by Judith Mehl
They struggled to compile a poignant yet truthful eulogy which Kat presented now and promised each other a determined session with the samples once the funeral was over. Soon they must assess and judge.
Students were there, because it was an opportunity to see the nether side of life without it reaching anything within. Their apparel echoed their profession of full-time student’s on a budget of jeans and T-shirts for every occasion. They barely knew the man, making it easier to learn the ceremony of death when the consequences were minor. Others appeared in the mistaken belief that crowds at a funeral showed respect. Respect for whom they were never sure, but they came and made their ritual offerings of prayer.
Further up the hillside, away from the services, stood a lone sentinel wearing dark glasses despite the rain. His posture suggested concentration but the minister’s words could not be heard from that distance. Kat wondered if this was the elusive Paul Ruggiero, Ambrose’s partner in the new tennis complex. His reflective stance may, instead, be focused on his personal and financial dealings with the deceased. She couldn’t tell if he sported a sour look, or was just squinting to see who flanked the grave.
She’d tried to reach him as soon as she’d heard the rumors of the failing venture, but to no avail. She debated slipping away and questioning him. Before she could, two detectives in street clothes approached him from behind. As the man turned to exit the cemetery, the detectives slid beside him like comfortable bookends, and escorted him back to his car. She appreciated the smoothness of their operation, while still being frustrated at the dissolution of her plans. She hoped they would interrogate him and that Detective Burrows would share the information with her. Well, this somber day should be one of truth, even to oneself, she thought. She revised that to “maybe she could coerce him” into divulging his findings.
As the rain pierced the sky, rows of umbrellas emerged, bloomed, and tilted against the wind, and a blast of blustery water hit the mourners. Lauri stood, rain pouring past her stylish hat, almost oblivious of the deluge.
The cemetery service ended, punctuating Ed Ambrose’s demise with a streak of lightening and boom of thunder. Friends and cohorts decided they’d provided enough respect for a colleague they didn’t really like. Their past relationship didn’t warrant a soaking. They rushed past Lauri with hasty words of commiseration.
Barely shaking hands, they intoned, “So sorry, so sorry,” over and over again as they raced away from the rain and the grimness of death.
Lauri wilted at the looks of pity, and shrugged off condolences. She appeared engrossed in a more private eulogy.
Nick dropped Kat off at home for a couple of hours of rest before he returned to pick her up for dinner with friends. Shortly after her arrival home, the skies cleared and the outdoors called to her. The house was ringed round with native laurel and rhododendron similar to the land around Lauri Carmichael’s, though in smaller proportions. Dogwood and more rhododendrons nestled in open areas of the neighbors’ woods. The peaceful surroundings were a balm to her soul, cold from thoughts of murder. Kat had turned thirty recently, and was talented, satisfied with her life, her friends, and her husband of one year. Today she needed a reminder of all her blessings.
She carried a glass of wine with her as she strolled the garden paths, to enjoy the waving masses of blooming daisies and buttercups in front of tall spires of lupine and stately delphiniums. The misty fronds of caryopteris, more often called bluebeard, drifted wildly near the more restrained hollyhocks.
Her medicinal plant beds always soothed, but today she headed toward the subtle shadows thrown by towering grasses and lacy ferns, appreciating the cooling effect of the shady areas in contrast to the sunlit grassy paths.
Nick found her there, and moved with an uncanny silent grace to her side, but Kat caught the shadowy movement out the corner of her eye and turned to meet his embrace full on. Her hazel eyes, the color of cloudy skies, darkened with despair as she finally accepted the loss of her colleague.
Nick left her kneeling amid the few remaining weeds in the garden as she communed with nature for new sustenance. She had an uncanny sense of time, and would be dressed and ready at the appointed hour for dinner. She’d worn her muck boots in tribute to the earlier downpour, and despite the present dirt-encrusted knees and fingernails, he knew she’d look great. Dinner tonight would be a reprieve, an anodyne to allay the pain that comes to the living when those nearby die. Though not a loved one, Ambrose had been one of a tightly woven community, and death always brought forth fear, guilt, and uncertainty for those left behind.
The gang of five who met for dinner was a loose-knit group of friends who gathered often for relief from work stress, yet almost always spoke of their jobs. The number of attendees varied depending on time or place, but the menu always consisted of camaraderie and balm. Kat thought how often their joint laughter was enough to put priorities in perspective, and blast mountains back to molehills. She needed that today, at the end of a week that stumbled through murder and crossed into a challenge for her own safety.
Their bubbly waitress, a struggling college student named Chantelle, had met them all before. This was their regular retreat and they haunted it often. She greeted them cheerfully.
“Good evening. How may I help you?”
Her exaggerated and phony French accent played more for fun than authenticity. Her short slim skirt didn’t deter the men from their menus, but experience with past customers prompted her to wear it, and prior tips kept it in good repair and frequent use.
Soul food outmaneuvered the health food for top choice. Each week sayings from Kat’s folklore and Maddy’s French grand mere took turns excusing the high caloric selection.
It was a relief for Kat to let Nick and G. L. determine the topic of conversation. She never knew when it was safe to repeat anything Nick told her in private, so she repeated none of it. She enjoyed the occasions when he felt free to share his life with her friends.
She knew Nick and G. L. seldom handled the mundane but when they did they turned it into a disaster story or a joke. Nick asked, “Did you hear the tale of the time G. L. tracked down a pair of stolen sneakers?”
They responded with a hearty, “No!”
“Actually, G. L. was browsing the flea market stalls when it happened, heard the shout from his friend tending a craft booth next to the junk booth, and took chase. He’d tracked the culprit, a 10-year-old Hispanic boy who’d grabbed the almost new sneakers and left behind a ragged pair of shoes. He brought the boy back. G. L. coerced an apology and suggested he offer to work for the shoes.”
The tale unfolded. G. L.’s woodworking friend, John, who’d been watching the booth for the vendor out on break, made a deal with the kid.
“You work in my booth the next hour and I’ll buy you the shoes.”
At the end of the hour, Colin, who at first mumbled his name with bowed head, had learned the basic selling points of hand-crafted wood items, could identify the four hardwoods used, and had a spiel down pat.
“He enjoyed himself so much he offered to work till the end of the day, walked away with a promise of an apprenticeship, and a new coat,” G. L. bragged.
Chantelle deftly juggled their plates into position, as they switched topics. G. L. leaned out of her way and graciously inhaled the aroma from his burger and fries before beginning his contribution. He enjoyed telling the tale of Nick staking out a residential lawn to catch the vandal who kept driving across it and damaging the grass.
While he sauced up his fries beyond recognition, Maddy nibbled on each selection from her plate to find the tastiest morsel and winked at him.
G. L. retrieved his poise and sailed into the story. “It took him three nights of sitting there with his friend, the lawn aficionado, till three a.m., before they caught the old man from around the corner who came home drunk and missed the turn. Once he was caught, his daughter, who hadn’t realized he was sneaking out, vowed to confiscate his keys every night thereafter. Nick’
s payment, agreed in advance between friends, had been a case of Heineken.”
Situations like these, the solving problems for friends, revealed their human side. Much of their security agency work was secretive, government related, and off limits. Their friends accepted that, never pressed, and enjoyed what stories the men from Petingill and Donnelly Security were willing to share.
Maddy had heard the tales before, but her ripe laughter joined in with the others. The fifth at the table tonight was the robust Simon Santora, the devoted tennis fan and Kat’s friend from the chemistry department. Simon ordered the stuffed pork roast. He did every time he came. “It’s the gravy,” he explained patiently when they laughed. “The ground hot pepper vinegar and mustard give it an individual flavor I can’t find anywhere else.”
Ted’s training schedule didn’t allow for much night life so Maddy had come solo. Simon inquired into Ted’s welfare, having heard the rumors that Chief Burrows had him under investigation. Maddy responded politely, though quickly, sick at Burrows attitude but fond enough of Kat to let the issue drop. Simon tried to lift her spirits, even offered her a bite of the roast. To him it was the supreme sacrifice.
They all knew Kat’s background with graphology and she regaled them with tidbits of information about her favorite subject. She’d received her certification at an early age, doing home study through an international graphoanalysis society. In silent agreement, she and Maddy decided not to mention their attempts at analysis regarding Ed's death. However, Kat enthralled them with some of the background of handwriting analysis, taking them back to the time of the Roman emperors where early recordings showed a knowledge of the relationship between handwriting and personality.
Though their dinner was an attempt to work beyond the grief of Ambrose’s death, the cathartic process required his mention again and again, as they progressed through their anger and fear.
When the gruesome subject arose once more, Maddy attempted to throw the conversation to other topics and people. The couple in the corner was a delightful diversion. As they watched, the elderly man lovingly withdrew a tiny shrub from a bag on the floor and presented it to the blushing woman.
But shrubs sparked more thoughts of current events as Simon interjected, “Did you know that Lauri Carmichael was named for the thousands of laurel bushes growing on her father’s property?”
G. L. voiced surprise but earlier had toured the scene of the crime as much as possible without interfering. He added, “Well, he didn’t die under a laurel tree. Looked more like hemlock.”
“G. L.’s right,” Kat said, “and that property had been in the family for generations. Lauri’s father cultivated the plants for years after finding them in their wild state.”
Maddy added, “It was a shock to many that she sold off most of it. We often wondered what she did with the money. Rumors are it went into the tennis center.”
When no one could confirm that, G. L. made a mental note to check into it for Kat. Her accident in the defunct plant worried him. A quick conclusion to that tennis guy’s death would help all of them get back to a semblance of normalcy and he didn’t mind pitching in. Kat had helped solve more than one of his client’s problems.
G.L. had attended the funeral. He’d never met Ambrose and didn’t like tennis. He was there in the shadows, eyes for his friends who were preoccupied. He’d sensed danger around Kat and visually swept the cemetery, viewing each attendee with a cautious eye.
He took note of David Nettle, not knowing who he was, but observing his obsession with Kat. The man stayed several rows of mourners behind her, but, from his side view, G. L. saw his constant head movement straying to Kat and away again when he sensed anyone looking.
He would continue to observe and research on the sidelines and would let her know about his investigation once he had some answers. For now, he would play innocent.
“Kat, it was a hemlock, right? Considering that tree’s ancient history of lethal lore, did anyone consider poison in this situation?”
“Sorry, Eastern hemlock is not poisonous. The hemlock of Socrates and poisonous fame is not a tree at all but a noxious weed, brought in from the Mediterranean and invading some areas of this country.
Kat returned to the subject of murder when prompted by G. L. “You’re right, it wasn’t a laurel but a hemlock. Hemlock’s, especially with their lower limbs trimmed, can make a wonderful canopy if you want to lounge on a blanket in the woods. About a third of the needles fall each year, creating a soft bed beneath that smothers any undergrowth.”
They all speculated on the poison possibilities for a minute. Kat wondered what it might actually feel like to swallow a poison. At what point would you know what was happening, or would you at all before you lost your senses. But if poison was the method, it still wouldn’t resolve who killed Ambrose. The handwriting analysis might give her a lead, but she decided they would need more writing samples. What clues would help her focus on a potential killer in these circumstances. We should look for variable pressure, a sure sign of unpredictable behavior that can turn violent.
With that thought, Kat deftly switched topics to something she could share with the crowd, “Speaking of shrubs, I read about a marvelous one the other day.”
Nick interjected with an indulgent smile. “You were book buying at Glinna’s again, right?”
“Okay, you caught me, but it was half price. Besides, listen to this. Butcher’s broom is a Mediterranean shrub that was used by butcher’s to make brooms whose smell would deter rodents. Proprietors used it on floors of their restaurants for the same purpose.”
They all studied the cleanly swept wide-plank oak floor and pondered their good fortune to live in modern times.
She continued, directing her attention to Maddy. “It was also used as a liniment to make veins stronger by encouraging the blood to move up out of the legs and decrease inflammation. Certain tennis players may find that useful.”
She’d gained their interest with that one but didn’t carry it too far. Chantelle walking in sucking her finger while deftly balancing two plates in the other hand, prompted Kat to add one more tidbit.
“Another herbal treatments that had humble but fascinating beginnings involved aromatherapy’s founder, French perfume chemist René-Maurice Gattefossé. When he burnt his hand in a laboratory accident, he plunged it into a vat of the nearest cool liquid, lavender oil, and experienced rapid relief.”
She explained how research has since proven certain essential oils reduce the flow of nerve impulses, including those that transmit pain.
“You just mix a few drops of the oil into a tablespoon of vegetable oil and massage into the painful area.”
Chantelle blatantly eavesdropped on that one, and came around, bending quietly to Kat’s ear. “Do you happen to have any?”
Kat opened her cavernous carryall and pulled out a vial of the homemade solution and squished a little onto the offended digit for her.
They left the restaurant then. Dinner together approximated normal times, but a pall hung over all as they drove away. Murder is tough to drown with just a few glasses of wine and good company. But the effort helped, if nothing else, to remind each of the value of friends.
Chapter 15
Beware of the maniac ‘d’ with its drastic lean to the right, indicating uncontrolled explosive behavior. Once rage is spent, the mouse returns, but it’s a flashing red light of warning.
“Handwriting Analysis: Putting it to Work for You” by Andrea McNichol
David Nettle woke with a screaming headache, fear laced with anger, and a competing desire for coffee. The coffee won, temporarily, and served to wash down four aspirin. With the headache subsiding, the antipathy returned to first place in his thoughts. Kat Everitt haunted his nightmares as well as his days. He had to do something about it.
He wanted to confront her since the day following the murder when he spotted her in the hallway outside Ambrose’s office. The nosy woman was protected by her cohorts, her
hulk of a husband, or at least one detective-looking type at all times. These days there were too many people around in general for his purposes. He’d bide his time and find her alone.
He shouldn’t have celebrated Ambrose’s demise quite so obviously. Now he returned to work with a hangover—something that didn’t combine well with tennis, coaching or socializing. The thwack of the racquets alone would drive him insane by the end of the day. The only saving element was the tournament. Students playing time was quite limited now because of it. He could watch the tournament with them, to fulfill his job and use it as an educational pursuit. Once there, he could zone out and they wouldn’t even notice. Having the pros right there with them was a thrill they didn’t have every day. Many had been working long hours, as tournament assistants. This was sheer joy for them, rubbing with well-known players.
They admired Coach Nettle. He had wisdom, and skill. They wouldn’t have recognized the man inside with festering hate, the mournful memories of glories never granted, and the drive to corner Kat.
He’d managed to keep it in check last night when he was out drinking with the sports crowd. There he was considered a likeable fellow, good-natured and sunny. His attire bothered no one, though it also impressed none. It just didn’t matter. He wore the fashion clothes to offset his woolly nature, to detract from his hairy legs and his NCAA mentality.
Nettle had casual athletic ability, but exhibited more stamina in the bar where drinks matched exploits one for one until the closing call chased diehards into the night. David had been hardy last night. Today he might die from it if the sun didn’t cloud over soon.
“Hey coach,” Jacob, a strapping lad with sun-bleached hair and a perennial tennis tan, motioned the group over to a spot he’d held in reserve for them. “Over here!”
Nettle approached with obscenities in his head. Thank God, I don’t coach women. Their higher pitched voices would pierce my brain right now.
