters.   That’s you, my friend.”

 

“I have never been convicted of robbing a bank,” I said indignantly.

 

“Liquor store,” Beefy said, referring to the notes in front of him. “Same thing.”

 

Nine months. I thought about it. If I pled guilty and saved the state the expense and effort of a trial, I may be able to get it reduced to six. I could do that standing on my head. Besides, what choice did I have? I was caught red-handed. My lame-brained partner was spilling his guts. And the holdup note in my handwriting was not easily explained. (A class project, perhaps? From the Hartford School Of Crime?)

 

“Do you think…”

 

Beefy held up a hand. “I ain’t a judge.”

 

“OK,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

Beefy grunted, turned on the recorder, and sat back.

 

*             *            *           *

 

The judge was a grumpy old woman with a definite bias against people like me.   It showed in her eyes. To make matters worse, her daughter was a bank teller, and she didn’t like bank robbers. I put on my best face, hung my head at the proper times, and said what I thought she wanted to hear. I even evoked my mother’s name, hoping her own motherly instincts would take over.

 

They didn’t.

 

“One year,” she growled, thumping the gavel down with a bang that could be heard in the next county.

 

My lawyer, a public defender who was even more incompetent than Stumpy, pleaded for a reduction, citing my exemplary record. Wrong approach. The judge glowered at him until I thought I saw flames coming out of her eyes.

 

“Mister Holman,” she said, “if I considered Mister Burn’s ‘exemplary record’, I would give him two years. Unfortunately, one year is the maximum in this case.”

 

She thumped the gavel again, motioned for the bailiff to remove me from her presence, and called for the next case before I could say anything in my own defense.

 

One year. I hadn’t planned on that. Well, it wasn’t the end of the world. I guess it was no worse than what the draftees faced back when the draft was still in force. Most of those guys did a two-year stretch under conditions not much better than jail.

 

I consoled myself with that thought. I sweetened my thoughts by imagining being away from Kirby and his incessant prattle about cars and booze and, most importantly, Mitzi. This alone made me look forward to serving my time.

 

Fate can be a cruel lover. In my case, Fate was just plain sadistic. I was transported to the county jail, given a number and furnished with an orange jumpsuit. An old guard, grizzled and jaundiced by too many years in his chosen profession, led me down the hall to the cell that I would call home for the next twelve months, (ten with good behavior).

 

I was ushered into my cell, a six by ten foot cubicle with a bunk bed. I dropped onto the lower bunk, put my head in my hands and stared at the floor.

 

“Hey, Figgie!”

 

I jumped at the sound. Kirby!   Lifting my head slowly, I looked at the figure on the top bunk. Then, with a groan that Frankenstein’s monster would envy, I sunk back down on my cot.

 

Kirby was my cellmate!

 

“Ain’t this great?” I heard Kirby say through my tumbling thoughts. “Me and you together. Y’know, Mitzi was sayin’ to me just the other day…”

 

One year! Eight thousand seven-hundred and sixty hours!

 

“Yeah,” Kirby was saying, “Me and Mitzi are goin’ to Mexico when I get out.   She knows people down there…”

 

I looked at my watch. Eight thousand seven-hundred and fifty-nine.

 

And counting.

The End

“Visitor no 201!” The stocky man wobbled into loud laughter. Chet disliked him at once.

“I am the art correspondent of New India Times.” Chet slammed the door of his old Fiat without thinking and winced immediately, “My editor wants me–I mean, I have come to do a feature on the Malabar Painting.”

“Very good, very good,” the man beamed. He inspected the visiting card Chet held out, “Welcome to the Kesavdas Gallery, Mr. Chetan Gandhi. Our gallery has wonderful paintings. Very wonderful.”

 

Chet unslung his Canon Camera (a hand-me-down from his older brother) and looked around with distaste. Huge iron gates were flung back against a dirty white wall, leading into a so-called garden. A few clumps of grass sprouted from the red soil, intermixed with lantana and other weeds. A white building sat in the center of the garden, one of those old European-style houses with paint peeling off its walls.

The man had started walking into the garden, his garlicky body odor wafting unpleasantly back in the afternoon breeze.

The injustice of the situation overwhelmed Chet again. If the science reporter had not been on vacation, he would never have had to take this assignment. He was an art journalist, for God’s sake. Not that this was science, it was nothing but silly superstition. But that idiotic Metro Editor¼

 

The Metro Editor had been firm. “I want you to do a feature on the Malabar painting,” he had said, staring at Chet through those bloodshot eyes. “The Painting of Death.”

The Malabar painting was a ‘marketplace scene’ that belonged to the Ram Bania Collection. Three years ago, Bania, a self-made millionaire and art collector, had switched from buying famous paintings to collecting pictures by unknown artists instead. The Malabar painting was one of those pictures. At the moment it was perhaps the most famous painting in the country, but for a very odd reason–it was believed to cause death.

Chet had been appalled. He, with his degree in Fine Arts from the prestigious University of Delhi, being assigned to this Malabar painting, this freak-show. He had tried to protest. But the editor had focused those intimidating eyes on him and his courage had failed. One day, he thought, when he was a famous journalist instead of an entry-level reporter, he would tell the editor what he thought of him. But now he had no choice but to compromise.

And so here he was.

He followed the man up a straggly path that wound its way around a fountain–the only thing that seemed to be in good condition–before stopping at the verandah steps. Someone had converted the verandah into a room and a sign hanging over the door said ‘Office’. They stepped inside.

“Sit down, have some tea,” the man waved Chet to a bright orange sofa.

 

“Actually, I’m in a hurry,” Chet replied curtly. “I have a meeting at three.”

“Plenty of time, plenty of time,” the man said, his genial expression unchanged. He did not glance at the clock on the table, a hideous green thing in the shape of a peacock. It showed one-thirty. “So you are writing an article on the Malabar? You will not believe, but I myself was there when it happened. You have heard the story?”

“Yes,” Chet said at once. He had heard the story many times and had no wish to hear it again from this silly bore.

But the man would not be deterred, “Six months back Ram Uncle,” he stressed the ‘Uncle’, “threw a small party to show his paintings. He only invited his near and dear ones, his sister Jaya, his brother-in-law Dinesh, his childhood friend Ghorpad and me. You see, he was very close to me, even though I came from humble beginnings.”

Chet remembered that Kesavdas was the son of a distant ‘poor’ cousin.

“We were all appreciating the paintings,” Kesavdas continued, “when Dinesh said something like ‘what a scary face this old man has’. He was looking at the Malabar painting, so all of us went over there. But, Mr. Chetan, there was no old man in the painting.

“Naturally, I thought that he was making fools of us, because to tell you frankly, he thought too much of himself. But he had started to scream like a woman, he was pointing to an empty space on the painting and shouting ‘here,here’.

“At last Ram Uncle told him to stop behaving like an idiot. It worked. Dinesh stopped screaming. For one minute he stared at Ram Uncle, then he turned to Jaya and told her that he was not feeling well and wanted to go home.”

He swallowed, “Two days later, Dinesh died.”

Chet said sharply, “Can we see the Malabar painting now?”

“Of course, of course,” the man gave him an oily smile, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. He pulled out a bunch of keys from a drawer.

 

“This way, Mr. Chet, this way.” He moved towards a half open door next to the sofa, talking all the time.

“Ram Uncle started collecting paintings at a very young age,” he explained, “Hussain, Menon, he bought them all. He had great taste, great taste.” A pause. “Do you know, he used to tell me that I was the only one in his family who appreciated the True Art?”

Chet snorted. In the beginning, Ram Bania had done nothing but buy paintings of “name artists”, hardly a qualification for great taste.

The man pushed upon the door and Chet followed him into a room with beige walls.

“Anyway, after some time, he realized that something was missing in his collection. In his life.” Another pause. “He realized that he was giving his money away to only rich artists who did not even need that money. Instead he would buy the paintings of poor artists with true talent. So he became a patron of the arts. A great man. We youngsters can learn something from him.” He nodded at Chet who raised his eyebrows. The man had to be at least twenty years older than him, probably in his forties.

“So Ram Uncle bought many paintings by unknown artists. He discovered many many talents. And you can see all of them here!” He threw open a second door with a voila gesture.

The room reeked of Dettol; someone had cleaned it recently. Bland pictures of smiling women and pretty landscapes hung on the walls. That is the problem with our country, no creativity, Chet thought.

“Is the Malabar painting here?” He asked.

“No, we don’t keep it here. Most people don’t want to see the Malabar painting. Especially after Ragini’s death. One death, still okay. Two deaths, people become afraid. Have you heard about Ragini? I myself was there–”

“Where did Bania find the Malabar painting?”

 

“Who knows?” the man sighed. “But as soon as he saw the painting, he knew that he must have it. Then–”

“Who is the artist?”

“No one knows.” the man sighed again. “Even I don’t know. But let me tell you about Ragini–”

“I know about her.” Chet snapped.

The Ragini Jayaram incident had taken place two months after Dinesh’s death. Ragini Jayaram was a minor celebrity, an actress who had started out in soap operas and ended up in soap advertisements. Bania had invited her to one of his family dinners. At some point the guests had been subjected to a display of his collection. That was when Ragini saw the old man. As before, she was the only one. Five days later, she fell ill and died.

The man was heading into another room. Chet could see a long row of portraits on the wall. The closest one showed the goddess Durga killing the demon Mahishasura. He stopped and said, “I’d like to see the Malabar now.”

The man turned around, stumped for a moment. Then he oily-grinned again, “Of course, of course.”

He walked past Chet in the direction from which they had come, the sleeve of his safari suit making a small whoosh sound.

He pushed open a small door on the right wall and switched on the light. A thin white corridor yawned ahead.

“This way,” The man said.

Chet felt an odd reluctance. He shook his head and entered the corridor. The door shut behind them, almost as if it were sealing them in.

 

They walked down the narrow passage. Above their heads, the fluorescent light gleamed, casting grotesque images on the floor. Chet could hear nothing of the outside world now–the pom-pom of the honking auto rickshaws, the shouts of the children, everything had disappeared. The only sound came from the echo of their footsteps on the floor. Thak Thak Thak. He realized that the other had stopped talking and glanced to his right. To his surprise, the man was sweating. It unnerved Chet.

He shook his head again. He was letting the place get to him. He had to think of other things, his article. He forced his thoughts back to Ragini Jayaram’s death. That had been the takeoff point, the point when the legend of the Malabar painting had erupted. All of a sudden everyone had wanted to see the Painting of Death. Ram Bania had scoffed at the rumors and announced that it would not be displayed to the public anymore.

Perhaps the whole thing would have ended there had Ram Bania not died two days later. Several people claimed that his last words were ‘the old man’, but the story was never confirmed. Soon after that, his sister, the sole heir to the Bania property announced that she would be giving away his entire collection.

More rumors. The final version said that the ‘name paintings’ had gone to a rich collector and the Unknown Artists Collection had gone to the distant relative Kesavdas.

The furor had almost died when Kesavdas thrust himself firmly into the limelight. He announced that he would be opening an ‘Art Gallery’ to display the collection, including the Malabar painting. The gallery opened a week later and turned into hot news. Stories about the painting were everywhere, from national TV to regional newspapers. And Chet’s Metro Editor had decided to join the circus.

The man halted. The corridor had ended in a dark wooden door. He turned to Chet and asked,

“Are you sure that you want to go in?”

“Yes,” Chet said too loudly.

The man thrust his keys into the lock. Chet noticed that his hand was trembling.

The door opened into blackness.

 

Chet stepped forward. He squirmed as the man reached around his shoulder to turn on a dim light. God, didn’t the fellow have any concept of personal space?

The door swung shut behind them. Now there’s no escape, Chet thought, a sudden shiver running down his shoulders.

The room seemed bare except for an ornamental wooden screen, the folding kind that segregates living room and dining room, especially in Moslem houses.

“Where is it?”

The man pointed to the other side of the partition.

“It’s there,” he said. “You can go and see it if you want. I will stay here.”

I can go back even now, Chet thought and then—angrily–stop being silly. You are an educated, intelligent man, and not some superstitious moron who hasn’t even passed his Matric.

He walked to the other side.

The plaque read: Market Scene II. Alkyd on Canvas.

Chet lifted his head.

Oh my God, he thought in shock, it is beautiful.

It resembled nothing Chet had ever seen. The sky was blue and the trees were green, but they were a strange high key blue and green that did not exist except in dreams. And yet–yet it captured the energy of the market in some indefinable way. He could feel the heat, the noise, the clash of human wills.

And the people! The figures seemed almost alive, as if some magician had waved a wand and frozen them in time, so that everyone was suspended in what they were doing, captured in half-motion, waiting for the magician to wave his wand again–the haggling woman, the laughing girl and the old man with the queer face.

The old man.

“What’s the matter?” Kesavdas said from behind.

 

“I see the old man.” Chet’s voice sounded far away.

“What?” Kesavdas hurried towards him in quick small steps. “Where?” His eyes searched the picture blankly.

“I want to get out of here,” Chet’s hands felt cold.

“Yes, of course, you don’t look well.”

He felt Kesavdas grip his arm, steering him away. He remembered nothing of the walk back to the office until Kesavdas handed him something hot in a green cup.

“Special Ayurvedic tea,” he said. “You will feel better.”

Chet gulped down the strong bitter liquid, sensation returning to his body slowly, painfully, as if he had been out in the cold for a long time. At last he put his cup down and stood by the door.

A cheerful breeze blew on his cheeks. To his left, the sun shone down on the fountain, creating thousands of sparkling rivulets. So bright, so normal.

It all seemed ridiculous now.

So ridiculous.

Because it had been ridiculous. No, not it, he. He had behaved like an idiot. He had humiliated himself before this pompous low-class man.

He spun around and picked up his camera, “I’ll leave now.”

“So soon? Sit down, have some more tea. Don’t be always rushing from here to there. Enjoy life. You educated people are always in hurry. Myself, I have only studied until 8th or 9th, but I have seen the ways of the world–”

But Chet was striding down the path. The man followed, still talking, “So you will write good article? Will you send me one free copy of your newspaper?”

 

Chet ignored him. He got into the car and pulled out without waiting for the engine to warm up, causing Kesavdas to jump back hastily. The Fiat zoomed away. Kesavdas clucked his tongue and made his way back inside.

Chet’s green tea cup perched on the table. Kesavdas picked it up and sniffed.

He had been afraid that it contained too much of the drug, but Chet hadn’t noticed. In a few hours it would begin to work, as always. If Chet was driving, then he would lose control of the car. He might have an accident. That would be something new. If not, the drug would kill him anyway, like it had killed Dinesh and Ragini.

Smiling, he strolled towards the plastic bag that he kept in the corner for trash. An accident. He imagined the green fiat tumbling down a cliff, with Chet trapped inside, screaming like a baby. That ought to wipe the arrogant sneer right off his face. All these stupid people, thinking they were too good for him, just because he was not so educated, because he came from humble beginnings. That Dinesh, what he had he been after all? A third-class man who had tricked Bania’s sister into marrying him. And Ragini, just a cheap starlet. And now this disrespectful young pup. And in the end, he had fooled them all, hadn’t he?

For a moment he paused, wondering about the puzzling matter of the old man in the painting. He himself had never seen the old man. Was it like the color blindness test, the one they had made him do in school? He frowned, trying to remember the test, but it had been too long ago.

Anyway, what did it matter? He shrugged and dropped the cup into the bag.

The End

“Shall I take a run down to Main Street, boss? I have a hunch about this one.”

 

“Don’t tell me it reminds you of something?”

 

“It does.” Sgt. Billie Husted grinned broadly. She still couldn’t get over the fact that Officer Nelson had expected the rookie cop to be a man, but she’d set him straight on that. “My name’s Billie, as in Billie Jean,” she’d told him.

 

“We need something more concrete to nab the perps who’ve been pulling off the heists at the jewelry stores on Main Street this week. The robberies have been happening always when their staff take staggered lunches. The stores have an alarm system that’s turned on at night. It looks as if the culprits know that. Think you could look into it?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Billie drove to Main Street, parked, and found a table by the window at Al’s Diner, where she had a clear view of the jewelry stores across the street. Though modest, they probably had enough expensive merchandise, which, if hawked, could fetch a small fortune.

 

Al came over. “What’ll it be today?”

 

“Chili and coffee.”

 

“Heard about he robberies across the street?”

Billie nodded. “During the daytime, too. See anything unusual?”

 

“Nothing special. Lunchtime is quiet. Everybody’s grabbing a bite to eat. A few days ago, I saw a man walk in at lunchtime. Then I saw him again. Guys don’t spend a lot of time comparing prices at the jewelry store, I thought.”

 

“What did he look like?”

 

“He looked well-dressed and had a beard.”

 

“See anyone else?”

 

Al shook his head and left to bring her the chili.

 

After lunch, Billie went into one of the jewelry stores across the street. The sales clerk was showing a bracelet to a woman at the counter. Rings and necklaces winked in a glass cabinet and Billie lingered to take note of the items. She wanted to talk to the sales clerk, but she decided to go next door first.

 

The sales clerk in the other jewelry store was putting away necklaces and looked up as Billie entered.

 

“Good morning, Officer. What can I help you with?”

 

“I need to ask you a few questions about the burglary yesterday. Were you here?”

 

“Yes. It was almost empty except for the woman I was waiting on and a man at the other end of the store. He looked at some necklaces and then asked me to put them away. Said he didn’t care for the styles.” She brushed off a piece of lint from a black velvet pouch that held a gold set. “Later I realized that a diamond necklace and a few rings were missing.”

 

“What about the woman you were waiting on?”
“She didn’t buy anything. She left soon after.”

 

“What did she look like?”

 

“Blonde, shoulder length hair, leather jacket.”

Billie returned to the first store, where the woman was about to leave. She took a good look at her. Broadish face, shoulder length blond hair, leather jacket.

 

After she left, the officer approached the sales clerk.

“Has that woman been here before?”

 

“Yes, but she never buys anything. She just tries them on and says that something isn’t to her liking and leaves.”

 

“Does she have anyone with her?”

 

“No.”

 

“Was there anyone else in the store?”

 

“Once or twice I noticed a man come in during the lunch hour and look at the rings and bracelets. Once he bought a ring. For his niece, he said.”

 

Billie whipped out her small notepad and scribbled something in it. She raced outside to see if she could see where the woman went. She spotted her coming out of a snack bar, get into a sedan and pull out onto the street.

Billie followed her. A few blocks down, the woman parked at an apartment building and got out. Billie parked on the street adjacent and trailed her at a distance.

 

The woman entered the apartment building. Billie waited to see which apartment she’d go to. The woman stopped by the mailboxes, opened the first one, took out its contents and then went upstairs.

 

Billie looked at the mailbox she’d opened. It was No 6, with the names Bunnie and Claude Whiting. Waiting a few minutes, she went up to Apartment 6 and rang the bell.

 

The woman opened the door.

 

“Sorry to bother you but I believe you dropped something.” Billie handed her a brochure somebody had left by the mailboxes.

 

“Thank you.” The woman took it without looking at it.

 

“That’s a beautiful vase.” Billie took a few steps inside.

 

“It’s an urn. It contains the ashes of my beloved mother.”

 

Billie looked around. The apartment was sparsely furnished, as if its occupants would vacate any time.

 

“Who’s that, Bunnie?” A male voice called from the bedroom.

 

“A police officer.”

 

“What does he want?”

 

“May I see the urn?” Billie took it before the woman could grab it. It slipped from her hands and out fell a jumble of glistening gems—rings, a diamond necklace, bracelets.

 

Later, at the police station, her boss asked, “What tipped you off?”

 

“The names—Bunnie and Claude Whiting. Bonnie and Clyde—now don’t knock it. When the salesclerks both said the woman and a man were there, I got to thinking they might be somehow connected—working together. Then when I got to the apartment, I worked on the premise that if they were the culprits, they wouldn’t have had a chance to hawk the jewels yet. So it would be somewhere in the apartment in plain sight. When I saw the urn that could pass off as a vase . . .”

 

“How did you find their apartment?”

 

“I took a chance in following the woman, and when I looked at the mailboxes and the names, I had to go with a hunch.”

The End

“Mr. Gooding isn’t here,” said the young man at the hotel desk, lifting his chin and looking down his nose at her.

“Where is he?” Emily Lawrence asked, fighting the urge to stamp her foot. “I have an appointment with him at ten o’clock.”

“I couldn’t say.”

“I should like to leave a note for him, if you don’t mind.”

She shook the wet snow from her hood onto the polished marble floor then searched in her purse for a visiting card and a pencil.

“Very well, though it won’t do you much good.”

He dismissed her by shuffling some papers on the mahogany desk. The telephone rang and the clerk turned his back on her to answer it.

Emily thought, not for the first time, what a convenience it would be to have a telephone at home. It would save time and shoe leather when she was working on an investigation. Mr. Gooding could have telephoned her to cancel the appointment and saved her a cold wet trip into Boston.

As she turned to leave, she saw a Boston police officer whose name she could almost recall, come through the door from School Street. Not at all the sort of person who should be entering this posh hotel.

“Good morning, Sergeant O’Shay,” she hoped fervently that was his name. “What brings you to the Parker House?”

He chuckled. “I can hardly tell you that, Mrs. Lawrence, now can I?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“It ain’t for a good cup of morning coffee, that much I’ll say.” He laughed again and stepped up to the desk.

She moved just far enough away so she could overhear what the clerk said.

The room number the clerk gave to O’Shay was the same one Alfred Cox had written on the card he had handed her at breakfast.

Emily imagined a host of reasons why a Boston policeman would be visiting a novelist in his room. Robbery, assault, even death. Or Gooding might simply want to interview a policeman for his next novel.

She stepped out into the street in time to see the black van from Massachusetts General Hospital turning into the alley that lead to the service entrance of the hotel.

Death, then.

“Well, well, well, what would Mrs. Lawrence be doing here just now?”

Emily swung around to face the grinning reporter from the Herald. Wet snow covered his hat brim and soaked into his collar. His green and yellow plaid trousers hung sodden about his ankles. Even his well waxed mustache drooped in the damp.

“I might ask the same of you, Mr. Fleet.”

“Word is out that a famous novelist was stabbed last night.   You wouldn’t know anything about that, now, would you?”

“I don’t know anything about a stabbing, Mr. Fleet.   You should know I stay out of cases that are police business.”

“I’ll give you dollars to donuts that you came here to meet with Mr. Webster Gooding.”

Emily felt the color rising in her face.

“I thought so. I understand Professor Alfred Cox spent a couple of hours with Gooding last evening. And Professor Cox just happens to live in the same Cambridge boarding house you do.”

Mr. Fleet snatched Emily’s elbow and pulled her into the alley. They watched as a stretcher covered by a dark blanket was carried out of the service entrance of the hotel. The front bearer slipped on the icy step, and the hand of the dead man slipped off the stretcher. It was a man’s hand with just the proper bit of white cuff showing below the black sleeve.   An ostentatious fraternal ring on the pinky was visible even from this distance.

~~oOo~~

Mrs. Stevens and the four boarders were in the parlor sipping from tiny glasses of sherry when Emily came down stairs dressed for dinner.   The fire in the marble fireplace was warm and cheery, the curtains shut against the angry weather.

Emily rested her hand lightly on the arm of the portly man who stood by the marble topped table doling out drops of sherry to those assembled. “Professor Cox, I need to speak with you privately.”

Doctor Bryers lifted one dark eyebrow, and ran his thumb over the watch in his black vest pocket, but kept silent. The two students muttered to each other in the corner.   Mrs. Stevens lifted a hand to silence them.

“Did you see Gooding this morning?” Cox asked.

“No. I need to speak with you about that.”

Before Emily could tell him what had happened, Mary entered the parlor.

“It’s a Boston policeman for you, Mrs. Emily,” said Mary, handing her a card. “I put him in the music room.”

Captain Bates was standing by the keyboard of the square piano.

“Do you play, Captain Bates?”

“One of my daughters is quite good. She’d better be after the fortune I’ve paid to her teacher.”

Emily motioned him to one of the upholstered chairs, and took the other herself.

“What can I do for you?”

“You were at the Parker House this morning? You went to see Mr. Gooding the novelist?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“My appointment was for ten. I got to the hotel about quarter ‘til. The clerk chased me away, but I met Mr. Fleet from the Herald in the street and he told me my appointment had been cancelled. We stood in the snow and watched as Mr. Gooding was removed from the premises.”

Years of experience had taught her to answer only what she had been asked. Captain Bates seemed intelligent and sensible and must have known this already so there was no harm done.

“Why did he want to see you?”

“I don’t know. He requested the meeting. I assume he was going to tell me why when we met.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, I’d never met him.”

“How did he arrange for the appointment?”

“Through a mutual friend. Everyone in the literary field knows everyone else in the literary field.”

“Does Professor Alfred Cox live in this house?”

“Yes.”

“Is he here now?”

“Yes, in the other room.” She pointed to the common wall between the music room and the parlor.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch him for me, Mrs. Lawrence?”

Emily called Cox out into the hall. “I think Gooding was murdered this morning before I saw him.   Captain Bates of the Boston police wants to see you.”

Cox froze in mid stride and stared at her for several seconds in shocked silence.

“Gooding murdered? Poor sod. Do you know what happened?”

“Not yet.”

“Am I a suspect?” he asked, his voice soft, as though saying it would make it so. “I spent a couple of hours with him last evening.”

Once in the music room Emily introduced Cox to the policeman. Much to her surprise, instead of asking her to leave, Bates indicated that she should sit in the chair by the door.

“Gooding was a friend of yours?” the policeman asked Cox.

“An acquaintance, really. And a colleague. Teaches literature at Williams. Writes under the name of Zachary Garner.”

“Do you know why he was in Boston?”

“To see his publisher. Cyrus Oliver always puts his most profitable writers up in nice hotels. Makes me wish I didn’t live here. I could use a night in a good hotel. He told me he was working on the galleys for another novel.   Zachary Garner was far more prolific than Baxter Hardey.”

“Baxter Hardey?” asked Bates.

Emily laughed. “Not a murder suspect, if that’s what you are looking for. Baxter Hardey is the pen name Professor Cox uses.   You mustn’t tell anyone. Alfred, you must be careful about giving the police more information than they need.”

Cox looked sheepish.

“The newspaper man said he was stabbed,” Emily said.

Bates shrugged. “You will read about it in the evening papers. But, yes. Stabbed in his room by parties unknown.”

“Why would anyone kill Gooding?” asked Cox. “He was an inoffensive man who liked expensive whisky and fine food. His books are filled with violence, but I’ve never known him to raise his voice, let alone a hand to anyone.”

“Professor Cox, you arranged for the appointment with Mrs. Lawrence and you spent a couple of hours with the victim last evening. Do you know why he wanted to see Mrs. Lawrence?”

Cox nodded.

“Why did he want to see her?”

Cox shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Wouldn’t tell me. I suppose he wanted to hire a private detective.”

“You were overheard arguing with him. What was the argument about?”

Cox looked puzzled. “We didn’t argue about anything.”

“Do you own a knife, Professor Cox?”

“Certainly, three of them. A penknife.” He drew it out of his pocket and handed it to the policeman. “I have two daggers in my room. I will send Mary for them, if you wish. One was the model for the murder weapon in one of my books. The other, quite dull, serves me as a letter opener.   It was my mother’s.”

Mary was dispatched for the knives. Bates looked at them carefully and handed them back.

“If either of you learn any more, please let me know.”

“Of course.”

“Certainly.”

Mary showed Bates out.

“I am a suspect.” Cox sounded unhappy.

“Your knives weren’t the murder weapon, not even close, or he would never have given them back. By the way, what did you argue about?”

“We didn’t argue about anything.” Cox paused for a moment.   “We were discussing the cultural relevance of Lady Windermere’s Fan by Oscar Wilde. Our opinions differ radically. I suppose someone passing by in the hall might have overheard us and thought we were arguing. You live in a house full of scholars. You know how loud those discussions can get.”

“You have an alibi.”

“You saw me at breakfast, then there was class this morning, Italian novel with twelve students in attendance. Last night, on the other hand, is more of a problem.”

She didn’t tell him that her glimpse of the body indicated death in the morning rather than last night.

Cox stroked his mustache. “Is it possible he took his own life?”

“Stabbing isn’t a usual means of suicide. Why do you suggest it?”

“He seemed very subdued when I left. He mentioned his Boston woman, not his wife, said she was into him financially, but he didn’t give any more details. He talked about his wife a lot, too. I’ve never know him to be forthcoming about his private life. He’s been having difficulty with his publisher, too. Seems Oliver leaked his real name and the college took a dim view of his pastime.”

“How do you handle that?” asked Emily.

“I told everyone who might be upset that I was writing under a pen name. They know the kind of twaddle I write, but not the name I write under. A little contextual critique would lay the secret bare if anyone cared enough. I use the words ‘flight of fancy’ far too much.”

Emily nodded and smiled. Every Baxter Hardey book used the phrase at least four times.

“After the scandal at the school…” Cox began.

“There was a scandal when they found out he was the author of sensational fiction?”

“He thinks so. Most schools realize they underpay the faculty and are happy to have you make a bit on the side as long as you don’t drag them through the mud.”

Cox paused, turning his pen knife over and over on his palm.

“He was thinking of giving it up.”

“Teaching or writing?” Emily asked.

“Writing, at least that kind of book. He said he liked teaching, and that each book was worse than the one before it. He didn’t find it fun any more. His publisher offered him more money, but he thought he would give it up anyway. I guess the publisher was threatening a lawsuit.”

Cox paused, took a deep breath and let it out slowly before going on.

“He had two more books on his contract with Oliver.   There was something there I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He seemed dissatisfied with the arrangement. I got the feeling he was giving up his publisher rather than the writing. He didn’t say as much. You don’t suppose he was looking for another publisher and wanted out of the contract?   Maybe he wanted to hire you to find grounds for terminating the contract.”

“That might be reason for him to kill the publisher, not the other way around.”

Cox shrugged. “Maybe they argued and it got out of hand. Still, neither of them are violent men.”

“You mentioned a woman. Do you know who she is?”

“I never met her. Her name is Mrs. Franklin. Gooding says she always carries her knitting with her. Can you imagine?”

“Do you know his publisher?”

“Certainly. He’s taken a couple of my critical articles as book chapters. Doesn’t seem like the sort who would kill off his authors.”

~~oOo~~

After dinner, Emily was standing by the window in Mrs. Stevens’ sitting room watching the snow make halos around the street lamps when the doorbell rang.

“Who would come calling on an evening like this?” asked Mrs. Stevens as she rose from the overstuffed yellow sofa to answer the door.

A few murmured sounds from the hall and Mrs. Stevens returned.   “It’s a Mrs. Franklin to see you, dear.   I put her in the parlor.”

Mrs. Franklin, several inches taller than Emily, was the kind of woman who grew more striking with age. Dark curls showed beneath her feathered hat. Her gown was forest green and antique gold trimmed with jet beads. She paced the parlor, pausing now and then to move a picture on the mantle or to straighten a curtain. She turned as Emily came through the door.

“You must help me, Mrs. Lawrence.” Emily wondered how many hundreds of conversations had begun with those words in the twenty years she had been a detective.

Mrs. Franklin sat in the chair Emily indicated and opened the bag she carried with her. She pulled out a cloud of salmon lace on a pair of long thin knitting needles. As soon as she picked up the needles and started work, her whole body settled into stillness as though all her energy moved through her fingers and into the project in her lap.

“What can I do for you?”

“The police think I killed Mr. Gooding.”

“Did you?” asked Emily.

“No, of course not! But I have to go to police headquarters to talk to Captain Bates in the morning. Someone said you were there at the hotel this morning, looking for Mr. Gooding. I thought you could help.” Emily wondered who she had heard it from.

“You were at his hotel last night?”

“Yes, I arrived about ten in the evening and left about one or two. Mr. Gooding found me a cab, so he must have been alive when I left.”

“How long have you known Mr. Gooding?”

“Well over ten years. We met when he sold his first book and came to Boston.”

“How did you meet?”

“His publisher, Mr. Oliver, introduced us.”

Emily would have to ask Cox if publishers often provided such comforts for out-of-town authors. What other authors did Mrs. Franklin warm on cold Boston nights?

Mrs. Franklin went on. “Do you know he had decided to stop writing his books? I told him how wonderful they were. If he didn’t come to Boston to meet Mr. Oliver, I would never see him.”

“Is it true there had been a scandal when it came out he was the author?”

“That school of his is just a bunch of snobs. What’s wrong with his books? They are exciting and romantic. I loved every one of them.”

“I must admit, I’ve read one or two myself.”

“Mr. Oliver was very upset with him. Going to take him to court, you know. Mr. Oliver saved them both great expense by killing poor Webster.”

Being dead didn’t seem to Emily like a good way to save money.

“Why would Mr. Oliver want to kill someone who made so much money for him?”

Mrs. Franklin laughed. “If there were to be no more books, think how well this one would sell if the author had just been murdered.”

“Someone suggested he owed you money. Is that the case?”

“Why yes, how odd that anyone should even know that.   Teachers don’t make much money and he spent a week in Boston last summer working on his last book. Didn’t have a penny in his pocket and he likes to stay in nice hotels.   I had a bit extra at the time, so I paid for his room at the Parker House and his meals. It came to a tidy sum. He was paying me back a little at a time. Maybe Mr. Oliver will reimburse me for what is left.”

Mrs. Franklin had not stopped knitting throughout the conversation. Her fingers flew and she never once glanced at the work. Emily was amused by the mental image of a naked Mrs. Franklin knitting in bed with her sated lover asleep at her side.

“What a lovely color,” Emily commented. She reached out to touch it and found the fine wool yarn soft and the stitches even and regular.

Emily glanced into the bag as Mrs. Franklin opened it to put away her work. There was the usual jumble of knitting implements, all far more expensive than anything Emily had in her knitting basket. She saw ivory tapestry needles, steel stitch holders, fine wooden cable needles, four sets of needles one of bone, two of tight grained wood and one of steel, all slim and glossy, and an embroidery tool with its intricately carved ivory handle darkened from age and use. Mrs. Franklin folded the shawl carefully and slipped it into the bag.

“Mrs. Franklin, I don’t think there is anything I can do for you. I don’t work with open police investigations. You can trust Captain Bates to sort it all out properly. I suggest you tell the truth. If you didn’t kill Mr. Gooding, you are perfectly safe.”

“Do you think so?”

“Let me call you a cab,” Emily offered.

“That’s very kind of you, but Bobby is waiting for me.”

Mrs. Franklin climbed into the waiting cab. It wasn’t a private carriage, yet she had called the driver by name. Emily supposed if you were to spend nights in hotels with visitors you would need a horse and driver at your beck and call. The horse was a small bay with a white spot shaped like a duck on his belly just behind the surcingle.

“I will have to send Alfred to talk to Mr. Oliver,” she said to herself as she climbed the stairs.

She found Patrick Sullivan at the desk in his room with his freckled nose in an open book, light from the electric lamp on his desk turning his hair into a copper halo. She would miss him when he graduated from Harvard in the spring. He helped her with cases from time to time, but more than that they were friends.

“It’s about Professor Cox, isn’t it? What can I do to help?” he asked.

“Cabs,” said Emily. “Could you find the cabs Mrs. Franklin and Mr. Oliver took to and from the hotel?” She described Billy and the horse with the duck mark.

“I can start with my brother, Joseph. If he didn’t drive them, he’ll know who to ask. I can use a friend’s telephone, but it’s not a particularly nice night to be out.”

~~oOo~~

“Working?” asked Dr. Bryers as Emily heaped her breakfast plate with bacon and eggs. She ate lightly between cases, but her appetite increased substantially when she took on a case.

“Not exactly.”

“She’s trying to keep me from being charged with murder,” admitted Cox, whose appetite had not suffered. “Seems the police think a literary discussion is grounds for murder.”

Everyone turned to stare at Professor Cox. Of the six people at the breakfast table, only Mrs. Stevens was less likely to be arrested for murder.

“I have the information you asked for last evening, Mrs. Lawrence.” Patrick handed her a folded piece of white paper.

“Good lad,” said Cox.

At that moment the doorbell rang. Mary set the serving dish she was carrying on the sideboard and went to answer the door. She was back in a minute and handed Emily a card.

“I told him you could see him after breakfast, Mrs. Emily, but he insisted.”

“I’ll see him now. I might as well get it over with.” She tossed Mr. Fleet’s card into the middle of the table for the others to see and went to greet him.

Mr. Fleet wore the same grin he had yesterday, but his trousers were more subdued.

She held the parlor door open for him and closed it behind them. She neither offered him a seat nor took one herself.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Fleet?”

“The weapon used to stab Gooding was at least three inches long, round and very thin.”

“Like an ice pick?” she asked.

He walked over to her knitting basket and drew out a double pointed steel needle.

“Please don’t ravel my work, Mr. Fleet.”

She had spent an hour or so early in her career trying to turn a knitting needle into a murder weapon to prove it could be done. It was possible with some modification to the needle if you knew where and how to use it. It was certainly not a weapon of opportunity. Mrs. Franklin’s wooden needles would have broken and the thin steel ones would have bent before penetrating the skin.

“A woman? The police suspect a woman?”

“Actually they think it’s the publisher who found the body. I understand Professor Cox argued with the victim last night in his hotel room.   Then you show up at the hotel in the morning. What’s the connection?”

Emily thought a bit before answering.

“It would seem that Professor Cox and Mr. Gooding were friends. The professor had a drink with him in his room. He asked me at breakfast if I would be willing to pay a call on Mr. Gooding at ten. I assumed he needed a detective for some reason. It would be most unlike Professor Cox to send me all the way to Boston in that miserable snow simply to get a book autographed.”

“You don’t know why he wanted to see you?”

She shook her head. “Neither does Professor Cox. You can be sure I asked him. That’s all I know.”

She remembered the paper Patrick had given her. “Have you looked into the cabs that took his visitors to and from the hotel? Have you interviewed Mr. Oliver?”

“Can’t get to Oliver. He is holed up in his Back Bay mansion.   Only his lawyer and the police are allowed in. I thought maybe you and Cox could see him.”

“I am deeply offended, Mr. Fleet. Do you think I would take on a case to get information for a newspaper? If that were my intention, I would have become a reporter, not a detective.”

“No, but you would take a case to get your friend off the hook.”

“Professor Cox is not a suspect.”

Fleet was silent for a bit. His demeanor changed from aggressive reporter to a man reminded of his own mortality by a chance incident.

“Mrs. Lawrence, you and I saw them take Mr. Gooding’s body out of the hotel. I can still see the red stone in the ring bobbing up and down as they carried the stretcher to the van.”

“Why Mr. Fleet, do I detect a touch of humanity under your reporter’s swagger?”

He shrugged. “Let me know if you find anything.”

She didn’t answer.

Mr. Fleet handed her the needle he had favored for the murder weapon. She lifted out the stocking she had been knitting. If there was damage to it she wanted him to see it. Her own knitting implements were shabby in comparison with those she had seen last night. She picked up the cheap tin tool she used to put holes in fabric and pick up dropped stitches. It had a sharp point that could be inserted between the threads to force them apart without breaking them. The shaft was three inches long and broadened gradually to almost half an inch across. The handle was ornate filigree of stamped tin. It was far less used than the ivory one in Mrs. Franklin knitting bag. It lacked the dark stains.

~~oOo~~

Emily was pleased to see Mrs. Franklin coming out of Captain Bates’ office. She was dressed in black; her deep mourning veil covered her face and fell to her waist.

“You might wish to stay, Mrs. Franklin. I have some interesting information along the lines you suggested to me last evening.”

Emily was unable to see the expression under the veil, but Mrs. Franklin followed Emily back into the office.

“It is not my intention to interfere in police business, Captain Bates,” Emily began, “but I have one or two tidbits you might find useful.”

Mrs. Franklin remained standing clutching her knitting bag to her chest and winding her fingers in and out of the handles. Emily took the wooden chair by the door.

“I know that Gooding saw Professor Cox between eight thirty and ten in the evening. I know that Mrs. Franklin came in just after Cox left. I also know she says she left about one thirty, leaving Gooding alone until Oliver arrived at eight in the morning.

“Mr. Fleet and I saw the body taken to the van. We saw clearly that rigor mortis had not set in yet.   If Mrs. Franklin left when she says she did, she is in the clear.”

Mrs. Franklin lifted her chin causing the veil to rustle.

“There is a bit of a problem, though.” Emily handed him the paper Sullivan had given her at breakfast.

“Here are the names of the cabbies who drove both Mrs. Franklin and Mr. Oliver to and from the hotel. One of the people at my boarding house comes from a family of cabs drivers in Boston.   He gave me this information this morning. Mr. Oliver arrived at eight in the morning and left at ten thirty, after the police had arrived. Mrs. Franklin arrived at ten in the evening and left just before Mr. Oliver arrived, not in the middle of the night as she told me. Thus, either could have been the killer.”

“Is this right?” asked Bates. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at Mrs. Franklin “You lied about the time?”

“Mr. Oliver must have done it,” said Mrs. Franklin.   Her voice was calm, but she clutched her knitting bag tighter. “Mr. Gooding had found another publisher in New York. He wanted to break his contract with Mr. Oliver. I would never see him again.”

Emily shook her head. “Professor Cox suspected that.   Even if they got into a heated argument, there is nothing in either of their characters to suggest it would have come to blows. A law suit, maybe, but not murder.

“I suggest you look at the addresses on the paper,” Emily went on, “the place where the cabby took Mrs. Franklin. 213 Commonwealth Avenue. Mr. Oliver’s address. What is your relation to Mr. Oliver, Mrs. Franklin?”

The lady remained silent.

“Is it possible that Professor Cox was right, you were introduced to Mr. Gooding by Mr. Oliver, not as a companion, but as Mrs. Oliver?”

Emily turned back to the policeman. “Professor Cox told me that he owed her money. She verified this last evening. She told me he had been repaying her for his hotel stay last summer. But Cox said the publisher pays for the hotel and meals.”

Emily paused to consider her next words.

“I think she was blackmailing him, though I doubt either of them thought of it that way. I know he was giving her small amounts of money. With the combination of a blackmailing mistress and a publisher who sparked a scandal for better sales, is it any wonder he wanted a new publisher?   Perhaps Gooding broke the news to Mrs. Franklin after a night of passion. She knew she had to be gone before her husband arrived, and she had arranged to have her favorite driver waiting for her.”

Mrs. Franklin stood ramrod straight, but the knitting bag fell to the ground at her feet.

Emily retrieved it, removed the ivory handled embroidery tool and set it on the desk in front of the policeman.

“This is called a stiletto. It fits the description of the murder weapon. Some of those stains on the handle could be Gooding’s blood. Why don’t you take a look at it, Captain Bates?”

The End

Arching her back made stiff by the chair, Sharon Knowles hiked an irate eyebrow. All these cold cases, she swore, pretty much remained frozen in their icy limbo. Her sigh was a mournful one. Homicides had spiked to 483 in 1990 when the crack cocaine epidemic raged at its greatest furor. Washington, D.C. took a blood bath that year and the no statue of limitations on murder left a raft of killers still out there.

 

Four fat accordion files retained the history of each homicide investigation. One fifteen-year-old boy ice-picked in the sternum died fighting over CDs. Two thirtysomething men died in altercations over cocaine. One absorbed multiple .44 rounds while some stoner wielding a ninepin at a now boarded up bowling alley in Anacostia bludgeoned the second to death.

 

Sighing, Sharon nudged those three files aside on the green metal table after having sifted through lurid crime scene photos, witness statements, and arrest reports. The remaining homicide file won her most earnest attention. Just then, a girlish snicker enlivened the file room where Sharon and the three other students were sequestered. Sharon winced. All sophomores from nearby American University, they should take this work more seriously. Pete, the self-styled “token male,” spoke out:

 

“Yo, Sharon, let’s go grab a burger.”

 

“You all go ahead,” she replied. “I still have a case to catch.”

 

Nan piped out a giggle. “Girl, listen at you talking like a cop. Who in their right mind expects us to make headway on these old moldy murders?”

 

“You said it. These work conditions suck butt,” Elisha said. “Ancient 486 computers. The A-C conking out every time we sneeze from toxic molds in noisy ventilation ducts. Look at this hole-in-the-wall for an office.”

 

“The worst is no pay, only academic credit,” said Pete. “My old man complained about taking a big dent in the wallet to pony up tuition bucks.   Oh, City Hall loves us summer interns to do their scut work.”

 

“It’s all too realistic,” said Sharon.

 

“My dad’s law practice is waiting for me when I graduate,” Elisha said. “This grind is history, I kid you not. This place is grotty. It makes me wanna jump up and race back to take a long, hot shower.” She shivered thought the shoulders.

 

“But still a job is a job,” said Sharon. “If it galls you that much, Elisha, you shouldn’t have signed on. It’s not too late to withdraw. Just trot over and charm Dean Rollins into approving it.”

 

“Say it, preacher lady. Tell it straight up,” Elisha responded.

Sharon saw red but, laughing, Pete intervened.   “Law enforcement isn’t in the cards for me either,” he said.

 

Dreadlocks flopping, Elisha jerked her head up and down.   “For certain, it’s not my bag. No sirree. My road is paved in gold to law school. My dad, an alumni, contributed thousands to ‘grease the skids,’ as he puts it for his little girl. Isn’t that a funny phrase? Grease the skids.”

 

“Yeah? Where?”

 

“Didn’t I already tell you?   Georgetown.”

 

“Hey, cool.”

 

“I think so, thank you very much.”

 

“You gotta graduate first.”

 

“Hey, no problem there .   . . ”

 

The trio talking in animated tones exited into the corridor’s sallow yellow light glaring off the linoleum tiles worn smooth by legions of beat cops. Sharon stymied an impulse to leap up and go join them. Why was she left to feel like a suspect undergoing interrogation in this windowless room? That she didn’t was a pity except this fourth case beckoned. Cops were trained to stay detached from their work but this slain girl had gotten under Sharon’s skin, indeed.

 

Vi Stallard, 22, had called a taxi to go jog in Rock Creek Park one raw, rainy afternoon that kept away all but the most inveterate runners. A few days later, Sharon read in the police report, a man out with his dog scouting for turtles had bumbled upon her half-hidden corpse. Studying the autopsy photos arrayed before her, Sharon let a vivid tremor circuit through her. Several faraway shots showed the half-nude Vi sprawled there in grainy half-light minus hands or feet.

 

“Yep. They were never recovered,” a gruff male voice said from behind Sharon as if reading her mind. The thickset man in a rumpled blue suit waltzed into her sightline as a shadow fell across her emotions. He smelled of peppermint, Brut, and possibly NyQuil. “It was by leaps and bounds my most grisly homicide. My career in law enforcement spans a stint as an MP in war-torn Saigon, too.” Detective Stoppard lowered his roly-poly heft into the chair opposite from Sharon with a weary groan sounding much practiced.

 

“I saved her out until last to plunk into the database,” said Sharon. “Her case file is tough to get through.”

 

Biting down on glum lips, Stoppard’s slight nod assented. “I’ve a confession to make,” he said. “I threw this cold case at you on purpose. Of all the interns, you stood out as the most likely to produce results.”

 

“Gee thanks,” said Sharon. “I think, detective.”

 

“Look, you’ve declared your major in criminal justice. I applaud you. That tells me

you’ve an unquenchable curiosity about the peace officer trade.” His smile, no teeth, stretched beyond perfunctory. At the same time, a smarmy air about the detective made Sharon wary.   She attributed it to his hawklike scrutiny now lingering on her. Sensing her ill-at-ease, he added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to jar you. All I’m hoping is a fresh set of eyeballs might glean a detail or clue my people overlooked. Anything, no matter how trivial. Who knows? It might be the key we’ve sought high and low all these years?”

 

“No physical evidence was saved,” Sharon said.   “That’d be our best shot to reopen the case.” She shuffled the photos into a pile and flipped it over. Detective Stoppard fixed his luminous gray eyes on her deft hand motions, her fluttering coral-tipped fingers. Sharon was attuned to their interest and folded both hands in her lap under the table. Mature men like her philosophy professor were attracted to her and while flattered by their attention, she wasn’t sure about encouraging them.

 

“The typical stuff you’d expect to find,” he said, “didn’t shake out in this crime scene. It was, well, almost antiseptic. The killer knew his Ps & Qs.”

 

“Really?”

 

Hands clasped behind his head, Detective Stoppard warmed to the topic. “For instance, the autopsy report mentions nothing about sexual assault on the jogger.   Okay, but here’s the puzzler: what about motive? I mean Vi Stallard was strangled by a cruel, cunning sadist yet that’s too general, too vague to assemble any profile. He’s your average Joe, I bet, who blends in among us.”

 

Sharon asked, “W-w-what about these amputations?   Did that fit any sicko’s M.O.?”

 

“The short answer is no. Even with the open season for killers in 1990, not very many traipsed around the city lopping off their poor victims’ hands and feet. Vi Stallard was the only one. Very unique, very original. Like I said, the killer was a genuine work of art.”

 

“That detail was never released to the media,” Sharon surmised.

 

Detective Stoppard’s shrug bordered on noncommittal.   “Can’t actually remember. If so, it got lost in the welter of violence.   The Washington Post‘s crime column had a field day in 1990. Boy, I hated going on patrol some night watches. Hated it. Newspapers read like the script to a slasher flick. Hey, you look worn to a frazzle, Sharon. Why don’t you bag it for today? Go meet your pals at Starbucks or wherever you students hang out these days.   You’ll go barking mad overloaded with this craziness.”

 

Sharon agreed but slipped the Vi Stallard homicide file into her straw tote bag before dodging out the door.   Detective Stoppard scribbling something on a legal pad pretended he didn’t catch the small subterfuge. His opaque smile, in fact, trailed her out of the file room.

 

# # #

 

The artifacts from the Stallard homicide file lay categorized in piles across Sharon’s narrow dorm bed. Her suitemate Janice was off paragliding for the weekend at Cape May and having the quiet room to herself emboldened Sharon to try and make this puzzle fit. Her analytical gaze roved over the crime scene and autopsy photos. She counted 52 black-and-whites and a couple dozen color prints shot from diverse angles. All were hard on the eyes but she never

flinched or gagged.

 

She wasn’t a seasoned detective and knew it but the sum of visual horror here shook a helpless indignation and rage inside her.   After sweeping the photos into a mound, she began reading. The cops’ writing though blunt and professional in style and content struck her as incomplete and rushed. For a third time, she pored through each page, muttering each word as to a voodoo mantra. Unlike on the slick TV drama CSI, no brilliant insight popped into her brain just before cutting to commercial break.

 

A string of firecracker pops below in the quad prompted Sharon to go over and close the window to breezes fragranted by hyacinths and lilacs. Eerie images of the butchered up jogger with no hands or feet blazed in her mind. She stiffened and exhaled as the horrific vision dissolved before something skating on the periphery of her mind came into plain view.

 

That man with the dog scrounging for turtles in Rock Creek Park, did he leave a name? The next logical thing was to test the veracity of his tale. Did any beat cop ask the man about the turtles?   Sharon was on a roll. Did this mysterious man boil the turtles for soup?   Wasn’t poaching wildlife in any city park illegal? It should be, she decided.

Sharon rechecked the paperwork, zeroing in on the yellow highlighted lines, without any success to satisfy her instinctual nosiness.   Great. Turtle Man’s name went unrecorded. An idea suggested itself to Sharon before despair dulled her optimism.   Detective Stoddard’s home telephone number came off a business card stapled inside the manila folder. She used a telephone at the end of the dorm’s hallway since the security of speaking on a cellular was dicey. During chirpy blips, she debated the prudence of her bold action.

 

“Mr. Stoddard’s residence,” answered an abrasive female’s voice.

 

Sharon: “Oh? Is, um, the detective in?”

 

“Surely. Now, are you one of his love slaves or the girl who cleans? Just kidding, hon. Hang tight for a moment.”

 

“Stoddard here,” came the familiar sonorous voice.   Fatigue? Alcohol? Sharon knew that cops were big drinkers off duty. It was one of manyfold ways they unwound nerves left tensile taut by the job.

 

“It’s me, Sharon Knowles. Quick question. The gentleman who discovered Vi Stallard, no name surfaces in the file and it’s bugging me.”

 

“H-m-m-m, I could’ve sworn it was there,” said Stoddard.   “Tomorrow we’ll paw through my original handwritten notes. Fortunately names I never forget. He was Stewart Weems. W-E-E-M-S, Weems. Satisfied?”

 

“Got it and thanks. Are you okay? You’re voice sounds off-key.”

 

“Well, it would. I was asleep. Finally.”

 

Sharon gushed her reflex apology. “Oh my god, I am so very sorry, detective. Had I known, I would’ve never — ”

 

“It’s not a problem. Do us both a favor. Forget about this case and get some sleep. Good night, Sharon.”

 

“Good night, detective,” she replied. Before severing her end of the connection, she wondered just where Stoddard lived since all metropolitan police members had to reside within city limits. Not wearing a wedding band, was he married?   Love slave? Detective Stoppard was a solid cop but with a bizarre lifestyle.

 

# # #

 

Stewart Weems was listed in the good old reliable White Pages at 303 Q Street and Sharon couldn’t believe it as she marched off campus in that direction. At ten or so blocks away, she considered it walkable and vetoed summoning an expensive taxicab. Besides, the spring night air exhilarated her. Not until she’d gone three blocks did it dawn on her that walking a night street alone might rate as dangerous or, even worse, peg her for a prostitute.   No, she dressed too preppy to be mistaken for that stripe.

 

Perhaps Sharon should’ve cajoled Pete into escorting her if he wasn’t too busy flirting with co-eds or off barhopping through Georgetown. Instead, she redoubled her gait and jaywalked between two SUVs to traverse the wet street.   The balmy cheer attendant on campus waned as the city’s clingy murk shrouded her. Underneath a streetlight she entered its illumed hemisphere to see her breaths rising in brassy halos. The hooded windbreaker she’d slipped on charging out the door felt flimsy.   She jumped at a noise. A small cat or large rat thrashed into the alleyway with a flick of its sleazy tail.

 

Sharon’s footfall grated off the brick wall under which she pulled up to huddle. A snarled nexus of muscles between her shoulders was a barometer registering her fear.   A made-up headline jingled through her head topping tomorrow’s crime column in The Washington Post:   “Coed Intern Out Sleuthing Is Given Forty Whacks.” Not so awfully far away, a cop siren screamed after bad guys. This street drama of opposing forces, good versus mean, never let up, did it?

 

While a murder heinous as Vi Stallard’s creeped out Sharon, she was more intrigued by how evildoers were pursued and nabbed. Perhaps the thrill of the hunt is what impelled her to take risks such as now.   She sallied forth again and upon intersecting Q Street a new gleeful giddiness seized her but not to the extreme she didn’t feel in control.

 

In the six hundred block of Q Street, she ran into two-story brick rowhouses with white marble front stoops in a tidy middle-class neighborhood. Feathery violet fog rose off the peat moss just put down by gardeners. At the corner unit, a chaotic pyramid of household furniture on the sidewalk marked a recent eviction. She was relieved to learn it wasn’t Stewart Weems at Number 606 a mere couple doors down.

 

Mission-style ground lights bordered the red slate path through shrubbery Mr. Weems preferred to keep shaggy and unkempt. Sharon’s shortened steps allotted her a chance to spec out his small yard formidable in its shadowy patchwork. Queer. She again sniffed. Vegetation exuded the coppery smell of blood as she mounted the pale stone porch. The day’s heat radiating off the brick touched the nape of her neck as she imagined a killer’s cloying fingers did. She shivered. Next the brick’s decay was profane in its sour odor. Her forefinger jabbed the glittery door chimes button.

 

To her shock, tinny beeps didn’t rouse any keg-chested woof from Mr. Weems’ mastiff alert to make unsuspecting trespassers pay for their ignorance. Quite the contrary, in fact. The hush grew deafening until her second longer buzz rousted the soft shuffle made by an elderly man’s slippers. Sharon counted not one or two, but three deadbolts clack free. The door chinked and in the slice of amber light, she fixated on the man’s obscene scarlet lips whittling into derision.

 

“Yes, young ma’am? How I may help you?” he asked in a reedy voice.

 

“My name is Sharon Knowles. Mr. Stewart Weems, I presume?”

“I am at that,” he said, “but don’t hold it against me, please.”

 

Nonplused as how to handle such self-deprecating sarcasm, Sharon didn’t smile, only pressed her mission. “I’m working with the DC police on cold case murders, in particular the Vi Stallard homicide.   You ran across the dead body and notified police, correct?”

 

“At last you’ve arrived,” he said. “Oh, I’ve been expecting you. Yes-yes. Scurry inside. Come along, come.”

 

“We can talk here at the threshold,” said Sharon.

 

Red lips curled to bare fangs. On second glance, Sharon took it for his smile.   “And let my busybody neighbors get an earful? I have to live here. Hasten indoors. Please.   We can chit-chat here in the foyer with the deadbolts off.” The door widened to let out more light.

 

“Only if you leave the door parted,” Sharon insisted.

 

“As you wish it.”

 

Sharon’s primal urge said turn tail and go like a goosed giraffe. A reckless confidence in her abilities, however, asserted itself and steeled her nerves to take calm action. She invaded the foyer but kept a pale-knuckled clinch on the door’s edge.

 

In this flush light, Mr. Weems shrank to an ordinary meek man and Sharon knew she could fend off his assault. “Come into my den,” he said. “We’ll find it more comfortable and cheerier. Oh, keep the door cracked if you must. I’m sure a seventy-two year old curmudgeon poses little if any threat to you.” He trotted ahead to usher her over palm wood floors into a disheveled chamber ruled by a mammoth orange couch. Sharon mashed its plush cushions to sit while Mr. Weems occupied his favorite armchair.

 

“Care to elaborate on the Stallard murder?” she asked.

 

“First off the bat, I know her killer was never apprehended,” he began while sliding out a folder from under a phone book on the end table. He wetted his thumb and rustled through loose papers. “Moreover, I know my statement released by police is a pack of lies.”

 

“Beg your pardon,” said Sharon, “but I don’t follow.”

 

Mr. Weems rattled the page in his liver-spotted fist. “This part about me in Rock Creek with a dog is pure shinola. Look around you, young lady. Do you spot a dog? No, for Pete’s

sake. I’ve no mutt. I’m direly allergic to all breeds, in fact. Asthma.”

 

Sharon scowled. “Detective Stoppard jotted it down in error?”

 

“No. Stoddard flat-out lied. What he did tell me is the cops could come back later to expose it as my lie to begin and poke holes in my story.”

 

“But why?”

 

“You’d better ask Stoppard,” said Mr. Weems. “I would but can’t. You see, all this time I didn’t make waves because I didn’t want her murder rap put on me.”

 

“Good Lord,” said Sharon.

 

Mr. Weems went on. “Oh, I’ll say to my last drawn breath that Detective Stoppard killed Vi Stallard. You better believe it wasn’t me. I’ve no dog to hunt turtles.”

The End

I turned over in bed, my face in the pillow, the blanket over my head. The rain kept me awake all night, a heavy, incessant rain, pounding on the road and on the roof. I looked toward the window and saw a curtain of wind-blown water, hitting the ground with an angry drumming. It was Monday morning and I wanted to stay in bed, forget about the job, the kids, the wife and the world.

 

I stepped into the bathroom, onto the cold tile floor and fumbled for the switch in the dark. A row of sixty-watt bulbs came on at once. My eyes slammed shut under the blinding glare. I reached for the faucet and let the water run until it ran hot in my hand.

 

I caught the running water in my cupped hands and splashed it onto my face. I repeated the process over and over, slapping myself awake. I spread the shaving cream evenly over my face and let the razor glide lightly over the thin beard. I felt the blade catch the skin on my neck and saw the trickle of blood.

 

I turned off the hot water and heard the phone ringing in the other room. I let the machine get it, the ex-wife undoubtedly, pestering me for money. I turned on the cold water and rinsed my neck.   I dampened a clean white cloth and held it against the cut until it was stained a soupy red. The bleeding still hadn’t stopped.

 

I wrung the washcloth into the sink and decided that cutting my own throat wasn’t a valid reason to miss work, no matter how much blood I lost. I slipped into the newest suit I owned, skipped over a puddle the size of a small pond and paddled off to work.

 

There was a new patient arriving at the center today, a fifteen-year old boy, court committed. It was my job, as a primary counselor at the Westbrook Psychiatric Center, to interview him, analyze him and recommend treatment. The boy murdered his seven-year old sister.

 

*                                 *                                 *

 

The squeaking windshield wipers were as ineffective against the rain as the balding tires. My old Buick was all over the road and I couldn’t see a damned thing.   By the time I arrived, the lot was full.   I found a spot on the street and ran through the pouring rain.

 

Rainwater cascaded gently down the granite steps like a park fountain. The heavy glass doors of the main building were coated with a misty condensation. I took the stairs two at a time and noticed a sheriff’s car glide slowly around to the side of the building. Two deputies jumped out, oblivious to the morning rain.   They opened the back door of the car and pulled out their prisoner, his hands and feet shackled, his hair falling down in front of his face. His brown prison uniform was swimming on him.

 

I took the elevator to the third floor, avoided eye contact with the receptionist and made it to my desk just as the telephone rang. My ex-wife on line one.

 

“Hello, Sandra.”

 

“Your late again, Rob.”

 

“I know baby. The checks in the mail.”

 

“Bullshit. And don’t baby me. Do you remember that you have a daughter, a little girl that needs shoes and dresses, not to mention food. I owe payments on dance lessons, violin lessons, that you insist upon and then don’t send the money for.”

 

“A daughter I don’t get to see. How about I drop by later with the check, spend a little time with Ashley.”

 

“No way, mister. I don’t see any money, you don’t see Ashley.”

 

She hung up on me and the receiver suddenly felt hot against my ear. I slammed down the phone and kicked the wastebasket. Crumpled paper and a couple candy wrappers flew across the floor. I fingered a picture of my six-year old daughter, turning it in about an inch from the edge of the desk.

 

*                                     *                                 *

 

Each of the deputies held an arm, twisting slightly, as they guided the boy between them into a bare examination room. His feet barely touched the ground as they dropped him into a short metal chair. He took a few furtive glances at himself in the mirror on the wall. The bright fluorescent lights illuminated his face, revealed a hint of acne across his cheeks and peach fuzz on his chin. His hair was wet, flat and slick against his head with a greasy shine.

 

He leaned back in the chair, as if he expected it to recline, put his feet up. One of the officers barked at him from the door, told him to straighten up. The boy rolled his eyes behind strands of dark hair.

 

“My name is Robert Wright. I’m a counselor here at Westbrook. I’m here to help.”

 

“It’s a little late for that.”

 

“It’s not too late, Domenic, but I’ll need your cooperation and your honesty.”

 

“I’ve heard it a million times before, from all you guys, from my teachers and guidance counselors, even cops, asking for something they’re not willing to give themselves. You’re no different. You’re all a bunch of phonies. If half the shit you say is true, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

 

I put my hands on the table and slid my chair in a little closer.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like, if you’re honest, tell someone what’s going on, they’ll help, but they never do.”

 

“Did you speak to somebody, prior to this incident, I mean.”

 

“You should know. You have the file. Don’t you guys write down everything?”

 

“I’m asking you.”

 

“You’re asking me to answer a question you already know the answer to.”

 

“I guess so.”

 

He leaned forward, crossed his arms on the table and rested his head in the crook of his elbow, his face hidden in the folds of his brown prison uniform. His heavy muffled breathing sounded like air escaping from a balloon.

 

“You have trouble sleeping?”

 

“Nobody sleeps in the detention center. They lay down, close their eyes, but they don’t sleep.   Might never wake up.”

 

“Well, you’ll be able to sleep here. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

 

I straightened the stack of papers on the table and replaced them in the file. Two orderlies came in and led the boy out.

 

*                                   *                                 *

 

I lit the lamp on my desk. The rain tapped at the window, leaving streaked lines of dripping water on the glass. The dark gray clouds rolled by. I jotted down a few notes, first impressions, questions for tomorrow’s session.

 

I saw the light blinking on my phone and knew I had a call coming in. One of these days, I wouldn’t be where I was supposed to be, at the other end of the line, across the desk, asking questions and answering them like a middleman, selling my own brand of sanity.

 

It was South Elmhurst Elementary School calling about my daughter.

 

“We tried contacting your wife, Mr Wright, but there was no answer. We did have another number, for a Mr. Charles Ardent, but we thought to call you first.”

 

“What’s wrong.”

 

“Elizabeth is complaining of a stomach ache. She’s in the nurses’ office now. She’s asking for you.”

 

“I’ll be right over.”

 

I met with the principal in his office. He was a tall, thin man, in a brown suit, the pants and sleeves an inch too short. His hair looked ten years out of style, not long or short, somewhere in between.

 

“Mr Wright, please come in.   I’ve spoken with your wife many times, but never with you.”

 

“Sandra and I are divorced. Everyone keeps referring to her as my wife.”

 

“That is awkward, my apologies. I wanted to have a word with you about Elizabeth.   These ailments, these complaints of pain, they’re becoming more frequent. There doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with her.”

 

“You’re saying the problem could be mental.”

 

“Or emotional.”

 

“I don’t doubt it. Her home life has been disruptive in the past year.”

 

“We mentioned it to your wife. She seems to think that your daughter is a bit of an actress, looking for attention. We just want to make sure there is nothing going on, something that we need to be concerned about.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“It’s a lonely world out there for some kids, Mr. Wright. Imagine the worst.”

 

“I’ll talk to her.   Thanks.”

 

Elizabeth was too happy to see her father to spoil it with talks of her troubles, of belly-aches and broken promises. She sat in the back seat, bundled up, her bookbag at her feet, telling him how funny the substitute teacher looked, about the new girl in class and the presents she wanted for her birthday.   But nothing about her mom’s new boyfriend, about getting off the bus and walking home alone and finding him there, like he belonged there, like it was his house, like she belonged to him.

 

Sandra was home, waiting in the doorway, her car still warm in the driveway. I took one look at her, at her tan skin, the reddish glow, and knew she’d been at the salon, probably lost track of time. I didn’t have to see her hands to know that her nails had a fresh coat of red paint. Her toes too.

 

Charles Ardent appeared behind her in the doorway.   I’d heard the name a few times, when Sandra tried to throw salt into a fresh wound. We’d never met face to face. Elizabeth refused to get out of the car, sudden panic in her eyes, looking to her father for help, protection.

 

“I don’t know who’s worse, you or her. You both cry when you don’t get what you want. You both need constant attention. She only behaves this way around you,” Sandra screamed.

 

She opened the passenger side door and pulled Elizabeth from the car. She moved quickly, her mouth moving. I wasn’t listening to her and I was too late to stop her, my attention on Ardent, coming down the front steps.

 

I ran around the car, tried to block her way, get between her and the child. Ardent’s punch hit me square in the jaw, just below my left ear.   I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground. I could hear Elizabeth crying. By the time I struggled to my feet, they were inside the house.

 

I rubbed my red swollen face and banged on the door. Sandra would be calling the police. That much, I knew.

 

*                                 *                                 *

 

I sat on the couch in the living room with a bag of frozen corn on my face and poured over the case file of Domenic Lamb.   Apparently, there had been allegations of sexual abuse by the step-father, but they couldn’t be substantiated. There were comments about Domenic’s propensity for lying, his anger over his mom’s involvement with various men, the fights in school and at home. He stuck to his story but no one believed him.   The police investigation failed to bring an arrest and the years went on. Domenic’s behavior got worse.

 

Domenic’s mother found her daughter’s body in a shallow grave behind their house. It wasn’t hard to find. The autopsy results were death by asphyxiation. She died outside, not in the house. There were signs of sexual abuse but it was impossible to determine, from the physical evidence, who the perpetrator was.

 

The police interviewed Domenic. He didn’t deny any of it. He was arrested and charged as a juvenile. All the assumptions, from all the counselors and teachers and cops were confirmed. The kid was bad and now he was my problem.

 

*                                       *                               *

 

Nobody in the office commented on the bruise under my eye. Nobody wanted to hear that kind of story. They’re much more comfortable with their own opinions, right or wrong.   I watched Domenic through the two-way glass, sitting in the same room, at the same table, waiting for me to come in and start probing. He was picking at an acne scar on his cheek and I thought I saw blood.

 

“How’d you sleep?”

 

“The nurse gave me a pill.”

 

“All the patients are prescribed medication.   You’ll be seeing a doctor today who will prescribe medication for you. It helps.”

 

“Turns you into a zombie.”

 

“Not really.”

 

I opened a manila folder and tapped my pen lightly on the table.

 

“Domenic, could you tell me about a fight you were in, after school. You hurt a kid pretty bad. He was a friend of yours.”

 

“My best friend.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He started running his mouth. So, I shut it for him.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“It might.”

 

“He wanted me to go with him after school. I told him that I had to watch Olivia, my little sister. He said, the only reason my mom and Jimmy kept me around was to baby-sit.”

 

“Did you watch your sister often?”

 

“Practically every day after school.”

 

“Is that what made you mad?”

 

“Yeah, and something else he said.”

 

“What was that?”

 

“He said that Olivia wasn’t even really my sister.   That we came from different fathers, that I didn’t even know who my real father was, that they only cared about Olivia and didn’t care about me.”

 

I could see it coming out of him, like water seeping out of tiny cracks in a dam. This kid wanted to talk, tell it his way, to anyone who’d listen.

 

“Did you believe him? Did you think it was true?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“It made you angry, though.”

 

“I said, I don’t know!”

 

He nose-dived onto the table, like before, like he was exhausted, rung out, afraid to show his tired face.

 

“Did you eat today?”

 

“Just breakfast.”

 

“What did you have?”

 

“Toast and eggs, milk.”

 

“Good. Keep eating. It’s good for you.”

 

I started shuffling papers and he knew our time was up. I put a soft smile on my face, like a surgeon after he cuts you open. Domenic Lamb was my only assignment. My dissection of him was done for the day. I spent the rest of the day trying to get hold of my lawyer.   He’d been avoiding me lately. I didn’t blame him.

 

There were two detectives waiting near my car in the parking lot. I saw them as I exited the building, standing at attention in matching black raincoats.

 

“Mr. Wright, we have a warrant for your arrest.”

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

 

“What for?”

 

“There’s a list of charges, sir. Interference with the custody of children.”

 

“I picked my daughter up at school.”

 

“Assault.”

 

“I didn’t assault anybody. He hit me.”

 

“Violation of a protection from abuse order.”

 

“I was only dropping my daughter off and leaving.”

 

“You’ll have a chance to tell your side of the story in court, Mr. Wright.”

 

They snapped on the handcuffs and squeezed me into the back seat. The metal bit into my wrists.

 

“What about my car, officer?”

 

The cop in the passenger seat half-turned, his face against the smudged plastic barrier.

 

“What about it?”

 

*                             *                                 *

 

I stood before Judge Patricia Jordan, a stern, sour-faced woman, with white hair, red-rimmed eyes and blue lips. She announced my name and read the charges out loud. She informed me of my rights, scolded me severely, told me to stay away from Sandra and Elizabeth and released me on my own recognizance.

 

I took a bus back to Westbrook. I stood in the aisle, hanging on to the overhead railing, looking out the window at the city streets, at the people and the cars moving blindly about like ants. Most of the passengers on the bus were old ladies, at the end of a long day of bargain shopping, clutching their bags as if I would snatch them from their cold, stiff hands.

 

The parking lot was deserted. My beat up old Buick looked abandoned, waiting for the wrecker to tow it away.

 

I stopped at Paddy Rooney’s on the way home, toasted my good fortune, my bruised face, my sore wrists and my tortured soul.   I drank myself blind and made it home without killing myself or anyone else.

 

It was still raining the next morning, a cold, steady rain that kept the squirrels in the trees and the birds huddled together in shivering flocks. The water ran like a river in the gutter, carried an oily blackness with it, down into the sewer.

 

Domenic sat straight in his chair, waiting for me, his hands folded on the table, as he was taught in grade school.

 

“You’re late.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

 

“Why do we have to meet here? Why not in your office?”

 

“Rules. Technically, you’re in our custody.”

 

I started tapping the pen against the table again, holding it like a cigarette between my fingers. It had become a nervous habit and I had become oblivious to the sound. Domenic stared at it like it was a clock, ticking on the wall.

 

“You’ve been very honest with me so far, Domenic, honest with yourself too, I think. You have a difficult road ahead of you, though. Hang in there.”

 

“More questions?”

 

“Tell me about the day it happened.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Did she say something or do something that made you angry?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did you love your sister, Domenic?”

 

That got his attention like a jolt of electricity.   His eyes opened wide and he looked at me as if I had shaken him awake from a sound sleep.

 

“She was the only thing I ever loved, and she loved me.”

 

“Then why kill her?”

 

“I needed to protect her. I tried to protect her. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to her that happened to me.”

 

“And what happened to you?”

 

“It was Jimmy, when he and my mom first got together. He’d be there when I got home from school, like he owned the place and everything in it.   I couldn’t let it happen to Olivia.   It was happening already.”

 

“So, what did you do?”

 

“I was still angry when I got home, not at her, but she always wanted to play and I wasn’t in the mood. I told her to leave me alone but she wouldn’t. I just wanted to relax until my mom and Jimmy got home, and the fighting would start all over again. They blamed everything on me.”

 

“Then what happened?”

 

“I hit her.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

“I kept hitting her. I couldn’t stop. It was like I was a different person. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

 

“Had you ever felt that way before?”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Did you plan it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Once you started hitting her, you lost control.   What made you stop?”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

“How did you feel afterward?”

 

“I was scared. I carried her outside and buried her behind the trees in the backyard.   I was sure someone must have seen me but no one did. I told them that she went to Sarah’s house, her friend up the street. By the time they found her, it was dark and cold. I heard she was still alive, out there in the ground, that I didn’t kill her, that she froze to death.”

 

His head collapsed on the table again, like if he went to sleep, he wouldn’t remember anything when he woke up.

 

There wasn’t much left for me to hear. I was forming my opinion, a course of action, a plan that I hoped, would help Domenic avoid becoming a career offender. I didn’t think this kid was evil. I never believed in evil. A pair of sadistic hands molded him and it was my job to re-shape him.

 

I only saw Domenic a few more times. We talked about baseball, movies, and music, anything but murder. Some crazy judge got the idea that he’d be better off in a less restrictive environment, in a residential facility, with other troubled kids, his own age. I hoped he wouldn’t become a victim in one of those places or a predator.

 

My hearing came up. I sat at the table with my attorney. He’d nudge me every few minutes, remind me to sit up straight. I got supervised visitation and a suspended sentence.

 

Charles Ardent walked into the courtroom, holding Elizabeth’s hand. I could have accepted my own blindness, rather than see him, hand in hand with my daughter, while I sat helpless, at the mercy of a system turned upside down.

 

I clenched my fist and banged it on the table.   All that did was draw an angry glare from the bench.

 

*                                        *                                       *

 

I was back at Paddy Rooney’s, same stool, same amber ale. Paddy took one look at me and set a shot of Jameson on the bar, his cure for everything.   He didn’t ask any dumb questions, didn’t want any details. He just lined the shot glasses up like pawns on a chessboard and I emptied them.

 

“Hey Paddy, where can I get a gun?”

 

“I’m going to break one of my cardinal rules, sonny boy. What the hell would you be wanting with a gun?”

 

“That is a stupid question, Paddy. Guns are for shooting, right.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Well, I want to do some shooting.”

 

I gulped down another shot of Irish Whiskey and slid the glass across the bar like it was a shuffleboard table.

 

“I’ll re-phrase the question,” Paddy said, snatching the glass. “What do you plan on shooting, or should I say, who?”

 

“You ask a lot of questions for a guy who don’t ask many questions.”

 

“Trying to look out for your better interests, lad.”

 

“Just pour. I’ll handle the rest.”

 

I couldn’t see what he was reaching for behind the bar. His hands were hidden. I assumed it was his private stash, aged for thirty years, liquid fire that put hair on your chest, gave you a set of balls. He walked around, pulled my arm by the sleeve and dropped a loaded snub-nose revolver in my hand.

 

“Throw it in the river when you’re done. I don’t want it back.”

 

I waited a long time. I parked up the street, away from the light, in the shadow of a rotting maple tree. I leaned back in the seat, the gun in the seat next to me, under my jacket. I assumed the guy worked, had to come out sooner or later.

 

It was a quiet street, a quiet night. I imagined what the blast of that gun would sound like, if it would wake people up, if it would crack open the early morning darkness and spill all those sleepers into the street.

 

It was that time, just before dawn, when the sky begins to brighten but the night still refuses to melt away. The front door opened and he walked out. He paused on the landing, lit a cigarette, looking for his car on the crowded street. He took a few long drags like he was expecting someone, waiting for a car to pull up and drive him to work.

 

I stepped out of the shadows, my hands in my pockets, the gun in my hand. He saw me standing there, saw me smile, an empty, far-away smile, a smile I put on when I didn’t know what else to do, what to say. He looked at that dismal smile and came down those stairs with all the false confidence of the truly ignorant.

 

“Hi, Jim.”

 

He didn’t return my greeting, didn’t say a word.   He tossed the cigarette past me, into the street. He didn’t recognize me because he’d never seen me before. We’d never actually met, though I knew him instantly, knew all about him and knew what I had to do.

 

I emptied the gun into his belly. Fire exploded from the barrel. He tried to hold himself together, tried to stop his blood from spilling out onto the sidewalk. He took a couple staggered steps and fell flat on his face.

 

I walked away, toward my car, expecting a flood of people, expecting the street to fill with witnesses, watching my frightened face as I fled. I waited for the lights to come on, the sound of distant sirens, but nothing happened.   I shot a man dead in front of his house and no one came. The silence and the darkness returned to that quiet street, like the tide rushing over the sand. I floated away like a phantom.

 

*                                   *                                       *

 

I showed up early for work the next morning.   Domenic was leaving and I wanted to say good-by, find out if he got the good news.

 

There were two sheriff’s deputies waiting for him in the lot and the same two detectives waiting for me. Domenic smiled as they bent my arms behind my back and snapped on the cuffs. It was one of those grins you see on a kid after he hits a home run, starts off small, a little embarrassed, like it was just another swing of the bat. Then, it grows across his face because he just can’t keep it in anymore. I smiled back.

 

The interrogation didn’t take long. I confessed, told it just like it happened, in my own words, with all the extenuating circumstances, the case file, all the lonely faces, the failures, the disappointments, the victims I couldn’t save, the forgotten ones, for whom there would be no justice.

 

I pleaded guilty and drew fifteen years.   With good behavior, I could be out in seven. I wondered if Charles Ardent would be counting the days, the same as I would.

The End

Lazarus Jones brought the rock down on to the scorpion. He watched as the melange of shell and innards dried in the hot sun, before lifting himself to his feet.

The arid scrub reached out before him, interrupted by a strip of asphalt that shimmered black in the distance. America. The land of his birth, the one he had run from so many years before. The sanctity and graciousness of Mexico had saved him, kept him from the long wait on Death Row, and the ministrations of those who would take his life. He himself had killed, but not the man whose life he had stood trial for. No, it had been a cop he had shot, one foolhardy enough to try to thwart him in that providential escape so long ago.

As he neared the highway, he past a border patrol sign, and took comfort from the thought, that if stopped, no one was going to question the origins of a middle-aged and ragged African-American male. He stared up at the blistering sun, and remembered the words of the taco vendor on the other side, “Don’t make the journey in this heat, it’ll kill you.” He’d read about those who’d suffocated in freight cars in these parts and was glad to take his chances in the open.

It was an SUV that finally pulled over. Lazarus climbed into the air conditioned chill and gulped thirstily from the water bottle offered, as his savior, a Chicano with a beer belly and a barrage of digital snaps, waxed lyrically on the joys of fatherhood and the pros of the Chevy Suburban. Lazarus pushed back into the seat, as the blur of sage and cacti gave way to insurance brokers and car dealerships and fast food restaurants.

He climbed down into Lucky’s central intersection, thanked his host, and walked to the corner of Main. The dance hall was still there, where he’d listened to Marvin, where Smokey had lifted his young spirit and exorcised his fears. Linda had been the object of his attention then, a kiss from her had been the benediction he had later sought in scag and booze and coke. He recalled that night, that Friday, that was different from any other Friday that had been before or would be again, when he had come back to the house to find her dead, and the joy in his life gone forever.

Thirty years had brought changes. The bus station was still there, and the drugstore looked much the same, but little else that had been on the street remained.

He stepped into the slab-like entrance of the library and made his way through to the reference section. A librarian, a black woman, peered at him from behind the desk. African-Americans had before been restricted to the blocks bordered by Rosales and Houston, and no one had foreseen the day when an old black woman would rule the referential roost, and an African-American would be mayor. He picked up the telephone directory and searched for the address he wanted.

Lazurus watched the jardineros clip away at the rose bushes in front of the large house, and recalled that the part of town where he now stood hadn’t existed three decades before. The expanse of land then known locally as “the waste” had been the domain of snakes and prairie dogs and itinerant buzzards. Not much had changed, he reminded himself, as he waited. Two hours passed, before an expensive sedan pulled into the drive, and Leroy Watson, former Baptist minister and mayor of Lucky, got out. Reverend Watson, the pillar of the community, the man Lazurus’s mother had believed would save her son. He remembered the day, alone in the cell, when Watson had, “given him the facts”, told him how he had given Linda “a seein to”, told him how she had wanted it, and how it was he who had killed her and how sweet it was that “a damn fool kid” was going to take the rap for him.

The heat of the day had yielded to the fever of night, when Lazarus climbed the gate that sided the house. Luminescent spots threw shards of brightness across the pool as he peered through the darkness into the light of a large room. A giant TV screen flickered within, and Lazarus hoped that Watson was alone. He edged closer and could make out Watson inside. Suddenly he heard a noise behind him, and spun around. A cat stared up at him with feline dissention. When he turned back, Watson was gone from sight. He pulled the .45 from his pocket and edged closer. Again, he heard a sound, a footstep this time, and turned around. A young African-American man had a gun leveled at his chest, “Drop it!,” the young man said. Lazarus thought he saw a movement inside the house and squeezed off a shot through the window. All of a sudden he felt a searing pain, and fell backwards from the force that struck him. He looked up as the young man stood over him, “Why’d you make me do it?” The kid asked. Then Lazarus sensed another presence, older, bigger, more malevolent, and saw that Watson now stood next to the boy. “I done killed him.” Lazarus heard the youth say. And he remembered something he had read before, about dying being lucky, and he struggled to recall the meaning of…lucky, but he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything at all.

The End

San Francisco, 1935

 

Monahan wasn’t sure if a tugboat horn woke him or if it was the mist pricking his face like cold needles. He tried to sit up, but the pounding pain in his head made that a little too hard. He caught a glimpse of his surroundings–swashes of gray and brown. Flat gray sky, flat gray bay. A vacant lot somewhere on the east shore, he figured.

 

He drifted back up out of the abyss when a splatter of actual rain fell. Cold. He realized he was cold and people died of that. He whispered a prayer to nobody in particular, asking that he not be allowed to die in a vacant lot in San Francisco in the wintertime.

 

He heard footsteps. When Monahan opened his eyes, the most beautiful woman he had ever known was bending over him. She had big dark eyes you could get lost in. She wore her heavy hair long even though short hair was the fashion. Right now it was in a thick braid that fell over her shoulder. Lady Margaret, Countess of Chesterleigh. She didn’t belong in a vacant lot in the rain, crouching over a beat-up Irish cop, but she was a rare commodity anywhere.

 

“You’re alive.” She sounded surprised.

 

“So far,” he said and tried to sit up. She pushed him back down.

 

“Don’t move,” she said. “You have a concussion. Mr. Johnson will stay with you whilst I call for an ambulance.”

 

“I’m alright,” he said. “It’s going to take more than a tap on the head to get me out of the game.” He rubbed the sore place on his head and his hand came away with dark flakes of dried blood.

 

The ugliest man Monahan had ever known suddenly loomed over her. Mr. Johnson was nearly seven feet tall. He was a black man with half his face twisted and scared from some past incident that he refused to talk about. Monahan figured a cop probably wouldn’t want to know about it anyway. Johnson was her ladyship’s chauffeur.

 

“They’s a dead man over there.” Johnson pointed with his chin.

 

“Are you sure?” The countess jumped to her feet. She’d been a nurse in the war. That was fifteen years ago and she still had those reflexes. He knew she also still had the nightmares.

 

While she was gone, he managed to sit up. The pain in his head seemed to be receding, but the world still spun lazily around him. He was getting to his feet when Lady Margaret returned.

 

“It’s Bert Harmon,” she said. “I feared it would be he. He is dead. He has three bullet holes in his chest. Did you shoot him?” Monahan stood, swaying a little, and gave the question some thought. Remembering was hard.

 

“I don’t know,” he finally answered. He staggered over to the body. The countess was right, he was definitely dead.

 

“Memory loss is common for someone with a concussion,” she said. “If he is the one who knocked you unconscious, he did it elsewhere and dragged you here.”

 

“How the hell do you know that? And how the hell did you know it was this Bert guy?” Monahan was shivering with the cold and would be happy to knock somebody down for a cup of coffee.

 

“You are chilled,” she said. “Come, let’s get into the car.” She turned and headed for the big black Packard parked on the street. He had no choice but to stagger after her, his head still pounding. Johnson walked along beside him silent and as light on his feet as fog over the water. It started to rain again and Monahan realized he’d lost his hat somewhere.

 

Before long Monahan found himself wrapped in a picnic blanket extracted from the trunk and sipping single malt whiskey from Lady Margaret’s silver hip flask. He wanted a cigarette, but he put that off. He knew the countess didn’t like him to smoke in the car. He took another sip of the whiskey instead. His head still hurt but life was improving. He had Mr. Johnson drive them to a phone to call in the stiff. Then they went back to the vacant lot and waited for the meat wagon to arrive.

 

“You have sustained a scalp wound,” Lady Margaret said as if their earlier conversation had not been interrupted. “That would have bled copiously. When you stood I could see there was no blood on the ground beneath you. Therefore you were struck elsewhere and brought here.”

 

Monahan thought about that. “If the killer didn’t want me to witness the murder he could have just left me where I dropped. If I did witness the murder, the killer would have plugged me too. It doesn’t make sense,” he said.

 

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “Neither does this.” She pulled out a small white envelope out of her handbag. “It arrived in this morning’s post. It instructs me to come here and collect you. It’s from Bert.”

 

“Bert? The dead man?”

 

“Yes, though I doubt he was dead when he wrote it.” She handed the note to him. “This is why I suspected Bert might be the dead man.”

 

Monahan took the note and read it. He found no extra information. “This means he knew hours in advance that I was going to end up lights out. That’s got to mean he did it. And if he did it, then somebody walked up afterward and shot him for it. That was nice of them.”

 

She grinned. How did she manage to look that beautiful this early in the morning? “Extraordinarily nice of them,” she said. “If a bit extreme.”

 

Monahan took another pull on the whiskey. “Maybe I shot him and knocked myself out as a punishment,” he said. She took the flask away from him and replaced the stopper. He didn’t protest, but took a flattened pack of Luckys out of his breast pocket. He fished out a cigarette that was still damp and a little crooked. He figured that wouldn’t spoil the flavor any. He rummaged in his pockets for his Zippo and couldn’t find it, though he did turn up a handful of newsprint in the pocket of his coat, which he tossed on the seat. He found his lighter in the breast pocket where the cigarettes had been.

 

A couple of black and whites finally showed up, sirens blasting. As Monahan gratefully pulled smoke into his lungs, he thought about the dead man who had sent a nice little note to her ladyship before getting capped in a vacant lot. Monahan knew he needed to know a lot more about Bert Harmon.

*   *     *

 

A few hours later Monahan was cleaned up, bandaged and fortified with coffee and aspirin. When he got to the Hall of Justice he got the report that Bert was shot with a nine millimeter and not Monahan’s .38.

 

Monahan did a little paperwork and then got Harmon’s address and number out of the phone book. Nobody answered when he tried the number. He was just putting the earpiece back on the candlestick when he heard a thread of silvery laughter. He’d know that laugh anywhere. Lady Margaret strolled into the squad room with a couple of drooling cops on either side, hanging on every word, both of them laughing and a little red in the face. Monahan stood.

 

“Break it up, boys,” he growled. “I don’t think she’s here to see you.”

 

Her ladyship smiled, “Thank you officers, you have been very kind.” The men shuffled and tugged their forelocks.

 

“I have some things to show you,” the Countess said when the men were out of earshot. She spread a sheet of crumpled newsprint on his desk. “Take a look at this.”

 

“Society Matron Arrested in Prostitution Dragnet” said the headline in big block type. Monahan read the first paragraph. “Moreen Harmon? Any relation?”

 

“Read further. She was his wife.”

 

He read further. “Holy Mackerel!” He looked up at her. She was perched on the edge of his desk. “Where did you get this?”

 

“From you. You left it on the seat of my car. My guess is Bert left it in your pocket.”

 

“Not a bad guess,” said Monahan. “But I can’t for the life of me see why.”

 

“Nor I,” she said.

 

“The officer in charge of the dragnet was Dean Fisk. He was one of those boyfriends of yours drooling on your shoes just now.” Monahan went to get him. Fisk was short and muscular and had an eye for the ladies. He liked working vice and Monahan had an idea why.

 

“Tell me what you know about Moreen Harmon,” Monahan said.

 

“Oh,” Fisk threw back his head and laughed a little too loud. “She was sure hot. Swore up and down she wasn’t a working girl. Said her husband told her to wait for him at that bar. Then we go and call her husband and he tells us they are separated and he hasn’t seen her in months. He refuses to bail her out, see? She went crazy when we told her that. I thought we were going to have to put her in cuffs.”

 

“Angry enough to shoot someone?” Lady Margaret asked.

 

“Sure, and then some. Why?”

 

“Somebody plugged her husband last night,” said Monahan.

 

Fisk shook his head. “She might a done it, but she didn’t need to.” He leaned toward the countess grinning big. “Guess who paid her bail?”

 

Monahan rolled his eyes. “We don’t wanna guess, Fisk. Suppose you just tell us.”

 

“Enrico Berelli, can you believe it? Gunner Berelli strolled in here plunked down a wad of cash and walked out with that society dame on his arm.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Fisk,” said the countess. “You have been so kind and helpful.” She said it with a warmth and sparkle that made Fisk swell like a toad. He was practically preening. He did have enough wits left, though, to realize he was being dismissed. He took off after making a big deal about kissing the back of her hand and telling her what a lovely lady she was. Monahan sighed and endured it.

 

“That confirms several rumors I have unearthed this morning,” said the Countess when Fisk was gone.

 

“What rumors?”

 

“I knew Mr. Harmon lost most of his holdings in the crash of ‘29 and his financial position deteriorated in the years that followed. This morning I called Barbara Turner, one of the worst gossips on the peninsula. Among much other drivel she said Moreen left Bert six months ago and had taken up with a famous gangster. Is he really famous?”

 

“He’s not as famous as his boss. Diamond Morgan, heard of him?”

 

She raised her eyebrows. “Who hasn’t? A very dangerous man indeed.”

 

“Indeed,” Monhan echoed. “But Berelli is no slouch and that gives us a couple of suspects.”

* * *

 

Monahan spent the rest of the day getting to know Bert Harmon. The Countess was right, he’d been rich at one time, but he died owning just the building he lived in and most of the apartments stood empty most of the time. One thing struck Monahan as odd, though. Harmon had several valuable paintings that he’d managed to hang on to after he went bust. Then last week he sold one of them for about eight hundred dollars, way under the market value. A couple of phone calls revealed he’d never deposited the money.

 

The next morning the phone man was shouting for Monahan as he walked in the door. “Her ladyship is on the line,” he said.

 

Monahan took the call on the candlestick at his desk. “Good morning, Inspector,” she said cheerily. “How is your head this morning?”

 

“Fine, and yours?”

 

Her laugh warmed him. “My head is excellent, though a bit confused. I got another letter from Bert. All it says is to make sure I thoroughly read the morning newspaper.”

 

“The dead man sent you another letter?” he said.

 

“Yes. And I did as he asked. You should look at the top of page three of the Call.”

 

“I don’t have a newspaper handy. Just tell me about it.”

 

“Mr. Berelli was found this morning floating face down in the Bay. He had three bullet holes in the base of his skull.”

 

“Yikes!” said Monahan. “That’s news. I’d like say a dead man who can keep up a lively correspondence could also pull a trigger, but three holes in the skull is Diamond Morgan’s trademark.”

 

“You realize this means that both men associated with Moreen Harmon are now dead?”

 

“Unless she has a replacement in the wings, she is getting a little short on escorts.”

 

“I took the liberty of asking Mr. Johnson to watch Bert’s apartment last night,” she said.

 

“Did you, now!” Lady Margaret was always taking liberties with Monahan’s job. It never failed to irritate him.

 

“Yes. According to the gossipy Barbara Turner, Bert had several valuable paintings in his apartment. I was curious if the bereaved Mrs. Harmon would turn up to claim them.”

 

“Did she?”

 

“Yes, but in a very odd way. At about three in the morning two very large men pushed her out of a car onto the sidewalk. According to Mr. Johnson she was angry and not behaving in a lady-like manner.”

 

“She’s lucky to be alive,” Monahan observed. He told her about the sale of the painting.

 

“I would have paid him twice that,” the countess answered as if they were talking about a dozen eggs. “He must have needed an instant sale for some reason.”

 

“I think it’s time I went to see the Widow Harmon. I’ll let you know what I find out,” said Monahan.

 

“An excellent idea! I will meet you there in one hour’s time.” She hung up just as Monahan drew breath to order her to stay out of it.

*   *     *

 

When Monahan arrived at Harmon’s apartment house forty-five minutes later, Lady Margaret’s Packard was parked out front. Monahan pulled his old Ford up behind the Packard and got out.

 

“You need to stay out of this,” said Monahan growled when she climbed out of the back of the Packard. “I’m the detective and I know what I’m doing.” She smiled at him.

 

“Bert Harmon is sending his letters to me,” she said. “He wants me involved. Don’t you respect the last wishes of the dead?”

 

He had no real answer to that. He bit off the hot remark that jumped to his tongue and turned on his heel.

 

Harmon’s apartment was on the ground floor in the back. Lady Margaret was at Monahan’s elbow when he knocked.

 

It took a while for Moreen to answer the door. Monahan figured she might have still been asleep, but he thought it would be helpful to have her a little off balance.

 

Moreen was a bottle blonde. She’d slept in her clothes and her make up was smeared. She looked with bleary astonishment from Monahan to the countess. She’d had scotch for breakfast.

 

“Who the hell are the two of you?”

 

Monahan pulled back his lapel to expose the badge pinned to his vest. “Police,” he said. “I need to talk to you about the death of your husband.” Moreen looked pointedly at Lady Margaret.

 

“You’re Lady Chesterleigh, aren’t you?” said Moreen.

 

“Yes. We met at Mr. Picasso’s art opening three years ago. May we come in?”

 

“All right,” she said. “Come on in.” She stepped aside.

 

The apartment was neat almost to the point of fussy. Tidy little doilies were draped over the arms and backs of the chairs and on all of the end tables. A single wall was devoted to about a dozen paintings. They were hung like a strange jigsaw puzzle, their frames only and inch or so apart. There was a blank space near the ceiling where the missing painting must have hung.

 

Moreen dropped onto a couch. A knitted afghan lay wadded up at one end. That must have been where she slept. A small glass with a little amber liquid in the bottom and a lipstick stain on the rim sat on the coffee table. Monahan avoided the couch and took one of the chairs. The countess did likewise.

 

“So what do you want out of me?” Moreen said. “I did not shoot my husband. I only came back here to get what’s mine.” She gestured sketchily at the apartment.

 

“You had a reason to plug him,” said Monahan. He took the newspaper clipping about her prostitution arrest out of his pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. She looked at it and her eyes widened.

 

“That rat bastard,” she said. Monahan thought it was interesting that her diction was still tony, but her word choice had suffered from her association with Gunner Berelli. “He set me up. I would have killed him if I could, but somebody did it for me.” She pulled a cigarette out of a silver case on the coffee table and thumbed a matching lighter into flame.

 

“Gunner did it then. That’s mighty convenient, him being dead and all,” said Monahan.

 

“I didn’t kill Rico either. I loved him,” she took a drag on her cigarette. Monahan thought she sounded about as sincere as a circus barker.

 

“Where were you the night of the murder?” said Lady Margaret.

 

“I was at the Red Doll playing cards with Rico and a couple of friends.”

 

Lady Margaret smiled. “I am familiar with the Red Doll. The clientele is not entirely reliable.”

 

“It’s a gangster dive,” said Monahan. “It’s no alibi at all.”

 

Lady Margaret leaned forward in her chair, smiles gone. Monahan had seen that look before. He knew it was dangerous.

 

“I believe that you were present at the death of your husband, if you did not pull the trigger yourself,” she said.

 

“It’s not true and you can’t prove it,” Moreen said. Her tone was dangerous too.

 

“Mr. Franklin at the State Bank of California is a very good friend of mine,” said Lady Margaret. “Mr. Franklin also remained quite good friends with Bert, in spite of his poverty.”

 

“What of it?” asked Moreen. That was the same question on Monahan’s mind.

 

“Since you are a suspect in the death of your husband, Mr. Franklin agreed that Mr. Harmon’s assets should remain frozen until you are cleared of all suspicion.”

 

Moreen’s delicate complexion went pink and then all mottled. Monahan thought she looked sick.

 

“You. Bitch.” Moreen said it through stiff lips.

 

“Therefore, if you are innocent,” said Lady Margaret as if Moreen had said nothing, “It would be to your best interest to cooperate with Inspector Monahan to the fullest of your ability.”

 

Moreen thought that over. The ash fell from her forgotten cigarette and she brushed it absently from her skirt onto the carpet.

 

“Bert sent me a letter,” she said finally. “It had a hundred dollar bill in it. He told me some of his investments had paid off and he was rich again. He said he would pay me ten thousand dollars to divorce him.”

 

“And you agreed?” said Monahan.

 

“Surely you are joking. He had ruined my reputation. I told him I would not take less than thirty thousand. He said that would not be a problem. He told me to meet him at a certain address at midnight. He would bring the divorce papers and the money.

 

She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. “I knew something was wrong when we arrived at the address and it was a vacant lot. We almost drove away but we saw Bert standing out in the weeds.” She drew smoke into her lungs. “There were divorce papers but no money. He said he would mail a check when the divorce was final.”

 

She hesitated. Monahan had a feeling whatever was coming next might not be true. “I lost my temper. I told him no deal without the money. I told him I would get even with him for having me arrested. He laughed at me. He said the world now new what he had known all along. I jumped at him. I wanted to scratch his eyes out. Rico pulled me off of him and told me to go back to the car and wait for him there. I never did hear any shots. I think Bert was alive when we drove away.”

 

“Why was Gunner killed? Do you know?” Lady Margaret cut in.

 

“Diamond Morgan got a tip that Rico was stealing from them–skimming. It was a lie and we both knew it, but they found seven hundred dollars under the seat of his car.”

 

Monahan looked at Lady Margaret. “Seven hundred plus one hundred . . .”

 

“Makes eight hundred,” she finished for him and smiled. “Oh!” Lady Margaret laughed. He could see she got something.

 

Then, all at once, Monahan saw it too. He saw it all. He would never have figured it out if Bert hadn’t sent the letter to the countess about the death of Berelli. Bert as good as confessed that he rigged it.

 

“Good gravy in a boat,” Monahan said aloud. “The whole thing was a set up from start to finish.”

 

“I believe you are correct, Inspector,” said Lady Margaret.

 

Moreen looked from one to the other. “What are you two talking about?”

 

“Bert only had eight hundred dollars. He sold a painting to get it. He set you up. He put the money in Berelli car and mailed the tip-off letter. Then he lured you out to that vacant lot. He intended for you to kill him and go down for it. But he would need a witness and that’s why he had to have me there. Except that I–”

 

Moreen jumped to her feet. “You bastard! You lied to me! You knew all along I killed him! You were just playing me for a sucker!”

 

Monahan stared at her, stunned. He had started to say “except that I didn’t wake up in time,” but changed his mind as he got to his feet. “That’s exactly right,” he said. “Moreen Harmon, you are under arrest for the murder of your husband, Bert Harmon.”

*   *   *

 

Moreen didn’t think to wonder why Monahan didn’t arrest her the night she put three slugs into Bert. Monahan sweated most of the day until her confession was signed. Finally, though, she did sign and a matron led her off to the women’s floor of the San Francisco city jail.

 

The next day the story was splashed across all the papers. Every single article about it also mentioned the prostitution bust. Monahan smiled every time he read it. She must have humiliated Bert deeply. When she pulled that trigger, Bert died a happy man.

 

Late that afternoon, her ladyship invited him to have a drink with her. He suggested Cassidy’s Pub. The places she liked to go never had decent beer. When he arrived, old Cassidy was leaning over her booth pouring blarney in her ear making her laugh and her eyes dance. The old man was at least twice her age, Monahan thought, and she’s no spring chicken.

 

Monahan chased away the old man and ordered a glass of stout. Lady Margaret already had a glass of wine in front of her. Monahan didn’t even know Cassidy sold wine.

 

“I received another letter from Bert in the afternoon post,” she said. “I didn’t want to tell you about it over the telephone.” She pushed crisp white envelope across the table at him.

 

Monahan felt a hint of superstitious fear. “I wish I knew who was sending these,” he said.

 

Lady Margaret shrugged. “I think it’s Mr. Franklin, the banker, though when I pressed him, he denied it.”

 

Monahan opened the letter. “Now my spirit is at rest. Thank you for everything. Bert Hanlon.”

The End