Game, Set, Murder

by Judith Mehl

  She braced herself on the railing and pointed at Maddy. ”We’ll do it first thing Monday. We tell them it can’t wait for them to type and send to us, we need it right away because the funeral will be Tuesday.”

  Her enthusiasm was contagious. Maddy wove her way from window to window, twirling around between each step to stare at Kat in surprise and delight. “It’s perfect! We might not get everyone, but it’s a start. Let’s make a list of the most crucial ones. We might just analyze our way to a killer!”

  Chapter 13

  Cross-bars on ‘t’s made with an arrow-like slash show a caustic nature. Add a downward slant and you have an unhappy, critical person. Add the two—do you have a killer?

  “Handwriting Analysis” by P. Scott Hollander

  Sloan withdrew her boldly enameled cigarette case and the three male companions at the restaurant, despite years of training in the evils of cigarettes, quickly vied for the privilege of lighting hers. Sloan’s down-to-earth openness and hearty liveliness formed an innate appeal that radiated instantly on meeting her. She fascinated the lonely men, away from home and loved ones, looking for simple fun. Her throaty laugh of appreciation went out to all who made the effort with their lighters, but a special message of gratitude zinged electrically between her and Jonathon, the man with the quickest draw. She considered bringing him home with her until she discovered he was married.

  As her smoke curled mischievously around their heads, the three tennis players, Eduardo Mendoza, Jonathon Melitis, and Andreas Stephanos praised the restaurant and the company. With Sloan, and Charlene, they conversed on everything silly possible. No talk of murder, of court vandalism, or academia graced their table. This was a night out to relax, and despite language barriers, that’s what they were doing. Charlene laughed daintily, her shimmering draped knit dress and ethereal sweater jacket belied her practical nature and made for a pleasing contrast. By day she was a scientific secretary. By night her persona bubbled with enthusiasm for life.

  Sloan, had no difficulty communicating with Eduardo, and his stumbling English embarrassed no one. Tennis players were a cosmopolitan crowd, a group that traveled the world with the satellites, maybe in some of the worst places, but they’d polished communication without words to an art form.

  Sloan laughed a lot because she imbibed on life and good times. She’d convinced the three players to spend the evening socializing and pulled Charlene into the group without much complaint on any front. She’d did a light dance shuffle as she’d entered the restaurant, doing a ring around the rosy at the table until she found the chair that suited her best. She giggled and Andreas pulled out her chair with a nonchalant bow befitting a queen. Charlene worked for some of the most scientific minds on campus, but her joyful and carefree nature burst out away from the office.

  The amiable group warmed to the night, sitting on the deck in the moonlight. The restaurant was comfortably out of the way, favored by many for its hearty cuisine, beef and ale, and peanuts on demand. With several days left to the tournament, the players drank little, but the camaraderie was high. The hearty and plentiful food befitted the budget of the impoverished tennis players.

  Madeline, with her languid French ways and robust nature was often the third choice for the group when they gathered, but during this tournament Maddy was almost an unknown among the players. That first night she’d beguiled Ted and he her. Their contentment was obvious and the others left them alone. Most often lately Ted spent his evenings in therapy on his ankle, strengthening it after the fall in his hotel room. Maddy sat nearby, providing uncharacteristic quiet support. She prodded now and then, forcing him to push a little longer. She felt guilty; it had been her Parcheesi piece that had tumbled Ted. She needed him to win the tournament to assuage her culpability.

  Sloan was among the favored few who knew this, and knew why Maddy was absent. Thinking of Maddy returned Sloan’s thoughts to campus, the murder, and Kat’s constant obsession with writing samples. Looking at the handsome, guileless faces of these tennis players, she had difficulty believing any of them could be involved. But she’d been befriended by Kat and Maddy long ago, in unusual circumstances, and knew the power of their handwriting analysis first hand.

  The gang assembled tonight enjoyed ribald humor. Taking advantage, Sloan offered pen and paper and started a game of continuous one-up-man-ship in Irish pub rhymes that required everyone to write their answers.

  Ted’s defection into the monogamous camp didn’t sway any of them from their evening’s fun. They were having a great time and participated in Sloan’s game with relish. None noticed her placing carefully folded papers back in her purse.

  Most of the tennis players would not attend the funeral. Tournament schedules allowed little leeway and few even knew Edward Ambrose. He ran some of the tournaments they entered, but their game was on the courts, his was in the office, mostly beforehand.

  Those who knew him didn’t seem to experience a great loss, but talk didn’t veer towards death and funerals. The players needed a release from the strong tensions of the tournament and Sloan needed the release that spending an evening with fine manly specimens provided. And with great good fortune, the players’ anonymity went unchallenged until their meals were sitting in unspent stages on scattered plates.

  Squealing young girls made a beeline for Stephanos.

  “Oooohh, please can we have your autographs?”

  One jumped up and down like a three-year old waiting for the bathroom. One offered the front of her T-shirt for the requested signature, winking the whole time. The third actually pulled out a pencil stub and wrinkled paper and was the only one who received her prize before bouncers silently summoned by an annoyed Sloan, physically encouraged them out the door.

  The men sought one more refill before returning to the sparse tournament dorm rooms. Top players took advantage of hotel rooms nearby, but others took free lodging on campus, preferring to spend their few dollars of compensation in fine food and entertainment. To them, a bed was a bed, and a dorm bed was better than the one many had left in their country to begin the road away from poverty.

  Sloan dropped them all off, and then Charlene. Finally she took the longer route to Kat’s with the samples. She briefly studied a dark sedan parked in the shadows in front of Kat’s long drive as she entered and pulled into the spotlight near the door.

  Puzzled at the late night appearance, Kat offered coffee and or brandy, and Sloan accepted both. As she followed Kat to the kitchen she casually mentioned the sedan.

  “You don’t happen to have a permanent guard at your gate do you?”

  Kat twirled around abruptly and eyed the cool Sloan. Never one to be easily ruffled, Sloan appeared to take the situation calmly and explained what she saw. Kat grabbed the kitchen extension and dialed Richard Burrows’ number from memory. She didn’t bother with small talk when he answered.

  “You said you were watching over me. Does that include a dark sedan parked at the end of my drive?”

  She frowned and took the cordless with her as she double-checked the lock on the back door. “Okay, I’ll be careful.”

  She fixed the coffee and motioned Sloan to a seat at the table in the cozy alcove off the kitchen. “He said he has a police car drive by at intervals. He’s checking when they were last by, but they shouldn’t have been in an unmarked car, and they don’t park. He’ll get back to me on when they were here last.”

  Kat set out cups and brandy, and tried to reach Nick, finally leaving a message on his cell phone. She wondered if he might have sent a car to protect her while he was out, but they’d had this conversation before. He knew it would upset her not to know in advance. She hoped this time he’d conveniently forgotten to tell her. She didn’t like the alternative.

  She toured the doors and windows checking the locks. When she returned she found Sloan pouring the coffee and adding a generous dollop of brandy to each cup. She didn’t question the choice but took a quick swallow, hoping it would cool rapidly.
She needed more.

  The phone rang, startling them both. Kat jumped to catch it by the second ring. It was Burrows. The drive-by unit had been through a half-hour before and seen nothing out of place, certainly no car. They were on their way now and would check with Kat when they arrived.

  Sloan offered her writing samples, her original reason for coming. Kat was impressed. There were no signatures but Sloan had carefully identified each writer in the margin. Grateful at her thoughtfulness, Kat thanked her and they discussed the merits of handwriting analysis half-heartedly while waiting for the patrol car.

  They scrutinized what they could of the samples though, opening an interesting evaluation of the men. Eduardo’s was almost ornate, an offshoot of his culture and upbringing. She thought the writing implied a carefree and fun-loving attitude, nothing sinister.

  Jonathon’s writing intrigued, with his aggressive last strokes in the ‘g,’ ‘y,’ and ‘p.’ They were carried forward with a vigorous swing, but even Kat felt they were nothing more than the combative nature of a competitive player.

  Andreas Stephanos’ cross-bar on his ‘t’ slanted downward in an arrow-like slash—or was that a smear of Worcestershire sauce? A heavy-pressured down stroke could indicate aggressiveness and cruelty. And though this domineering aspect of his nature could be nothing more than the culture of his small Greek town, Kat felt the stroke didn’t fit the normal Greek form of writing. Not enough of the words were in English for Kat to judge with finality. She knew the language used affected the analysis; though not near as much as it affected the nature of the handwriting itself. Graphologists knew to take this into account when studying the writing. Andreas Stephanos’ sample did not condemn him, but it didn’t clear him either.

  She looked up, “Why these three?”

  “Besides their raw appeal and wicked smiles?”

  Kat laughed. This sounded more like Sloan.

  “Actually, they all seemed to know Edward Ambrose well, better than the other players. Maybe their strong personalities guaranteed conflict with Ambrose and nothing more than that.”

  Kat sipped her coffee. “Some of us are aware that the spacey Sloan has more than empty air between those guileless eyes.”

  Sloan blinked, and smiled. She nodded at Kat in recognition of the compliment. “Well, I do try to hide that, but it is tough some times. I learned that most of the men around here are happier with the ingenuous Sloan.”

  “Nonetheless, what brought you to these three?”

  “As I said, nothing more than their relationship with Ambrose.” She clinched it with “And that no one could confirm their whereabouts the night he died.”

  “Excellent! Why don’t we mention it to Detective Burrows in case they slipped him some alibi that wasn’t easy to check?”

  When the policemen came to the door a few minutes later, they identified themselves before Kat opened it, and said Burrows had called. Sloan explained where she’d seen the sedan, and the patrolmen said it was gone now, and had not been there on the last time through. When they came in they interrogated her for more information but she explained, “If it’s sleek and purrs, I like it, but that doesn’t mean I know what it is. If it’s a sedan, I know even less. I couldn’t see inside; don’t even know if it was occupied. But it was there.”

  They searched the grounds, found nothing amiss and left. Nick arrived, after hearing that Kat had been trying to reach him, and Sloan felt it a safe time to leave.

  Nick sputtered with fury. He’d tried to return her call and the line was busy. Now he headed into a repeat diatribe on the merits of call waiting; Kat defended her lack of the phone service.

  “You know I find it demeaning and useless ninety-nine percent of the time! Why should I make someone I’m talking with hold while I see if there is someone more important calling? It’s an insult my friends don’t deserve.” Considering caller ID to avoid her father was a matter of diplomacy and a different issue—pick up the phone and blow her top, or leave it be and let peace reign.

  “But the one time I really need to get through to you the line is busy.”

  “So if I was on the phone, I could hardly be under attack or at knifepoint. Be logical.”

  She knew Nick to be compassionate, empathetic and idealistic, but tonight he was a bull, upset that his mate had stuck her neck out and was once again in danger from unseen enemies. He wasn’t interested in logic. Tonight he didn’t want to hear of the courage of her convictions, only that she was safe. She couldn’t promise that. She could only promise that she would not venture out carelessly.

  In an effort to calm him she asked for help to determine a possible list of suspects who would find a need to camp outside her door. Rationally, it made no sense. No one knew Nick’s schedule. How would they know when to find her alone? And for what purpose? To kill her in her home because she was making inquiries into the murder? Anyone questioned by her could tell she had no knowledge of what happened. She was obviously just gathering information, and guessing her way through most of that. How could she be dangerous to anyone?

  Though it assuaged his concerns somewhat, Nick was still preoccupied with keeping her safe. He agreed to accompany her to the funeral.

  LAURI, MEANWHILE, had headed home in despair. Should she have tackled Katharine? She’d lost her chance when the green sports car arrived and the blond stepped out. She couldn’t recognize the person from that distance, but any witness was not on the agenda. She drove home, recklessly, not knowing what she should do. She needed to talk with Katharine; needed to know if she was truly a friend. They seemed in short supply lately. But tomorrow was the funeral. Her discussion would have to wait.

  She schemed and she plotted. Her chance would come. Katharine was popular, but Lauri would find her alone sometime. She’d have to be prepared and take her chance when it came. She could be quick. She just needed to stop crying all the time and bring her thoughts to bear on the problem. Katharine was part of the problem. She’d have to find out how much and what she could do about it. Her life was not safe until she did.

  She entered her home and looked around with new awareness. It was time to take inventory and clean up. She became frenetic, throwing out research, plants, anything sinister. She didn’t want to give the police a second chance to question her. It was so demeaning.

  In her more sane moments, she wondered what she was doing. As much as she hated Ed, she loved him. These were her only mementos. But Katharine was insidious, and she could turn an innocent act into a furtive move. That interfering woman was her main concern. She had a discerning eye, and always seemed to possess inside information. Tonight Lauri would prepare. Tomorrow she would mourn.

  Chapter 14

  The writer of variable pressure is unpredictable, unreliable, and inconsistent. He blows hot and cold, and you never know when he’ll fly into a rage.

  “Handwriting Analysis” by P. Scott Hollander

  In a jet black dress and veil, Lauri stood alone at the graveside, amidst a hundred university and tennis representatives, the girlfriends and fans, the enemies and peers of a local man felled in his prime. The full skirt of her long dress flapped angrily in the wind, like the flag at her beloved’s tennis tournament. Not even those standing closest to her could hear her whispered goodbyes. Lauri backed away from the grave, head bowed.

  Nick attended to provide Kat his support. She disliked the manager, but would still feel the wrench when the casket was lowered into the ground. He was one of their own. Yet she wept for the turmoil Ambrose left behind.

  Nettle appeared with a dozen or so students. Some had worked with Ambrose for several years and felt obliged. Nettle would have stayed away, but decided his presence was required in his role as coach. Mostly he wanted to lure Kat to the side, away from the crowds, but Nick stymied his every effort. Eventually he walked down the path toward the cars, casting backward glances at Kat until he was obliterated by the increasing mist. Kat didn’t notice. G. L. did. He didn’t know Nettle by name, but w
ould by morning.

  Lauri stood surrounded by acquaintances; the kind that dressed in mourner’s black and paraded to such events out of the macabre depths of the dark part of their souls. Kat also observed some like Charlene, there for support, out of a sense that one of theirs, no matter how disliked, deserved a send off to the next realm.

  Sloan’s attire was her trademark sleek and sassy design, but her demeanor was the most subdued Kat had ever seen. She expected a cigarette holder to emerge any second, and watched cautiously, but Sloan merely stood sentinel to Lauri, guiding her footsteps.

  Maddy and Kat had worked furiously gathering sentiments for the eulogy that would double as weapons for the killer if they could find the clues they needed. Each person’s writing mirrored character traits that exposed their souls. They hoped the mirror would disclose signs they needed to investigate. Both women had pressed unlined paper and a pen into willing hand after willing hand, and coerced the rest to add their tribute.

  “Please just write a few words.”

  The fountain pen added clarity and permanence to a memorial for their colleague. Of course, it had been chosen as the best instrument of destruction, the one most likely to reveal variation in pressure, a give-away as to intensity and aggression, musts for analyzing who may have harmed Ambrose. The instability of uneven pressure could also reveal nervousness. They had wanted every option to be available to them.

  In some cases the tributes were so moving that Kat walked around sniffling and Maddy’s tear-streaked face eventually halted their work. In the end they had samples of writing from Matthew Hightower, Lauri Carmichael, and John Simpson, who was Ambrose’s assistant.

  They also acquired samples from other friends and acquaintances and had literally begged David Nettle to write something, but his result was so obviously antagonistic and scribbled they were unable to use it for the eulogy and it bombed as a handwriting sample.