Death by Engagement

by Jaden Skye

  Cindy felt struck by his comment, didn’t like it. “When is the graphologist coming to look at the note?” She quickly changed the topic of conversation.

  “She’ll actually be here in a couple of minutes,” Ben replied. “You were in luck, she was home when I called and able to come over right away.”

  Cindy was extremely thankful to get another pair of eyes on the case.

  “Go get Cindy some coffee.” Ben turned to Albert then. “By the time she finishes, Margaret will walk in.”

  *

  Albert brought back a cup of coffee for Cindy loaded with sugar and way too much milk. Fortunately, as soon as she began to drink it, Margaret walked in and Cindy put the cup down. Margaret was an attractive Caribbean woman, about Cindy’s age, who seemed glad to be joining them.

  “Thanks for thinking of me, Ben,” Margaret said as she sat down at the table with them.

  “We got a suicide on our hands,” Ben started immediately. “No reason so far to suspect anything else. She left a note we want you to look over. This is Cindy Blaine, detective on the case,” and he nodded at Cindy.

  “Detective?” Margaret seemed surprised. She had a lovely, lilting, intelligent voice.

  “I was hired by the young woman’s father,” Cindy quickly filled her in. “He suspects foul play.”

  “Oh my,” Margaret murmured, “why?”

  “‘Cause he can’t accept that his daughter did it,” Ben interrupted, as if there were no question about it. “Cindy happened to be at the hotel when it happened and she happened to meet the woman who jumped, the night before. Both of them were engaged to be married. The father found out Cindy was here and made Cindy take the case.”

  Cindy didn’t appreciate Ben taking over and speaking for her.

  “Congratulations.” Margaret smiled warmly at Cindy.

  “Thanks very much.” Cindy liked her a great deal.

  “You know, I think I heard about you,” Margaret continued. “Don’t you have a partner, Mattheus, and the two of you specialize in crime in the Caribbean?”

  “That’s right,” said Cindy, “CM Investigations.”

  “Yes, that’s it!” Margaret was impressed. “Well, good for you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, it really is.”

  “Okay, enough, enough,” Ben broke in quickly, anxious to get going. “You two can go and have coffee later and exchange notes. Now we need to go over the suicide note.”

  Cindy took it out of the envelope and handed it to Margaret.

  “Has it been compared with other samples of her writing?” Margaret asked before she even looked at it.

  “Yes, it was,” said Ben, “as soon as we received it. Everything matches.”

  Cindy wondered who did the comparison and how carefully it had been done, but decided to say nothing.

  “What I’ve learned from the case so far,” Cindy spoke directly to Margaret, “was that the young woman, Shari, suffered from depression. Her mother told me she’d been on medication for a long time.”

  “That certainly fits with a profile of suicide.” Margaret nodded her head.

  “Yes, it can,” Cindy agreed, “and I don’t know anything much about handwriting analysis, but what struck me when I read the note wasn’t so much the content, but the penmanship. It’s beautifully written, the letters are so carefully formed.”

  “Indeed they are,” Margaret agreed, holding the paper up to the light and looking at them. Then she placed the note down on the table to analyze it more carefully.

  “I couldn’t help wonder if someone who was about to commit suicide would write a note that looked like this,” Cindy continued. “I would imagine the words would be scrawled over the page, show something of the despair the person was feeling.”

  Margaret looked at Cindy appreciatively. “That’s a great observation,” she commented. “But for starters, we don’t know exactly when the note was written. She might have written it days before she actually killed herself. She might have been preparing for it, planning it out, or thinking about it. This smooth, even, well-constructed hand could mean a lot of different things.”

  “In the note she says she’s in pain and can’t take it! Shouldn’t her handwriting reflect that?” asked Cindy. “If her depression worsened, if she got sicker, wouldn’t her handwriting show it?”

  “Smart woman, smart questions,” Margaret replied, “but let me explain a few things. For starters, we really should take the note to a forensic handwriting lab to determine if the sample is valid. We need to know if it’s been affected by the external environment. If it has, it can be too unreliable to use. Then, we compare previous samples of the person’s handwriting to see if any changes in writing have occurred.”

  “It’s all checked out,” Ben announced formally.

  Margaret lifted her eyebrows a moment, as if wondering who it was checked by.

  “What would a change in a person’s handwriting indicate?” Cindy was fascinated.

  “A shift in the direction in which the letters are leaning, from right to left, can indicate a shift from a gregarious person to one becoming introverted and less trusting,” said Margaret. “Then there’s a possibility of mental illness there.”

  “How many past samples do you have of Shari’s writing?” Cindy asked Ben.

  “We have one,” he grumbled.

  “Optimally, we could use a few,” Margaret responded.

  “Hold on, please,” Ben started to say, wanting to slow things down. “This is not an exact science, anyway, is it?”

  “How else do you see a change in what’s going on in a person through their handwriting?” Cindy interrupted, wanting more.

  Margaret held the note and scanned it more closely. “It’s perfectly reasonable to believe that handwriting will change according to any mental and physiological changes in a person’s overall state,” Margaret said to Ben, offended. “Changes in handwriting can be analyzed for how psychologically or physiologically stable a person is.”

  Cindy wondered then if Shari had become sicker. “Tell me more,” she asked Margaret.

  “A good example is the handwriting of elderly people which reflect the shaking and tremors they often have,” Margaret continued. “Also people with Parkinson’s disease have a tendency to write smaller. The handwriting of schizophrenics changes dramatically. And schizophrenics often have suicidal ideation.”

  There was nothing about Shari that had seemed schizophrenic to Cindy, but she let Margaret go on about it.

  “Common features of the handwriting of schizophrenics are strange letter formations, words that make no sense, writing that is totally unintelligible, or that is impossible to decipher.” Margaret was thoroughly enjoying explaining this to Cindy. “Their lines may run crosswise or the script becomes very large and words become bigger as a sentence progresses. Sometimes lines or writing rises and becomes stiff. Disorganization is another indicator. We also look for letters and syllables being left out, slants that vary and lines that stray in different directions.”

  Ben took a deep breath. “We appreciate the lecture, Margaret, but none of this is seen in the particular note we’re inspecting. Shari wasn’t schizophrenic, she was depressed. Just like a million other people.”

  “Of course, suicidal ideation is part of depression as well,” Margaret continued.

  “Oh God,” Ben moaned, not wanting to hear all these details.

  “What do you look for to determine depression intensifying?” Cindy spurred her on.

  “All kinds of things,” Margaret answered as she ran her fingers over the paper. “The harder the person presses on the paper, the stronger emotions the person is presumed to have. The lines usually slope downwards during depression, the letters can grow smaller and more cramped.”

  “We see nothing of that on this note,” Ben charged in once again.

  “No, you’re right,” said Margaret, “and that is interesting in and of itself. This note has been carefully written and planned out. The margins are p
erfect, the loops are self-conscious. There’s no sign of a loss of impulse control or a rambling mind. In fact, we see the very opposite, a longing for order and perfection here, a person who needs to be well thought of. This note could not have been written right before she jumped from a cliff.”

  Cindy was startled by Margaret’s emphatic statement and breathed deeply.

  “Could someone else have written it, copied her handwriting?” asked Cindy.

  “Forgery is always a possibility.” Margaret put the paper down. “If you asked me, this certainly bears further investigation.”

  This was the last thing Ben expected. “Come on now, Margaret.” He ran his forearm across his forehead, which was sweating.

  “Does Cindy know about the Townsend killings?” Margaret turned to Ben.

  “The what?” asked Cindy, startled.

  “Those were about four months ago. There’s no connection between them and what happened here,” Ben retorted.

  Margaret shrugged lightly and Cindy felt as if she had a compatriot. “Why so sure?” asked Margaret.

  “Come on now, give me a break,” Ben burst out. “Are you suggesting that the guy who killed the two other women came to Shari’s hotel and killed her as well?”

  “What two other women?” Cindy was electrified. Why hadn’t she heard about this before?

  “The killings happened about four months ago,” Alfred broke in. “Two young women were killed in rapid succession here on the island. It caused a big stir for a while, then the case went cold. No one found the killer.”

  “Oh God,” said Cindy, “why didn’t you tell me?”

  “One case has absolutely nothing to do with the other.” Ben was emphatic. “The two women who were killed came down here with friends for a good time. They hung out at the casinos, got drunk, gambled, did drugs. Finally, we figure they got spotted by someone who took their lives. Or they also could have died of an overdose or too much rough sex. The autopsy showed all of that going on.”

  “Who was the suspect? Someone local?” asked Cindy.

  “The case went cold,” Ben repeated. “In Shari’s situation she was with her fiancé and family all the time. She left a note.”

  “A questionable one,” Cindy commented.

  “Why would the guy who got those other women suddenly show up and get this one too?” Ben dug in. “Shari didn’t go to the bars, she wasn’t at the casinos. There was no motive or opportunity. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “She did go to the cliff alone, though, that night,” Cindy responded swiftly. “I need to know more about the murder of those two young women.”

  “What are you going to do? Check all our back cases now?” Ben was pissed.

  Alfred stepped in, though. “The main suspect was a local guy, Billy Sears, who was seen hanging out at the casinos when the girls were there. He lives down in a rancid part of town, Amaneuten Cove, and was in jail a few times on drug-related charges. We did our best to nail him, but there wasn’t enough evidence to even take him in. He slipped out of our hands.”

  “He’s still at large?” asked Cindy.

  “Who the hell knows where he is now?” Ben said. “But I’ll tell you one thing, he’s not roaming around up here, looking for brides-to-be at wedding venues. That’s for sure.”

  Cindy tossed a quick glance at Margaret, who was gently stroking the note.

  “What do you think, Margaret?” Cindy asked her.

  “I think it can’t hurt to look further,” she said. “This note’s too calm, I’m not feeling the energy of someone who’s gonna take her life.”

  “Okay then.” Cindy began to gather herself together and turned to Alfred. “Tell me how to get down to Amaneuten Cove.”

  “Whoa, hold up right there!” Alfred wasn’t having any of it. “Hope you’re not thinking of taking the trip alone. That’s no place for a lady to snoop around alone. Promise me you’re not gonna do that.”

  Cindy smiled, grateful for his concern.

  “You got to promise, I’m not kidding.” Alfred looked distressed.

  “I can’t promise you that,” Cindy finally responded. “I’ve already promised something else.”

  “What? To who?” Alfred grimaced, nervous.

  “I’ve promised Shari’s father I’d find out the truth about how she died,” said Cindy.

  Chapter 7

  By the time Cindy left the police station it was almost early evening. Mattheus would surely be finished with his golf game by now, and most likely back in the hotel. Cindy decided to join him for dinner and wait until the morning to head down to Amaneuten Cove. She was also eager to fill him in on what she’d found out. There was no way he wouldn’t be interested in what she’d discovered now.

  Thankfully, the air had cooled as the sun went down and a lovely breeze accompanied her as she walked a few blocks before hailing a taxi. The days had been more stressful than Cindy realized and she was glad for the opportunity to walk it off. As she walked, Cindy wondered whether Mattheus had enjoyed his golf game and if he was upstairs now, waiting for her to return. She imagined he was somewhere close around, expecting to see or hear from her.

  After she’d walked a bit, she hailed a cab and returned to the hotel in a few minutes. She looked forward to seeing Mattheus as she open the door to the suite and walked in.

  “I’m here,” Cindy called out, expectantly.

  No one answered.

  He could be in the bathroom, or out on the balcony, Cindy mused as she threw her bag down on the nearby sofa. “Mattheus,” Cindy called again, and again there was no answer.

  First she walked out onto the balcony and looked around. The slowly setting sun greeted

  her with dazzling colors spread across the sky. Another day ending, it seemed to whisper to her. Since she was a child Cindy had always been enthralled by the sky and sun. She stopped now and took a full moment to enjoy it.

  Another day ending, she wanted to whisper back. It was a good day, though; a lot was accomplished, not a moment was wasted. I did all I possibly could to find some answers for Edward Twain, to bring peace to his heart. Cindy felt good about that. She walked over to the rim of the balcony, wrapped her hands around it and held on. The memory of her sister, Ann, floated before her, and after that, the image of Shari, found down at the bottom of the cliff. How could a person become so deeply despairing that this beautiful life held nothing more for them? Wasn’t there always something of value to find, even in the midst of the most terrible pain?

  Cindy thought of her sister and was comforted by the knowledge of how much Ann had appreciated her life. Yes, it was unbearable to lose her, but at least she had not committed suicide. Ann had been a victim of a jealous woman, the last thing anyone in the world thought could have happened to her. But it happened, and Cindy could deal with it. Cindy wondered if she could deal with it as well, though, if Ann had killed herself.

  As Cindy stood there reflecting, she felt strong winds arise from the ocean down below. It was autumn now, in the midst of the hurricane season. Although Aruba escaped most hurricanes, some did come to their shores. No one expected them here, though, didn’t prepare avidly as they did on nearby islands.

  “Is that you out there?” Cindy suddenly heard Mattheus’s voice behind her, as his steps walked to the balcony.

  Cindy was thrilled that he was here and quickly turned around.

  “Beautiful sunset,” Mattheus said as he came up behind her, put his arms around her and gave Cindy a little hug.

  “One of the most beautiful I’ve seen in a long time,” said Cindy.

  “Really?” he responded, taking her hand.

  “I missed you today, Mattheus,” Cindy said softly.

  “I would hope so,” he answered cryptically. “I, for one, had a great golf game. The hotel has a fantastic course.”

  “Good,” said Cindy, relieved that he’d enjoyed the afternoon.

  “And I found out incredible new information,” Cindy started, but Mattheus put hi
s hand gently over her mouth.

  “No, no,” he whispered, “none of that. I’m not on this case, remember?”

  Offended, Cindy took his hand off her mouth. “Have it your way,” she said, turning away.

  “We have an agreement here, Cindy, remember?” said Mattheus.

  Of course she remembered, she was not a child, and didn’t appreciate being spoken to in that manner. In fact, she was ruffled. Cindy didn’t recall seeing this aspect of Mattheus before.

  “You’ve made your point,” she answered crisply. “I get it completely.”

  “Good,” he replied.

  “You’re sticking to your guns through thick and thin,” Cindy added.

  Mattheus smiled his wonderful, crinkly smile then.

  “I always stick to my guns through thick and thin,” he responded. “Maybe you just didn’t notice it before?”

  The vivid beauty of the sunset began fading as Cindy turned back to look at the sky. The colors had only been at their peak for a few moments, thought Cindy, a last gift before darkness set in for the night.

  “I thought we’d go into town to L’Crasil Club tonight, for dinner, drinks and a show,” Mattheus suggested.

  L’Crasil Club was a well-known, noisy hot spot with great food, jazz and a show that started late.

  “What time does the show start?” asked Cindy.

  “Why?” asked Mattheus. “Are we punching a time clock here?”

  “I want to get up early,” Cindy responded, “and I need to be well rested.”

  “Why?” he asked again, his mouth drawing at the edges. “You’ve got plans for the morning?”

  Mattheus was giving her a hard time and Cindy knew it. He was testing her to see what was more important, him or the case. Cindy didn’t take well to being tested, or to feeling torn between two conflicting needs. If it was inevitable, that was one thing. But there was no need for it now.

  “Do you really want to know why I have to be up early?” Cindy asked, petulantly.

  “No, actually I don’t really want to know,” Mattheus responded. “Not if it has anything to do with the case.”