Our little office is the very proof. I rented it seventeen months ago (with a little apartment for me above it) at an agreeably low cost, after its previous incarnation, a tanning salon, went out of business. Prior to that it housed a video rental store, and before that, a twenty-four-hour photo-developing establishment. I hoped our services, the only private detective agency in town, would not so quickly join the ranks of the anachronistic. Two things reassured me. Human nature, for one, and also our fundamental need to understand and solve our problems. A need, it is constantly proved, only intensified by the passage of time.
“You profess to be the expert, Watson,” I said, challenging her to translate my email. “What does smiley-face smiley-face heart heart heart puppy-dog mean?”
I swiveled my computer screen so she could see it. But in truth, being more annoyed with emoticons than confused by them, I could not resist offering the answer before Watson could venture her opinion.
“‘Thank you for your good work, we are happy you found our missing dog,’” I said, swiveling my screen back into place. “But why not be precise?”
Again, I did not wait for Watson’s reply. “Although, I grant you, a smiley-face thank you is preferable to none at all.”
“You talk funny,” Watson said. “That’s why I sometimes don’t answer you, just to see what you’ll come up with next, you know? All I could think of, back in-country, was to be home again and listen to you talk. It’s like being in Masterpiece Theater.”
“If we do not protect the precision and clarity of our language,” I asked, “who will? Soon we’ll be communicating via smiley-faces and little hearts. And won’t that be . . . smiley-face?”
The time on Watson’s computer dinged seven o’clock, start of our posted office hours. As if on cue, our front door jangled open. I suppose we should employ some more stringent security methods, but our town, Norraton, is small and rural, second-to-last on the 138.1-mile Massachusetts Turnpike that carries commuters and tourists between Boston and New York. Though our town fathers endeavor for economic rebirth, our cases reflect Norraton’s placidly suburban milieu—missing relatives or pets, the occasional straying spouse, once a stolen manuscript. Soon after Watson joined me, we’d had a dust-up with a bird-hoarding politician who stashed his pets in the town’s decorative lighthouse on the lake at Copper Beach. But that is another story. I—Watson and I—prevailed in all.
I had been away from my hometown for several years, a result of the dearth of employment opportunities for my original profession, fifth-grade geology-geography teacher. But, rock collection in hand, I returned here for the splendor of the Berkshires and their always-surprising terrain. And to pass my P.I. exam.
At first I’d treated my growing interest in detection as a mere hobby. But the search for answers, whether geological or simply logical, never failed to fascinate me. I gave in, changed course, and now cannot think of doing anything else. My father, also a teacher and geologist, had schooled his students and me with his mantra, a maxim of the father of modern geology. Father would hold up a fossil or a newfound specimen of rock and say, “Remember the words of James Hutton: ‘The present is key to the past.’”
So in geology, and in the art of detection, my two avocations are similarly grounded. When digging for solutions, one must know where—and how—to look.
“Miss Holmes?” Our visitor stood in the open office doorway, the glare from the morning sunshine creating a momentary silhouette.
He stepped into our office. Raised an eyebrow. “That’s your real name?”
And that is why my associate is called Watson. For surely as all Rhodes are Dusty and all Cassidys are Hopalong, if one’s name is Holmes, one is inescapably connected with Sherlock. Even though my name is Annabelle.
As for the real Sherlock, Watson reports she has read a few of the classic stories; certainly they are many and beloved. I have not indulged, preferring to create my own adventures. Perhaps I’ll write them someday. Or perhaps, in keeping with literary tradition, Watson will.
“May we help you?” Watson replied. With her growing-out military haircut and newly purchased “girl clothes,” as she calls them, part of her job is to approach arriving clients and barricade me from the initial contact. That gives me time to assess.
My first assessment: this morning’s visitor was dressed like a handsome groom on a wedding cake. Hardly predictable at seven on an October morning. The young man—late twenties, I calculated—held a carryout cup of coffee in a white paper container.
“Annabelle Holmes?” He looked at Watson, then at me, then back at Watson. He appeared to be deciding which of us he sought—the scarecrow in the black jeans, black T-shirt, spectacles, and ponytail, or the short-haired cherub in the flowered skirt.
This bridegroom, or possibly waiter, was clearly flustered: his cheeks were stubbled, dark hair in disarray, bow tie slanted askew. One of the black onyx studs in his shirtfront placket was missing.
“I see you have not rented that evening wear,” I said, standing and holding out a welcoming hand. “That you are health conscious. And that you are left-handed.” I hid my smile at his wide-eyed response. “I am Annabelle Holmes. How can we be of service, Mr.—Arthur?”
“Health conscious? Left-handed?” The man fairly sputtered in surprise as he shook mine. “And how did you know my name?”
“And I must ask, since you are clearly in . . .” I paused, choosing my word carefully. “. . . distress. Are you missing the bride to your groom?”
“Missing the bride? How did you know?” He blinked at his reflection in the front window. “I see. Yes, I’m Arthur. Arthur Daley. But how did you know that?”
I glanced at Watson, who, as always, looked at me for answers. She still has not learned how I analyze small details and how they combine to create larger answers. Sometimes it is not difficult.
“Your name has been written on your coffee cup, sir,” I said. “And marked with your health-conscious choice for skim milk.”
Watson rolled her eyes. “You kill me,” she muttered.
“Your watch is on your right arm, as left-handers prefer,” I went on. “As for the attire, your initials are embroidered on your right cuff, meaning that jacket was tailored for you. Now, will you take a seat? Please tell us the reason for your visit.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Daley sat in the one empty chair in our office, a ladder-backed swivel inherited from the now-shuttered copper mining museum at the end of Lodestar Street. Our local copper industry faded in the late 19th century, but its lore and lure have branded our little town since then. Our sturdy office bookshelves, the pockmarked wood now filled with my favorite textbooks and research materials, were once used in the museum library.
“My partner,” Mr. Daley began, “has received a, well, I’m not sure what word I would use. Unusual? Disturbing? Confusing? Series of emails. It might be spam, I suppose, except I think my partner was clearly upset by it.”
“Partner?” I imagined many possible clarifications for this imprecise word choice. “Personal? Professional? Or both?”
“Both.” Daley swiveled left, then right, then back again, fidgeting. The peevish hinge connecting the seat to the base squeaked in protest. “Wait. I’ll show you.”
He slid his slim fingers into his jacket pocket, extracted a cell phone in a black plastic case. He tapped a few keys, then paused, waiting. “Before I tell you about the emails, let me play you a video,” he said.
I heard a few measures of an old-fashioned tune, one of my favorites, Ella Fitzgerald’s version of Cole Porter’s “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” its distinctive opening minor key instantly recognizable even through the phone’s tiny speaker.
Watson approached as Daley held out the screen, and we both leaned in to watch. The music continued, and we saw an empty room with an expanse of wooden floor. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Doors in the others might lead to other rooms, or perhaps closets.
“Where’s this?” Watson asked.
>
No explanation was necessary, though, as after the introductory notes, the room was no longer empty. Three couples—Daley and another man in evening clothes, one in an ill-fitting sport coat, and three women wearing flowing ankle-length dresses—whirled into the scene. As the music played, the couples dipped and twirled, dancing an elegant if elementary fox-trot. Forward forward side close, I could almost hear the instructions as I watched. I’d been sent to dancing lessons as a young girl. To my mother’s delight, I became quite proficient. As my family’s fortunes changed, and my attentions were turned elsewhere, my dancing days ended.
Even from this tiny video, I could see that the dancer in our visitor’s arms held center stage. She fairly glowed with bliss. I smiled, with a bit of nostalgia, as Arthur Daley dipped her backwards, her toes pointed, her long dark hair almost brushing the dance floor. Then, seemingly with no effort, he swept her back onto her feet and they twirled gracefully away.
“You’re a dancer,” I said. The camera panned right, revealing a sign on the wall: Anthony Selwyn Harrison Dance Studio. “Or an instructor?”
The music died as our visitor clicked off his cell phone. “Instructor. Harrison had his assistant take this video of my class. It’s on the studio website, too.”
“Here’s the website.” Watson had fetched her laptop and held it so I could see.
Located nearby, I noted. The site listed classes, and instructors, as well as job openings and recitals. I could look more closely later, if need be.
“So, Miss Holmes?” Daley gestured at me with his phone. “After the gym where I was a personal trainer closed, the dance studio opened, and I convinced them to let me become a dance instructor. I’m into it now, you know? Even in a small town there’s a need for dancing. Weddings, or an anniversary. The prom. Or just a good time. The studio’s brand new, but making it. Most students are women, seems like. Some watch old movies on Turner Classics, and want to be swept around the floor in a pretty dress. I teach them, dance with them, give them some—romance.”
“Ro—?” I began. This was taking a potentially unsavory turn.
“Oh, no way, not really romance, not like that.” He put up both palms, as if to ward off any incorrect assumptions. “But when the music’s right, and the skirts twirl, well . . .” He shrugged, envisioning the entirety. “They have fun.”
“When you said your partner,” I now understood, “you meant your dance partner.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Well, to begin with, anyway. The woman you saw, dancing with me? She’s Penelope Moran. She moved back here, a year or so ago. Not to downtown Norraton, but out a mile or two. She’s the last of her family, and lives in her parents’ old house, they left it to her. It’s more like a mansion, really, what they call Stoke Moran. She told me it’s been in the family forever, and she’s really attached to it. ‘All I have left of my history,’ she says. Anyway, Penny and I got to know each other in class. We got along great. She started taking lessons twice a week.”
His face brightened, and he sat up straighter. “She’s—she’s good at it, you know? A fast learner, and smart, and . . . well, things developed. A month ago, I asked her to marry me. She said yes.”
He glanced at the now-opaque screen of his cell phone. “But now she’s—acting strange. Avoiding me. We always tell each other everything, but she’s not responding to my calls. She didn’t show up for last night’s lesson. That’s why I’m here.”
“Would you email that video to me?” Watson, interrupting, had been watching and listening in silence. She gave her email address, Watson at Holmes dot com, which provides everyone a chuckle. “Best never to have only one copy of anything.”
Daley clicked a few buttons, and the dancing men and their partners dipped and whirled through the ether and onto Watson’s laptop. In a trice, as she clicked her keyboard, the fox-trot music reprised and the dancers appeared again, their swirl of tulle and glitter now on Watson’s much larger screen.
“Better, right?” she said.
“Better.” I had to agree. Now I could make out the shabbiness of the ceiling, the smudged mirrors, black streaks from countless soles on the floor.
“Please continue, Mr. Daley,” I said, as Watson lowered the sound. “Ms. Moran, recently affianced to you, did not appear for a scheduled lesson? Had you quarreled?”
“No, no. We didn’t fight, not at all. So, yeah, when she didn’t show up, I was pretty worried. I have a key to the studio, so I stayed later than usual, but she still didn’t come. I called, texted, went to her house. Left a note. I went home. No messages. I even checked the hospital. Nothing. I hoped she would call, or something, but she didn’t. And then I fell asleep. I couldn’t wait to talk to you, that’s why I’m still in this getup.”
The man blew out a breath, and every one of my instincts whispered “lovesick,” though it’s not a word we often hear these days. I waited. People tell their stories in their own ways, and that is always instructive. If one is seeking the truth, sometimes it is best to listen.
“Anyway, the weird emails I told you about. Penny’s who got them,” Mr. Daley eventually went on. He paused, smoothed back a lock of dark hair. “Do I need to fill out a form, hiring you?”
“In due time,” I said. “For you still have not explained what you’d like us to do.”
“Okay, long story short. After Penny said she’d marry me, it was all pretty great.” He stood, began to pace. Not that he had much room to pace in our little office, his long legs taking him past Watson’s desk and toward the rear wall in four steps, then back to the swivel chair. “But then, two weeks or so ago? She started behaving strangely. Going off. She missed a class. Then came back as usual. Then missed again. She wouldn’t tell me why. I confronted her, you know? Had I done something wrong? If she didn’t want to get married, I thought, just say so. I mean . . .”
“She received a series of emails,” I prompted.
“Yes, yes, that’s the whole point,” Daley said. “I’m embarrassed to say I swiped her cell phone when she was asleep. We were at my place, we’d had some wine, and I was pushing her, a little, about why she was unhappy. She insisted there was nothing. But I—well, I got into her mail. I searched to see if anything had arrived around the time she first got upset. I found some . . . strange ones. I couldn’t decide whether if I forwarded them to myself she could tell I’d done that—”
Watson looked up from her computer screen. “She could.”
“Good thing I didn’t, then. Instead I grabbed my own cell and snapped photos.” He held up his cell as if to show me. “Want to see one?”
“Will you email it to Watson?” I asked. “And Watson, will you print it out?” Nothing like a good old piece of paper.
Our little printer whirred.
“Could you tell who sent it?” I asked. I stood, as the printer was just out of reach. It ejected one sheet of paper, on which the sender and Ms. Moran’s address were clearly apparent. Would this be that simple? No. “It says ‘no one at no one dot com.’ Did you try to contact them?”
“How could I?” Daley asked. “That’d show I’d taken her phone. And—” He shrugged. “What would I say?”
“Too bad,” Watson said, tapping her keyboard. “It’s easy enough to create an anonymous email address. Even with that, I might be able to track the sender down, but not without the actual phone.”
I studied the page again, frowning. There were no words. Only tiny pictures. An apple. A smiley-face. A heart. Then a sun, a moon, and some wavy lines, like the television meteorologists use to indicate wind.
“Did you ask her about this?”
“How could I?” Mr. Daley said again. “She’d know I looked at her email, something I’d never do. Even though I did. I had to, right?”
“What’s done is done,” I said. “And we shall go from there.” I thought about the emoticons we’d just seen, and the relationship between this heartbroken young dancing instructor and his mysterious—if she was—fiancée.
> “An apple. For the teacher, perhaps?” I theorized. “Someone loves the teacher, and wants to marry them, and live happily ever after.” I tried to come up with a meaning for the wind. “Somewhere windy?”
“Good one,” Watson said. “Or someone named McIntosh, like the apple, you know? Is happy that his heart operation went well, he’ll now live through many days and nights unless the wind changes.”
“Possible,” I replied, simply to be polite. Watson is sometimes cavalier about details. “But we must be wrong, for why could either of those be upsetting to Ms. Moran?”
I picked up a paperweight from my desk. The durable chunk of native granite, a legacy from my father, was speckled with potassium feldspar, quartz, and biotite. A “thinking rock,” he called it. I turned its smooth weight in my hand, over, and over, and over. Why do people use symbols instead of words? Sometimes, in emails, to save time. In shorthand, to write more quickly. In the Bayeux Tapestry, or Sistine Chapel, or Guernica, to be artistic, or to preserve history. Other times—because they only want specific people to understand their meaning.
“It’s a code,” I said.
Daley narrowed his eyes. “You think?”
“And Miss Moran obviously understands it. I think we may conclude that the message it sends—whether about apples or true love or a subject we have not considered—is clear to her. Unhappily clear, it seems.”
“So? You’re the detective.” Daley looked hopeful for the first time since he’d walked in. “Can you figure it out?”
“That, I fear, is impossible.” I had to admit it. “Even for me.”
“But—” His body deflated, and he sank, morose, into the swivel chair. It creaked again in protest.
“There simply aren’t sufficient exemplars,” I explained, putting down my granite. “A substitution cipher—”
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 13
