by Ada Madison
“As far as I know. Looks like Richardson for fraud, Collins for theft, and Sizemore for murder. Not Henley’s finest hour.”
I flinched. I knew Bruce hadn’t meant to be careless about a homicide, but the whole crime wave was setting us all on edge and clouding my perspective.
Every time I tried to put the case behind me, Mayor Graves’s voice rang in my head. I heard his plaintive cry at the fountain, and his simple request to talk to me on my voice mail. I was glad the HPD was cleaning things up, ridding the town of thieves and frauds (all without my help, miraculously), but I couldn’t quit before someone, if not I, put his killer behind bars.
“I’m sorry, Sophie, that sounded pretty insensitive. I know this is personal for you.”
Of course, Bruce would understand. He dealt with similar situations day after day. He didn’t know the man who died in the car crash on Saturday morning, but he felt as bad about the loss as if he’d been his soccer coach, and as much a failure as the EMT or surgeon who couldn’t save him.
“I’m okay.”
“Hey, don’t you want to know about the brick?” Bruce asked.
I’d almost forgotten. Probably because I hadn’t reentered my house since this morning. “Did they find fingerprints? Or trace it to the one store in Henley that sells them?”
“It’s not Law and Order, unfortunately. Your brick is garden variety, so to speak, like the ones you’d use in small garden projects, not big buildings. But they’re still working on it.”
I couldn’t think of anyone I knew who had a garden project going on, other than the guys who lined Henley Boulevard with magnificent blooms. One more dead end among many.
A signal that it was time to zero in on pasta and veggies.
But not until I was finished with Bruce, my confidential informant. I had one more question. “By the way, Bruce, my love, how are you coming by all this up-to-the-minute information? Are you and Virgil joined at the hip these days?” And if so, why can’t I be, too? “I remember a time when you guys would talk about anything other than your jobs.”
“It’s not just me now. It’s the demographics of MAstar personnel. Every guy in the trailer has a buddy on the force. Three of the guys were EMTs, another couple of them came over from the fire department, another was in boot camp with a few cops, and on and on. It’s like HPD annex here.”
“So, you all sit around and talk about police cases?”
“What else is there to talk about? Our new special medical interiors, our high-skid gear, the intensity searchlights we just installed, the more than twenty thousand radio frequencies that enable us to communicate with any agency?”
I faked a yawn. “I see what you mean.”
“There are only so many chores to keep us busy between emergencies. After we dust all the furniture, iron our flight suits, polish the silverware—”
“I get it, thanks.”
I might finally believe Bruce when he said his job was boring between dispatches, that medevac pilots and their flight nurses worked at EMS—earn money sleeping.
Anticlimactic though it was, ten minutes later I stood in the checkout line at Al’s with the handles of a red plastic basket cutting into my arm. My goal at any market was the same as what Bruce described as the rules of a skirmish: Get in and get out. But I’d inadvertently chosen a lane with a chatty checker and a customer who was needy. I tapped my feet and perused the environment. I scanned the tabloid headlines, but saw no name I recognized, no “famous” bride or groom who’d sold their wedding photos, no unexpected split-up I cared about.
My eyes were drawn to a large barrel in the corner of the store, one that I’d seen before, where customers could drop in donations to a food bank. I was sorry I hadn’t remembered to pick up a couple of canned items to add to the container. Next time for sure. The plain brown barrel, made of super heavy cardboard, had a crude sign taped to it—a letter-size piece of paper with the words “NOT TRASH” in thick black marker. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I saw the wisdom of such a warning, given the trash-can-like appearance of the container.
I smiled as I thought of Woody’s “TRASH” and “NOT TRASH” signs in Franklin Hall and the amusing origin of the practice, going back to Fran’s messy pile of research papers.
I missed my girlfriends. I hadn’t talked to Fran today or to Ariana since the weekend. I realized they didn’t know about the brick or even the outcome of the Elysse Hutchins situation. I’d debated whether to call them several times, but fortunately thoughtfulness and reason won out as I let them have some time with family (Fran) and new friends (Ariana). Eventually, they’d both hear all my sorry tales.
The needy customer in front of me described to the clerk what she was going to do with the mushrooms, breadcrumbs, and onions in her basket. Bored as I was, I thought of taking a phone photo of Al’s Market’s version of “NOT TRASH” and sending it to Fran. I pulled out my phone and clicked on the camera icon. I framed the picture, centering the sign.
A flash went off, but not from my camera. From my brain, which finally put itself in gear, and I knew what our deceased mayor had been doing in my office on graduation day. More accurately, where exactly he was doing it. He’d hidden something—evidence I assumed, though of what I wasn’t sure—in the “NOT TRASH” pile. The one place I hadn’t looked.
In retrospect, it was the smartest place he could have chosen, essentially directing me to it. Look here, he was saying. It’s not trash. He knew that no self-respecting janitor would toss something labeled “NOT TRASH.”
The only thing left for me was to dig it—whatever it was—out of the pile, and I’d have all my answers.
I was so excited about going back to my office, I almost missed my turn when the needy lady left.
My trunk loaded with four plastic bags from Al’s Market, I drove toward the college. Still early. I could make a quick trip to my campus office before heading home. Thanks to Bruce’s taking charge of the ice cream, nothing I’d bought was perishable, unless you counted the freshly shaved Parmesan.
I wondered if the old-fashioned radio in my car was up to the task of reporting news in a timely way. If nothing else, the radio would give me a less complicated focus on the current crime wave than the theories I kept dreaming up.
I caught the end of a story involving the ribbon-cutting ceremony for an important building in Taunton, about twenty-five miles away, and an upbeat feature on how Stoughton, another neighboring town, had been chosen as the site of a statewide swim meet at the end of the summer. I turned up the volume when I heard the start of local Henley news.
Police searched a storage locker belonging to Superintendent Patrick Collins this morning. They found evidence of over one hundred items billed to the school district, including software, furniture, valuable coins, diving gear, and decorative birdhouses.
“Birdhouses?” I asked the empty car. There was no accounting for what robbers found attractive. Maybe they were eBay’s hot item of the month.
I tuned back to the female voice.
Through his lawyer, Collins insists that he’s innocent, claiming that the allegations are payback for his refusal to hire as his assistant the nephew of Principal Douglas Richardson of the Zeeman Academy charter school.
The temperature tomorrow is expected…
Enough. I punched the button for an all-Chopin station, in honor of my piano-playing, mathematician father. I hoped Cody Graves would eventually be able to enjoy good memories of his father also.
Rring, rring. Rring, rring.
My Bluetooth rudely interrupted a lovely concerto.
“Hey, Sophie.” Worse, it was Monty’s voice. Hadn’t he hung up on me the last time we talked on the phone? “Sorry to keep bugging you. I really need your advice. Do you think I should go to the police and tell them that Chris was there? You remember, right? What I explained to you about the fight in Admin that night and how Graves left her, very much alive?”
“You know this because she told you, right?”
�
��Yes, as soon as it came out that he’d been killed. She called me and I rushed to campus.”
Surely Monty realized that a devoted brother wasn’t the most credible of witnesses. I didn’t know what advice to give. I didn’t see how his statement would help Chris. It wasn’t as if he could alibi her. But I didn’t want to be the one to dissuade him from going to the cops either.
All I could do was repeat an old refrain. “I’m really sorry I can’t advise you, Monty. Maybe you should just trust your sister, that she’s told the police the truth, and if she’s innocent—”
“She is innocent.”
“Then she’ll be fine.”
I tried to put a tone of conviction, but not in the legal sense, behind my words, as if it were as simple as the quote etched above the entrance to the Henley courthouse: “The truth will set you free.” Hearing the catch in his voice, I was moved to give Monty something a little more concrete.
“Actually, if you can just be patient, I’m on the trail of something that might clear Chris.” For all I knew, what I found in my office might implicate his sister further, but I wasn’t about to tell Monty that. This was me, bolstering up a distraught colleague.
“Wow. Wow,” Monty said. “I knew you’d come through. What is it, Sophie? Can I help? Wow.”
Loud and excited as it was, Monty’s voice was nearly overridden by sudden noise in the background, what sounded like carnival music. “Are you at Disney World?” I asked, lightening the mood now that we seemed to be less antagonistic toward each other.
Monty laughed. I really had made his day, and hoped I could deliver. “My window’s open. My office building overlooks the kiddie park on the east side. It’s kind of fun hearing the kids have such a good time.”
Melanie loved to go to the park when she visited. She went for the rides; we went for the fresh, hot kettle corn. Henley had something for everyone. But the juxtaposition of the kids running wild with cotton candy and the cool-but-sophisticated professional didn’t quite jibe with my image of Monty Sizemore. It could be that I’d been too quick to judge him.
“Let me close the window,” Monty said. I heard a thud, after which the sound of screaming kids, newly freed from school, went away. “There, is that better?”
“Yes, but I have to go, anyway. I’ll talk to you later, Monty.”
“You’ll call if you find something that would help Chris? I’ll do anything, make it worth your while. Name your price.”
What was that about? Did Monty think I’d work harder if there were a carrot dangling in front of me? I guessed he never did leave his bottom-line businessman persona far behind. I figured I’d better hang up before Monty talked himself back to the usual low place he had on my list of respected academics.
I parked in my usual place near the tennis courts and walked to Franklin Hall. As I inserted my key in the front door, I wondered when the spring semester would really be over and I wouldn’t be coming into work every day.
I walked toward my office, my excitement over the “NOT TRASH” pile abating. I started to doubt my initial reaction to the sign at the market. What a silly idea, thinking a town dignitary had stashed an important message to me in an innocuous pile of papers in my office.
I entered the room and looked immediately toward the mound of filing, some of which by now was actually “TRASH.” My office felt colder than usual at this time of year, and I wondered if Woody had forgotten to turn off the air-conditioning. The chill might also have come from the looming paperwork in the corner. I changed into a pair of jeans that I kept in my tiny closet, made myself a cup of tea from the supplies in the bottom drawer of my desk, and took a seat on my rocker, diagonally opposite the heap of paper. I longed to stay on the chair, Margaret’s blue afghan around me, close my eyes, and have a quick nap. But that would have been a stall, putting off disappointment. If the “NOT TRASH” pile was a bust, I had nowhere else to go.
I took a few deep breaths and headed for the pile when my phone rang. A legitimate stall. Someone was helping me procrastinate.
Kira Gilmore. I hoped she wasn’t back to looking out her dorm window, waiting for company.
“I don’t want to bother you, Dr. Knowles. I saw your car and I just want to say good-bye. I’m going to spend a couple of weeks at home with my family, and then move into the apartment in Cambridge. I’m really excited about it.”
“That’s great news. I’m excited for you, Kira.”
“I have a little thing I want to give you. I’m right outside Franklin. Can I stop in for a minute?”
I could hardly refuse a present. I eyed the small mountain of “NOT TRASH,” which seemed to be taller each time I looked, and left my office.
I let Kira in through the front door. We took seats in the large lecture hall nearest the entrance instead of walking all the way back to my office. In jeans and a flowered top that was new to me, Kira seemed to stand taller today. Most likely because she’d lost the hangdog look and attitude I’d become used to.
“I’m going to miss this place,” she said. “But, you know, I’m kind of through with it.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean it that way, Dr. Knowles.”
I gave her a broad smile. “Not to worry, Kira. I’m glad to hear it.” In fact, it was music to my ears.
Kira spent a few minutes telling me about her new apartment, which was only a short walk from the MIT Museum, with its fabulous (her word) holograms and an exhibit of Harold Edgerton’s high-speed photography, groundbreaking in its day. She loved her new roommate, a grad student in physics, and couldn’t wait to walk around her new Cambridge neighborhood. I couldn’t have been more thrilled.
“Well, I’m sure you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have work to do, so…” She reached into her tote and pulled out two items. She handed me the first one, the sliding block puzzle I’d given her at one of her worst hours.
I saw that the puzzle had been completed, displaying M. C. Escher’s House of Stairs, in its black-and-white glory, with unidentifiable creatures crawling around a complicated set of steps and walls.
“Done,” Kira said, and I know she meant it on many levels.
Next she handed me a small box, wrapped in tissue. “When I saw this, I had to get it for you, Dr. Knowles.”
I opened the package and let out a gasp of pleasure, much to Kira’s delight. On the white cotton batting lay a piece of costume jewelry, in the steampunk style, with a montage of flowers, leaves, brass curlicues and findings, and a tiny silver heart on a ring. Best of all, in the center was a small replica of a crossword puzzle. A disembodied feminine hand adorned with a lacy glove held a thin yellow pencil. The piece was about two inches across, larger than any in my collection, with a sturdy pin on the back.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
We tried pinning it to my paisley shirt, but the fabric was too thin and slippery to hold the extra-thick pin. “I’ll have to wear something tonight that will show this off in a way that it deserves,” I said, putting it back into the box.
“Maybe I should have chosen—”
I held my hand up, staving off an apology from the old Kira. “This is perfect,” I repeated.
Kira and I shared a hug and swapped thank-yous. A special moment.
As I let her out of the building, I realized Kira and I had just had a conversation where the deceased Mayor Edward P. Graves didn’t come up.
Between my reconciliation with Elysse Hutchins and my pride in witnessing Kira’s growth, I felt like the school year was coming to a satisfying close.
Now if I could only say the same for the murder case.
Back in my office, I was almost surprised to see the mass of paper still in the corner. One might have thought I was endowing it with magical powers. In any case, I was ready to tackle it.
I figured I was looking for something very small, or it would already have stood out to me during my previous searches of my desk, bookcases, and filing cabinets. It was going to be a tedious job, and I needed to app
roach it in a positive manner, as if I were solving an extra-large word search puzzle. It wouldn’t daunt me; neither should this task.
A wire basket resting on the floor in the corner held the embarrassingly high, approximately eighteen-inch stack. One more sip of now-cold tea and I approached the pile. I knelt on the floor and went to work, sorting as I picked up each piece. Some were headed straight for the real trash—long-ago movie reviews, old memos, out-of-date coupons. Some were to be filed eventually—conference programs, receipts, folders, journals, catalogs. About half the height of the stack came from an assortment of features on everything from differential equations to the best place to get cannoli in Boston, from puzzles to correspondence to hotel reviews.
I found photos I’d forgotten about, waiting to be framed, plus a paperback I’d accused Fran of not returning.
I did my best to be patient, taking each piece out, one at a time. If it was a journal, I held it by its edge and shook the pages; if it was an envelope, I checked inside; if it was a sheet of paper, I turned it over, in case the mayor had written out his message.
Finally, my due diligence was rewarded. More than halfway down was a crisp, new white envelope, one that hadn’t come through the mail. The imprinted return address was of Henley City Hall on Main Street.
I sat back on my heels and opened it, holding my breath. Inside was a small, flat blue plastic item, barely one inch on a side.
An SD—Secure Digital—memory card. I let out my breath, excited and happy to have something, uncertain what it contained. I turned it over and over in my fingers, as if I could read it through my skin. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if rubbing it forced it to give up its secrets?
In the real world it was going to take an electronic device like a camera or a computer. But the only camera I had was an app on my phone. And my campus computer was about two years out of date and had no adapter to read an SD card. My home laptop had a USB port and an accessory that would work, but I was miles from it. I felt that after all this time, I deserved instant gratification, but it seemed it wasn’t to be.
