AHMM, November 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Valerie Lane bought it, right?"

  "Yes,” he replied.

  Ten minutes later, after avoiding answering any of Morton's other questions, I called Detective Brownley.

  * * * *

  At Detective Brownley's request, I drove to police headquarters and gave a formal statement. I recounted my conversation with Mr. Blackmore, and as I reported his acknowledgment that Valerie bought the fob, unexpectedly my voice cracked and my eyes filled with tears. I stopped speaking and took a deep breath, willing the upset to pass. Detective Brownley sat watching me, her expression unchanged.

  "Sorry,” I said, once I could speak again. “I just can't believe it, you know? I had no idea about what she was going through. Forget that she never said anything ... she never even hinted anything. She never once revealed her true feelings. It's just so shocking and ... I don't know ... you think you know someone, and then you realize that you don't. You don't know anything."

  "Most murders involve some measure of deception."

  I nodded, thinking about it. “One person might kill to preserve a secret. Another person might kill because someone refused to reveal it."

  Detective Brownley nodded, then after a pause, asked, “Any-thing else about Mr. Blackmore?"

  I took another deep breath and pushed my disappointment and shock aside. “I bet he has the receipt,” I said.

  "How did you know it was Ms. Lane?"

  "Well ... I didn't know ... not for certain. There were a lot of things. When I walked into the bed and breakfast that day, Valerie was clutching a dressing gown to her chest. I think I interrupted her, that she'd just killed Chet. Her sash was still around his neck, that's why she was holding the dressing gown closed by gripping the fabric.” I shook my head. “She panicked—she just wanted to retrieve her sash, scoop up the laptop and wallet, and get out of there. The next day, when I was in the kitchen having tea, Valerie was doing laundry. Watching her toss the sash in made me wonder where it was the day before. She wasn't wearing it. Taken alone, it didn't mean anything, but it got me thinking."

  "Why would she have waited until then to wash it?"

  I shrugged. “Probably she didn't. I bet this was the second or third time—just in case something didn't wash out the first time around."

  Detective Brownley nodded. “What else?"

  "Valerie wore a scarf and a turtleneck. It was too warm to be so bundled up! It occurred to me that she might have some scratches she was hiding."

  She nodded again. “What made you go to that jeweler in particular?” she asked.

  "Blackmore's a wonderful shop. They carry unusual things, very high end. And it's local. Valerie works hard. She wouldn't take the time to traipse to the mall or anything. Plus, you wouldn't find something like a watch fob at a regular jewelry store."

  "But what made you think you'd find it in any jewelry store? It looked like an antique to me."

  "The onyx circle sits in a gold ring—it's marked fourteen karat. Most fine antique jewelry is eighteen karat.” I shrugged. “I thought it was worth a shot."

  She smiled at me, a rare sight for the normally serious detective. “Thanks, Josie."

  * * * *

  Before I headed back to Prescott's, I crossed the street and climbed a dune. I stood for several minutes. When I felt more composed, I headed up Ocean Avenue.

  My route back to work took me directly past the Rocky Point Bed and Breakfast, and as I drove by, I saw Detective Brownley walking up the front path.

  I pulled off to the side of the road a hundred yards away and watched as she knocked on the front door. When Valerie answered, the detective said something and Valerie stepped onto the porch. Detective Brownley spoke again. Valerie replied, her eyes big with dismay. Detective Brownley nodded, then followed Valerie back inside. When they returned to the porch moments later, Valerie had her purse. She locked the door. Then Detective Brownley handcuffed her and led her to the waiting vehicle.

  * * * *

  I called Wes and gave him the details, then stopped at the grocery store to pick up the ingredients for my mother's thyme chicken.

  Later, I stood at the range, mixing the glaze while Ty leaned against the wall keeping me company, drinking Smuttynose from the bottle.

  "Where did they find the laptop and wallet?” he asked.

  "In the grocery store dumpster. She double-bagged them and tossed them in."

  "Jeez. Why did the police search there?"

  "There was nowhere else the laptop and wallet could be. Timing-wise, I mean. I saw Valerie at twelve thirty when she was upstairs, not even dressed. And she got back from shopping at two with about a gazillion grocery bags. It's a twenty-minute drive from the inn to the store. So even if she got dressed in a flash—five or ten minutes—she couldn't have gotten to the store much before one. Wes told me that the butcher recalls her asking him to cut her a certain cut of beef just after one. He remembers specifically because he just got back from lunch. Valerie used her debit card to pay at one thirty-two. She got back to the inn about thirty minutes later—which means she loaded the van and drove straight back. The timing doesn't allow for many other options."

  Ty nodded. “So the disposal had to be at the store or on her route."

  "Exactly. And they found them in the dumpster."

  "Why did she steal them?"

  "I don't think she intended to. She planned on checking them out to see if they contained any references to her. A phone number tucked in his wallet, for instance, or notes that he saved on his computer. But the time got away from her and she decided just to get rid of them."

  Ty got another beer from the fridge. “Why did she kill him?"

  I peeked over my shoulder at him and smiled impishly. “A perfectly understandable motive—she caught him in bed with another woman."

  Ty grinned. “I'll keep that in mind.” He shook his head. “You're talking about Shannon?"

  "Yeah. I gather from what Valerie has told the police that she thought her romance with Chet was the real deal—a grand passion. She understood that Chet was in a quote-committed-end quote relationship with Dahlia, and that was regrettable, but correctable, but when she learned about Shannon, she went ballistic."

  "How did she find out?"

  "I don't know. Probably she caught them in the act during their noontime quickie."

  "What about Shannon? Didn't she resent the hell out of his screwing around?"

  "No. Wes quoted her as saying that Chet was a fun fling—that she was single and having a good time. Shannon said the person she felt sorry for was Dahlia."

  "Do you?” Ty asked.

  "No. My dad once told me that in job searches, resumes are used to eliminate people—the lowest risk hire is the person who's already succeeded at what you're looking for. I figure the same applies in relationships. If someone screwed around on their last mate, what makes you think they won't do the same to you? Dahlia knew what she was getting."

  "That's cold."

  "I'm a realist,” I said, then turned full around and smiled at him. “A realist who's wildly in love. Come here, big fella, and kiss the cook."

  Copyright (c) 2008 Jane K. Cleland

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  Fiction: BLIND SIDE by Peter Sellers

  It was Tuesday, and that meant humiliation. Our first period in the afternoon was swim. For forty minutes, thirty-five naked boys would plunge through the cold water while our teacher patrolled the deck in gym shoes and tracksuit, whistle around his neck.

  Nude swimming had always been the policy at the school, a small and elite institution ostensibly for only the most intelligent boys, with low fees and high standards. Entrance was based on your ability to write a rigorous examination rather than on your father's ability to write a check. Held once a year, on a Saturday morning, the exam was written by hundreds of aspiring geniuses. Few were accepted. My first attempt, for admission in grade seven, was a failure. With hindsight, I should have heeded the augury. Instead, I wrote agai
n two years later and gained acceptance for high school.

  Looking back now, it surprises me that no one's parents spoke out against the perversity of forcing their sons to spend a lesson completely naked. Those were the early seventies, however, and our parents were more respectful of authority than we are now. Also, for most of the boys, nudity did not matter. But for me, the sole member of my grade who had not reached puberty, every swim class was an exercise in embarrassment.

  Until we all stripped together for the first time, I was unaware that I was alone in what I came to view as my mutation. I tried to be discreet, hands placed strategically, back turned as much as possible, but among so many other naked boys there was nowhere to hide. Immediately, there was giggling, pointing and the first mutterings.

  Later the words were spoken aloud and boldly: ugly and hurtful words. Some of them I knew and others I had not heard before, but their intent to injure was clear. They were vicious and unfounded attacks on my sexual preference. The memory of it still makes my stomach clench.

  A few boys did have bathing suits, packed for them by dutiful mothers, but wearing a suit would have caused even more humiliation than exposing my deformity. So, week after week, I endured the torment. Being small, slender, and hairless marked me as a weak and easy target who did not fight back.

  I was not alone in being tortured.

  The worst offenders were two louts named Baker and Harley. They seemed too stupid to have gained entrance fairly. It was only once I was at the school that I came to understand how helpful it was to have had a father or an elder brother attend. Nepotism paved the way for some of my dimmer classmates.

  There were others who joined Baker and Harley in the fun, but in a less systematic way. From Chestechenko, Simons, and Crawford there were occasional spontaneous eruptions of brutality. Still more did or said nothing, and their silence made them equally culpable.

  At my previous school, I had been a popular student. I was chosen among the first for team sports. I was celebrated for my annual contributions to the school public speaking competition—on crowd-pleasing topics such as vampires, ghosts, and reincarnation. My description of the eruptions of blood from the body of a staked vampire was received with particular enthusiasm by the students if not by the faculty. In my final year, I was runner-up for the school's Citizenship Award, which was voted on by the students.

  Frankly, I should have won. To show my commitment to citizenship, I voted for Lynne, the eventual winner. Later, I discovered that she had not reciprocated. She voted for herself. That said everything about whom the prize belonged to.

  My plunge from such heights of popularity to a life of ridicule and abuse was shocking. Had I been the kind of student who had always been despised, it might not have mattered. I would have noticed no difference from one school to the next. But that was not my situation, and to find myself abruptly alone and not merely friendless but surrounded by enemies left me bewildered.

  The student body at the school was small: seventy boys in each of grades nine through twelve. However, thirty-five of the boys had begun in grade seven, and by the time the rest of us joined, cliques were firmly established. Some new boys, who were friends of incumbent students, were readily accepted. Others, who were larger and more confident, also found immediate favor.

  Those less assertive, and with no one to welcome them, fared less well. By nature, I was not a courageous boy. My mother had pointed this out once, defending me against the accusation of a neighbor. “He's not shy,” my mother said. “He's timid."

  In time, by force of will, I had learned to control this flaw. By the time my grade school days drew to a close, I had made myself, as I have demonstrated, a well-liked boy. The process, however, had taken years spent with many of the same children. I was unprepared for the reality of a new and unforgiving world.

  Having been raised not to make a fuss and to get along, it never occurred to me to ask my parents to take me out of the school. That would have necessitated discussing my situation. My father's motto was, “Never complain, never explain,” which had rubbed off on me. It was easier to endure.

  * * * *

  Mr. Trent taught English and had a glass right eye. He'd had the real one blown out by a land mine during the Second World War. As a result, when he stood facing the class, he could not see the front left desk, closest to the window. This was known as the blind side, and sitting there was always desirable.

  On my first day in Mr. Trent's class, he posed a challenge. “If someone had to meet me at a busy train station,” he said, “and he'd never seen me before, how would you describe me to him?"

  There was silence from the class. There were many things about Mr. Trent that were distinctive. He was short, balding, and wore heavy-framed glasses. His nose was large, red, and oddly shaped. It had been damaged, we learned later, in the same explosion that cost him his eye. Considerable restructuring had been required. It seemed that, much as we would have done so behind his back, no one wanted to be the first to itemize Mr. Trent's odd characteristics face to face.

  "Well, come on,” he urged.

  One boy put up his hand timidly. “You have glasses,” he said.

  "Good. What else?"

  Another shy voice added, “You have a mustache."

  "Yes. And?"

  Slowly a few more points came out. Mr. Trent's sparse hair was mentioned, as was his crisp military bearing. Guesses were made as to his height and his age. But the well of details dried up quickly.

  Mr. Trent looked at us with curious excitement. “Anything else?” he asked, his voice a parade-ground bellow. “Well? Well? What about the eye?” He whipped off his glasses, and taking a pencil in his other hand, he tapped it sharply and repeatedly on his right eyeball. The clicking noise was quite loud and caused more than one of us to squirm in discomfort. He did it again, louder. The room was silent.

  "It's glass,” he said. “I have a glass eye. Lots of people have mustaches, spectacles, and receding hairlines. But not many of us have glass eyes.” He said this with pride. “So if you want someone who doesn't know me to recognize me, that's the first thing to mention. Remember that kind of detail in your writing."

  It occurred to me to ask if, while waiting to be met, he would stand in the train station tapping his eyeball, but thought better of it.

  "I do this every year,” Mr. Trent said. “I used to take the eye out and pass it around, but a few years ago a lad threw up and they made me stop.” He said this with contempt for both the weakness of that boy and the weakness of the administration.

  Mr. Trent is one of the few teachers I remember with fondness. He created in me an excitement for poetry. I can see him still, standing before the class, reading Keats's “On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer.” His eye glittered and he pronounced the words with passionate intensity. To this day, I can hear the crisp t and k in the poem's final line, “Silent, upon a peak in Darien."

  * * * *

  I was not alone in being tortured. There was a small cadre of misfits.

  Henry, his face a disaster of pustules, was brilliant and yet so socially inept he seemed brain damaged. In the end, he won a scholarship to MIT and has made a name for himself in the field of pure mathematics.

  Kevin and Raymond were more ordinary. Intelligent but non-athletic, their biggest tactical error may have been befriending me. We played bridge together at lunch, with whomever was willing to risk sitting as a fourth.

  Then there was Horowitz. He talked a lot about killing. He was obsessed with automatic weapons and explosive devices. He explained in detail what he would do if he could get his hands on some serious military ordnance. Nowadays, he'd be taken out of school and spend his days talking to psychiatrists, but people knew better back then. There had been a photo in the school yearbook showing a blunt-speaking and popular math teacher with the caption, “Sex is like trig. You don't talk about it, you do it.” That was how violence was too. Horowitz, because of his bombast, was not the type to follow through
.

  "Want to see something cool?” he asked me one day at lunch.

  "Sure,” I said.

  He took me to the auditorium. It would be unheard of now, but under the stage there was a rifle range. Theoretically, it was reserved for the cadet corps, but the door wasn't locked so anyone who knew about it could go in.

  The rifles stored there had their bolts removed, and there was no ammunition. But everyone knew that the bolts and the bullets were kept in the bottom right-hand drawer of Mr. Trent's desk, and neither the drawer nor his office was ever locked.

  The cadets put on uniforms and marched around the parking lot three days a week after school. For more than fifty years, membership in the corps had been mandatory. But in the late sixties when that requirement had been dropped, enrollment plummeted. Not surprisingly, Horowitz was a cadet.

  The rifle range was more brightly lit than I had expected. I'm not sure why I should have been surprised. There is little percentage in shooting at targets that you can't see.

  Horowitz opened his briefcase, the solid plastic pseudo-businessman kind with two stainless steel latches that was known as a browner bag, and removed the breech and several bullets. He took a rifle and assembled and loaded it. With an enviable casualness, he knelt down and fired three times, in quick succession. Without seeming to aim, he pulverized the heart of the paper target. My ears were ringing. It was so loud I was surprised that the entire school couldn't hear.

  "You try,” Horowitz said, pinning a new target at the far end of the range and then holding out the weapon.

  He showed me how to load it and line up the sights. I have no idea where my first three shots ended up, but they left the target unscathed.

  "Do what I do,” Horowitz said. “Think of people you hate.” It was as close as I ever came to a conversation about how life was at the school.

  * * * *

  Mockery was by no means reserved for the students. There were two classics teachers at the school. One, who taught both Latin and Greek, was a wheezing, oily man we called Fat Thomas, or Magnus Porcus Gracus. The other one, my Latin teacher, was an elderly gentleman who had been at the school for many years and was known as Uncle Senility. Old fashioned and doddering, he was also the guidance counselor, but the idea of talking to him about anything personal was unthinkable, even less likely than talking to your parents.