Game, Set, Murder

by Judith Mehl

  Kat finally felt like she was gaining information, but remained still to keep Lauri talking. She finally prompted, “Did they tell you what was found in the thermos?”

  The woman became even more agitated. “No! They asked me what was in it. Just because I make him tea sometimes. Ed likes—liked his green tea.”

  Lauri burst out crying again. “People treat me like a pariah just because we lived together and weren’t married. You’d think he had a wife and a dozen kids the way they act!”

  Kat commiserated, attempting to sooth her concerns by saying that her colleagues didn’t look down on her, they were merely concerned. Many didn’t trust the man. She didn’t feel this was the time to explain they all knew he was a philanderer and were uncomfortable around her because of it. They never knew whether to tell her. Kat had sensed Lauri didn’t want to know.

  She prodded the woman for information about the future of Ed’s tennis center.

  “I don’t have any idea what will happen,” she said, and the curt response shut down Kat’s inquiry.

  She felt a dismissal coming, and hadn’t yet found any answers. She quickly inserted, “Do you need me to pick up some food for you at the store? I see you have some fruit here, which always helps when your energy is low,” she said, pointing to the colorful fruit bowl. “But do you have everything else you need?”

  Lauri thanked her but refused. She admitted that she came directly home from the police station and holed up. She knew she’d have to face the world again. She just wasn’t ready yet. Meanwhile she had enough to tide her over.

  Kat stared at the fruit, her puzzlement showing. Lauri rose, hoping to encourage her toward the door. Kat interrupted, “You know Lauri, I was really surprised when I saw Ed eating fruit the other morning. The container was filled with acidic fruit, grapefruit and oranges. Didn’t he know that was bad for his low blood pressure?”

  The grieving woman jerked in surprise. “I didn’t know anyone else was aware Ed had low blood pressure. He didn’t talk of it much.”

  “I think he mentioned it to Nick once when they ran into each other in the Steelwinder. He still sees some of the old plant people. So did Ambrose.”

  Lauri urged her down the hallway, speaking sharply, “Well, it hardly matters now.”

  Chapter 12

  Look for those who knot their ‘o’s and ‘a’s. If these letters are open at the bottom, the writer can be dishonest or deceitful. Many people tell white lies. More clues are needed to define a potential murderer.

  Katharine Everitt

  The typed note on the center of Kat's desk was blunt, but precise. "Meet me at the old Eastern Iron and Steel Company at 8:30 this morning. I'll leave the west gate open for you." The unintelligible scribble of a signature had to be Nick's, the kind of scrawl he'd make on a bad day.

  Kat nodded sympathy. He had been having a few bad days lately, with the all-night surveillance getting more and more frustrating. Even her joke name "carpet caper" was losing its humor, and Nick had probably just spent hours in a roll of carpeting. The meeting location was odd, she thought. Was something else going on, something more secret?

  Twenty minutes later she found the west gate at the far end of the steel complex, rusty and sad in the steady drizzle. The gate was slightly open, as promised. There was no sign of Nick outside. Pulling her jacket over her head, she scampered toward the nearest door of the vacant building.

  Her footsteps echoed hollowly in a dank, cavernous room, once raucous with grinding machinery, searing furnaces, and boisterous steelworkers. Now a murky gloom filled the air. She had to clear her throat to call Nick's name. At first it squeaked a hoarse whisper and her second shout floated listlessly in the vast gray space.

  A faint web of catwalks and rigging loomed above, and barely visible in the dim light halfway down the room was a supervisor's office, high above the musty concrete floor, like a spider's lair. She wondered if Nick was there and just couldn't hear her. She shuffled slowly forward, looking for a stairway.

  A faint squeak, then rustling, echoed behind her. She spun around but saw only darkness. Probably rats. She took a deep breath, and entered a maze of empty metal shelves, their racks phantom-like in the barren gloom, feeling more and more that she was not alone. Again she called out for Nick and then stood still awaiting an answer.

  Instead she was sure she heard footsteps. Were they moving away or coming closer? Why did she assume the note came from Nick? That signature deserved a second look. Too bad it was in the car. She sighed and pressed on, finding at last an open metal stairway that probably led to the office above and hopefully Nick, eager to show off a new discovery or a sought-after puzzle piece.

  She was on the stairs twenty feet up when she heard a crack, then a growing grinding sound and the sense that she was beginning to fall.

  Kat lunged for the railing as the sound of tearing metal grew and the stairs began to fall away. She gripped harder and felt her feet dangle in the air. Now the railing started to give way. She had no choice but to grip the banister with her knees and allow her body to slide down the rail, dodging jagged bolts and ripped metal that ended in a heap of rusty scrap. She exhaled relief and began to delicately step through the rubble, the last echoes of the disaster bouncing back into her ears.

  Was that more footsteps? But they halted before she could determine direction, or distance. Now what?

  Kat chose a dark corner to assess damage, surroundings and her predicament. She should never have been there. Who sent the note? How did it get on her desk? What were the letters in the signature? Why here? To do what? Kill her? Scare her? The first was possible, the second likely, the third definite. Fortunately, the only permanent damage was to her nylons and she calmed herself with a silly thought. Thank God I changed from my new Stuart Weitzman pewter leather mules. After all, the gorgeous bordercross style was nearly two hundred dollars. They'd have been ruined... Okay. Get the brain back into gear.

  Logic told her she needed the quiet of bare feet, so she pulled off her walk-around-in-a-crummy-place shoes and thrust them into her raincoat pocket. Then she cringed at the thought of the critter population on the floor and the notion of stepping on a rat. Moving gingerly between the shadows, she made her way through two attached rooms and settled behind an enormous dusty crate near a wall.

  She drew the cell phone from her coat pocket and contemplated her next move. Burrows would be the safest first call, but she hated the thought. He answered on the first ring, and she quickly whispered, “Richard! It's Kat. Need you at Eastern Iron and Steel. Please hurry!”

  Just as his booming voice began, she disconnected, not wanting it to tip off whoever was out there. She dialed again, hoping Nick would be home. To a grumbled hello she whispered, “It’s Kat. Meet me and Burrows at the old steel plant!” She didn't want his questions, and hung up. She then hunkered down behind the crate, hoping five minutes would be enough time, enough for the police to arrive, but also enough to form answers to the questions that would follow.

  She cowered, not in fear of the unknown assailant, but in anticipation of Burrows ceaseless badgering. “How did you get in here? Why do you always put yourself in danger? Don’t you know better by now?”

  And then there was the crowning sentence of exasperation—he never left it out. “If your father knew what you’d been up to he’d roll over in his grave!”

  True to form, the detective raced through the building, and upon finding Kat, ran her through the gamut of angry questions. His mottled face a sure sign of his concern, she let him ramble.

  When he came to the line about her father, she entered the game with her usual retort. “Why do you always say that? You know he’s not dead. He’s alive and well and living in Florida.”

  “Katharine, same thing, same thing.”

  Nick rushed in with one of Burrows’ men. When he saw Kat’s bloody knee and torn hose he gathered her quickly into his arms, while frowning down at her. Braced for a “What happened to you again,” she
was relieved herself when he settled for a tight hug, a kiss, and an “Are you okay?”

  She attempted a brief answer, knowing he wouldn’t settle for a “Yes,” but would want a full story. They moved off to a corner while the police moved around them.

  Once Burrows and his men searched the place and found no one, Burrows’ blood pressure was down from Stage 4 level to his slightly lower normal and he took Katharine out to the patrol car to ask more rational questions. He relaxed his posture and settled his protruding belly more comfortably as they discussed who could have left the note, unlocked the gate, and possibly dislodged the crumbling staircase.

  Kat was happy to hear he took the existence of such a person seriously, though he squinted in consternation when she insisted she hadn’t been snooping in anyone’s business, at least not enough to cause them to wish her harm.

  An officer interrupted to explain the gate lock problem. It had rusted over time and a sharp blow from a nearby rock apparently was all that was necessary to dislodge it—no clue as to how recently. He said the area was patrolled frequently, but not so closely that a broken lock would be noticed if nothing else was out of place.

  Nick kept his arm around Kat while they talked but became angry when the note from him was mentioned. He couldn’t believe she had accepted that it’d come from him, yet managed to contain himself and let her and Burrows finish their talk.

  They discussed how someone could leave a note in her office that early in the day. A key wasn’t required, Kat explained, admitting that the building doors were open by six in the morning. The office itself was not locked. Anyone could have slipped in and left the note before the staff arrived at eight. Anyone could have a copy of Nick’s signature. He worked at the university for a year. With a copy they could make a reasonable forgery.

  In frustration, the detective barked, “Katharine, you must have done something! You haven’t been infringing on my investigation of Ed Ambrose’s murder have you?”

  “Then, you finally admit he was murdered?” Kat pounced on his announcement with glee. Finally, she might worm some information from him.

  Her enthusiasm triggered his ire, however, and Burrows clamped his mouth closed and drove her over to her car. His officers checked it for damage, and in the limited confines of the plant yard and the mist, made a reasonably certain diagnosis her car was fine.

  Knowing that aspirin and a hot bath would extend her functionality, Kat used her cell phone to leave a message at the office. Tom was solicitous when she explained.

  “Take the day to recuperate,” he added.

  Before driving away, she reviewed the list of people who might have been threatened by her questions lately. Lauri Carmichael could top the list. She didn’t feel she’d said anything to worry Lauri, though she seemed angry by the end of the conversation. Was Lauri at home? With the time element, if it had been her here at the plant, she couldn’t have made it across town to her home by now. Kat pulled out her cell phone and dialed. No answer. Lauri could be anywhere. Even on her way home. It didn’t confirm anything, but it didn’t rule her out either.

  Any suspects from the university could have left the note. Too many people walked in and out of that area for one to be noticed. For all she knew, she could have irritated a number of people, but enough to attempt to scare or kill her? Giving up for now, she stretched her stiffening muscles and headed home.

  The rustic haven, set back from the road in an acre of oak, birch and pine, served as a balm for her frazzled nerves. Uncertainty as to her goal in all this brought her to a tour of her garden and a temporary relief from the stress. She set aside her concerns and she eyed the medicinal herb bed for something to soothe her muscles and her soul. Something to knock out that killer headache wouldn’t hurt either.

  The comfrey waved in the breeze, still tall and crisp at the end of the summer as many plants went dormant. The calendula bloomed profusely, the flowers awaiting the snippers, bowing to inevitable death, and resurrection in a healing salve. Kat already had her special salve in the house made from the dry leaves and flowers, oil, and the wound-healing essential oils of lavender and tea tree. She would try that and get back to the garden work later, when she could move with less pain.

  A combination of ginger and chamomile tea should improve her blood circulation and soothe the headache. A walk through the flower beds always helped ease her tension, but this headache called for strong relief.

  Their house sported a glassed-in porch that Kat truly loved. Suddenly, the gravity of events hit. Her hands trembled. She indulged herself in a good cry and the hot tea as she sprawled in her favorite lounger.

  When she was done, her resolve was set. This near-disaster changed things. The stakes were higher—the search had become personal. She didn’t know if she’d inadvertently instigated her own danger. Or maybe she was just in the wrong place when someone got nervous. But now she would openly hunt for the killer, knowing someone may be hunting her. After a soothing soak in lavender crystals and hot water, she returned to the porch and worked diligently to hone her list of suspects and any possible relevant information. She recalled a point Maddy made that writing was like an X-ray of the mind. She sure needed a few X-rays. Meeting with Maddy to review handwriting samples gained top spot on the itinerary.

  A phone call peppered with pleas for sympathy at her morning’s disaster, brought the charming and compassionate Maddy to her door. She wafted in on her characteristic lilac scented breeze, but offered exasperation rather than compassion, blaming Kat for impetuosity. A little miffed, Kat exposed her torn fingernails in a sweep before her friend’s horrified eyes, finally evoking commiseration. Maddy, with her elegant nails, was her closest friend, after all, and Kat knew what buttons to push.

  Dressed like Bergdorfs on a salary that said JCPenney, Maddy always managed to look elegant in a diverse range of sweater sets, shawl collar suits, or swirling chiffon. The sweaters felt as kitten soft as cashmere but the double-digit figures didn’t match her income as associate academic dean. Kat knew that Maddy dressed with illusion in mind. She saved the beaded silk organza for the fanciest dinner of the year, but didn’t tell anyone it came from the second-hand shop. However, accessories, including beautifully manicured nails, were essential.

  Kat brushed her hair away from her face, to punctuate her point, then glided into one of the wicker chairs at the porch table. Her shorts and sneakers contrasted with Maddy’s elegant attire, but their friendship surpassed such concerns. They settled down with iced tea and Maddy’s collected handwriting samples.

  “Ted helped me find a sample of Ed Jorgen’s writing. The strokes are angular but the writing is generally controlled and legible. You’re the expert. What do you think?”

  Kat examined it. “Angles are associated with aggression. As far as I can tell his sample reveals a competitive person, determined, and hardworking, not easily deterred.” From seeing him play, Kat was willing to admit he could fit a picture of stubborn, but not harmful.

  Maddy elaborated. “Ted had instigated a friendly conversation with Jorgen, asking about his family and discovering they were with him on the tour. They’d been away last week visiting relatives but were back before the murder. He was open and jovial, and seemed an unlikely candidate. Jorgen revealed having met with the police and coming back unscathed. He must have had a clear alibi.”

  They moved on to other suspects. She produced a small sheet of paper with a couple sentences from Lauri.

  “I know, I know. It’s not much. But it’s all I could find.”

  She listened to Kat explain that the somewhat erratic wedged writing with downward points showed Lauri was potentially skeptical and critical. Though it’s a negative point, several more would be needed to imply a criminal bent.

  Maddy swiveled the paper around for her to see. “Kat, look at the ‘o’ and the ‘a.’ They’re open at the bottom. What did you say that meant?”

  “It’s a sign of someone who is underhanded. I would need more to b
e sure, but it tells us we should take a good look at her!”

  Kat sighed at the lack of text. “Could you find more samples of her writing?” Maddy shrugged. “You know it’s difficult to get handwriting samples these days with everyone using computers. Personnel should request a writing sample of each applicant and analyze it—but I haven’t convinced that department the expense is worth it. They have no vision!”

  “Right, don’t they know we need them for murder investigations?” Kat quipped, her humor back in place.

  “There are so many other possible killers,” she added. “I wonder about those connected to the tennis center. We’ve barely explored that angle. And though my mind can’t really grasp it, with Ambrose’s predilection for female students, it could be any one of his victims. I’m glad the police found that the one Matthew encountered had a good alibi.”

  “Meanwhile, what can we do? We need to review these people’s writing; it’s become our one main source of true character revelation.”

  They plotted ways to coerce people into providing writing samples.

  Kat frowned. “The biggest concern is that I need them to write about the murder, or Ambrose, or something relevant.” She knew the signs of lying, from stabbed ovals to constant mistakes, not telling the truth about whatever is written about, is revealed in the very words about the subject.

  “Wait!” Kat jumped up from the table. “Maybe that’s not so impossible. We approach them tomorrow, with notepad in hand, saying we are working up some quotes for the eulogy. We’ll tell them they can even remain anonymous if they wish.”

  She bounced with enthusiasm at her own idea. “Admit it, Maddy. This could work!”

  She paced around the table, to the door and back. “We’ll just suggest they put a few words down about Ambrose. About how they felt when he was killed. About memories of him, good and bad. I doubt if anyone will be brazen enough to spout off some really devastating stuff but it’s worth a try. The handwriting samples will prove invaluable either way.”