A Study in Amber

by P J Humphrey

  “Oh, no,” Watson said. “While you’re doing that, I’ll go check on Mrs. Foster and make sure the cleaning squad I sent over last night has done its job.” He almost galloped toward the door.

  “Relax in your room,” I told Holmes, “and watch an old film from the 1930s. It’s time you started to catch up. And if you get tired of that before we return, play the violin. It’s daytime and no one will complain.”

  He grumbled and disappeared down the hallway to his room. Tessa and I put on coats, gathered our purses, I put my notebook into mine, and we headed off for the library.

  Tessa quickly found the same newspaper article I’d seen a bit of in the backpack. In addition she found an article from the following day’s paper with a picture of the woman. It appeared to be similar to the picture I’d also found in the backpack, although not identical. Tessa reached toward the printer, which was attached to the microfilm reader we used, to copy the picture, when I noticed a small sign on the wall.

  It read, “For newspapers under three months old, you may print from our data base, using our computer or yours.”

  “Tessa, I thought you said you were familiar with the library. Look here, this says you could have accessed the data base from your computer and printed it from your own printer.”

  Tessa looked uncomfortable for a moment and read the sign herself. Then she brightened. “It says, ‘under three months old.’ I’ve never needed anything that recent.”

  I shrugged and waited while the printer did its work. The

  result was grainy and not very clear, but the picture of the woman was good enough for my purposes. The article also mentioned her name.

  I gasped when I read it: Adele Parton Andrews.

  Chapter 7

  “Tessa,” I said loudly enough to earn the frown of a librarian. I lowered my voice to a husky whisper. “Tessa, do you realize what this means?”

  “Do I realize what ‘what’ means?”

  “The woman’s name, of course. According to the follow-up article about finding the woman’s body in the well, the reporter apparently learned who she was, Adele Parton Andrews.”

  Tessa’s forehead wrinkles rose. “Andrews? The same as the dead man?” She changed her puzzled look to a smile.

  “Exactly. What else do you notice?”

  “Her middle name, Parton, is the same as the man whose cell phone you gave to Watson last night.”

  “Bingo!”

  The librarian gave me another stern look, so I gathered our papers and other belongings and steered Tessa toward the door. As we walked out of the building, I elaborated. “‘Parton’ was either the woman’s maiden name or her previous married name.”

  “You mean you think she was married to the dead man, Andrews, but might be the mother of Mr. Parton, the man we think tried to kill him?”

  “I suppose that’s possible, but I lean more toward thinking she was Parton’s sister.”

  Tessa grinned. “You’re probably right. In that picture she looks too young to be his mother.”

  We’d reached the place where we’d exited from the bus that morning, and I turned to Tessa again. “Will you be all right going home alone? I need to get to my job.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ll be a little early, but maybe I’ll earn brownie points with my boss and he’ll give me a raise.” Until I actually signed on with the police department, I needed to earn money in order to indulge my penchant for Starbucks coffee and Nordstrom shoes.

  “Of course I’ll be okay. I’ve done this a hundred times before.”

  Like me, Tessa didn’t drive a car in the city, so I kissed her on the cheek and handed her the tote-bag I’d brought to hold the material we gathered in the library. “When you get back, go to my apartment and give these to Mr. Holmes.”

  “How do you expect me to do that when I can’t even see him?”

  “Just leave the papers on the table in the sitting room and he’ll find them. He’s smart enough to come to the same conclusions we did.”

  “Okey doke.” Tessa loves to use expressions from generations past, and I laughed as I always did.

  My bus arrived before hers, so I waved goodbye, hopped aboard and dropped my fare in the coin box. Finding a seat behind the driver, I settled in for the short ride to the bakery where I worked on weekday afternoons. My four hours consisted of slicing bread in the slicing machine, selling pastries, and, if necessary, helping make sandwiches or delivering them to the patrons sitting at small tables in the back of the shop.

  Getting paid to work there seemed like icing on the cake—you should excuse the pun—because I enjoyed it. The shop’s name, Grain D’Or, is French and means “Grain of Gold,” or “Golden Grain” in English, and they made several kinds of bread every day, including long, crusty baguettes, to say nothing of croissants, some filled with chocolate, and other tasty treats. Their cinnamon-raisin bread was to die for, especially lavishly coated with unsalted butter, which I did when I brought some home to Tessa’s flat before I moved upstairs.

  The shop was busy every morning, but, as lunchtime neared, the crowds increased, and we were kept hopping selling the sandwiches which had been made earlier and making new ones according to the customers’ orders. The smell of freshly baked bread, hot chocolate and coffee, together with the sparkling clean look of the shop, made it a joy, not a job, for me. I washed my hands, donned a large white apron, and plunged in.

  * * *

  When I returned to my flat later that afternoon, Holmes was waiting for me. He sat at the round table with the papers Tessa left for him spread out on the top, and my magnifying glass in his hand.

  “Your grandmother has been here and gone. She dropped these on the table, announced in a loud voice that she’d been instructed to leave them and then hurried out again, as if I were an Upper School principal who might strike her with a ruler at any moment.”

  “You must admit your being invisible to her presents a challenge. We’re not used to ghosts of any kind, much less one so formidable when alive.”

  “Nevertheless, you must sit down and listen to my interpretation of what you have brought to me.”

  “In a moment.” I hoisted my packages. “I’ve brought some wonderful sandwiches from the bakery where I work, and stopped at the deli on the way home for vegetable soup to go with them.”

  “I say, isn’t that more or less what you ate last evening? Do you not cook in that sleek room you call a kitchen? Do you not roast a fowl from time to time or a rack of lamb?”

  “Not if I can help it. The soup will provide me with my quota of vegetables, and the sandwiches are made with turkey and Swiss cheese. Together with the fresh fruit in my refrigerator which will be dessert, I think I have a balanced meal at hand.”

  Holmes said nothing, and I continued. “My mother, the actress, doesn’t cook, but Tessa does, or used to anyway. For Thanksgiving dinner, she always roasted a turkey with stuffing, cranberry sauce and all the other American trimmings, and ended with her delicious pumpkin pie. At Christmas, she’d serve a spiral-sliced ham, sweet potatoes in a pineapple glaze and end with fruitcake she’d made the week before.”

  I finished my last sentence striding into the other room where I placed my goodies on the counter. When I returned to the sitting room, I saw Holmes had found my old fashioned goose-neck lamp, plugged it into the outlet and turned its light on two photographs on the table top. I sat down near the light.

  Holmes handed me the magnifying glass. ”Observe, if you please, these photographs which, I have no doubt, are of the same woman.”

  “Adele Parton Andrews,” I said with a smile.

  “Just so.”

  “And do you agree with my suspicion that she was Parton’s sister and Andrews’ wife?”

  “It would seem you are correct in that assumption, but we will leave that to be determined at a later time. Meanwhile...”

  “Meanwhile what?”

  “Please focus the glass in your hand upon these pictures.”

  “The
y’re undoubtedly the same woman, although the pictures seem to have been taken at different times.”

  “The one you saw in the man’s knapsack and photographed with your little camera seems to be somewhat more recent than the one the newspaper reporter found, possibly from a university collection.”

  “You mean like a Yearbook.”

  “Or a commencement announcement, if the lady finished her studies.”

  I gave both photos my attention for a few minutes. “I agree with you.”

  “Do you notice anything else, other than the similarity of the shape of the woman’s face, her eyes, her mouth, the arrangement of her hair?”

  “Those all seem similar, but the clothing is different. Although the photographs are both head shots, in the first she appears to be wearing a dress with a white or light-colored collar, and in the second a dark jacket.”

  “Something else. Come, come, you must be more observant if you wish to become a good detective.”

  I stared at both again, and finally it hit me. In both pictures the woman wore a necklace on a chain around her neck. The chain being fine and the pendant small, to say nothing of the limitations of taking photographs of photographs, no wonder I hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  “The necklace,” I said. “In both pictures she seems to wear the same necklace.”

  “Describe it to me please.”

  “I did so, although, not being a person who cares very much for jewelry, my description no doubt lacked substance.

  Holmes supplied it. “The chain is probably sterling silver rather than gold and the pendant is made of amber.”

  “Amber? How can you be so sure?”

  “I once did a study on the various kinds of precious and non-precious stones used in jewelry.”

  Of course. I should have guessed he’d done that.

  “Amber,” he continued, “is not considered a precious stone, but when cut and polished, its qualities of color and variation from lightest yellow to deepest orange make an attractive adornment. Observe how the stones have been placed in a silver setting to resemble...”

  I finished his sentence. “...a curled-up, sleeping cat.”

  “Bravo. I believe you are correct.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Or, might it be...”

  “Our first impressions are the right ones,” Holmes said. “It appears the jeweler found a stone that resembled a cat and used it for the pendant rather than, perhaps, fashion smaller stones into a flower or other object.”

  “It’s very pretty.” I paused. “Even if we’re right, how does that help us find Parton?”

  “All in good time. We must give the matter more thought.”

  He rose and faced the door, as if anticipating someone entering the room. Soon enough, I heard a knock, and when I called, “Come in,” Watson appeared once more.

  “You have a sixth sense when it comes to finding free food,” I joked.

  He left the door open and glanced around, as if looking for someone.

  “Tessa isn’t here,” I told him.

  “No, I just saw her downstairs. She says she’ll be up directly. I wondered if...“

  ”Yes, Sherlock Holmes is here. If you move a foot to your left you’ll bump into him.”

  Watson glanced left but hurriedly moved right, stopping at the table where he set down the day’s newspaper and boldly picked up the photos Holmes and I had been looking at. “This is the woman they found in the well, right?”

  “Right.” I told him how Tessa and I had gone to the library and found a second newspaper account of the dead woman. “We think she was Parton’s sister and married Andrews.”

  Watson looked up. “He kill her?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Gives Parton a reason to murder Andrews, doesn’t it?”

  “We don’t know that for sure, either.”

  Watson opened the Chronicle to the third page. “Today’s paper says the medical examiner isn’t finished examining Andrews’ body but he had a broken neck as well as a gash in his head.”

  “A broken neck?” I repeated. “I suppose that could have been the cause of death as much as falling and striking the marble fender in front of the fireplace.”

  “I guess so. I haven’t seen the place in weeks. Are you set to go there tonight so we can look for the missing bullet?”

  “I haven’t phoned Mr. Kostitch to ask if we could come back.”

  “Well, don’t. If he says ‘No,’ and we go anyway we’re guilty of trespassing. I can just say I wanted to check the appliances, because it’s my job to make sure they work okay.”

  Holmes chuckled and sat on the horsehair sofa. “I see Americans have not lost their independent spirit.”

  “So,” Watson continued, “shall we have some dinner, play a game of cards with Tessa and then go over to the flat when it’s late enough?” He laughed. “Could Holmes make up a fourth for cards?”

  At that, Holmes rose from his seat and stretched himself to his full height. “I shall be happy to join you, but your friend may regret asking, inasmuch as I am a champion at Whist.”

  * * *

  For those of you who don’t already know, Whist is a very old card game using the usual fifty-two cards in a deck and played by four people, two of whom may—or may not—be partners. It’s so simple, compared to Contract Bridge which evolved from it in about 1925, that Tessa taught both Watson and me within a few minutes. And I enjoyed it. Plus Holmes’s boast came true, and he scored more points than the rest of us.

  Admittedly, both Watson and Tessa became a little flustered when cards seemed to rise and return to the table as if by magic, so perhaps his skill wasn’t his only weapon.

  At ten o’clock, Tessa returned to her own flat, I put away the cards, and Watson and I prepared to leave on our quest. I took my detective kit plus a flashlight, and Watson fastened his tool belt in place at his waist. Not a gun, but perhaps a weapon of sorts.

  We walked silently in our soft-soled shoes and saw no one on the streets. At the murder house minutes later, Watson unlocked the door at street level, and, after we noiselessly climbed the stairs, he unlocked the door to the empty apartment. Once inside, my skin began to crawl, as if some unseen enemy watched us. I shivered. The silence went unbroken, even by a car driving by on the street below. I clutched Doc’s sleeve, glad for his company.

  We went immediately to the far wall, and Watson shone the flashlight inside and around the fireplace, including the hearth and its marble fender. I had told Doc earlier that we’d save the chore of sifting through ashes for last, in hopes we’d find the bullet we sought without having to do that. Nevertheless, we both wore gardening gloves just in case it became necessary.

  Starting at the lower left corner of the wall surrounding the fireplace, Watson made a slow sweep with the flashlight’s beam of light. Nothing. He next focused above the fireplace, and then down the right side. Still nothing. Since the circle of light remained relatively small, he started a second sweep of the wall six inches farther away from the actual fireplace. About halfway up, he stopped. I crept closer and stared at the dark spot he pointed to. I’d never seen a bullet hole in a wall before, but I decided that might be what I saw.

  “Is the bullet still in there?” I asked.

  “No. It looks like the police have already dug it out.”

  “Even if they hadn’t, I suppose we shouldn’t tamper with evidence. It’s enough to know that it had been there and not in Andrews’s body.”

  “You’re right, but now that the police have the bullet, and the newspaper reported the medical examiner said Andrews died from a fall and a broken neck, why do they keep saying he was shot?”

  Watson shrugged. “I don’t know. Unless there were actually two gunshots instead of one.”

  “You think the newspaper got it wrong?”

  “Very possible. Newspapers are struggling these days and cut reporters’ salaries, so the good ones probably left. Or have bigger fish to fry.”

  Do
c turned off the flashlight, and the room turned black.

  “Wait! I can’t see. Keep the light on at least until we get down the stairs.”

  Watson put his hand over my mouth and whispered in my ear. “We’re not alone. Someone’s in the hall, trying to open the door.”

  Chapter 8

  A feeling like ants crawled up my arm, and my throat tightened so I couldn’t say a word. Which would be inadvisable anyway.

  I clutched Doc’s arm and pressed myself into his broad back. With my body partly attached to his, he backed up into the room toward a dark corner. I could hear myself breathing too loudly but didn’t think it wise to stop altogether.

  After a few more scratching sounds, the door opened and a dark figure entered. By peering around Doc’s shoulder, and with the faint light coming from the uncurtained window facing the street, I managed to see enough to learn a tall man had come in. He closed the door behind him and slowly advanced toward the fireplace. I thought he held a flashlight in his outstretched hand, although not turned on, but when he passed us, I decided he held a gun of some kind. Perhaps—assuming the person in the room with us was Parton—the very one he used to fire the shot at Andrews a few days before.

  I expected, now that Parton had passed our hiding place and couldn’t see us, Doc would maneuver us to the door for our escape. Instead, he shook off my hand, followed the intruder and lunged at him from behind.

  Immediately both men dropped to the floor grappling, grunting and swearing. My contribution, I think, was screaming, until I remembered the upstairs tenant had heard the gunshot Friday night and might call the police. Although I first thought I didn’t want the police to come and find us, I then considered the possibility the police would arrest Parton and the case would soon be solved.