“Where one letter or number stands for a certain letter of the alphabet,” Watson interjected. “We used them in the . . . anyway. You were saying.”
I cleared my throat. I appreciate Watson’s enthusiasm, but when I have the floor, I have the floor. “A substitution cipher, to put it the simplest way, substitutes one thing for a letter. It can be a different letter of the alphabet, or a number, or even a symbol. Some have used stick figures, others foreign alphabets. Random squiggles might be employed, certainly, because such a code only requires the sender and receiver know the system. The most elementary of codes are easily broken, in English at least, by applying the well-understood Etaoin Shrdlu analysis, which proves—”
I noticed Daley exchanging a baffled glance with Watson.
“It has to do with how often a letter is used,” I broke off to explain. “In a code, in English at least, the symbol most often present stands for E. The next most commonly used letter is T. And so on, in the order I have mentioned. But in this example, Mr. Daley, there are only six symbols. Far too few to analyze. Using only this, decryption is quite impossible.”
“So there’s nothing you can do to help?” Daley stood, his fists clenched as he questioned me.
From outside came the sound of a honking horn, as the morning rush hour, such as it is in a tiny New England town, paraded by our front window—a few station wagons, the yellow mini-bus taking children to Louisa May Alcott School, a landscaper’s rickety screen-walled truck, clattering with rakes. A gust of wind swirled a sidewalk confetti of autumn-bright fallen leaves. Wind? Someone, or something, would arrive as the wind changes? That prospect certainly changed Ms. Moran’s demeanor. And our visitor’s life. He seemed to care for his young woman, and worried for their future.
“You spoke of a series of emails,” I reminded him.
“Oh, right,” Daley replied. “So after I found that one, I scrolled around, forward and back—worried she’d discover me any second. There might be some I didn’t see, who knows. But I found others, like this one.”
He swiped his finger across his cell phone screen, held it up. “It had arrived two hours after the apple smiley-face.”
“Send it,” Watson said.
“Print it,” I said. “The more the better.”
As it emerged from the printer, though, I saw it would be no help in our undertaking. Three symbols only, each a man in a blue hat. Police officers, I gathered, from their frowns and tiny gold badges. “Three—”
“Police officers,” Daley said. “Doesn’t that feel like a threat?”
“Possibly.” I paused, considering. “There are, indeed, only three police officers in Norraton. But it’s frustratingly ambiguous. And if this is a code, the most used letter, as I said, is E. This cannot mean E.”
“One more,” Daley said. “It was the last to arrive. That I know of. And it’s why I’m here, I guess.”
“Email it,” Watson said.
“And print.” I again pointed to the printer.
The final communication was also unhelpful to our decryption. But helpful, indeed, as to why Ms. Moran was distressed.
“A death’s head,” I said. “There is nothing ambiguous about that, I fear.”
The three of us fell silent. I studied the white stucco swirls on our ceiling, saw how the color deepened in the shadowy corners. The success of a code relies on both parties having the key. Or, like the symbols I had received earlier today from our satisfied dog-recovery client, at least knowing the sender and the context.
Clearly Ms. Moran understood the messages, both context and sender. If she had been as baffled as the three of us, she would certainly have shared her curiosity with her fiancé, not turned secretive and melancholy.
Three coded messages—if that’s what they were—with only one repeated character meant my initial idea of the substitution system was probably incorrect. Unless, of course, the clever sender knew that’s exactly what anyone with the slightest knowledge of cryptology would predict and created the messages deliberately to foil that notion.
But whatever these messages were meant to convey, Miss Moran understood. Now it fell to me to try—before whatever she feared, or whatever was threatened, took place.
“Penny.” Daley shook his head as he pronounced her name, his shoulders slumping, his morose visage a picture of despair, his voice matching. “What good am I as a future husband if she’s terrified and I can’t even help her? What kind of marriage will we have if she doesn’t trust me? Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“There is most certainly something I can do,” I reassured him. “Indeed. Mr. Daley? If you see any more such messages please contact me. The more symbols we have, the more likely we can decipher the exact meaning of the troubling messages your fiancée is receiving. As for our next move? If schedule permits, we’ll begin tonight.”
“The game is afoot,” Watson said, flapping her laptop closed.
“Afoot?” I repeated. If by “afoot” my partner meant dancing, she was precisely correct.
I hardly recognized myself as I saw my newly minted reflection in the entryway mirror, readying my face and my attitude to leave my apartment and head for our destination. Watson and Arthur Daley were to “meet” me there. Only the three of us would know we were already acquainted.
Parking my Jeep a block away from the Harrison Dance Studio, I walked up Coppersmith Street—the town fathers have a bit of a theme—and entered the studio’s redbrick building, a once-desirable address, and clambered up the wooden stairs inside.
Perhaps “clattered” is a better word choice, given the sound my black patent kitten heels made on the uncarpeted steps. The shoes were a gift-with-a-message from my persistent mother, who valiantly tries to make me more socially presentable. “It depends to whom you are planning to present me,” I always say in return. Which she never finds amusing.
Tonight I was grateful for the fashionably dance-appropriate shoes. My concomitant efforts with lipstick, hairbrush, and eyeliner were equally appropriate, and proficient as well. I had been in disguise many times before, appearing frazzle-faced as a harried mom, sleek as an undercover cop (what Watson dubbed as meta), and once, to snare a particularly unpleasant spouse, as a hoody-wearing hit man. I’d realized this afternoon, as I prepared for this new adventure by removing my signature eyeglasses, inserting my rarely used contact lenses, and loosening my hair from its ponytail, that I’d never disguised myself as an attractive woman. To me, this felt like a difficult task. Others might disagree. We will leave that for the historians to decide.
Climbing the two flights, illuminated by a row of bare bulbs struggling to tempt a few languid moths, I approached the door of the Anthony Selwyn Harrison Dance Studio. Painted a streaky gold and sporting an elaborate “ASH” logo, the door, the only one in the hallway, was amateurishly decorated with a sprinkle of musical quarter notes in electric blue.
Classes tonight announced a makeshift sign, handwritten and framed in dime store black, affixed to the adjacent wall. Ballroom 6 and 7 pm, it read. All are welcome.
It was only five now. So I had, if all went as I hoped, plenty of time. The studio’s own website had given me the entrée I needed.
The door opened with a feeble creak, and I was inside. Watson and I could not visit Stoke Moran without alerting the owner to our association with Mr. Daley, but we could hope that Penelope Moran would appear as scheduled at tonight’s dance class. A first step, at least.
Under the flutter of a weary fluorescent, a twenty-something woman, all curls and pink lipstick, sat behind a computer at a desk that appeared to have been rescued from elsewhere, possibly adopted from a prior tenant. If my present tactic failed, I could simply sign up for a single class. But I’d prefer to work on the inside, and thus be reasonably present for many classes—and the potential sources of information who participated.
“I’m inquiring about your help wanted for the teaching position.” I offered my best smile, engaging and confident. “
I’m Irene Irvine.”
I needed an undercover identity, and assumed no one would recognize the name of my father’s teacher, the brilliant Boston geologist.
The receptionist proved me correct. “Resumé?” She held out a be-ringed hand.
“Of course,” I said. “But it’s online.”
I gave the woman a URL, and she clicked it up and scrolled through. The proficient Watson had rigged up a website for me with impressive speed, showing off the generic stock photos and graphics she’d selected. Technology has made it easier to invent a convincing new identity.
“Ms., um, Hudson?” I read the nameplate on her desk. “I can start right away.”
She frowned. At what, I wondered? Surely I had not been here long enough to make an unfavorable impression. She made a dismissive sound and plucked the nameplate from her desk, stashing it in a drawer. “That’s left over from the last tenant. I keep forgetting. I’m Della.”
I stepped back as Della stood, wobbling on her black stiletto boots for a beat. “Can you fox-trot, waltz, Lindy?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, channeling Watson. “No prob. Cake.”
Apparently I had satisfied her, for she started down a narrow corridor, gesturing me to follow. On one side of the hall, the mirrored studio I’d seen on Arthur Daley’s video. The other wall, once pale blue but now faded into submission, displayed a single life-sized photograph of a dancer I assumed to be Anthony Selwyn Harrison. Standing in front of an old-fashioned wrought iron street lamp on water-dappled pavement, the man wore toggle-latched galoshes tucked into khaki trousers, and held an open black umbrella in front of his face.
“Singin’ in the Rain, I get it,” I said, proving my knowledge of the industry. “I can see your boss is a big fan.”
“Huh?” We approached a closed door. “Ash?” Della’s question was punctuated by her knocks. “It’s me. You have a teacher candidate.”
Ash, I noted: his initials. The door opened, and behind it, Anthony Selwyn Harrison, I assumed, in black trousers and a black T-shirt, standing behind a cluttered desk, reading his cell phone screen and tentatively sipping pungently-hazelnut-flavored coffee from a carryout cup. Attractive, I couldn’t help thinking as he ignored me. Cheekbones high, dark hair dramatically long. T-shirt possibly a bit too tight. But then, he was a dancer.
The frayed hem of his trousers told me he’d come upon hard times. The struggling black of his T-shirt bespoke many washings. But he still purchased barista coffee, and his cell phone had the distinctive shape of the expensive new ones.
“I see you just got here,” I said, before I could stop myself. “Happy to wait, if you want.”
“And you are?” He looked me up and down. From my newly flat-ironed hair to my black cocktail dress (purchased, with much optimism, two New Years Eves ago, but never worn until today) to the kitten heels.
“Irene Irvine,” I said, hoping he wasn’t conversant in geology.
He shifted his attention to Della, then looked at me again. “Experience?”
“Experience? Sure. Lots. Did Ms.—Della—show you my website?”
“How long have you been dancing?” He went on, half his attention remaining on his cell screen, which piqued my interest. Certainly it was possible that whatever upset Ms. Moran had its center in this dance establishment, where Arthur Daley had met and wooed the young woman—that was my intuition at least. But intuition is the pitfall of investigation. Only facts are my allies.
“How long? Ever since I can remember.” Undercover is most successful when you stay near the truth.
“We’re down two teachers, and under the gun. Can you start tonight?” Harrison tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. “Hey. How’d you know I just got here?”
I’d hoped he’d forgotten about that. Now I needed to downplay.
“Your coffee.” I pointed to the cup he’d set on his paper-strewn desk. “It’s still steaming. So, you know.” I gestured toward outside, though his office had no window. “Maybe you’d just come from the Starbucks down the block. No biggie.”
“Ah,” he said. A text pinged onto his phone, and he glanced at it. Clicked it away. “Quite the little observer.”
I’m almost six feet tall. Not that little, I refrained from saying.
“How about this,” he said. “You take the classes tonight. Fox-trot, Lindy, waltz. Del, you’ll make it happen? We’ll see how it goes. You like us, we like you, we’ll negotiate.”
Smiley-face! I thought. “I’m in,” I said.
I was in the midst of “Stardust,” explaining the intricacies of the double-step grapevine crossover to my new partner, when my phone buzzed. Cocktail dresses being what they are, I’d kept my cell in a trim little handbag of leather and silver, worn crossbody over my chest. It had quickly become apparent that this bag was not only valuable to keep the phone near at hand but also to impede my bear of a partner from his persistent attempts to press his tweedy body against mine.
When I first took ballroom lessons, in mandatory white gloves and with Mrs. Gregson’s vintage record player scratching out Sinatra, we pre-teens were required to keep half an arm’s distance between us. As with everything else, things changed, and now this Mr. Donovan Brett seemed to think the tuition he’d paid to Anthony Selwyn Harrison Dance Studio gave him permission to paw the instructors.
My phone buzzed again. I knew it was Watson checking in, but I couldn’t respond, not now. Not in this guise as a job-seeker. I smiled, executing a clockwise under-hand spin to distract my partner from my vibrating chest. Arthur Daley was scheduled to teach the seven P.M. class, which he’d told us was one of Ms. Moran’s scheduled lessons. So far, the elusive fiancée was nowhere to be seen.
As the class continued, six of us circled the floor, our big band music emanating from what appeared to be a Mrs. Gregson-era record player. Anthony Selwyn Harrison himself, changed from phone-obsessed businessman to suave danseur in dinner jacket and shiny shoes, was transforming a sixty-something dance student into a Ginger Rogers, her face beaming as he twirled her in a controlled pirouette.
Was Ginger a suspect? Her manicure indicated care about her appearance, her chic haircut and fashionable dress the wherewithal to afford personal luxury. No wedding ring. Newly divorced? Newly searching? Or maybe a happy and satisfied soul, allowing herself the time to dance. Did she send emails with emoticons?
I guided my partner into the three-point turn, forward forward side-close, positioning myself to get a better look at the other two dancers.
A young couple, he in blue jeans and she in an unflatteringly short skirt, giggled and tripped over each other’s feet. One of his hands rested intimately on her curved rear, and she’d flattened herself against his chest in a most un-ballroom-appropriate way. A tiny diamond solitaire attempted to twinkle on her third finger, left hand. Engaged couple practicing for their wedding, it appeared. Emoticon suspects? Possible.
“Forward forward, side close,” I said it out loud this time, in my best encouraging voice. Was Mr. Brett—who began telling me within five minutes of our meeting that he’d be delighted to show me the new arrivals on his dealership floor, and that I could drive away happy for nothing down and a mere three hundred dollars a month—the one sending pictograms to Penelope Moran?
“Hey!” Mr. Brett groused. He stopped mid-step, retreated a pace, and glared at me. I’d stumbled, on purpose, to derail his sales pitch.
“Oh, sorry.” I twinkled at him. “Happens to all of us, right? The sign of a happy dancer is simply to continue.” I raised my arms, returning to partner stance. “The show must go on, right? And a-one.”
As the last notes of the Hoagy Carmichael faded away, the six dancers in the room patted soft applause. Anthony Selwyn Harrison was eyeing me, assessing, and I gave him a little half-curtsy.
“Last dance,” Harrison announced. “Are we ready to waltz?”
He switched the vinyl record on the turntable, dropped the needle, and after a hiss and a moment of staticky hesitation,
the music began.
Irene, someone sang, good night. I tossed my head, embracing the irony, and stepped my partner into the one-two-three.
Goodnight Irene? Not quite yet. Not for this Irene, at least. It was almost seven o’clock. Would Penelope Moran come through the door?
Watson, gone continental in a perky beret and clear-glassed spectacles, had arrived as we’d planned, just prior to seven. As the six o’clock students departed, she related, sotto voce, how she’d told the receptionist she was new in town, reciting the story we’d concocted—that she’d been invited to a holiday gala some weeks away and hoped to discover a dance school that might help her feel comfortable at the event. And, she’d asked, could she possibly do a trial class?
Della had accepted Watson’s one-class-only thirty dollars in cash without further inquiry.
“I’m new around here, too,” she reported that Della had said.
Did Della send emoticons?
As the seven o’clock class began, Anthony Selwyn Harrison vanished, likely because no other students arrived. Watson, in her role as trial student, danced with Mr. Daley, and I hovered, a wallflower, pretending to observe. Della had delegated record player duties to me, so for now, the three of us were quite alone—me standing beside the capacious armoire that housed the records, the others dancing. Della or Harrison might return any second, so our pretense had to continue. That is what pretense requires.
At my signal, Watson dashed off, pretending she needed the “ladies’ room.” I began the Lindy music, as instructed, and stepped into Mr. Daley’s arms. If the others came in, he could always explain he was testing me. We were in the process of touch-step touch-step when he confessed he’d just returned from Stoke Moran.
“Her car was there,” he reported. “And I think I saw her silhouette through the bay window.”
“Did she see you?” I asked. “Did you see anything untoward?”
He shook his head, a tiny bead of perspiration lining one cheek, perhaps not only from the bounce of the Lindy but the stress of his concern. “I don’t think she saw me, I stayed in my car. Her car was parked in the driveway. I took a photo.”
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 14
